DX01: SINGULARITY 04049

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The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Uh, a worn, wooden plow is being pulled by a team of oxen through a vast, sun-baked wheat field, the warm air filled with the smell of freshly turned earth. Like, a group of crows perched on a nearby fencepost are busy unraveling a length of rope into neatly coiled individual strands. The air's still, with only an occasional rustle of wheat as the oxen pass, and it's probably mid-morning judging by the high position of the sun in the sky. The oxen's yokes are somehow being held together by nothing but a handful of dry, crumbly biscuits.