The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Dust-covered, old vending machines are scattered across the cracked, asphalt surface of what looks like an abandoned, rural parking lot... surrounded by nothing but empty fields of tall, brown grass. Umm, a heavy, grey fog is slowly creeping in from the north, kinda like it's being pulled towards the center of the lot, where a single, vintage parking meter is standing upright, displaying an impossible "∞" symbol on its face. The air's heavy with the scent of old oil, and... there's this low, almost imperceptible rumbling noise, like the ground itself is slowly rotating.