"Wait, Sidilir, you can't do this!" Caesar wailed.
Orlan's words shattered Caesar's defenses. Losing half his funds wasn't lethal—his daily exaggerations already padded them plenty. A cut just meant tightening his belt. Orlan and Vegapunk rarely bothered auditing his antics.
But Quinn was different. He'd nitpick every detail, dismantling Caesar from the ground up.
Orlan ignored the pleas, heading inside to reinforce his lab's circuits. Actions had consequences, and pitting Caesar against his nemesis ensured results without effort. One sentence motivated Quinn like nothing else—no reward needed.
Why Quinn over Judge? A win for the shameless flatterer.
"Mhahaha! Caesar, focus on recovering. I'll audit your accounts first—ensure everything's spotless," Quinn grinned, his smile unyielding. His glee matched Caesar's earlier fruit-fueled arrogance.
"Quinn, you bastard—"
"Mind your tongue, Caesar. I control your cash flow now. But flattery won't help anyway. Hahaha!"
Should I switch sides? Quinn's reaping rewards, Judge pondered, questioning his stance. Resistance seemed futile; joining might pay off. Quinn's bootlicking had worked.
Judge and Quinn's inner debates aside, Caesar's next months promised misery.
The Grand Line's weather shifted swiftly—the rain, timed for the battle, vanished soon after. Once Orlan fixed the circuits, he joined Vegapunk to review bloodline factor data.
"Starting with animal types?" Orlan asked.
"Yeah, they're cheapest, and their 'consciousness' makes replication easier. Your Frankenstein success suggests you're tackling parahuman types?"
"Pretty much. No need duplicating efforts. Once Caesar recovers, he'll handle natural types—he's ideal."
Natural samples were rare, making Caesar MADS's prime subject. The bloodline factor project, a shared ship endeavor, pooled data. Capable minds contributed; others labored.
Vegapunk and Orlan entered a special chamber housing three culture tanks. Inside: their clones.
As time progressed, differences emerged. Bakin's clone resembled a young girl; Charlotte Linlin's stayed infantile. Whitebeard's... Bakin's meddling had yielded oddities.
"Punk, cloning an adult directly?"
"Yeah, for an assistant and special tasks. Bakin's skilled here. I lengthened her telomeres, slowed cell division—she'll stay peak condition indefinitely. Our approaches differ again."
Though shared, they hadn't meddled in each other's work. Orlan's was clearly more intricate.
"Adult cloning's efficient, but skipping growth caps potential. I don't want disposable soldiers. Let her develop gradually, guide her—that's my goal."
Their aims diverged: Vegapunk sought a quick, capable aide; Orlan, a sea-dominating force. A normally raised, trained Linlin—free of Big Mom's flaws—would shatter ceilings. Plus, her Soul-Soul Fruit wasn't ideal; a mythical beast type was essential.
"Growth... you're right. I rushed this time," Vegapunk admitted.
"Your choice might suit you—just different paths. They didn't exist before; we created them. Responsibility's key, regardless of purpose. Agree?"
"Yes, clones are human—undeniably."
Night fell. Labs glowed, but most rested, recharging for tomorrow. Yet research wasn't confined to the ship.
On another continent, new gear was tested.
In Piltover's open square, a massive pot-like device stood. Workers followed a furry dwarf's directions, adding parts.
"Professor Heimerdinger, is this okay? The last dozen tries..."
"Of course! Science's power—timing's key for success. But we need help. Lulu! Stop playing; channel magic here!"
Heimerdinger yanked Lulu from ant-chasing, pointing to an interface. As her magic flowed, the area turned dreamlike. Soon, Orlan's illusory form materialized.
"Teacher Heimerdinger? Why are you here?"
"Someone said you're in trouble. This is my dream enhancer—I pulled your consciousness from sleep. What's happening?"
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