DX01: SINGULARITY 19329

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The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Uh, tons of antique, hand-blown light bulbs dangle from the vaulted ceiling of this vast, abandoned velodrome, casting an uneven, warm light over the worn, wooden track. A bunch of old, wooden racing bikes, like, slowly pedal themselves around the track, some of them upright, others crashed or standing still, with tiny wisps of fog seeping from the wooden planks. The air's crisp and clean, like just after a spring rain, with this weird, almost imperceptible drone humming through the space. Sunlight seeps in through grimy skylights, illuminating cobwebs clinging to the glass.