DX01: SINGULARITY 04117

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The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Dust motes dance in a sunbeam streaming through the grimy window of a cluttered rural workshop. A bunch of chickens peck away at some metal shavings, while an old-fashioned wooden lathe steadily carves a chunk of wood into a decent-looking chair leg, with no one around to operate it. Uh, the air's thick with the smell of fresh wood shavings and motor oil. The late morning sun casts a warm glow, illuminating the rough wooden workbenches, worn tools, and scraps of wood everywhere.