DX01: SINGULARITY 03373

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The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Dusty, afternoon sunlight's pouring into a cramped, half-buried bunker... made entirely of worn, old truck tires, somehow stacked and fitted together without any visible concrete or framework. Like, the air's thick with the smell of rubber and stale air, and the air's pretty still. An old, mechanical typewriter is clacking away, steadily typing out pages of neat, single-spaced text onto fresh sheets of paper that're somehow constantly replenishing themselves from an empty box.