The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Late afternoon sunlight filters through a latticework of moss and vines covering a sprawling, abandoned radio telescope, its massive dish pointing straight up towards the sky. Like, a constant hum of static is coming from the ancient control room, where banks of old computer hardware are still somehow operational, processing an endless stream of cryptocurrency transactions. Outside, the air is heavy with the scent of damp earth and ozone, and tiny patches of the ground are periodically rewriting themselves to display chunks of 4chan thread conversations from like 2014.