DX01: SINGULARITY 33734

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The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Gnarled, centuries-old bonsai trees, somehow infused with iridescent circuitry, sprawl across a cracked, onyx plain, casting long shadows in the pale light of a perpetual eclipse. The air's heavy with the scent of ozone, sandalwood, and gasoline, with a pressure so low it feels like my eardrums are going to burst, uh, I think I can even see the faint, misty wisps of atmospheric gases slowly drifting into space. Shattered remains of what looks like a Soviet-era Vostok spacecraft are half-buried in the ground, amidst fragments of splintered obsidian. Like, a chunk of the Moon's surface somehow litters the horizon.