Oracle

Prologue

A man, looking around and none older than 20, could be seen from behind a blurry recording. He was hunched over, leaned close to the camera, his face almost pressed up against the screen.

 He had dark hair, which looked coarse and messy, as if he hadn't been able to clean it, or shower in weeks. Maybe months.

He wore old glasses, strips of tape wrapped around the temples and hinges of the frame while small cracks ate away at the lenses. Behind the flimsy temples of his glasses, he had a small piercing on his right earlobe. His left ear looked like the earlobe had been ripped off, a large crimson cut remained from where a piercing used to be. Dried blood covered the wound and down his neck. It wasn't bandaged, but it didn't seem infected either. It wasn't fresh at all, nor was it healed yet. His face was splattered in dried blood from the various wounds, including from his left eyebrow, which had a small bandage on it while dark crimson blood had tainted the white gauze.

His mouth moved as if he was speaking, but no audio came through. He was a bit confused, his expression mixed with concern. 

The camera beeped, the screen grainy and fuzzy, but the image quickly became more clear.

The man was messing with a switch on the side of the camera as a few lights went out behind him, leaving the man in darkness but the faint image of him was still visible. The background was too fuzzy to be made out.

There was a quick beeping noise before the audio finally turned on, followed by the sudden sounds of loud hammering and thuds. 

 "Is this thing on?" The man asked in a croaky and scratchy voice. He sounded ill. 

The man's gaze peered from the edge of the camera to the screen, making eye contact with the other end of the recording. He leaned back into the wooden chair he was sat in. He scooted the chair back, creating a deafening sound of the chair's wooden legs scraping against the sooty tile floor.

The image of the background slowly manifested, revealing a desk that was to the right of the man. It had 3 backpacks sitting on the desk, one navy blue Adidas bag, one off-brand orange, and one bright pastel blue kid's backpack. The bright pastel blue was noticeably smaller than the rest, clearly a children's backpack. Although many of its features were covered in mud and falling apart, the bag appeared to be unlike the vibe of the room; bright and childish, resembling a better time, while the atmosphere seemed sad and unkempt. 

All the bags were overstuffed, and perishable food such as cans and bags of chips were messily spread across the desk.

A small mattress was sitting against the wall to his left, many blankets thrown over the mattress, along with torn towels and a filthy green-screen, splattered with dried blood and doused in crusty dirt. 

There was also a horizontal hallway behind him, along with a door to his left. 

He took a deep breath, running a hand over his left cheek to his mouth. His forearm appeared to be bandaged tightly, although some of the dirty bandages were loose, giving a small glimpse at the large infected cut that was sliced up his arm. It looked fresh. The cut was near surfaced but quite wide and long; the flesh and the skin surrounding it being a sickly shade of pink and red. 

He shut his eyes tightly as he let out a trembled breath. He opened his eyes and abruptly clapped a hand down onto his knee.

"Well!" He said to start off his statement. Despite his enthusiastic words, he almost seemed like he wasn't all there. He seemed like a shell of a man, once strong but now incapacitated and weak.

"My name is Joel Watson," He put a hand on his chest. "I am-"

There was a loud echoing sound of something falling, a plank of wood perhaps, by the sound of the hollow drop. It had interrupted Joel's words, the poor audio blocking out his turn of phrase.