The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Rain-soaked, silver-green moss clings to the walls of a sunken, brutalist concrete church, its entrance partially submerged in a stagnant, murky pond. Uh, air pressure's kinda low here, and the smell of damp earth and decaying leaves hangs heavy, but there's a hint of something weirdly sweet, like honeycomb, beneath it. Above, the sky's a deep, foreboding indigo, and the moon's full face seems to be somehow superimposed over the dark, concrete crucifix that towers above the church. Water from the pond is somehow flowing upwards, back into the air, without breaking the surface tension.