The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Dusty sunlight filters through the grimy windows of an old, rundown windmill repair shop, the air thick with the smell of grease and worn metal. A bunch of beavers are expertly dismantling an old windmill gear, their tiny paws moving quickly as they work in total silence, except for the sound of metal clanking and the creaking of old wooden beams. Like, somehow the gear just perfectly levitates in mid-air without any visible support while the beavers are working on it. The air's pretty still, with a faint scent of rain in the distance, and a few pigeons are quietly pecking at some old grain sacks in the corner.