Part II – Sparks on Concrete
The sun had not yet breached the horizon when the Titan's mind came online. There was no gentle drift into consciousness, only the cold, immediate snap of a system rebooting. Phase Two. Execution. The thought was a command line prompt in the quiet dark. Isaiah's eyes opened, not to a penthouse view of Manhattan, but to the cracked plaster ceiling of a South Central bedroom. The vessel's body was a leaden weight, its small lungs drawing in the familiar scent of old wallpaper and his mother's lingering presence.
He slid from the bed, his movements still clumsy, an infuriating lag between mental command and physical response. In the kitchen, Maria slept on the couch, a thin blanket pulled over her shoulders, the toll of her double shift etched on her face. He saw her not just as his mother, but as the primary stakeholder in this new venture, the investor whose faith was the only capital he had. He moved past her silently, his bare feet cold on the peeling linoleum. His objective was in the corner by the door: a worn-down nub of red crayon. He closed his small fist around it. It was not a toy. It was a key.
Outside, the courtyard was a symphony of chaos, and Isaiah arrived ready to conduct. Radios dueled from open windows—Parliament-Funkadelic on one side, Vicente Fernández on the other. A basketball kept the dominant rhythm, a steady, thudding beat he was here to interrupt. From above, it looked like a cage. From the ground, it was a stage.
He found a clean, sun-bleached square of concrete near the steps. Kneeling, he began to execute the blueprint from his mind. This was not the tentative exploration from the day before. This was a product launch. With slow, deliberate strokes, he expanded on yesterday's drawing. The warrior, Goku, now stood tall, spiky hair jagged, fists clenched. The lines were clumsy—the vessel's hand still a disobedient tool—but the intention shone through. Energy radiated from the figure, jagged arcs that seemed to vibrate in the morning heat, a projection of the power Isaiah had once wielded across empires.
"Hey," a voice piped up.
Isaiah looked up. A boy of six or seven stood nearby, shirt two sizes too big, sneakers scuffed to the bone. Target demographic secured.
"What's he do?" the boy asked, pointing.
Words were assets. He had to invest them wisely. "He's a protector," Isaiah said, his voice steady. "He fights the bad men."
The boy's eyes widened. "Like the cops?"
A small smirk touched Isaiah's lips. The patterns of this new world were brutally simple. "Sometimes. Or the hustlers who hurt kids. Or anyone who tries to take what's ours."
The boy crouched to study the drawing. "What's his name?"
"Goku."
The boy grinned. "I'm Rico," he said, holding out a hand.
Isaiah shook it. The child's grip was firm. An alliance was formed. More children drifted over, drawn by the magnetic pull of creation. A girl with scraped knees leaned in. "He looks like he got lightning coming out of him."
"He does," Isaiah confirmed, adding another yellow arc for effect. "He fights with his spirit. The stronger his heart, the stronger his power."
A collective gasp. In a world defined by scarcity, belief was a currency of infinite value.
From her doorway, Abuela shuffled out, her shawl draped across her shoulders. She carried a folding chair, which she set down with a slow creak. Her ancient eyes, gleaming with stories from another world, settled on the drawing. A knowing smile spread across her face.
"Mira, niños," she said, her voice a comforting rasp. "This reminds me of the stories my abuela told me. About Huitzilopochtli, the warrior god who fought off darkness with fire."
"Who's that?" Rico asked, captivated.
"A hero," Abuela said simply. "From long before your time, but maybe not so different from this one."
The children leaned closer, hungry for the connection. Isaiah realized his crude sketch was a doorway, and Abuela's voice was the key. He was launching a product; she was providing the legacy. Together, they were weaving a mythology rooted in both the ancient and the imagined. He drew villains next, pouring into their twisted faces the memory of executives who had betrayed him and politicians who had failed him.
"That one looks like Mr. Vasquez from the liquor store!" one boy shouted, and the group erupted in laughter.
Market resonance confirmed, Isaiah thought.
Hours passed. The courtyard transformed into a theater. Children shouted out plotlines—"Goku should fight them in space!" "No, right here in the hood!"—each suggestion a form of free market research, shaping the product in real time.
A police cruiser rolled up, its slow approach silencing the chatter. Isaiah felt the familiar bitterness rise. Authority, watching for a misstep. In his past life, he had been shielded by wealth. Here, he was exposed. The cruiser idled for a long, heavy minute before moving on, leaving a residue of tension in the air.
"They are always watching," Rico muttered.
Isaiah etched another line onto the concrete, pressing harder this time. "That's why we make protectors," he said.
As the sun dipped low, mothers called their children in. Isaiah sat back, hands stained with dust and color. His warrior stood tall, a silent guardian on the concrete battlefield.
Abuela leaned on her cane, her eyes lingering on the scene. "Remember, niños," she said to the last few children. "Stories can keep you alive. Sometimes longer than food, longer than shelter. Hold on to them."
Isaiah listened. This wasn't just a business. This was survival. He was planting seeds of resistance, imagination, and power.
When Maria returned, weary from folding clothes for strangers, she saw the chalk battlefield sprawled across the courtyard. She sighed at the mess but smiled nonetheless. Her son, barely three, was already pulling the neighborhood together with nothing but scraps of color and a will of iron.
She walked over, her footsteps slow on the concrete. "Isaiah, mijo."
He looked up, his eyes reflecting the last light of dusk. The Titan within him analyzed her weary posture, the slump of her shoulders—data points in a long equation of survival. The child, however, just saw his mother.
"Look at all this," she said softly, kneeling down. Her gaze swept over the sprawling chalk figures as she brushed the dust from his Superman pajamas. "You made a whole world out here today."
Isaiah simply nodded, the vessel too tired for complex speech.
"It's getting late," she continued, her voice a warm blanket against the cooling air. "Time for my big protector to come inside." She held out her arms. "Up you go."
The Titan's pride bristled at the indignity, but the vessel's small legs ached with a profound exhaustion. He didn't resist. He let her lift him, his head coming to rest on her shoulder. He felt impossibly small and fragile in her arms, a general being carried from a victorious battlefield. The scent of laundry soap and her long day clung to her, a smell that was quickly becoming synonymous with safety.
Inside, she wiped his dusty hands and face with a warm cloth before tucking him into the small twin bed. She pulled the thin blanket up to his chin, her touch gentle.
"You rest now, mi artista," she whispered, kissing his forehead. "You worked so hard today."
As she moved to turn off the light, his small voice cut through the quiet. "Tomorrow's a big day."
She paused at the door and smiled, thinking he was excited to play again. "It is, baby. Now sleep."
The light clicked off, plunging the room into darkness. But Isaiah's eyes remained open, staring at the ceiling. She was wrong. It wasn't about play. The day's field test had been a resounding success. He had secured a key ally in Rico, an unexpected synergistic asset in Abuela, and confirmed the product's market resonance.
He made a silent vow in the dark. This was only the beginning. The foundation was laid. Tomorrow, construction of the empire would begin in earnest.