Chapter 18: The Superlab Descent
The pink teddy bear sat in an evidence bag on Elijah's dresser, a five-dollar toy transformed into a monument to catastrophic failure. He'd stolen it from the crash site while emergency crews worked through debris, needing some tangible reminder of the 167 lives his inaction had cost.
Three weeks had passed since the planes fell. Three weeks since Jane Margolis choked to death while Walter White watched. Three weeks since Donald Margolis returned to work with a shattered heart and made the error that rained body parts over Albuquerque.
Elijah's phone buzzed: coordinates from Walt, no explanation needed. The superlab was ready.
He drove through the industrial district, past the Lavandería Brillante façade, and descended into Gustavo Fring's eight-million-dollar cathedral of chemistry. The space was magnificent in its sterile perfection—polished steel surfaces, computer-controlled ventilation, equipment that belonged in pharmaceutical laboratories rather than criminal enterprises.
Gus stood waiting in the center of it all, wearing his restaurant manager persona like armor. But here, surrounded by the tools of his true trade, something predatory gleamed behind his warm smile.
"Mr. Reid," Gus said, voice carrying the measured authority of a man who'd built an empire through patience and precision. "I have a proposition for you."
"Fifteen thousand dollars per month retainer to optimize distribution logistics." Gus gestured around the laboratory with proprietary pride. "Your analytical skills have proven valuable. I'd like to expand your role."
Elijah activated his Probability Assessment, calculating the mathematics of his survival.
Probability of short-term survival if I accept Gus's offer: 78%. Probability of long-term survival: 34%.
Cost: $4,200.
The numbers were brutal but predictable. Gus would use him until he became a liability, then eliminate him with the same cold efficiency he applied to all business problems. But the alternative was financial collapse and the loss of his powers.
"I accept," Elijah said.
Gus's handshake was ice-cold, the grip of a man who'd learned to project warmth while feeling nothing. "Excellent. You'll report directly to Mike. Our arrangement is simple: deliver results, maintain discretion, and prosper. Disappoint me once, and there won't be a second chance."
The words weren't a threat—they were a promise. Elijah understood exactly what prosperity looked like in Gustavo Fring's world, and what disappointment cost.
Gale Boetticher bustled into the superlab with the eager energy of a child in a candy store. He was everything Walter wasn't—cheerful, collaborative, genuinely passionate about chemistry for its own sake rather than as a means to power.
"You must be Marcus Reid," Gale said, extending his hand with genuine warmth. "Walt mentioned you handle distribution logistics. Fascinating field—the intersection of human psychology and market dynamics."
Elijah shook the offered hand, studying the man who would die because Walter White's ego couldn't tolerate replacement. Gale was exactly as the show had portrayed him: brilliant, innocent, tragically unaware of the forces that would soon converge to destroy him.
"I work with statistics and probability," Elijah replied carefully. "Pattern recognition."
Gale's face lit up. "Ah, a fellow data enthusiast! You know, I've been developing some interesting models for optimal production scheduling. Maybe we could collaborate—"
"Marcus doesn't do collaboration," Walter interrupted, emerging from behind a piece of equipment with characteristic territorial instinct. "He provides analyses when requested. Nothing more."
Jesse appeared from the storage area, looking uncomfortable in the lab's sterile environment. "Yeah, Marcus is weird but useful. Like a really expensive calculator that eats."
Gale studied Elijah with curious eyes—the look of someone encountering a puzzle he couldn't quite solve. There was something deeply unsettling about Marcus Reid, something that didn't quite fit with his professional demeanor.
"He speaks in probabilities, carries a tablet everywhere, avoids eye contact. Like a calculator in human skin," Gale thought. "What kind of trauma creates someone so detached from normal human interaction?"
Walter dismissed the interaction with characteristic bluntness. "Marcus is useful but soulless. Don't take it personally."
Jesse's defense came quietly but firmly: "He's been through shit, man. We all have."
Mike Ehrmantraut materialized in the superlab with his trademark silent efficiency, carrying a manila folder that radiated menace through its mundane appearance.
"Reid," he said without preamble. "Gus wants to know which of these distributors are DEA informants."
Eight photographs spilled across the steel table—faces of men who would be dead within the week based on Elijah's analysis. He recognized the test for what it was: prove your value or become a liability.
Elijah used his Leverage Finder on each photograph, spending money at a rate that would have bankrupted most small businesses.
Scanning eight cartel distributors...
The secrets emerged like blood from fresh wounds:
Subject 1: Paying child support to DEA agent's ex-wife, compromised. Subject 2: Clean, loyal to cartel. Subject 3: Undercover federal agent, deep cover operation. Subject 4: Clean, loyal to cartel. Subject 5: FBI informant, providing intelligence for reduced sentence. Subject 6: Clean, loyal to cartel. Subject 7: Clean, loyal to cartel. Subject 8: Clean, loyal to cartel.
Total cost: $18,400.
"Two informants, one undercover agent," Elijah reported, pointing to the relevant photographs. "The others are clean."
Mike studied him with predator's eyes—the look of someone evaluating whether to eliminate a threat or exploit an asset. "How'd you get this information?"
"I have sources in federal databases," Elijah lied smoothly. "Information brokers who specialize in law enforcement intelligence."
"Sources." Mike's voice carried the weight of forty years in security work. "Right. Let me be clear, Reid—you're either a genius or you're connected to people I should kill. Figure out which before I do."
The threat hung in the air like cordite smoke. Elijah realized that Mike suspected he was more than a consultant, even if he couldn't identify exactly what. The walls were closing in from multiple directions.
That night, Elijah sat in the laundry facility's bathroom, vomiting until his stomach was empty. The mathematical reality of what he'd done hit him with devastating clarity: his information would lead to the execution of three men whose only crime was cooperating with law enforcement.
"The Entity's game has turned me into an accessory to murder-by-spreadsheet. I'm not just witnessing the empire's violence—I'm enabling it, calculating death probabilities and providing target lists like some supernatural hitman."
His phone buzzed—Miami number. Dexter's contact, as predictable as sunrise.
"I need you," Dexter's voice carried uncharacteristic urgency. "Emergency."
Elijah checked his bank balance: $8,200 after Gus's first payment minus power costs. Barely enough for a cross-country flight, but the alternative was fading into nonexistence.
He booked a red-eye and drove to the airport, passing a news report on the terminal's television screens: "Two cartel members found dead in El Paso—execution style."
The men he'd identified. The men his supernatural abilities had marked for death.
Elijah's hands wouldn't stop shaking as he boarded the plane, carrying the weight of blood that would never wash clean from his conscience.
"I've become the monster I promised myself I'd never be. The Curator hasn't given me powers—it's given me the tools to become complicit in every horror I witness. And the worst part is that I can't stop, because stopping means death, and survival means becoming something worse than dead."
The plane lifted off into the desert night, carrying him toward whatever fresh hell awaited in Miami, while behind him, the empire continued its methodical expansion, guided by his calculations and built on his compromises.
The game was far from over. If anything, it was just beginning.
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