Chapter 1: Awakening in the Desert
The New Mexico desert was a merciless expanse, its cracked earth radiating heat that shimmered like a mirage. Alex Thorne jolted awake, his lungs seizing as he inhaled a gritty swirl of dust, sharp and bitter, tasting of ash and regret. A raw, hacking cough tore through his chest, the sound swallowed by the vast badlands.
His eyes burned as he squinted against the midday sun, a relentless orb that seemed to pin him to the ground. His hands, trembling with disorientation, clawed at the coarse sand, fingers brushing against a scuffed burner phone—a cheap flip model with a cracked screen, like something lifted from a crime show set. This isn't my couch. This isn't Chicago. What the hell is happening?
Scrambling to his knees, the sand scraped his palms, leaving faint red welts that stung in the oppressive heat. His clothes—a thin, ill-fitting t-shirt and jeans that hung loose on his frame—felt foreign, the fabric rough and slightly damp with sweat. His heart pounded, a frantic drumbeat echoing in his ears, and a cold sweat broke out despite the desert's furnace-like embrace. Alex was a 25-year-old retail drone, a Breaking Bad obsessive who spent nights quoting Jesse Pinkman's slang and dissecting Walter White's spiral into darkness. But this wasn't his cramped apartment with its flickering TV and empty ramen bowls. The sharp scent of creosote bushes, their waxy leaves glinting nearby, and the distant hum of Interstate 40 painted a vivid picture. Albuquerque. Early Season 1. This is insane.
His mind churned, grasping at fragments of memory. Last night—he was sure it was last night—he'd been sprawled on his couch, midway through Breaking Bad's second episode, a bowl of instant ramen cooling on the coffee table. Jesse had just botched another deal, and Alex had laughed, the sound cut short by a blinding headache, like a spike driven through his skull. The room had spun, his laptop crashing to the floor, and darkness had swallowed him whole. Did I die? Stroke out from too much sodium and binge-watching? The thought was half-joking, but fear coiled in his chest, tight and cold. He tugged at his t-shirt's collar, a nervous tic, and muttered,
"Okay, universe, you win. If this is a prank, it's Oscar-worthy."
The realization settled like dust after a storm. The landscape, the phone, the oppressive heat—it all screamed Breaking Bad, Albuquerque, 2008. His fanboy brain, wired with every plot point and betrayal, supplied the context: Walter and Jesse's RV was out there, cooking the blue meth that would ignite an empire. But being here, physically in this world of cartels and cops, made his stomach lurch. I'm not just watching the show. I'm in it. And I'm probably screwed. He stood, brushing sand from his jeans, the grains clinging to his sweaty palms like a gritty reminder of his new reality. The burner phone weighed heavy in his pocket, a prop from Jesse's world now his lifeline.
Before panic could fully take root, a faint blue glow flickered a foot from his face, a translucent interface hovering like a sci-fi hologram. Its sleek design, bordered by delicate lines of code, was visible only to him, the text stark and clinical.
[SYSTEM: Noble System Initializing... Host Detected. Welcome to Albuquerque, NM (Year: 2008 Estimate).]
[SYSTEM: Quest/Objective Alert: Establish first deal in Albuquerque. Start small, stay invisible.]
Alex's jaw dropped, and a sharp, disbelieving laugh escaped him.
"A system? In Breaking Bad? I'm a transmigrator with a cheat code?"
The absurdity washed over him, his earlier guesses about Albuquerque now confirmed by the system's cold precision. He adjusted the baseball cap he hadn't noticed wearing, its brim stiff and unfamiliar, and felt a spark of cautious hope. Okay, so I died—or something—and now I'm here with a cosmic edge.
Not the afterlife I pictured. The system's directive—start small, stay invisible—was a lifeline in a world where one wrong move meant a bullet or a cell. He knew Walter and Jesse's RV was nearby, and his encyclopedic knowledge of the show was his advantage. But I'm not just a fan anymore. I'm a player, and I need to move fast.
The desert stretched endlessly, its silence broken only by the faint rustle of wind through the scrub. Alex started walking, the heat searing his neck, his sneakers crunching on gravel with each determined step. His throat was parched, his lips cracking, but he pressed on, driven by equal parts fear and exhilaration.
Find the RV, make a deal, don't die. Simple, right?
His fanboy knowledge guided him like a map, the Sandia Mountains' jagged silhouette a familiar backdrop from countless episodes. After nearly two hours, his t-shirt clinging to his sweat-soaked back, he crouched behind a jagged outcrop, the rock's rough edge biting into his palm, grounding him in the surreal moment.
There, a mile away, was the Fleetwood Bounder, Walter and Jesse's iconic RV, parked in a desolate patch of scrub. Its faded beige exterior gleamed dully, a beacon of ambition and chaos. The faint hum of a generator carried on the dry wind, and Alex's pulse quickened, a mix of excitement and dread. There it is. The start of Heisenberg's empire.
Walt's probably in there, sweating in his tighty-whities, measuring chemicals like a nerd. Jesse's pacing, swearing at a beaker. He stayed low, his eyes scanning for movement, his 1x perception sharp enough to catch the RV's slight sway in the breeze. High-purity meth. Perfect for system sales. No street, no trace, just profit.
He pulled a crumpled water bottle from his pocket, the plastic warm and half-empty, and took a slow sip. The lukewarm water tasted faintly of plastic, but the act steadied his nerves. Step one: don't get shot. Step two: find a shower.
Step three: be a noble crook without dying. His plan was forming: pose as a low-key buyer, keep it clean, avoid disrupting the timeline. He couldn't let Walter's rise or Jesse's survival veer off course. I'm a fan, not a saboteur. Gotta keep the show on track.
Back at the Sun Village Motel, the neon Vacancy sign buzzed like a trapped wasp, casting a sickly yellow glow over the cracked stucco walls. Room 11 was a monument to despair—faded floral curtains, a lumpy bed, and the acrid tang of cigarette smoke baked into the carpet. Alex locked the door, wedging a rickety chair under the knob, and collapsed onto the bed, the springs groaning under his weight. His sneakers, caked with dust, left faint trails on the floor as he kicked them off, a pebble rolling free with a soft clatter.
Welcome to the high life, Thorne. Five stars for not dying today.
Alone, he summoned the system interface, the blue glow a stark contrast to the room's dimness. He paced the small space, his socks scuffing the worn carpet, and studied the display. The Sell to System function was the core: buy drugs or guns, sell them for double profit, and they vanished, leaving no trace. He tested it mentally, picturing a candy bar from the motel's vending machine. The Sell button stayed greyed out.
Drugs or guns only. Figures. He imagined a kilo of meth, then a handgun. The interface lit up: Acceptable Goods: Narcotics, Firearms, Illicit Assets.
[SYSTEM: System Hint: Sell drugs or guns for double profit. No streets, no cops. Noble, right?]
Alex snorted, rubbing his jaw where stubble prickled. "Noble? You're a cosmic pawn shop with a superiority complex." The system's witty tone mirrored his own sarcasm, a strange comfort in this alien world. He splashed his face with coppery tap water from the bathroom sink, the cold shock sharpening his focus. The cracked mirror showed a stranger's resolve, his eyes harder than he remembered. I died—or something—and now I've got the playbook. Every episode, every twist. Time to play smarter than Gus Fring.
He checked the burner phone's clock: 11:53 PM. Exhaustion tugged at him, his body aching from the desert trek, but the system's quest pulsed in his mind—start small, stay invisible. Tomorrow, he'd approach Walter and Jesse, pitch a deal, and begin building his empire. He flopped onto the bed, the springs creaking again, and stared at the ceiling, a faint grin tugging at his lips. Here's to being the noblest crook in Albuquerque. Or at least surviving day one.
To supporting Me in Pateron .
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