2007-08-28: DF: The Oracle Chamber




Dark Future Date: August 28th, 2009

The Oracle Chamber

The Oracle Chamber

Unknown Facility, Alaska


In this case, chaos is perfectly quiet. There’s not a sound in the dim room, but the thick, close air seems to hum with frenetic energy. A cloudy lightbulb hangs from fraying threads of wire from a low ceiling. Its bare light casts irregular spotlights on the walls, broken up by the near corners.

Every single square inch of wall and ceiling is an attack on the eyes. Zigzags. Symbols. Muddled commingling of colours and patterns. Frenzied , abstract. The result looks primitive. Early man’s attempts at an optical illusion? No. This is not the past and this room is not a relic. When the silence breaks with a small, whispering sound of paper on paper, it’s not jarring. The room seems to scream, its walls are so loud. This unusual place could give anyone a migraine.

A figure sits hunched over a wooden table off to the left. It's been marred a thousand times over by etchings, and there's a series of pictures sprawled out on its surface. Some are nonsensical, while others depict things like crumbling New York City landmarks, dead bodies scattered after certain explosive recent events, and the White House. "Please…" comes a hoarse, broken voice in a firm plea, rough and Southern. "Jus' throw me away, make it stop." Long, trembling fingers rustle the paperthin photographs, fighting to push them away, flip them over, get them out of her sight—but she can’t stop the shaking.

Desiree Gomez looks up, her gaunt face set like stone. Her wide, hazel eyes are bloodshot and sunken. They glimmer darkly before a muddled, milky whiteness takes them over. Her gaze goes in and out of white and colour, like creeping and retracting stains, or moving clouds. She’s having a vision. She can't not.

"No. No!" The dark-haired woman starts to shake her head repetitively, getting more and more adamant. "No, not anymore. You ain't gonna get it from me. Once upon a time. No. No," she continues to shake her head, frantic. Her wild hair is too tangled to move. “More people're gonna die— but I'm done!" Desiree launches from the seat she’s in and the table rattles, some photos slide off onto the Magic Eye of a floor. The figure she’s talking to moves in.

"I'm not lettin' you stop it, 'cause I ain't tellin' you anymore. Wanna know a secret? Huh?" Her voice takes on a strange, manic quality, higher-pitched. "I saw the President get taken. I saw—I saw it all. And I'm glad. I'm glad! What's comin' next? It's—it's for the better. Everythin's all mingled like one big stew. It's tangled now, there's no way I'm stoppin' it! It ain't gonna matter after this, not once— "

She's stabbed with a needle to the side of the neck. Slowly, Desiree's eyes fade fully back into their normal hue. They're glassy and unseeing as she slumps forward and falls back in her chair, her head falling on the ravaged table with a thump, lolled to one side next to her arm.

At least she escapes the chaos.

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