That--

She hasn't felt this sick since she stood from a desk and beheld Aphrodite holding her triumph.

Behold, the triumphs of biomancy!

It isn't even from the perspective of trying to fight that, although, holy shit, we gotta talk about that. It's--

When you die, is the you that's reborn the same you as the one that died? Would they need Ikarani-fast memories and learning if they did? They're servitors--Is each one a separate soul? Are you sharing one soul with hundreds--millions--of the same-but-different yous that came before?

Servitors, with lifetime measured in weeks. Weeks, instead of--

You don't have to do this! Making their lives so short is, is, is pointlessly cruel! Is it purely for the Ikarani learning? Is it so they do not realize their plight and rise? Can't be a threat if any one given leader is gone in a month!

She has to lean against something, just to catch her breath. Let her heart stop hammering, stop beating with the--

A month! A month, for real? You can't-- Fucking [i]monstrous--[/i]

She blinks hard, and realizes tears are there, squeezing from the corners.

"We have to--"

Dyssia swallows, hard, forces the knot down her throat and tries again.

"We can't let Liquid Bronze have them."

And again, rushing, as if to clarify:

"Not because they're a threat, because holy [i]shit[/i] are they a threat. But Liquid Bronze's made a self-destructing, self-genociding, race of [i]servitors.[/i]"

The immensity of the task ahead is--

How do you save everyone? You can kidnap some, raise them as best you can, give them happiness, give them support, raise them as people, raise them as, as, not as godsdamn weapons, not as disposable self-genociding [i]trash,[/i] with--

But Liquid Bronze still has the mold! Still has the secret to making them! To creating people, born to die, born to explode, born to--

She swallows again.

"Eight hours. Eight hours to finish the battle, gather the eggs, escape, and start to raise a new generation. We have to [i]try.[/i]"