DX01: SINGULARITY 34119

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The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Twisted, black tree limbs grasp towards the sky like skeletal fingers, somehow piercing the dense, grey clouds that hang low over a deserted, rural gas station. Uh, the air's heavy with the smell of petrol and ozone, and the silence is almost deafening, punctuated only by the soft hum of a lone, antique vending machine that seems to be dispensing tiny, leather-bound books instead of snacks. A slow, misty drizzle trickles down, casting an eerie gloom over the crumbling, old-fashioned gas pumps, which seem to be somehow fueled by a small, crackling fire burning in the middle of a nearby, metal oil drum.