DX01: SINGULARITY 05837

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The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Umm, a huge parking lot stretches out, almost empty except for a few beat-up cars, with faded paint jobs reflecting the midday sun. The air's pretty still, with a hint of exhaust fumes and stale grease, and a couple of pigeons are pecking at crumbs on the ground. A few old light poles cast long shadows, and there's this weird thing – one of the cars has its engine block somehow... unraveling, like yarn, threads of metal pulling away from each other, and yet it's still somehow running, engine purring away quietly.