Part LII - The Burning Anchor
Maria's palm rested on Isaiah's back, a warm, protective weight. She'd fallen asleep that way beside him, exhaustion finally winning after a long day, her mind still saturated with stress.
Sleep wasn't rest, just a shallow, stressful hum. Dreams came filled with towering, endless stacks of comics threatening to topple. The number 9,650 felt like a physical weight.
Then, a new sensation bled into the nightmare: pain—a sharp, stinging heat pulsed against her skin. In the dream, the stacks of comics ignited, roaring pillars of fire.
The pain intensified, pulling her up from the fog. This was real. She was being burned.
Maria shot awake with a sharp, hissing gasp, snatching her palm from Isaiah's back—a hot-stove reflex. Her skin, already bright crimson, throbbed, stinging from the contact.
The sudden movement, the jolt breaking whatever fragile hold he had, tore a sound from Isaiah. Not a mumble or a whimper this time. A sharp, high-pitched scream of pure, unadulterated torment ripped through the pre-dawn silence.
"Isaiah!" Maria scrambled to her feet, fear instantly overriding the pain in her hand. Her free hand fumbled desperately for the bedside lamp switch. A weak bulb clicked on, washing the small room in a sickly yellow light.
The sight made her heart stop. His stark white hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. His usually pale face was flushed a deep, feverish crimson. His eyelids were squeezed shut in a mask of pure agony, fresh tears streaming down his temples into his hair.
But the brand held her gaze, drawing her focus like a physical blow.
That jagged, flame-like pattern on his forehead, unseen in over a year, was back. No longer a faint, cool scar, it blazed a dark, angry crimson, as if freshly seared onto his skin. She could see heat shimmering off it, distorting the air around his temple. This was the source of his suffering, the heat that had burned her hand.
Her mind raced, grappling with the physical horror of the mark. She knew the medical factors: fever, months of strain. But looking at the burning brand, she understood the cause wasn't just medical; it was emotional.
She remembered last night: his cold fury in the car after her lecture; the rigid, frustrated anger radiating off him as he'd fallen asleep, refusing comfort. That unresolved fight had left his internal defenses down, shattering his composure.
The memory of his voice—his method—surfaced, connecting the agony to his choice:
He'd looked up, that unnerving crimson gaze laser-focused. "Just 'member you, Mamá," he'd said, voice tight with childish seriousness. "So I make it go away."
His affection was his anchor, his cooling method. Last night, she'd replaced that calm with a "flawed directive." She had inadvertently taken away his anchor, leaving him to fight the immense strain and his suppressed rage alone. This burning brand was the cost.
His scream had died into a low, choked whimper. Eyelids fluttered, peeling open for just a half-second. Maria stifled a gasp. His familiar crimson gaze met hers, but it was wrong—glassy, unfocused, pupils so dilated with agony they looked vast and dark. Staring through her... then, impossibly, focusing.
One brief, terrifying heartbeat: then the 77-year-old Titan vanished. All that remained was a terrified 4-year-old child trapped in torment. The whimper broke, shattering into a sob as he looked right at her, composure utterly gone. "Mamá..." A single, broken plea dragged from the depths of his need.
That one word broke something inside Maria. "I'm here, mijo," she whispered, her own tears finally starting, blurring her vision. "Mama's right here."
His little body trembled violently, his glassy crimson gaze locked on hers. He fought consciousness, the Titan's steely pride evaporating against pure, physical torment. "Hurts, Mamá," he choked out, a final, ragged surrender. "Help me. It... hurts."
"I will, baby. Shh, I will. I'm going to make it better," she promised, voice cracking.
That final, desperate plea was the catalyst. Maria pulled back, fear instantly overriding the pain in her own hand. The mother's fierce instinct took over. Scrambling out of bed, she was instantly on her feet, movements swift and sure. She dashed for the tiny bathroom, grabbing a washcloth and jamming it under the cold tap. The splash of water echoed loudly and sharply, a welcome sound in the tense quiet. She wrung the excess water from the cloth once, twice, hard, before turning.
Walking swiftly back to the bed, she found him whimpering again, eyelids squeezed shut. "Shh, mijo. Right here." Kneeling beside the bed, she gently dabbed the cool, damp cloth on his flushed cheeks and neck, carefully avoiding the scorching brand. He flinched violently at the sudden chill, a sharp gasp sucking air. But as she continued, dabbing rhythmically, the agonized tension in his small body began to ease, just slightly. Cold relief against burning fever. His whimpering softened, breathing hitched; relaxation seemed to seep into him, a tiny fraction at a time.
"'That's it, baby. Fight this fever," she whispered, sitting gingerly on the bed's edge, continuing to wipe his face. Her movements slowed, becoming the steady, practiced rhythm of a nurse. She reached for the Vicks tin on the nightstand, the familiar menthol scent a small anchor of normalcy amidst the impossible. "No pencils today, Isaiah," she said firmly, voice gaining steadiness as she worked. "No dictation. Nurse's orders."
He offered no protest this time, just gave a weak, miserable nod. His body finally uncurled, eyelids staying tightly closed, surrendering completely to her care, to the crushing weight of exhaustion. "Stay..." he breathed, the word barely audible, a dry, papery rasp against the quiet.
Maria's hand stilled over the Vicks tin. Not a command. A plea. Her brilliant son, the one who spoke in blueprints and solved problems with a ledger, was reduced to this: a child simply needing his Mama. He needed her presence, perhaps even unconsciously aware that it helped fight the heat, just as always.
"Shh," she whispered back, her thumb brushing his cheek. "Not going anywhere, mijo. Mama's right here. You rest."
At that reassurance, a final, visible line of tension melted from his shoulders. Another weak nod, and his breathing finally deepened into actual sleep, surrendering fully.
Maria stayed beside him, watching him for a long, quiet moment, ensuring sleep had truly taken hold. The angry heat still radiated from the brand on his forehead—a terrifying sight—but his face looked calmer now, vulnerable. He needs rest, she thought, carefully standing, joints creaking in the pre-dawn chill. But the business... Deadlines. Payroll. Gary is waiting for Chapter Five. The stress flooded back, cold and sharp. Marcus. Need to let Marcus know.
Creeping from the bedroom, a battlefield just moments before, she hurried toward the relative calm of the kitchen phone, her heart pounding again. Picking up the receiver, she dialed Marcus's number, her finger trembling slightly. The rings seemed deafening in the pre-dawn silence.
"Hello?" Marcus's voice finally came, thick with sleep, but immediately wary. "Who is this?"
"Marcus, it's Maria," she whispered urgently, keeping her voice low. "Isaiah's sick. High fever. Woke up screaming." No details about the mark; that was their secret, too strange, too terrifying to explain now. "He's asleep, but completely down, Marcus. No work today. For him."
A pause on the line, the sound of rustling sheets. "Screamed? Maria, is he okay? Need me to come over?"
"No," she interrupted firmly, the nurse taking over. "I've got him. Fever's high, managing it. You don't need to come over." She paused, the weight of the following words heavy. "It's the schedule, Marcus. That's the problem."
A pause on the line, the sound of rustling sheets betraying his sudden alertness. "The schedule? What's the fire?"
"Payroll needs covering," Maria whispered urgently. "And we need to work on the full Chapter Five print run. The limited preview went out, but Gary needs the rest for his order."
"Handled," Marcus cut in immediately. His voice, instantly clear and steady, became a welcome anchor. "That limited preview bought us the time we needed, Maria. The fire is contained."
He let that sink in before delivering the numbers. "Look, Gary can wait a few days for the full run. Rent, press deposits, first payroll—it's all covered. We spent the money, yes, but we bought operational capacity."
His tone hardened, shifting entirely to the day's mission. "My focus today isn't pages anyway. It's Distribution. Taking that BBQ win, hitting the stores, and expanding the network. That's what pays for the next press run." He softened slightly, his voice conveying the trust and affection she had come to rely on. "You handle Isaiah. Take care of our General. I handle the business. Deal, remember?"
The knot of tension dissolved completely. The immediate fires were contained. They had a few days' grace. She could be the mother. "Okay," she whispered, voice choked with gratitude. "Okay, Marcus. Thank you."
"Get rest yourself," he added gently. "Call later if anything changes."
Hanging up, she leaned against the cool wall, the receiver heavy in her hand, letting the relief wash over her. Partners. Yes.
She returned quietly to the bedroom. Isaiah hadn't moved, still deeply asleep. Heat still radiated faintly from the brand, but his face looked peaceful. Gary can wait, she decided again. Rest first. For both of us. And my presence.
Carefully, so as not to wake him, Maria eased back into the twin bed beside him. Lying on her side, facing him, leaving only a small space, she was acutely aware of the heat pulsing from the pattern on his forehead. Sleep wouldn't come easily, not while she was this worried, but she could rest her eyes and remain close.
As she settled, Isaiah stirred slightly in his profound exhaustion. A low whimper escaped. Instinctively, still lost in sleep, he shifted, just enough to curl into a small ball, pressing closer, tucking his white-haired head against the curve of her chest, seeking warmth and safety—seeking the nearness that seemed the only thing soothing the burning brand.
Maria held her breath, her heart aching with love and fear. Gently resting her uninjured hand on his small back, a silent promise formed: For now, she would be there. That nearness was the only real medicine.
Maria drifted in that shallow, watchful doze for what felt like an eternity. Hours passed as Isaiah curled against her, his breathing slow and even. The brand's angry heat continued to cool with her nearness, receding to a low, persistent warmth against her side.
When she finally stirred, the house was no longer dark. Outside, the sounds of the neighborhood were fully alive—cars starting, doors slamming, muffled shouts carried on the cold air. Morning had arrived, painting the room in pale, watery light, signaling the start of a workday she now had to manage differently.
Rico. The thought surfaced clearly through Maria's exhaustion. She remembered their chat yesterday: Rico was scheduled to arrive first thing, ready to work with Isaiah. He can't just walk into... this. However, the work needed to continue, particularly Chapter Five, even with Isaiah down.
Carefully, Maria eased herself out of the bed. As she moved, Isaiah murmured, instinctively tucking himself into the warm space she left behind. He didn't wake. She quickly pressed the back of her hand against his forehead; the temperature remained high, stubbornly feverish, though the terrifying intensity from the brand had faded. It was no longer visibly shimmering. Small mercies.
Padding into the kitchen, she picked up the phone. Elena needed the update before Rico left his house. She dialed, the rings short this time.
"Bueno?" Elena answered immediately, clearly already up and moving.
"Elena, Maria," she whispered. "Isaiah's fever is still very high. It was a bad morning—he was screaming." She let that sink in before continuing, "He pushed his body too hard, Elena. No work today, for sure."
"Ay, Dios mío! Very high fever?" Elena's voice rose sharply with immediate alarm. "Don't you worry. I'll tell Rico not to go over right now before he leaves your way. Need anything? I'm heading out soon. I can stop by."
Relief flowed through Maria. Elena always knew what was needed. "Actually, Elena, yes. Suppose it's no trouble at all. There's something Rico needs to keep working on."
"Claro. Be right there."
"Thank you, Elena," Maria whispered, and she gently hung up the receiver.
While waiting for the few minutes for Elena to walk over, Maria hurried back to the bedroom. Isaiah hadn't moved. Kneeling beside the bed, she carefully retrieved the thick, worn sketchbook from under the mattress – the master volume, the blueprint for everything.
Carrying the book, she crossed the kitchen and reached the front door just as a gentle knock sounded. Maria opened it to Elena, a kind face etched with fresh concern, scarf wrapped tight against the chill.
"Maria, mi vida," Elena greeted her immediately, her voice low and warm, stepping forward to envelop her in a quick embrace.
"Elena, thank you for coming," Maria whispered, holding the embrace briefly before pulling back.
"How is he really?" Elena asked, her voice dropping instantly to a worried whisper as she scanned Maria's exhausted face.
"Sleeping now," Maria said quietly, closing the door. "It was... bad, Elena. Really bad." She didn't elaborate, just held up the sketchbook. "Listen, the work can't stop, you know? You recognize this?"
Elena nodded instantly. "His master plan."
"Chapter Five is all sketched out in here," Maria explained quickly, flipping it open. "Take this to Rico. Tell him to meet you at the warehouse. His job today is penciling this chapter, following Isaiah's layouts exactly. It keeps the schedule moving while Isaiah rests."
Elena took the heavy sketchbook, her expression shifting to determined understanding. "Consider it done. Pencil Chapter Five, follow the blueprint. I'll tell Rico to get set up."
"Yes, exactly," Maria confirmed. "Pencils first, then whatever Marcus needs."
Elena gave Maria's arm a reassuring squeeze. "You focus on Isaiah. Call me if you need anything. We've got the warehouse."
"Gracias, Elena," Maria whispered, the simple word carrying immense weight.
Elena nodded firmly and slipped back out, sketchbook held tight like a mission dossier. Maria closed the door, leaning against it, the quiet of the house suddenly profound. Rico had his orders. Marcus had his. Her only job now, finally, was Isaiah. She turned and walked back towards the quiet bedroom, the weight on her shoulders feeling just a little lighter.
Meanwhile, the weight Maria had lifted had settled squarely onto Marcus.
The warehouse felt cold when he arrived, the weak December sun barely piercing the grimy high windows. The usual energetic buzz was missing; Arturo and a couple of volunteers were already huddled near a space heater, waiting. An anxious quiet filled the cavernous space. Marcus felt the tension immediately—Maria's early call had set the tone, and the silence was the sound of an empire holding its breath.
"Morning," he said, setting down donuts and coffee, skipping the usual banter. He looked toward the door. "Elena on her way?"
Just as he asked, the side door creaked open, and Elena and Rico hurried in together. Rico's face was anxious, but Elena's was grim and resolute. She came straight to Marcus, handing him the sketchbook immediately.
"Maria sent this," Elena said quickly, her voice low. "Isaiah's sick. Really sick, Marcus. Bad fever. She said he woke her up screaming. Maria's handling him, but he's completely down. No work."
Marcus felt his own blood run cold as he remembered Maria's strained voice on the phone. Screaming? He pushed the worry down, focusing on Elena's following words.
"She sent this," Elena continued, holding up the thick sketchbook. "Master volume. Wants Rico to pencil Chapter Five today, follow Isaiah's layouts exactly."
Marcus took the book, the familiar weight of Isaiah's meticulous planning somehow reassuring. Relief mixed with the pressure. He flipped the book open, saw the complex layout, and closed it. "Okay. Good. This keeps Chapter Five moving."
He turned to the anxious faces of the crew, his voice taking on command authority. "Alright, listen up! The General is out today. We step up. Priorities shift."
He pointed to Rico. "Rico, you're on Chapter Five pencils. Follow the blueprint. That's your station today."
Rico, worry plain on his face, paused. "Is he really okay, Marcus?"
"Maria's with him," Marcus said firmly, allowing no room for further distraction. "Our job is work." Rico nodded, his focus immediately shifting to the book. Marcus watched Rico settle the sketchbook onto the table, satisfied the General's absence wouldn't halt production. He then turned, his attention snapping back to his floor manager.
"Elena, Chapter Four is the fire we fight today!"
He pointed to the presses. "Dual operation. We need two things running immediately. Here is the mission:..."
"First: The old press." He pointed to the two volunteers nearby. "Have them load Chapter One of the Pokémon Plates now so we can print Chapter One and send the last of the glossy stock to Gary.
"Second: You run the new press," Marcus continued, turning his focus to the larger, humming machinery. "Fire it up for the 9,650 reprint order (Chapters One through Four) so we can build inventory for the order."
"Understood," Elena replied immediately, her voice firm. "Dual presses running. Chapter One for Gary, reprints for stock." She moved instantly, directing the volunteers to the old press and then turning to the new one.
"Arturo, distribution mapping! Every bodega and corner store within a ten-block radius. Turn the BBQ goodwill into shelf space. Routes ready by lunchtime."
"Ready, boss," Arturo confirmed, grabbing a map and marker.
Marcus watched the team settle into their adjusted roles—the dual presses clanking to life, maps unfolding, Rico immersed in the layouts. "Alright," he called out over the growing noise of machinery, his voice strong. "Coffee's hot. Let's move. Orders to fill."
The warehouse filled with the steady, determined hum of production. Not Isaiah's creative chaos, but the sound of a machine adapting, finding its rhythm under Marcus's explicit command, running the empire without its architect.
The workday was long, relentless. By the time Evening painted the warehouse in long, deep shadows, the feeble lights were casting cones of yellow onto the dusty concrete floor. The frantic push of the morning had given way to a weary, methodical grind. The old press stood silent now, its small run of Chapter Four for Gary completed and boxed. The precious glossy paper stack was gone. Beside it, the new press hummed steadily, churning out reprints for the main order...
The precious glossy paper stack was gone. Beside it, the new press hummed steadily, churning out reprints for the main order, the growing stacks of Chapters One, Two, and Three a testament to the crew's relentless effort. Arturo carefully rolled up his finished distribution maps, looking bone-tired yet satisfied. Near the now-quiet space heater, Rico hunched over his drafting table under a single bare bulb, still meticulously penciling Chapter Five, Isaiah's sketchbook open beside him, his focus absolute even after hours of work.
Marcus walked the floor, surveying the scene, taking a silent inventory. A day without Isaiah. Chaotic, stressful, but functional. Orders met. New plans in motion. He clapped Arturo gently on the shoulder as he passed. "Good work today. Get these routes to the delivery crew first thing tomorrow morning." Arturo just nodded, too tired to speak.
He paused beside Rico's table. "How's it going, man?"
Rico looked up, rubbing his tired eyes, smudging graphite on his cheek, but his expression held a current of fierce energy. "Good, Marcus. Almost done. Isaiah's layouts... they're intense, but clear. Like he's right here."
"Good man," Marcus said, genuinely impressed by the kid's dedication. "Finish up, then head home. You earned it."
He found Elena overseeing the final stacking and wrapping of the fresh reprints. "Everything runs smoothly after I left for the supply run?"
"Like clockwork, Marcus," Elena confirmed, wiping ink from her hands onto her apron. "Made good progress on the 9,650." She glanced towards the door, her earlier concern returning. "Any new word from Maria?"
"Just talked to her a little while ago," Marcus half-lied, stretching the truth of a brief check-in call. He needed to project calm for the crew. "Says Isaiah's fever might finally be breaking. Sleeping mostly." He lowered his voice. "Listen, Elena, can you handle lock-up tonight? I need to head over there now, give her the full update in person."
"Of course, Marcus," Elena said immediately, her relief visible. "Go. Tell Maria we're all praying for them."
Marcus nodded his thanks, grabbed his worn ledger from the makeshift office corner, and headed out into the biting cold of the December night air. The short drive to Maria's house felt longer than usual, worry gnawing at him again despite his calm facade. Maria's voice on the phone earlier... practical, yes, but the underlying fear had been unmistakable.
He knocked softly on her door. It opened almost immediately. Maria stood there, looking utterly exhausted, with shadows dark under her eyes, but the frantic terror from the morning had given way to a profound weariness. The house behind her was quiet, smelling strongly of Vicks and faintly, comfortingly, of chicken soup.
"How is he?" Marcus asked quietly, stepping inside as she closed the door gently behind him.
"Sleeping," Maria whispered, a fragile smile touching her lips. "Fever's definitely down. Still high, but down. He actually ate some caldo a few hours ago." She led him towards the small kitchen table, moving like she was wading through water. "He slept most of the day. He asked for you, though."
"Yeah?" A warmth spread through Marcus's own bone-deep exhaustion.
"Just mumbled, 'Marcus handle it?'" Maria said, her smile widening slightly, becoming more real. "I told him yes. You did well today, Marcus. Thank you."
"We did well," Marcus corrected gently, echoing Isaiah's words from the day before, feeling their truth sink in. He opened the ledger on the table, letting the numbers speak for themselves. "Chapter One run is done, delivered to Gary, he's happy. Reprint order is well underway, with solid numbers. Arturo mapped the first distribution wave – looks promising. And Rico... Rico's nearly finished penciling Chapter Five from the book." He closed the ledger, meeting her tired gaze. "The machine worked, Maria. It ran."
Maria sagged slightly against the counter, letting out a breath she seemed to have been holding all day. The relief was palpable. "Okay. Okay, that's... that's good."
They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, the only sound being the low hum of the old refrigerator —a quiet counterpoint to the warehouse's earlier roar.
"Go check on him," Maria urged finally, gesturing towards the bedroom. "Then you need to go home. Get some real sleep."
Marcus nodded and padded down the short hall to the bedroom doorway. He peered inside. Isaiah was curled up tight in the twin bed, his white hair stark against the dark pillowcase, face pale but peaceful in the dim light filtering from the hallway. The angry brand on his forehead, visible even from the doorway, seemed quieter now, just a dark crimson pattern, quiescent. He looked impossibly small, achingly vulnerable. Just a little boy, Marcus thought again, the image starkly different from the tiny general who usually commanded their attention—just a sick kid.
He watched for another moment, reassured, then turned back to find Maria leaning against the kitchen doorway, watching him. "Looks better," Marcus whispered.
"He will be," Maria whispered back, fierce, quiet conviction resonating in her voice. "It's just... a bad one. Looks like he could be down for a full week, maybe more, with a fever that high." She sighed, rubbing her own tired eyes. "He just needed rest. Really needed it."
Marcus met her gaze, understanding the unspoken exhaustion, the fear she'd pushed down all day. "Partners," he said, the word encompassing everything.
He gave her arm a quick, supportive squeeze. "Call me if anything changes. Middle of the night, doesn't matter."
"I will," she promised. "Goodnight, Marcus. Get some sleep."
"You too. Goodnight."
He stepped back out into the sharp cold, leaving Maria to her vigil. The fire had been fought, the immediate crisis contained. Christmas was just around the corner. For now, in the quiet dark, there was a fragile peace.