Part LVIII - The Ink and the Rain
The rain in Los Angeles was unusual, unlike typical rain. It lacked the gentle, rhythmic patter of a London drizzle or the intense, cleansing burst of a tropical storm. Instead, it came in January 1981 like an awkward, unwelcome visitor who didn't know when to go. It coated South Central's asphalt with a slick, iridescent film of oil and exhaust, transforming the dry season's dust into sticky, persistent mud that covered lowriders' bumpers and worn sneakers.
For four-year-old Isaiah Tuffin, the rain was a logistical challenge. It made walking from his front door to the detached garage—the stronghold of the Phoenix Empire—a careful game of avoiding deep, murky puddles that had formed in the cracked driveway.
"Jump, mijo," Maria said, holding an umbrella that had seen better days. It was plaid, with one broken spoke hanging like a loose tooth.
Isaiah observed the puddle, which was large, dark, and muddied with city grime. He grasped his mother's hand more firmly, his tiny fingers enveloped in her warmth. He wore a yellow Pikachu onesie beneath a slightly oversized denim jacket, which Marcus had picked up at a thrift store. The jacket carried the scent of mothballs and many old adventures.
"The trajectory is slippery," Isaiah noted, his voice high and serious.
"Just jump," Maria laughed, and she hoisted him up.
He reached the other side with a wet slap of his sneakers, feeling safe. They quickly moved to the side door of the garage, shaking off the damp chill as they entered.
The warehouse atmosphere shifted from the frantic December days. The frantic, manic energy of the 'One-Week War' transformed into a deeper, more stable, and reassuring scent. It now carried the smell of industrial heating oil, the sharp tang of vinegary binding glue, and the rich aroma of ink. This was the scent of a machine finally functioning smoothly.
Marcus was already present, hunched over his workbench which acted as his command station. A tiny space heater hissed at his feet, its orange coil flickering fiercely in a vain effort to combat the damp chill of the large, uninsulated room. He glanced up as they entered, his face softening from the tough, guarded expression he wore on the street.
"Morning, partners," he rumbled. He held up a thermos. "Coffee's fresh. Donuts are stale. Just how we like 'em."
Isaiah removed his heavy coat, exposing the bright yellow fleece underneath. He proceeded straight to his station, a low table in the corner, encircled by stacks of Bristol board that towered over him.
Rico was already present. At seven, he had recently grown taller, with lanky, awkward limbs reminiscent of a young colt learning to walk. He kept a pencil behind his ear, and a persistent graphite smudge was visible on the side of his left hand—the sign of his craft.
"Hey, General," Rico said, not looking up from the page he was ruling. "You're late. I already did the borders for page four."
"I was not late," Isaiah corrected, climbing onto his stool with a grunt of effort. His legs dangled, swinging freely in the air. "The weather caused a transportation delay. Show me."
Rico moved the page aside, revealing the interior of Pilaf's castle—a complex maze of stone corridors and traps. Isaiah examined it carefully. The Titan, with a keen and ancient mind, immediately checked for perspective mistakes, lighting issues, and story continuity. However, the four-year-old's gaze was simply drawn to how Rico had illustrated the torches on the wall.
"The shadows are good," Isaiah declared, tapping the paper with a small, chubby finger. "They look spooky."
Rico grinned, a gap-toothed expression of pure pride. "Yeah? I used the side of the lead, like you showed me. Makes it look... smoky."
"Correct. Now, we need the ball," Isaiah said, reaching for his own pencil. "The four-star ball. It has to shine."
They worked in a peaceful silence, the rain pounding a steady, irregular beat on the corrugated metal roof above. It was a slow day. The "Iron Law" Maria implemented—one chapter of Dragon Ball a month, weekends off, strict bedtimes—had transformed their once frantic startup sprint into a marathon. Currently, they were midway through Chapter 5, immersed in the Pilaf Saga.
It was dull work — necessary yet boring. Isaiah's focus waned as his hand, small and uncoordinated, ached from holding the pencil. He longed to sketch explosions, energy beams, and epic cosmic battles from the Tournament of Power. Instead, he kept drawing the same small, round boy running down a hallway for the third consecutive day.
He sighed, a loud, dramatic exhale that puffed out his cheeks.
"What's wrong, mijo?" Maria asked from her desk, where she was sorting through a stack of invoices.
"It's slow," Isaiah complained, dropping his pencil. It rolled across the table and fell onto the concrete floor with a tiny click. "Goku isn't strong yet. He just hits things with a stick. When can we do the laser beams?"
Maria walked over, picking up the pencil and handing it back to him. "He has to learn, Isaiah. Just like you. You can't just start with the laser beams. You have to build the muscle first."
"I have muscle," Isaiah muttered, flexing a nonexistent bicep through his fleece sleeve.
Marcus chuckled from his corner. "Sure you do, kid. You're a heavyweight."
The morning wore on. Around noon, the rain intensified, turning the world outside into a grey blur. Inside, they gathered around the space heater for lunch. Elena had sent Rico with tamales wrapped in foil, still warm.
"Did you hear about the hostages?" Marcus asked, peeling back the foil of his lunch. "They say they might be coming home soon. From Iran."
Maria nodded, blowing on her coffee. "I saw it on the news. Fifty-two of them. Imagining being away from home that long..." She looked at Isaiah, who was struggling to unwrap his tamale, his small fingers clumsy with the foil. She reached over and helped him, her touch gentle. "It makes you thankful for a roof, even if it leaks."
Isaiah took a bite of the masa, feeling the savory steam warming his face. He was indifferent to hostages or Iran—just geopolitical variables from a world he'd already dominated in a different life. His concern was the tamale's structural integrity, as it threatened to collapse onto his lap.
"Marcus," Isaiah said, chewing thoughtfully. "Are we rich yet?"
Marcus nearly choked on his coffee and laughed deeply and raspily. "Rich? No, kid. We aren't wealthy. We're... stable. We have the lights on, paper, and Gary selling out every batch we send him."
"But the volume," Isaiah insisted, swallowing. "The Hardcover. That is the wealth engine."
"It's coming," Marcus said, his face growing serious. "Arturo is running the proofs next week. It's complicated, Isaiah. Binding a book isn't like stapling a comic. It needs glue that holds. Covers that don't warp. It takes time."
"Time is money," Isaiah quoted, a phrase he had heard on the television, sounding bizarre coming from a child with cornmeal on his chin.
"Time is life," Maria corrected him softly. "And right now, you have plenty of it. Eat your lunch."
After lunch, work picked up again, but the heavy meal and the rhythmic rain made Isaiah's eyelids droop. The Titan's mind fought against the fatigue—there are deadlines and market shares to win!—but his four-year-old body succumbed to weakness.
He found himself resting his head on his arms, just for a second, to rest his eyes.
The next thing he knew, the light in the warehouse had changed. It was deeper, golden-hued. The rain had stopped.
He jerked awake, a line of drool on his sleeve. "I was not sleeping!" he announced to the empty room. "I was meditating on the plot!"
Rico was gone. Marcus was gone. Only Maria remained, packing up her bag by the door. She looked over at him, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
"Of course you were, baby. Did the plot tell you it's time to go home?"
Isaiah slid off his stool, his legs stiff. He felt a profound sense of failure. He had meant to finish page five. He had only finished three panels.
"I am inefficient," he grumbled, letting her help him into his coat.
"You are four," Maria said, zipping him up. "And you grew an inch this month. That takes a lot of energy. Come on. Puddles to jump."
They walked out into the cool, washed-clean air of the evening. The streetlights were flickering on, buzzing amber sentinels against the twilight. Isaiah looked at his own shadow stretching long against the wet pavement. It looked big. Much bigger than he felt.
"Mama," he asked, holding her hand as they navigated the sidewalk. "When do I get big? Like Rico?"
"Too soon," Maria whispered, squeezing his hand tight. "Way too soon."