You rip open cafeteria nutrient bars and snap them into syrupy shards, the sweet smell cutting through the chemical haze. Dozens of pebble-slick derplings swivel as one, chirps blending into a hungry chorus. You shuffle backward, flicking a bright breadcrumb path toward the gaping maintenance chute. They tumble over each other to reach the sugar—some even pop into twins mid-scramble—but the trail holds them. You wedge the grate wider and slap a whole bar at the lip; the swarm ripples and sluices past your boots, pearls down a drain, pattering onto the humming quarantine conveyor below.

The last bar arcs into the chute, and a silvery ribbon of derplings pours after it. A few stragglers cling to beaker racks and vent slats, blinking indecisively. From the depths, the conveyor emits a metallic squeal as a red indicator flashes Sterilize Pending. The sugary smoke thins; your pulse doesn’t. Lock this down now, and the station might just forgive you… maybe.