slightlyoffchilt | - IC CONTACT POST FOR MASKORMENACE -

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- IC CONTACT POST FOR MASKORMENACE -

"Hello.

You've reached the direct line of Doctor Frederick Chilton. As I am not available at the moment, you might assume I'm quite busy with something pressing. State your name and business, and I will return your call."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ This week had been a complete and utter mess. If Chilton's goal was to fuck up the balance in Walt's life, then he more than did his fair share. First there was Jesse and the irreparable damage done there. Then, there were the lies to protect the psychiatrist -- lies that could easily be disproven if Hank managed to find the man Walt described as his alibi for that night. And then, due to Hank and his unfortunate timing in meeting with Chilton, a catalyst was triggered causing Chilton to raise awareness of Walt's existence to Will Graham.

There was no easy way out of this. The only paths Walt could take seemed as though they would end up with him in jail -- left behind by the only two people who cared about him. History was repeating itself, and so Walt had to take some kind of action.

It was why he wasted a great deal of energy going to Chilton's hospital -- even knowing that Hank would have a fit about it. It was why he left all means of communication at home as well as his other gun. It was why he snuck in instead of going through any legitimate means of seeing Dr. Chilton. And it was why, whenever Chilton actually returned to Suite 106 after his final appointment for the day with Kanaya that Walt was there, poking around his office while he waited.

The soft, melancholic sound of Beethoven's Seventh Symphony, Second Movement; Allegretto played as background music to their first face to face encounter since the incident. ]

Hello, Frederick. [ His tone holds no malice or resentment, bordering on pleasant even. ] I gotta say, I'm pleasantly surprised by your office. I expected something with a few more restraints.

Edited 2015-04-02 23:37 (UTC)

[His lips were just barely parted, the look signature of that quiet horror that Doctor Chilton sometimes endured through the straits of his existence. The door clicked to a close behind him, and the sound jostled him -- Chilton glanced to the left, the quickest turnaround curve. Should he run? Should he yell for security? No matter how close Walter White's tone approximated pleasant, Chilton's mind leapt to sequences of anything but.

But. But, if he ran, then would he ever know why Walt slipped into his office? Would he ever be able to touch the trigonometry of this freshly cut angle? Chilton swallowed, committing himself to his decision, and locked the closed door behind him.]

Mr. White.

[His spine prickled. Chilton wafted a hand between the hard wooden chair before his desk and the soft blue sedan sofa he kept as a dilemma for visitors. That hand soon ran through his hair, the motion a minor discussion of his anxiety. It was not natural, he decided, to be invaded in his own office. The sounds, the things touched. Pure invasion.]

Please, take a seat. Make yourself at home. The only restraint I'll offer here is a glass of bourbon, if you're so inclined.

[He kept the decanter on display, between volumes of his psychiatric encyclopedias.]

Oh? Is it drugged?

[ The question was so casual; a day in the life. Maybe their lives. But Walter should really keep the snarking down to a minimum. It wouldn't make this move as smoothly as he hoped. ]

I'd rather stand, thank you. [ And he didn't just stand. He wandered, paced, inspected the plaques and credentials and all the things that made Chilton the success he was on the surface. After a long, tense pause -- he turned to face the psychiatrist. Walt reached into his pocket and withdrew a fat stack of cash -- tossing it onto Chilton's desk with a dull thud. Ten thousand dollars, easily. ]

Consider that my advance payment for a half hour to an hour of your time every Friday at this hour. Plus a little extra incentive to help me clean up this mess you made.

It's of my own selection. [Said Chilton, his gaze armed with a glower. The psychiatrist was already making the motions to help himself to his now-dearly-required glass of bourbon.] Besides, you and I both know I don't need that degree of subtlety when drugging you.

[Well, if Walt was going to be playful. Chilton watched Walt wander, knowing full well that he knew how this gnawed along Chilton's bones. His office (toned in blues, golds, and deep browns) proved the opposite of his minimalistic design down in the basement. This was style over function, with framed antiqued maps in between those certificates and Roman busts pocketed within the rows of heavily bound books, and weighted dark drapes.

Chilton sipped on his bourbon, practically biting back the query on his tongue: what are you doing here, what do you want, who do you think you--

And thud went the money. It sounded beautiful when smacked against strong wood.

Oh.]

I don't -- [Chilton's raised eyebrows pinched downwards the second he processed that caveat.] What mess?

[It was a hell of a gambit, whatever series of moves Walt was making here; and Chilton identified this as a series, rather than something only singular. Walter White was meticulous and cunning, but he could also be highly spontaneous, he could be unpredictable. He was as combustible as any chemical, and this here was a spill as alarming to any EPA agent as it was to Chilton.

Chilton thought himself right to identity something of Will Graham in the man.]

Walter, if you subject yourself to me, to my treatment, what does that get you? This isn't topping from the bottom, you know, and -- and where did you get this kind of money?

[ Walt stepped forward, palms laying flat on that desk as he leaned over the money, not answering Chilton's question about where it came from. He looked the bastard directly in the eyes, and even though there was hatred there, Walt's entire demeanor was still calm. He was able to rein in the murderous intent, at least. ]

My brother-in-law. That's the mess. For a brilliant man, you were stupid to leave marks, especially with how Hank has been constantly doting over me these days. Even now, he's going to be pissed that I left my communicator home again.

I lied to him to save your sorry ass from being imprisoned that night. And you repay me by sending your guy after me? Appreciate it. Truly.

[ But bitterness aside, Walt put his index finger on the stack of hundred dollar bills, sliding it toward Chilton. ]

If I get caught in this lie, Frederick, you're coming down with me. I don't have anything left to lose and have no qualms about destroying what you've built for yourself. But if you help me out of it, you got me right where you want me -- wasting an hour of your time for as long as that money lasts.

Edited 2015-04-03 02:32 (UTC)

I'm not the sort of man you send federal agents after. Former or otherwise. [Chilton was still unaware of the irony embedded into such a statement, but his future in Baltimore was nevertheless sealed.] And honestly, Walt, I don't recall you playing the good little hostage routine. Let's not throw stones.

[Chilton eyed that offered moneyed stack with the tension of repressed excitement -- not necessarily for the money alone, although Chilton wouldn't deny himself a few more suits, but rather because of how this bribe implicated Walt, and what it meant for the chemist's psychological state. Taking it was akin to making a deal with the devil, it was a ploy to pull in Chilton closer.

The psychiatrist put his palm atop the stack, his fingers hanging over the billed edge to make contact with Walt's own.]

Will Graham isn't just my guy. The FBI used him to hunt fascinating criminal minds, and I wanted him to see you. I wanted him to see himself in you. Because Graham is most dangerous when he empathizes.

[Chilton smiled at Walt, before taking full hold of the stack and moving it towards his own side of the desk. He didn't say that Will was his lifeline, that if he was going down with Walt then he was grabbing onto Will Graham and his capable skill set. He didn't say that Will had already saved him, once, from losing everything in Heropa.]

Don't threaten my things, Walt. If we're going to discuss your habit of dissociation and your self-destructive tendencies, then you really ought not threaten my things.

[It was as good a pact as any.]

I don't know. [ Walt retorted bitterly. ] I don't seem to remember much about that night.

[ Although he should have been bothered by the touch of Chilton's hand, Walt wasn't. He was ready to counter Chilton's sedative this time if he had to. And he also didn't think it was necessary. Right now, he was more interesting to Chilton awake and alert than drugged.

When Chilton went on about Will Graham, Walt did his best not to react to the bait. Was it an attempt to belittle Hank? A childish way of saying 'my toy is better than your toy?' Asshole. Walt should have let Hank at him fully. Then he would regret it.

But Walt would be lying if that little bit about empathy making Will more dangerous wasn't a bit unnerving. ]

You'd do best not to underestimate Hank.

[ Walt reached out, laying a hand on the money to stop it from snaking away so fast. They hadn't even discussed what needed to be done and if it would be within Chilton's area of expertise. ]

A man needs to forget a night. Or maybe a few nights. Even better if he could remember false information. Is that within the realm of your abilities?

[Nothing more than a roll of his eyes addressed Walt's point about Hank Schrader. But that was Chilton's problem, he tended to underestimate those who didn't fit his type. He had underestimated Jack Crawford's kneejerk defense towards Miriam Lass, he underestimated Matthew Brown's adulation of Will Graham, and he had underestimated Alana Bloom's dedication towards honesty. All of these instances had put Chilton at risk.

At Walt's question, Chilton couldn't mute the cutting smirk on his face if he had tried.]

My psychiatric abilities, yes. While I've got every sedative compound known to our professions -- and then some -- at my fingertips, that alone won't stimulate false memories. I have, ah -- [He shrugged, as if halfway feigning innocence.] A profound knowledge of psychic driving. I'm sure it can be applied to your specific criteria, but I would require the details, Walt. Who is the man, how long can I have him, which of his memories need modification?

And... How long did it take you to decide to throw this John Doe under the bus?

[ That was all Walt needed to hear. He relinquished his grasp on the stack of money and let Chilton have it. The deal was made. And only now could Walt take the offered seat, walking to the couch and settling his weight onto the cushions. ]

There's a homeless man who typically lurks between the pharmacy and the bar nearby. I put him up in a motel room in Nonah since the incident and told him to stay there because the cops are looking for him. I told Hank that this man approached me, asking for money and when he saw the tattoo on my wrist, he told me that imPorts are the cause of all his problems and proceeded to beat me in the alley. I told Hank that I heard the cock of a gun and I reached up to defend myself, and the man let out a shrill cry of pain and ran off. I played the unknowing victim, 'I don't know what I did to him. I never heard anyone scream like that. Oh god, what if I killed him?'

[ Walt shook his head. ]

It's a complicated mess to clean up, but it was all I could think of under pressure. It's better him than either of us, isn't it? And it's better for Hank if he finds this guy alive and can arrest him rather than thinking I accidentally disintegrated a man.

[ He closed his eyes, drawing in a calming breath. ]

A man once told me 'no more half-measures.' So you can keep him as long as you need to. And if it goes south, I'll dispose of him.

Edited 2015-04-03 04:02 (UTC)

Hm. [Chilton didn't illuminate if his reaction was one of approval or not -- he simply nodded, his lips tight while his mind marathoned the myriad connections. Chilton, of course, possessed no moral qualms over the scapegoating of this ill-fortuned homeless man; what he was considering was Walt. The panicked pressure that Walt felt at the time, the desperation, why he simply had not avoided Hank when the bruises were ripe. How Walt played the victim. The hint of boasting now. Was Walter quite used to that? Playing the victim, and boasting? Was his world a passive-aggressive hoax, and that's what stimulated his identity crisis?

Identity crisis was used loosely, in Chilton's mind, but no one could deny that Walter White presented a good many versions of himself. It was as if he were enacting the definitions of id, ego, and superego. And that id, that malignant design, the man who would ruin a stranger for the sake of saving himself -- and saving Chilton.

But why, wondered Chilton, would he include me in his calculation. As Walter had already said, he had nothing else to lose. By exposing Chilton, whatever exposure Walt would face surely was negligible. Was it just about keeping Chilton close? Was it about control, about dominance? Was Walter proving to Chilton that he could stroll into the jackal's lair?]

You want to hold session every Friday. At this time. [A beat followed. Chilton leaned over his desk, watching Walt on his couch.] That is what I find most curious.

[Not the manipulation of Hank, not the lies. Not the John Doe, not the acknowledged possibility of another homicide.

Walt's want of sessions. Because surely Walt knew that Chilton would not allow any "wasting" of his time.]

Are you opposed to medication? Being on it, I mean.

Yes.

[ Walt narrowed his eyes. He wouldn't take it even if Chilton prescribed it. Living with cancer, Walt spent a good chunk of his mornings choking down several different pills and fighting off the side-effects. Sick. Weak. Too tired to even move. He needed his mind sharp. He couldn't afford to lose one second of observation or keen awareness. ]

There is nothing wrong with me that would require medication, anyway.

[ Walt leaned back, relaxing a bit as his eyes swept toward a few of the decorations. God this room was gaudy. ]

Getting therapy would get Hank off my back. Period. He thinks I have a drinking problem. He's been hounding me every day -- calling me twice and sometimes more, stopping over. And it's just gotten worse since the incident. I don't really have time to myself. I can barely fucking breathe.

[ Frustration aside, Walt glanced back down at Chilton and kind of hated the way he was being watched -- the fascination, the way Chilton looked like he got what he wanted all tied up in a neat little bow on his couch. If he thought they were going to be useful therapy sessions, then Chilton as sorely mistaken. (Hopefully.) ]

I'm not so sure he would approve of my choice in therapist, though. You couldn't have tried to not be....you for a ten minute conversation?

There's nothing wrong with you that generic prescription can fix, more like.

[The casual snipe lacked any acidic edges, which exhibited Chilton's growing familiarity with Walt. Cruelty would not be abandoned, but tone could be measured. Everything must be considered as context.]

And goodness, Walter, what are you suggesting? That I should have obscured my natural personality to Mr. Schrader? [Emphasis on mister if to illuminate how the word was not officer.] That I should have lied to him by omission?

[While the irony of Chilton weighing honesty with any merit was a resounding one, his punctured needling sought a vein.]

But falsehood comes so naturally to you, doesn't it?

[ Walter pinched the bridge of his nose. No. Chilton didn't understand the weight of what he did. The gravity that came from threatening Hank -- a man with almost as much pride as the two of them, only he happened to serve the opposite side and believed in the law. He ignored the jabs about his personality or the mention of Walt telling lies because there is one more, tiny detail they need to discuss. ]

You shouldn't have threatened him. You made it personal. And now he's making me get a restraining order against you. I tried to argue it, I did. But he wouldn't let up and I had no choice but to concede. You burned him the wrong way, Chilton. Even worse than you did to me.

[ And that says a lot because he had Walt chained up in his basement and drugged. ]

I managed to buy time until Monday. It's not in place just yet, but unless you can come up with a way to get around this, I don't see any other option.

[ He furrowed his brows, thinking aloud. ]

What if I get myself committed? Do I lose the ability to make my own decisions for a period of time? If I'm found to be unstable...then would my word even hold up in a court of law? Or if I chose to go into rehab for my drinking and gambling problem? But Hank would probably still drag me to the court because he's so goddamned stubborn. And he would definitely not want you around in either scenario. Maybe Crane could cover for us?

He accused me, and in concert my profession, of... Unpalatable language with regards to vivid sexual acts. [The arch in his brow indicated that sexual allusions appeared to be something of a habit in this familial clan. One didn't need genetic similarities to find paralleled behavior, after all. Sometimes nurture won.] So I responded with a tuned retort . If your brother-in-law got skittish, then he really only has himself to blame.

[Chilton shrugged, unimpressed. He knew Hank's archetype well, having had personal involvement with that personality spectrum. The way Chilton figured it, there were plenty of actual crimes committed beyond verbal sparring in this world. If Hank was half the officer he clearly thought he was, no doubt the man would focus on explicit violence.]

A restraining order. [Chilton's lip curled to expose disdain, and just a sliver of amusement.] You really ought to have held back on discussing me to him, Walt. That was the ignition to this little bonfire. [He had to absolve his own actions, after all. But despite his hip jut and eye roll to accentuate his distaste of Hank's ambition, the news did put a damper on Chilton's overall mood. It was almost as if Walt had dangled himself before Chilton on purpose: here he was, offering himself for the psychiatrist's examination, only to reveal that it was an ephemeral deal. Chilton couldn't have Walt on the books, couldn't have him in this office.

He had figured it was too good to be true, Chilton had questioned. What was Walt's gambit, coming here, asking for therapeutic help, forking over ten grand? It was all just a chain jerk.]

If you voluntarily commit yourself for non-violent reasons -- anything short of suicidal or homicidal threats -- then no, you still maintain full autonomy. But I will not have jurisdiction over your treatment, obviously, as my facility is only out patient.

[For now.]

-- Hm. [The mentioned of Crane popped his pulse. Here was something confessional.] Doctor Crane? You could consign yourself over to his treatment. [Though Chilton considered that to be the worst of all outcomes.] I fail to see the wisdom in involving more witnesses to your gamble. But, at least with Crane, you can get some psychiatric help -- which I maintain that you dearly require.

I'm afraid this will have to be our singular session.

Shut up.

[ Walt gave Chilton a look after he said he needed psychiatric help. Was he serious right now? But he didn't comment any further, dangling his hands over his knees. He let Chilton's words linger for a moment, listening to the soft swell of music before he glanced up again. ]

I'll have that glass of bourbon now.

[ And it was really only a means of stalling while his mind worked over the details. It wouldn't be outlandish for Walt to enter another 'fugue state.' But Chilton drove a nail in that coffin by telling him the facility was only out patient. And Walt supposed that was why Chilton had his special little torture basement set up. If Walt went through the steps to become involuntarily committed, he wouldn't only lose his freedom and possibly his status as a REGISTERED imPort, but he also wouldn't have Chilton as a man on the inside.

Walt hung his head, rubbing his face repeatedly with his hands. ]

I thought by telling Hank what happened, he could talk you into leaving me alone prior to the incident in your basement. I thought he could convince you I wasn't worth your time. Too little, too late. And now that I got a taste for your special brand of treatment, my opinion has changed. You're dangerous, ruthless, and clever. And I would rather have you on my side than against me. The same is true with Dr. Crane.

[ And then there was that one point Walt couldn't let go: ]

But psychiatric help? Are you kidding me? I am awake. For the first time in my life, Chilton, I've taken charge and decided to make my own choices. If that is labeled as needing psychiatric help, then I'll tell you where you can shove those opinions.

[ Walt looked up at the good doctor and parole officer -- a model citizen through and through. Oh how a restraining order would blemish that pristine image. And Walt didn't really care about that -- except it shined an unfortunate spotlight on their relationship. It connected them in the system. ]

You really don't have any ideas how to counter this?

Edited 2015-04-04 02:40 (UTC)

[Chilton smiled at Walt's assessment of him -- fullblown smile, with showcased teeth and brightened eyes. A man with Chilton's ego thrived on this nuanced tension, this combative dominance, and for Walt to say such things -- well. It was true that Chilton's greatest asset and biggest flaw was his ambition. Anything encouraging that ambition would be prioritized, in his mind.

He handed Walt a crystal cut glass, with enough bourbon to qualify two shots.]

It can't be in Heropa, any meeting between us. And it can't be to any official capacity, no paperwork, no prescriptions. How fortunate that you've paid upfront, in cash, and have already decided that medication is not for you. [These stipulations seemed to work out conveniently in Walt's favor. It did not go unnoticed by Chilton, even if the psychiatrist was still glowing from his ego's radiation.] I'll take care of your vagrant on my own time, you will not have to involve yourself.

I could counsel you in the outskirts of the imPorted cities, some place secluded. A motel? [He glanced down at the other man, who was still lounging on his sedan.] Or is that too suggestive? But isn't it odd, that you're willing to go to these lengths to satisfy Hank's well-wishing, to make him believe you have found stability, when you cannot disclose the doctor you are seeing?

[Chilton walked around, behind the sedan, and leaned over to whisper in Walt's ear.]

You need something from me. It doesn't matter if you won't say it, if you think you are above psychiatric help, because I can provide for you exactly what you need. You can be speechless, you can be whatever you want.

[ That wasn't necessarily the solution Walt had hoped for. He accepted the glass, taking a sip and falling silent as he listened to Chilton come up with his own terms for their meetings. They would still be in contact. Walt would still get the chance to learn Chilton and all of his quirks. The unfortunate thing was it wouldn't be in the office. He couldn't have the paper trails to follow for further information about Chilton, but he had to take the loss somewhere. The situation wouldn't have escalated to this point if he hadn't gotten involved Hank.

Walt didn't let his eyes leave Chilton when he was in motion, watching him carefully. He was fairly certain the psychiatrist wouldn't risk trying anything here and now, but then again, there was no way to be sure. Walt hadn't exactly anticipated the sedation at his fingertips the first time, either.

Chilton buzzed into his ear and Walt was tempted to swat him away like an irritating fly. Ugh. Flies. ]

What I need right now is for you to move away from me.

[ He turned to face Chilton instead, and when he did there was a very clear and calculated thought written all over his face -- pinched between his eyebrows and wedged in the weathered lines in his skin. It was probably pointless to say it, but regardless, Walt's defensiveness lessened and his voice softened in defeat. ]

You're right, though. There is something I need from you. I need to know what I told you that night. How much do you know about me?

[ What he could still protect and what was exposed. It was unlikely Chilton would tell him. That was the stupid game they played -- the back and forth and the golden carrot Chilton had that he could dangle in front of Walt's face with a shit-eating grin, taunting: I know things about you that you don't know I know~

Walt turned away, looking down at the glass in his hands. ]

I know you know about Jesse.

Edited (i need to stop looking at it because i keep wanting to change things....) 2015-04-04 04:27 (UTC)

I would be delighted to discuss what you've confessed, Walt. [He paused, burgeoning the suspense. Chilton always had possessed something of a theatrical sensibility.] But. I won't engage you on that until we are in session. Because there are plenty of tangents I'd like to explore with you -- perhaps beginning with your biosocial interaction.

[Walter's power. Chilton couldn't ignore the parallels to his own. While Chilton was not a chemist by education, he was innovative with his use of psychotropics, psychopharmaceuticals, and psychic driving. Chilton wove his psychiatric treatment along with his collection of syringes -- and the less that Walter and Crane both knew of that, the better. But it was a mirrored image enjoyed by Chilton, even if it had to remain muted in his own smile.]

I won't pressure you here. It would be inappropriate, having just imbibed you. I can make a motel reservation -- they don't seem to ask many questions in Maurtia Falls. Perhaps that would be ideal for our discussions. It might be nice, having an untapped location to fiddle out our next moves.

[ Walt looked up at Chilton, surprised and mildly hopeful. So of course that asshole was going to dismiss the topic for another time. Ten thousand dollars worth of sessions -- minus whatever Chilton deemed fit for cleaning up the mess. Walt didn't even know what Chilton's rate per hour happened to be, but he was sure this was going to be his Friday evening for the foreseeable future.

Maurtia Falls, however. That was perfect. Close to the safe house, and maybe the safe house could even become a site for their sessions at some point. Walt wasn't sure he wanted Chilton to know the exact location, but it would certainly be a lot easier if he was already in the cabin when Walt decided to make his move. ]

Maurtia Falls works. Do you have a pen and paper?

[ Walt didn't wait for an answer. He looked around before getting up and taking what he needed off of Chilton's desk. He jotted down the motel name in Nonah as well as the room number their little project was put up in. And then he wrote down the number of one of his burners as well. The paper was folded and offered to Chilton. ]

You can contact me there. It's a new number considering you confiscated my old phone. And my gun. And my hat.

[ He picked up his glass again, polishing off the contents before pressing it into Chilton's hand. ]

So how many sessions does my money buy? I assume you're taking into account that it's high-risk?

[His lips pressed tightly together. Walt, by his desk, touching one of his pens without request. Chilton's controlling impulse resonated beyond the influence of people; he was a man who liked to dominate his environment, and Walt was going to remain a combustible variable regardless. Even in this small, insignificant way.

Chilton took the glass returned to him only begrudgingly.]

As many sessions as we deem necessary.

[The psychiatrist graciously chose the plural we. His intent manifested differently, of course, because while the money was a delight (Chilton habitually indulged himself with status symbols), the true trophy offered was Walter White himself. And now that Walt had committed himself to this unorthodox solution (a motel! Scandalous!) Chilton felt vindicated. Perhaps the whole exhibition of Walt dangling himself like so was simply to ensure those aforementioned loopholes: no medication, no public knowledge that Walt was indeed a patient of Chilton's. As much as "doctor-patient confidentiality" was a thing, Chilton's sharp tongue was often a loose one. Will Graham had long ago called him out on his inappropriate gossiping.

But he couldn't do that with Walter White, not if Chilton wanted to avoid Hank. His own skin was tied into the game.]

I've been wondering about that -- your hat, I mean. I have all the items collected, and the predictable burner phone and gun were unremarkable for a man of your... Tendency. But the hat? [Chilton played with the glass in his hand.] In the context of our meeting, when you clearly had ill intent, that hat was a signifier. An identity marker. Is that part of who you are, Walt, or part of what you wish to be?

[ Walter rolled his eyes after Chilton's remark. Of course. Why would Walt expect there to be a price tag on their sessions? The main reward for the psychiatrist would be satisfying his interest and as soon as that dwindled, so, too, would their meetings. But Chilton proved he would stop at nothing to get what he wanted, and this was what he wanted -- Walter under his grasp. Being here stopped the questions, the stalking, the chances of being cornered in a basement. It stopped Chilton from taking measures both unorthodox and within his legal rights, and also put the man in a close, observable position. This was the best move. On both of their behalves.

But the thing he needed to remember above all else was that Chilton was exceptionally skilled at reading and observing people. The mention of his hat and its significance proved this. It caught Walt off guard. The idle musings and wonderings were spot on. Walt floundered around for a proper way to answer that question, which in and of itself was probably the most telling thing. And after a few seconds of a pause, he sneered in distaste. ]

It's just a hat. God! Do you look for something of meaning in everything? I suppose next you're going to say I chose this particular jacket because I thought wearing the color blue would increase your chances of going along with this.

[ He shook his head like it was the most absurd thing in the world, even laughing it off dismissively. ]

Sometimes, Frederick, things just are. There are no reasonings or logic or hidden motives behind them.

Edited 2015-04-04 16:12 (UTC)

-- Hm. [Chilton glanced at Walt's particular jacket the moment it was mentioned, eying that shade of blue. Walter was a chemist, wasn't he? He of all people would appreciate the impact of chemical reactions, the transformations in acidity and biological effect, the compounding, and the coloring. Walter White had come here to negotiate, but with money rather than violence. He was offering a treaty, not a threat.

Perhaps blue represented the sort of person Walt remembered he could be, before guns and burner mobiles.]

I wouldn't underestimate how loquacious the subconscious is, Walter. Every minute decision is made because of motivation, because you want something on some level. How important that motivation is, well, that's what I'll determine.

[He offered a halfway smile, his left cheek pinching with that curl of lip.]

Natural events are chaotic. Human beings? We function on thoughts and desires, stimulated even at the most essential biochemical level. It was never just nature or nurture. Surely you can appreciate that.

It sounds more like you spend your time chasing dead ends and looking for things that aren't there. But if that is how you want to waste an hour of your time, then by all means.

[ Walt retorted with a dismissive sweep of his hand, ever the skeptic. Of course, Chilton did raise a good point when it came to talking about the fundamentals of biochemistry being the true determining and motivating factor in the choices people made -- but Walt, again, was skeptical. This was probably just some ploy to get him to relate, to feel at ease, or to get him defensive, even. What did Chilton know about biochemistry, anyway? ]

Now that we're here. Now that we've reached this point, I do have to ask -- why me? What was it that made you hone in on me from the beginning and never let go? What was it that made you decide on the most essential biochemical level that I was the perfect candidate to chain up and drug in your basement? Are you really that certain of your chances of being resurrected by the nanites that the risk was worth it to you?

Oh, Walt. Denial is such a -- [He leveled a glance at the other man, his smirk undeniable.] Harlot.

[It was a playful observation, and proof that Walter's skepticism couldn't get a rise out of Chilton. No foul language in this preliminary session, oh no. The psychiatrist was convinced he was right, just as he had been right about Walt's truer personality.]

You came in here practically repenting, Walter. Your first appearance on the Network. You considered the possibility that this world was hell -- and given that you aren't particularly superstitious, it was logical to suspect that your cognitive associations drew from some profound guilt. And not because you necessarily felt guilty, no.

[Chilton looked off, enjoying his own interior design. Relishing the environment, his environment, like it was a stage.]

But you knew that you should have sincerely felt that. And that disconnect inspired your minor existential crisis. Because you know, as I know, what kind of man doesn't feel guilt despite the social pressure to.

[ Walt balked; his mouth hanging open for a few seconds before he immediately became defensive. His shoulders straightening, his jaw clenching, his eyes narrowing, his fist closing. Denial is such a harlot. ]

That's not true! I'm not some kind of heartless monster. I care about things. My family. The life we built together. And any guilt I felt -- that was real. I'm not some kind of....of.... sociopath.

Everything I did. Everything. I did it for a good reason!

[ The question was, who was he trying to convince? Chilton or himself? ]

Maybe a man who locks people up and tortures them in his basement can't understand. But I'm not a monster. I'm nothing like you. I don't break people down and build them up how I want them to be. And when I'm up against someone, I don't cheat and drug them to win. I outsmart them. I earn my victories.

Friday, April 3rd -- [action]

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