Chapter 1: Awakening in the Desert
The desert was a merciless sprawl, its cracked earth baking under a sun that felt like it was personally out to get Alex Thorne. He jolted awake, his lungs seizing as he inhaled a gritty cloud of dust that tasted like ash and bad choices. A harsh, hacking cough tore through him, echoing briefly before being swallowed by the vast New Mexico badlands. His eyes stung as he squinted against the blinding midday glare, the sky a relentless blue slab pressing down on him. His hands, trembling with disorientation, patted the ground, finding coarse sand and a cheap burner phone clutched in his right fist—a scuffed flip model with a cracked screen, straight out of a crime drama. This isn't my apartment. This isn't my life. What the actual hell?
Alex scrambled to his knees, the sand scraping his palms, leaving tiny red welts that burned in the heat. His clothes—a thin, ill-fitting t-shirt and jeans that sagged on his frame—felt like they belonged to someone else, the fabric rough and unfamiliar. His heart pounded, a frantic rhythm echoing in his ears, and a cold sweat broke out despite the oppressive warmth. He was a 25-year-old retail worker, a Breaking Bad fanatic who spent his nights quoting Jesse Pinkman's "Yo!" and marveling at Walter White's descent. But this wasn't his cluttered apartment with its flickering TV and empty ramen bowls. This was… Albuquerque? The thought was absurd, but the sensory clues were undeniable: the sharp, bitter scent of creosote bushes, their waxy leaves glinting in the sunlight; the faint hum of I-40 in the distance, matching the show's iconic desert shots; the burner phone, a prop from Jesse's world, heavy in his hand.
His mind raced, piecing together the impossible. Last night—or was it last night?—he'd been sprawled on his couch, halfway through Season 1, Episode 2, slurping instant ramen and laughing at Jesse's latest screw-up. Then came a sudden, blinding headache, like a sledgehammer to his skull. He'd clutched his head, the room spinning, his laptop crashing to the floor as darkness swallowed him. Did I die? Stroke out at 25 from too much sodium and TV? The thought was half-joking, but the fear was real, a cold knot in his chest. He tugged at his t-shirt, a nervous tic, and muttered, "Okay, universe, you've got my attention. If this is a prank, it's a damn good one."
The realization hit slowly, like puzzle pieces snapping into place. The landscape, the phone, the oppressive heat—it all screamed Breaking Bad, early Season 1, Albuquerque, 2008. His fanboy brain, wired with every episode's details, supplied the context: Walter and Jesse's RV was out there, cooking the blue meth that would spark an empire. But the weight of being here, physically in this dangerous world, made his stomach churn. I'm not just watching the show. I'm in it. And I'm probably screwed.
Before panic could fully take hold, a faint blue glow flickered into existence a foot from his face, a translucent interface hovering like a video game HUD. It was sleek, bordered by delicate lines of code, visible only to him. The text was stark, clinical.
[SYSTEM: Noble System Initializing... Host Detected. Welcome to Albuquerque, NM (Year: 2008 Estimate).]
[SYSTEM: Quest/Objective Alert: Establish first deal in Albuquerque. Start small, stay invisible.]
Alex's jaw dropped, and he let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. "A system? In Breaking Bad? I'm a transmigrator with a freaking cheat code?" The absurdity hit him like a second wave, his earlier guesses about Albuquerque now confirmed by the system's cold precision. He adjusted the baseball cap he didn't recall putting on, its brim stiff and unfamiliar, and felt a surge of cautious hope. Okay, so I died—or something—and now I'm here with a cosmic vending machine. Not exactly the afterlife I expected. The system's words were a lifeline, a promise of control in a world of cartels and cops. He knew Walter and Jesse's RV was nearby, and his fanboy knowledge—every plot twist, every betrayal—was his edge. But the reality of being a player, not a viewer, made his hands shake. Start small, stay invisible. Yeah, no pressure when I'm one wrong move from Tuco's fist.
He stood, brushing sand from his jeans, the coarse grains clinging to his sweaty palms. The desert stretched endlessly, its silence broken only by the faint rustle of wind through the scrub. The burner phone felt heavy in his pocket, a reminder of the role he was expected to play. Okay, Alex. You know the script. Find the RV, make a deal, don't die. He started walking, the heat searing his neck, his sneakers crunching on the gravel with each determined step. His throat was parched, but he pushed forward, driven by a mix of fear and exhilaration. If I'm stuck here, I'm not going out like a redshirt.
The trek was brutal, the sun a relentless hammer, but Alex's obsession with Breaking Bad guided him like a map. He'd spent hours analyzing the show's desert scenes, memorizing the stark beauty of the Sandia Mountains' silhouette, the scattered yucca plants, the low ridges that framed Walter's early cooks. After nearly two hours, his t-shirt clinging to his sweat-soaked back, he crouched behind a jagged outcrop, his breath shallow. His fingers gripped a sharp rock for balance, its rough edge biting into his palm, grounding him in the surreal moment. There, a mile away, was the Fleetwood Bounder, Walter and Jesse's iconic RV, parked in a desolate patch of scrub. Its faded beige exterior gleamed dully, a symbol of ambition and chaos.
The faint hum of a generator carried on the dry wind, and Alex's pulse quickened with cautious excitement. There it is. The start of Heisenberg's empire. Walter's probably in there, sweating in his tighty-whities, measuring chemicals like a nerd. Jesse's pacing, swearing at a beaker. He stayed low, his eyes scanning for movement. From this distance, he couldn't see them, but he could picture the scene: Walter's meticulous focus, Jesse's restless energy, the amateur setup that would birth a legend. The system didn't flash, but Alex felt its presence, silently logging the RV's output. High-purity meth. Perfect for system sales. No street, no trace, just profit. His plan took shape: pose as a low-key buyer, keep it clean, avoid disrupting the timeline. He couldn't let Walter's rise or Jesse's survival go off the rails. I'm a fan, not a saboteur. Gotta keep the show on track.
He pulled a half-empty water bottle from his pocket, the plastic warm and crumpled, and took a slow sip. The lukewarm water tasted faintly of plastic, but the act grounded him, a reminder he was still human in this insane reality. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the motion steadying his nerves. Step one: don't get shot. Step two: find a shower. Step three: figure out how to be a noble crook without dying. He slipped back into the shadows, his mind racing with the logistics of approaching Walter and Jesse. The RV was his ticket in, but he needed a base, a cover, and a way to make that first deal without raising flags.
Back at the Sun Village Motel, the neon Vacancy sign buzzed like a dying insect, casting a sickly yellow glow over the cracked stucco walls. Room 11 was a shrine to despair—faded floral curtains, a lumpy bed, and the sharp tang of cigarette smoke baked into the carpet. Alex locked the door, wedged a rickety chair under the knob, and collapsed onto the bed, the springs groaning under his weight. His sneakers, caked with dust, left faint trails on the floor as he kicked them off, wincing as a pebble rolled out. Welcome to the high life, Thorne. Five stars for surviving day one.
Alone, he summoned the system interface, the blue glow a stark contrast to the room's dimness. He paced the small space, his socks scuffing the worn carpet, and studied the display. The Sell to System function was the core: buy drugs or guns, sell them for double profit, and they vanished, leaving no trace. He tested it mentally, picturing a candy bar from the motel's vending machine. The Sell button stayed greyed out. Okay, so it's drugs or guns only. Figures. He imagined a kilo of meth, then a handgun. The interface lit up: Acceptable Goods: Narcotics, Firearms, Illicit Assets.
[SYSTEM: System Hint: Sell drugs or guns for double profit. No streets, no cops. Noble, right?]
Alex snorted, rubbing his jaw where stubble prickled. "Noble? You're a cosmic pawn shop with a superiority complex." The system's witty tone matched his own sarcasm, making him feel oddly understood. This thing's my partner in crime, not my mom. He splashed his face with coppery tap water from the bathroom sink, the cold shock pulling him back to the moment. The cracked mirror showed a stranger's resolve, his eyes sharper than he remembered. I died—or something—and now I've got the playbook. Every episode, every twist. Time to play smarter than Gus Fring.
He checked the burner phone's clock: 11:53 PM. Exhaustion tugged at him, his body aching from the desert trek, but the system's quest pulsed in his mind—start small, stay invisible. Tomorrow, he'd approach Walter and Jesse, pitch a deal, and begin building his empire. He flopped onto the bed, the springs creaking again, and stared at the ceiling, a faint grin tugging at his lips. Here's to being the noblest crook in Albuquerque. Or at least not dying on day one.
To supporting Me in Pateron .
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