Chapter 17: Strength Surge (Part 2 of 2)
The late afternoon sun hung low over Albuquerque's industrial sprawl, a hazy orange disc painting the sky with streaks of fire. The commercial yard near the train tracks was a desolate stretch, its cracked asphalt radiating heat, the air heavy with diesel fumes and the gritty tang of rust. Alex Thorne stood alone, his light jacket clinging to his shoulders, damp from the desert's relentless warmth. His cheap plastic watch—its band slightly too tight—dug into his wrist, a mundane anchor for the electric hum of his 16x strength buzzing beneath his skin. This isn't a deal. It's a test. Ostensibly waiting for a low-level contact to finalize a deal on black-market electronics, his 16x senses were razor-sharp, catching the faint crunch of gravel from a distance, the distant clatter of a train, the low hum of a nearby generator. They're coming. Let's see what this body can do. He tugged his jacket's zipper, a nervous ritual to focus his racing mind, the mood tense with anticipation.
A beat-up sedan screeched into the yard, its tires kicking up dust that shimmered in the fading light like a gritty halo. Two thugs spilled out, their bulky frames clad in faded jeans and black leather, tire irons glinting in their hands like cheap props against Alex's superhuman presence. Their faces were twisted with petty rage, hired muscle for a dealer Alex had squeezed out of the market weeks ago. Small fry with big egos. Perfect lab rats. The taller one, a thick-necked brute with a snarl, led the charge, his boots crunching gravel with a rhythm that screamed bravado. His partner, wiry and twitchy, followed, his eyes darting like a cornered animal's. Alex's 16x intelligence parsed their sloppy approach—uncoordinated, overconfident, no backup. Child's play.
The brute swung his tire iron in a clumsy arc aimed at Alex's head, the metal whistling through the air. Alex ducked, the whoosh grazing his ear, his 16x agility making the move as natural as breathing. He countered with a casual push to the brute's chest, his hand barely flexing. The force launched the thug ten meters, crashing into a stack of wooden pallets with a crack that echoed like a thunderclap. Splinters flew, the thug groaning as he slumped, dazed, his leather jacket torn. Like swatting a fly. The wiry thug froze, his mouth agape, the tire iron dangling limply in his hand. He's rethinking his life choices.
Alex stepped forward, his movements calm but menacing, the ease of his power unnerving. The wiry thug, trembling now, threw a desperate punch, his knuckles grazing Alex's jaw. The impact was a dull throb, less than a stubbed toe, his near-steel bones absorbing it effortlessly. The thug's hand swelled instantly, red and bruised, his face contorting in pain. Alex straightened his jacket, the fabric rustling softly, his voice calm but laced with biting sarcasm. "Here's some free advice: you're punching a wall made of titanium and highly aggravated wit. It's also healing faster than you can blink, genius."
The thug stared at his swollen hand, then at Alex's unmarked face, his will crumbling under the shock of Alex's impossible endurance. Candor's my ammo, unlimited supply. The system chimed, its tone sharp with wit, cutting through the yard's tense air.
[SYSTEM: Challenge Evaluation: Thug takedown, A-Rank. Not even a worthy sparring partner.]
The fight ended with the thugs scattered across the yard, dazed and disarmed, their tire irons littering the gravel like discarded toys. Alex noticed a faint bruise on the wiry thug's temple, already fading an hour later, a testament to his own rapid recovery. He picked up a dropped tire iron, its cold metal heavy in his hand, and tossed it fifty feet into a dumpster with a clang that reverberated in the quiet. Show-off move, but it feels damn good. His 16x strength wasn't just a multiplier—it was a leap into superhuman territory, a shield against the cartel's growing threats. This is my edge. He pulled a napkin from his pocket, scribbling notes with a pen that clicked rhythmically, a mundane ritual to refocus his mind. More fronts, more states. Time for Saul.
Saul Goodman's back office was a haze of cigar smoke and desperation, the air thick with the musky scent of old leather and cheap cologne. Mid-morning light filtered through slatted blinds, casting stripes across Saul's loud, checked suit as he leaned over a desk littered with documents, coffee stains, and a half-eaten donut. His face was a mask of focused greed, his fingers tapping a pen like a metronome of ambition. Alex sat on a leather couch, sipping a cold soda, the can's condensation cool against his palm, a grounding detail in the strategic mood. Saul's my legal villain. Time to build a fortress. His 16x senses caught the faint creak of Saul's chair, the rustle of papers, the faint whiff of sugar from the donut—every detail sharp in his enhanced perception.
"Alex, my man! Your laundry business is booming," Saul exclaimed, flourishing a printout, his voice a carnival barker's drawl. "The last quarter's numbers are so clean they practically glow in the dark."
Alex leaned forward, the soda can crinkling in his grip. "You're right, Saul. I need a legal fortress around my clean empire, and you're the only one who can build it. I'm aiming for the national market, and you're going to make us both richer than a small country."
Saul paused, pushing his cheap reading glasses up his nose, his greed warring with caution. "Whoa, hold up. National? That's Fed territory, Alex. Albuquerque I can handle—local judges, the D.A., my system. You're asking me to build a multi-state legal empire overnight."
Alex met his gaze, his candor sharp. "It's complex, Saul. That's why you get the big checks."
Saul leaned back, his chair creaking in protest, sorting through a stack of garish business cards, a nervous habit that betrayed his unease. He's hooked, but he's scared. "Okay, Colorado's got loose corporate laws," Saul said, a sly smile returning. "We can set up a storage unit shell company—perfect for warehousing… laundry equipment. Utah's trickier, but I know a guy who knows a guy who can incorporate a holding company for your… noble ventures."
"Exactly. Your genius, my cash. Perfect partnership," Alex said, picking up a bright pink business card with a cartoon Saul, his grin wry. "You're embracing the dark side of commerce, Saul. I'm proud."
The meeting ended with signed documents and a wire transfer for initial property buys, the keyboard's clatter a rhythm of progress. Saul was fully onboard, his alliance cemented by Alex's unnerving honesty and mutual profit. Legal fortress, check. Alex stood, adjusting his jacket, the zipper catching briefly, and headed out, his mind shifting to Jesse. One more save before the team grows.
The evening sky over Albuquerque was a deep violet, the air cool with the faint scent of dust and distant rain. Alex parked blocks from Jesse's duplex, the quiet neighborhood a stark contrast to his high-stakes world. The soft hum of crickets and a distant dog's bark grounded the protective mood. He held a burner phone, its plastic slick with sweat, typing a coded message to steer Jesse clear of a non-Walt-related cartel deal, a dangerous Season 2 subplot. Protective instincts, full throttle. His 16x senses caught the faint glow of Jesse's window, a beacon of his mission.
He typed carefully, keeping it vague to avoid timeline shifts: The whispers on the wind say 'Mexican connection' equals 'bad investment, high risk of sudden trouble.' Stick to local product for the next week.
He deleted a sarcastic postscript, muttering, "Too much, Alex. Keep it serious." He hit Send, the phone's screen flashing briefly. Jesse's window glowed as he checked his phone, the visual confirmation easing Alex's tension. He'll listen. He always does. Leaning back against the headrest, the fabric cool, he whispered, "There you go, Jesse. Avoiding a messy plot detour. You've got a guardian looking out for you—no charge, just foresight."
The tip was received, Jesse's street smarts likely to keep him safe without exposing Alex's role. Bond strengthened, timeline secure. Alex stashed the phone, its plastic clicking in the glovebox, and drove off, the city lights a reminder of the cartel's looming shadow. Victor's next. I need a team.
To supporting Me in Pateron .
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