Chapter 13: The Krazy-8 Intervention - Part 1
POV: Marcus
March 12th, 2008. Jesse had set up a meeting with Krazy-8 to distribute Walt's product. Marcus knew how this ended in the original timeline: Emilio dead from phosphine gas, Krazy-8 unconscious and later strangled in a basement, Walt crossing the line from desperate teacher to cold-blooded killer.
Unless Marcus changed it.
The desert stretched endlessly in all directions, broken only by scrub brush and the occasional abandoned tire that marked humanity's casual disregard for natural beauty. The RV sat in a depression between two hills, positioned for privacy and quick escape routes—standard operating procedure for drug deals that might go catastrophically wrong.
Marcus had followed Walt and Jesse using his doors, leapfrogging across the landscape to position himself behind a cluster of boulders fifty yards from the meeting site. Close enough to intervene if necessary, far enough to avoid immediate detection. The Death Note rested in his jacket pocket, a leather-bound promise of swift justice for anyone who crossed the threshold from criminal to monster.
Through binoculars, he watched Krazy-8 and Emilio arrive in a battered Oldsmobile that looked like it had been assembled from spare parts and wishful thinking. Both men moved with the cautious aggression of people who'd survived in the drug trade by assuming everyone was trying to kill them.
Which, Marcus reflected, wasn't an entirely unreasonable assumption.
Krazy-8 looked exactly as Marcus remembered from the show—mid-thirties, lean build, the kind of carefully maintained facial hair that suggested vanity despite circumstances. Emilio was younger, more nervous, his eyes constantly scanning for threats that might emerge from the desert's deceptive emptiness.
The tension was immediate. Emilio recognized the RV from somewhere, his body language shifting from cautious to hostile as memory clicked into place.
"That's the cook wagon from the DEA bust," Emilio said, his voice carrying clearly across the desert silence. "The one where that kid ran out naked."
Jesse emerged from the RV with forced casualness, but Marcus could see the fear in his movements. The young man was trying to project confidence he didn't feel, playing a role that was several sizes too large for his actual experience.
"Hey, guys," Jesse called, his voice only slightly higher than normal. "Got something special to show you."
Krazy-8's hand moved toward the gun under his jacket, the gesture casual but unmistakable. "You sure this isn't some kind of setup, Jesse? That RV's been on DEA radar."
"Nah, man, it's cool. We cleaned house after that bust. New operation, new product, new everything."
But Emilio wasn't buying it. His gun came out smooth and fast, black metal gleaming in the afternoon sun. "I don't like this, Domingo. Feels like a trap."
Marcus's hand moved to the Death Note, fingers closing around the leather binding. But he didn't have their full names, didn't know their exact ages. The notebook required absolute precision, and Marcus had only television memories of characters whose real names might be different from their street aliases.
He had to wait. Had to watch. Had to be ready to act when the moment demanded it, but not before he had the information necessary to act decisively.
Inside the RV, Walter White was probably mixing red phosphorus and water, preparing the chemical trap that would kill Emilio and incapacitate Krazy-8. In the original timeline, this was where Walt first used his chemistry knowledge as a weapon, where a high school teacher learned he could kill people with the same precision he'd once used to teach molecular structure.
"Look," Jesse said, his voice gaining desperation as the situation deteriorated. "Just come inside and see the product. Best meth you've ever tested, guaranteed."
"Best meth I've ever tested came from a DEA evidence locker," Krazy-8 replied. "After someone got careless and left their operation exposed."
The accusation hung in the desert air like a curse. Jesse's face went pale as he realized the dealers thought he'd been compromised, that his operation was somehow connected to law enforcement. In the paranoid world of drug distribution, such suspicions were often fatal.
"We're not working with cops," Jesse protested. "We're just cooks trying to make a living."
"Then you won't mind if we take a look around," Emilio said, gesturing with his gun toward the RV's open door. "Make sure everything's on the level."
This was it. The moment when two small-time dealers would walk into Walter White's chemical trap and learn that high school chemistry teachers could be more dangerous than cartel assassins.
Through the RV's windows, Marcus caught a glimpse of Walt's face—pale, determined, already committed to a course of action that would transform him from victim to predator in the space of a heartbeat. The beaker was in his hands, the mixture ready, the trap prepared.
Emilio and Krazy-8 pushed past Jesse into the RV, their weapons drawn but pointed downward in a gesture of cautious aggression. They expected to find cooking equipment, maybe some finished product, possibly evidence of DEA cooperation.
Instead, they found Walter White holding a beaker of death.
The phosphine gas erupted like a miniature volcano, yellow-green clouds billowing through the RV's confined space with the speed of divine retribution. Emilio collapsed immediately, his body convulsing as the toxic gas seared his lungs and shut down his nervous system. Krazy-8 stumbled toward the door, gasping and choking, but the damage was already done.
Jesse screamed—a raw sound of horror that echoed across the desert like a wounded animal's cry. Walt staggered out of the RV, coughing but alive, his makeshift gas mask having protected him from the worst of the exposure.
Emilio was dead. Marcus could see it in the stillness of his body, the way his limbs had stopped moving in patterns that suggested life. Krazy-8 was unconscious but breathing, his chest rising and falling with the rhythm of someone whose body was fighting to survive despite catastrophic chemical exposure.
And Walter White stood over both men with the expression of someone who'd just discovered he was capable of murder.
In the original timeline, this was where Walt would have to make a choice: kill Krazy-8 to prevent him from talking, or risk exposure and certain death when the dealer recovered and sought revenge. It was the decision that would complete Walt's transformation from teacher to killer, the point of no return that would set him on the path to becoming Heisenberg.
But Marcus had the power to offer a third option.
He created a door directly into the RV, the blue outline appearing in the vehicle's rear wall like a window into impossibility. Walt and Jesse spun around, their faces cycling through confusion, terror, and desperate hope as reality split open to reveal something that shouldn't exist.
Marcus stepped through the door with calm confidence, his hands visible and empty, his voice carrying the authority of someone who clearly operated by different rules than everyone else.
"Or," he said, meeting Walt's wide eyes, "I can offer option three."
The RV fell silent except for the sound of labored breathing and Jesse's whispered profanity. Three men stood frozen in a tableau of violence and impossible rescue, while unconscious Krazy-8 groaned on the floor between them.
Walt's hand moved toward a beaker—potential weapon—but stopped when Marcus raised his hands in a gesture of peaceful intent.
"I'm not DEA," Marcus said calmly. "I'm not cartel. I'm someone who can make your problem disappear. Literally."
The silence stretched like a held breath, fragile and full of possibility.
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