Archie Goodwin stood at the head of the conference table, his hands resting on a staggering pile of sales charts and circulation reports.
Surrounding the paperwork were several stacks of creator contracts.
Duke sat across from him, drinking from a plain ceramic mug of black coffee, he wondered if Starbucks existed already in this time.
"The latest figures for PULSE magazine are going strong," Archie began, tapping a printed graph that showed a consistent upward trajectory.
"We have officially crossed 1.8 million copies in monthly circulation across domestic newsstands and comic shops. For a serialized anthology format in this market, we are the dominant one in the industry."
During the late 1970s, the comic book industry operated on razor-thin margins.
Standard superhero books typically sold around a 100.000 copies a month if they were lucky.
Pushing over a million units of an anthology magazine was a triumph.
"The sheer volume is fantastic, but the underlying economics still remain tricky," Archie cautioned, pulling a financial ledger from the stack.
"Despite the growth in readership, our profit margins on the magazine are still very thin. Paper costs are rising, and freight shipping is eating into the bottom line."
Duke nodded, understanding the financial reality.
The magazine was explicitly designed to operate as a loss leader.
Its primary corporate function was not to generate immediate cash, but to drive IP awareness.
By hooking readers with cheap stories, Paramount built a loyal fanbase that would eventually purchase toys, watch animation, and licensed merchandise of that IP.
"The creators are also getting restless," Archie added, shifting to a more delicate topic.
"Under the traditional comic book work-for-hire model, royalties are non-existent."
"But some of our artists are starting to demand compensation for their specific creations."
Duke absorbed the information without frustration.
Evolving the standard industry contracts was a necessary step for long-term stability.
The old guard of publishers relied on exploiting young talent, but Duke needed his creators happy, and tied to the studio for the long haul.
A fair royalty structure was an inevitable expense. Of course, that would have to wait till the animation pipeline of PULSE was proven.
Archie moved on.
"Slam Dunk is still our most popular property by a wide margin, but the protagonist is already setting things up toward the NBA draft so the overarching narrative is approaching its natural conclusion."
Duke had read Slam Dunk lately, and the character was still unable to score, just defend and catch rebounds with wild hair colors.
In serialized publishing, an anchor series was the tentpole that guaranteed monthly sales.
Readers bought the magazine for the anchor, then stayed to read the backup stories.
If the anchor vanished without a worthy successor, the ecosystem could collapse.
"The readers are surprisingly very invested in the NCAA arc still," Archie continued, pointing to a stack of fan mail.
"But the story is running out of organic runway. We need to let it end gracefully, which leaves a void."
Duke leaned back in his chair, taking a slow sip of his coffee.
Transformers was still thriving, enjoying the corporate synergy with the Mattel toy division.
Spathion possessed a small but fiercely loyal adult readership.
Meanwhile, Starship Troopers was steadily gaining traction with dedicated action fans.
"None of those titles have the broad appeal required to replace Slam Dunk," Archie concluded, his tone serious.
"We need a new anchor. Something bold enough to carry the entire magazine, but accessible enough to capture a mass audience."
Archie reached under the table and retrieved a stack of rival publications, dropping them onto the surface.
The covers featured derivative art styles and taglines. "Our competitors are finally trying to copy the PULSE formula. Everyone is rushing to print serialized, black-and-white anthologies."
"Are any of them a threat?" Duke asked, glancing at a poorly drawn giant robot on a rival cover. He wondered if the Giant Robot story was still for sale, would be good for a animated property.
"Not yet," Archie replied confidently. "None of them can compete with our print runs, which means they cannot match our low price."
"Furthermore, their quality is lacking. They are rushing cheap product to the racks to grab a quick dollar, while we are on it for the long-term."
"Good," Duke said, setting his mug down. "Let them waste their capital chasing us. I have a pitch for the new anchor. Let us move to my office."
50 minutes later, the two men relocated to Duke's office.
"The new series is called Fullmetal Alchemist," Duke announced, presenting his drawings to his editor-in-chief.
He pointed to a drawing of a young, blonde teenager with a metal prosthetic arm and his towering armored companion.
"Its a story about two brothers who commit a taboo in a desperate attempt to resurrect their dead mother."
He outlined the fundamental rules of the fictional universe.
"The magic system is based on alchemy, governed by the scientific law of equivalent exchange."
"In order to obtain or create something, something of equal value must be lost or destroyed."
Archie studied the concept art, his brow furrowing. "This is... dark. Child mutilation, failed resurrections, and human sacrifice."
"PULSE leans into action and broad adventure. This feels too complex for our younger demographic."
Duke understood the hesitation.
The American comic market in the 1970s was conditioned to expect straightforward battles between obvious heroes and simple villains.
"The darkness is necessary to elevate the stakes," Duke explained, tapping a sketch of a stone portal.
"This is the Gate of Truth. When the brothers attempt human transmutation, they are dragged before it. Edward loses an arm and a leg, Meanwhile Alphonse loses his entire body, his soul bound to a suit of armor."
He walked Archie through the philosophical underpinnings of the narrative.
The story explored the quantifiable value of a human soul.
He showed Archie the rough designs for the homunculi, villains created through dark alchemy.
"The brothers are not trying to save the world initially, they are just trying to fix their own mistakes."
"Its undeniably striking," Archie admitted, tracing a finger over the armor design.
"But I worry it might be too foreign for the audience. We are asking them to enter a dense, philosophical narrative with a strange magic system."
"That is exactly why it will succeed," Duke argued firmly.
"The magazine needs something that stands out from the competition. If we just give them another sports story or another robot war, we become predictable."
Archie stared at the sketches for a long moment.
His editorial instincts yelled caution, but his past experiences with Duke proved otherwise.
Every unorthodox risk Duke had pitched from serialized comic formats to complex robot lore had paid off.
"Alright," Archie finally said, letting out a breath. "We will run it as a serial."
Duke smiled, pleased with the smooth victory.
With the anchor problem solved, Archie shifted his stance, pulling a folded newspaper clipping from his jacket pocket.
"Speaking of competition, there is some external noise you should be aware of. Stan Lee gave a rather pointed interview to a entertainment trade paper yesterday."
Archie unfolded the clipping and handed it over.
In the printed text, Lee openly dismissed Duke's success in the publishing sector.
The veteran editor claimed that Duke was "not a real artist" and characterized the sales of PULSE as a stroke of "luck."
Duke skimmed the article, feeling no anger.
Stan Lee was a great competitor facing a lot of market pressure.
Marvel was losing ground on the newsstands, and Lee was naturally defensive. In his past life, Warner and DC were not very interested in fighting Marvel, Duke was very interested on it.
"Let him talk," Duke said easily, tossing the clipping into his wastebasket. "Stan is a tremedous showman, and he is just protecting his brand. His criticism is expected."
"There is one more critic," Archie noted, looking slightly amused.
"Andy Warhol has been criticizing you publicly in the New York art scene for a few years already. He gave a quote to a local magazine, claiming that you are 'just a capitalist pretending to be an artist,' and that your movies are polluting real art."
Duke paused, his brow knitting in confusion. "Who is Andy Warhol?" he asked blankly.
Archie blinked, surprised by the blind spot in Duke's usually encyclopedic cultural knowledge.
"He is that avant-garde New York artist. The guy who was shot a few years ago by a radical feminist that hangs out at Studio 54."
Duke's face remained still for a second before a flicker of recognition washed over his features.
"Wait, the Campbell's soup guy?" he asked, his voice filled with incredulous amusement.
Archie nodded, confirming the identity. "Yes, the man who paints the soup cans and the Marilyn Monroe portraits."
Duke threw his head back and laughed.
The criticism from Warhol was literally worthless to him.
The man painted soup cans and called it a masterpiece.
To Duke, Warhol was a man who essentially LARPed as this deep tortured artist while possessing very little actual talent.
Warhol's entire career was built on manufacturing empty atistic shock value for wealthy socialites, devoid of any real narrative depth.
Duke smiled to himself as he considered how crazy the situation was.
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Shorter Chapter