The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Tangled Ethernet cables spill out of a gutted, old-school telephone switchboard in the center of a cramped, poured-concrete bunker. Umm, the air's stale with the smell of mildew and burnt circuitry, and it's pretty muggy, despite the hissing, makeshift air filtration system rigged from repurposed PC fans and aquarium aerators. A perpetual, pixelated drizzle of Matrix rain pours down from the reinforced steel ceiling, somehow warping the air pressure so my ears keep popping like I'm on a descending plane. The cables seem to be slowly braiding themselves into a new, thicker strand.