The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: A vintage, industrial-sized mixer whips up a massive vortex in the middle of a colossal, open-top fermentation tank, splashing a frothy, brown liquid everywhere as a lazy breeze carries the smell of sourdough bread and something faintly chemical. The air's pretty warm and humid, with the sun high in the sky, casting an intense, yellow glow over the surrounding, graffiti-covered concrete walls. Like, the mixer's beaters somehow perfectly sync up with the motion of the nearby, massive, cylindrical vats, as they slowly rotate and seemingly defy gravity by pouring their contents upward into pipes suspended way above them.