You thumb the biohazard sprayer to wide-fan and sweep a shining arc around the bench. The foam erupts in cold, mint-ozone plumes, billowing up and over itself until it knits into a glossy, ankle-high berm. Derplings skitter for the drains and outlets but meet the tacky wall with wet, offended squeaks, tiny feet burping free only to be snagged again. You add a second pass to sculpt a funnel, angling the berm toward the quarantine chute’s manual handle. The violet vapor clings in a glitter-starred haze; alarms throb amber over a fresh chorus of squeals as a few split and double, only to plaster themselves against the sticky ridge.

The lab stills to a tense, compressed hush inside the containment ring. The sugary spill pools on the safe side of your funnel, drawing a pulsing cluster into the corridor you’ve shaped; the foam’s skin cures to a satin shell that holds but bows with each rubbery press. Numbers are rising. If you move now—toward the chute, the vac, or a baited trap—you can turn this corral into a one-way trip for the swarm.