Chapter 2: The Blue Connection
The diner was a greasy time capsule, its air thick with the scent of burnt coffee, sizzling bacon, and the faint, oily tang of a fryer that hadn't been cleaned since the Clinton era. Alex Thorne sat in a corner booth, the red vinyl sticking to his thighs, nursing an iced tea so sweet it could've doubled as dessert. His new jacket—a thrift store find, $20, slightly less stiff than his last—felt like a costume, a step toward blending into this dangerous world.
His fingers tapped a restless rhythm on the glass, betraying the calm he was trying to project. Across from him, Walter White sat rigid, his windbreaker creased, his eyes darting like a man expecting a knife in the back. Jesse Pinkman slouched beside him, picking at a ketchup-stained fry, his hoodie loose and his expression a mix of suspicion and exhaustion. My heroes. One's a ticking ego bomb, the other's a lost kid in over his head. And I'm the idiot trying to deal with them.
Alex took a slow sip of tea, the ice clinking softly, and set the glass down with deliberate care. His heart was racing, a cold sweat prickling under his arms, but he leaned into his sarcasm to mask it. "Truth's my ammo, unlimited supply. Don't blow this, Thorne."
"Alright, let's cut the chit-chat," he said,
his voice steady but laced with a playful edge.
"Your product's pure—insanely pure. I know quality when I see it, and you two are cooking something special."
He slid a worn leather briefcase across the table, the $10,000 inside stacked neatly in used bills, the weight of it grounding the moment.
"But here's the deal: that RV of yours is a billboard for trouble. One nosy cop, one bad day, and you're done."
Walter's jaw tightened, his fingers twitching on the table, his pride clearly stung. "Our operation is none of your concern," he said, his voice low and clipped, each word measured like a chemical formula.
"Who are you representing? You come in here throwing accusations—"
"Whoa, yo, hold up,"
Jesse cut in, leaning forward, his fry forgotten, his eyes wide with a mix of suspicion and curiosity. "You been tailing us or what? How you know about the RV, man?"
His voice was sharp, his slang a familiar rhythm from countless episodes, but there was a puzzled edge, like he was trying to solve a riddle.
Alex raised a hand, his smirk barely hiding the tremor in his fingers. Keep it cool, but they can smell fear. Don't let Walt's ego derail this.
"I'm not tailing anyone,"
he said, his tone light but firm. "I just know a bad setup when I see one. Look, I'm a buyer, not a competitor. My client—private, high-end, very discreet—wants your product, not your problems. I'll take $10,000 worth today, cash, no questions. I don't deal on the street, so your operation stays clean. You get paid, I get product, and we all avoid the DEA's radar."
Walter's eyes narrowed, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
"You expect us to trust a stranger who knows too much? What's your angle?"
"No angle, just cash."
Alex nudged the briefcase closer, his voice steady despite the knot in his chest.
"I'm a ghost. You deal with me, not a network, not a cartel. You're building something big, Walt—let me keep the heat off so you can focus."
He glanced at Jesse, letting a hint of warmth slip through, his voice softening.
"You're too good for the street grind, Pinkman. Let me handle the mess."
Jesse blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity, his brow furrowing as he processed it.
"Uh, yeah, okay, man. Cash is cash, right?"
He nudged Walter, who was still glaring, and muttered,
"Mr. White, c'mon. Guy's legit. Or, like, legit enough."
Walter exhaled sharply, his ego wrestling with the promise of money. "
Fine. A trial run. $10,000. But I'm watching you,"
he said, his tone icy, his fingers drumming once on the briefcase.
Alex grinned, picking up a fry from his untouched plate and popping it in his mouth, the salty crunch a small anchor in the tense moment.
"Watch all you want, Walt. I'm an open book—with really boring pages."
Step one: don't get shot. Check. Step two: don't let Walt's ego blow this up. He leaned back, his posture relaxed, but his mind buzzed with the thrill of pulling it off. The deal was sealed, but the tension lingered, a promise of future clashes. He took another sip of tea, the sweetness grounding him as he watched Walter and Jesse exchange a glance, their partnership already showing cracks.
In a deserted strip mall parking lot, the midday heat pressed against Alex's back, his t-shirt clinging to his sweat-soaked skin. He sat in his beat-up rental car, the vinyl seats creaking as he shifted, the small package of blue meth—100 grams, pure as Walter's ambition—resting on the passenger seat. Its plastic wrap glinted in the sunlight, a stark reminder of the line he was crossing.
Noble crook? More like a guy one bad day from a cartel hit list. He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans, the fabric rough against his skin, and took a deep breath, the air heavy with the scent of hot asphalt.
He summoned the system interface, the blue glow filling the car's dim interior like a sci-fi hologram. The Sell to System option pulsed brightly. He selected the package, and a prompt appeared: Confirm Sale: 100g Methamphetamine (99% Purity). Profit: $20,000. Alex hesitated, his finger hovering over the confirmation, his reflection in the rearview mirror showing a man he barely recognized—eyes sharp with determination but shadowed with doubt.
This is it. No going back. Genius or dead man. He pressed the button.
The meth vanished. No sound, no flash—just gone, replaced by a faint rush of cool air. The system updated instantly.
[SYSTEM: Sell to System: +$20k profit. Noble start, huh?]
Alex leaned back, a triumphant laugh escaping his lips.
"Noble start? You're a glorified vending machine with a sense of humor."
His balance now read $20,000, clean and untraceable. He tapped the steering wheel, a nervous habit, the rhythm steadying his racing heart. Twenty grand in one click. I could buy a decent car, a real jacket, or a one-way ticket out of this madness. But he knew better. This was seed money, the start of something bigger—Pay to Will, superhuman stats, a real empire. He started the car, the engine's rumble a promise of more deals to come, and drove off, the empty passenger seat a silent testament to his new reality.
That evening, Alex found Jesse outside his house, sprawled on the front steps, tearing into a burrito with the focus of a man dodging his problems. The street was quiet, the air heavy with the scent of grilled onions from a nearby food truck. Alex approached slowly, hands in his pockets, his posture casual but deliberate, his sneakers scuffing the pavement. Don't spook him. He's my guy, but he's jumpy as hell.
"Yo, we're good, man," Jesse said, not looking up, his mouth full. "Got your cash, made the deal. What's up?"
"Not here for product, Pinkman."
Alex stopped a few feet away, kicking a pebble across the pavement, the small clatter grounding the moment. "Heard a guy's sniffing around your spot. Krazy-8's buddy, hangs out by the Circle K on Mesa. He's looking to shake you down. Skip your usual haunts for a couple nights, especially your aunt's old place."
Jesse froze, the burrito halfway to his mouth, his eyes wide with confusion and a flicker of fear. "How the hell you know that, man? You some kinda psychic or what?"
Alex shrugged, his grin playful but sharp. "I just hear things, Jesse. Free advice, no strings. You're too good for that loser's game." Keep him safe, keep the timeline intact. Don't gush too hard. He felt a pang of protectiveness, his fanboy heart aching for the kid he'd rooted for through every episode, but he kept it subtle, his tone light.
Jesse stared, his suspicion melting into grudging trust, his brow still furrowed.
"Yeah, uh, thanks, man. That's… weirdly solid."
He set the burrito down, wiping his hands on his jeans, the motion grounding the moment.
Alex gave a lazy salute and walked away, his heart lighter. Jesse Pinkman, saved by a cryptic tip and a burrito. I'm basically Batman. The bond was forming, subtle but real, and he felt the first threads of his empire weaving together. He glanced at the burner phone, its cracked screen glowing faintly, and started planning the next deal, his steps lighter despite the weight of the world he'd entered.
To supporting Me in Pateron .
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