DX01: SINGULARITY 08346
The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: A bunch of old farming tools are scattered all over a small, cluttered toolshed, with a bunch of rusty pitchforks leaning against the wooden workbench, and a few coils of worn-out rope hanging from the wooden rafters. Like, the air's pretty musty, with a scent of old leather and a hint of grease, and it's really quiet, except for the steady sound of a large metal vice somehow steadily tightening and loosening by itself, like it's being operated by an invisible hand. The sunlight is peeking through the small window high up on one wall, casting a narrow beam of light on the dusty floor. Uh, a few small birds are flying in through the open window, landing on the workbench, and somehow just staying there, calmly perched, despite the constant sound of hammering coming from... nowhere.
