Your eyes scan the breadth of the lab: Pink lights, and deep purple walls decorated with posters of musicians from a thousand years ago. The lab's shelves and drawers are stuffed to the brim with records of all kinds: Diaries, case files, cassette tapes, and everything in between. Several terminals litter the tiered desk taking up an entire corner of the lab, a few of them old, refurbished models. Labels and stickers are stuck haphazardly on the locker labelled "TOOLS." The lab smells faintly of bamboo fragrance. A snow-white, red-eyed Stranga Sciuro skitters over and taps at your foot.