Part VII - Shadows and Small Victories
By mid-afternoon, the first stapled copies were ready. Isaiah held a small stack carefully, tracing the spines as if they were fragile wings. The twins tugged at his sleeves, eager to help, while Rico lined up the pages on the edge of the table.
Stepping outside, Isaiah squinted against the sunlight, the city alive with sounds and motion. The cracked sidewalks glimmered with leftover puddles from last night's drizzle. Dogs barked in alleyways, a neighbor's radio spilled old R&B across the block, and the scent of frying tortillas floated from a nearby kitchen. Every corner, every stray paper or discarded soda can, seemed to hum in rhythm with the small empire he carried in his hands.
At the local barbershop, Isaiah's hands trembled slightly as he handed a copy to a man adjusting a mirror. The man flipped through the pages, eyebrows raising in surprise.
"Hey… this kid drew all this?" he asked.
Isaiah nodded quickly, cheeks burning. "Y-yes… my story," he whispered.
The man grinned and pinned the comic to the mirror, winking at the other customers.
At the swap meet, teens crowded around, crumpled dollar bills exchanging hands for the small booklets. Laughs and whispers spread through the crowd. Small victories stacked—tiny sparks of pride and confidence lighting Isaiah's chest.
In the comic world, Goku clutched the Dragon Ball, eyes wide as smoke bombs exploded around him. Bulma ducked behind a rock, scanning for Pilaf's henchmen, Shu and Mai.
"You mean this shiny rock?" Goku shouted. "Nah. I found it fair."
Shu growled, frustrated, and Mai hissed. The tension mirrored the nervous triumph in Isaiah's hands—each panel he inked carried the weight of both worlds, real and imagined.
Back in the real world, the subtle power of distribution became clear. Word of Isaiah's comics traveled quietly through the neighborhood. One copy passed from hand to hand, spreading whispers of the small but alive empire he and his team were building.
Rico crouched beside Isaiah as they returned to the apartment, a faint smile on his face. "It… it works," he said quietly. "People actually… care."
Isaiah nodded, hands still trembling. "It… It's alive," he whispered, a new kind of wonder in his voice.
The twins shuffled behind, chattering about which parts of the story they liked best. Marcus leaned against the doorway, wiping sweat from his brow, observing the small team with quiet pride.
"Not just making comics," he murmured. "You're learning to move together. Even out there, in the world, you keep it alive."
Inside, the garage hummed again—pencils scratching, pages flipping, the copier sighing. Outside, the first confrontations with strangers had begun. Both worlds pulsed with nervous triumph, creation, and combat intertwining.
Isaiah felt it in his chest: the first taste of responsibility, of risk, of excitement. He held up a page, tracing a line Goku had drawn mid-battle.
"We… we did it," he said softly. "It… It's alive out there."
Rico's grin widened. "Yeah… it is. And we're just getting started."
By late afternoon, the small victories of the morning began to attract attention—not always welcome. In the real world, Eddie appeared first, leaning casually against the doorway of the garage, a shadow falling across the stacks of Isaiah's comics. His grin was sharp, confident, the kind that made Isaiah's stomach tighten.
"You're spreading these around, huh?" Eddie said, voice smooth, almost playful. "What if I told you I could make them everywhere… citywide?"
Isaiah froze, small hands clutching a half-finished page. His voice trembled. "I… it's… not for you," he whispered, fear clear in his chest.
Marcus stepped forward, tall and solid, eyes locked on Eddie. "He's not selling to you. Not now, not ever."
Eddie shrugged, stepping closer. "Ownership is an illusion, kid. You make it, you think it's yours… but everything has a price."
Isaiah's pencil trembled in his grip. He wanted to shrink back, hide behind Maria, but a strange resolve began to coil inside him.
"It's ours. All of it. You… you can't take that," he said, small but firm, his voice sharper than he expected.
In the comic world, the tension mirrored Isaiah's confrontation. Pilaf gripped a glowing orb, eyes gleaming. "Children… always underestimated until they take the crown," he hissed. His mechanical henchmen scuttled around, smoke curling in the canyon where Goku and Bulma crouched, tense and alert.
Goku's hands clenched around the Dragon Ball. "We… we won't let you take it," he said, voice small but steady. Bulma nodded, fists tight, eyes scanning for movement.
Every panel Isaiah had drawn now carried the pulse of this confrontation—shadow against courage, small figures against looming power.
Back in the real world, Eddie smirked, stepping back, clearly calculating. Marcus's jaw was tight, protective, and Isaiah's hands shook, but he refused to let go of the comic. The small victories of the morning—the teens at the swap meet, the barbershop pinning pages to mirrors—had been theirs. He wouldn't let Eddie claim them.
Rico crouched beside him, low and steady. "Don't worry… we've got this," he whispered, giving Isaiah's shoulder a small squeeze.
In the comic world, Pilaf's shadow loomed larger, smoke and mechanical beasts creating traps. Goku and Bulma exchanged a glance, fear and excitement twisting together. Even in fiction, small hands could change the outcome—improvisation, courage, and a spark of cleverness could defy the biggest threats.
Isaiah finally set his pencil down, letting the last panel rest on the workbench. The garage hummed softly, the scattered papers and stacks of comics quiet in the fading light. Outside, the street carried on—voices, music, and distant laughter drifting through the cracks of the neighborhood—but inside, the chaos had paused.
He hugged his sketchbook close, chest tight with the weight of the day. Thirty comics sold. Small victories, yes, but the shadows of Eddie's grin lingered at the edges of his mind. He could feel the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands still trembled from holding something so precious.
Isaiah pushed back his chair and slipped quietly out of the garage, careful not to disturb the twins or Rico. The house was cool and dim, the familiar smells of dinner and home washing over him. He placed his sketchbook on the nightstand, traced the edges of the pages, and took a deep breath.
Under the thin blanket, the city sounds softened to a hum outside his window. He closed his eyes, letting the day's small victories and sharp lessons settle together. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he imagined the comics moving through the streets, being read, cherished, protected. Tomorrow, he would pick up the pencil again. But for now, he let sleep take him, holding onto the spark he had fought to keep alive.