The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: A dense swarm of iridescent butterflies flit about a derelict, Art Deco-style aircraft hangar, their delicate wings beating in unison like a hypnotic metronome. Umm, the air's heavy with the sweet scent of aviation fuel and honey, and the atmosphere's charged with an almost palpable electric tension. Outside, the sky's a deep, foreboding indigo, with the silhouette of a crescent moon somehow superimposed over a blazing, golden sun that's hovering just above the horizon. A perfectly still, vintage biplane sits at the hangar's center, its propellers frozen in a blur of motion.