A single droplet of sweat splatted a few millimeters to the left of the dissected cocoon skin.

  Initially, Rosemarée designed only one processing pearl, a single source of self-change and self-replication. A self-governing core, if you will.

  What went far beyond average graduate projects, and further than some factoréal-grade ones, is Project's ability to replicate the replication mechanism. He put in additional safeguards, essentially making the replicative cells break down if they attempt to replicate themselves and allowing them to only replicate others; the Project took that into account, successfully ignored it, and synthesized a similar cell, but without these pesky limitations.

  He found it hilariously ironic. The likely cause was the simple fact that limitations are detrimental to progress, so, in a twisted sense, the Project performed better than was expected, and this was starting to get scary.

  Almost another mental slip: Rosemarée couldn't afford those, not now. He realized that he understood the general idea of the project "bypassing" the limitations -- he himself could achieve that in a dozen different ways. But... how exactly did the project accomplish that? Did it modify the cells to be resistant to decay? Did it tamper with the markers that helped identify the forbidden copies, or compromise the detection system, rebuild them from scratch? What he was looking at didn't resemble any of his hypotheses.

  With a steadily increasing sense of dread creeping up the back of his mind, Rosemarée realized that this was exactly why it had taken so excruciatingly long for anything to happen at all. By enforcing a limit on replication, he had left the Project with merely a handful of ineffective forms it could transform into; everything else was beyond its grasp. Until now. It hadn't evolved to be better; it had evolved to break out of his safeguards.

  Swinging his scalpel with frantic precision, he kept exposing the innards of the cocoon slice, finding more and more "pearls" -- processing-replicating nodes, engineered not by him, but by his creation alone. Some looked different, and he couldn't even begin to guess their purpose. One was speckled with unnaturally black dots; another oozed a viscous fluid, while a few others appeared to be more refined versions of the basic processing pearls.

  He slowly turned towards his creation. First, it had just corrected his own mistake and cleared his half-intentional roadblock; if it hadn't, he would have spent a few more completely pointless days sitting in this poisoned cell. Second, and it had taken him too long to realize this, his project no longer qualified as "potentially self-replicating with total mass within mass class o-5." His cocoon weighed 3745μ, and applying basic math, this amounted to non-compliance with a level 4 hazard protocol, suspension from the Chemidiáté for two years, half of which must be spent at correctional labor facilities in factoréals associated with the Chemidiáté. This would likely be his last destination, considering the reputational hit he was about to take.

  It was almost fascinating, just how quickly things spiraled out of control, Rosemarée thought, observing the cocoon in the green light, which had undergone another change in just the last few minutes: now it lacked the red dots it previously displayed. He wanted to panic and burn this whole lab as fast as possible -- screw the revolutionary biénventor career, screw all of this. But that's the "best" part about doing serious work: there's no easy way out. Burning the lab meant destroying most of his equipment and damaging factoréal-owned property, and that's only after carefully lifting all the containment measures that would leave half the district polluted if it broke out in a fire.

  He was trapped in protocols and professional ethics. Thus the only way forward was understanding what he had to deal with and neutralizing it step by step. With that in mind, he slowly approached the cocoon which was still enveloped in green light from the lamp, but no longer shimmered with red spots. Now ominous-looking meat hooks and various chains hung all around it, covered with droplets of condensate that were likely decontaminators. If not for them, his Project would have probably already consumed the cocoon and would be in the process of enjoying Rosemarée himself as its next meal.

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  Approaching cocoon, he identified the strange feeling that's been swelling in him for some time: he didn't feel alone here anymore. It's not just "Project" now; it's a protocol-breaching replicating agent which either needs to be masterfully constrained to salvage his graduation work, or destroyed, to salvage the safety of this district and that of his own.

  Rosemarée cautiously leaned closer and squinted his tired eyes. In the dim green light, it was difficult to see clearly, but all the previous clusters of the Project appeared black, no longer glowing red even under exposure to the specific wavelength. By now, the Project covered roughly 40% of the flesh cocoon, spreading in vine-like patterns that made it resemble an organic version of a priodrake egg. The Project had expanded far enough that a slight shivering was visible at the edges where it fused with the cocoon -- it was still consuming the cocoon's proteins. But why had it stopped reacting to light? Had it consumed or eliminated the compound-marker that was supposed to glow? He brought the lamp closer to the cocoon.

  The Project reacted. Rosemarée recoiled, instantly snuffing out the green flame.

  It hadn't merely eliminated his marker. The Project had modified the compound and extracted the light energy instead of reflecting it. When Rosemarée brought the lamp nearer, the Project's shivering intensified, spreading across the cocoon more rapidly.

  All of this despite the fact that the "core" processing pearl had long been extracted. Whatever was happening in this cocoon was purely artificial -- the only man-made part now lay on his table.

  Oh, the agony. This is almost what he was going for -- a real scientific case of his self-governing architecture providing quick and impressive results; if only they were not rabidly going off the tracks into uncharted waters. He fell for the Moorthon's Trap; a very simple and tragic concept. For the safety of the whole city, even if you make a scientific breakthrough that falls outside of the Chemidiáté -- it has to be destroyed, and surviving biénventors are then funded to replicate the less dangerous version of the potential breakthrough. Coldwel precedent protects biénventors from legal trouble if everything outside of regulations was properly destroyed -- and so this becomes his only viable option.

  Rosemarée took a deep breath and reached for the Naphtheniqúe tank -- the project was way past the point where benzoline, his usual cleaning solution, would suffice. The cocoon would have to go too, rendering the whole lab inoperable for weeks, but that was a small price to pay compared to the alternative outcomes. He had heard countless stories of experiments spiraling out of control; plagues and viruses, golems and warmounts, sometimes forcing entire towns to be sealed off. It wasn't the expanding, carnivorous nature of his Project that scared him; what terrified him was how, in just the last few minutes, it had overcome half of his imposed limitations, turned the other half to its advantage, and was now consuming a large chunk of meat -- presumably to fuel an even more outstanding feat. Rosemarée didn't want to wait and find out what that might be.

  He aimed the sprayer tube at the cocoon, but something caught his attention. With one fewer light source, only the hülood-wax candles on his table lit up the room, but this dim light was enough to see slight movement inside the cocoon. Rosemarée froze in place, putting all the effort into not allowing imagination to do its terrible work and focusing on perception instead.

  Marvelous. It appeared that the Project's new feat had arrived early, 1.4 minutes after the discovery of the last one. Strange movement was the thin strand of mist coming out of cocoon; and if you thought that dealing with hazardous liquids is a tough task, try something can spread through air, be invisible and choke you in a matter of seconds.

  An arc of roaring liquid flame burst from the sprayer, lighting up the whole room as Rosemarée switched to a more drastic tool than his trusty scalpel, now useless at this stage. Lit by the chaotic dance of flames, his stern face contorted into a mask of pain. There are gates you do not open, and there are seals you do not breach -- this was his thesis now, the proof that he could do the impossible, and then do what was right.

  Watching the naphtheniqúe mixture do its blazing work, reducing his next revolutionary invention to ash, he willed his eyes to remain dry. He failed, desperately blaming it on the chemicals in the air.