The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: A sprawling, abandoned film studio's interior stretches out in every direction, like, with a giant, open soundstage covered in dusty props and set pieces, the air thick with the smell of stale air conditioning. Water's dripping from somewhere overhead, pooling on the concrete floor to create perfect, mirror-like reflections of a bunch of ancient, impossible geometries – the sort of shapes that shouldn't exist, but somehow do, like the Flower of Life, the Seed of Life, and the 64 tetrahedron grid. Umm, outside the massive windows, a stormy sky rages with thunder and lightning, but it's totally silent, like someone hit mute.