#Primary Care in Old Bridge

[gkhealth]

Comprehensive Primary Care in Old Bridge, NJ: Your Path to Lasting Health and Wellness

Having a trusted primary care doctor by your side is invaluable when maintaining optimal health. In Old Bridge, NJ, residents turn to Dr. Mehandar Kumar at GK Health PC for personalized, comprehensive care that supports their well-being. This article explores the importance of primary care and why choosing Dr Kumar for your healthcare needs is the right choice for you and your family.

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[cumplane-forever]

Half-Demon Child (SY) Anatgonizes Da-Shixiong For No Apparent Reason

part of the aeroplane as sqq extended au- might delete later

(Context if you don't want to read allat: sy has been reincarnated as the half-demon son of mobei-jun and og shang qinghua.

In this au shen yuan is a rare plant baby that is made from mixing blood and was an accidental baby acquisition, immediately handed over by og shang qinghua to shen qingqiu. in this specific verse, sqq is aeroplane transmigrated (and also indirectly responsible for sy's birth by directing moshang towards the plant) although it works perfectly with og sqq as well.

sy grew up on qing jing peak with ming fan and ning yingying as his primary caretakeers as he was born in the same year the immortal alliance conference takes place(and sqq is too busy with trying to prevent canon to directly take care of him) in the following he's kind of regaining his memories and realizing he's in pidw. consequently ming fan suffers. ((side note: in this one sy grows at normal rates rather than the renesmee accelerated growing i said he'd have in part 3))

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ming Fan had survived many things in his life. Grueling night hunts. Endless paperwork. Senior martial brothers who thought "delegating" meant shoving every task onto his shoulders.

But nothing- not even the worst administrative nightmare An Ding Peak could conjure- had prepared him for Shen Yuan. At first, things had been fine. Sure, babysitting Shen Yuan had never been part of his plans, but he’d taken to the duty like any responsible disciple would.

Years of wrangling junior disciples had- surprisingly- not translated well into taking care of a literal newborn. Even Ning Yingying with her sunny disposition had struggled at first, but a few hours had revealed her a natural with a knack for subduing cranky babies. When it was his turn, Ming Fan had somehow managed- how he didn't remember, because four years later it was a forgotten blur.

Shen Yuan at the moment, was a tolerable (if slightly spoiled) child. The kind of kid who'd demand to be carried and fed at the same time, but also the kind who would cling to his robes and fall asleep drooling on his shoulder. Annoying, but manageable.

Then, suddenly, something changed. One day, Shen Yuan was sweet and pliant; the next, he glared at Ming Fan like he’d burnt his favourite toy in front of him. Ming Fan had no idea what he’d done to offend the little demon, but the five-year-old was on a mission.

“Shidi,” he said cautiously, watching Shen Yuan kneel in the courtyard, tiny hands cupped together.

“What… are you doing?”

“Ice lotus,” Shen Yuan declared.

“What.”

“I’m making an ice lotus.”

Ming Fan stared. Shen Yuan had been impressed upon, repeatedly, to keep his ice demon heritage under wraps. Sure, all of Qing Jing Peak knew, but the rest of the sect remained oblivious, and it was ideal that it stayed that way. Which meant no using no powers, icy or otherwise outside of the bamboo house and its surrounding gardens.

And yet, here was Shen Yuan, with a crude, half-melted lump of frost that he had manged to conjure in his palms. He stared at it with deep concentration, brow furrowed, lips pursed in an expression that would make any of the shijiemei coo at him and forget the mischief he was partaking in.

Ming Fan pinched the bridge of his nose. “You- Shen Yuan, stop that.”

“No.”

“You can’t just-”

“I’m practicing.”

“You’re five!”

Shen Yuan sniffed imperiously. “I’m cultivating.”

Ming Fan was going to lose his mind. He stalked forward, prepared to confiscate whatever disastrous creation was forming, but before he could, Shen Yuan threw it at him.

Ming Fan yelped as freezing cold slush splattered across his robes.

“Shen Yuan!”

The half-demon grinned insincerely. He then tried to hide his expression behind his hand. “Oh no, my hands slipped,” came the muffled excuse.

Ming Fan clenched and unclenched his jaw. He had an entire day of paperwork to finish, an errand to run for Shang Qinghua, and now he was standing in the courtyard, covered in melting ice, glaring down at a smug little brat.

He inhaled sharply. Patience. Restraint. Think of Ning-shimei. Think of how much worse this could be.

As if sensing his thoughts, Shen Yuan went in for the kill. “Shijie should come back soon. You like her more than me, don’t you, Fan-ge?”

Ming Fan narrowed his eyes. “What? Don’t start.”

“You’re always extra nice to her.”

“That’s because she actually listens when I tell her not to do something!”

Shen Yuan pouted, clearly unconvinced. “You like her.”

Ming Fan, who had been completely over whatever childhood crush he once had, exhaled forcefully. “No.”

Shen Yuan gave him a contemplative expression.

“Oh, don’t even-”

“You like her.”

“A-Yuan, I swear-”

“I’ll tell her you want to marry her.”

“I will have you grounded.”

Before Shen Yuan could escalate further, the subject of their conversation arrived.

“Ming Fan, what are you two yelling about?” Ning Yingying asked, stepping into the courtyard with a basket of sweets.

She stopped short at the sight of Ming Fan, dripping wet and seething. “Eh? What happened to you?”

Shen Yuan, the traitor, turned his wide, innocent eyes on her. “Fan-ge was playing with me, but he got too excited and tripped.”

Ming Fan nearly ascended from frustration. Ning Yingying snickered, but abruptly stifled it.

“Poor Fan-ge.” She fished out a pastry and handed it to Shen Yuan. “Did you behave?”

“He threw ice at me,” Ming Fan snapped.

“He's been having a bad day,” Ning Yingying reasoned, patting Shen Yuan’s head. "You should be glad he was playing at all." The little menace leaned into her hand smugly.

Ming Fan wiped a hand down his face. “I- you know what? You deal with him. I’m done for now.”

"Two shichen?"

"Three."

Ning-shimei looked as if she would argue, but then took a look at him and nodded "..By dinnertime then."

Demon-wrangling hours decided, he nodded and went to change his slush-stained uniform. As he stomped away, he heard Shen Yuan whisper to Ning Yingying, “Fan-ge is so clumsy.”

Vengence, Ming Fan decided, would be best served in the form of letting Ning-shimei cook dinner at the bamboo house that night.

[tempestuous-tempest]

Romancing Reginald "Wrench" Blechman

I've gotten an informal request for more Wrench headcanons this time, Romance ones. I have done romance in the past with one that was for more than just Wrench as well as one for an astronaut s/o. Here are my other Wrench headcannon lists; 1, 2, 3, 4.

Dates:

Improvised more often than not. He doesn't think to plan them out most of the time and so they are often spontaneous.

Going shopping at a Walmart just to get kicked out from riding shopping carts around the store or playing basketball in the toy isle or sword fighting with wrapping paper or sticks from the arts and crafts section.

Spray painting curse words and middle fingers all over bloom buildings and Haum. Hacking Albion drones and using em and cause some havoc.

Watching new action movies like Deadpool and Wolverine.

Scaling the Golden Gate or the London Bridge and harrassing locals by hacking their radios and changing their music.

Racing. Obviously. Especially if it ends up in a high speed chase.

Love Language(s):

Physical Touch is his most primary form of showing affection. He's clingly as all hell. Hand holding, hand around your shoulders, little sweet mask kisses that kind of hurt. Of course when you're in private the mask comes off a bit.

Quality Time is his secondary form. Spending time with you is something he enjoys. It can be as much as taking you on a date or as little as just standing near each other at his workshop.

Acts of Service falls in the middle. He likes pretending he can be a gentleman. Opening doors for you with a little "My lady/dude", fixing something you broke and put on the waiting list of things you need to fix later, and/or buying donuts and coffee for you in the mornings for breakfast. Be careful though, if you sleep to late, he'll sit there and eat em all himself.

Gift Giving. He'll probably tinker with some things and make a gift for you every once and a while. Gives him something to do. With his hands when you're not around and he cant just hold you. Sometimes he'll buy you things or if you

Words of Affirmation dont exactly stick with him. Anyone can say they love another and the words can be as hollow as bird bones. He doesnt like how empty the words can seem even if spoken with real love.

Bonus:

Expect pranks. Nothing harsh like "Oh I'm breaking up with you". Just something actually funny. Prank wars between you two are inevitable.

Absolutely throws a fit when he can't have your attention like a two year old in Walmart being told he can't get something he wants. He pouts when ignored.

[mariacallous]

The spectacularly rapid fall of Syria’s Bashar al-Assad and his regime is the Middle East’s 1989. Like the fall of the Berlin Wall, this weekend’s end of 54 years of Assad family rule signals an earthquake in the regional order—with tremors that will be felt for decades to come. Just as 1989 was marked by a series of falling dominoes in Poland, Hungary, East Germany, and elsewhere, the collapse of the Syrian regime is part of a chain of events, including Israel’s decimation of Hezbollah, Iran’s loss of its most potent proxy forces, and the weakening of Russia due to the war it started in Ukraine.

And just as 1989 marked the end of communism in Europe, Assad’s flight to Moscow signals the demise of the ideology of anti-Western, anti-Israel resistance in the Middle East. For more than half a century, the Assad family was the backbone for a political order in the Middle East in which a bloc of states styled themselves as the resistance to what they labeled Western imperialism and Zionism. The appropriation of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict proved to be a powerful tool to mobilize the masses across the region who wanted justice for Palestinians—sentiments that the Syrian regime and its allies instrumentalized to distract from their domestic failures, oppress their own people, and extend their regimes’ regional influence. In reality, these regimes cared little about the Palestinians.

Within this bloc, Syria and Iran believed they had entered a mutually beneficial and durable alliance—and each thought it had the upper hand. Syria was crucial for Iran because it was the heart of the land bridge between Iran and its most valuable proxy, Hezbollah in Lebanon, while Syria saw alignment with Iran as increasing its own stature against Israel and bolstering its influence over Lebanon.

For Iran, the ideology of resistance was an indispensable tool to rally support from Arabs and Sunnis as Tehran vied for dominance in the Middle East. As the leaders of a self-styled Axis of Resistance, the clerics in Tehran were able to supplant the old ideology of pan-Arab nationalism, as espoused by the Syrian Baath Party and others, and ultimately dominate several Arab countries through well-armed proxies. The Assad regime ignored this challenge even as Iran manipulated the Baath Party to serve Tehran’s own objective of achieving regional dominance. For example, Iran presented Hezbollah to Syria as an ally when Hezbollah’s primary purpose was to support exporting the Islamic revolution.

The Syrian uprising of 2011 and the war that followed shifted the balance of power toward Iran, which intervened to prop up the Assad regime. Most consequentially, Tehran summoned Hezbollah to support the Assad regime against the Syrian rebels.

In the course of the Syrian war, the country moved from being a partner to a client of Iran. A much-diminished Assad regime was now dependent for its survival on Iran and its proxies, including Hezbollah and Tehran-controlled militias from various countries. In other Middle Eastern states, including Iraq, Lebanon, and Yemen, Iran’s proxies consolidated their status as dominant political and military actors. Iran increased its investment in them as its outer lines of defense and tools of geopolitical influence.

Iran’s rise and dominance as a regional power came to define an entire era of Middle Eastern politics. Across the region, most countries either were under direct Iranian influence via the country’s proxies or were forced to configure their foreign policies around the threats posed by Iran. The Gulf Arab states, for example, ended up pursuing de-escalation with Iran to stave off the instability caused by its activities.

The United States, other Western countries, and Israel did not like this Iran-dominated order, but they tolerated it. They saw it as lower risk compared with the unknown forces that sudden political change in Iran or Syria could unleash. This Cold War-like arrangement with a confrontational status quo made Damascus and Tehran feel confident in their power vis-à-vis the West and its allies.

U.S. disengagement from the Middle East under the Obama administration paved the way for Russia to insert itself into the regional order. When Iran and its proxies showed themselves unable to prop up the Assad regime on their own, Moscow saw the Syrian war as a low-cost opportunity to reclaim its status as a global power and arbiter of the region. Russia’s substantial naval and air bases in Syria also served as critical logistical centers for Moscow’s expanding military operations in Africa.

For almost a decade, Russia thus became a major actor in the Middle Eastern cold war. Russia, Iran, and the rest of the Axis of Resistance appeared to form one bloc, while Western allies such as Israel and the Gulf Arab countries formed another. But Russian support for Assad was little more than a transactional partnership, and Russian-Iranian relations were never frictionless. From the beginning of Russia’s military intervention in Syria, it sought to undermine Iran’s influence in the country so that Russia remained the dominant actor.

The Iranian regime, in turn, was concerned about the challenge that Russia presented to its influence in Syria. Yet Tehran had no choice but to remain in Moscow’s orbit, regarding its influence over Syria as a small price to pay in return for gaining a powerful backer for its Axis of Resistance.

Tehran presented Hezbollah and the Assad regime to the Iranian people as a worthy investment: the front line of resistance to Israel and the crown jewels of Iran’s regional clout. Tehran needed to reassure Iranians that the economic sacrifices and political isolation that its support for Hezbollah and Assad generated were not in vain. Otherwise, Tehran argued, Iran would be under threat of erasure by Israel and the United States.

The collapse of the Assad regime has jolted this dynamic to an abrupt stop. Russia’s abandonment of Assad—and by extension, Iran’s project in Syria—creates additional rifts in Iran’s already shrinking network of proxies. The Iranian leadership will struggle to justify to its people decades of investment in Syria that have gone down the drain in a matter of days.

Standing alone without Syria and Russia in the face of a still-strong Western-backed bloc, the regime in Tehran will be revealed to its people as having imposed a futile sacrifice that not even its nuclear program can redeem. This poses a serious risk to the survival of the Islamic Republic—potentially the biggest fallout of last week’s events.

The repercussions of Assad’s collapse will also ripple across Lebanon, Iraq, and Yemen as Iran’s proxies find themselves without an important lifeline. In Lebanon, in particular, the political dynamics set off by Israel’s decimation of Hezbollah are likely to accelerate with the loss of the all-important land bridge for weapons supplies from Iran. The sudden vulnerability of an already weakened Iran also means that Tehran’s remaining proxies may doubt the reliability of their patron.

The domino effect of the collapse of the Assad regime will inevitably mean the end of the Iran-dominated regional order. Replacing it will be a regional order dominated by Israel and its partners. Israel has shifted its perspective from an uneasy tolerance of Iran’s influence in the Middle East to actively seeking an end to this status quo and has succeeded in practically neutralizing the biggest threat to its security, Iran. Israel will move from being a state surrounded by adversaries and clawing at regional legitimacy to becoming the Middle East’s agenda-setter. Enjoying good relations with both the United States and Russia also makes Israel a key player in ending the cold war in the Middle East.

For the Gulf Arab countries, Iran’s degradation as a destabilizing actor also bolsters the implementation of their economic visions. The defeat of Iran’s revolutionary project will pave the way for widening the scope of normalization between Arab countries and Israel on the basis of shared business, political, and security interests. This recalibration will likely push Turkey to act more pragmatically in the way it engages with the region.

The anti-Western ideology nurtured by the Syrian Baath Party for 54 years and successfully appropriated by Iran blossomed for decades but is rapidly withering. Just as the Cold War ended with the defeat of communism, decades of confrontation in the Middle East will end with the defeat of the resistance ideology.

[thevoidstaredback]

There's a feeling that people who have died and come back feel. It's not easily shared or described, but it's there. It feels different to each person. To Jason, it feels like a cup of hot chocolate that's fresh off the stove, the smell of old books, waking up in the morning and being just so warm.

Before he'd been killed, he remembered that everything was bright. It was bright and magical and he always felt like he was being hugged by his mom when she was lucid. Then, after he'd died, after he'd come back, everything was cold and empty and dull. He’d honestly forgotten what colors looked like.

He had no idea what happened, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care or be upset. The Pit that had lingered in the back of his mind, rearing its ugly head when emotions got too high, was gone. It didn’t leave a hole or anything, but he knew it was gone.

In his dreams, he remembered hearing a voice. He didn’t know what they said, just that he felt lighter.

Jason found Danny in the library just after breakfast. Bruce and Tim, with Alfred confirming, had both said that he was still in the Manor and Jason needed to talk with him.

“What are you?” he asked the second the door closed behind him.

Danny didn’t look up from the book he was reading. “A psychopomp. Why?”

Well, that explained a few things. It also brought up so many more questions. “Did you do something to me?”

“To you? No. To that memorial in the Cave? Yes.”

It was weird to not feel the Pit stirring at the mention of the case. He took a seat on the chair opposite where Danny was sitting. “What did you do? I feel lighter, and the Pit’s gone.”

Danny turned the page in his book, raising his eyebrow as he said, “‘The Pit’?” Jason shook his head and Danny continued, “You feel lighter because it’s gone. The corrupt emotions plaguing your mind? I got rid of them for you.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s my job.”

“Your job? I thought you were King?”

Finally, Danny closed his book and put it on top of the other four on the table next to him. “As King, my primary function is to guide Souls. The method varies depending on the task. Sometimes I council, other times I make a rule. Souls are free to do as they please as long as they don’t upset the balance.”

“Okay..?”

“You’re a very well learned man, Jason. Tell me, what’s a psychopomp do?”

“Guide souls to the afterlife?”

“We act as bridges, free to cross between Realms as needed, privileged to help and maintain. You feel lighter because you’re no longer lost.”

“That’s,” Jason began, “That’s a lot of information.”

“Yeah, well, it’s the least I could do.”

“What do you mean?”

“No one came to get you when you were fourteen, and you were forced to wander.”

The silence between them fell heavy.

“It’s okay-”

“It’s not okay! It’s my job to make sure no one gets looked over- that everyone finds their peace, and yet-”

“So maybe it’s not entirely ‘okay’, but it’s what I got! Besides, now I can get away with making zombie jokes and no one can say otherwise.”

Danny snorted. “Death jokes are the best.”

“Right? Especially because no one can refute them.”

The two laughed.

***

The members of the Justice League Dark were in the kitchen when he arrived, pizza and soda and wine sitting on the counter despite it being ten in the morning.

“Good marrow, everyone,” Phantom yawned.

The others in the room all started yawning and he smirked. It worked every time.

“You’re sounding very Kingly this morning.” Deadman said, “Something happen?”

“Meh,” he shrugged, “It comes and goes.”

There was a tiny smile on Raven’s face. “Just like the one brain cell you have?”

“Exactly!” Phantom grinned, “She gets it!”

Zaranna gasped dramatically. “You have a functioning brain cell?!”

“Sometimes,”

“Alright, alright,” Constantine said through another yawn, starting everyone else up again, “Have some pizza and tell us what the hell you meant last night.”

Phantom looked at the wine. “This early in the morning?”

Pulling the bottle closer to herself, Zatanna scowled, “Shut up.”

Raven yawned again. “Isn’t there something to stop all this yawning?”

The answer, somehow, is no. Not in any of the Infinite Realms is there a way to make yawning not contagious.

Sitting at the table, Phantom retold his night. Obviously, he left out details that didn’t include them, skipping over them with the explanation of Kingly Duties. After a full hour of talking, the discussion was finally opened to the table.

“Let me get this straight,” Deadman said, “Batman’s father-in-law is maybe probably trying to get into the Realms to challenge you to a duel?”

Phantom shrugged, “I mean, yeah? Baty and his cauldron think so at least. And the evidence points to them, so I’m inclined to believe.”

“That’s great and all,” Zatanna interrupted, “But what about the Coma Case? There are still new reports coming in every day,”

“That’s what I don’t get about this,” Phantom agreed, “I think we’ve got two different cases going on.”

“Completely unrelated?” Raven asked.

“Completely unrelated.”

Constantine sighed heavily, throwing back whatever was left in the flask in his hands. “You said you talked to Lady Gotham?”

“Yeah,”

“What’d she say?”

“In so many words? She didn’t give us the simple answers she had because…” he trailed off, realization hitting him.

“‘Because’,”

“Because someone’s working for the enemy.”

“What?!”

“Either whoever’s behind this has someone on the inside or- Shit!” Everyone stood with him, chasing after him as he flew to the basement door. “Deadman, with me!”

“Yes, sir!”

“Zatanna, start looking for any Realms Beings in Gotham. Raven, Connie, I need you guys to make sure not a hint of anything has spread beyond us and Batman.”

“What the hell is going on?!” Constantine demanded.

“No time to explain!” Opening the door, Phantom and Deadman disappeared into the Infinite Realms.

Part 22 Part 24

[sunlightmurdock]

Operation Apollo | 2.8 | Jake Seresin x Reader (18+)

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Synopsis: After a threat is made against her life, the President’s grown up daughter gets her security tripled. Ex-Navy and current Secret Service, Jake Seresin is devoted to being the best at everything he does. He isn’t going to let a bratty little girl cost him this job.

Warning: age gap, power imbalance, enemies to lovers, danger and angst, manipulation, sucky parents, grief and manipulation, lying, distressing themes throughout but especially towards the end of the chapter. Graphic violence, dangerous situations, revenge, wc: 3.5k

For as long as you can remember, you had known that your father was going to be president. It was always discussed as a given. It was the coup de grace; he had been working towards it much longer than you had even been alive.

Those fourteen hour work days, and sleepless nights. The hard decisions and the time away from his family. All along, Matthew had sworn that it would be worth it. It would, one day, be enough.

Then, the first set of polls came in after those primary debates the summer before his first election run and with it, intel that Matthew plunged a sixth of his savings in to. Politics and bribery go hand in hand across most of the world; this wasn’t even the first step off of the beaten path. 

The intel was clear as day; It wasn’t enough. It wouldn’t be enough. All of that time, and work, and desperation that he poured into his career, it wasn’t going to be enough to win him the presidency. The guarantee was next to nil.

But there was still time.

He remembers one evening, in particular, sitting with his advisors in his home office, and just sobbing. Every birthday he had missed, every milestone — it was all going to be for nothing. 

“Look, Matt,” Arnie had said, stubbing his thin rolled cigarette out into a crystal ashtray and sitting back in the leather arm chair, sinking into it like the lazy waste of space that he was. He was a good friend of the family back then. “There’s still time. We’ve got options, buddy. Plenty of ‘em.” 

Matthew had rolled his neck back slowly — he still remembers the stress-induced stiffness those days had caused him —  and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Yeah, Arnie? — And what options are those?” It was a biting remark, untrusting and downright hateful by that point. Arnie had promised many things already, and rarely had delivered. On the times that Matthew thinks back to his twenty year friendship with Arnold Paulson, he finds himself glad that that asshole now resides six feet under.

The older guy had just shrugged, letting that snide little smile creep across his face. “I know a guy. I think he might be able to, uh… help you out. For a fee, if you get where I’m coming from.”

Ellis Armstrong. After three days, and more phone calls than you care to remember, you have a name. He’s a business-man, and a rather successful one at that. Works in corporate development — he’s not hidden from the public eye like you would expect a guy like this to be.

No, he’s got thirteen offices spanning three continents and a portfolio that would put the Forbes list to shame. Once upon a time, he had been a friend of the family. It’s easy to piece together the headshot of him sitting at the wide, mahogany desk in his new office and the fuzzy memories of the tall man in your father’s office late at night.

You remember him distinctly. The sound your bare feet had made, tiptoeing down that long, curving staircase in the old house. Far past your bedtime, your princess nightgown grazing your ankles. The halls dark, illuminated by lights pouring out from under doors. The house was never really empty back then. Pushing open the heavy pocket doors that separated your father’s office from the parlour. 

The gaunt, tall blond man sitting in the armchair. His sunken eyes that had seemed so dark in the dimly lit room. His thin lips and hollow cheeks. The long, straight nose and the deep lines between his brows. Skeletal and still, he had looked like a monster. Something that belongs in the dark, lurking in wait. 

“What are you doing up, princess?” Matthew had scooped you off of your feet and suddenly you were looking at him instead, in all of the warmth and glory and familiarity of a man adored by his little girl. 

“I couldn’t sleep.” You remember, but it’s hazy now. You don’t remember the softer, higher pitch of your voice or really what had made the man in the chair quite so scary looking, or what had driven you out of the safety of your bed that night. 

There’s a fondness to his smile in those hazy memories, a softness to his touch that feels so far away now. The stars and unicorns on your bedsheets, and the stuffie he had tucked under your chin. The safety of your childhood bedroom, with the warm pink glow of your nightlight and the embrace of your stuffed animal. How far away the fear of that man in the chair had felt once your father had kissed the top of your head and closed your door.

It doesn’t just feel far away, it is far away — everything about it. Your parents no longer own that house, you’ve long outgrown that bed and that stuffed animal ended up in the donate pile after one of your big moves. You’re no longer hiding from the scary man sitting in the armchair; you’re looking for him.

“I don’t understand,” You do, but showing your cards has never been part of your strategy. The woman opposite you forces her creasing mouth into a deeper frown as she pulls her coffee cup protectively closer. “Tell me, exactly, what you remember about your time working for my father.”

If Allen knew where you were, he would skin you alive. If Manny knew, he would be right here with you. If Jake knew, you wouldn’t be here at all. He would have locked you in a hallway closet before he let you set something like this up. 

The woman sitting opposite you is a timid little redhead with big brown eyes and a disposition that brings new clarity to the term ‘afraid of her own shadow’. She’s jumpy, and looking over her shoulder constantly. You, are considerably cooler for a person more alone than they have been in more than a decade.

Her name is Ida — she was your father’s personal assistant the year before his first election, and it cost you to even get her to this cafe in Pasadena. You remember the long skirts and the narrow glasses, but you don’t remember Ida being quite so… afraid.

“He wasn’t— he isn’t a bad man, darling. That’s what you have to understand, it’s just that—“

“Ida, slow down.” You bite, growing tired of this. You don’t have long before someone notices that you’re gone, if they haven’t already. The sky outside is grey, and sullen, the cafe is almost empty for now but the lunch rush is approaching. “This isn’t about whether he’s a good guy or not. Tell me where Ellis Armstrong comes into this.”

Sitting opposite you, the mouse-like woman’s eyes turn wide like saucers as she shrinks down further into her seat, wringing her hands into the checked fabric of her skirt.

“He wasn’t going to win the election by himself. There was intel out there that… painted him in a bad light.”

“Details, Ida.” You click the pen and stare across at her impatiently. She swallows softly and checks around her again.

“Your father had an affair. It was all going to come out — it would have tanked any kind of campaign he could have put together, and you remember what times were like then… the kind of money it would have taken to make that go away…” The coffee mug in front of her scalds her trembling hands as she finally lifts her chin enough for you to look her in the eye. Raindrops start to beat into the sidewalk outside. A silence sets across the coffee shop as the soft indie playlist stops between tracks.

If you were still little, padding barefoot along the hall in your princess nightdress, this would have hurt so badly. The warm smile and his gentle disposition — and he was already betraying you, even then. You’re not little now. It doesn’t hurt like it would have then. You scrawl messily across the page.

“What was her name, who did she work for?”

Ida pauses briefly, blinking. Truthfully, she hadn’t been expecting this calculated coldness from you. She’s seen the videos of the frightened girl clinging to her bodyguard. She wonders how far he might be from you today.

“Suzy Blake. She was a political analyst for the New York Times back then.” Ida tells you, turning her head and checking through the rain-dotted front windows of the shop. You scribe the information and look back up to her, unsatisfied.

“All I’ve got on this is your word?” You prompt her.

“And her daughter — Matt never took a paternity test, but Suzy was always so sure.” This, Ida can see it worm its way under your skin, writhing under those years of collected conditioning. She blinks across at you and taps her nails against the coffee cup, glancing down at the milky liquid.

You have never heard of Suzy; couldn’t even begin to picture what she looks like. Her daughter would be nine, at least, maybe older. She could look like you, maybe. You press your lips together and grind the tip of the pen into the lined page, threatening to leave indentations of your anger through the rest of the book at once.

“So, Ellis paid for her to disappear?” You confirm, looking back up at Ida with an iciness that gives her a glimpse of her former boss. 

“Ellis paid for a lot of things.” Ida answers you suddenly faster than she has in the entire hour that you’ve been sitting here. She doesn’t look at you as she says it, lifting the mug from the saucer and taking a long drink of her latte. The liquid shivers in the cup, disturbed by her trembling fingers.

“Ida.” You sigh, growing frustrated. She turns her head and looks towards the window again, craning her neck slightly. Frightened of her own shadow, you condemn her cowardice. “Details.”

Her eyes follow two raindrops as the grey droplets race along the windowpane. “He bought the presidency for your father.”

Your father is a proud man. He has told you the story plenty of times, of how your grandfather had tried to give your parents the down payment for a house, how your father chose to spend his first year of marriage in a studio apartment rather than taking it. Back then, you wouldn’t have believed he could do such a thing.

Now, you aren’t sure where to draw the line on where your beliefs lie. 

“Extra campaign funding, promotions, big names,” Ida’s cup jingles as she sets it rockily back down onto the saucer. She turns her head back to the table, but avoids your gaze nonetheless. “Votes. Ellis made it all happen. He saved your father’s career.”

Your gaze flicks up from the scrawled information on the page, and lands on her hands. She picks restlessly at her cuticles, her attention shifting to every corner of the room but you. Your brows draw together seriously, taking a moment to check the empty space around you before you focus on her. 

“And what did my father do to him?”

Such a clever little girl — that’s what Ida remembers most of you. So inquisitive, and engaged. So interested. It’s such a shame that no one had time for you, you really deserved someone who would have answered those wonderful questions you came up with.

She swallows softly, unsure of exactly how much information is encompassed by the umbrella of ‘everything’. In her industry, you never let go of all of your secrets at once. That’s just bad business.

“He ran for re-election,” Ida says calmly, her voice more confident sounding, even in its soft tone. She exhales slowly. “And, after the successes in his first term, it became clear that he could win the presidency again. Without Mr. Armstrong.”

Across the table, you set the pen down on the edge of the notebook and check the time on your watch. You should be getting back before Allen has time to deploy a whole search party. 

“Again, Ida… I’ve just got your word on this.” You remind her. A jaded assistant from nine years ago isn’t exactly the concrete evidence that you broke out of your house for. The fear in her eyes is all the proof you need, but that won’t stand up in court.

You’ve been thinking about that a lot recently, as your research has deepened into your father’s past. You came across a picture yesterday, where he was your age, and smiling in the foreground of a Greenpeace conference. It struck you to consider if that young man would hate the man he was going to become as much as you have grown too — if maybe the two of you would have gotten along once, if things were different.

If you would be able to stand up in court and send the smiling young man, with the purest of intentions, to prison. 

“You’re right,” She starts to shake her head and her chair scrapes across the floor. The loudest sound that has come from her all day. She twists in her seat and grabs her jacket and her bag from the back of her chair. “You’re right, I can’t prove this. This was a bad idea…”

Your eyes go wide as she scrambles for her things. “No, Ida, wait—“

She pauses, briefly, to look you in the eye. “I’m sorry.” She turns swiftly, and heads for the door, dinging the bell above it and slipping out into the sheets of grey rain outside the door. You slam your notebook shut and fumble to slip it into your back, all thumbs and no fingers, stuck in the struggle as she disappears from the view of the front window. 

“Shit…” You mutter, slinging the bag onto your shoulder, forgetting your coat completely as you head after her. She’s much faster than she is loud. Rain chills your cheeks and dampens your hair before the bell above the door is even done ringing. Your shoes slap against the pavement, splashing fresh rainwater onto your jeans. You round the corner and squint through the grey ahead of you in search of her.

Her plaid skirt dips behind a car up ahead as she crosses to the driver’s side.

“Ida! Wait!” You call out for her, securing a hand around your bag as you jog to keep up, rushing for the blue sedan as she ducks into it. It doesn’t take you long, her hands are shaking too much to get the keys into the ignition. You slow, but don’t make it to a complete stop, reaching out to knock hard against the passenger window, as something cold, sharp-edged and hard slams into your right eye socket.

Your elbow hits the ground first, then your knee, then your left temple, before your body collapses to the wet pavement all together. Thrown off balance and reeling, your years of conditioning haven’t ever prepared you for this. Your skull aches, throbbing like you’re being hit with that first impact over and over, before you even feel the fingers curling around your arms and hoisting you off of the ground.

The car door clicks open. Blood rushes to the right side of your face, swelling in circles to form the deep bruise that will be left behind. Slow, blinking, your eyes drag themselves open and blink as you realize that it wasn’t the door of the car that opened. A second impact comes, but this one isn’t stone — it’s all skin. You can feel the warmth of the hand, and the ridges of each knuckle, as it drives forwards into your face.

After that, you can only imagine how easy you make for them to get you in that trunk. It hurts too much to open your eyes. Maybe that’s a pathetic thing to think, as you start to think of what they’ll do to you next — what pain is yet to come. But, it’s dark anyway, and in here, at least you’re alone. Your phone is in the bag. Maybe that’s still on th pavement, or maybe it’s in the car. But it isn’t with you. 

Each turn sends you forwards or back, your body rolling over the thinly carpeted trunk, slamming into the back of the seats or the metal of the hatch. You can feel your face swelling, the heat from it stings like a burn.

Jake’s going to be so angry with you, for doing this to yourself.

Maybe it’s just a short ride, or maybe you black out a little on the way, there’s no way of knowing for sure. But, when your eyes feel open, they’re trying to focus to the new bright light after ages of dark. When they’re closed, it doesn’t look much different.

It’s cold, and the echo of the voices around you tells you that the space you’re in is wide open and empty. A warehouse, most likely. The perfect spot for an execution. 

You’re held up by a hand on each of your arms, and your feet drag, scrambling for leverage against the ground as they tug you forwards. There’s some fight left in you after all. If it lasts long enough for someone to figure out where you are, that’s another story. You should have told Manny. Or left a note. Something.

The country is going to put your father on a pedestal when he’s grieving the loss of his beloved daughter.

Abruptly, you’re thrown down into a chair and your arms are torn backwards, making you cry out. Rope. Heavy, and fraying, rough against your wrists as you’re bound to the metal backing of a wooden chair. Fingers dig abruptly into either side of your cheeks, pressing the flesh of your mouth into your teeth until you’ve got no choice but to open up in complaint.

 The second that your lips part, something is forced between them. A dry rag. It’s tied tight at the back of your head, digging into your cheeks, muffling your sounds of struggle.

Muffled and restrained, there’s no way to defend yourself when another blow comes. It hits the centre of your face hard, another fist, this one harder than the first. Not pulling the punch in the slightest. Instantly, liquid streams from your nostrils and the taste of copper floods your tastebuds.

Your screw your eyes shut and force yourself to blink, you force your eyes to adjust. You refuse to surrender your last sense. Gradually, the room steadies and your vision focuses. It’s grey and industrial, illuminated by a singular lightbulb dangling from the ceiling. Empty, almost, bar a few storage crates, and a scary man sitting in front of you.

He smiles softly as your gaze settles on him and burns with rage.

“I know, I know,” Ellis offers with a small smile. He gives a small shake of his head. “This is none of your fault, darling. I know that. I’m sorry, really I am.”

You’re silent opposite him, your heartbeat thudding in your ears, sickened by the fact he has the satisfaction of watching you bleed. Turning your head slightly, you catch sight of the two men in your peripheral. Security, you guess, in case you do something.

This time, when you turn your head, you aren’t scared. The man in front of you is afraid of little, old you — so much so, that he needs backup.

“But Matt has a debt that I’m… not willing to forgive.” Ellis is wearing a green crewneck and black jeans, not like the suits in his pictures. This must be a casual kind of affair for him. His thin lips twitch, hinting at a smile as your gaze remains, unwavering, on him.

Saliva pools in your mouth, copper-tasting as your nose continues to stream with blood. It saturates the makeshift gag, spilling down your chin, your jaw aching and numb at the same time, pins and needles stinging through your hands as the restraints bruise your wrists. 

“You understand, don’t you? — Smart girl like you, you get why we had to go after you, I mean.” Ellis sits opposite you with his long legs stretched in front of him, his palms braced on the cargo box that he is perched on. Maybe it’s because he’s closer now than he ever was before, or maybe it’s just because you aren’t a little girl anymore — but you look into those dark, hollow eyes and there’s not a fibre of your being that needs your father to rescue you from him.

“Fuck you.” You spit. It’s easy enough to pretend that the damp rag secured around your mouth doesn’t cut into the corners of your mouth when you speak. You’re stronger than that.

Ellis presses his lips together and sits forwards, his gaunt face leering closer to you as he twitches towards a smile. He lifts one of those bony, skeletal hands and reaches for his phone, angling it towards your bruised face. “Don’t worry, darlin’ — we’ll get you back to your boyfriend soon enough. Just smile for the camera.”

tags: @alanadetigy @thedroneranger @momc95 @basicchelsea @perpetuelledaydreaming @cherrycola27 @eviesaurusrex @xoxabs88xox@desert-fern @hotch-meeeeeuppppp @khaylin27 @cowboybarbie @marchingicenotes7 @marantha @lgg5989 @herladyshipxx @chaoticweirdogeek @mak-32 @obiwankenobis-lap @diamond-3 @wolvesofthewinter@shawnsblue@itsmytimetoodream

[evermarch]

Rando question because of your old name. What were your thoughts on bloodlines? I've never been able to get tea on it from another person because, sadly, not many people know it exists in my orbit.

omg. god knows how many years i had a vampire academy url and i got like no va asks. this is my time. this is my moment. i'm so sorry in advance that this is going to be more than you bargained for.

okay so. i enjoyed bloodlines a lot. i know many people in the fandom love bloodlines even more than va. that tends to be because of sydrian. for me personally, while bloodlines is a great read that explores some fascinating concepts and relationship dynamics, it doesn't hit for me quite as well as va does for a number of reasons.

first, the development of The Lore is excellent. in particular, i love seeing the effects of everything that changed in va play out in the background. from the moroi combat movement and the bloodborne strigoi resistance from restoration to the to the political fallout of lissa's ascension to the throne, everything that happened becomes so much more substantial and impactful. it feels like meeting the alchemists and the dhampir community in blood promise—the vampire world expanded from rose's little circle in the US to the international community in a way that made her struggle with her responsibility as a guardian feel much more real.

as an extension of the worldbuilding, i love how flawlessly sydney's internal struggle with breaking out of her conditioning to accept magic and growing to care for the moroi intertwines with the development of the universe. the witches are an excellent addition, because they bridge the gap of a potentially insurmountable power imbalance (due to compulsion, as we see with the whole dabbling thing) between moroi and humans (read: sydrian). sydney is empowered to overcome the fear component of her alchemist upbringing, which opens the door for her to have healthy relationships with moroi and dhampirs. that's especially in contrast (and comparison to) trey and the warriors of light. we also get to see the power and depth of the alchemist organization, especially within the family unit, which emphasizes just how brave sydney (and marcus) have to be to fight against it.

however, the overarching plot (particularly toward the final few books), sort of falls flat. ruby circle is definitely rushed and under-edited, and doesn't feel like a natural continuation of the series up to that point. alicia is a boring villain with no real build-up or depth. she is not remotely compelling, which is saying something in a series where every character, good and bad, faces a universal struggle against an enemy race with no redeemable or non-evil characteristics. like, the anonymous person calling the tattoo parlor was right. there. use it to set up something better! and sydrian going from barely together to married to becoming parents without any substantial intra-relationship struggle as a result of those changes over the course of like...three months (much of which sydney was in captivity) is...a choice.

on that note, the character development is a bit of a mixed bag for me. from jill and neil to ms. terwilliger and even abe, almost everyone grows in such fascinating and often unexpected ways. yet, sydney herself blows them all out of the water. the way she goes through the essential unlearning phase of "i know logically i'm wrong, but it still feels like i'm right" is a masterclass in deprogramming. how she learns to let go without dumbing herself down or losing touch with the things she values and cherishes about herself? life-changing for me, personally. also. let it be known that if jackie and malachi have no supporters, i am dead.

but i do feel let down by many of the characters in this department. namely, zoe. believe me, i was not expecting her to turn into a vampire supporting anti-alchemist hippie like her sister. her primary flaws are explained extremely well, and for those i don't fault her. but i cannot name a single time she is not, at the very LEAST, unpleasant. it makes sense why sydney loves her. it is consistent with who sydney is (see: keith's eyeball) that she is so fiercely protective over zoe. but zoe doesn't really have any good moments with sydney which might explain why sydney actually LIKES spending time with her. it's especially jarring in comparison to sydney's general disdain (which i read as jealousy and resentment) for carly, who she classifies as "useless." carly's one scene is more compelling than a whole book (and then some) of zoe.

much more importantly, though, adrian to me is a bit of a letdown. first, i do want to say that i like sydrian, and in particular sydrian through fiery heart and in the epilogue. i liked adrian's character in va and was excited to see him grow. but...he never really seems to do so. undoubtedly, rose was nothing close to perfect in how she handled the adrian situation, especially with everything in last sacrifice. but to paint rose as this evil seductress who he graciously forgives while never ONCE acknowledging the ways he treated her is astonishing. the fact that he doesn't reflect on it even when what he does to nina mirrors what rose did to him? and to never once acknowledge the way he's used his privilege as a royal to perpetuated harms against "lesser" races (which INCLUDES the way he otherized rose as a dhampir and put her life and career at risk by using her as a pawn against his parents), even when sydney discovers his past with dabbling?

yes, adrian develops tremendously with regards to his family, his mental illness, and his addiction. but we never really see him value his recovery and health as something important not just to sydney, but to himself. despite having the knowledge and the means to seek treatment, he spends half of silver shadows spiraling down a path of self-destruction while sydney is trapped. and, there's good reason for that—he has to go off the meds to try and reach her with spirit. but he acts as if he's the only one who cares about sydney (or him, for that matter) and goes at it alone. he doesn't think to call sonya to ask her to help him get off the meds responsibly? or, knowing what he knows about avery lazar, consider what the consequences will be for jill? and on top of all that, not even bother to defend his relationship with sydney to his mother?

healing is not a straight line, but adrian's actions in silver shadows just erase all the progress he made before that and then some. which would be fine, and also interesting, if only he'd made improvements to himself after that. but the most i can say about adrian by the end of ruby circle is that he knows HOW he needs to change and is extremely willing to do so. which is great! but we never actually get to see it happen. and if you're going to have dual narration and promote adrian from the love interest to a main protagonist, we've got to see him grow. that said, the glimpse we get of him in the epilogue demonstrates to me that he DOES go through that development, and it makes me much more optimistic for his and sydney's futures. i just really wish we'd gotten to see it happen.

[phoenixwrites]

I grew up conservative and Republican. I'm talking, serious conservative values, as in, my father considered Fox News "too liberal" a news source. My dad could forgive me leaving Christianity, but me registering Democrat? That was a bridge too far.

I saw a post essentially claiming that Trump is the only conservative choice for the election, the only one who truly cares for the American people. And it riled up my Old Guard Republican feelings (however latent) because no. However Republican and conservative you are (a minority on this website, I know), Trump is not and never has been Republican and conservative. You are deluding yourself.

Why do I say that?

Let's go down the list. (Please be aware, I am not defending conservatism--that ain't my political ideology anymore for the whole "they're trying to take away my loved ones' rights" issue. But for the sake of rhetorical strategy, bear with me.)

The claim that Trump isn't a part of the liberal elite is absurd. Trump has never felt dirt underneath his fingernails. Trump has never struggled to pay bills. Trump has paid for multiple abortions of his many affairs and mistresses. He is a draft dodger who mocked war heroes. He is a failed Hollywood celebrity that is grasping at fame. There is a reason Never Trump was popular among conservatives during the 2016 Republican primary.

My Vietnam veteran father warned me in 2008 that Putin wanted to reclaim the Soviet Union, that he was a dangerous dictator that put out hits on foreign journalists. Now he's posting videos of Putin doing judo on Facebook. It is insane that to me that the Republican party is so obviously doing a 180 after warning us for thirty years about Russia.

Trump only started caring about the pro-life movement when he realized he could manipulate them. His voting record is pro-choice. He has paid for abortions, had multiple affairs, and yes, is a serial rapist. None of this is pro-life.

Trump has insulted veterans, dishonored Arlington, and didn't have the balls to fight in Vietnam himself, ran away from the draft like a scared little boy. Now, sixty years later, he has the gall to attack Vietnam veterans and make claims on who is and isn't a war hero? He expects me to believe he gives two shits about veterans? Nah.

Trump does not care about Christianity or protecting Christian freedom. This is a big one. You are falling for a con. Trump is not and never has been a Christian; he just saw a malleable voting block. He has never asked for forgiveness from Christ the Savior and considers doing so weak. He has no relationship with Jesus. He does not pray. He had to have multiple "lessons" on Christianity with top Evangelical pastors to make him more palatable to Evangelicals.

Evangelical conservative Russell Moore penned multiple op-eds where he expressed bewilderment and betrayal that his community was blindly supporting a serial rapist that was antithetical to traditional Christian values. He isn't the only one. A large chunk of Evangelicals are sick and tired of defending a lying, cheating, coward and deluding themselves that he loved Jesus.

A significant portion of Trump's former cabinet has refused to endorse him. I cannot stress to you how wild that is to me. One thing about Republicans? They always vote for their candidate. No matter how much they dislike the candidate--that was the whole thing in 2016. A huge chunk of conservatives disliked Trump and thought him vile, but voted for him anyway because that's what you do when you're a Republican. The fact that so many are breaking away and calling him a danger to the republic? That's a big screaming deal.

Women are not safe around Trump. That used to be important to conservatives, protecting women from rapists--that was my dad's main reason for teaching me to shoot competitively.

If you support Trump, whatever. That's your insane delusional business.

But don't pretend that man is any kind of conservative or gives two shits about what true conservatives care about.

And if I may quote my Evangelical mama, "That man is going to Hell and I look forward to it."

[joezworld]

Traintober Day 16 - The Western

So, the entire reason I did these Traintober prompts in the way that I did is that I watched Patrick H. Willems' new video "Why Are Movies So Obsessed With Trains?" and got inspired. (It's a very good video, go watch it and the follow-up.)

One of the primary inspirations I had was old westerns - you know, armed men on horseback robbing trains, cowboys, shotguns, whatever it was Gore Verbinski was doing with The Lone Ranger (2013); that sort of thing.

So I did that. On Sodor. Because why the hell not?

If you squint you may see some similarities to Train Stops Play.

Catch That Train!

The 1990s - When isn’t important

The train stood still under the bright sun of a high noon. It was hot but calm, the perfect day to stay inside, out of the elements. 

The engine certainly thought so - he was a four-coupled design, old as dirt by modern standards, but polished and cared for; still useful. He blew impatient smoke rings into the clear summer sky - he wanted to be somewhere else. 

His crew felt the same, baking in their uniforms as they tended to their charge. The fire was hot in the best weather, and the best weather this was not. They were considering stripping to their undershirts, or beyond, just to cool down.  

Behind them, a mixed train stretched back - short by some standards, but long for them: nine cars - one dry goods van, a trio of open hoppers that were riding empty (except for some loose straw), a trio of flatcars as empty as the hoppers, and then two coaches tacked onto the end - one for the mail, the other a baggage/coach combination. An odd train for sure, but this line was always a little old fashioned. 

The signal was at danger, and so they sat there, in the middle of the fields, surrounded by nothing but high grass…

-

The horses emerged over the crest of the nearest hill. 

There it is! The lead rider bellowed. He adjusted his white coat, dug in his spurs, and his white stallion took off with a will, galloping down towards the train. 

One after another, his fellows trailed behind him, until a fourteen horse gang was charging down the embankment towards the train. 

CLUNK 

The signal dropped, and the engine set off with a roar of impatience. 

The train jolted into movement, and the riders had to push their horses to keep pace. Soon the train was pulling away, and the riders slowly fell back, galloping down the center of the rails to keep their horses from falling to exhaustion. 

The tracks abruptly split underneath them, a long passing loop opening up to the right of the train. One rider, a small man on a huge chestnut mare, took his chance. Gaining speed, he pulled right alongside the train, slowly working his way along the coaches, looking for anywhere that he could hop on. 

The train did not oblige, and its speed began to slowly increase again, in varying steps. Sometimes the horse was faster, other times it was the iron horse. The rider was undeterred, even as his mare worked up a lather. 

A second set of hooves joined his, pounding against the rails of the loop. The lead rider pulled alongside. His stallion was longer in the legs, and he managed to pull ahead. The rest of the group slowly followed, trying to gain ground. 

It was slow going, but they’d have them eventually. All they had to do was make the flatbeds…

HONK-HONK! 

A two-tone note split the air, and the riders scattered as a huge diesel locomotive raced towards them on the loop. Half of them went right, spilling off the track and onto the embankment alongside, while the others slowed down, pulling in behind the train once again. 

The diesel grew larger by the second as the riders on the right-hand side spurred their horses on for another sprint. To the right of them, off the tracks entirely, was an earthen embankment that carried the road. Ahead of them, arcing over the tracks, was the bridge that took the road to the next town…

One rider, wearing black clothes and on a black stallion, took the charge, his horse almost flying up the side of the embankment, hooves pounding the road’s surface. Up here, he could almost gain on the steamer, and he raced onto the bridge just as the diesel slipped underneath in a streak of green. 

The road turned to cross the tracks, but the stallion didn’t. 

With a yell from its Rider, the black horse took a flying leap and cleared the bridge’s brick sides, soaring through the air in a perfect arc. 

Steel horseshoes sparked off the roof of the diesel as the horse landed mid-gallop, charging down the length of the passing train, against the direction of travel. 

The Rider looked to his left, mentally juggling three different speeds in his head as the steam train whizzed by on the other track. There went the hoppers, then the flatbeds…

The end of the diesel’s passenger coaches were quickly approaching…

Coaches, there. 

With a swift command from the Rider, the horse jumped from one train to the other, landing atop the first coach with sure-footed ease. Seconds later, the white stallion of the Leader landed atop the second coach with a thonk. 

Looking back, the rest of the group, now led by the young gun with the chestnut mare, continued down the road. Once it straightened out, they steeplechased their way across the lineside hedges and rejoined their fellows on the tracks in record time. 

Now then, onto the real prize. The two riders looked at each other, and spurred their horses on yet again, moving forward up the train. 

Reaching the end of the two coaches, they took a jump, and landed on the third flatcar with a bang. 

There! It was the Young Gun, pointing further up the train. Third hopper!

The two riders turned as one, and started up the train, their horses jumping the gaps between cars with practiced ease. 

The Young Gun watched them from the line. They’d find it, he was sure of that. 

HEY! His head whipped around. There, standing in the doorway of the coach, was a hired Guard. He took one big step out the coach, and onto the first flatbed. 

He wielded a shotgun. 

The Young Gun didn’t even think. With one shout to his associates, he stood up on the saddle of his mare, judged the gap, and leaped for the train. 

The Guard didn’t hear him coming, and he tackled the man to the deck of the flatbed. The gun went skittering off the side of the train car, falling away to the lineside. 

The Young Gun was fast on his feet, and tried to pin the Guard to the deck. Unfortunately he was built like a string bean, while the Guard’s muscles strained out of his shirt. With one move he was halfway across the flatbed, while the Guard looked for his weapon. 

Finding it gone, he reached for his belt. With a vicious look, he grabbed a small object and flicked it. The man exuded an aura that said he didn’t need a gun. An extendable baton would do the trick. 

The Young Gun was momentarily at a loss, before a shout from his fellows drew his attention. One of his associates tossed something his way. 

A mallet. 

The Young Gun suddenly felt more confident. This, he could work with. 

The two men stared each other down,  waiting for the other to flinch. 

A shout rose up from the hoppers. They’d found what they were looking for!

At the exact same moment, a cry of What is going on? emerged from the open door of the coach. 

The two men realized that it was now or never. 

They readied their weapons

They charged.

----------------------------------

A few minutes later

“I’m sorry,” Said the police constable, not for the first time. “But you’re going to need to take this from the start.”

“Polo is our game!” Said the man on the left. He held the reins of the white horse. 

“Polo,” The constable repeated. “The sport on horseback?”

“That’s right!”

“And…” The constable held onto his pen and notepad like a lifeline. “What exactly does polo have to do with chasing down a train?”

The man on the right, the one dressed in all black, spoke up. He at least had the good graces to look slightly aware of the situation’s ludicrous nature. “It’s the gentleman’s rules of polo.” he said quickly.

“The… Gentleman’s Rules.”

“Yeah.”

“Would you mind elaborating on that a touch?” The pen, it has to be a lifeline. 

“Well,” the white-dressed man started, before his black-suited companion stopped him. 

“Clancy. Please.” He looked to the heavens for support. “that's the rules of our game. One ball, no out of bounds. Play doesn’t stop until the horses tire or the ball is destroyed.”

Oh no. Things were starting to make sense. “And would I be right in assuming that you hit the ball onto the train?”

“You would be.”

“So, you were chasing it down to retrieve your ball?”

“Yes.” The one in black was looking more and more chagrined. The one in white was suitably oblivious.

“Did it, at any point, occur to you that it might be wiser to treat the ball as lost?” They’re going to say no, because this island is full of nutters. Why did he accept the transfer from London? Was it the lie about peaceful country life, or the lie about Sodor being boring?

The white-dressed one puffed himself up. “We are not cowards! What’s a spirited ride down the railway line to a skilled group of horsemen like us?” He gestured broadly to the group of polo players, who were all being interviewed by what had to have been every police officer in Suddery. 

“Aside from him being a skilled instigator,” The black dressed man said with a hangdog expression. “We didn’t bring another ball.”

“I see.” The constable made a few notes out of sheer desperation. Somehow he knew that the other side of the story was going to be just as implausible. 

“Now then,” He turned slightly, and addressed the private security guard, who looked ready to explode. “What’s your side of this whole business?”

“I-” The man started. “We. Are from Securicor. You know, the security firm? We are escorting a highly valuable shipment from Brendam to Newcastle. I am doing my job-”

The man was turning puce, and the constable cut him off. “Yes, yes, I’m aware. Cash transport on behalf of Northern Rock. We are kept in the loop on this sort of thing.”

“Then you know how valuable this shipment is!” The burly man continued, waving his arms around. “And so I hardly see why I am being questioned about how I did my job and protected my shipment from- from- from a group of bandits on horseback!” 

Here we go. “You’re being questioned primarily so that I may have a full understanding of what transpired, but also because you drew a firearm on these two men right here, and then proceeded to get into a fight with another whilst on a moving train.”

“A fight that he lost, I daresay.” The white-dressed rider spoke up again. His black-dressed compatriot put his head in his hands. 

“They jumped onto a moving train!” The guard protested. “What was I supposed to do?!” 

“Win the fight, I might say.” said the white-dressed man. 

“Why you-!” The guard turned a different color, and looked like he needed to be restrained. 

“Oi!” The constable cut in. “Leave it! No more of this instigating while I’m right here.”

“Oh fine.” The white-dressed man said calmly. “It’s all the better that he lost, anyway. We’d have never gotten the ball if young McColl hadn’t distracted him.”

He produced a small white ball that helpfully said “POLO” on it.

The Securicor guard went several colors at once. “All that, for that?!” He bellowed, and lunged for the ball. It took all of the constable’s strength, plus several other men, to wrestle him to the ground. 

-

Several hundred feet away, Edward watched the rapidly unfolding calamity with bemusement. “I say,” he wondered aloud to the Chief Inspector for Suddery. “Isn’t that the new man that London sent up?”

“A-yup. ‘E’s been here ‘bout a week.” The inspector said as a group of men restrained the security guard. 

“How has he been fitting in?” 

The guard broke free, and the new constable had to tackle him to the ground. 

“I think he still needs to get used to the place. Not used to the country life, I think.”

“Few are.”

[gkhealth]

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[ironstakes]

You Can’t Take it Back Chapter 18 segment WIP

They got to the bridge, Etho going first this time, then Kakashi with True bringing up the rear. He immediately protested.

But Etho had his reasons. “I was thinking- I want us on either side of you, Strach, so that if the bridge gets, uh, explodificated, True or I can repair it. On either side, you know? This way, say one of us falls in or something while there’s a ghast shooting at us, you have a way out.”

“So all Strach has to do is not fall in lava,” True summarized.

Etho’s eye crinkled and curved. “Pretty much.”

“Don’t I get a say in this?” Kakashi asked, not too keen on the idea of being in the worst position to protect his siblings. 

“Hey, I’m the old and wise one, right? Doesn't that mean you have to listen to me anyway?” Etho asked. 

“Sure grandpa,” True agreed. 

“Hey!”

“What’s up? Drop your glasses into the lava? Your dentures, maybe?” 

“Gasp! The disrespect. Back in my day, we used to respect our elders.”

“Your day was a long time ago. Are you sure you're remembering that correctly?”

“This lady, my god. Strach, save me, she’s bullying me! The audacity!”

Kakashi startled badly at abruptly being pulled into the sibling back-and-forth. It seemed like a well practiced exchange.

“Uh… don’t bully Etho?” he said lamely, internally curling with embarrassment.

True snorted. Taking his lackluster response in stride, she said mock-seriously, “Well, if Strach says I can’t…”

“Yeah, he sure does!” Etho agreed cheerfully. 

Kakashi didn’t like that they had been standing by the bridge for so long and cut in, “Strach also says we should get out of here.”

“Then let’s go,” True agreed easily. 

“Okie dokie,” Etho sing-songed, taking the lead. 

The return trek across the bridge was much more lively. True updated him on the Keralis prank and Etho shared a few corners he was going to cut from his shops and services with the primary purpose of annoying people. Kakashi, who rather liked annoying people, listened as Etho explained the way he set up his unsuspecting customer’s expectations, only to then turn those expectations on their heads in clever ways.

He took careful note, planning to apply some of these tactics to his own endeavors. Word play and homonyms, optical illusions, poetry, the psychology of numbers… there was a lot of thought and subtlety put into his idea. Etho was clearly a very intelligent man, but with the way he presented himself, he didn’t feel intimidating or even arrogant. Rather, he was very casual and  conversational. 

Kakashi could see why people liked him, but still couldn’t understand where his apparent popularity came from. 

They then prodded Kakashi to share stories, so he began using the sanitized summaries of some of his missions. Just a few snippets, here or there, nothing too incriminating. He’d spent his youth fighting a war, and when that was over he’d helped with the fallout, and after that he’d joined ANBU and later ROOT. He didn’t exactly have a lot of missions he could talk about, and he’d said as much.

“Didn’t know the war had ended,” Etho said, contemplative. 

“And I’m fairly certain this war was a different war that ended,” True mused.

“It was. The Third Great Shinobi War,” Kakashi explained reflexively, a little startled. 

“Oh, another one?” Etho asked, seeming disappointed. “Sounds exhausting. The first one was bad enough. Er, second. But at least it was shorter than we thought it was.”

“You really didn’t know the second war was over?” Kakashi pressed, mind spinning.

Behind him, True sighed. “No. Not really. We left during the second war and sort of stayed out of the whole ninja stuff after that. Had bigger things to worry about.”

Etho laughed a little. “Remember how Hatake was convinced Tango was a spy?”

True outright chortled. “I know! I mean, seriously? Tango? Come on man. I was more likely to have been some kind of spy than Tango.”

“So Strach,” Etho said, “for context, Sakumo was really into the idea that Tango was evil or something and tried for ages to make us stop spending time with each other. It didn’t work, obviously.”

Kakashi’s mind was working overtime. Was this why Grian was so hostile? Did all the Inja think the second war was still going on? That lie was impossible to maintain though! People went in and out of Inja no Machi, that's how he ended up here, so surely they would have known about the second war ending. It’d been years since it’d ended, Kakashi hadn’t even been born yet!

And Sakumo thought Tango had been a spy? His-their- his father was far from a foolish man. What had happened for him to think that of Tango?

“Obviously,” Kakashi parroted. “His efforts must have had the opposite effect, seeing as you two got together.”

“Together forever,” Etho agreed. “Or at least until the heat death of this universe.”

“Pretty sure Doc is ready to tie you to a chair,” True said abruptly and rather randomly.

“Ehhh, nah,” Etho seemingly decided on the spot, “I’ll hang out with him, but basing? Gotta think about that.”

Very lost, Kakashi decidedly chose to not think about what was being implied. 

[earthstellar]

Concept: TFP Ratchet with a cane.

Maybe he gets called out to assist in the field after someone gets injured, but in the process he gets thrown around by a Vehicon and it's one blow too many to a joint, perhaps his right hip or knee, and it cracks and misaligns.

Sure, once he addresses the injuries of the others, he gets up on his examination table (with Optimus' help) and gives himself a good look-over, he can get it back in the socket reasonably well, but it's just not fully repairable with their limited resources on Earth -- and his age and general wear over so many centuries means it's a trickier repair with a longer recovery time.

He can't really fix it, and it's not really going to heal on its own.

The fracture welds need strong nanites to fully integrate, and his nanites are pretty tired. The damage to the socket means the joint could slip out of place again relatively easily.

So, he makes himself a cane, and even though he doesn't say it out loud, he's very glad that the others hold back any comments they might have about it.

Because he is now well and truly unable to go out in the field at all for the foreseeable future.

Even if he utilises his alt-mode, off roading in the rocky desert terrain of rural Nevada is too much physical strain on his injured joint. His shock absorbers just can't manage it.

So he fits himself with a limb brace to hopefully help prevent any repeat misalignments, but he can't put all that much weight on it. He can't fully rotate it, which limits his range of movement a bit.

He's slower, he has to be more careful, he can't stand at his terminal or his work station for so long anymore.

It's a difficult adjustment.

Rafael helps.

He notices how much Ratchet is struggling at first, and does his best to distract him by asking him to sit and teach him more Cybertronian, teach him more alien coding, help him with another school project.

Anything he can do to remind Ratchet that he is still so important and useful and irreplaceable.

And the others linger around a bit (but not too obviously, or so they think) in an effort to help where they can, too.

If his cane slips out of his grip, Bumblebee is there to pick it up. When he can't get himself up on his examination table to monitor his welds, Optimus picks him up and sets him down.

When he gets too anxious or depressed about not being as able to assist in the field anymore, the others take the opportunity to get a break in and wait around a little longer if they can, just to reassure Ratchet that they're OK and they're watching each other's backs and they'll keep him updated and they love him all the same.

Optimus is always through the ground bridge first, always gives a full report to Ratchet; When they are at base together, Optimus is found with Ratchet more often than not. As much time as they can spend together, they do. Ratchet wants all the details, and Optimus wants to be there for his old friend.

After a while, Ratchet starts to teach the others basic field first aid, out of the sheer anxiety of worrying about not being able to go out and assess/retrieve anyone on the field himself.

Everyone tolerates it at first out of a desire to reassure Ratchet that they actually can take care of themselves and each other, but the knowledge very much does come in handy, in more ways than one.

Does it make Ratchet feel a little bit more like he's not needed as much anymore? Inevitably, a little bit, yes.

But everyone does their best to make sure Ratchet is involved in everything he can be, everything he wants to be, as much as possible.

They might know how to identify and solder someone's primary fuel line in an emergency scenario now, but nothing and nobody can replace their medic.

Eventually Bulkhead and Wheeljack surprise him by making him a custom Cybertronian style wheelchair so he can get around the base a little easier when walking with the cane is a little too difficult for him, so he doesn't have to keep getting up and sitting down over and over again.

Agent Fowler makes it clear that if they need to redesign the base to accommodate more space for Ratchet to get around, he can and will make that happen at any time. Whatever is needed,he'll deal with any whining from his higher ups.

Ratchet may or may not have been genuinely touched by this; If you heard him get choked up, no you didn't. :')

Eventually Ratchet does adjust, but the first few weeks/months are hard for him.

But all the support, subtle or otherwise, from his teammates and the humans alike makes it easier and easier to get used to.

(And he is proud of Rafael's progress with Cybertronian language. Time well spent, even if it's not being spent in the field anymore.)

IDK just thinking while I'm on my lunch break lol

[iambic-stan]

last book + last stethoscope, part 43

Yep, I'm a grown woman reading Newbery Award-winning books, and I can't even say working with kids is my primary responsibility at work.  But it was kind of an accident, because I came upon another of this author's titles, Alebrijes, while shelving books at work.  The cover was just so pretty, and my will has caved to lesser things.  I LOVED that book, and of course I had to read the title she referenced in its epilogue.  Besides, Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH is one of my all-time favorite books--and another sci-fi/fantasy Newbery winner.  I also did enjoy my share of Newberys as a kid--Shiloh, Dear Mr. Henshaw, The Witch of Blackbird Pond, Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry, Bridge to Teribithia, The Giver, Summer of the Swans, Up a Road Slowly, and on and on.  Ok, not to get off track here.

So this is my green/gold MDF procardial titanium cardiology scope with Donna Barba Higuera's The Last Cuentista.  This middle-grade novel seems significantly more complex than a lot of the aforementioned titles, but still manages to be universally appealing enough that I know I would've enjoyed it as a tween/teen as well.  A comet is headed for Earth that scientists say will render the planet uninhabitable.  Because her parents are brilliant scientists and the powers that be figure they'll come in handy populating a new planet, Petra is given the chance of a lifetime to take a 300+ year journey to the planet Sagan with her parents and younger brother.  She's distraught and conflicted about leaving behind everyone else she cares about just because she's one of the lucky chosen ones, but she doesn't have time to ruminate on it too much. She has to be prepared to go into stasis.  This is depicted to be a not-entirely-insane process for the year 2061, but it doesn't go without some hiccups and by the time Petra has awoken, she's looking at a completely different world--one from which her parents and brother and everyone else who remembers humanity as it was in the 21st century, are nowhere to be found.  And the people who woke her up?  They never heard that George Santayana quote, or they listened to Sting's "History Will Teach Us Nothing" and took it quite literally.  So it's up to this twelve-year-old who's spent the last few hundred years asleep to save humanity, and the funny thing is, Higuera convinced my cynical ass that humanity is worth saving. 

[candytrashpanda]

Can you make a Fyodor Parenting headcanon? (If he had a son)

Fyodor Parenting HCs

Warnings: Mentioned pregnancy

Notes: it's so funny I get this request now bc I actually have an OC who's Fyodor's kid and I've been talking about her tons with my friend lately. I was remarkably well-prepared for this ask lol.

I'd say there's two main options here: either he decided to have a child as some convoluted part of his schemes, or it was a pure oopsie. The latter ends a little happier (and easier to write) so I'll go with that for now. Maybe I'll explore that other option some other day =p

So Fyodor doesn't sleep around much, and when he does get the urge, he's pretty careful about it. So imagine his surprise when he's contacted by one of his flings saying they're pregnant.

I think his initial reaction is just annoyance. You know, he didn't plan for this to happen, it probably throws off some things he DOES have planned, but, he decides to keep in contact anyways. Because hey, the kid might become useful anyways.

(and, despite appearances, he might not be compleeetely devoid of emotion. It's his child.)

At first, this mainly means paying child support, visiting every so often, he doesn't get attached, but isn't burning his bridges. He doesn't show too much actual interest in the baby for... A few years.

Once his son learns to walk, talk, etc. though, it starts to feel like this is actually a tiny little person he can converse and even form a bit of a bond with, rather than just a squalling, helpless little thing.

(I should come up with a name for the kid at this point it's starting to feel a little awkward without one- one sec [googles "Crime and Punishment characters"] okay his name is Rodion aka Rodya)

Fyodor is surprisingly patient with toddler babble, and quite good at deciphering what Rodya means to say before he learns how to speak entirely "properly". During Fyodor's visits, it's not uncommon to see him sitting next to Rodya, who's babbling about trains or Transformers or whatever else 3 year olds are into while Fyodor nods along, clearly actually listening intently.

And as Rodya gets older, Fyodor only gets better at fitting into the role of "father". He's not experienced with children, but the older they are, the better he can understand them.

I think it first hits him that he might actually care about this child when Rodya is 5 or 6. Old enough to start school, and regularly be left in the care of people besides his mother or Fyodor himself. When Fyodor thinks about the possibility that one of those people might harm Rodya, he gets mad. It shocks even him that he's that upset by the idea. He tries to keep his distance and push that down, it wouldn't do for someone like him to have such an obvious weak spot, but he just can't. Make it. Go. Away.

Thus Fyodor enters his Protective Father phase!

Once he realizes and accepts how protective he feels, he's going to take primary or full custody of Rodya. Through whatever means necessary. (You weren't expecting full fluff, right? We are still talking about Fyodor here lol).

From there, Rodya still gets to live a mostly normal life. He still goes to school, has friends, and Fyodor perfectly plays the part of the single dad doing his best- he's very popular at PTA meetings.

Rodya grows up just a bit spoiled, though maybe not in a way a little boy would actually care about. Fyodor knows how to appreciate the finer things in life, and wants his son to do the same. Rodya grows up with high quality clothes, food, and drink, being taught exactly what makes them high quality and why that's important.

As tempting as it is to say the other Decay of Angels members could babysit, Fyodor more likely also spends quite a bit to make sure Rodya has trustworthy childcare. Nikolai would totally offer to watch him, but Fyodor's pretty sure Nikolai would teach him to start fires or something so he says no.

It would be a bad idea to bully Rodya. Fyodor doesn't have any particular qualms with children being harmed, remember. Just his child.

As Rodya gets older, he will eventually be introduced to Fyodor's co-conspirators, and just maybe, brought into the fold. I wouldn't say Fyodor has been specifically teaching Rodya for this purpose, but his worldview maybe have just... Rubbed off on the kid. The Decay gets one more helper =)

[townsenddecades]

1334 – Day 3 – Townsend Farm

With spring nearing its end, the added care their crops need, and the first harvest of the season, the Townsends have less and less time to spare to work on the cottage. Not to mention that many of the day labourers they’d hire to help them are now needed on the fields, as are the kind neighbours that have volunteered to aid them before.

They at least have the comfort that many of their plants are coming along well, and while there are still many walls to erect (not to mention the roof) and they still want to put in new wooden boards on the cottage’s lower floor, there is an end in sight when it comes to the exterior of their home. Furniture is another matter, but they resolve to cross that bridge when they get to it.

Malcolm still spends much of his time wood-carving and Malika and Hawise have their hands full with the household, so working on the fields still mostly falls to Benjamin, Adeline and Frank, who make swift work of it between the three of them on most days.

Most of Malcolm’s carving are either commissioned works or pieces he wants to sell at market – the family has to earn money, after all – but some pieces are for their own cottage. Among them is a wooden rocking horse for John and Hugh, their two toddlers. John especially adores this new toy, one of the few the Townsends can afford to gift the children.

And that isn’t the only kind thing Malcolm does for the two youngest members of the household. Seeing him interact with either his youngest brother or Hugh never fails to make Hawise smile. It isn’t that he is good with them in the same way as Adeline – he is awkward at best – but he is trying. That means something to her.

It is still strange to not have Amye sit with them at meals anymore – although she hear that both her and her little daughter are doing well – but they still use those times when they aren’t all dispersed to discuss happenings on the farm, how well their business is going, Benjamin’s plans to travel to town to sell some of their nectar, or news they heard from their neighbours or travellers.

With their house becoming more and more furnished, it is starting to feel like their old home again. They are all glad about that.

As discussed with his family, Benjamin takes two days to travel to Praaven before the harvest begins in earnest, accompanied by Adeline. They mean to visit their family while they are in town, but that is not Adeline’s primary reason to come along; she begs her father to take her with him mostly because she hopes she might meet potential husbands while she is there.

Unfortunately for her, her high hopes of romance don’t come to pass, and she spends more time looking at produce than chatting with anyone, let alone eligible young men. There are a few serf youths, but despite her wish to become a wife and mother, she isn’t so desperate as to give up her freedoms for it. She remembers the tales about her aunt Edith’s fate during the famine nearly twenty years ago well enough.

But as sensible as that viewpoint is, it does shrink the number of men eligible for her even further. She tries to tell herself that her father is right, that she isn’t even fifteen yet, but she can’t help her disappointment.

Benjamin, meanwhile, has far greater success in his errant than his daughter – which, granted, isn’t all to difficult. Instead of selling the nectar himself, he has decided to avail himself of a seller affiliated with the guild, who gladly takes hold of the stock he has brought with him. He will take a part of the profit for his own use, with the rest – minus the taxes due to the earl – made over to Benjamin’s family. Maybe they could make more money by selling the nectar directly, but with the rebuilding and the farm work, Benjamin simply does not have the time for that.

They end this trip to town by visiting both Gregory’s and Anna’s families. Benjamin swallows his questions about whether any sign of his sister’s younger daughter has been found when he sees her melancholy – it makes the answer plain enough already.

Previous: 1334, Day 3, Part 1/3 <--> Next: 1334, Day 3, Part 3/3

[democracyunderground]

Read the letter President Biden sent to House Democrats telling them to support him in the election

WASHINGTON (AP) — President Joe Biden wants Democrats in Congress to know he has no intention of exiting this year's election, sending them a letter on Monday on his personal letterhead.

Here is Biden's letter to the congressional Democrats whose backing he likely needs:

"Fellow Democrats,

Now that you have returned from the July 4th recess, I want you to know that despite all the speculation in the press and elsewhere, I am firmly committed to staying in this race, to running this race to the end, and to beating Donald Trump.

I have had extensive conversations with the leadership of the party, elected officials, rank and file members, and most importantly, Democratic voters over these past 10 days or so. I have heard the concerns that people have — their good faith fears and worries about what is at stake in this election. I am not blind to them. Believe me, I know better than anyone the responsibility and the burden the nominee of our party carries. I carried it in 2020 when the fate of our nation was at stake. I also know these concerns come from a place of real respect for my lifetime of public service and my record as President, and I have been moved by the expressions of affection for me from so many who have known me well and supported me over the course of my public life. I’ve been grateful for the rock-solid, steadfast support from so many elected Democrats in Congress and all across the country and taken great strength from the resolve and determination I’ve seen from so many voters and grassroots supporters even in the hardest of weeks.

I can respond to all this by saying clearly and unequivocally: I wouldn’t be running again if I did not absolutely believe I was the best person to beat Donald Trump in 2024.

We had a Democratic nomination process and the voters have spoken clearly and decisively. I received over 14 million votes, 87% of the votes cast across the entire nominating process. I have nearly 3,000 delegates, making me the presumptive nominee of our party by a wide margin.

This was a process open to anyone who wanted to run. Only three people chose to challenge me. One fared so badly that he left the primaries to run as an independent. Another attacked me for being too old and was soundly defeated. The voters of the Democratic Party have voted. They have chosen me to be the nominee of the party.

Do we now just say this process didn’t matter? That the voters don’t have a say?

I decline to do that. I feel a deep obligation to the faith and the trust the voters of the Democratic Party have placed in me to run this year. It was their decision to make. Not the press, not the pundits, not the big donors, not any selected group of individuals, no matter how well intentioned. The voters — and the voters alone — decide the nominee of the Democratic Party. How can we stand for democracy in our nation if we ignore it in our own party? I cannot do that. I will not do that.

I have no doubt that I — and we — can and will beat Donald Trump. We have an historic record of success to run on. From creating over 15 million jobs (including 200,000 just last month), reaching historic lows on unemployment, to revitalizing American manufacturing with 800,000 jobs, to protecting and expanding affordable health care, to rebuilding America’s roads, bridges, highways, ports and airports, and water systems, to beating Big Pharma and lowering the cost of prescription drugs, including $35 a month insulin for seniors, to providing student debt relief for nearly 5 million Americans to an historic investment in combatting climate change.

More importantly, we have an economic vision to run on that soundly beats Trump and the MAGA Republicans. They are siding with the wealthy and the big corporations and we are siding with the working people of America. It wasn’t an isolated moment for Trump to stand at Mar-A-Lago and tell the oil industry they should give him $1 billion and he will do whatever they want.

That’s whose side Trump and the MAGA Republicans are on. Trump and the MAGA Republicans want another $5 trillion in tax cuts for rich people so they can cut Social Security and Medicare. We will never let that happen. Its trickle-down economics on steroids. We know the way to build the economy is from the middle out and the bottom up, not the top down. We are finally going to make the rich and big corporations pay their fair share of taxes in this country. The MAGA party is also still determined to repeal the Affordable Care Act, which could throw 45 million Americans off their coverage. We will never let that happen either. Trump got rich denying rental housing to Black people. We have a plan to build 2 million new housing units in America. They want to let Big Pharma charge as much as they want again. What do you think America’s seniors will think when they know Trump and the MAGA Republicans want to take away their $35 insulin — as well as the $2,000 cap on out-of-pocket prescription costs we Democrats just got them? Or what do you think American families are going to think when they find out Trump and the MAGA Republicans want to hit them with a new $2,500 national sales tax on all the imported products they buy.

We are the ones lowering costs for families — from health care to prescription drugs to student debt to housing. We are the ones protecting Social Security and Medicare. Everything they're proposing raises costs for most Americans — except their tax cuts which will go to the rich.

We are protecting the freedoms of Americans. Trump and the MAGA Republicans are taking them away. They have already for the first time in history taken away a fundamental freedom from the American people by overturning Roe v. Wade. They have decided politicians should make the most personal of decisions that should be made by women and their doctors and those closest to them. They have already said they won’t stop there — and are going after everything from contraception to IVF to the right to marry who you love. And they have made it clear they will ban abortion nationwide. We will let none of that happen. I have made it clear that if Kamala and I are reelected, and the nation elects a Democratic House and Senate, we will make Roe v. Wade the law of the land again. We are the ones who will bring real Supreme Court reform; Donald Trump and his majority want more of the same from the Court, and the chance to add to the right-wing majority they built by subverting the norms and principles of the nomination and confirmation process.

And we are standing up for American democracy. After January 6th, Trump has proven that he is unfit to ever hold the office of President. We can never allow him anywhere near that office again. And we never will.

My fellow Democrats — we have the record, the vision, and the fundamental commitment to America’s freedoms and our Democracy to win.

The question of how to move forward has been well-aired for over a week now. And it’s time for it to end. We have one job. And that is to beat Donald Trump. We have 42 days to the Democratic Convention and 119 days to the general election. Any weakening of resolve or lack of clarity about the task ahead only helps Trump and hurts us. It is time to come together, move forward as a unified party, and defeat Donald Trump."

Sincerely,

Joe Biden

Joseph R. Biden Jr.

President of the United States of America

July 8, 2024|Updated July 8, 2024 11:48 a.m.