The next morning, Floyd drove down to Oddball’s workshop.

  “This could be interesting,” he muttered to himself as the tires crunched along the gravel.

  He pulled in, shut the gate behind him, and stepped into the workshop, pulling the big door closed behind him.

  Oddball stood near the motorcycle, hands in pockets, brow furrowed in curiosity.

  “What’s next, boss?” he asked, barely hiding the anticipation.

  “Alright,” Floyd thought. “Here we go.”

  “Go to the washbasin and fill a jug with water.”

  Oddball raised an eyebrow. “You want to clean something?”

  “No. I want you to pour it into the fuel tank.”

  Oddball stared at him. “What? You’ve gotta be shitting me.”

  “Nope,” Floyd said calmly, pointing at the tank. “Go ahead.”

  Muttering under his breath and shaking his head, Oddball unscrewed the cap and poured in the water.

  When it was done, Floyd said, “Turn on the ignition—but don’t start it yet.”

  A red light blinked to life on the dashboard.

  “We wait.”

  The pressure gauge read zero. Slowly, the needle began to climb. After a minute it hit the green zone. The red light blinked off and was replaced by green.

  “Crank it,” Floyd said.

  Oddball turned the key. The engine coughed.

  “Wait,” Floyd said, watching the panel.

  “Try again.”

  Oddball turned the key once more. The engine spluttered, choked, then roared into life. He gave it some throttle. It responded like a regular petrol engine.

  “Jesus Christ,” Oddball whispered. “It’s... running on water.”

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  He turned off the bike and stood in stunned silence, jaw slack.

  “Bloody hell, Floyd. You did it. You bloody did it! A water-powered engine! You're gonna be richer than Elon sodding Musk!”

  “Keep your voice down,” Floyd said firmly. “We’ll talk in a minute. It needs a proper test drive first.”

  “Yeah—open the door, I’ll take it up the road, see how this baby performs!”

  “Nope. Security, remember? Load it into your truck. Covered. We’ll run it at my place where it’s quiet.”

  Oddball paused, took a breath. “Right. Sorry. Just... damn. This is incredible.”

  They drove to Floyd’s place. Once unloaded, Oddball took the bike for a few laps up and down the road while Floyd stood by the gate, arms crossed.

  When Oddball finally pulled up, he grinned ear to ear.

  “Runs like a dream. Smooth as silk. Hop on, I’ll take you back to the house.”

  Back at the cabin, Oddball gave the bike a long look.

  “This thing should go a long way on a gallon.”

  Floyd nodded. “Water’s denser than petrol. The molecular weights higher. H?O—two hydrogen atoms, one oxygen. Hydrogen is the most flammable element in the universe. Oxygen feeds the flame. The only emission is... more water.”

  “I read something about that on the interweb once,” Oddball said. “Thought it was sci-fi.”

  “Apparently not,” Floyd said. “Put the bike in the outhouse. We’ll talk properly.”

  With the motorcycle safely stashed, they sat on the veranda with cigars and cold beers.

  Floyd leaned forward. “This next part... is deadly serious.”

  Oddball nodded. “I get it now. There was that guy—Art Miller, I think. Invented a water-powered car in the '90s. Refused to sell to the oil companies. Got poisoned at a restaurant, said 'They poisoned me' right before he died. Then his car and his drawings vanished.”

  “Exactly,” Floyd said. “That’s why nothing about this can ever be said. Not now. Not ever.”

  Oddball stared into his beer. “So... what are you gonna do with it?”

  “I’m not going to sell it,” Floyd said flatly.

  Oddball blinked. “What? But—Floyd—this is worth millions. No, billions.”

  “It’s worth more than that. But think it through. If I patent it, it’ll be bought. Buried. Suppressed. Emissions won’t stop. The oil keeps flowing. They’ll cash in, and the planet keeps dying. Or maybe someone skips the buying and goes straight for the bullet.”

  Oddball was silent.

  “And even if we lived long enough to enjoy the money,” Floyd continued, “what would we do with it? You and I—pushing 60. You’d probably drop dead from the shock of spending your first million.”

  Oddball laughed. A dry, bitter laugh. “You’re not wrong.”

  “This tech,” Floyd said, “isn’t about us. It’s for everyone. Every living thing. It’s going online tonight. Free. Anonymous. No way to trace it back to us.”

  “Well,” Oddball said, half-smiling, “there goes my 15 minutes of fame.”

  “You’ll live a lot longer than that if we keep our mouths shut.”

  They sat quietly for a few moments, letting the weight of it settle.

  Then Oddball looked at him. “Alright, real talk. You were never this brainy. So, how’d you come up with it?”

  Floyd paused. “I’ll tell you everything. Tomorrow night. Promise. For now... I’m beat.”

  Oddball nodded. “Okay. Fair enough. So... what do you owe me for my Nobel Prize cameo?”

  “How’s ten grand sound?” Floyd asked, pulling a wad of bills from his pocket.

  “Too much.”

  “You never billed me for the turbine.”

  Oddball chuckled and pocketed the cash. “Cheers, bud.”

  When Oddball had gone, Floyd returned to the computer. A video awaited his approval—showing the test drive, but scrubbed of all traces. Faces blurred. Voices disguised. Background altered to a dusty Australian road.

  He smiled. Clicked Approve.

  Then he shut everything off, locked up, and went to bed.

  While Floyd slept, the files were released.

  Drawings. Schematics. Maintenance logs. Video footage. All of it uploaded into the public domain. Anonymous, untraceable, uncontainable.

  Every university, tech institute, engine manufacturer, and news outlet in the world received the drop.

  And the world would never be the same again.