maskormenace | [ 01 ] Video; Possible Action for housemates?

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[ 01 ] Video; Possible Action for housemates?

[ The video starts rolling well before Walter's prepared to sit down and talk. What the viewer gets is about twenty minutes of a frail and sickly thin, older white man in his tighty whities, staring blankly into the screen. A bottle of wine is in one hand, continuously pouring the contents into a glass as he drinks them down only to refill it again. It's the alcoholic channel, with a few fascinatingly thoughtful jaw clenches and an unwavering staring competition with the lens. Finally, he clears his throat and speaks up. ]

So this is supposed to connect me to others 'like me?' These so-called imPorts...

[ He studies his empty glass, turning it in his hands. ]

There's one question that never got answered, and maybe you can give me some insight? Clue me in a little because I sure saw a lot of fire and brimstone a few days ago...

[ He looks up, dead eyes focusing on the screen. ]

Is this supposed to be hell?

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[ It will be impossible to forget because this sure won't be the last time Walt and his underwear show themselves to the world~! ]

I suppose you could say I'm having a difficult time adjusting.

[ He smirks, very briefly. ]

And I suppose you could say I am dead. Was dead. It only makes sense, this being some private hell.

You're in good company, then. There are a few individuals who have claimed -- who have died before coming here.

[He keeps the exposition brief (perhaps in the mutual spirit of briefs) and turns just slightly to the left, with his eyes locked onto Walt's expression. Chilton isn't bothering to hide the calculating appearance he's prone to exhibiting.]

If you're having something of an existential crisis... That would be a rational response. [A beat, and that flicker of a smirk now mirrors on Chilton's mouth.] I'm Doctor Chilton. Doctor Frederick Chilton.

[ Walt knows he's a piece of meat, but Chilton doesn't have to look at him that way. Fortunately, Walt is more fascinated in pouring the very last bit of wine into his glass rather than making eye contact to see that calculating gaze. ]

Walter White. A pleasure to meet you, Doctor Chilton.

[ He raises his glass, proposing a silent toast before taking a large gulp. ]

This place did make me a pharmacist, so perhaps I'll see your name on some of the prescriptions. Fortunately, I'm not in any need of a Doctor.

[ A therapist, though.... ]

You may well see my name, then. [He's delighted by the prospect -- influence, no matter how minute, revitalizes the psychiatrist. And speaking of:]

You must have some medical, or chemical, background? I can't imagine that someone lacking would be distributing lithium or quetiapine. You'd think there wouldn't be a black market for schizophrenic medication, but the way so many are underinsured, well --

I'm not just any doctor, I should clarify. I'm a psychiatrist.

[ This is touching on so many sore subjects -- like medical bills, and chemistry, and black market. Walt's jaw twitches slightly and he swallows down all of his comments. Why isn't there more wine?? ]

I'm a chemist. No medical background, but I know what I'm doing. It's slightly insulting that, knowing my knowledge and experience, this was the job they felt best suited me. But I suppose you can't bite the hand that feeds.

[ Walt tilts his head after Chilton mentions being a psychiatrist. ]

In that case, I'm positive I'll see your name. [ way more people go to get medication for mental disorders than anything, really. ] Is that what you did back home as well?

I did, yes, though my clientele was more... Involuntary. [He smiled at that, finding his own joke rather funny. The contrast between the criminally insane and those who sought treatment was fairly profound, and while Chilton enjoyed the work (and power) regardless, he preferred the infamy of the former.

But still. He could make do.]

I've taken to specializing in imPort trauma. Even those individuals who claim familiarity with other dimensions -- I kid you not -- nevertheless often suffer from detrimental psychological torment. It's interesting, at least.

[Catching himself on that -- maybe it was a touch too clinical -- Chilton turned the focus back onto Walt.]

Might I inquire about your experience? I've only known criminal chemists, I'm almost ashamed to say.

[Almost.]

[ Maybe Chilton can notice that even though Walt is wearing his best pokerface, his hand around his glass tenses at the mention of criminal chemists. There's a moment, although very brief and probably brought about by the alcohol, that Walt toys with the idea of having someone to talk to about all of his problems -- all of the things he couldn't say to those who didn't know him and especially not to those who did. And Jesse. What to do about Jesse.

But even drunk, Walt manages to maintain control of himself to an extent. He can't say anything over the network. Louis proved that it's far too easy to listen in on others conversations. ]

I had the chance to do something bigger with my life, to be a part of a multi-billion dollar research company, but I sold my share for a lousy thousand dollars and went on to become a high school chemistry teacher. I really did nothing remarkable with my life...

[ The words kill him to say aloud. He was a king. ]

Then I died. Lung Cancer. And here I am.

[That tell -- subtle was it was, artful even in its reveal -- was nevertheless observed by the psychiatrist. He listened, instead of making some remark upon it; it was better to listen right now, to absorb. To gather the data for analysis, both spoken and unspoken.

Because Walter White, chemist and former corpse, would indeed by analyzed by Chilton -- but probably in the latter's spare time, and amidst his files dedicated to imPorts not formally under his care. Files that might be construed as invasive as best, and misconduct at worst.]

Here you are. And now this is, what, your literal second chance?

[He said it like something between a taunt and an affirmation. Chilton wanted a reaction.]

You could be someone now, couldn't you? Someone remarkable. You've already returned from the dead -- some would call that biblical.

[ Walt isn't sure what Chilton is getting at there with the...was that a taunt? He squints at him, cocking his head to the side. The follow up questions don't help matters either. It's digging at the lie he's forced to tell, making him wish he could just tell the tale of his conquests, victories, and ultimate -- but on his own terms -- defeat. A second chance to be something? A second chance to start over. Heisenberg means nothing here, and Jesse's already making Walt's product so he can't exactly sweep in and take the credit for it. Walt lets out a disgusted sound. ]

Just like a psychiatrist to say. You know something, just spare me the bullshit, okay? Spare me the lies and encouragement and optimism because what you fail to tell people is the truth -- for some people, there is no hope. They'll just be stuck in the same dead end job for the rest of their lives because all they've ever known to do is bend over and take it.

[ If Chilton wanted a reaction, he got one. Walt is definitely an angry drunk. ]

[Quite the reaction, indeed. That was a fresh breed of gruffness, something that might have seemed understated before -- beneath that nihilistic despair. Chilton pursued his lips, if only to hide away his smirk.

For some people, there is no hope.]

Pragmatic. Sordid truth over rosy fiction.

[And brutal, as well. It seemed almost to easy to suggest that Walt was projecting onto these hypothetical individuals who -- to quote -- bend over and take it.]

But people reinvent themselves all the time. Constantly. A behaviorist might argue effective adaptation, in fact.

Second chances. Have you already used yours?

[ Walt shakes his head adamantly. ]

I completely disagree. It isn't about change. It's never about change. What you're born as, is what you will die as, and the people who seem to change just had whatever it is they quote unquote "changed into" inside them all along.

[ Walt always had the potential to do something great with his life. It just took facing death to make him realize it. ]

When you drop metal salt in a glass of sodium silicate solution, it will take many incredible and interesting forms. It may seem to change into something else entirely -- housing a different type of chemical reaction from its neighboring molecule. But in the end, all of these reactions are part of the script. They may form differently, take on different color characteristics due to osmotic effects, but the potential is always there from the beginning. It just needed the right set of circumstances to come to existence.

So forgive me, Dr. Chilton, when I say I don't believe in a therapists' brand of persuasion. At least when it comes to me. After all, you make your paycheck by convincing people to be what you want them to be, no? Your job is to set criminals straight, isn't it? And that's...

[ He laughs, slightly bitter. He's totally saying too much. For as intelligent as Walter White is, he can do some incredibly telling and idiotic things -- especially when drunk. ]

That's its own set of chemical reactions that will always be there. No matter how much the criminal in question wishes he could erase it.

[It was quite the rhetoric. Chilton, keen to observe, kept his lips pressed tightly together -- tighter and tighter, as Walt spoke -- and committed to his skepticism only through a quirking eyebrow.

Fatalism. That's what he was observing in this man, the promise of fatalism unwinding. Life with a chemical author. It wouldn't do to bring that up, to interject the label; Walt seemed to disdain labels, and Chilton was more than content to watch this play out. Despair took fascinating forms, especially with depressives like alcohol.

Beneath those words (drunken as they may be, but angry and precise), Chilton saw (or hoped that he saw) the weight that dragged at Walt's ankles. Guilt? No -- no, not quite. Regret? That had already been expressed by Walt's own tongue. Something, something, something provoked Walt, and Chilton wanted to know it.]

Oh -- [Walt's commentary on Chilton's paycheck caught him off-balance. The accusation of convincing people to be what he wanted them to be was accurate, too accurate, and his impulse was to deflect that.

But Walt was a smart man. Wouldn't he notice?]

You are not the first skeptic I've met, Mr. White. [Better to take it head on.] And for that I'm grateful -- it's the skeptics that took psychiatry from a purely Freudian school to a mix with neurobiology. A marriage of chemistry and cognitive behavioral therapy, if you will.

I convince people to be what I know them to be.

[ Something about the way Chilton says that is unsettling -- as though Chilton is assuring him he has some hidden insight into the ways of people that only Chilton could understand and fathom. It almost seems like a promise that no matter how hard Walt tries to hide the blood on his hands, Chilton is going to see it. How accurate any of this is, is anyone's guess. And maybe it's the alcohol that's causing his mind to travel down these paranoid routes, but Walt suddenly decides the less contact he has with this Dr. Chilton, the better. Better safe than sorry. Especially when powers are involved.

His hands are shaking so much that he drops the communicator. Walt is tempted to leave it there; to walk away and blame his drunken state of mind. 'Sorry, Dr. Chilton. I completely forgot we were having a conversation. You can't take the ramblings of a drunk man very seriously after all -- ha ha ha.' But no. He has to face this like a man. He can figure a way out of it, drunk or not. He spent the past couple years figuring his way out of things that should have been life threatening.

Walt bends down, scooping the communicator up in his hands as he gets out of the chair and makes an attempt to walk into the kitchen. ]

Sorry about that. My motor skills seem to be impaired.

[ He manages to get to the kitchen and starts rummaging around in the fridge. There has to be more wine somewhere, right? ]

I would be more than willing to offer you my opinion on these matters. In spite of my skepticism when it comes to psychiatrists, I do have a fascination for psychology and neuroscience. The mind is an incredible organ, and as a chemist, I find it incredible that everything we think, feel and remember is dictated by a set of chemicals and neurological pathways. Perhaps we can combine our backgrounds and have some fascinating conversations over lunch sometime?

[ And Walt will conveniently be busy every time they try to actually make plans... ]

Edited (typos >:() 2015-03-02 03:42 (UTC)

I would greatly enjoy that, Mr. White.

[The slip, motor skill recoil or not, provided a fleshier variable to what Chilton divined as a particularly tense equation. That motion alone was a narrative of its own, and one made valuable for analysis -- but, as Walt discussed the finer philosophy of the mind, Chilton could not help but acknowledge his engagement with this man couldn't be akin to his usual. Even while intoxicated, Walt was capable of observing. Even while visibly shaken, he could converse coherently. That spoke more to a capability of planning under duress.

One of the more important capabilities, as according to Chilton, as anxiety had limitations with some people.]

And no need to apologize for your motor skills, Mr. White. I assure you, when we meet next time, they will not be the focus.

[One of the more ominous goodbyes that Chilton has ever delivered, perhaps.]

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[ 01 ] Video; Possible Action for housemates?

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