Part XXVII - The Cost of Exposure
The moment of surrender passed, but the financial reality did not. The rare comfort of Maria's embrace, the simple solace of sleeping in her room, was a brief, necessary pause—a single night of childhood. But the following dawn delivered the cold truth. The frantic production schedule had bled them dry, and the reprieve had cost them time they couldn't afford. The new, fragile respect between the artists—forged in the dual fires of creative brilliance and childish despair—was immediately pressed into service for the next crisis. The Iron Law demanded its price.
The garage, once a sanctuary of creation, had now fully transformed into a war room. The grueling production schedule created a new, desperate urgency that came to a head when Maria slammed the catalog for Chapter 4's materials onto the workbench. The shock of the ledger wore off, replaced by the crushing urgency of the clock. They were clean, but they were broke. The single bare bulb illuminated not a plan, but a desperate need. Marcus didn't bother with maps; he paced the cold concrete floor—a man cornered by a crisis he couldn't solve with a pencil. He stopped pacing, his weary eyes fixed on the tally sheet tacked to the wall, a single number underlined in red: Deposit Due - 28 Days. They had less than a month to turn zero into a print run, and the only path required risking their most precious asset: themselves.
"We are cash-negative, Marcus," Maria stated, her voice tight, echoing her internal fear. "The money for that Chapter 4 deposit isn't going to materialize. We have to sell what we have and aggressively open new accounts to prove this business is still alive."
"I can't do it alone," Marcus admitted, running a hand over his weary face. "I can't run six new accounts, fulfill the existing order, and manage the inventory safely. If Sarge smells profit, he'll hit the distribution routes first."
Maria watched him, her own jaw tight with worry. "We know the risk. We'd be putting those boys in harm's way, gambling their safety for our survival."
Marcus sighed, the sound heavy. He ran a mental list of everyone he knew. The old contacts are too expensive. The new guys don't care. They're all Sarge's informants waiting for a payout.
"We're gambling our survival every day we print," Marcus countered, meeting her gaze. "If we fail now, they lose the future we're building for them anyway. We need muscle we can trust—mercenaries will sell us out to Sarge for a nickel."
"Then we use our resources," Maria countered instantly, her gaze hardening. "We need trusted muscle, and we need eyes on the street who know the back alleys. Call Malik and Jahlil. They're loyal, and they need this chance."
Marcus gave a sharp, hard nod, the decision weighing heavily on him. "The Iron Law dictates the terms. Fine. I'll get Ms. Johnson's blessing first."
Marcus didn't hesitate. He grabbed his keys and the small wad of emergency change, rushing out to find a public payphone. He dialed Ms. Johnson's number, the responsible property owner of the twins' building, knowing he needed her blessing to hire the boys for a high-risk venture.
"Ms. Johnson, this is Marcus," he said, his voice low and tight against the static. "I need to hire Malik and Jahlil for a distribution job. It's high-stakes, high-pay, and it starts now. I need your blessing."
Ms. Johnson's voice, sharp and practical, cracked through the static. "High-stakes, Marcus? You're sounding desperate. That sounds like trouble. Those boys need stability, not excitement."
"It is stability," Marcus countered quickly, fighting the urge to raise his voice. "It's a fixed stipend and commission that will put reliable money into their pockets. Real money, Ms. Johnson, not corner money. And it's supervised by me and Maria. But it's intense. I need to know you're on board with them taking this risk for the reward."
A pause stretched across the faulty phone line, heavy with the weight of her deliberation. Ms. Johnson knew the financial reality of the neighborhood and the value of Marcus's word.
"I trust your word, Marcus, and I trust Maria's discipline," she finally conceded. "If you say the money is reliable, I'll see to it they show up." Her tone shifted from cautious to efficient. "But you don't need to 'find' them. They're at the park on Cedar and 12th, shooting hoops. Been there all afternoon. Go get your soldiers."
Marcus hung up, the metal receiver cold in his hand. He had the blessing, he had the location, and the clock was still ticking.
He didn't take time to breathe. He jammed the keys into the ignition, the car roaring to life with an impatient shudder, and drove straight to the park. The cracked concrete court was bathed in the harsh, late-day sun, the only activity the rhythmic squeak of sneakers and the thump of a ball.
Marcus found Malik and Jahlil playing one-on-one, their focus locked on the game. Malik, seeing the Taurus pull to the curb, was the first to let his dribble die.
"Mr. Marcus? What's wrong?"
Jahlil stepped closer, his gaze sharp, taking in the dust on Marcus's clothes and the strain etched around his eyes. "You look like you just paid a debt, and then immediately took out another one."
Marcus took a slow, deep breath, forcing the frantic energy of the drive to subside. He shook his head sharply. "I did. And now we have a bigger problem. Listen up. This is not a regular job offer," Marcus began, his voice low and intense. "We just paid off a major debt. The cost of that was everything we had. We are cash-poor but product-rich. This expansion is a matter of survival, not just growth."
Jahlil, the pragmatic twin, frowned. "Survival means risk, Mr. Marcus. What kind of risk are we talking about?"
Marcus leaned in, dropping the formal tone. "The risk is high visibility—we just showed a certain kind of organization that we have reliable cash flow. They will come looking. But the reward is a guaranteed pay per route, plus a commission that dwarfs any street hustle you've ever touched. It's more money in a week than you'd see in a month."
Malik, the quieter twin, whistled softly, the sound flat in the afternoon heat. "Dwarfs, Mr. Marcus?"
"It's not free money," Marcus clarified, his voice dropping to a serious level. "When we were working on Chapter 3, I called Gary on a payphone for that signed invoice and to have the order delayed a bit. That means I need eyes on the street who are loyal, not mercenaries. Mercenaries will sell us out to Sarge for a nickel. I need you to be our security buffer—our eyes, our muscle, and our ghosts on the street. I want you to run routes as partners. It's a stable, reliable income... If you accept, you're not just moving books; you're moving the future of this company. You're our first foot soldiers."
The twins exchanged a look, the word "future" sealing the deal. They shook Marcus's hand. Marcus's grip was firm, a silent affirmation that the social contract had just changed from employment to partnership. The strategy session began instantly. Marcus stepped back, retrieving the last remaining bundles of Chapter 3 from his car's trunk and pushing them toward the twins. His voice, stripped of all personal emotion, snapped back into command.
"Your mission solves three problems at once," he instructed. "This mission is a three-part lock. You must perform them in order to keep the Iron Law in place."
He ticked off the points on his fingers: "First, you honor the original commitment to the first new customers. That's where you get our primary weapon. Second, you secure five new consignment accounts to raise that deposit. That is Cash Flow. And third, you do it without being followed. That's Security."
Marcus laid out their primary weapon: Gary's numbers. "Your proof, not your pitch, is the original, signed invoice from The Collector's Vault," Marcus instructed. "You have to retrieve that signed document during your first delivery. That document, with Gary's own numbers on it, shows them that Gary committed to a huge volume based on our quality, giving them zero risk. The pitch is simple: zero risk."
"Security," Marcus finished, his voice grim. "It is the Iron Law in action. We succeed, or we lose everything. Now let's move."
The Execution began in the silent space after Marcus's words. The weight of his final mandate settled on the two young men. Jahlil, the pragmatic twin, looked at Malik, and the two nodded in unison, their faces resolute.
"We move on the Iron Law," Jahlil confirmed.
With that, they shed the loose ease of the playground. Their movements were immediately tighter, their eyes scanning the area as they approached Marcus's car. They grabbed the first of the tightly bundled boxes, their posture shifting from relaxed youths to deliberate couriers. The mission had begun.
Marcus drove the Taurus two blocks toward the downtown area, pulling to the curb near an alley mouth.
"The car stays here," Marcus instructed, his voice low. "Too visible near the Vault. You walk the rest. Get in, get the signature, and get out."
Jahlil immediately opened the door, grabbing the largest box. Malik's eyes darted over the surrounding buildings, his hand securing the smaller box he carried.
"Stay low," Jahlil muttered to Malik, the responsibility of leading the mission heavy in his voice.
"Always," Malik confirmed, pulling his load closer to his chest.
Their first task was immediate and mandatory: retrieving the signed invoice while delivering the orders already secured by Marcus. Their first stop was Gary's shop, The Collector's Vault.
They stepped inside. The bell above the door gave a tired clink. The air inside smelled of old paper and dust—the scent of established history. The two approached the counter, and Malik, sliding the fresh boxes onto the counter, immediately glanced at the display rack behind Gary. The shop was noticeably busier than usual. The entire end-cap of the main aisle was now dedicated to Dragon Ball. The displayed stacks of "Bloomers and the Monkey King" (Ch. 1), "No Balls!" (Ch. 2), and "Sea Monkeys" (Ch. 3) were a study in organized chaos: they were constantly picked clean by customers, requiring Gary to make frantic runs to the backroom. A large, prominent sign, crudely written in permanent marker, read: LIMIT 3 PER CUSTOMER. The shelves reflected a success so massive that Gary couldn't keep them stocked, confirming the need for this colossal new delivery.
"Mr. Gary, we're here with the rest of the order," Malik said, sliding the fresh boxes onto the counter.
Gary examined the fresh stacks. "Tell Marcus he was right," Gary grumbled, rubbing the small of his back with a practiced, weary motion. "This market is stale, and if we don't get new quality, the whole thing will dry up. That little comic of yours is flying off the shelf so fast, my back is killing me just trying to keep the end-cap full. The ones I couldn't sell fast enough? I just sold those to other shops that called me begging for stock. The kids really love your comic, and the old collectors like it too. Where's Marcus?"
"Mr. Marcus is managing the production schedule, sir," Jahlil replied, not skipping a beat. He held out the manila folder. "But the reason he can manage it is because of the master plan, sir. The plan is for an eleven-chapter volume book—a guaranteed hardcover volume—for three dollars."
Gary whistled softly at the price point. "Three dollars for an eleven-chapter volume? That's insane. A hardcover volume? Kid, do you have any idea what kind of print run and commitment that takes to guarantee a hardcover? That's a massive risk."
"That's permanence, sir," Jahlil confirmed, holding the folder steady. "We just need you to sign off on the fulfillment and release the original invoice. We need that paper for our records."
Gary grudgingly handed over the original, signed invoice. The twins secured their weapon.
The two-day mission was about speed, intimidation, and cash flow. With the foundation now secure, the twins immediately pressed on, treating the expansion route like a combat zone.
They began at The Nubian Scroll, a small but vital community bookstore. The air smelled of incense, aged paper, and freshly brewed coffee. Malik took the lead, appealing to legacy.
Jahlil slung his empty carry-box over his shoulder, the lightened load a sign of the day's profits, as they walked in. Malik immediately set the small box of display copies onto the counter, then quickly pulled a copy of the shiny Chapter 1 and positioned it next to a faded, mainstream graphic novel on the shelf.
"Ms. Rivers, this isn't just a comic, it's a statement," Malik said. "You know how hard it is to get high-quality content for our community. This is ours, and the Iron Law guarantees the quality will never drop. You sell five, you own five more."
Ms. Rivers eyed the thick, glossy cover stock. "It's beautiful work, Malik. No argument there. But beauty doesn't pay the light bill. A new book is a risk I don't need right now."
"That's why we brought the collateral," Jahlil interjected, sliding the manila folder across the counter just enough to reveal Gary's signature. "You know Gary at the Vault. He's tied up thousands of dollars in this product. You have his backing, and you have our consignment deal. We came here first because your store deserves to be the primary source for this movement."
Ms. Rivers' skepticism finally gave way to a slow, deliberate nod. "I'll take fifty copies of each chapter. Let's see if your community statement holds up." The large order cemented The Nubian Scroll as the primary source for the neighborhood, creating immediate local buzz. Jahlil quickly secured the payment documentation while Malik began stacking the empty boxes. They were out the door and moving back to the Taurus for the second stop within seconds.
Next, they hit Stan's Corner Books, a cramped, dusty shop known throughout the city as The Comic Vault. The air here was stale, thick with the scent of old newsprint and the quiet reverence Stan held for major corporate franchises. Jahlil faced his toughest challenge against the hostile, self-proclaimed corporate purist.
They walked in, the bell above the door giving a jaded ding. Stan, a tall, thin man with perpetually fogged glasses, glanced up from his massive ledger. His irritation at the disruption was obvious, and his eyes immediately dismissed the two young men as trouble.
Jahlil immediately pulled a copy of Dragon Ball from the stack and placed it face-up on the counter near Stan's elbow, forcing the retailer to look at the thick, glossy cover stock.
"You want me to stack this indie trash next to my Marvel and DC stock?" Stan scoffed, not even looking up. "No offense, kid, but the customers want what's proven. They want Superman."
Jahlil didn't flinch. He placed the signed invoice onto the counter, his voice cutting through Stan's cynicism. "Superman is a disposable commodity, Stan. We are selling permanence. That's Gary's signature, right there. You sell a stack of ours, you make more margin than three of theirs. This high-quality stock ensures they buy it, and the scarcity ensures they hold onto it. You can hate the comic, but you can't hate the margin."
Jahlil's logic, stark and irrefutable, was pure Isaiah. Stan couldn't refute the sales numbers or the consignment deal. His pride warred visibly with his greed. Scowling, he secured a reluctant order for thirty copies of each chapter, ensuring Dragon Ball gained crucial, visible traction among the skeptical collector market that Stan represented.
They spent a tense two minutes folding up the empty boxes from the delivery, enduring Stan's silent glare before heading back out to the street.
The relief of getting away from Stan's hostile energy was immediate. Malik threw the empty boxes into the back seat, and they drove in silence for ten minutes, leaving the cramped downtown collector shops behind. Jahlil consulted the map Marcus had provided. They were now hitting the suburbs, where the sales pitch needed to pivot from profit margin to sentimentality.
They ended the day at Old Man Pete's Newsstand, a dusty shop built on nostalgia.
They walked in, the aroma of aging paper and stale coffee hitting them immediately.
"Hardcover volume, you say? What is this, a textbook?" Pete chuckled, wiping a hand on his apron.
Malik focused on the quality that spoke to Pete's past: "Sir, look at the stock. Feel the cover. It doesn't fold, it doesn't yellow. It's built to last ten years, not two weeks. Your older customers don't want disposable newsprint. They want something to keep, something to cherish. This is their childhood, but permanent." Pete was sold on the investment value and ordered fifty copies, cementing the comic's appeal to the foundational collector base.
The sun had set, marking the end of Day One. The Taurus ate up the miles on the long, quiet drive back to the garage. The twins were mentally and physically drained. They checked the map for the morning, knowing the second half of the city required a different, faster type of sales attack.
The second day dawned with the realization that they were already behind. It was a punishing, logistical blitz fueled by bad coffee and raw determination. Every stop now was a calculated move to capture a specific market segment and turn over the last of their capital-tied inventory.
At The Underground Spot, a trendy music and graffiti supply shop, Jahlil used the exclusivity angle. The owner, a young man with a shaved head and a leather jacket, only cared about things that felt rare.
"We're not selling comics here, we're selling scarcity," Jahlil said, his voice flat with exhaustion. "We've shut down printing the single issues to focus on the final hardcover. Gary's sold out his display stock multiple times. You take fifty copies, you sell them out, and you become the only spot in this part of town that carries the underground hit. You set the price." The owner, seeing a chance to move a unique item to his clientele, agreed immediately, eager to establish his store as the exclusive source.
The final stop was a small, high-traffic Convenience Store just off the main highway—the last place a rival would look for a targeted attack. They didn't pitch the master plan. They simply dropped the last small box of inventory—a miscellaneous mix of leftover copies—for cash up front, generating the final crucial dollars. They secured the money, stuffing the crumpled bills into a reinforced envelope, the feeling of cash a stark, immediate relief.
It was a logistical blitz executed under the crushing weight of the Iron Law. By the end of the second grueling day, the expansion was complete. They had secured all five new accounts, successfully embedding Dragon Ball into every segment of the market—community, purist, nostalgic, and underground—and liquidating the inventory to generate just enough cash to cover the necessary deposit for Chapter 4's materials.
The Taurus was back at the garage. Its trunk, which had been packed with merchandise for two brutal days, was now loaded down only with empty boxes. The Phoenix Empire, in its desperate scramble for survival, had just advertised its exact location and its guaranteed profitability to the most dangerous figures in the neighborhood. And miles away, sitting in a parked car near the route used by the twins, Eddie finished the final line of his meticulously detailed report. He closed the manila folder with a quiet snap, the sound confirming the information was complete and ready for his contact with Sarge.
The surveillance was complete. The cost of survival had just been paid in exposure. The stage was set for the ambush.