The moment you hit the janitorial closet’s panic button, crimson strobes stutter to life along Salvation’s ring corridor. From the toppled biohazard crate, a dozen palm-sized derplings spill like glossy grapes—rubbery, bright-eyed, and already nuzzling into the warm vent grates. One shivers, then buds into two. The station AI chimes: Containment protocol pending, in a voice that sounds far too calm.

You snatch your chrome mop and a satchel of solvents. If they reach the maintenance ducts, they’ll chew through insulation and short half the life support grid. A smear of spilled nutrient gel snakes toward a vent, luring the creatures with a sugary sheen. Your breath fogs in the cold recirculated air as the klaxons swell—and you realize you have seconds to act.