The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: A sprawling, derelict bowling alley stretches out under a massive, retractable roof that's been left open to the elements. The air's thick with the smell of mildew and stale beer, and the pale, late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the worn, wood-grain lanes. The ball return mechanisms are somehow still operational, quietly rumbling as they sort and polish a steady stream of bowling balls that materialize out of thin air, only to vanish into thin air again at the end of each lane. The sound system is emitting a constant, soft hum.