Part VI - The Spark of a Dream
Sunlight spilled through the blinds, cutting thin, trembling stripes across the apartment. Isaiah's eyes fluttered open, small and wary. He curled closer into the warmth of the mattress, the steady rhythm of Maria's breathing beside him a comforting presence. She hummed softly, still half-asleep, her arm draped protectively over his small frame. Her quiet pulse and the sounds of the city waking beyond the walls pulled him gently from his dreams.
"Good morning, mijo," she said. "Did you sleep all right?"
"I… I think so," Isaiah whispered, eyelids heavy but attentive.
"You don't have to get up yet," she said, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "Just stay here a minute longer. Breathe. The world can wait."
Isaiah stayed curled against her, soaking in the rare moment of peace. He watched the way her fingers, always busy, mended a small tear in his pajamas. He saw the faint lines of exhaustion at the corners of her eyes, even when she smiled. The Titan inside him registered it as an inefficiency to be corrected; the child simply felt a pang of protectiveness.
"Mama…" he whispered, his voice small. "The stories... the ones we make. Are they good?"
Maria paused, her needle hovering. "Good?" She looked down at him, her expression softening. "Mijo, they're magic. You make whole worlds on that paper."
He took a small breath, fueled by her validation. "Good enough for other people? Good enough... so you don't have to mend my clothes anymore?" He glanced from his worn pajamas to the professional comics stacked on his small shelf. "I want to publish them," he said, the shyness in his voice warring with a lifetime of certainty. "Like Iron Man. So people can buy them."
Maria folded her hands, brow furrowed. "Publish? That's a big dream, Isaiah. It takes money, time… connections. And you're so young, mijo. Why not just keep drawing for now? Let the stories grow."
Isaiah's shoulders slumped, but the fire in his chest didn't fade. "I know it's big, Mama. But… I can feel them. Goku, Bulma, Krillin—they're real to me. They have stories, mistakes… like me. I want other people to feel them too. To know they can fall and rise, just like I'm trying to."
Maria's expression softened. "It's not just about drawing, mijo. Publishing means printing, selling, finding stores… It's a lot of work. And what if people don't buy them? What if it's too much for you right now?"
Isaiah's small hands trembled, but he met her gaze. "I know it's hard. But I'm not scared to try. I… I don't have a lot, Mama. No dad, no… no one else. But I have these stories. They're mine. And if I can make them real for someone else, maybe… maybe I can be something more, too."
Maria leaned back, eyes glistening. She brushed a hand across his cheek. "You're already something more, Isaiah. You don't need comics to prove that."
He swallowed, cheeks burning. "I know, Mama. But… I want to try. I want to make something that lasts. Something people can hold. Please… will you help me?"
Maria sighed, a thoughtful look on her face. "Publishing is a big word, baby. I don't know much about it... But Marcus does. He's always tinkering with that old copier in his garage. If you're serious—if you're ready to work hard—we can talk to him. But you have to promise me you'll make them the best they can be."
Isaiah's face lit up. "I promise, Mama. I'll work hard. I'll make every page matter."
Maria pulled him into a gentle hug. "Then we'll try, mijo. Together. But first, finish those drawings. Make them as alive as you feel they are."
He took her words not as encouragement, but as a corporate directive. The rest of the day became a blur of focused labor. The living room floor was his new office, sheets of precious sketchbook paper spread out like financial reports. He didn't just draw; he worked. His small hand, usually a clumsy and frustrating tool, moved with a newfound discipline.
He drew Goku's stance a dozen times, the Titan's mind chasing the memory of perfect anatomical motion while the child's hand struggled to obey. Erased lines left faint ghosts on the paper, each one a discarded data point in a relentless pursuit of quality control. He filled page after page with expressions, gestures, and bursts of energy, learning the friction between the vessel's limited motor skills and the vastness of his internal blueprint.
Maria checked on him periodically, leaving a glass of juice and a plate of cut mangoes that he barely registered. She saw a little boy lost in his passion. He saw an asset being funded, a workflow being respected. By the time the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the room, a small pile of rejected drawings lay beside him, and a single, perfect sheet rested in front of him. On it, a warrior stood, not just drawn, but alive.
Exhaustion finally hit him like a physical blow. His eyelids felt heavy, his small shoulders ached, and his fingers were smudged black with graphite. He had pushed the vessel to its operational limit.
"Okay, my little workhorse," Maria said softly, kneeling beside him. "You kept your promise. Now it's time for bed."
He let her lead him to his room, too tired to protest. As she tucked him under the covers, he was already asleep, the day's hard-won victory giving way to the vessel's deep need for rest. She placed the finished drawing on his nightstand, a silent testament to his promise.
The next morning, Isaiah rose early, sketchbook and pencils in hand. Sunlight warmed the cracked sidewalk, carrying the faint scent of grilled street corn and exhaust fumes. Yards of laundry swayed in the breeze, children's toys scattered across concrete, and a stray cat slinked through a patch of sun. Graffiti streaked walls in bursts of color, telling stories of the streets he knew like the back of his hand.
A small hand settled on his shoulder. "Ready to go see the wizard, mijo?" Maria asked, her voice soft.
Isaiah nodded, clutching the sketchbook to his chest. It was his portfolio, his entire corporation's value bound in cardboard and paper. She took his free hand, her warm, calloused fingers wrapping around his. The child in him leaned into the protective gesture, even as the titan calculated the strategic advantage of such a public display of vulnerability.
They walked down the block together, his small legs working to keep up with her steady pace. They passed neighbors who waved, the rhythmic thump of a basketball from the courtyard, and the sizzle of a vendor's cart. To anyone watching, it was just a mother taking her son for a walk. To Isaiah, it was a commute to the most important meeting of his new life.
They stopped before a large, corrugated metal garage door, slightly ajar. From within came the rhythmic clank-and-whir of a machine. Maria knelt down to his level.
"Just show him what you showed me," she whispered, her eyes full of encouragement. "Show him the magic."
Rico, his friend from the courtyard, was just outside, sweeping dust from the concrete. He grinned when he saw them. "Hey! You brought it!"
"He's ready," Maria said, smiling at Rico before looking to the garage's shadowy interior.
Rico propped the broom against the wall and darted inside ahead of them, a one-boy welcoming committee. Isaiah took a deep breath, the child's heart thumping, and stepped across the threshold with his mother.
Inside, the garage smelled of ink, paper, and a faint hint of motor oil. A man with a kind, tired face and grease on his hands looked up from the side of a large, noisy copier. It was Marcus.
"There's the man of the hour," he said, his voice a warm rumble. He then shared a look with Maria, lowering his voice slightly so only she could hear. "You sure about this? That's a lot of paper you bought. That ink isn't free, either."
Maria's gaze was fixed on her son, who was looking around at the stacks of paper with wide, serious eyes. "He worked all day yesterday, Marcus. Didn't stop. I've never seen anything like it."
Marcus nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. "Alright then." He turned his attention back to Isaiah. "Your board of directors is over there, waiting for their CEO."
He gestured to a small, clean table where the other boys were already working. Rico, who was organizing a stack of paper, looked up and grinned. "Isaiah! We're ready for you! This is Malik and Jahlil."
Malik, tall and mischievous, leaned over the table. "Yo, you're the one drawing Goku? That's dope! I wanna see him fight!"
Jahlil, quieter, held up a neatly folded sheet, showing off a crisp edge. "I… I like Bulma. She's smart. You draw her cool."
Isaiah's smile was small but genuine. "Thanks… I'm trying to make them real."
Rico slid a clean sheet in front of him, tapping the empty space. "Here. Show us how it's done. Don't worry if you mess up. We all do at first."
Isaiah's pencil hovered, imagining Goku lifting a fish nearly his size. Each line mirrored his small, determined struggle. Rico chuckled softly. "Relax. Watch my hands first."
As Rico demonstrated, Isaiah mirrored every curve and shadow. Malik and Jahlil followed suit, aligning pages and folding stacks with care. The hum of pencils and paper became a pulse, syncing with the rhythm of his comic world.
Page 1: Dawn-slick forest, leaves glistening with dew. Goku drags a fish across a dirt path, while Bulma streaks across a distant highway. A hand reaches for a conch shell, hiding wisdom for those who dare to look.
Page 2: Pilaf hunched over a map, small tokens glinting in sunlight. "One spell. One wish. One name bigger than mine," he mutters.
Page 3: Goku and Bulma's paths cross—shy, tense, the world tilting under the weight of their first encounter.
Page 4: Master Roshi observes storms more than parties, perched silently while Pilaf's scouts bring news of a child's treasure. Caption: "The Pilaf Saga begins — with a wish, a theft, a friendship, and a fire that will not go out."
Isaiah tightened his grip on the pencil, feeling the rhythm of the garage echo in every stroke. Every fold and staple mirrored Goku's careful steps.
Rico glanced up. "So… this is your story?"
Isaiah nodded. "Yeah… it's… like the real stuff we're doing… but bigger. Everything matters here, too."
Malik leaned closer. "Goku's carrying a huge fish?"
Isaiah smiled faintly. "Yeah… he's small, but he's brave. Just like… us."
Marcus, having finished his work on the copier, walked over to watch them. He looked from the focused intensity on the children's faces to the precious materials they were using. He added softly, "Whether it's paper or pencils, treat it with respect. That's what makes it alive."
By mid-morning, the first chapter of the Pilaf Saga was complete. Isaiah traced each line, whispering to himself: "It breathes… it really breathes."
Sunlight streamed across the floorboards, catching the edges of the pages. Outside, life moved on, unaware of the small empire growing quietly—a world where bravery, mistakes, and triumph intertwined seamlessly, in ink and in life.