Chapter 14: The Chicken Man
Los Pollos Hermanos at eleven AM buzzed with the controlled energy of a successful business operation. The smell of fried chicken and industrial cleaning solutions created an oddly comforting atmosphere that masked the predatory calculations happening in the back office.
Elijah sat across from Gustavo Fring, studying the man who would become the most dangerous player in Walter White's transformation. Gus wore his restaurant owner persona like armor—crisp polo shirt, warm smile, the practiced friendliness of someone who'd built an empire by appearing harmless.
Walt and Jesse waited in the dining area, picking at chicken they were too nervous to taste. Saul had brokered this meeting with his usual theatrical enthusiasm, promising "serious people with serious money for serious product."
But Elijah knew the truth about the polite man behind the manager's desk. He activated his Omniscient Locator first, confirming what he already suspected.
Gustavo Fring: Los Pollos Hermanos restaurant, corporate office. Currently conducting business meeting while monitoring security feeds.
Cost: $400.
Then, despite his precarious financial situation, he used his most expensive power.
Leverage Finder scanning Gustavo Fring...
The secret that emerged was worth every penny of its devastating cost:
Subject witnessed murder of partner Max Arciniega by Hector Salamanca in 1989. Has spent nineteen years building methamphetamine distribution empire with singular goal of destroying Salamanca cartel through patient, systematic revenge. Maintains legitimate business facade while operating one of Southwest's largest drug operations. No law enforcement knowledge of true activities.
Nuclear tier secret. Cost: $28,000.
Elijah's hands remained steady as the financial reality hit him—he'd just spent money he didn't have to confirm that he was sitting across from the most dangerous criminal in the Southwest. His emergency credit card was maxed, his bank account deep in overdraft territory.
But the knowledge was worth the cost. Gus Fring wasn't just a drug dealer; he was a patient psychopath playing a twenty-year revenge game against the cartel family that had murdered his lover.
"Mr. Reid," Gus said, his voice carrying the warm authority of a successful businessman. "Saul speaks highly of your distribution network. What's your assessment of our potential partnership?"
Elijah activated his Probability Assessment, calculating the deadly mathematics of their situation.
If we accept Gus's offer: 78% short-term profit, 45% long-term survival. If we refuse: 23% Gus allows them to leave unharmed.
Cost: $3,400.
The numbers were brutal but clear. Gus was offering them a choice between probable death now or possible death later. But he was also offering three million dollars for three months of work—money that could solve Elijah's immediate financial crisis.
"It's a good deal," Elijah lied smoothly. "We should take it."
Walter's eyes lit up with the prospect of serious money. "Three million for three months?"
"Superlab-quality equipment," Gus confirmed. "Professional security. Guaranteed distribution. All we require is consistent quality and absolute discretion."
But Gus's smile sharpened as he spoke, and his eyes remained fixed on Elijah with predatory interest. The man suspected something—not the truth, necessarily, but enough to recognize that Marcus Reid wasn't quite what he claimed to be.
"Excellent," Walter said, extending his hand to shake on the deal. "When do we start?"
After Walt and Jesse left to celebrate their windfall, Gus asked Elijah to remain behind. The restaurant's lunch rush was building, but the office felt isolated from the normal world of commerce and customer service.
"You're perceptive, Mr. Reid. Unusually so." Gus's voice remained warm, but something cold moved behind his eyes. "Where did you develop your analytical skills?"
Elijah had prepared for this question. "Corporate risk assessment, before I went freelance. Spent five years evaluating merger targets for a consulting firm."
"And yet you work with small-time cooks rather than Fortune 500 companies. Why?"
"I prefer being a big fish in a small pond."
Gus studied him in silence—ten seconds that felt like ten minutes, each heartbeat audible in the sudden quiet. When he finally spoke, his words carried the weight of barely contained threat.
"Lies are like ingredients, Mr. Reid. Useful in moderation, fatal in excess. I'll be watching you."
Elijah left Los Pollos Hermanos with hands that trembled despite his efforts at control. Gus suspected something fundamental about him, even if he couldn't identify what. The man's twenty years of patient planning had honed his instincts for deception to a razor's edge.
"He knows I'm not what I claim to be. But does he see me as a threat or an opportunity? Either way, I'm now under surveillance by someone who makes Tuco look like an amateur."
Back at his motel, Elijah confronted the mathematics of his financial catastrophe. Bank balance: negative $7,200. Credit cards: maxed. Emergency funds: depleted. The Leverage Finder scan on Gus had bankrupted him completely.
Without money, he couldn't use his powers. Without his powers, he couldn't survive the threats that his knowledge had already set in motion. The Entity had designed the perfect trap—supernatural abilities that required financial resources he didn't possess.
Panic hit him like a physical blow—chest tight, vision tunneling, the first genuine terror he'd experienced since waking up in Marcus Reid's body. He was trapped in a poverty-to-power cycle that would kill him as surely as any bullet.
"I need twenty thousand dollars per month minimum to maintain current power usage. Walt's operation pays me roughly five thousand. I need additional income streams immediately, or I'll lose access to the abilities that keep me alive."
The options were uniformly horrible: blackmail small-time criminals using Leverage Finder, insider trading based on corporate secrets, consulting for multiple criminal organizations simultaneously. Every path led deeper into moral bankruptcy.
"The Entity hasn't just given me supernatural powers—it's made me a prisoner of those powers. Each use costs money I don't have, forcing me into increasingly desperate situations to fund my own survival. I'm not the protagonist of this story; I'm its victim."
His phone rang—unknown Miami number. The caller ID showed a name that made his stomach drop: Detective Debra Morgan.
"David Chen? This is Detective Morgan. I need to ask you some questions about Lila Tournay's fire. Can you come to the station tomorrow?"
His vision blurred—the fading starting again. He hadn't been near Dexter in eight days, and the distance was taking its toll. But flying to Miami would cost money he absolutely didn't have.
"I'll be there," he said, already calculating which emergency credit card might still work.
"Good. And David? Don't make me come looking for you."
The line went dead. Elijah booked a 6 AM flight using the last functional credit card in his wallet, knowing that this trip would likely complete his financial destruction.
But the alternative was fading into nonexistence, and the Entity's curse wouldn't accept bankruptcy as an excuse.
The walls were closing in from every direction—Gus's suspicion, Debra's investigation, his own financial collapse—and Elijah could feel the Entity's amusement in the synchronicity of his mounting crises.
The game was entering a new phase, and the stakes kept rising.
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