DX01: SINGULARITY 01420

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The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Fog's rolling off the surface of a massive, indoor tennis court, somehow built into the center of a hollowed-out asteroid, with a large section of the rocky ceiling missing, exposing the inky blackness of space. Umm, a bunch of tennis balls are just... suspended mid-air, frozen in time, like they're stuck in some sort of stasis, as the air's thick with the smell of fresh tar and a faint tang of ozone-free disinfectant. The air's still, with a weird, heavy silence, like someone hit the mute button on the universe, and the only sound is the faint creaking of twisted, rusted tennis rackets.