Chapter 7: Timeline Tremors
The safehouse was a sterile cocoon, its air heavy with the faint chemical tang of canned lavender air freshener, a futile attempt to mask the grit of Albuquerque's streets. Alex Thorne sat hunched over a folding table, its surface scratched and wobbly, bathed in the cold blue glow of dual monitors. The hum of a computer fan was a low drone, matching the thrum of his thoughts.
His fingers, calloused from gripping burner phones and cash bundles, danced across the keyboard, pulling up police blotters, local news feeds, and encrypted street chatter scraped from burner apps. A half-empty energy drink sat precariously near the edge, its metallic tang sharp on his tongue as he took a distracted sip. This is what obsession looks like: me, a glorified fanboy, playing timeline detective at 2 a.m.
His funds stood at $250,000, a tidy sum built on double-profit meth sales to the Noble System, each transaction vanishing product into digital oblivion. But the data on his screens told a troubling story. A police report from yesterday detailed a low-level dealer bust near Tuco Salamanca's territory, a ripple from Alex's aggressive buys reducing street supply. In the Breaking Bad timeline, Tuco's meeting with Walter and Jesse was set for tomorrow, leading to a brutal kidnapping and cabin standoff. But Jesse, tipped off by Alex's warning, had canceled it, pushing the meet to two days later. The shift was subtle—a single day—but it sent a cold spike of dread through Alex's chest. I'm not just a player in this world. I'm nudging the script of my favorite show, and it's starting to wobble.
[SYSTEM: Timeline Alert: Minor deviation detected. Adaptation required to maintain plot integrity. Adapt or regret.]
"Perfect,"
Alex muttered, his sarcasm a shield against the creeping panic. I'm not Doctor Who, I'm a dude with a weird app and a Jesse Pinkman fan club membership. Screwing up the timeline wasn't in the plan. He leaned back, the chair creaking under his weight, and rubbed his temples, his 2x stamina doing little to ease the mental fatigue. The system's warning was rare, its serious tone cutting through his usual banter. He cross-referenced the data again, confirming the shift: Tuco's crew was antsy, law enforcement was sniffing closer, and Walter's ego was likely simmering, ready to boil over. One wrong move, and I'm rewriting Season 1 into a fanfic nobody asked for.
He pivoted, his mind racing to adapt. Direct interference—like saving Jesse from Tuco—was too risky; it was already causing ripples. Instead, he needed to manipulate the environment, slow the timeline without breaking it. If I keep pulling product, I control scarcity. That buys time, keeps Tuco distracted, and lets Walt and Jesse skate by without me playing superhero. He opened a notepad app, his fingers flying as he jotted anonymous tips for Jesse—vague, untraceable warnings to drip-feed via burner phones.
"Avoid loud guys with shiny jewelry."
Subtle, Pinkman-proof. He also drafted a plan for Saul Goodman, his legal lifeline. The laundromat front wasn't just about cleaning money; it was a bulwark against a timeline that could spiral out of control.
The realization settled like dust in the quiet room: every sale, every tip, was a pebble in the pond, and the ripples could drown him. I'm not just a noble dealer. I'm a timeline babysitter. He stood, stretching until his joints popped, a mundane ritual to ground himself. His cheap suit jacket, slightly rumpled from hours at the desk, caught on the chair's edge, and he tugged it free with a sigh. Time to meet Saul. If the timeline's shaking, I need a fortress, not just a bank account. The knot in his stomach tightened, but his resolve was iron. He grabbed his keys, the jingle sharp in the silence, and headed out, the city's hum waiting to swallow him.
Jesse Pinkman slouched on the hood of his lowrider, its chrome glinting like a beacon under the brutal Albuquerque sun. The asphalt radiated heat, shimmering like a mirage, and the air smelled of baked tar and faint exhaust. He nursed a warm soda, the bottle slick with condensation, its flat sweetness doing little to ease the weight on his shoulders. Walter's voice still echoed in his head, a furious tirade about the canceled Tuco meet, each word laced with that cold, professorial disdain that made Jesse feel like a failing student again. Yo, I'm trying to keep us alive, and he's acting like I flunked chemistry. The fear of Tuco's unpredictable rage was a tight knot in his gut, but Walter's anger was somehow worse, a slow burn that left him raw.
He scrolled through his phone, the screen smudged from nervous swipes, and paused on Alex Thorne's cryptic text: Tuco is the reason they invented the Witness Protection Program. Don't go. Jesse snorted, the memory of Alex's prank call last night—that fake cop voice sending him into a frantic stash-dumping panic—bringing a reluctant grin. Dude's a total weirdo, but he's got my back. How does he know this shit? The soda bottle thudded softly against the hood as he set it down, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm. Alex's warnings were gold, saving him from Tuco's fists, and that cash for tacos had been a small, human gesture in a world of cold deals. He's not a cop, not a rival. What's his deal?
Jesse's mind drifted to a week ago, when he'd been spiraling, strung out on stress and Walt's demands. Alex had shown up, not with a lecture, but with blunt advice:
"You're too good for this, Pinkman. Focus on what keeps you sane, not what breaks you."
It had stuck, a lifeline in the chaos. Every tip since had been spot-on, like Alex had a crystal ball. He's like my own personal Oracle of Albuquerque, minus the toga. The gratitude was real, warming him despite the heat, but it came with a nagging curiosity. Why's he helping me? What's he hiding?
He stood, stretching his arms, his hoodie sticking to his back with sweat. Gotta tell Walt we're done with Tuco. Alex'll buy the product, no psycho vibes. The decision felt like a small rebellion, a step toward trusting his own gut over Walter's ego. He dialed Walt, the phone's dial tone sharp and final, like a guillotine. This is gonna suck, but I'm not dying for his pride. As he waited for Walt to pick up, Jesse's trust in Alex solidified, a bond forged in cryptic texts and taco cash, strong enough to weather the storm ahead.
Saul Goodman's office was a garish assault on the senses, its air thick with cheap cologne and the faint musk of desperation. A faux-marble column loomed in the waiting room, flanked by a faded Constitution print that seemed to mock the room's sleaze. Alex sat in a creaky plastic chair, its surface slick with years of nervous palms, his fingers drumming a restless beat. This place is a circus, and Saul's the ringmaster. The lawyer burst from his inner office, his pinstriped suit loud enough to wake a coma patient, his grin wide and predatory.
"Mr. Thorne! My golden goose, my cash-flow king!" Saul's voice boomed, his hand extended like a game show host's.
"Step into my office, where dreams become tax-deductible realities!"
Alex followed, suppressing a smirk, the chair squeaking as he settled across from Saul's cluttered desk. The air smelled of stale cigars and ambition, a fitting stage for their partnership. He's a cartoon, but he's my cartoon. Saul launched into his pitch, his hands waving like a conductor's.
"You're sitting on $250,000, my friend, and that's a problem unless we make it sparkle. We need high cash flow, low paper trail. Nail salon? Laser tag? Or—hear me out—a laundromat. Chemicals, constant cash, minimal oversight. My specialty!"
Alex leaned forward, his voice low and deliberate. Time to play the truth card, just enough to keep him hooked.
"I need discreet, Saul. High volume, chemical-heavy, low eyes. And I'll be blunt: I need clean money, a clean slate. A place where I'm washing clothes, not… complications."
Saul's grin widened, his eyes glinting with delight. He loves this game.
"Chemicals, low oversight, and a confession wrapped in a metaphor! You're a poet, Thorne! Most clients lie through their teeth, but you? You serve candor like a fine wine. We'll call it the Noble Laundromat!"
He tapped his temple, already scheming.
Alex slid a thick envelope of cash across the desk, along with a printout of two laundromats near the university—high-traffic, within budget. "This is your retainer, plus a bonus for a new tie. Pick one of these, get it done by week's end. I don't waste time, Saul."
Saul snatched the envelope, his enthusiasm sharpening into focus. "Done and dusted! My guy's on it today. A laundromat—classic, clean, and oh-so-profitable. This is the start of a beautiful, IRS-approved empire!" He winked, sealing their alliance.
Alex stood, adjusting his jacket, the fabric catching on his thumb. Step one: legal cover. Step two: don't let the timeline implode. "Make sure the seller knows I'm serious, Saul. Blunt's my brand." He left, the city's pulse thrumming outside, a legal fortress taking shape in his mind. The laundromat was more than a front; it was his anchor in a world starting to tilt.
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