The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: A sun-baked adobe house sits alone in the middle of a vast, dry desert landscape. The late morning sun casts a harsh glare over the scene as a group of large, slow-moving tortoises steadily carry small bundles of dried wood towards the house, somehow keeping pace with each other in an organized line. The air is hot and still, with a scent of dry earth and creosote, and the sound of wind rustling through a nearby patch of scrubby bushes fills the air. Uh, the door of the adobe house seems to be slowly opening and closing on its own.