"Mr. Fleer? What's happening?"

"Nothing! Nothing to worry about. Nothing at all. Let's get back to work, shall we?"

"Are you quite sure?"

"Yep! Now, if you'll look here at the revenues for last year--"

"AWWWWNNGG!"

Fleer smiled through his sudden flop sweat. The groaning had a distinctly Oliver-esque tinge. The rumbling grew in fits and starts.

Fleer was trying desperately not to think about it, but the main restroom shared a wall with the back of his office. It was an inconvenience he was used to, but it was not something he wanted to deal with right now.

The rumbling resolved itself in a horrifying cacophony, a rich waterfall of sound, a symphony of intestinal distress. Fleer tried to avoid Pearce's shocked gaze as the sound rattled on, filling his office and the world.

There followed a frantic series of flushes. Both men, now firmly beyond any interest in the finances, stared in synchronous horror at the thin wall separating them from the restroom.

Silence reigned, and an insidious miasma crept into the office, a thick and impregnable odor, clinging to the senses like an old soda spill on a movie theater floor.

With watering eyes, trying to breathe as little as possible, Fleer turned back to the finances and made a sad little gesture to indicate that they should carry on.

A fresh bout of rumbling shook the office.

"I should go," Pearce said, standing.

"No, wait! Shouldn't you finish the audit?" But Pearce had already fled the room.

Fleer caught up with Pearce outside the HQ, where he was standing on the sidewalk drinking in the sun and fresh air as though he had not experienced them in years.

"We'll just give it a minute, shall we?" Fleer said.

Roger peeked around the corner of the warehouse and waved at Mr. Pearce.

"I think not. I'm leaving now. I'll file the notice of default once I'm back at the office."

"Oh, Mr. Pearce, do you really think it's fair--"

"I do not. I do not think it's fair that my company should be beholden to the debts of--" here he waved his hands at the building-- "of what is clearly a failed, and I'm using the term very generously here, a failed business."

"But the finances..."

"Mr. Fleer, I have been doing this work for over thirty years, and I think I can recognize a snow job when I see one."

"Snow job! Snow job?" Fleer drew himself up. "Look here, Mr. Pearce, I can understand that our business may be a little light on revenue, and I'll admit I tried to make the numbers as good as I could, but I have not falsified or omitted anything. We may not be up to your standards, but we are honest."

Pearce looked slightly mollified, and a little ashamed.

"Very well. I'll admit that perhaps I spoke in a fit of pique. I apologize for the accusation. Nevertheless, your finances are simply not there, and moreover, your business is not there."

"But you didn't look at last year's revenue."

Pearce sighed.

"They wouldn't matter. With your numbers the way they are, it wouldn't matter if the previous five years had been solidly black. Your firm clings to solvency by the thinnest of threads, as does Crediture's hope of repayment. You have no cogent business plan, no assets to speak of, and no budget for marketing nor any kind of plan for bringing in new clients. Furthermore, I did some research beforehand, and I've discovered that your mercenary outfit has no insurance, no licensing, no legal protection of any kind. As far as I could find, you don't even have a Mercenary's Guild membership. If any crisis were to arise, your business would simply... evaporate."

Pearce's words hit Fleer like one gut-punch after another, until he visibly sagged. Pearce's tone softened.

"I'm sorry to say, Mr. Fleer, that in the interests of my employer, I must declare your debts to Crediture to be in default."

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

"But... what are we supposed to do? How can we fix this?"

"I'm afraid that, in your current state, the best you can hope for is to declare bankruptcy, although I suspect the arbiter will only allow you to shut down your business and sell off your assets."

"I can't, I mean, look. We can pay this money back! You can't put us in default!"

Pearce shook his head.

"I'm not putting you in default, I'm simply recognizing the fact. Your payments over the history of these loans have been incredibly spotty, and you have made no payments in over 270 days. Only the fact that we were transitioning during the acquisition of Lessy Holdings gave you as much time as you had."

Mentally shaking himself, Fleer tried another tack.

"Look, I've got myself on the line and my guys on the line here. I know we can pay this back. We just need a little time. What can we do?"

"It's very simple. You either need to radically change your business outlook, drastically modify your debt profile, or pay back the amount of all the loans in full. 510,000 credits."

The hammerblow of that monstrous number silenced Fleer. His veneer of bustle abandoned him, and he sank in on himself, sagging in every feature.

How had they fallen so deep in debt? When he'd bought Riotfish, it was, he fully admitted to himself, done without full consideration of their business outlook. They'd always been in a hole, but he'd spent so much time and energy just making day-to-day expenses that he'd never had the chance to focus on their debts. And now he never would.

He opened his mouth to speak, to cajole, to convince, but his flow had dried up. His words were gone, he was empty, and all he had was need.

He needed the Riotfish.

"Please," he said quietly, staring at the ground. "Is there anything you can do for us?"

Tired, exasperated, and a little softhearted, Pearce relented.

"Fine. It's near the end of the fiscal year, and I don't have time to deal with another default right now. I won't file this for--" he spun through something on his datapad-- "six and a half more weeks. That gives you until the end of September."

Fleer tried, he really did, but he could not bring himself to thank Pearce.

"I tell you this in kindness," Pearce said, "the smart play is bankruptcy. In thirty years, I've never seen a business with your financial outlook survive longer than six months."

"I understand," Fleer said in a small, defeated voice.

"It's best to take this time to get your papers in order. It will make things smoother for the bankruptcy mediator, and he may go a little easier on you."

Fleer nodded numbly.

Pearce nodded in return, stepped into his sensible gravcar, and hummed off.

----------------------------------------

Fleer stood on the sidewalk and fumed as his numbness gave way to anger.

He'd tried so hard. He'd supported his guys. He had done all the things nobody had ever done for him.

He had been the better person. Been the good guy. He'd fought and struggled and scraped and he needed this. He needed this and it wasn't fair.

His temperature rising, Fleer went inside and whirled furiously through the rec room, yelling "We're done!" on his way through. He stormed into his office and slammed the door.

The Riotfish stood in a loose group in the rec room in various states of chagrin, shock, anger, and gentle lunacy.

"I'll speak with him," Oliver said.

He tapped on Fleer's door, and after a minute with no response, he let himself in.

Oliver walked over and stood in front of Fleer's desk, stone-faced and silent, with his arms crossed.

Fleer ignored him for a long minute, scrolling blindly around on his desktop, his temper rising.

"What?" he snapped, finally.

Oliver glared.

"I want you to talk to me."

"I talked. We're done. There, I said it again."

"No, talk to me, David. I need more than that. What's the rest of the story?"

"What 'rest of the story'? There is no more story. No more Riotfish. We're done. Kaput. It's over."

"And?"

"And what? We're finished! Unless you happen to know some way we can find a half a million credits in the next six weeks, I suggest you start packing your things."

Oliver didn't flinch.

"And how do you plan to resolve this? What are you going to do?"

"Figure out how to not get my throat slit when Crediture forces us into bankruptcy here in six weeks, Oliver. Is that good enough for you, Oliver? Does that meet with your approval?"

"So you're going to relinquish us, then? Give us up?"

"THIS IS NOT GIVING UP!" Fleer roared, slamming to his feet. "THIS IS DEFEAT!"

Oliver, unmoved, stared down his heaving boss.

"And what about Mrs. Meade?" he asked softly.

Unwanted tears suddenly rushed to his eyes. Fleer refused to let them spill. He struggled in silence for a bit.

"We can... figure something out for Mrs. Meade. A stipend, or--

"A home?" Oliver's expression stayed flat.

"No! No. But we'll--"

"And what about Roger?"

"Roger comes with me," Fleer whipped back. "That is non-negotiable, full stop."

"And what about me?" Oliver asked quietly. "Should I just take myself back to the docks, then? Forget everything I've learned and just start moving heavy things around again?"

Emotionally spent, Fleer collapsed into his chair.

"No," he replied in a small voice. "No."

"David, let us help you. Give us some guidance, but we all want to help."

"Oliver, that's more money than Riotfish makes in a year. There's just no way."

"This is our home. We tried to help, and I'm sorry, but we made a real mess of things. Tell us how we can fix it."

"No, no," Fleer said, scrubbing his hands through his hair. "You guys didn't screw it up. I did. I didn't make it clear what everybody needed to do. I should have been the one to fix this. It's my fault."

"What can we do?"

"I've just got to find us some work. If I can drum up some clients-- well, it might be something more dangerous than we're used to."

"I can't speak for everyone, but I think we're all on board. Whatever it takes."

Fleer nodded.

"Give me some time to see what I can come up with," he said.