Albuquerque was finished for Walter the moment his face hit every news channel in the country. Heisenberg was a wanted man,and Walter knew better than anyone that a man being hunted doesn't wait around to see who's knocking. So he left it all behind, the desert, the blue product, the name and he headed east. He picked New York. Big enough to disappear in, dirty enough to make a living. He put in his time under Richard-Harrow, learned how the families here did business and kept his mouth shut. It paid off! Norella, the Godmother of New York, told him it was time to step up and take more responsibility. Walter didn't have to think about his first call. SaulGoodman . His old Consigliere. The problem was the whispers had followed Saul too, talk among the families that he'd been singing to the FBI. Walter couldn't bring a rat into the family and the families wouldn't let him. Saul needed to prove himself. 
 

Walter chose the place himself. A little coffee shop a few blocks from the Federal Building, where the agents came in every morning for their bagels and bad coffee. He sat Saul down at a table by the window, slid the gun across under a napkin and kept his voice low. "You see those men at the counter? You're going to shoot one of them. Survive a 24 hour manhunt and nobody in this city will ever question you again." Saul picked it up and Walter watched his hand start to shake so badly the napkin fluttered. Then came the question, stammered out. Had Walter ever done this himself? 
 

Walter didn't answer. He took the gun from Saul's trembling fingers, stood up, and walked across the shop like a man going to order a refill. The agent never even saw him coming. One shot and he went down across the counter, coffee everywhere. The place erupted. Walter dropped behind the booths as the other agents drew and returned fire, glass shattering above their heads. He grabbed Saul by the collar and dragged him low toward the back exit, and somewhere in that chaos it hit him properly. This wasn't a made man in waiting. Saul was a petty thief in a cheap suit. "Not like this," Walter told him as they burst into the alley. "You don't prove yourself this way until you've done real work for this family and earned the rank of wise guy." 
 

New York, Brooklyn's FBN is now aware of attacks on one of their own, they are now on the hunt to lay down the law. The manhunt was Walter's, not Saul's, and he knew exactly what that meant. Every cop and fed in New York would be looking for his face by nightfall. Saul gave him a look that asked the question without saying it. Was he going to be ok? 
 

Walter just straightened his hat. "No problem. It's just another form of a gulag”

Be careful what you wish for SaulGoodman.

Somewhere around hour fourteen, with the sirens still crawling through Brooklyn and dodging various bullets. Near a shuttered bodega Walter heard someone before he saw them, a drunk staggering along the pavement with a bottle in one hand, rambling at nobody. Matty is a cunt. Walter's first thought was to cross the road. A loudmouth like that draws eyes and eyes were the last thing he needed tonight. But the drunk kept going, louder with every step, slurring about the Gulag and Simons and dead men from years ago, laughing to himself like it was the funniest thing in the world. Something about the voice nagged at Walter. Then the drunk stumbled into the glow of a streetlamp and Walter saw the cheap suit, the loosened tie, the combover plastered to his forehead. Saul. Half a bottle deep and broadcasting Walter's name to the whole block.
 

Walter closed the distance in three strides and slapped him hard across the face, hard enough to turn his head. Saul blinked at him, the fog clearing just enough for the fear to come through. "Snap out of it. Do you have any idea how many people are looking at you right now?." Walter hauled him by the arm the long way round, avoiding the main roads, until they reached the Black Hand HQ. He shoved Saul through the door and into a chair and stood over him while he slumped there mumbling some excuse. "Get a grip, I’m running the gulag right now and you look like an Idiot!”

the gulag has never left.  grandpa milk was the literal champion of the gulag.  

long live Walter and long live the gulag.  

fuck Peter and Pops, they had weak bloodlines... who gets 1% twice?!? 

hush also had a weak bloodline, mainly because he is triflin'.  

The hero's of the gulag also will never forget ash and dmoney.  true comrades.  

always remember and never forget.