The tunnels are ghetto sci-fi, designed by someone with spaceship visions and a shabby state hospital budget. Easily accessible by elevator, they invoke a fantasy of flight, until the blinking lights turn dark and an odor of mold wafts down the passage. Beyond the unused doors at the end of the hallway awaits a scenario that wasn’t in the screenplay. A cheap office ambiance fights head to head with a fungus from another world. At the core of the outer-space building sits an isolation cell; the scratches in its porthole window are the only indication that anyone ever resided in this place. All around, the stage is set, waiting for direction, victory, or at least a gentle landing.