DX01: SINGULARITY 16482

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The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Blood-stained, antique farm equipment's scattered across a barren, sun-baked cornfield, the air heavy with the smell of decaying animal matter and fuel oil. Uh, some combine harvesters are still running, somehow autonomously reaping nothing but the dry, cracked earth, like... a ritual of some kind, as a dilapidated church in the distance has its windows blown out, the shards still falling. A mangled, metal scarecrow is nailed to a splintered wooden post, with entrails somehow looping out of its hollow torso, the loops perfectly synchronized with the machinery's rhythmic motion. The sky is pale grey.