#tocook

it's been hours— diaphanous with sweat, with tears & a childish cloying disbelief. the gates have been motionless. high, concrete & metal distributions of the old world hold them out. the lookouts in their tower remain expressionless in the face of how the disposed begged. the sun is rising, coaxed in by heat haze that claimed the horizon is now closing in on the pair & blushing the bronze of flesh.

“ they have to let us back in. ” spoken as congestion pervades, snot dripping & sitting against their cupids bow as blood shot eyes regard jesse. the face nova remembers is their mother, despondent as they were each carried outside of the walls. the shackles would release once they were beyond the limits of the city [..] still, they sat, cuffed & staring ahead in the half-slump of stubborn disbelief.

a brow raises at that, and—because it truly is the worst type of insult, it is—they not-ask with a particularly laid-on russian accent, "so you're saying that i look like a narc."

they don't think they're offended—more so curious, really. not that pinkman's opinion matters. big brother is always watching in and out of the confines of the industrial laundromat—the likes of which they've only seen in america. really, they don't know what's worse—the lack of air conditioning inside or the dry heat outside and the sand that they can practically taste.

it's unfortunate, all of it. the smell of the roach in pinkman's hand is even more unfortunate, but they push themselves off the wall they're propped against to hold out their hand expectantly for it anyway.

"i... i'm sure i'll be all right, in due time. i'm not... physically hurt, at the very least." anxious hands tremble and rub her arm, a self-soothing motion. lydia isn't accustomed to being threatened by co-workers; life with gus as a boss and madrigal under her thumb had been cushy in comparison to working with walter and his men, few as they were. jesse, however, stands out to her as the most kind of them all; few others would look out to her in this situation. ( this doesn't go unnoticed. )

"it's... pinkman, right? or do you just prefer jesse?" she makes a vague gesture towards the younger man, brows furrowed. "i appreciate what you did, looking out for me like that. not many people would. thank you, truly."

out on the road, it's different. the state she lives in doesn't allow much room to breathe— always gasping and gaping and grasping for some kind of stability in the moments where no one is looking. (back alleys. bars. the bracketed space in the shower, where she runs the water until it burns.) the only witness to it is the insects. little motel silverfish that crawl across the tiles, and are too small to signify anything to her cries. moths that flutter towards the light, ignoring the seventh cigarette that mari lights in shaky hands. it's insignificant, regardless. things that you do because they're right, not because they're easy. an aftermath is inevitable, and just because it isn't pretty, doesn't mean it doesn't have purpose. mari tries to remind herself of that, more than anything.

JESSE PINKMAN [@tocook] : "where do you wanna be, ten years from now?"

the future's too far too look bright. a paved road of nothingness, where only the dark feels tangible. it could be worse, she thinks. they could have no future at all. "dunno." mari murmurs, lips still wrapped around a cigarette that swirls up into the moth-worn lights. her gaze flickers to jesse, and then back out towards the empty parking lot. she shrugs, one shoulder inching upward before it slumps back down. she sucks in another inhale, and then purses her lips to target the smoke outward. "i don't r — really think that far, anymore." the truth is hard to say, but a lie would be worse. spitting out rainbows and cherry-pies and candescent lights that flare in the distance of her future is unrealistic. jesse deserves the truth.

A company’s handbook will have its workers believe that if something goes wrong, it’s the fault of your fellow workers, not a failure on the company’s end.

SHE HAS EXPERIENCED THIS FIRSTHAND. ⠀ Lumon punishing their workers for neglecting to meet their quotas instead of improving their working conditions. ⠀ Their collective quality of life decreasing because one co-worker made a mistake. ⠀ [They want to drive a wedge, ⠀ tear their teams apart. ⠀ You can’t build trust if there’s a lack of foundation to lay it upon.]

JESSE REMINDS HELLY OF HERSELF. ⠀ Stubborn, ⠀ resentful. ⠀ A refusal to follow the rules. ⠀ She can’t judge him for the mistakes he makes ⠀ — ⠀ she’s made the same ones.

"jesse!" two clipped syllables hissed from gritted teeth, barely audible above the blare of the speakers. a song so loud she couldn’t parse its identity— a task she, with some consideration in hindsight, doubted the odds of her success even unburdened by frayed nerves and suffocating air. the smoke from his cigarette seemed to shiver with the strident crow of the music. its base rattling the car, vibrating through her ribs, so violently she half-imagined the car falling to pieces. metal entrails littered behind them like breadcrumbs.

Sofia can be so cruel in her silence. Within that quiet, it's like waiting to hear if you have a life sentence, it's like waiting to hear if she has decided your fate ends in an execution. Sofia was born into an empire, one she thought she could reign as King of. Until she realized she had only traded one institution for another. Realization is not the same thing as peace, though. She's miles, years, centuries, away from that. And despite having invited Jesse to run away with her, there's this melancholy in how she treats him now. For awhile, she doesn't grant him one glance. Her dark eyes, perhaps the most distinguished feature of hers, gaze into nothingness.