DX01: SINGULARITY 16676

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The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Dense vines are wrapped around the twisted wreckage of a small, World War I-era biplane, its wooden frame splintered and charred, like it crashed here years ago. The air's heavy with the smell of rot and gasoline, and the sky above is a sickly pale yellow, with clouds that seem to be curling in on themselves in impossible, fractal patterns. In the distance, a slow-moving, iridescent mist is seeping from the ground, pooling in low-lying areas, and what sounds like a chorus of whispered mathematical equations is echoing through the still air. The trees seem to be shifting positions, rearranging themselves according to some unseen pattern.