Chapter 3: The Desperate Partnership
Jesse Pinkman's house squatted in the afternoon heat like a broken promise, paint peeling from walls that had seen better decades. Elijah sat in his Corolla across the street, manila envelope burning in his lap, watching the windows for signs of life. Four o'clock. Prime time for a man whose schedule revolved around chemical enhancement rather than conventional employment.
His mouth tasted like copper and fear. The photos inside the envelope were his only ammunition, and he was about to point them at two men who killed people for considerably less provocation.
"This is it. The moment everything changes or everything ends."
Elijah crossed the street on unsteady legs, climbed the cracked concrete steps, and knocked.
The door opened after a long moment, revealing Jesse Pinkman in the flesh—bloodshot eyes, stubbled jaw, wearing a stained hoodie that had once been white. He looked exactly like the character Elijah remembered, but smaller somehow, more fragile. Real people always were.
"Who the hell are you?"
Elijah's voice came out rougher than intended. "Marcus Reid. We need to talk."
Jesse's hand moved toward something behind the door—probably a weapon. His pupils were dilated, paranoia radiating from him like heat from asphalt. "About what?"
"About your business arrangement with Walter White." Elijah lifted the envelope slightly. "And why it's about to become our business arrangement."
Jesse stared at him for three heartbeats, then stepped aside. "Get inside. Fast."
The living room smelled like stale marijuana and broken dreams. Fast food containers created an archaeological record of recent meals across every surface. Jesse gestured to a coffee table scarred with cigarette burns and ring stains.
"Sit. Talk. Make it quick."
Elijah sat on the edge of a couch that had seen too much and said nothing about it. He opened the envelope and spread the photographs across the table like tarot cards predicting doom.
Forty-seven pieces of evidence. Walter White's face crystal clear in seventeen of them. Jesse identifiable in twenty-three. The RV's license plate visible in six. GPS coordinates embedded in metadata that any competent investigator could extract.
Jesse's face went white, then red, then white again. "What the—how did you—" He lunged toward a drawer in the side table.
Elijah raised both hands, palms out. "I'm not DEA. I'm not police. I'm not anyone's enemy here."
Jesse's hand froze on the drawer handle. "Then what are you?"
"Your new partner." Elijah kept his voice level, conversational. "You need distribution. I need income. Simple economics."
"Distribution?" Jesse's laugh was high and brittle. "Yo, you think this is some kind of—"
"I think Walter White is a high school chemistry teacher who's cooking the purest methamphetamine in the southwestern United States." Elijah tapped one of the clearest photos. "I think you're his partner, and I think you're both about to be very rich or very dead, depending on how smart you play this."
Jesse stared at the photos, mind visibly racing. He pulled out a flip phone with shaking hands and speed-dialed.
"Mr. White? Yeah, it's me. We got a problem. Big problem. You need to get over here. Now."
Twelve minutes later, Walter White's Pontiac Aztek pulled into Jesse's driveway with the practiced urgency of a man accustomed to crisis management. Elijah heard the front door slam, followed by rapid footsteps and the unmistakable sound of Walter's voice cutting through Jesse's panicked explanations.
"—and then he just shows up with these photos, Mr. White, and I don't know how he—"
"Where is he?"
The living room doorway framed Walter White like a theatrical entrance. He was smaller than Elijah had expected but carried himself with the careful precision of a man who'd spent decades controlling teenage chaos. His eyes—pale green, sharp as scalpels—took in the scene with scientific detachment.
Those eyes settled on Elijah and didn't move.
"You're Marcus Reid."
It wasn't a question. Elijah nodded.
Walter stepped into the room, each movement deliberate and measured. He examined the photographs without touching them, as if they might be contaminated. When he spoke again, his voice carried the weight of barely controlled rage.
"How did you find us? Who sent you?"
"Nobody sent me." Elijah kept his breathing steady, his posture relaxed. "I'm a logistics consultant. I track high-risk ventures and identify opportunities for mutual benefit."
"Logistics consultant." Walter's tone could have etched glass. "And what, exactly, do you consult on?"
"Supply chains. Distribution networks. Risk mitigation." Elijah gestured at the photos. "Security gaps that could prove fatal to promising enterprises."
Jesse shifted uncomfortably. "Yo, Mr. White, this guy's talking like some kind of robot or something."
Walter's stare intensified. "You're lying. Nobody talks like that unless they're hiding something significant."
"He's right. I am hiding something. I'm hiding everything."
"I'm hiding my methods," Elijah said carefully. "Trade secrets. But the results speak for themselves." He pulled out his phone and showed them the bank balance: $47,200. "I wouldn't be here if I couldn't deliver what you need."
Walter studied him for a long moment, weighing variables only he could see. Finally, he spoke.
"One delivery. Two pounds. Forty-eight hours. Prove you can move product without creating heat, and we'll discuss terms."
Jesse's eyebrows shot up. "Mr. White, you sure about this?"
"No." Walter's smile was thin and predatory. "But I'm curious about what our new friend can accomplish with such confidence in his abilities."
POV: Jesse
Jesse watched the stranger—Marcus—nod like he'd just been asked to pick up groceries instead of move enough meth to land all three of them in federal prison. The guy was weird, no question. Talked like he'd swallowed a business textbook and moved like he was always calculating angles.
But those photos were real. Crystal clear, GPS coordinates and everything. This Marcus dude had found them when they thought they were invisible. That took serious skill or serious connections, and either way, it made him dangerous.
"Two pounds," Marcus said, like he was confirming a dinner reservation. "What's my timeline for payment?"
Mr. White's eyes narrowed. "Seventy-two hours after delivery. Standard rate."
"And if I exceed expectations?"
"Then we'll have a more interesting conversation."
Jesse's gut churned. Mr. White was playing some kind of chess game, but Jesse couldn't see the board. The smart thing would be to kill this Marcus guy and dump his body in the desert. The photos were a problem, but they could figure out damage control later.
Instead, they were giving him product to move. Two pounds of their best blue. Like handing a loaded gun to someone who'd already pointed a camera at your head.
"Yo, Marcus." Jesse leaned forward, trying to read the guy's face. "What makes you think you can move our stuff without getting busted?"
Marcus's expression didn't change. "I have a good... nose... for... cooperative fish."
Jesse blinked. "What?"
"He has good instincts," Mr. White translated dryly. "Don't you, Marcus?"
Marcus nodded, apparently unbothered by the fact that he'd just compared drug dealers to cooperative fish. Which was, hands down, the weirdest thing Jesse had heard all week.
But Mr. White seemed satisfied with the explanation, which meant Jesse was outvoted. As usual.
POV: Elijah
Elijah left Jesse's house with two pounds of blue meth in a gym bag and forty-eight hours to prove he could move it without attracting law enforcement attention. His hands were steady, but his mind raced through probability calculations.
He needed buyers. Clean buyers. People with money and no police connections.
Driving through Albuquerque's industrial district, he focused on eight potential targets he'd identified through careful observation and research. Each name triggered his power.
Strip club owner: 89% clean transaction probability. Cost: $200.
Truck driver with gambling debts: 91% clean. Cost: $200.
Casino manager with offshore accounts: 87% clean. Cost: $200.
Construction foreman with tax problems: 82% clean. Cost: $200.
Restaurant owner with money laundering history: 76% clean. Cost: $200.
Bar owner with cartel connections: 23% clean. Cost: $200.
Motorcycle mechanic with federal warrants: 12% clean. Cost: $200.
Pawn shop owner under investigation: 8% clean. Cost: $200.
Total cost: $1,600. Three viable targets with minimal risk.
The strip club was first. The owner—a sweaty man named Tony who wore too much cologne and too little conscience—examined the product with practiced eyes and nodded approval. Clean transaction. No heat.
The truck driver was next. Big Jim needed something to keep him awake for cross-country hauls and had cash from a recent winning streak in underground poker. Another clean deal.
The casino manager was last. Sandra ran numbers for three different books and needed product for high-rolling clients who preferred their recreation uncut and uncompromised. She paid in hundreds, no questions asked.
Forty-eight hours after taking the product, Elijah walked back into Jesse's house with $40,000 in cash.
Walter and Jesse stared at the money with the reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts.
"How?" Walter's voice was barely a whisper.
Elijah's speech curse nearly triggered when he started to explain about probability calculations. The words twisted in his throat. "I have a good... nose... for... cooperative fish!"
Jesse snickered. "Dude, you really gotta work on your metaphors."
But Walter wasn't laughing. He was staring at Elijah with new respect and barely concealed suspicion. "You moved two pounds in two days without creating any law enforcement interest. That suggests either remarkable luck or remarkable connections."
"Both," Elijah said simply.
Walter counted out twelve thousand dollars and extended his hand. "You're in. But understand this: one mistake, one hint of betrayal, one moment of carelessness, and those photographs won't save you."
Elijah shook Walter's hand, feeling the cold calculation in the man's grip. "Understood."
Jesse muttered, "Yo, this is gonna be weird."
Elijah checked his phone discreetly. Bank balance: $37,200. He was spending nearly two thousand dollars a day just to stay alive in this reality. The Entity's game had rules, and the primary rule was simple: pay to play, or fade away.
But for the first time since waking up in Marcus Reid's body, he felt something approaching stability. He had anchored himself to one timeline. Now he needed to get to Miami and secure the second.
The Curator's game had begun in earnest, and Elijah was still breathing.
For now.
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