In the corner of the room, to the right of a large bookshelf which seemingly has not been used to store books at all, a dimly-lit grey cocoon was hanging from one of the meat hooks. The type of skin tissue Rosemarée used to grow it did not require oxygen supply after its expansion was completed, resulting in the greyish look; but under closer inspection, the texture of the skin could be distinguished, with all its imperfections which his biologic tinkering did not aim at fixing. Perhaps it should have; in its current state, this sack of flesh looked somewhat disturbing. Rosemarée knew well that the contents might and probably would be way more disturbing than the pallor of skin, which some freaks from the Chemidiáté apply to themselves as a cosmetic "upgrade" in pursuit of fashion.

  The underlying idea of his project was largely inspired by evolution. If a few cells, left out there on their own, could mix up and produce multicellular system, and then continuously mutate into something entirely different -- why did scholars of the Chemidiáté limit themselves and their creations to specific schematics?

  Well, because even an average student of Chemidiáté is still smarter than a unicellular organism, but maybe just barely. Jokes aside, it wasn't the unicellars that made the evolution happen; many don't realize how important was the environment that killed them over and over again until only lucky few, who would fluctuate a favorable mutation, would be left alive.

  That was the brilliant idea of the Rosemarée. To conceive an organism that would be both an agent and an environment, killing and rearranging itself until... something happens. Rosemarée didn't know exactly what, but his graduate thesis was mostly about the process of self-governing biotic systems, not about the end result. And that was just one more reason he was looked down upon; "a process" is somewhat less impressive than a two-story-tall flesh amalgam marching out of Chemidiáté gates, which is something Robíer Balstaho, a coursemate of his, chose as his graduate project.

  Rosemarée took a step towards the cocoon, and mentally corrected himself; one more step and he would crash into yet another part of his project -- reinforced LeChará containers which would typically not be involved in any graduate project, unless the biénventor in question had a really good friend working there. Thinking back on those three weeks spent in their chemgaols, the cheapest and barely affordable time for that being nights, it strangely felt way riskier than what he was doing now. It was, obviously, not true, and yet... Usually you needed decades of experience for your application to be even considered, but having a friendly face in the right place had worked wonders since ancient times. These things came at a price, though; one momentary slip or inaccuracy and you weren't getting out of your debt alive, their equipment being the best you could get in the private sector. One centrifuge costs maybe ten to fifteen Rosemarées; props the question who is the equipment in that case.

  Even default containers from LeChará were probably more expensive than half of this lab. Treating them and their contents with due respect, Rosemarée began to move them from under the cocoon where he left him previously after assembling another batch. They were heavier than what you'd expect...

  Without this short dive into the top-class labs Rosemarée would still be in the earliest stage of his actual project and might have abandoned the hope to finish it in the given time; everyone likes to sound clever talking about evolution, especially Rosemarée, but fun ends the moment you consider it took practically an eternity for life to evolve... and here you are trying to force it in a matter of days or weeks. Solution is deceptively simple: have to speed it up a bit.

  Another container found it's way onto the tarpaulin sheet in the corner of the lab. A few more remained, and it was not going to be fast. Had to be done, though.

  Right, the catalyst. The practical application of "simply speeding up the reaction" required getting into LeChará, re-creating the newest developments from the paywalled academic journal "Mind Catalyst", and then spending two weeks more trying to apply the resulting nutrient-catalyst so that it doesn't blow up the simple self-governing cells he used in his project by overloading them. Now though, the cells could experience a death-loop several hundred times faster! Approximately... Rosemarée didn't like to admit it, but only working with LeChará's chemgear, he realized he wasn't as good at calculus as he'd hoped; working with affordable gear, you can't control anything beyond a certain margin. Working with best gear... you can, but you barely know how to -- mainly from theoretical elective courses because come on, the prodigies who will be working at LeChará are in the other wing of Chemidiáté.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  The last container was now nested on top of another one, all of them neatly arranged in the corner. Only one remained -- on his table, where he needed it to produce the next batch. Memories about LeChará was something he enjoyed mulling over -- getting to extraordinary serious place and not screwing anything up was a win in his book. Rosemarée was proud that even despite not calculating all the specifics, he calculated just enough for catalyst to work, which made his project at least doable, hopefully -- more than just that. His ancient mentor, though, was not that excited about the project; he seemed much more invested in the catalyst Rosemarée came up with. He went as far as to suggest to change the thesis, since the catalyst could be a real step forward in researching the self-governing systems...

  Why be a ripple when you can be a tidal wave?

  He didn't say that to mentor, he wasn't that delusional about his chances of success. But he refused still. Time to evaluate these success chances, then.

  Rosemarée took a flickering red candle from the bookshelf and used his other hand to carefully draw apart the flesh curtains that barred the way to the inner cocoon. Light barely reached through the narrow opening, but Rosemarée's trained eyes could still see: the black, grainy mass on the bottom of the cocoon looked like a splat of porridge rather than a scientific breakthrough, which was not especially inspiring. If memory served him well, that's exactly the state he left it in a few hours ago. It was supposed to do at least something by now, unless the matter had been stuck in a loop of trying the same things over and over again, meeting one and the same end. Unfortunate. Rosemarée had calculated the precise ratios of compounds and energy levels to keep the structure constantly randomized at each "environmental death", and yet, here was the result: a batch of black mess.

  He's done that a dozen times already, each new attempt less painful than the last. Splash it with benzoline, light it up, splat a new batch of Fold there and add his nutrient-catalyst that starts the reaction. Also, inject the cocoon itself: "environment" also needs some sustenance. And yet, for the first time, he felt like he was doing something irreversible. This black mess had been attempting to live for the last several hours. And it would be entirely gone in a minute, no new evolutionary branches. A dead end.

  At which point was he killing his invention, rather than just cleaning it up?..

  Biénventors are trained to be indifferent to death. End of chemical reaction, end of line. But this somehow seemed bigger than a simple reaction. He had never heard one, but a symphony was a good word for it -- a multitude of melodic reactions working together to become something greater, just as the cells of his project struggled to overcome themselves. Music, art, life. Maybe even something else entirely, an enigma that danced on the edges of his equations, dropping hints but never revealing itself.

  And now he has to burn all of those prospects, so the next iteration actually has a chance to become anything at all. Better to just get on with it before his sentiments screw everything up. These feelings weren't typical for him, and now part of his mind was wondering why he was so doubtful at this moment...

  The valve began to turn with a slight metallic squeak; the next second, before the benzoline had reached the sprayer, Rosemarée closed the valve shut. He subconsciously measured the black mass in the cocoon to calculate how much benzoline he should use, and something was not entirely right where it should be. It wasn't an experiment, but rather a regular mess if you didn't know precisely what was going on. Aspiring biénventors are relentlessly trained to measure the slightest quantities and ratios because warning sections in chémetomes were usually written in blood -- more often than not mixed with acid.

  He put away the benzoline tank, but not too far. He rustled in the bookshelf for a few seconds, looking for an object resembling an old oil lantern. Disassembling it took a few seconds, followed by another few spent on filling it with a special visual mapping compound. Once the liquid soaked the wick, Rosemarée held it to the flame of the candle, which caused it to sparkle to life with a flash of bright green light. Ominous shadows sprang to life across the whole room, stirring Rosemarée's imagination and bringing to memory tales of the old masters of the living, dreadful necromancers. Which are, of course, just tales. The reality is that the frequency of this light should react to a special chemical marker within his invention, revealing exactly where...

  There. In the center, a large mass, slightly glowing with red light, with a few brighter dots on the surface. Rosemarée started to inspect it more closely, looking right into the opening of the gray cocoon. The density seemed to be normal, with no significant shift in color, and lumps of bright dots were only occasional... and yet, the glow was too dull. There should be more, shouldn't there?

  Rosemarée leaned back from the cocoon and rubbed his forehead, thinking about the drawbacks of sitting in a lab for days on end. Your mind is trained to retain clarity, but your eyes? Strained. Your lungs? Craving fresh air. A wave of visual snow washed over his sight when he took a deep breath, causing him to momentarily recoil after seeing a flurry of red, green, and blue spots... Soon, most of them vanished, and he shook his head in a desperate attempt to focus.

  Wait. Most of them?

  The cocoon was covered in glimmering red dots, completely disregarding Rosemarée's firm opinion that the project should stay inside.