Time felt like it was slowing to a halt. It had become unbearable so quickly; by pulling the lever, Rosemarée just wanted to get this over with as fast as possible... he hadn't taken into account the wait time until Cheramicques would even arrive at the lab.

  On top of that, he felt something... happening. "Felt" was rather the wrong word for this combination of perception and skill; he knew something was happening. He could see small shifts in the air, trails of smoke here, black specks of dust there... The Project was here, and it was breathing, growing even within the confines of this lab. Rosemarée could try fighting it, cleansing the most prominent congregations, but it would adapt and do it more stealthily or... it would be wrong to deduce the "next" or "since," as whatever was happening here had long transcended any margins of approximation Rosemarée was capable of. In any case, given its adaptive nature, whatever Rosemarée might try to do to stop it would only make it stronger for the next unfortunate soul who would try to deal with it.

  Rosemarée lay on the same rugs, now flecked with black dust, having shifted his position to stretch his aching limbs. He felt the effects of one of the Badbloods fading, and one of his eyes was running low on cat-eye mixture, causing blurry lights and glowing tracers to dance across the room. He indulged in his unwillingness to torture himself further by re-applying any of them. It was pointless anyway -- or soon would be.

  Despite his physical discomfort, his mind kept working, spinning scenarios, ideas, and memories. This time it offered something deceptively refreshing to consider: only he knew how this all started. When the lab goes up in flames along with himself, the liquidators -- whoever they might be -- will have to recreate the early stages of his project to figure out how to contain the late-stage consequences of the escaped self-governing system. But Rosemarée had it all here: all the samples, all the ratio outlines, all the knowledge of how this thing works. He is much more valuable to solving this crisis alive than dead.

  His Project seemed unwilling to consume him just yet. Dying as collateral damage in Cheramicques' cleanup operation, not even to his own invention, sounded... cheap. It wasn't even cool -- he was just in the way of his Project, in the way of Cheramicques. He was nothing.

  And I only ever wanted to be something. Something important. Make a change.

  Maybe he could still change things for the better? This question had more depth than it appeared at first glance; on the surface, there was a simple fact: minds far superior to his own would be tackling this outbreak once Cheramicques performed the initial cleanup. But there was a more subtle layer: Rosemarée was still alive. He knew what the Project was, and for some reason, whatever the Project was doing, it seemingly hadn't touched Rosemarée. Yet.

  This tiny detail made him feel special, in a twisted and sketchy way; realistically, he had no idea what was going on around him, so his continued survival and its extrapolated significance was quite a stretch. But it felt right. Like measurements suddenly conforming to the perfect ratio; like that final piece clicking into place in a puzzle...

  And at the same time, it was wrong. He did what was right, he tried to destroy his creation, and he did what was right again by calling the BREACH. Because that's the protocol, that's the only sensible way to react to a problem of this scale. He is a biénventor, and his work is dangerous, and when things go south you don't gamble with other people's lives...

  You gamble with yours.

  He couldn't allow himself to spiral down this path of thought. It was too tempting to fantasize about salvation, about handling everything, about saving yourself and the project... when there was just one sensible thing left to do: shut up and die, and let the smarter people handle your outbreak.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  It felt so simple, sad, and stupid that if Rosemarée were a few years younger, he would weep, cry, deny reality, and have a complete breakdown.

  This Rosemarée... he was a bit burned out. A bit more capable. Tears don't solve problems; they alleviate some problematic symptoms by flushing the fluid from your brain, but ultimately you still have to handle your problems.

  And this Rosemarée must resist the urge to "handle stuff." For the same reason he got into this mess in the first place: he was dangerous, even if young and inexperienced. He wasn't sure if he could stand up to Cheramicques, but he could definitely make their lives harder... and probably make everything worse as collateral damage.

  Collateral damage. If Cheramicques fails to stop what he has unleashed upon the world... the casualties might just as well include his family. Audry, and his other siblings, whom he loved, albeit in his own way. If his two previous decisions were hard but right, made as a responsible biénventor and an intelligent person, then let this decision to stay put be the choice of a good Rosemarée. One who does it for the sake of his loved ones.

  A few minutes passed painfully slowly in his newfound fragile peace. At times, the building shook slightly -- probably due to the fierce rainstorm. It mirrored well the mind of Rosemarée, who lay limp on the messy trunk, his unevenly dilated pupils slowly tracking specks of dust in the air. Decentralized, self-governing, accelerated system... Primordial Organism in the making.

  Don't bother, he thought, soon it will all be over. You will be over; I will be over. And the world will go on.

  As if to prove his point, a loud metallic clang pierced through the inert silence looming over his lab; the red light outside went dark. Someone -- or something -- had arrived and turned off the BREACH signal manually. This sound snapped something back to reality inside Rosemarée, and all the fear he'd been carefully stowing away broke loose, forcing him to jump upright and frantically peer through the petriglass window; the damned warrant partially obscured what was going on.

  But the scene unfolding on the roof of the building was unmistakable.

  The first thing that caught the eye was a giant, towering warbeast with reptilian features; essentially, a colossal lizard filled to the brim with modifications, implants, and God knows what else. A Crowler-type, nimble and extremely fast despite its size -- Rosemarée had heard that special augmentations made it unable to overheat, so as long as this warbeast was fully sated, it could reach terrifying speeds without stopping. Whatever you tried to steal, whatever escape you planned, if this beast stepped out -- you were finished, and much sooner than you'd realize.

  They had probably used the Crowler to scale the building as quickly as possible; through the rain, he could see blurry shapes still unloading equipment attached to the creature by belts and strappings. Those large canisters must be crystfoam, a war-grade version of the instant foam he'd used earlier to seal the crack. Soon, his lab would be buried in it, ensuring nothing got in, or out. Except for the special airlock they were planning to install around the door...

  And then he saw it. A towering creature, closer to a warbeast than mere man, stood amidst his mortal Caretakers who were busy configuring and filling all the reagents this thing would need to burn brighter than the sun. Seamlessly white, sharp, and dangerous armor plates covered its entire body, constantly shifting in a mesmerizing pattern, optimized by the finest minds to completely shield the form and effectively disperse the heat. Soon the volatile ceramic would burn, and Rosemarée with it.

  The colossus was slowly and gracefully turning towards the mesmerized Rosemarée, the plates of its armor chiming softly; its eyes, hidden deep within the ceramic helmet, met his, gleaming in the dark with reflected light. Same as his own. For a still second, the creature assessed Rosemarée, and Rosemarée stood frozen in terror and awe. He thought it justifiable, given that he had just looked his death in the face.

  The next moment, the spell broke and Rosemarée recoiled; the weight of the situation came down on him in full force, tearing through his fragile rationalizations of acceptance. Death was here, and now that it was, he did not like it one bit.

  Thoughts he'd hoped to leave behind forever started flooding his mind, like rats rabidly seeking escape from a sinking ship.