Rain was pouring hard again; probably a new set of control ensurance chemicals. They should be more careful this time, or, rather, less obvious: the three remaining Solsthein Labs lack the control over state press, but have a few notable personalies kntiown to stir trouble when something too questionable gets mixed in.

  Rosemarée forced himself awake from the half-slumber induced by the calming patter of the raindrops, each carrying thousands different nucleic acids. At first, it was difficult to get used to the thought that water, the source of all life, is now treated as a chemical newsletter, now that anyone with sufficient knowledge could inject the right chemicals into the rain and have it carried across the land. A liquid medium for any biénventor to "transmit" their creations to a larger population and frantically check the Chemidiáté newsletter to gauge the improvements on various local metrics.

  Perhaps you thought yourself capable of curing Prion Plague? By all means, just pour a sample of your solution into the rain, quite literally, we'll see if it works in a week or so, when it reaches the Outskirts, carried by "natural" water cycle.

  Rosemarée used to think that of himself. As many others, he quickly got disillusioned after joining Chemidiáté. Lost in memories of his first year, he absently watched the rivulet of rainwater snake down the clouded window pane, letting his thoughts meander until he was awake enough to continue his work.

  Rain. Transmitting chemicals with the rain, he was thinking about that. Of course, even if there are any metric changes, you have to prove that it's exactly your brand-new compound that did the trick... and even then you risk trouble of some larger player figuring out your rescripture and reproducing the invention themselves. Yet over the years, there are less and less alternatives if you're dead set on a path of sole biénventor. Otherwise -- you're welcome to spend years of your working age improving a single digit of nutrition value of sus synthetus; you'd die of boredom faster than from Prion Plague.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Despite knowing how it worked, none of that was particularly relevant for Rosemarée, though. He was a pioneer of a different branch of study; one that is known to produce something groundbreaking once in a few decades or so, and rest forgotten until another half of a century passes. That's if you're lucky; it can easily be much longer. Sometimes he regrets choosing this program in the Chemidiáté; other times his wild imagination, seemingly undimmed by the years of study makes him hopeful for a discovery that would become the discovery. He, of course, knew it was irrational.

  His weary, heavy-lidded eyes, their color indistinguishable in the dim light and adorned with prominent dark circles underneath, slowly drifted over the sturdy wooden table. Blinking away the blurriness induced by a layer of dead cells, he focused his attention on a series of hourglasses, each covered in rough but intricate marks and symbols. That curly symbol represents the time for the basic Voltaic Fermenting, another denotes how long one needs to heat the U-cauldron to prepare it for a fresh batch, and there are so many more.

  The only relevant hourglass wasn't yet in the state he'd hoped for. He must have slept for a few hours, and yet, according to the hourglass, there were still a few more to go. Low-rate reactions do take their time, don't they...

  Crap. The other hourglass, however, was close to its second mark, having passed the first one what, fifteen minutes ago?