You snatch the biohazard foam sprayer and thumb the trigger. A citrus-bitter hiss blossoms into a gleaming white berm that crawls like meringue over stainless steel. You sweep it in arcs along the desk’s edge, building soft, curving walls that corral the pebble-slick derplings. Chirps escalate to offended trills as they bump the spongy barrier and funnel exactly where you want them—into the open containment bins you’ve kicked beneath the lip. One by one they slither over the rim with rubbery plops, bin counters ticking up in staccato bursts.

A stubborn cluster keeps worrying a dangling cable near the fizzing violet spill, splitting and recombining as the foam cools around their ankles. The sprayer’s gauge needle sags into yellow; your forearm throbs with each sweep. From atop a flickering monitor, an oversized derpling glitters pearlescent and puffs a glittery spore cloud that skates the amber light. The vents chatter like teeth—there’s movement behind the grills. You’ve cleared most of the desk, but the biggest trouble just found higher ground.