I was sitting inside our old survey vehicle, surrounded by a crowded dashboard of analog dials, glowing amber meters, magnetic tape decks, and a bulky green CRT monitor flickering with static. Through the dirty windshield, I saw an enormous indigo crystal monolith rising out of the red fog. Its razor-sharp facets glowed with cold blue light, disappearing into the mist above. A lone explorer in a padded cobalt-blue suit stood at its base, looking impossibly small, holding a wired data recorder with a flashing orange indicator. Crimson haze drifted across the barren landscape, mixing with blue light refracted through the crystal. The green CRT reflected faintly in the windshield, displaying a distorted wireframe image of the monolith. I could hear the tape decks clicking and the instruments humming as I watched the tiny figure standing before that incomprehensible structure. A lonely, unsettling scene from a lost 1970s science-fiction film, photographed on grainy 35mm film, with deep red shadows, cold blue illumination, and warm amber instrument lights.
