Part XLIII - The First Steps of an Empire
The morning arrived not with a bang, but with a fragile, unnerving quiet. The television, left on all night, flickered with the muted colors of a cartoon coyote failing spectacularly to catch a roadrunner, the volume a barely audible murmur. On the couch, Isaiah slept, a small lump under a thin blanket, his snow-white hair stark against the dark fabric. From the kitchen table, Maria watched him, nursing a cup of lukewarm coffee. She had won a small victory last night, pulling her son back from the cosmic precipice of his own mind. This quiet moment, this semblance of a normal morning, was her prize.
Her gaze drifted from his peaceful face to the monster sitting in the center of the room. It was a simple piece of cardboard propped on a chair, but it held the weight of their entire world. On it, the number 7,000 was angrily crossed out. Underneath, a new, final tally was written in thick black marker: 9,650. The number seemed to hum with a dreadful energy, a promise of the chaos straining at their door. It was a ticking bomb in her living room, and she was its only guard.
Just as the thought crossed her mind, a soft but urgent knock broke the silence.
Maria didn't startle. She didn't have to guess. It was Marcus. Of course. The world had waited long enough.
She rose, her chair scraping softly against the floor, and opened the door. The man on her doorstep was haggard, his eyes shadowed with the frantic energy of a man who hadn't slept. He held a folder of papers like a shield.
"Maria, we have to—" he began, his voice a low, urgent whisper as he tried to step past her.
She didn't raise her voice, but she didn't move. She simply held her ground, a small, unbreachable wall in the doorway. She raised a hand, a simple, non-negotiable gesture that stopped him cold.
"He's sleeping, Marcus," she said, her voice quiet but laced with the same unbreakable resolve. She nodded toward the folder in his hand. "You can come in, and I will make you coffee. But we will not talk about this until he has woken up on his own and has had his breakfast. That is the new rule."
Marcus's jaw tightened. He looked past her and saw Isaiah on the couch, truly just a little boy, his small chest rising and falling with each even breath. He saw the exhaustion etched around Maria's eyes and understood. This was a battle he could not win. He deflated, the frantic energy draining out of him, replaced by a bone-deep weariness. He gave a single, tired nod.
Only then did she step aside and let him in.
Marcus entered the small house, the heavy folder of papers feeling awkward and out of place in his hands. The silence was thick with unspoken urgency. He hesitated, his eyes flicking from the sleeping boy to the damning number on the cardboard sign. Without another word, Maria turned her back on him and walked to the kitchen counter, beginning the slow, deliberate ritual of making coffee. The message was clear: the world of business would wait.
Taking the cue, Marcus quietly pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and sat, placing the folder in front of him like a surrendered weapon. He did not open it. The only sound in the room for a long moment was the gentle hiss of the coffee maker.
Maria moved with a deliberate, unhurried calm, an act of sheer will against the frantic energy radiating from Marcus. She started cooking, and the sizzle of eggs in a pan joined the sound of the coffee. Each of her movements was a quiet declaration of the new rule: this house, this morning, belonged to her son, not the business. It was the familiar, comforting smell of her cooking that eventually stirred Isaiah from the couch.
He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and his gaze landed on Marcus sitting rigidly at the table. Before his adult consciousness could fully surface, Maria was there, blocking his view and placing a warm plate of food in front of her son. She sat down, forcing a cheerful smile. "So," she began, deliberately keeping her back to Marcus, "did you see the one where the coyote tries to catch the roadrunner with the giant rocket?"
Isaiah took a bite of his eggs, his eyes flicking to the folder on the table. "The rocket had a design flaw," he said, his voice a strange mix of child and analyst. "His acceleration curve was too steep. He should have used a multi-stage system for better resource management."
Maria's smile tightened for a fraction of a second. "Maybe," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "But it was funny when it exploded, right?"
Marcus made a low, impatient sound in his throat.
Isaiah looked from his mother's unwavering gaze to Marcus's barely-contained frustration and seemed to understand. He nodded slowly. "Yeah, Mama. It was funny."
After that, a thick silence fell over the table, punctuated only by the scrape of forks on plates. Isaiah, taking his cue, focused on his food. Marcus ate without tasting, his jaw tight. Maria watched her son, her cheerful mask firmly in place. The moment Isaiah set his fork down on his empty plate, the sound was as loud as a gavel in the quiet room. The meal was over.
That was the only cue Maria needed. The purpose of the breakfast—giving her son a normal moment—was fulfilled. She rose, her movements once again deliberate as she cleared the plates. She rinsed them in the sink, dried her hands, and only then did she turn back to the table. The time for normalcy was over. Her expression shifted, becoming serious. She looked at Marcus and gave him a single, sharp nod.
The nod was the only permission Marcus needed. His entire posture changed, becoming sharp and focused. The sound of him opening the folder cracked the silence. He didn't look at them; he looked at the first sheet of paper.
"The final tally is nine thousand, six hundred, and fifty copies," Marcus began, his voice low and devoid of all emotion but pressure. "Logistically, we are insolvent."
Before Maria could respond, Isaiah pushed the crumpled piece of cardboard he'd been sketching on across the table. On it was a meticulously drawn diagram. "Your logistics are based on a flawed production model," Isaiah stated calmly. "The problem isn't the supplies, Marcus. It's the manpower and the workspace."
Maria looked from Marcus's terrifying numbers to her son's impossible, brilliant solution. She placed her hand flat on the table, a gesture that stopped both of them.
"The plan is approved," she said, her voice quiet but absolute. "On one condition. My son is the architect. He is the mind. He is not the labor. That is the Iron Law. If we do this, we do it with a team."
A moment of silence hung in the air as her words settled. Marcus was the first to break it, giving a single, decisive nod. "She's right. We need hands." He looked at Isaiah.
The ancient mind in the boy's eyes calculated the variables. A team meant inefficiency and risk, but it was the only variable that made the equation solvable. He nodded as well.
"Okay," Maria said, her voice taking on a new, practical edge. "A team we can trust..." She paused, considering. "What about Rico? I know what happened," she said, the memory of the betrayal still sharp. "But he's been different since then. Quieter. More focused. He's been acting better, trying to earn back our trust."
"He learned his lesson. Hard," Marcus agreed instantly, his voice firm. "A kid who gets a second chance and doesn't waste it? That's the kind of loyalty you can't buy. He's the right choice." He pointed a finger at Maria, then Isaiah. "First, we get the team, starting with Rico. Then, we secure the headquarters." He got a distant look. "There's the old auto-body shop on Figueroa. Been empty for years."
The final pieces of the puzzle clicked into place.
"Alright," Marcus said, pushing his chair back from the table, the scrape of the legs loud in the now-silent room. "One stop at a time. First, Rico's house."
The walk was only a few blocks, but the weight of their mission made it feel like miles. Marcus led, his stride long and purposeful. Maria kept a steadying hand on Isaiah's shoulder, her face a mask of calm determination. Isaiah himself was silent, his eyes taking in the cracked sidewalks and sun-bleached stucco of the neighborhood that was about to become the first territory of his new empire.
Rico's house was louder and more chaotic than their own, the screen door rattling with the energy of younger siblings inside. When Rico came to the door, his usual confident swagger faltered at the sight of the serious, unannounced delegation on his doorstep.
They didn't go inside. Marcus kept it direct, his voice low. "We have a problem, Rico. A good problem, but a big one. We need a team, and Maria says we start with you."
Rico looked from Marcus's grim face to Maria's steady gaze. "A team for what?"
Isaiah stepped forward. He held up a piece of paper from Marcus's folder. On it was the number, stark and impossible: 9,650.
Rico's eyes widened, his street-smart mind immediately grasping the scale. He knew how the comics were made; he'd helped staple a few hundred himself. The number he was looking at wasn't just big; it was absurd. It was a number that belonged to a real company, not three people in a garage. "That's... that's not possible," he breathed.
"It is," Maria said, her voice soft but firm. "And we can't do it alone. We need a lieutenant, Rico. Someone to run the production crew. Someone we can trust."
The offer hung in the air, heavy with the history of his betrayal and the quiet effort he'd made to earn back their respect. This wasn't just a job; it was a pardon and a promotion all at once. It was a chance to be part of the impossible thing Isaiah was building, not just a spectator on the sidelines. A slow grin spread across his face.
"Jahlil and Malik are gonna lose their minds," he said. "When do we start?"
An hour later, their newly-formed army—a middle-aged vet, a young mother, and a small cadre of children led by a four-year-old genius—stood before the abandoned auto-body shop on Figueroa. The building was a hulking, graffiti-covered ruin. The massive roll-up doors were rusted shut, and the sound of broken glass crunched under their feet.
"Man, this place is a wreck," Jahlil muttered, the five-year-old twins looking up at the building with a mix of awe and fear.
Marcus kicked at a loose piece of metal, the clang echoing in the quiet street. "The bones are good. The roof is solid. All we need is power and a whole lot of cleaning."
Maria looked at the boarded-up windows, her mind already calculating the cost and the dangers. But Isaiah saw none of it. He stood a few feet ahead of the group, his head tilted back, his eyes scanning the structure not for what it was, but for what it would be. He saw the assembly line running the length of the main floor, a small office for Marcus sectioned off in the corner, and a secure, climate-controlled room for the master copies. To the others, it was a ruin. To the architect, it was already a factory.
The sound of a rattling, menacingly familiar engine broke his concentration.
A beat-up Ford Fairlane turned the corner and slowed to a crawl. Eddie was behind the wheel, his second-in-command, Sarge, riding shotgun. They didn't shout. They didn't wave. They simply watched the small group, their eyes lingering on the massive, derelict building, their faces a mixture of predatory curiosity and calculation. The Fairlane idled for a long, tense moment before rattling off down the street. The car was gone, but the message remained, hanging in the air like exhaust fumes: their success, and their ambition, now had an audience.