Chapter 24 : Paper Life
Calle Revolución smelled like printer ink and desperation.
The print shop—Impresiones Rápidas—occupied a narrow storefront between a pharmacy and a tourist trap selling sombreros. The windows displayed business cards, flyers, wedding invitations. Legitimate work for a legitimate business. Nothing that suggested the additional services Dr. Vargas had mentioned.
I pushed through the door at seven in the evening, when the street was busy enough to provide cover but late enough that the day shift workers had gone home. A bell chimed overhead. The interior was cramped—two printing machines, stacks of paper, the chemical smell of toner. A young woman sat behind the counter, reading a magazine.
"Buenas noches," I said. "Busco a Miguel. Me lo recomendó un cliente médico."
Her eyes flickered with recognition. The code phrase had worked. She stood without a word and disappeared through a door in the back.
Two minutes later, she returned. "Por aquí."
I followed her through the door into a short hallway, then into a back room that felt more office than workshop. Filing cabinets lined one wall. A desk dominated the center, buried under papers and equipment I didn't recognize. Behind the desk sat a man in his late forties—thick reading glasses, ink-stained fingers, the quiet intensity of someone who'd spent decades perfecting a craft that could land him in prison.
"Siéntese." He gestured to a chair opposite the desk. Sit.
I sat.
Miguel studied me for a long moment, the kind of assessment that measured more than appearance. Finally, he spoke in accented but clear English.
"Medical client referral. You've had work done." Statement, not question. "The face is good. Professional. Vargas?"
"Yes."
"He does excellent work. Better than what I can say for most surgeons in this city." Miguel leaned back. "What do you need?"
"Full package. Driver's license, Social Security card, birth certificate. United States documents, quality that will pass anything short of federal investigation."
"That's expensive."
"I know."
"Three thousand dollars. Half up front, half on delivery. Five days for quality work."
The number wasn't surprising—I'd researched document forgery costs during my recovery, even without NZT to help. But $3,000 was money I didn't have. Not even close.
"I have nine hundred," I said carefully.
Miguel's expression didn't change. "Then you have a problem."
"Maybe. Or maybe we can negotiate."
"I don't do payment plans. I don't do discounts. I do quality work at quality prices."
"I'm not asking for a discount." I leaned forward slightly, letting Deal Sense do its work. Reading the room, reading the man. "I'm asking for an opportunity to demonstrate value."
Miguel's eyes narrowed. Interest, carefully hidden. "Explain."
"You run a business. Not just printing—document services for clients who need new identities. That kind of business requires information. Who's asking about forged documents. Who's investigating document forgers. Which competitors are undercutting your prices and which are cooperating with law enforcement."
"And you think you can provide this information?"
"I know I can." Deal Sense hummed confirmation—I was on the right track. "I spent two months building an information network in Albuquerque. Small scale, but profitable. The skills transfer. Give me a week in Tijuana, and I can give you intelligence on your operating environment that's worth more than my document fee."
Silence stretched. Miguel removed his glasses and cleaned them with a cloth, the deliberate gesture of a man buying time to think.
"You're American," he said finally. "Gringo trying to work the streets here will get noticed. Noticed gets killed."
"I speak Spanish well enough to pass as someone who's been here a while. My face is new—nobody has associations with it yet. And I understand how to move without attracting attention." I paused. "I survived Albuquerque's drug scene for years. Tijuana isn't harder—just different."
"What makes you think I need the information you're offering?"
"Because everyone needs intelligence on their competition. And because you wouldn't still be listening if you weren't interested."
Another silence. Miguel put his glasses back on and studied me with renewed intensity.
"Nine hundred now," he said finally. "Covers the materials and begins the work. You bring me something useful within five days—genuine intelligence I can verify—and we call it even. You bring me nothing, you owe me the balance plus twenty percent interest."
"If I bring you something valuable?"
"Then maybe we talk about future business. Regular work for a client who understands discretion."
Deal Sense confirmed: fair offer, genuine intent. Miguel wasn't trying to trap me. He was giving me a chance to prove myself—a test, with real stakes on both sides.
"Deal." I extended my hand.
He shook it. "Name for the documents?"
"Marcus Webb. Age thirty. Originally from Nevada, lived abroad, relocating to New Mexico."
Miguel made a note. "Background needs to hold up to surface checks. Credit history, address history. I can create the foundation, but you'll need to build on it. Get a bank account, a utility bill, a lease—real paper trail to support the fake documents."
"Understood."
"I'll need a photograph. Current face, neutral expression."
I handed over the photo I'd taken at the clinic. Miguel examined it, nodded once.
"Five days. You know where to find me."
I stood to leave, then paused at the door. "What kind of information would be most valuable?"
Miguel's smile was thin but genuine. "Everyone wants to know who's talking to the police. That answer is always worth money."
The next four days became an education in survival.
Tijuana's criminal underworld operated differently than Albuquerque's. More layers, more hierarchies, more potential for fatal misunderstandings. The cartels cast long shadows here—not the direct involvement of low-level document forgers, but the pervasive awareness that nothing happened in this city without someone powerful knowing about it.
I started small. Coffee shops near the tourist areas, where gringos gathered and talked too freely. Bars in the commercial district, where local businessmen drank and complained about problems that sometimes had criminal dimensions. Street corners where information flowed like water, if you knew how to collect it.
NZT made the process faster than it would have been otherwise. I caught details that normal observation would miss—the way a certain bartender's posture changed when certain names were mentioned, the pattern of vehicles that passed a particular intersection, the rhythm of cash changing hands in places that didn't quite add up to legitimate business.
On day two, I found what Miguel needed.
A man named Eduardo ran a competing document operation from a barbershop three blocks from Miguel's print shop. Small operation, cheaper prices, lower quality—but taking business that might otherwise go to Impresiones Rápidas. That alone wouldn't have been valuable intelligence.
But Eduardo also had regular conversations with a man who dressed like an office worker and drove a government-plated car.
I spent six hours confirming the connection. Followed Eduardo's contact to a building that housed various municipal departments. Watched him enter through a door marked with law enforcement insignia. Photographed the car, the building, the man.
Eduardo was cooperating with authorities. Maybe voluntarily, maybe under pressure—it didn't matter. What mattered was that his clients were potentially compromised, and anyone who used his services was taking a risk they didn't know about.
[ALBUQUERQUE — DAY 82]
Badger made the call at midnight.
The burner phone rang six times before going to voicemail—the same voicemail that had been eating messages for almost a month now. He hung up without leaving another message.
Combo sat on the motel bed, counting the week's take. Twelve hundred dollars. Good money, but the Reyes job was still on the table, and the deadline for a decision was tomorrow.
"Still nothing?" Combo asked.
"Still nothing."
"We have to decide. Reyes isn't going to wait forever."
Badger rubbed his eyes. Pete had been gone for almost a month. No calls, no texts, no sign that he was still alive. The California aunt story felt thinner every day—who disappeared this completely for a family emergency?
"We take the job," Badger decided. His voice was steady, but his stomach churned. "Observation only. Watch the warehouse, report what we see, collect the money. Low risk, high reward."
"Pete might not approve."
"Pete isn't here. And if he doesn't come back..." Badger let the sentence hang. "We have to be able to take care of ourselves. That's what he taught us."
Combo nodded slowly. "Okay. I'll tell Reyes we're in."
The decision was made. For better or worse, Badger and Combo were stepping into deeper waters.
[TIJUANA — DAY 84 — EVENING]
I walked into Miguel's print shop with a manila folder full of photographs and notes.
The same routine as before: code phrase to the counter girl, escort to the back room, Miguel waiting behind his cluttered desk. But this time, his expression held something like anticipation.
"You're early," he said.
"I found something good."
I laid the folder on his desk and opened it. The photographs came first—Eduardo, his contact, the government building, the vehicle plates. Then the notes: dates and times of observed meetings, locations, patterns that suggested an ongoing relationship rather than a one-time event.
Miguel reviewed the material in silence. His face revealed nothing, but his hands moved with the careful precision of someone handling valuable merchandise.
"Eduardo Reyes," he murmured. "I've suspected for months, but never had proof."
"Now you do."
"This is... comprehensive." He looked up. "You did this in four days?"
"Three, actually. Wanted time to verify."
Miguel closed the folder and set it aside. From a drawer, he produced another folder—thinner, cleaner, containing documents that would make Marcus Webb real.
"Driver's license. Social Security card. Birth certificate. Nevada origin, as requested. Background will hold up to employment checks, credit applications, apartment rentals. Anything that runs a standard database search will find Marcus Webb with a clean history."
I examined the documents. The quality was immediately apparent—proper paper stock, correct formatting, holograms and security features that matched genuine government issue. This wasn't amateur work.
"We're even," Miguel said. "Your intelligence covered the balance. But..." He paused. "I could use someone with your skills on a more regular basis. Not full-time employment. Occasional work, specific targets, fair compensation."
"I'm returning to the States. Building something there."
"Long-distance arrangements are possible. For the right partner."
I considered the offer. A contact in Tijuana could be valuable—not just for future document needs, but for the kind of cross-border intelligence that became essential when operating at certain levels.
"Keep my number," I said. "When I'm established, we can talk."
"Fair enough." Miguel extended his hand. "Good luck, Marcus Webb. Stay out of federal databases and you'll be fine."
I shook his hand and gathered my new identity. Driver's license in my pocket. Social Security card in my wallet. Birth certificate in the folder, protected by plastic sleeves.
Skinny Pete was dead. He'd died on an operating table in Tijuana, and the documents in my hand were his death certificate.
Marcus Webb walked out of Miguel's print shop into the evening air, a real person now, with a paper trail to prove it.
The bus station was three blocks from my hotel.
I bought a ticket for Phoenix—not Albuquerque, not directly. Phoenix first to establish some footprint as Marcus Webb, open a bank account, maybe rent a room for a week. Then the slow journey home, building the identity piece by piece until it was solid enough to support the weight of everything I planned to put on it.
The bus left at midnight. I had four hours to kill.
I found a bar near the station and ordered a beer—my first alcohol since the surgery, since the transformation, since becoming whoever I was becoming now. The cold glass felt good in my hand. The taste was unremarkable, but the act meant something.
Skinny Pete had been a meth addict. Every choice, every day, every moment filtered through that identity. The addiction had shaped him, limited him, eventually killed him—if not physically, then in every way that mattered.
Marcus Webb could be anyone. Could choose anything. Could build something worth building instead of destroying himself piece by piece.
I pulled out my phone—still the same burner from Albuquerque, useless in Mexico but functional as soon as I crossed the border. Badger and Combo would have been trying to reach me. Jesse would have been calling, wondering where his friend had gone.
In a few days, I'd have answers for them. Not the truth—never the truth—but a story that would explain the absence and justify the changes they couldn't help but notice.
Sick aunt in California. Got into some trouble. Had to lay low. Came back different.
The lie was close enough to truth to be believable. And the truth—transmigration, supernatural bags, cognitive enhancement drugs from another universe—was so far from believable that nobody would guess it even if they tried.
I finished my beer and watched the clock tick toward midnight.
Across the border, Albuquerque waited. Jesse waited, trapped in Walter White's orbit, spiraling toward disasters I could see coming but couldn't prevent. Badger and Combo waited, running an operation that was probably outgrowing its original boundaries. The whole messy, dangerous, opportunity-rich landscape of Breaking Bad's first season waited, with me now positioned to move through it as someone new.
Marcus Webb. The ghost who used to be Skinny Pete. The man with the bag of magic pills and the head full of future knowledge.
The man who was going to build something different from the ashes of what he'd been given.
The midnight bus began boarding. I grabbed my bag—the regular one, visible to everyone, containing clothes and toiletries and the innocuous possessions of a man traveling north—and joined the line.
The border crossing was six hours away. Then Phoenix. Then home.
The journey continued.
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