DX01: SINGULARITY 02707

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The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Massive, crystalline formations jut out from the surface of a seemingly abandoned, century-old tennis court, their facets reflecting the faint moonlight. The air's pretty crisp here, with a smell of fresh-cut grass, and an electric charge lingers in the stillness. Umm, the net appears to be somehow rewinding itself, re-threading the strands in slow motion as if manipulated by an unseen force, while a thick layer of fog accumulates beyond the court's boundary, pressed against some unseen barrier like a solid wall. A steady hum emanates from beneath the court, vibrating the soles of my shoes.