No! Money! Left!
Three simple words pierced everyone's hearts. Queen and the others leapt up as if launched.
"What?! No money? Did you embezzle it all?!" Caesar slammed the table, but all eyes turned to him—even Queen and Judge—silently accusing.
[Who's better at skimming funds than you?]
Caesar's shady dealings were no secret. Since it was his allocated budget, others didn't care if he wasted it. His lack of results only fueled their mockery, but his outburst now seemed like a cover-up.
"What money-burning project did you start, Vegapunk? You handle the funds, but you can't burn through them like this!" Judge's face darkened. His research was at a critical juncture; a funding cut would ruin everything.
"Time to rob someone? I say we should've done it sooner. That freeloader was a pirate, right? She's got experience." Queen didn't complain, offering a solution instead. MADS wasn't a legal outfit—by sea standards, they were pirates too.
"Shut up! Punk, explain. What's going on with the funds?" Oran silenced them faster than Vegapunk could.
Though Queen and the others resented both Oran and Vegapunk, they feared Oran more. Vegapunk might dock funds; Oran would physically thrash them.
Against Oran, they couldn't outtalk, outwit, or outfight him. One misstep, and Kate would pounce. Two years had proven that.
"It's our sponsor. He thinks his investment's sufficient and is considering pulling out."
Good news: No one embezzled funds.
Bad news: The sponsor was bailing.
Everyone's logical minds grasped the deeper issue instantly.
"Why?" Oran asked.
"'It's enough,'" Vegapunk quoted.
To Du Feld, MADS was a publicity stunt, not true charity. Two years without major results didn't faze him; MADS's name had spread somewhat.
He could redirect remaining funds to propaganda for the same effect—far cheaper than the research black hole.
"Why now? Didn't we publish papers before?" Judge gritted his teeth. His experiments couldn't pause.
"So, he only mentioned stopping funding. Nothing about reclaiming the ship, timelines, or sending anyone, right?" Oran wasn't surprised. He'd seen this before—Zaun's alchemical barons, Piltover's families, Demacia's royalty—all played similar games.
Their goal wasn't to upend the table but to demand a higher price.
"Exactly. Any ideas, Oran?" Vegapunk asked.
"A few. How's your GP project going?"
GP Flowers, Vegapunk's recent work, were fast-growing flowers that consumed gunpowder as nutrients, transforming it into blooms instantly.
"Basically done. Final tweaks." Vegapunk replied.
"No problem then. I'll handle it. I've been feeling the budget's tight anyway."
Oran stood, heading out. Queen and the others thought he had a plan and followed, only to find him airing out on the deck.
"Your plan? You said you'd handle it!" Judge pressed.
"Don't rush. Wait. Du Feld's sunk massive funds into MADS. The loss from pulling out now would be huge. More likely, he's after something else. Whoever speaks first loses."
"But our funds are low. If they run dry…" Judge's panic rose, thinking of his experiments.
Caesar was just as bad—both far less composed than Queen.
"A few days' wait. If he's patient, we contact him. No loss either way."
Oran knew where to get money if talks failed.
But it was easier to let it come to him.
Over the next few days, Vegapunk researched as usual, trusting Oran's lead. Judge and Caesar fretted uselessly, while Queen binged mochi soup in the kitchen, trying to "eat his money's worth."
Days later, during a resupply stop, Du Feld himself boarded MADS's ship with his entourage.
Cigar in mouth, draped in a lavish cape, purple suit adorned with a flower, Du Feld exuded wealth but couldn't mask his menace.
Yet, seeing Oran waiting in the meeting room, he grinned.
"Dr. Cidril, first time meeting, right? I've only heard of you from Vegapunk. Guessed my intentions?"
"Two years of investment with lackluster results. Charity to polish your image, but you feel shortchanged. You want something more valuable from us, don't you?"
Oran spun a fingertip top, utterly relaxed.
"Hahaha, sharper than the rest. But you're not entirely right. I'm serious about pulling out."
"No. I'm here waiting because I'm certain you won't. In fact, after today, you'll invest even more."
Feld's expression twisted, his scar twitching. He pulled a chair and sat, curious why Oran was so confident, as if he'd already won.
"The Ibel Awards are coming. Double your investment, and Punk and I will secure this year's Peace and Medicine Prizes.
If your ambitions are big enough, afterward, we can take over Big Hand Mortician Piecro's business entirely."
Oran's top kept spinning, but the room fell silent, save for Feld's quickening breaths.
(End of Chapter)
Note: This chapter was posted early today as an exception.
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