Part LIV - A Promise, Not a Panic Move
The alarm was a digital shriek in the pre-dawn black—5:30 AM.
Marcus's hand shot out from under the covers and slapped the button silently before the second beep. He didn't hit snooze. He wasn't that man.
His feet hit the bare floor, and he grunted at the biting cold. December in South Central was a damp, creeping chill that got into the walls. For a moment, he sat on the edge of the bed, the darkness of his small, neat apartment absolute.
His first thought, like every morning, was a simple inventory of his belongings. Isaiah's fever. Maria's exhaustion. He was the one woken up by the clock. Maria was the one who listened for the fever. This was the new division of labor. The Iron Law, extended.
He rose, his movements stiff but economical. The shower was scalding, a five-minute shock to the system. The scrape of the razor across his jaw was a methodical, daily ritual of control. By 6:15 AM, he was in the kitchen, pulling on his layers: thermals, worn jeans, thick wool socks, and heavy work boots—the general's uniform.
While the coffee pot gurgled, he stared out the window at the still-dark street. His mind was already at the warehouse, running inventory. 9,650 copies of the buyout—the backstock of Chapters 1 through 4. The leftover TCG starter decks. The routes Arturo had mapped. And the final, looming payment to Sarge.
He poured the coffee—black, scalding—and drank it standing. Maria was the guardian. He was the partner. His job was to handle the machine so she could handle the architect.
At 6:50 AM, he grabbed his heavy canvas jacket and locked his apartment. The walk was quiet, the sky a dark, bruised purple. He pulled his collar tight, his breath pluming in front of him. He reached the warehouse just after seven.
The cold was a physical thing, a solid wall that hit Marcus in the face as he unlocked the door. It was his domain now—his responsibility.
Inside, the air was frigid, the concrete floor radiating a damp chill. Stacks of cardboard boxes towered in the gloom—the 9,650 copies of the buyout and the TCG decks: their entire future, all their cash flow, all sitting in silent, frozen stacks.
Marcus grabbed his thick work gloves, his disciplined calm holding. First step: warm up the van.
He slid into the driver's seat, the old vinyl cracking in protest. He turned the key.
Click.
He tried again.
Click. Ch-click.
A hollow, metallic sound that echoed in the vast, empty warehouse. The battery was dead. Or the alternator. Or the engine block itself was frozen solid. It didn't matter. It was dead.
Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through him, shattering his morning resolve. This was a stupid problem. A ten-thousand-dollar operation, crippled by a fifty-dollar part. His first, ingrained instinct was to analyze the situation for Isaiah, to present the variables.
He slammed his gloved hand on the dashboard. "No."
Maria was with the kid. She was not to be called. And Isaiah... Isaiah was the one they were protecting from this.
Marcus got out of the van and stared at the silent, useless engine, the stacks of boxes looming behind it like a monument to his failure. This was his first test as a true partner, and he was failing it.
"This is on me," he muttered into the cold air. His problem. He's alone.
He was still staring at the engine when the side door creaked open around eight, letting in a slice of gray light. The crew filed in, stamping their feet against the cold. Elena led the way, followed by Rico, Arturo, and two other volunteers. They stopped when they saw him, not at his desk, but standing over the open hood of the van.
"Uh... Marcus?" Rico started, pulling his beanie off. Elena put a hand on her son's arm, her eyes fixed on Marcus with concern. "Everything good? We're supposed to start loading, right?"
Marcus didn't look up. He felt their eyes on him, felt the sudden, fragile halt in the morning's momentum. The panic was still there, a cold knot in his gut, but he pushed it down. A general doesn't panic. A general gives orders.
He slammed the hood shut, the sound echoing with sharp finality. He turned to face them, wiping his hands on a rag, his expression a mask of cold control.
"The van is down," he said, his voice flat. It was a statement, not an excuse. "The work is not. We're on a clock, and it doesn't care about our problems. We pivot."
He pointed to the chaotic towers of boxes. "We can't load, so we prep. That 9,650-unit order is a mess. Elena, Arturo, you two lead the crew. You and I mapped the routes. I want to start building the pallets for each route. I want every box bundled and labeled by the door."
Arturo nodded, his face serious. "That's a full day's work. At least."
"Then we'd better start," Marcus said. "Rico, you're on inventory and labels. I want a final count of all the TCG stock, and I require a label on every single bundle that Arturo's team produces. Clear?"
"Clear," Rico said, his usual swagger gone, replaced by focus.
"Good," Marcus said, turning back to the van. "The van is tomorrow's problem. Today, we control the inventory. Get to it."
The day was a long, cold grind. By five o'clock, the warehouse was still full, but the chaos was receding. The crew was exhausted, their breath pluming in the frigid air, but they hadn't finished. They hadn't even come close.
What they had done was make a significant dent. One entire corner of the warehouse was now a staging area of neat, tightly wrapped bundles, each with a clear label. It was the start of a system.
Marcus walked the lines, inspecting their work. "Status, Rico," he said.
Rico wiped his nose on his sleeve, holding his clipboard. "We got the first three route pallets bundled and labeled, like you said. I also performed a full count on the TCG decks. We're sitting on 2,030 decks, unallocated. All fresh stock we still gotta sell."
Marcus nodded. "Good progress. Go home. Get rest. We hit it again after I fixed the van."
They filed out, leaving Marcus alone in the quiet, organized space. He stared at the remaining stacks. Step one was done. Now for his.
The next morning, he left before dawn, alone. The walk was two miles, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. Marcus didn't have cash to spare for a bus, let alone the parts.
The auto shop smelled of solvent, old tires, and burnt coffee. A heavy-set man in grease-stained overalls looked up from a carburetor he was cleaning. It was George, the collector from Gary's shop.
"Need something?" George grunted, not recognizing him out of context.
"Alternator and a battery for a '74 Econoline," Marcus said, keeping his voice steady.
George wiped his hands on a rag, his eyes narrowing. "In this cold? That's gonna run you. Eighty bucks, cash."
"I don't have cash," Marcus said.
George scoffed and turned back to his work. "Then you're wasting my time, son. I ain't a charity."
"I have assets," Marcus said.
He pulled two pristine, plastic-wrapped stacks of the old Chapter 1 comics from his jacket.
George froze. His eyes snapped from the comics to Marcus's face, recognition dawning. "You're... you're with the kid. The Dragon Ball kid."
He put his tools down, his gruff demeanor shifting to that of a skeptical collector. He eyed the comics. "Chapter 1. First print."
"Collector's items," Marcus said, his voice flat. "They're selling for forty, fifty bucks a pop downtown, when they can even get 'em."
George grunted, picking one up and inspecting the high-quality paper. "Heard you guys were in trouble. That stunt in Chapter 3... that 'To Be Continued' arrow." He looked at Marcus, his eyes sharp. "That was a panic move. The kid burned out."
Marcus met his gaze, unflinching. "It was a promise."
George let out a short, skeptical laugh. "Right. A 'promise.'" He tapped the comic cover, his expression pure business. "Look, I'm a mechanic, not a speculator. But I'll take a risk. I've got a used alternator and a rebuilt battery in the back. They're worth eighty bucks. I'll trade you even for... three stacks of these. Not two."
Marcus paused, the calculation sharp. It was a bad trade. It was the only trade. "Fine. Three stacks."
George grunted, snatching the comics and tossing them onto his desk. "Fine. They're probably worthless. Alternators on the back shelf. Batteries by the door. You're pulling 'em yourself."
Marcus returned to the empty warehouse alone. The rest of the day was a blur of grease, frustration, and frozen metal. Marcus was a soldier, not a mechanic, but he was a soldier who knew how to make broken things work.
By late afternoon, he was filthy, freezing, and exhausted. His knuckles were split and bloody from fighting frozen bolts that refused to turn.
He climbed into the cab. This was his private battle. He took a deep breath that stung his lungs and turned the key.
A groan. A low, painful sputter. The engine coughed once, twice.
He pumped the gas, whispering a prayer and a curse.
Then, with a sudden, violent roar, the engine caught. It thundered to life, the entire van shuddering as the heater fan kicked on, blasting the smell of dust and hot oil into the cab.
Marcus didn't cheer. He just leaned his forehead against the vibrating steering wheel, the engine's roar the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard. A deep, weary pride settled over him. He hadn't needed a strategic blueprint. He hadn't needed a child's impossible mind. He'd just needed his own two hands and the grit to see it through.
He let the engine run for a solid twenty minutes, the hot, thrumming sound chasing the frigid damp from the warehouse. He spent the next hour cleaning his tools, washing the thickest grease from his hands with a harsh industrial soap, and double-checking the pallets that the crew had prepped the day before. The first run was ready. Finally, he shut off the engine, plunging the warehouse back into silence.
By the time he locked up, the sun was long gone, and the temperature had plummeted. It was just after seven.
Instead of walking home, he drove the newly-repaired van, parking it on the street near Maria's house. The exhaustion was a heavy weight, but the pride was a solid core beneath it. He knocked softly on the thin wood.
Maria peered out, her face pale and shadowed with anxiety. The small house behind her was quiet, with a scent of Vicks and chicken soup.
"Marcus? Is...?"
He was too tired to do more than nod. "It's done. The van is running."
"Oh, thank God." She opened the door wider. "Come in, come in. Don't stand out there."
Marcus sank onto the worn sofa. Maria sat in the armchair opposite him.
"It cost us three stacks of Chapter 1," Marcus admitted. "I went to see George. But it's done, Maria. It runs. We can start the routes tomorrow. On schedule."
He watched Maria close her eyes, her shoulders relaxing for the first time all evening.
"Good. That's good," she murmured, letting out a soft, weary sigh. "We can breathe, Marcus. Just for tonight."
The quiet that settled over them was profound, a genuine moment of peace bought by two days of hard labor.
Then, a faint sound cut through the silence: a whimper, soft and uncertain, followed by the slow creak of the cot from the dark hallway.
Maria's eyes snapped open, her body tensing. They both listened.
Another, louder whimper echoed down the hall, this one edged with panic. Then, the sound of small, bare feet shuffling hesitantly on the floorboards.
Before Maria could stand, Isaiah appeared at the edge of the living room light, a tiny figure swathed entirely in the orange Charmander onesie, dragging his blanket.
He was terrified. He stopped, rocking on the balls of his feet, his foggy eyes staring past the light into the house's dark corners.
"Mama!?" he called out, his voice small, thick with fear and the lingering sickness. "I woke up, and the room was all dark. Where did you go?"
"I'm right here, mijo," Maria said, her voice instantly softening as she held out an arm. "Right here in the light. Come here."
Isaiah launched himself forward. He stumbled toward the armchair, his terrified gaze locked entirely on her face. He didn't see Marcus, the sofa, or the living room. He only saw his mother, his anchor in the dark and scary world.
He reached her chair and scrambled into her lap, burying his face into her chest, the scent of Vicks and her skin overwhelming his fear. He clung to her, his small hands bunching the fabric of her shirt.
It was only after the hot, heavy weight of his fear lifted, replaced by the security of her arms, that his vision cleared, and his breathing began to even out. He went boneless against her, but then his sleepy gaze drifted to the man sitting opposite them. Marcus.
The Titan's mind, sluggish from the fever, snapped to attention. Marcus was here. Reporting. What was the status? Van? Distribution? Schedule? He needed the data.
But the 4-year-old's body had other plans. It was hot, exhausted, and running on a primal need for security. The body didn't care about the schedule.
His internal mind warred with his physical instincts. Listen. Get the report, the Titan commanded. But the body just burrowed deeper into her chest.
He went boneless against her, but as Marcus watched, he saw the boy's head twist slightly. One crimson eye was open a crack, fixed on him. The kid was fighting sleep, trying to stay awake and listen.
Marcus understood immediately. He was keeping a sick kid awake. He quietly stood up.
Isaiah's head popped up from Maria's chest as he saw the movement. "Marcus...?" he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. "The... the status... report...?"
Maria's arms tightened, pulling him back against her. "Shh, mijo. No more reports tonight." She looked up at Marcus and gave him a small, weary smile. "Good work, partner."
Marcus nodded. "I'll get the first routes out at dawn. You two rest."
"You too, Marcus," she replied.
He let himself out, the deadbolt clicking shut behind him.
In the dim light, Isaiah stirred in Maria's lap, his brow furrowing. The Titan was still trying to make sense of the situation. Marcus had been here. He'd reported... something about the van? Costs? Inventory levels? The data was fragmented, incomplete, lost in the fog of exhaustion and the overwhelming need for his mother's presence.
"Mama..." he started, his voice a sleepy protest. "The... the van... status...?" and I want to go back to bed. With you."
"Shh," Maria whispered, gently cutting him off. She kissed his forehead, ignoring the demand in favor of the distraction. "No more business, baby. The business is sleeping."
She carried him to the twin bed. She lay him down and began rocking him, not on the couch, but curled up beside him.
"But... need... status..." the Titan insisted, though his voice was already slurring, the words barely coherent.
"The status can wait," Maria murmured, her cheek resting on his white hair. "You were asleep for so long. Did you have any dreams?"
The Titan's mind tried to dismiss the question as irrelevant, but the 4-year-old, wrapped in warmth, lulled by the motion and the sound of her voice, felt a different, more primal need to answer.
"...saw... saw the turtle," he mumbled against her neck. "And a... a big dragon. He was... eating all the stars. The map... the map was all on fire..."
"Mmmhmm," Maria hummed, her voice a low, soothing vibration. "A dragon eating the stars? Wow. That sounds like a huge adventure, mijo."
The Titan's mind, sluggish and feverish, registered her validation. He pressed on, the dream-logic feeling urgent. "The... the fire... was hot. The Phoenix... couldn't..."
"Well, the Phoenix is okay now," she murmured, seamlessly integrating his own mythology against him. "You know why? 'Cause he's resting. Even a big, strong Phoenix has to rest, mijo. You have to rest so that you can be strong for the adventure tomorrow. Okay?"
The logic was a perfect trap. The four-year-old body, desperate for comfort, and the Titan's mind, now given a "strategic" reason for rest (recharge for the "adventure"), found a rare moment of agreement. He could feel his consciousness slipping, the warmth and gentle rocking a tidal force.
"...'kay," he whispered, the word a final, heavy surrender.
His breathing deepened, his small hand uncurling from a fist and resting limply on her shoulder.
Maria just lay there, humming a quiet, tuneless song. She felt the last bit of tension leave his body, the final, heavy surrender to a sleep his body desperately needed, and his mind could no longer fight.
She lay beside him in the dim light, feeling the actual, heavy weight of a sleeping child, enforcing the Iron Law with her presence.