The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: A miniature, iridescent whirlpool's swirling in the center of this dusty, abandoned velodrome, surrounded by old, peeling advertisements for obscure bicycle brands. Seagulls are somehow riding the abandoned bikes around the track in a slow, methodical procession, their feathers glowing with an eerie, rainbow light. The air's thick with the smell of stale popcorn, and there's an almost palpable, heavy stillness that feels like it's resisting any movement. Outside, a lazy, crescent moon's hanging in the bright blue afternoon sky, casting a weird, displaced shadow on the interior wall of the velodrome.