You snap the selector and yank the hose toward the wall vents. The white stream abandons the desk edge; your gleaming berm slumps and tears like soft pastry, and derplings instantly flood the gap with wet, jubilant chirps. At the grills you lay frantic Xs and fat beads that swell and bridge the slats, smothering the chatter until it dies to a muffled thrum. A few slick noses push through and vanish into the inflating crust, trapped halfway like marbles in icing.

The gauge jitters near red. Each squeeze coughs more citrus sting as the pearlescent brute on the monitor answers with a heavier glitter bloom, spores skating on the lab’s warm currents toward your face. Bin counters stutter, then stall. The cable-gnawers split again, abandoning the violet fizz and arrowing for the newly open desk edge, their bodies smearing a squeaky trail over chrome.

You bought the station a heartbeat: ducts sealed, escape surge throttled. But the desk has become a slipway and the sporer is escalating. An air-quality chime taps your ear as the hose wheezes; the vent foam bulges but holds, and the room tilts toward one problem you can still choose to solve first.