Chapter 15: Timeline Tremors
Alex's apartment was a fortress of shadows, its drawn shades blocking the late afternoon sun, the air heavy with the sterile bite of antiseptic cleaner, sharp enough to make his eyes sting. His computer rig hummed, its cooling fans a low, steady whir, the screen a chaotic collage of Breaking Bad wikis, police scanners, and intercepted drug chatter. Alex sat hunched over the keyboard, his fingers hovering, a nervous tic that betrayed his worry, his hoodie's sleeve brushing the desk's edge. Timeline's wobbling. Gotta keep it steady.
His 8x intelligence parsed data, confirming Tuco's delayed moves—high-value couriers instead of street crews, a ripple from his system sales cutting into the street supply. I'm the pebble in the pond, and it's messing with the waves. The screen's glow cast stark shadows on his face, his jaw tight with focus.
"Okay, so the monster's still coming, just wearing different shoes," he murmured, his sarcasm a shield for his growing concern, his voice barely audible over the fans' hum. He canceled a large meth buy with Local Dealer #2, opting for smaller ephedrine deals to ease market pressure, his fingers flying across the keys with 8x precision. Minimal impact, maximum stability. The system chimed, its tone heavy, cutting through the sterile air like a warning bell.
[SYSTEM: Timeline Alert: Minor shifts confirmed. Foresight intact, barely.]
Barely's not a warm fuzzy. Alex ran a hand through his hair, the strands damp with sweat, his chair creaking as he leaned back, the sound a small anchor in the storm of his thoughts. Jesse's safe, Walt's alive, but Tuco's off-script. He adjusted his strategy—smaller buys, tighter ops—his mind racing to preserve his foresight, the Breaking Bad timeline his guiding star. Director's cut, not a rewrite. He closed the laptop, its click a quiet resolve, and stood, stretching his arms, his joints popping softly, a ritual to shake off the tension. Time to check my biggest ally.
Saul Goodman's office was a shrine to gaudy excess, its patriotic murals—eagles and flags in garish reds and blues—clashing with the wheezing air conditioner's despair, its hum a constant whine. Saul lounged in his leather chair, its surface slick under his pinstriped suit, a cigarette smoldering in his hand, ash drifting onto a tacky glass tray that was definitely not an ashtray.
The car wash deal's papers lay scattered on his mahogany desk, numbers dancing in his greedy eyes, the air thick with the faint musk of his cologne. This kid's a goldmine wrapped in a riddle. Alex's blunt candor—needing a front for "clean money"—had thrown him, but the cash was undeniable, a siren call to his sleazy heart.
He's either a genius or a lunatic. Either way, he's my lunatic. Saul flicked ash, his grin predatory, his tinted glasses catching the light. "You know, Alex, you gave that Bob guy a minor stroke. Telling him you need clean money because your real job's too profitable. You got a weird sense of humor, kid."
Alex leaned forward, his voice sharp, his hoodie's sleeve brushing the desk. "Humor? Saul, that's the thing about being upfront. No one ever believes it. It's the best defense against suspicion. The bigger the lie you tell, the more they look for the little one."
Saul's laugh was a bark, his cigarette waving like a conductor's baton.
"You're a freak, Thorne, but a profitable one. We're gonna be a hell of a team."
He's hooked, but he's curious. Gotta keep him greedy, not nosy. Their handshake was firm, Saul's grip surprisingly strong, sealing a deeper alliance, the air crackling with mutual ambition. Legal loyalty, check. Alex stood, adjusting his hoodie, the fabric catching on his thumb, a small gesture to ground his racing thoughts.
Midnight's chill settled over a dim street, the flickering streetlamp casting long, shifting shadows across cracked pavement. The faint thump of rap music leaked from a house party, mingling with the damp scent of marijuana carried on the breeze, a faint haze in the cool air.
Alex sat in his SUV, his fingers tapping the wheel, a nervous rhythm that kept his 8x senses sharp. He watched for Jesse, his eyes locked on a rundown house, its sagging porch lit by a single bulb. He's about to screw up, per usual. A petty fight over a stolen DVD player would land Jesse in a Mexican dealer's sights, a minor but dangerous snag in the Season 2 timeline. Not on my watch.
He typed a text on his burner phone, its plastic slick with his sweat, the cheap casing creaking in his grip: Dude, that dude with the purple shirt? He didn't steal your damn DVD. You lost it. Chill. Trust me. Get out of there before you talk to the wrong people. - Invisible Bro.
The "Invisible Bro" quip made him grin, a playful jab, his heart warm with protective care. Keeping Pinkman alive, one text at a time. Jesse stumbled out, rubbing his neck, his phone glowing as he read the message, his cap pulled low. He shook his head, baffled, and sped off in his Tercel, dodging the dealer's crew. A black SUV—cartel muscle—rolled by, pausing where Jesse would've been, its headlights cutting through the dark before it moved on.
Another win for the guardian angel. Alex exhaled, his shoulders easing, a quiet grin breaking through the tension.
"Mission success, my favorite degenerate."
The system stayed silent, no points for nobility, as expected. All guts, no glory. His funds hovered at $250,000, his 8x stats a solid edge, but the cartel's shadow loomed larger, a storm gathering on the horizon. He drove to his safehouse, the night's events—timeline tweaks, Saul's loyalty, Jesse's safety—swirling in his mind. I'm strong, but not untouchable. Time for the next leap.
To supporting Me in Pateron .
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