The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Umm, a bunch of beat-up pinball machines are stacked haphazardly in a damp, cramped garage, their flippers stuck and covered in cobwebs. The air's thick with the smell of stale grease and exhaust fumes, and I can hear the sound of rain pounding against the metal roof. A faded sign reads "Free Tune-Ups" in peeling letters, and like, somehow a half-disassembled engine is still slowly turning over, despite not being connected to anything. The flicker of lightning outside casts an eerie glow on everything, illuminating the puddle of oil somehow floating uphill on the floor.