exsiliumlogs | [open] out of the blue and into the black

Entry tags:

[open] out of the blue and into the black

Date & Time: Throughout August
Location: Around Exsilium
Characters: Saul & TBA
Summary: A catch-all log for Saul's many business etc. meetings throughout the month. Again.
Warnings: N/A; will be updated accordingly.

[The more time Saul spends in Exsilium, the more he realizes he misses Albuquerque. And the more he misses Albuquerque, the more he realizes what he's missing isn't so much ABQ itself, but the idealized version of the city he's constructed in his head over the past four and a half months where nothing mattered but his business and his life and it was all hunky-dory, for the most part.

And then he thinks, shit. Four and a half months. Damn.

Albuquerque was perfect. People came and went, sure, but not at the same rate they do here. Back home, all Saul anticipated on the first of every month was the flipping of a calendar page. (National Geographic's American Landmarks calendar, to be precise. Francesca gets — used to get — him one every year. August would have been a photo of the Alamo at sunset, if he remembers correctly. Ha.) But here — here, each new month brings a horde of unhappy newbies and random disappearances, and there's really only so much doom and gloom Saul can take before it really starts getting to him. He used to be able to track people down. Here? He's helpless.

He misses the sunshine, all 300+ days of it. The Initiative-sponsored trip to the beach was nice, but his tan's already faded and he's pretty sure he's developing some kind of vitamin D problem. He also misses the security of having a boatload of money sitting in his wall. He misses a lot of things. Even the dust storms.

At least he has Jesse. But he can't really cling to Jesse with Walter hanging around, and then there's the problem of Jesse not wanting to be clung to in the first place. Saul can hear that stupid kid's voice in his head just thinking about it: You don't need me, yo. Maybe he does, maybe he doesn't. Right now, it feels like the former. It hasn't stopped feeling that way since April.

Anyway, here's the weird thing: much as he misses home, Walter's presence has made it crystal clear to Saul that he absolutely does not want to go back to that mess. Not now, maybe not ever. He has a bad feeling, and he likes to think he's a pretty intuitive guy — nine times out of ten, his gut's right. Sometimes it's indigestion. But those are odds you don't mess with, and the chow here is just bland enough that it's much easier on his stomach than all that Mexican food.

Somehow, he got it in his head that the more he does in and for this place, the less likely it is that he'll see the sunshine and his money and his calendar and all that dust again, so he's twice as busy this month as he was last month. Three times, maybe. Training, yes; doing business, yes; fueling up on caffeine, hell yes. But August has the added bonus of new things that need caring for: his kitten. His girlfriend. His stupid-as-shit-in-hindsight idea of forming a Transport-run government.

He'd wonder what he was thinking, but he already knows. Better to burn out than fade away, right?]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[It's 8 o'clock on the dot, and there's Saul, knock-knock-knocking at Sonya's door. He looks okay; not great, but not as bad as he'd expected to look. There's no sign of tears in his eyes, because he hasn't been crying, and he doesn't look like he's lacking sleep, because he slept like a baby in Stephanie's safe house last night.

But there's something lurking just under the surface that's making him stand a little straighter than usual.

He looks a lot like someone who's waiting for something unpleasant, eyes wide and narrowed all at once, lower lip showing obvious signs of having been chewed on in a not-fun way.

When Sonya opens the door, she'll find him absently straightening and re-straightening his tie.]

[And Sonya notices all that at once, of course. She's not stupid, and she's interacted with Goodman enough by now to pick up on the vagaries of his expressions. But the best way to scare away a skittish beast is to acknowledge it (she guesses - the wildest beasts she encountered growing up were pigeons) - and so she steps right out, right past him, and hoists her bag up on her shoulder before turning and locking her door. And then, with brisk energy and quick efficiency, she says:]

Hey. You know where you want to go?

Walter's gone.

[Wow.

That's not what she asked, is it?]

[Well that...was...easy. Sonya had anticipated some back-and-forth, some nagging and niggling and trickery before she got the information out of him; turns out she didn't even have to ask.

Which she's happy about, of course. Her mantra is that a win is a win, even if it's...anticlimactic, and sort of disappointing.

She clamps down on her own emotions, her personal reaction to that bit of news, to offer a detached and perhaps slightly wry response.]

Definitely a bar, then.

Yeah.

[It's huffed out, like there should be a laugh to accompany it, but Saul doesn't have it in him. He just sounds tired.]

I thought it'd be a relief.

[There's no comment or reaction to that, just a steady, calm step as she leads the way into the hall, and a level question.]

What is it instead?

[He's not going to tell her about Jesse. She doesn't deserve to know about what happened, when she hates him so much.

But Saul's quiet, raspy-voiced response covers that as well as his feelings toward Walter:] Terrified.

[There's no judgment from her over that, no scorn or confusion or condemnation. She never met Walter. She never faced any threats from him, any danger. Her suffering at his hands, such as it was, came only indirectly, with Jesse in the throes of a breakdown pinning her underneath him and fondling her.

(And underneath the friendship of convenience, underneath the mutual respect, such as it is, there's a thin thread of hatred for Saul. She's a professional; she's not going to indulge it, probably ever. But she remembers how the coward did make excuses for what Pinkman did back then.)

So she's not got any emotion in this. Her question is cool, impartial, and dispassionate.]

Why terrified?

[Saul is of the opinion that Walter was — and remains — a danger to everyone here because of what he's done to Jesse. The danger isn't so much Walter as it is Jesse's fear of and anger towards him and all the ways he can't cope with those feelings. That's part of the problem; just like Jesse, Saul will never stop being scared and angry, not really.

The other part of the problem is that Saul will continue to make excuses for Jesse's behavior for as long as Jesse's behavior alienates and scares and upsets people. This wasn't the case back home because Saul had other people who could deal with it for him. He wasn't involved, the way he is here. How he misses those luxuries.

His answer is immediate and true to the paranoid nature he's been trying to hide.

He was doing so well. Everything was going so well.

Damn it.]

I don't know where he went, so I don't know what he's doing.

[She presses the down button on the elevator coolly, then turns towards Saul as she waits.]

So what, then? You think he's in hiding?

No. I don't —

[Is that even possible?

Saul frowns, rubbing the bridge of his nose.]

I don't think so, but anything's possible.

Then what do you think?

I don't know.

[It's the most honest answer he can give.]

[She leans back against the wall behind her.]

The most logical conclusion would be that he's not here anymore. That happens often enough.

Okay, but that's not — [He pauses, draws a breath.] Wherever he is, whether he's somewhere in this world or back home or in fuckin' Narnia — the point is that I can't keep tabs on him.

[She lifts her eyebrows, and says - with a healthy, healthy dose of sarcasm - ]

I've spent the past two months hearing all about how this Walter White is some sort of genius ubermensch who can make moves which Karolus Magnus himself couldn't have anticipated or countered. I thought keeping tabs on him was futile and that we were all going to die painfully by his hand, whereafter he'll dissolve our corpses in barrels of acid.

[The elevator opens with a ding; she enters it.]

[YO SONYA DON'T JOKE ABOUT THAT SHIT

Saul stands there for so long that the elevator doors almost close between them. He stops it with his arm, expression twisting into a scowl as he steps inside.]

Don't. I told you what I told you because I thought you deserved to know — don't throw it back in my face now that I'm being honest with you. I'm not looking for anyone to pat my ass and tell me it's gonna be okay, but I do not need you to get snarky and sarcastic right now.

I'm not being - I assume I can deduce the meaning of "snarky" onomotopoetically?

[She doesn't look at him as she stabs the button for the ground floor.]

I'm pointing out that you've backed yourself into a corner emotionally. You reason that you're fucked if you can't keep an eye on him, but that he's such an amazing genius, you're fucked if you can keep an eye on him. You have talked yourself into being fucked every way you turn and that is why you're three quarters of the way to having a nervous breakdown.

[That gets a rueful smirk out of him.]

For once, the great Sonya Karimov is wrong — you missed the breakdown, baby. Been there, done that, brought back a souvenir keychain that I lost within ten minutes because isn't that always what happens with overpriced tchotchkes like that? Anyway, I just, you know, I think it's great that you've got an outsider's perspective on this whole thing. It's so helpful. I'm really glad I told you about this, so you can continue busting my balls over the fact that I care a little too much about Jesse. Which I admit, okay? I love that stupid kid. And the reason why I've talked myself into being fucked every way I turn is because loving Jesse means being fucked every way I turn.

[He knows he might be pushing her with this, but he's started, now, and he can't stop.]

It's called acceptance, I think. Jesse's dragged me through all those stages of grief and here I am now, a little busted up but actually kind of okay. You ever feel that way about someone, Sonya? Like you don't care what they do to you or put you through because at the end of the day, you know you'll be able to sit back and think, well, shit, at least I tried when no one else would.

[There's a cruel sort of smirk that alights on her face at loving Jesse means being fucked but she doesn't go for the mean-spirited, easy joke. No matter how pissed she is that the fucker is gone, and instead of celebrating they're wringing their hands, once again, this time with even more drama. Instead, she gives a bit of acrid sarcasm:]

No; I'm a stone bitch who cares for no one; you must have missed the memo.

There's the sarcasm again!

[He throws his hands up and all but storms out of the elevator as soon as the doors are open, turning on his heel so that he can walk backwards while speaking to her.]

Is this the only way you know how to talk to people? From behind walls? Because I know how that goes, okay, and it's usually not well. I mean, for a while it works and things are fine, but eventually some Reagan's gonna come along and topple that shit. Who's gonna dig you out, huh?

[Which honestly gives her pause; she stares after him, mouth slightly open, and it's not until the doors start to slide closed again that she jams her arm out to force them open and follows him.]

Sorry, I must have missed the moment where I gave you permission to try to armchair psychoanalyze me. Maybe let's return to the topic at hand.

[He's still walking backwards, stepping around people and backing his way out the front door like he's suddenly some kind of cat. Because when he gets like this, when he's focused on a target, he doesn't let anything distract him.]

Oh, but it's fine if you do that to me, right?

You invited it.

[She gestures impatiently as she strides forward, drawing level with him and then walking beyond him, trying to force him to keep up, to struggle to match her speed. And Sonya is five foot three and walking on heels; setting a difficult pace is a significant expenditure of energy for her.]

So you want my therapist's advice, Goodman? Cut this bullshit. Stop treating your Walter White like he's a displeased god in need of obeisance.

[He's got long legs, he's been training, he's riled up — it's not difficult for him to keep pace with her at all.]

You don't get it, Sonya.

Sonya | August 27;

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject