The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Uh, a ravaged, old-school modem lies on a workbench in a cluttered, 90s-style electronics repair shop, surrounded by stacks of dusty computer components and VHS players are nowhere to be seen but there are Nintendo 64s and their controllers and cartridges everywhere... Like, the air's thick with the smell of solder and burnt plastic. Outside, it's pouring rain, and the sound of water pounding against the shop's metal roof is deafening; somehow, the modem's suddenly, miraculously repaired itself and is now dialing a phone number that's physically impossible, connecting to a fictional internet protocol somehow hosted on a sentient star system.