Chapter 5: Shadows on the Horizon 1
The garage was a suffocating cube of chipped concrete and faded graffiti, its walls scrawled with looping tags in red and black, as if the place were bleeding defiance. The late afternoon sun slanted through a grime-streaked window, casting jagged shadows that danced across the cluttered space. The air was thick with the stale bite of cigarette smoke, undercut by the sickly sweetness of a pine air freshener dangling from a rusted nail, swaying slightly in the faint breeze from a cracked vent. Alex Thorne leaned against a dented workbench, its cool, pitted metal grounding his taut nerves.
His denim jacket was slightly too warm for the Albuquerque heat, but he kept it on, a shield against the vulnerability of this unfamiliar world. Across from him, Jesse Pinkman fiddled with a battered radio, its static hiss spitting out fragments of a hip-hop track, barely audible over the buzz of a flickering fluorescent light.
Jesse's hoodie was frayed at the cuffs, his fingers twitching with restless energy as he adjusted the dial, a cigarette dangling from his lips, its ember glowing faintly with each drag. He's a mess. Tuco's got him spooked, and he doesn't even know the half of it.
Alex's posture was relaxed, hands tucked into his pockets, but his eyes were sharp, scanning the shadows for any hint of movement. His 2x strength and stamina made him feel like a tightly coiled spring, ready to snap, but he knew better than to trust raw power alone.
Bullets don't care about upgrades. His system funds sat at $150,000, enough for small deals, but this visit wasn't about profit—it was about keeping Jesse alive, preserving the Breaking Bad timeline without derailing it. I'm not here to rewrite the show. Just to nudge it, like a fanboy guardian angel with a side hustle. The thought was half-joking, but the weight of his role pressed against his chest, a quiet reminder of the stakes.
"Yo, what's good, man?"
Jesse asked, glancing up from the radio, his brow furrowed, the cigarette's smoke curling lazily upward.
"You're getting all… cryptic again. You here for product or, like, a TED Talk on my life choices?"
His voice was casual, but the strain was evident, etched in the tight lines around his eyes, the way his fingers twitched even when still.
Alex pushed off the workbench, his sneakers scuffing the gritty concrete, the small sound anchoring him in the moment. He flashed a playful grin, but his tone was deliberate, measured.
"Product's fine, Pinkman,"
he said, letting the nickname carry a touch of warmth. "But let's talk survival. Specifically, a guy with a temper that swings harder than a wrecking ball." He paused, letting the words settle, his fanboy affection for Jesse tempered by the need to stay subtle. Can't spill the whole script. Gotta keep it vague.
Jesse's eyes narrowed, the cigarette forgotten as he plucked it from his lips, ash scattering to the floor. "Who, Mr. White? Nah, he's just… intense, yo. It's all about the purity with him. The chemistry, you know?" His bravado was thin, a mask over the fear Alex could see in his hunched shoulders, the way he gripped the radio like a lifeline.
"Not the chemist,"
Alex countered, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"Your distributor. Tuco Salamanca."
He let the name hang, heavy as the garage's stale air.
"I hear things, Jesse. Ugly things. The kind that end with hospital beds or worse."
Words are my ammo, but I've gotta aim carefully. He kept his gaze steady, locking eyes with Jesse to drive the point home without tipping his hand.
Jesse's face tightened, his fingers fumbling the cigarette, nearly dropping it. "Tuco? Look, Tuco's a freak, yeah, but he's our way in. Big money. We're meeting him tomorrow." His voice cracked slightly, betraying the nerves he was trying to hide. "
What's your deal, man? You got, like, a crystal ball or something?"
Alex shook his head, his intensity cutting through his usual sarcasm.
"No crystal ball, just good ears. Tuco's not just bad business—he's the kind of bad that leaves you missing pieces. Cancel that meeting, Jesse. I'm dead serious."
He tapped Jesse's arm lightly, a grounding gesture, his 2x strength carefully restrained.
"I'm giving you this one for free because I like your style. My sources say that meeting goes south. Big-time south. You want to stay in the game, you dodge the psychos. Tuco's all psycho, no strategy."
Jesse froze, his eyes searching Alex's face for a lie, finding only conviction. The cigarette burned down, forgotten in his hand, as the weight of the warning sank in. He's listening. Good.
"Alright, man,"
Jesse said finally, his voice quieter, conflicted. "I… appreciate the heads-up. But what's your angle? " The quip was weak, but it carried a spark of trust, a sign Jesse was leaning on him.
Alex chuckled, burying his fanboy glee under a mock-serious nod.
"Just your personal lookout with a knack for bad news. Cancel the meet, call me later. I'll buy whatever you were gonna sell Tuco. No mood swings, better price."
Keep him safe, keep the timeline intact. Don't overdo the hero vibes. He slipped a wad of cash into Jesse's pocket—not for product, but for dinner, a small gesture to cement their bond. "Grab some tacos. Get some rest. You look like you haven't slept since high school."
Jesse snorted, pocketing the cash with a half-smile, his shoulders easing slightly. "Yeah, yeah, you my mom now? Get outta here, man." His chuckle was faint but genuine, a rare moment of lightness in his stormy world.
Alex left the garage, Jesse's muttered curses about Walter fading behind him. The street hummed with Albuquerque's pulse—rattling bus brakes, distant crickets, the faint aroma of grilled corn from a vendor's cart. His 2x senses caught every detail, keeping him on edge as he adjusted his jacket, shifting from protector to potential target. Saved Jesse from Tuco's fists, for now. But I'm not invisible. He headed for a small deal, unaware that a shadow was already trailing him, silent and deliberate.
The strip-mall parking lot was a desolate sprawl, its cracked concrete sprouting weeds like a neglected garden. Flickering streetlights cast a sickly yellow-orange glow, the air heavy with ozone and the stale grease of a shuttered burger joint nearby. Alex approached a wiry dealer named Hector, who stood by a beat-up pickup truck, his hands jittery as he clutched a small brick of meth wrapped in plastic. Alex's heart was steady, his 2x stamina keeping his breaths even, but his eyes scanned the shadows, a habit honed by too many close calls. Small deal, quick profit. In and out, no drama.
Ten feet from Hector, a flicker of movement caught his eye—a figure leaning against the laundromat wall, half-hidden in shadow. The stance was too deliberate, the dark hoodie too calculated. Hitman. Someone's clocked my buys. The realization sent a chill through him, his 2x senses sharpening the threat like a blade. A system alert flashed, cold and urgent.
[SYSTEM: Status Warning: Adrenaline spike detected. Stay sharp, hotshot.]
Alex forced his steps to remain casual, his voice steady as he addressed Hector. "You got the usual?" His eyes flicked to the figure, who hadn't moved but radiated intent. Hector, oblivious, nodded and held out the brick.
"Yeah, man, all here. Cash?"
Alex tossed the cash, his tone light but clipped.
"Keep the change. You look like you need a better ride."
As Hector fumbled with the bills, Alex pivoted, his 2x agility turning the motion into a blur. Don't run to the street. Too exposed. He ducked behind a massive dumpster, its oily metal cold under his fingers, and vaulted a rusted chain-link fence with a fluid leap that felt almost effortless, his upgraded strength propelling him over in one smooth motion.
"Hey! Where you goin'?" Hector yelled, his voice sharp with confusion.
The figure moved, boots thudding on the asphalt, confirming the threat. Alex sprinted down a trash-strewn alley, his heart pounding but his breaths even, thanks to his 2x stamina. The stench of rotting vegetables and sour milk clung to the air, but he ignored it, taking a sharp right behind a restaurant's humming freezer unit, its metallic groan masking his steps. Another right, and he lost himself in the maze of service roads, the hitman's curses fading as he struggled at the fence. Alex slowed to a jog, pressing a hand to his ribs, not from pain but from the weight of being hunted. I'm on someone's radar. Cartel, probably. Gotta stay low.
He blended into the evening foot traffic, checking his burner phone's GPS to confirm his route to the safehouse. The shadow was a warning: his profile was rising, and the next threat wouldn't be so easy to shake. His sneakers scuffed the pavement, a grounding rhythm as he moved, the city's hum a constant reminder of the danger closing in.
The safehouse was a stark contrast, a nondescript apartment on Albuquerque's outskirts, its air cool and sterile with the rattle of an overworked air conditioner. Alex collapsed onto a worn vinyl chair, its surface sticky against his sweat-damp t-shirt. He flipped open his laptop, the screen's glow illuminating the weary lines on his face, and summoned the system interface. The blue text was a stark reminder of his vulnerability. Okay, hotshot. Adrenaline spiked, and now I'm on a hit list. What's the play?
[SYSTEM: System Hint: Avoid flashy moves to stay off radar. Cartel attention is undesirable at current stats. Legal fronts are advised.]
Alex sighed, leaning back until the chair's springs creaked in protest. "Right, 'avoid flashy moves.' Like vaulting a fence in one jump? Super subtle." His funds were at $150,000, enough to draw eyes but not enough to vanish. He grabbed a bag of stale salt-and-vinegar chips from the desk, the crunch loud in the quiet room, a mundane anchor as he planned. Time for noble dodging. Smaller deals, legal fronts. Saul's gotta pull through.
He opened a blank document, the cursor blinking patiently, and listed five small deals to keep funds growing without attracting more shadows. The hitman's gaze still lingered in his mind, a phantom weight on his skin. Laundromats, car washes, maybe a nail salon. Cash flows, no questions. He drafted a message to Saul's encrypted line, his fingers flying over the keys.
To Saul: Need a fast, high-cash-flow property for 'investment.' I need it clean, like a preacher's conscience. Budget is $150k, and I'm paying extra for speed. I'm getting 'unsolicited social calls,' so make it quick.
Sending the message was a small victory, a step toward control. Alex closed the laptop, plunging the room into darkness, and stretched his aching muscles, his joints popping softly. Dodged a hitman, saved Jesse, and got Saul on speed dial. Not bad for a day's work. The shadows were real, but he was ready for the next fight, his plan taking shape as the city hummed outside.
To supporting Me in Pateron .
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