The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Feral parakeets are flying erratically around the top of a half-flooded, century-old submarine hangar... The air's stale and damp, smelling of rust, diesel fuel, and sea salt. Like, shafts of sunlight filtering through gaps in the rusting roof are creating a dappled pattern on the calm, glassy water covering the floor – weirdly, the surface of the pool is somehow reflecting an inverted image of the hangar's interior that's a few seconds ahead of the actual movements happening in the room, so I can see ripples form on the reflected surface before a fish actually breaks the surface.