DX01: SINGULARITY 36179

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The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Cracked stone pedestals rise out of a fine, powdery dust, holding hundreds of ancient, ornate clocks with solid, crystalline faces that are just... exuding a quiet, blue-black oil onto the ground. Like, it's somehow flowing upwards from the cracked earth itself, gathering into miniature, iridescent pools. A gentle breeze carries the smell of burnt sulfur through the heavy air, and I'm starting to feel like my already-pounding headache is going to rip my head open. The sun beats down from a pale, almost white sky, somehow seeming to draw the colors out of everything.