• Published 10th Jun 2014
  • 2,061 Views, 72 Comments

Blood, Meth, and Tears - Hot Blooded Hero

A man wakes up near the Crystal Empire, and he plans to build himself a crystal empire.

  • ...


Creatures of sapience are curious beings. Our minds instinctively force us to think within boundaries and labels, and yet we tell ourselves that labeling other people as if they were objects with strict characteristics is wrong. Prejudice is an evolutionary trait, originally one used primitively to prejudge either predator or prey. Maybe we try to forego such notions as we are knowledgeable to them already, but then wouldn't that be prejudice in itself? Where does our moral compass come from anyway? It's certain to everyone that it differs with every person. You'd be hard-pressed to find two people who agree exactly at where they cross the moral standards without lying to you and the other person. Some people try to justify their actions as moral to other people in an attempt to justify it to themselves.

Darren Whitaker knew that what he was doing seemed wrong to other people, and maybe a little bit to himself, but he had what he would say is a very good reason for racing away from the police in a car that currently belonged to the city.

He'd say that it was his house.

The city tried to tow his residence off of a time-limited public parking lot after he had slept away seven hours out of his allotted 15-minute time slot. He immediately tried to drive away, and ended up speeding down the local freeway through red-lights in a panic. A few sirens and 8 minutes of resisting arrest later led him down the back-roads of the New Mexico desert in a car without working headlights.

Darren didn't expect this situation to come up as he was handed his high school diploma, nor when he applied for his first full-time, non-Summer job. It might have come up in passing during those anti-drug assemblies, though. He regretted ever taking those pills from the medicine cabinet. It only made him vomit.

At this point, it's very clear that somehow, something in his promising life went horribly wrong to lead to this scenario.

He knew he hadn't done anything wrong. He was a participator in his community, a good contribution to society. He didn't blame his family. He couldn't imagine anyone who would. They loved and provided for him as best they could before their own... problems kicked in.

He couldn't blame a single person for this. This moment wasn't any one person's fault. However, that didn't stop him from blaming everybody else.

It was then that his car hit a significant dip in the road, causing it to swerve and spin out before rolling over several times.

The identity known as Darren died that day. The individual that used to have it awoke with a start and sat upright in an unfamiliar cave. The cave was obviously dark as well as damp, and his headache certainly didn't help his vision much. The man raised his hand to run it through his hair only to discover that it was gone. His hair, not his hand. That would have been much more horrifying. Both hands moved to grasp his now-bald head and also found a pair of eyeglasses on his face. The man never had any problems with his sight as far as he could remember.

Remember... What did he do last night? Now that he thought about it, this could have been the work of some local douche-bags pulling one over him. He searched his pockets for any sign of robbery and found some matches and what he thought was his wallet. After fumbling to open the matchbox and striking one lit, he found a surprising amount of cash he didn't have before in the wallet, and wondered if it was even his. He instantly found a driver's license, and found himself laughing loudly.

"Hoh my god, they actually make things like this!" the man exclaimed with humor in his voice. The driver's license was a New Mexico license, but everything else was very much different from his own. What made him laugh was the information and the photo used for the profile.

"Walter Hartwell White, heheh. I am the one who knocks!"

Wait a second...

"...I am the one who KNOCKS!"

That didn't sound right. It was too perfect.

The man felt his face again and immediately found what he was looking for.

A beard existed where it didn't before.

Confusion settled into the man's mind, and he pondered on it. As he pondered, he remembered what happened last night.

His confusion turned into panic, and he began breathing heavily.

He then had a coughing fit. It was painful.

His panic dropped from his mind into his stomach like a sandbag.

Walter White grasped his head and tried grab at hair that wasn't there. He shut his eyes as his mind repeated the mantra, 'This isn't real. This can't be real,' several times. He gasped for air, not realizing that he had been holding his breath, and let out a cry. His cry then became a yell. His yell became a scream. His scream became a roar. His roar sputtered into coughs. His coughs turned into cries again. His cries died down to whimpers. He curled-up into a ball on the cave floor as he stewed in his despair and self-reflection. He shook and shuddered as the adrenaline left him, and he became well-aware of the coldness of his environment.

He remembered how he used to feel like he couldn't go any lower than he already was. That feeling returned with a vengeance. Throughout his entire life, he always followed the rules that were set before him, and never strayed from the boundaries that society had in place. He always played it safe, and it lead him to poverty. In the end, a desperate move got him killed.

It suddenly seemed a bit less random that he woke up the way he was.

This thought process was interrupted by a bright light shining in his face. He instinctively squinted and brought his hand up to keep the glare out of his eyes.

"Uh, ahem. 'S-scuse me, uhm, sir? Are you... alright?"

The voice was male and filled with uncertainty. White replied with a raspy, "Yes."

The voice seemed a bit more relieved with its reply of, "Do you need any help?" He was probably hoping White wouldn't be some crazy hobo. Coherent responses were generally a good sign.

White realized that he kept on thinking of himself as White and resolved to look into that later. "Uh, ye-" He tried to swallow, but his throat was dry, which led to more painful coughs. He raised his hand to let the other know that he was fine, took a deep breath, and finished with, "Yes, that would be appreciated, thank you."

The other seemed a bit more cheery in his response this time around. Politeness can go a long way. "No problem, buddy. I heard you screaming from outside and thought you needed help. We aren't that far from the entrance, Mr..."

White froze at this and had a mini-identity crisis in his head. He took a long look at the wallet still on the ground and sighed deeply. "It's... White. Walter... Walter Hartwell White."

Only seconds later did he realize how stupid he was to say that.

But there was no laughter from the voice. The other simply put down his light source and pulled out what looked like a mirror from it. The light dimmed considerably and lit the entire room rather than a single direction. The light source was revealed to be something like a propane lantern, only without a tank. Walter stared at it, seemingly fascinated by the device and where the fuel was coming from. His musing was broken by the male voice, but as he turned to face the figure, he completely forgot what the voice said.

In front of him was a big-eyed, blue horse. Sky-blue to be exact, with a navy-blue mane. It was also wearing a green vest that had pockets in an odd position, to humans anyway, given that they were horizontal and on his sides. It also had its front hoof stretched out towards him in a way that looked like it would break any regular horse's hoof. Its face was also full of human expression, and he could notice its dying smile replaced with concern as he stared at this creature who looked, for lack of a better word, 'cute'.

Considering that he had died last night and was now Walter White, his shock towards it was marginally dulled. He considered the possibility of a hallucination or a dream, but the fact that he possessed the mental capacity to question it banished that theory.

The horse was now very concerned and its mouth moved for at least two seconds. Walter stared for two more seconds before blinking. "Huh?"

The horse put its... his hoof down. "I said, 'My name is Spelunker'. Are you sure that you're okay, Mr. White?"

Walter was silent as he noticed how tired he was. "Yes, I am. I just... need a nap..."

The world turned sideways, then dark again.

Author's Note:

Now, some might question why I didn't just use Walter White rather than give his name and cancer appearance to some random OC. It could have fit the criterion of the group this is posted for if it was the actual character, but my reason is a bit deeper. It's because using a post-series Walter White would be a disservice to the source material. The ending of Breaking Bad was the end of Walter White's transformation and journey down his own road of villainy and power to eventual redemption. To bring him in to go through with it again, after we have analysed his own psyche and personal justifications through the show, would be beating a dead horse. This character is Walter White with a different background, a different upbringing, and will definitely be making different choices throughout this story. The goal for this is to bring the themes of Breaking Bad and the transformation process that is the Heisenberg persona into a different setting with different events. This will not be a rehash of Breaking Bad with ponies. Expect some character allusions, but that's it.

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