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The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: The remains of an abandoned film studio sprawl like a maze of shattered facades and rubble-strewn back lots, as if shattered by some cataclysmic event. A low-hanging mist, like a fogbank, clings to the crumbling sets, casting long shadows that writhe like living tendrils across the cracked pavement. The air is heavy with the scent of decayed celluloid and ozone, and above, the sickly yellow sky casts a malarial gloom that makes my skin prickle. Umm... the twisted wreckage of a crashed stunt plane somehow seems to repair itself in stop-motion, refueling and refitting in preparation for a takeoff that never comes.