Part LI - The Castle and The Codex
Warmth. That is the first input of the day. The bed is an island in the cold morning air of the small house. Maria is a furnace beside me, her breathing a slow, steady rhythm against my back. Even in sleep, she is a presence, a shield. For a moment that is strategically useless but physically pleasant, I allow myself to simply exist in this state of protected equilibrium.
But the pale gray light filtering through the blinds is a reminder. A new day. A new position on the schedule. The mission does not pause for comfort.
I nudge her arm with my head, a small, insistent pressure.
She groans softly, a sound thick with sleep, and pulls me closer without opening her eyes. "Mmm, five more minutes, little monster…"
Her warmth is a tactical liability, designed to lull a lesser mind into complacency. "The schedule is absolute, Mama," I state, my voice a small, clear sound in the quiet room.
That cuts through the sleepy fog. She sighs, a puff of warm air that clouds between us. "Right. The schedule." As she sits up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, I can properly assess the data. The slight hesitation in her movement, the way she presses the heels of her hands into her eyes. Personnel fatigue. It is a liability, but a predictable one.
"First, coffee," she mutters, more to herself than to me. "Then, the castle."
She moves toward the small pile of laundry in the corner and pulls out my uniform. It is a Charmander onesie, freshly washed and warm. For a moment, a flicker of something involuntary and deeply proprietary sparks within me. Pride. It is, I must admit, a decent likeness—the first physical prototype of what will become a multi-billion-dollar merchandising vertical. She holds it up. "Alright, little man," she says, her voice still raspy but with a hint of a tease. "Time to put on your armor."
The word hangs in the air, absurd. Armor is hardened plating, ballistic weave, a tool of tactical advantage. This is fleece.
I stand, a small, silent act of compliance born of necessity, and step one foot, then the other, into the legs of the onesie. As she pulls it up over my small torso, the full humiliation of the situation settles in. The strategic function is sound—it provides necessary thermal regulation. But its form… The CEO of the Phoenix Empire is being forced to conduct his affairs dressed as a pajama animal. She guides my arms into the sleeves, her movements practiced and gentle. It is in this moment, trapped within the fleece, that I feel compelled to correct the record.
"Charmander isn't armor, Mama," I say. The words come out not as a mumble, but as a clear, factual correction, the voice of a creator clarifying the function of his creation. "He's a starter. For offense."
She pauses, zipping up the front, and looks at me with a small, amused smile. "Oh, is that right? Well, today his job is defense. Against the cold." Another one of her fictions, but her logic is sound. She pats my fleece-covered head. "There. All protected." She turns and heads for the door. "Come on, Isaiah, let's go eat."
I follow her out of the bedroom, the onesie's stuffed tail bumping against my legs with each step. In the kitchen, she makes toast while I climb onto a chair at the table, my legs dangling. She sets a plate in front of me, the toast cut into four neat squares.
"Okay, eat up," she says, sitting opposite me with her mug of coffee. "You and Rico have a big day. I need you to finish Oolong's story."
"We will," I confirm, taking a bite of toast. "What about you? What's your job today?"
"Me?" She takes a long sip of her coffee, her eyes distant, fixed on some point beyond the cheap kitchen wall. "I have to go talk to the knights and make sure the castle walls don't fall." A simple, effective summary of her immense logistical challenge.
She watches me as I methodically eat my toast, one small square at a time. The silence stretches, filled only by the hum of the refrigerator and the soft scrape of my toast on the plate.
"You're a quiet one this morning, baby," she says, her voice gentle.
"I am processing," I reply, taking another bite.
"Processing what?"
"The mission parameters."
She smiles, a genuine, tired smile. "Of course you are." She waits until I've finished the last square of toast, then she stands, placing her empty mug in the sink with a decisive clink. "Alright, you've refueled the engine. Time to move out. Grab your coat."
I follow her command, sliding off the chair. She helps me into my winter coat, pulling it on over the fleece of my onesie. We step out onto the concrete landing. The morning is flat, metallic gray, the air so cold it stings my cheeks. The car door groans in protest as she pulls it open for me. I clamber inside, the vinyl of the seat cold even through my layers. The stuffed tail of my onesie gets awkwardly bunched up behind me. Maria gets in the driver's side, and the engine turns over with a tired rumble.
As she pulls away from the curb, she glances over at me. "Hey. A word with you, General," she says, her tone more serious now. "You remember when Rico's mom agreed to let him work with us? She told me something. She said, 'Rico loves to draw with Isaiah, but sometimes he comes home sad because Isaiah makes him redo stuff over and over.'"
A hot, white flash of indignation. 'Redo stuff?' I was providing critical feedback to ensure brand consistency and artistic excellence! My hands, small and useless in their fleece pockets, clench into fists. The insult is profound. My executive direction is being misinterpreted as childish bossiness. The urge to lash out, to articulate the fundamental principles of quality control, is overwhelming.
But I suppress it. A tantrum would be strategically disastrous.
"Now, I know you just want things to be perfect," Maria continues, her voice softening, trying to preempt my anger. "But you gotta chill out, Isaiah. If you push him too hard, he might not want to be your friend anymore. We can't have that. He's your only friend."
I turn my head sharply, breaking eye contact, and stare out the passenger-side window at the blurry gray houses passing by. I cross my arms over my chest, a tight, defensive posture. "Fine," I say, my voice a low, clipped sound. It is the tone of a subordinate acknowledging a deeply flawed but non-negotiable order based on incomplete emotional data.
Maria sighs, a soft, weary sound. "Okay, Isaiah," she says, accepting my reluctant compliance. "Just… be nice. His mom is working really hard for us."
I do not reply. We drive the rest of the way in silence, the only sounds the low hum of the engine and the squeak of the windshield wipers against the morning dew. The car slows, and she pulls to a stop in front of the garage. From the outside, it is completely unassuming—a plain, windowless building at the end of a quiet street. But I know that inside, the blueprints for empires are being drawn.
She turns off the engine, and the sudden silence is heavy. She unbuckles her seatbelt and turns to me. "Okay, we're here."
I unbuckle myself and push the heavy car door open, a blast of cold morning air washing over me. I slide out, my small feet hitting the cracked concrete of the sidewalk. The air smells of damp asphalt and winter. Maria gets out on her side and walks around the front of the car to meet me.
She doesn't rush me toward the door. Instead, she kneels on the sidewalk, bringing herself down to my level, the rough concrete pressing into the knee of her jeans. The hug she gives me is tight, a brief, desperate transfer of warmth and reassurance that I understand is more for her benefit than mine. "Be good for Rico," she whispers into the top of my head. "Mama will be back tonight."
She gives my shoulder a final squeeze, then she stands. I watch as she gets back into the car, gives me one last look, and drives away. I turn and give the garage door three sharp knocks, a pre-arranged signal. The heavy door groans as it rolls upward, revealing Rico standing in the relative warmth of the garage, a sharpened pencil already behind his ear.
"Morning, General," he says with a mock salute.
"Lieutenant," I reply, walking past him toward the large drawing table. On it sits The Codex—the foundational document for Universe 7. "The war can begin."
I open the heavy cover. The first several pages are filled with the vibrant, fully colored artwork of Dragon Ball Chapters 1 through 4. I run a small hand over the glossy surface of the final panel of Chapter 4. A completed operation. Rico peers over my shoulder. "Man," he says in a low, awestruck voice. "It looks like a real book."
"It is the blueprint for a real book," I correct him, turning to the first truly blank page. Its emptiness is a silent demand for creation. "Today, we begin the foundation for Chapter Five."
We work on loose sheets of Bristol board. The first order of business is the cover: Bulma in military attire, a propeller plane behind her. While Rico begins the rough composition, I turn my attention to the chapter's opening. "Page one," I say, pulling over another fresh sheet. "A deserted town. The architecture should be unique. Rounded, almost organic. No sharp corners. It creates a visual sense of unease."
We work for hours, my voice a low, constant stream of commands and corrections, Rico's pencil a constant whisper against the paper. We design the Sherman Priest, giving him a look of frantic, cornered desperation. I insist on the detail of the axe shattering against Goku's head. It's a critical data point for the reader. By what a civilian would call late afternoon, we have three new pages sitting on the table, their surfaces covered in the neat, precise graphite of Rico's penciling, ready to be entered into the permanent record.
"That's a good stopping point," Rico says, stretching his back with a groan. "My hand is starting to cramp."
"Agreed," I state, making a final notation in the margin of a page. "Secure the assets." I look at him, ensuring he understands the gravity of the command. "We resume the mission in the morning."
Rico's face breaks into a wide grin. He understands the game. "Roger that, General!" he says, giving me an enthusiastic, if clumsy, salute. "See you tomorrow."
As if on cue, there are three soft knocks on the metal door. Rico pulls the chain, and the door groans upward. Maria stands there, silhouetted against the cold. She looks like a soldier returning from a long patrol. She forces a weary smile.
"Ready to go, little man?" she asks, her voice a little hoarse.
"Affirmative," I reply, sliding off my stool. I give Rico a final, decisive nod. "Good work today, Lieutenant."
"You too, boss," he says with a small salute.
Maria helps me into my coat. "Did you two behave?"
Rico shakes out his drawing hand, flexing his fingers with a tired, dramatic flair. "He's bossy," he says, but he's grinning. "He made me draw the same door, like, a hundred times. But we made cool stuff."
"Good," she says, the word carrying the weight of her entire day, but I see a flicker of something else in her eyes—a confirmation. She takes my hand. "Let's go home."
The cold air bites at us as we walk to her car. The ride home is quiet. Pulling up to our small house, the single porch light she always leaves on looks like a tiny, welcoming star in the gathering dusk. The sound of her keys jingling is a familiar rhythm. The lock clicks, and she pushes the door open, ushering me into the quiet warmth of home.
"Okay, coats off, little man," she says softly. She helps me out of my winter coat, then kneels in front of me to unzip the onesie. Before she starts the laundry, she looks me directly in the eye, her expression serious. "Isaiah, we need to talk."
She leads me to the worn living room couch and sits me down, kneeling on the floor in front of me so we are at eye level.
"I heard what Rico said, Isaiah. About you being bossy. About making him draw the same door a hundred times."
My internal defenses go on high alert. "The perspective was not up to standard," I state, my voice cold and precise.
"I'm sure it wasn't," she says, her voice patient, but firm. "But honey, I told you this morning to go easy on him. And it sounds like you didn't." She takes a deep breath. "Isaiah, I know you want everything to be perfect. I see how hard you work. But people aren't perfect. Rico isn't perfect. I'm not perfect. If everyone is perfect, then you're not building a team… you're living in a fantasy."
The word stings. Fantasy. It is a dismissal of the entire operational framework. The internal conflict rages—the cold logic of the Titan versus the hot, surging frustration of the child.
My eyes drop from hers to the faded floral pattern on the couch. I stare at it, refusing to look at her. My lower lip pushes out, an involuntary, infuriatingly childish pout. The words I want to say—a detailed lecture on quality control—are a roaring inferno in my mind, but they cannot escape. The only thing that does is a choked, frustrated whisper. "You just… don't get it."
"Maybe I don't," she says, her voice softening. "But I get Rico. And I get that you need to be his friend." She waits. I keep my eyes fixed on the couch. A long, shuddering breath escapes me. "Okay, Mama," I mutter, the words tasting like ash.
"Okay," she says, accepting the hard-won truce. She stands. "Alright. Let's get that armor in the wash."
The rest of the evening proceeds under this new, tense treaty. I follow her as she carries the onesie to the washing machine. With a loud ka-thunk, the machine lurches to life. She turns to me, her face still weary, but the hardness is gone.
"You hungry?" she asks softly. I give a small nod.
We eat sandwiches on the floor of the living room. The flickering black-and-white television casts dancing shadows on the walls as I turn my attention to a program featuring a coyote and a roadrunner. The physics are appalling, but the narrative structure is a masterclass in minimalist conflict. The hum of the washing machine is a constant, rhythmic backdrop. I can feel Maria watching me, but I do not look away from the screen.
With a soft click, the washing machine finishes its cycle, the sudden silence jarring. The sound seems to rouse Maria from a stupor. She gets to her feet with a small groan, the effort of rising seeming to take a monumental toll. I watch as she moves the damp orange fleece of my onesie from the washer to the dryer. A new, softer hum replaces the sloshing.
She doesn't immediately return to the living room. Instead, I hear her in the kitchen, the soft clink of a glass, the sound of water running. When she comes back, she doesn't sit, but lies down on the floor, her head propped up on a cushion, her body angled toward the television. She's not really watching it; her eyes are half-closed, her breathing already slowing. The commander is entering low-power mode.
An hour passes like this. Two cartoons. The light outside the window fades from gray to a deep, inky black. The only light in the room is the frantic, flickering dance from the television screen.
The dryer buzzes from the other room, a harsh, insistent sound that signals the end of the day's final chore. The sound startles Maria fully awake. She blinks, disoriented for a moment.
"Wha…?" She looks at the dark window, then at the television, then at me. "Oh, man. It's late." She pushes herself up slowly, her joints protesting. "Alright, time for bed, little man," she says, her voice thick with sleep.
She walks me to the bedroom and pulls back the covers. Just as she's about to tuck me in, she pauses. "Wait here."
She leaves and returns with the Charmander onesie. It is radiating warmth, a small, fleece sun in her hands. She lays the warm, clean garment at the foot of the bed, a silent promise that tomorrow I will be protected.
"There," she whispers. "Ready for the next battle."
She slides into bed beside me, so tired she doesn't even bother to change. She rolls onto her side, facing me, and one hand comes to rest on my back, a final, unconscious check to assure herself that the asset she is fighting for is secure.
My mind ignites, ready to process the day's events. Her new directive is a major complication. It introduces a mandatory margin of error into the creative process. It is inefficient. It is illogical. I begin to formulate countermeasures.
But a new, more powerful input overrides the system: the steady, rhythmic beat of her heart, a quiet drum I can feel through the mattress. The warmth radiating from her is a physical presence, a solvent dissolving the sharp edges of my strategic fury. The vessel's exhaustion, held at bay all evening by indignation, crashes down like a tidal wave. The complex chains of logic in my mind begin to fray, the words dissolving into formless thought.
Her breathing evens out into the slow, deep rhythm of sleep. My own follows, an involuntary synchronization. The Titan's mind fights for control, but the child's body surrenders to a force older and more powerful than any corporate strategy.
Against my will, against all logic, I sleep.