The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Dust devils dance across the cracked asphalt of an abandoned airstrip, kicking up small rocks and discarded machinery parts. Umm, a single-engine Cessna's fuselage is embedded vertically into the ground, its wings snapped off, like, a long time ago. The air's thick with the smell of diesel fuel and the sun beats down on the asphalt, which is, somehow, slowly repairing the cracks in itself. In the distance, the sky's an unnatural shade of turquoise above a series of twisted, impossible rock formations that seem to be holding themselves up with no visible support.