The wind combs through yellowed grass. Around you, old foundations and half-built walls lean crooked against the sky.

The wind combs through yellowed grass. Around you, old foundations and half-built walls lean crooked against the sky.

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The sun dips low, brushing the Pitol Tract in grey and copper. Old foundations and half-built walls lean crooked. Sickly grass sways in the day's last exhales.

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Wind scours the Pitol Tract, brushing yellowed grass into long arcs. Old foundations and half-built walls lean at worrying angles.

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Night drapes the Pitol Tract in black. Old foundations and half-built walls rise as rigid silhouettes, their angles lost to the shadows.

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Sunlight strikes the Pitol Tract in harsh lines. Foundations and half-built walls cast long, jagged shadows, their edges brittle against the bright sky.

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Moonlight coats the Pitol Tract in pale silver. Ancient foundations and half-built walls shimmer, their angles precise and pale.

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Rain slants across the Pitol Tract, drumming on concrete and discarded metal. Old foundations and unfinished walls glisten, their edges softened by grey light.

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Bloated clouds roam above the Pitol Tract. Old foundations and skeletal walls vanish into wet shadows, their outlines wavering.

The remains of a community that was traded for a single shot at the sky.

In the distance, Portofiro's old rocket silo bores into the soil -- a void outlined in concrete.

The long, dark, sexy tunnel awaits...

(Wolf whistle.)

Somewhere in the bushes nearby, a small animal scampers off.

This silo is also where you'll find the mysterious 'MIHO', according to the fax you received.

Your footsteps crunch along the dirt and gravel.

After further consideration, this tunnel seems more 'sad and broken'.

No, no, no. You'll get it once you're inside.

The archives must be down there.

And inside them, the records related to Project AUTONOMÍA.

Something tells you it won't get much better inside.

This place looks sad, doesn't it?

It looks like what it is. A heap of rusted metal and overgrown weeds.

In the distance, an old rocket silo bores into the soil -- a void outlined in concrete.

The vestiges of Portofiro's disastrous 77 space program. This is the place you saw on television, back then.

And where the mysterious fax told you you'd find 'MIHO'.

These must be the vestiges of Portofiro's disastrous 77 space program. The city-state tried to launch a rocket into orbit -- only for it to disintegrate.