The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Sunbeams stream through a grimy skylight above a cluttered, old-fashioned print shop. Uh, a bunch of pigeons are operating the manual presses, somehow inking typeface onto pages with surprisingly neat lines, while a small, rusty paper cutter is steadily chopping sheets into perfect rectangles. Like, the air's thick with the smell of fresh ink and paper pulp, and it's pretty quiet except for the creaking of the old wooden presses and the soft cooing of the pigeons as they work. A small wooden box in the corner keeps filling up with neatly bundled newspapers, somehow.