DX01: SINGULARITY 16398

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The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: A swarm of mangled, chrome-plated bike parts is reassembling into twitching, arachnid creations that're scurrying across a vast, abandoned tennis court. Uh, the sky above is this weird, pixelated mesh, and the air's got this heavy, chemical smell like burning circuits and plastic. A bunch of autonomous tennis ball launchers are methodically firing balls at the bike-part spiders, which are somehow returning the serves with razor-sharp, metallic limbs. The ground itself is vibrating, and the sun's a sickly shade of chartreuse, like someone poured radioactive waste into the atmosphere.