#another lincoln w

[super-oddity]

via wiki:

22/44 assassination plots were against republican presidents.

22/44 assassination plots were against democratic presidents.

Note: It was FDR’s 1932 campaign policies that caused a major shift in party ideologies. Prior to this election, Republican and Democratic conservatism was broadly flipped. Their parties are left black to reflect my inability to equate their affiliation to a modern party.

assassinated United States presidents.

1864– Abraham Lincoln. Republican.

1881– James A. Garfield. Republican.

1901– William McKinley. Republican.

1963– John F. Kennedy. Democrat.

attempts that caused injury.

1912– Theodore Roosevelt. Republican.

1981– Ronald Reagan. Republican.

2024– Donald Trump. Republican.

attempts or plots without injury or death.

1835– Andrew Jackson. Democrat.

1861– Abraham Lincoln. Republican.

1864– Abraham Lincoln. Republican.

1909– William Howard Taft. Republican.

1910– William Howard Taft. Republican.

1928– Herbert Hoover. Republican.

1933– Franklin D. Roosevelt. Democrat.

1943– Franklin D. Roosevelt. Democrat.

1947– Harry S. Truman. Democrat.

1950– Harry S. Truman. Democrat.

1960– John F. Kennedy. Democrat.

1972– Richard Nixon. Republican.

1974– Richard Nixon. Republican.

1974– Gerald Ford. Republican.

1975– Gerald Ford. Republican.

1975– Gerald Ford. Republican.

1979– Jimmy Carter. Democrat.

1993– George H. W. Bush. Republican.

1994– Bill Clinton. Democrat.

1994– Bill Clinton. Democrat.

1994– Bill Clinton. Democrat.

1996– Bill Clinton. Democrat.

2005– George W. Bush. Republican.

2008– Barack Obama. Democrat.

2009– Barack Obama. Democrat.

2011– Barack Obama. Democrat.

2011– Barack Obama. Democrat.

2012– Barack Obama. Democrat.

2013– Barack Obama. Democrat.

2013– Barack Obama. Democrat.

2016– Donald Trump. Republican.

2017– Donald Trump. Republican.

2017– Donald Trump. Republican.

2018– Barack Obama. Democrat.

2018– Bill Clinton. Democrat.

2022– George W. Bush. Republican.

2023– Joe Biden. Democrat.

[hd-junglebook]

The Other Side

Part 1 - Word Count 2463

Crouched on her tree branch overlook, Y/N watched curiously as the group of five approached the cliff's edge. She was intrigued by these strangers, the first new people she had encountered since witnessing the ship crash.

The boy with long hair moved to grab the rope swing first but was interrupted by another wearing steampunk-looking goggles.

After a brief exchange, the long-haired boy moved back, now standing next to a pretty blonde girl. The four of them exchanged weary glances, silently communicating after they switched places.

The goggled boy backed up several paces, then sprinted forward with a leap, launching himself from the cliff. He swung out in a wide arc, whooping excitedly. At the apex of the swing, he released the rope and landed gracefully on the far ledge.

The group stood in silence watching before they erupted in shouts at the Mount Weather sign. She sat for a moment watching the pure joy of these strangers, hesitating, debating whether to reveal herself. Her curiosity was piqued, but she knew little of their motives or intentions.

The commander sent her down here to gather information with Lincoln, both splitting up as he stayed by their camp, performing a headcount.

Y/N was impressed by his bold daring. She studied the other four strangers, wondering about their origins. They appeared around her age, and wore weird clothing, the material all cobbled together. Perhaps they had banded together after some other disaster or tragedy.

Lexa wouldn’t like any of this, dread filled y/n and she reminded herself that they weren’t going to live long after she traveled back to the capital.

Lexa was stuck in the old ways, never straying from harsh and outdated rules placed by their grounder society. Not that Lexa could change anything, if she allowed these invaders to live, her people would see her as weak, and she couldn’t have that.

Y/N couldn't help but smile as she observed the scene from her hidden vantage point among the trees despite her thoughts.

In that fleeting moment, with their guard down, she saw only vibrant youth, not strangers to fear. She remained hidden for now, but hoped someday their paths might properly cross if fate worked in their favor.

But their happiness was short-lived, shattered by the sudden violence that erupted as a spear was hurled at the unsuspecting boy. His friends' screams pierced the air, echoing with terror. She quickly sprang into action, leaping down from the tree with a soft thump.

Her horse, sensing the distress, whinnied softly as she approached, offering a comforting presence in the midst of chaos. With a swift pat on his flank, both of them set off back to civilization.

With a final glance back at the scene unfolding behind her, Y/N urged her horse forward, their hooves pounding against the forest floor as they disappeared into the safety of the woods, leaving the invaders and their violence behind.

…

“Lincoln?��� y/n called out, searching the brush for any sign of her friend. “Lincoln it’s me.” She continued, cupping her hands around her mouth.

There was no reply except for the sound of rustling leaves and the echo of his name. She sighed, weighing her options briefly before heading back to her horse, weaving through the twisted trunks and stomping over the bed of fallen leaves and twigs.

The sound of crunching filled the open space, quickly she grabbed her bow, notching an arrow before scanning the tree line again. Lincolns burly figure melted out from behind a massive oak, his face paint smeared haphazardly across his face from the sweat and heat.

“Lincoln!” she breathed out gratefully, loosening her grip on the bow before stepping forward to greet him. Lincoln stood before her, his calm gaze surveying her from beneath the hooded cloak draped over his shoulders. “I was starting to think you forgot I was coming.”

The barest hint of a smile played across the grounder’s lips. "I am well-versed in the ways of these woods.

It is you who makes noise like a stampeding gorilla." y/n rolled her eyes good naturedly at his teasing. “"Well? What did you see? Anything we should be concerned about?"

Lincoln's expression turned serious once more as he relayed his findings. “I counted about 100 of them. A blonde girl she’s their leader.”

After their discussion, Riss gave him a nod farewell. "I should get back before the Commander sends out a search party for me too." With that, she turned and headed back through the shadowy forest, leaving Lincoln to fade back into his camouflaged surroundings like a ghost.

Y/n strolled through the bustling streets of the capital, the cobblestones echoed with the rhythm of her determined steps.

Street vendors peddled their wares, their voices blending into a vibrant cacophony of commerce. The scent of sizzling street food tantalized her senses as she navigated her way through the throngs of people.

Approaching the imposing structure of the commander's building, she felt a surge of anticipation mingled with a hint of apprehension. "State your business," one of the guards demanded, his tone gruff.

She met his gaze with steely determination, her hand resting casually on the hilt of her hidden sword. "I seek an audience with the commander. It's a matter of utmost urgency."

The guards stationed at the entrance scrutinized her with suspicion until she presented the emblem of her authority.

The guard exchanged a wary glance with his companion before nodding reluctantly. "Very well, you may proceed."

With a satisfied smirk playing on her lips, she passed through the threshold and into the hallowed halls beyond, her gaze fixed on her objective: the commander's hall.

Her steps seemed to melt into the background noise of the bustling corridors, her presence almost unnoticed amidst the chatter. With purposeful strides, she approached the ornate door, its imposing frame a gateway to power and intrigue.

With a soft creak, the door swung open, and she stepped into the chamber, greeted by a gentle breeze that whispered through the open terrace door, ruffling her hair. "Commander," she greeted, her voice carrying respect.

Lexa, seated at the head of the room, smiled warmly, her gaze flickering with recognition. With a graceful gesture, she dismissed her companions, who filed out of the room one by one, leaving the two women alone to discuss matters of consequence.

"Ah, it's good to see you," she began, rising gracefully from her chair. The room seemed to hold its breath as she approached Lexa, her steps deliberate and purposeful.

"What brings you back so early?" Her voice was calm, but her eyes betrayed a flicker of curiosity.

As Y/N spoke, she couldn't help but notice the subtle tension that crept into the lines of Lexa's face. A furrow appeared between her brows, a silent question hanging in the air. Y/N pressed on, her own resolve mirrored in the unwavering gaze she held with Lexa.

"I spoke with Lincoln," she declared, her voice steady, each word carefully chosen. Lexa leaned forward, her expression a mix of anticipation and apprehension.

The silence stretched, broken only by the soft sound of Y/N's footsteps as she paced the room, the click of her boots echoing the rapid beat of her racing mind.

As she spoke of her findings, the space between them seemed to shrink, the distance bridged by shared secrets and unspoken truths. The dance of words and emotions played out in the quiet expanse of the room, a delicate balance of power and vulnerability.

Once she finished her account, Lexa rose from her seat. Y/N observed the subtle shift in her body language, noting the resolute set of her jaw and the firmness of her posture.

"Thank you for bringing this to my attention," Lexa said. "We must deal with these invaders if we are to protect our city from chaos."

…

Y/N rode on horseback through the lush, green woods, the earthy scent of pine filled her nostrils, mingling with the sweet fragrance of wildflowers.

The sunlight filtered through the forest canopy above, casting a warm, golden glow upon the trail as she journeyed down familiar paths - passing by small villages nestled amongst the trees.

She couldn't help but smile as she passed by, exchanging friendly nods with the villagers who went about their daily tasks. Y/n had been away from home for some time and was eager to return.

The steady clop of hooves marked the miles melting away as the trees thinned. She spotted her modest log cabin in the distance, its weathered exterior a welcoming sight against the backdrop of the forest.

Reaching the edge of the property, y/n hopped down from her steed, her boots sinking into the soft earth beneath her feet. With a gentle pat on her horse's neck, she released him to graze freely, knowing he would find his way back to the stable when he was ready.

Y/N took a moment to close her eyes and breathe deeply, cherishing the scent of pine and wildflowers. It was good to be back. She hitched up her pack and strode towards the front door, the familiar scent of aged wood enveloped her, a comforting embrace that welcomed her home.

Setting her pack aside, she moved with purpose to the corner where her woodworking bench stood. With practiced hands, she began to carve arrows, the rhythmic scrape of the blade against wood echoing in the cozy confines of the cabin.

the moonlight filtering through the canopy above cast eerie shadows on the forest floor. The night was still. Heading out into the night to gather firewood had become a routine for Y/N, a solitary task that allowed her moments of quiet reflection amidst the whispering trees. Tonight, however, a feeling that prickled at the back of her neck as she navigated the winding path.

y/n began to gather the fallen branches, a sudden sound shattered the silence. The unmistakable sound of running feet echoed through the trees, sending a shiver down Y/N's spine. Instinctively, she dropped the firewood and reached for the dagger she always kept strapped to her side.

Moving cautiously towards the source of the noise, Y/N's senses heightened, every rustle and snap of a twig magnified in the stillness of the night.

Y/n's heart pounded in her chest as she approached a clearing, the moonlight revealing a figure hunched over, gasping for breath against a gnarled tree trunk.

Drawing closer, Y/N's eyes widened in surprise as she recognized the figure of a boy, his face contorted in pain and exhaustion. His clothes were torn and dirt-streaked, his hands clutching at the rough bark for support.

"Who are you?" Y/N's voice cut through the night, a mixture of concern and caution lacing her words. The boy looked up, his eyes wide with fear and desperation, a silent plea for help etched in his gaze.

Her body subtly leaned forward, indicating her readiness to assist if needed, while her hands hovered near her sides, poised to react to any sudden movements.

The moonlight bathed them in its silvery glow, Y/N and the mysterious boy stood facing each other in the heart of the forest, the boy steadied himself, before sucking in a breath and speaking.

"I could ask you the same thing.” He replied, the boy's voice was deep and raspy, his words were slow and deliberate, as if he was rehearsing a speech.

Their gaze locked in a silent standoff, a sudden eruption of yells in the trig language pierced the stillness of the woods. Y/N huffed, a hint of sarcasm coloring her tone. "Those your friends?" she quipped, a wry smile tugging at the corners of her lips. John shook his head.  

Undeterred, Y/N pressed on, her voice firm yet tinged with intrigue, the trees towered above her, their branches creaking ominously in the gentle breeze.

"Who are you?" she asked, her curiosity driving her forward. The rustling leaves and distant echoes of the forest seemed to hold their breath, waiting for John's response.

After a moment of hesitation, John relented. "My name is John," he admitted. His voice was calm now, yet his eyes were a little wild. He looked like the man who had been on the verge of being killed, his head bowed in prayer.

"I can help you, John," she said, Y/n felt a shiver run down her spine as she looked into John's eyes. They were deep and piercing, like two black holes that seemed to suck her in. She couldn't look away, even though she knew she should.

John hesitated, unsure if he could trust her. But the thought of surviving in this harsh new world was too tempting to resist. "Okay," he said, his eyes darting between y/n and the area where the voices came from.

"I'll follow you." He approached her cautiously, keeping a safe distance. Y/n nodded, a look of satisfaction on her face. "Good," she said. "Let’s go."

…

Y/N and Murphy made their way back to her cabin, the shadows of the forest casting long, eerie shapes on the path ahead. "I need you to help me gather resources," she said.

"Food, water, weapons. Whatever I need to keep me alive. And in return, I will keep you safe from my people." She stated, looking back at Murphy as she climbed the steps to her door.

John nodded, his heart racing but he knew he had no choice. "Yes," he said, his voice firm. "I'll do it. Whatever it takes." Y/n could tell he wasn’t sure about his own agreement but kept walking anyway, opening the rusty door and entering.

Murphy hesitated at the threshold, his eyes scanning the surroundings warily, a flicker of fear betraying his tough exterior.

Y/N chuckled softly, a hint of amusement dancing in her eyes. "Come on, it's not a trap," she reassured him, her voice warm and inviting. Murphy stepped inside, the cozy interior of the cabin enveloping him in a sense of unexpected comfort.

The aroma of cooking rabbit wafted through the air, a tantalizing scent that stirred memories of simpler times with her family. Y/N moved with practiced ease around the small kitchen, spooning steaming stew into an old wooden bowl before handing it to Murphy.

He accepted the bowl gratefully, the hunger evident in the way he practically inhaled the hearty meal. Y/N watched him silently, her gaze lingering on his worn appearance and the shadows that clouded his eyes.

"What happened to you, John?" she asked, her voice soft yet probing. The question hung in the air, laden with unspoken implications.

Murphy paused, setting down the bowl with a nonchalant shrug. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you.” he replied through gritted teeth. “Let's just say I've had better days."

…

[deadpresidents]

Everyone knows about Lincoln and Garfield and McKinley and Kennedy, the quartet of America Presidents who fell victim to assassination. Even the most casual observers of Presidential history can probably name the four Presidents who were murdered while in office, and many even know the names of the four assassins responsible for their deaths: Booth, Guiteau, Czolgosz, and Oswald.

There have also been quite a few (in)famous unsuccessful assassination attempts, where Presidents barely escaped with their lives, that many Americans are familiar with, including (but not limited to):

•Richard Lawrence's miraculously unlucky double misfire on the steps of the U.S. Capitol in 1835 which left Andrew Jackson unharmed but resulted in Lawrence -- who would be found not guilty by reason of insanity -- getting viciously pummeled by the cane-wielding President Jackson until Davy Crockett intervened to save the would-be assassin from the 67-year-old President. •The shooting of former President Theodore Roosevelt in Milwaukee as he sought another term in the White House during the 1912 Presidential election. Despite being shot in the chest, Roosevelt decided to go ahead and deliver his campaign speech before being taken to the hospital where doctors discovered that the bullet lodged inside of TR had first passed through a case for his eyeglasses and the thick pages of his speech in his jacket's pocket, lessening the damage from the gunshot. •The attempted assassination of President-elect Franklin D. Roosevelt in Miami in February 1933, just seventeen days in before FDR's Inauguration, which wounded four people and killed Chicago Mayor Anton Cermak. •The ill-fated 1950 attempt by Puerto Rican nationalists to storm Blair House (the temporary Presidential residence during the renovation of the White House) and kill President Harry S. Truman as he was napping. Truman was not hurt, but a White House Police Officer and one of the two assassins were killed during the wild shootout. •President Gerald Ford's trouble with two California women who separately tried to kill him in Sacramento and then San Francisco just two weeks apart in September 1975. •The shocking shooting of President Ronald Reagan in broad daylight from just a few yards away as he exited the Washington Hilton following a speech in March 1981, which left four people wounded and very nearly killed the 70-year-old Reagan just two months into his Presidency.

But what is amazing is that, in this age of instant information and the constant regurgitation of media coverage via the 24-hour news cycle, very few Americans know that there is a man sitting in prison in the former Soviet Republic of Georgia for attempting to assassinate President George W. Bush. What even less Americans realize is how close Vladimir Arutyunian actually came to accomplishing his task.

On May 10, 2005, President Bush spoke to a large crowd at an outdoor rally in Tbilisi, Georgia. In one of the photos at the top of this post, Bush is seen speaking from the stage in Tbilisi. The other photo is of Arutyunian holding a plaid handkerchief close to his chest. Wrapped in that handkerchief was a live hand grenade.

As President Bush spoke, nearby sat his wife, Laura, Georgian President Mikheil Saakashvili, and the Dutch-born First Lady of Georgia, Sandra Roelofs. They had no idea that, during the speech, Arutyunian tossed his handkerchief-wrapped grenade towards the stage. The grenade landed just 61 feet away from President Bush, well within range of causing serious injury, if not death.

Of course, the grenade did not explode. At first, it was thought to be a dud, but upon closer inspection it was discovered that the only reason the grenade didn't explode was because Arutyunian's handkerchief -- used to conceal the explosive as he stood in the crowd -- was wrapped too tightly around the grenade, preventing the firing pin from deploying. A Georgian security official noticed the grenade, grabbed it quickly and disposed of it as Arutyunian disappeared into the massive crowd and President Bush continued speaking.

After Bush's speech was over and once it was recognized that the President had only narrowly escaped a legitimate attempted assassination, Georgian police worked closely with the United States Secret Service, the FBI, and the U.S. Justice Department to investigate the assassination attempt and find the would-be assassin who seemingly melted into Tbilisi after his brazen, albeit unsuccessful attempt on Bush's life. Using DNA evidence and tips from informants, the Georgian police ultimately tracked down Arutyunian two months later. When they went to arrest Arutyunian, a gunfight broke out and Arutyunian killed Zurab Kvlividze, a top counterterrorism official with Georgia's Interior Ministry. Arutyunian was wounded before finally being captured with the assistance of Georgian Special Forces.

The Georgians tried Arutyunian on the murder of the police officer, as well as the attempted assassinations of President Bush and President Saakshvili. Arutyunian was sentenced to life in prison with no possibility of parole. A federal grand jury in the United States also indicted Arutyunian on the federal charge of the attempted assassination of the President of the United States, which is a felony. The U.S., however, has not attempted nor has any potential plans to extradite the failed assassin from Georgia, and Arutyunian will almost certainly spend the rest of his life in a Georgian prison.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

This is for those of you who would like to live in an old funeral home. This 1904 home in South Bend, IN is affordable and it's still intact! 6bds, 4ba, (big enough for the whole squad), and only $267K.

Center entrance hall.

You've got a nice living room with a fireplace.

I don't know, they may throw in the setup back there, or least the casket.

Big rooms.

Powder room.

Large office.

This is kind of cute- a small sun porch.

A large kitchen is off the sun porch.

The living room is large.

The primary bedroom. This whole place depresses me and needs a major decor update.

This must be another bedroom.

Down in the basement is the lounge.

And, another powder room.

Delightful.

And, I would call this the "work" room.

The laundry room.

The lift is in here and I would imagine that will stay.

8,712 sq ft lot.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/403-Lincoln-Way-W-South-Bend-IN-46601/77020393_zpid/

[brian-in-finance]

Aloha, just saw the comment that Sam was at the taping of Cait's talkshow appearance or was at least in the same area. Why would he have been there? I would give a kidney for the answer.

Interesting message, Anon. Mahalo. 😃 Save your kidney, I’m happy to answer your question.

You’re probably referring to Caitríona’s latest appearance on Live with Kelly & Mark, which was taped on Wednesday the 16th of October, to air on Friday the 18th. Louisa Radcliffe, Outlander’s publicist, certainly had her hands full that day, manoeuvring Caitríona and Sam across Manhattan.

And, perhaps this post led to your question?

Instagram Queen Nurys is one of many celebrity spotters who keep their eyes peeled for announcements of upcoming interviews, appearances, etc. They know where to be, when.

Why would Sam have been in the same area?

Let’s review Wednesday, 16 March 2024.

First, Sam appeared on NBC’s Today Third Hour, which is taped-live-with-delays at 9 a.m. local (New York) time, at Studio 1A, 10 Rockefeller Plaza. (Red Box 1 on the map)

Screenshot from YouTube

Next, Caitríona joined Kelly and Mark at 10 a.m. to tape her Friday appearance at 7 Lincoln Square. (Red Box 2 on the map)

Screenshot: ABC News Live Twitter

After those appointments, and before arriving at the Paley Center, the Outlander leads recorded an interview for ABC News Live Prime at Time Square Studios, 1500 Broadway, which aired later that evening. (Red Box 3 on the map)

Finally, they made it to Paley, for another wardrobe change, the panel presentation, and media interviews at 25 W 52nd Street. (Red Box 4 on the map)

Screenshot: Google Maps / Note: The Red Boxes are more general-area than they are specific-area. Brian is no cartographer… but he has played one on TV.

So, now you know why Sam was there, Anon. 🧭 And where else would he be? It was a big day for Outlander publicity. Best regards to your kidney.

Remember… all publicity is good, except an obituary notice. — Brendan Behan

[dotcie]

— BAD DOG. [2]

》 PAIRING: simon 'ghost' riley x f!oc 》 NOTES: taglist is open! please let me know if you want to be added or removed. if you don't care about my OC, you can skip her backstory on ao3. 》 WARNINGS: 18+ | MDNI | hair pulling 》 CHAPTER: 3.9k | 2/? [masterlist] | AO3

Before she met Laswell, Jane did media monitoring for the DISA. 

It paid well for a job straight out of undergrad. Had reasonable hours, pleasant enough colleagues. She commuted the twenty minutes from her shitty apartment in Kingman Park to the Pentagon—arrived at seven forty-five with a cream cheese bagel and a skim milk latte. Wrote reports, emails, and memos. Hours and hours of political speeches, barking rifles, and screaming civilians ingrained in her brain. 

''Like a fucked up collage of the human greed for oil and retribution,'' she once called it over an almost empty espresso martini. Condensation pearled off the glass's rim and pooled on the table of an overpriced speakeasy bar, so unimpressive it was not worth remembering its name. Her questionable Tinder date had been late, his small-talk rather boring; No, she didn't like her job. Who ever did? But rent was expensive in DC, and Jane had student loans, expensive taste, and maybe eight hundred dollars in her checking account. 

She covered newsstreams out of Egypt, Lebanon, and Jordan. Iraq, and Yemen. Algeria. Libya.

Ate lunch at her desk—usually a salad and a protein bar, four busy screens in front of her. 

Had meetings with Cairo, Beirut, Amman, Baghdad, Sana'a, Algiers, and Tripoli.

She joined the white-collar crowd on their evening run around the Mall after work. From the Capitol steps to the Lincoln Memorial, around the reflecting pool. Two times, sometimes three. Always depending on the restlessness that hummed in her bones and tingled in her fingertips. 

Jane shoved her damp hair up with a clip and hopped on the blue metro line afterwards; sweaty and breathless, body humming with spent energy. She stopped at Whole Foods on her way home; bought dinner-for-one and a four-pack of sugar free Redbull. Put on noise canceling headphones without listening to anything on her way home—spying into warm lit windows and other people's lives. 

She ate in bed, crouched over her Macbook, the TV always set to CNN. She practiced Arabic. Scrolled through subreddits about zero-day exploits, but never commented on them. Went to bed late, woke up early. Got up the next day and did it all over again. 

Washington is a big city, in a big country, in a big world, and nothing ever changed. Jane just sat in her gunny-covered cubicle and watched whole cities crumble to dust like sandcastles. The local newspapers only covered a watered-down version of the turmoil overseas, but the mental images were always in the back of her head—no matter how loud she turned the TV. 

It's all part of a grand plan, she told herself. Just another rung on the ladder, an essential middle-step in her career. It was comfortable and disturbing. Exciting enough, but nothing impactful.

Nothing with an edge. 

The job had a sky-high turnover; a bad impact on employees. Turns out, swallowing the documentation of invasions, and civil wars, and an endless flow of American exceptionalism was only manageable for a couple of months. Jane became miserable and angry. Tired and strung-out. When handing in her two-weeks notice without a back-up plan, her supervisor accepted the neatly printed note with tired eyes and an annoyed flick of the wrist. 

Her therapist blamed her sense of weightlessness for everything she did afterwards: the thrill-seeking, the risk-taking. All her screw-ups in pursuit of sticking her fingers in better pies. When the agency sent her to the embassy in Urzikstan, Jane canceled her rent-controlled apartment lease early and donated most of her belongings to the Habitat For Humanity in Capitol Hill. Burning the boats, she called it. 

For months, no one could get a hold of her. 

Analyst positions for counter-terrorism overseas will chew you up and spit out your bones, a friend in the IOC had warned her. Jane was up for it anyway—of course she was. She had witnessed a few horrendous things through screens in Washington, but nothing compared to the situation in Sakhra. Like most soul-crushing things in life, it all wasn't real until it was. 

The first time she experienced the ruthlessness of the real world, a local contractor whose family was killed by American soldiers blew up half a base with some DIY C4. 12 soldiers dead, 24 injured. If not for Laswell yanking her into the shadows behind a M1A2 when panic erupted, she would have been trampled to death under the burning afternoon sun. 

Instead, Jane heaved, and coughed, then sank to the dusty ground with ringing ears. Kate towered over her with a drawn P890, yelling all-too-calmly over the wailing of sirens: You have twenty seconds to get it together.

They made her take time off two years later, after a black site she was stationed at suffered another, similar attack. Jane was resentful of it, but she wanted to keep her clearance, so she left with the next supply plane and said what she needed to say to pass the psych evaluation. 

She considered moving back into her grandparents ranch in Arizona. Maybe traveling through Europe, starting a new hobby (rock climbing, pottery, crocheting); but there was no real drive or push behind it. Instead, she bled in secret. Fucked strangers on her frameless king-size mattress and worked out too much in her unfurnished apartment. She got offers; a few private-sector contracts she knew she couldn't entertain. Jane wanted to stick it out with the agency—and Laswell. Especially with Laswell. 

The first question Shepherd asked her when she stepped into his office was if she had any family; a partner, kids, siblings. Parents to take care of. The General asked bluntly, but Jane was used to force as the most efficient method to get answers. 

She had spent three years interrogating Al-Qatala members and contacts. Trading money, safety, and threats for intelligence. Sleeping through the sound of gunfire, bystanding interrogations, interpreting intelligence, and snooping in places Americans aren't supposed to. Jane had left her old life behind and dove head-first into a tunnel vision.

No. She had no one. 

When saying it out loud she almost sounded proud. 

Working for the General is different. Non-official cover work for SAD intel suits her better—scratches a certain itch, too. Like finally tasting blood after biting your tongue for years. 

Laswell has been helpful, the additional training too; but nothing ever prepared her for the void between long-term missions. When the work is done and restlessness returns in weird jet-lagged hours of the fading days. When there are no objectives to sink her teeth into. No foreign streets to roam under false identities. No predictions to be made, no strings to pull. 

She's stuck in Iceland now, attending debrief after debrief. Her target is dead, the missile prototypes returned to the lab, but that isn't enough. They want to know everything. First the higher-ups at the Headquarters, then the Senate Intelligence Committee. They want the process. The months of searching, the people involved, the rules she broke. 

She did a good job, she got what she wanted, but she is part of Shepherd's system now, and he didn't approve of her moving forward with the operation. 

Since she returned to the lab, he hadn't answered any of her calls. 

Ghost is nothing but a silhouette in the low light of the crescent moon; sitting against a weathered wall of heavy concrete, a half-burned cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. Insects batter against a naked lightbulb overhead—the light orange and warm against the dark of night, casting long, unproportionate shadows over the smoking area. 

The sky hangs bruised and stormy over Vatnajökull, a million stars dotting the night. It's quarter to one, and the grounds of 102 are deadly still—so still, that the sound of a nearby metal door opening and closing shut remind him of gunshots piercing through the air. 

Years ago, he would have flinched at the sound, but there is not much left that startles Simon Riley anymore. 

Jane tips her head back in annoyance as she steps outside, cradling her phone between ear and shoulder. ''Listen—,'' she scolds into it, patting the outside of her clothes for the pack of cigarettes she bought from one of the kitchen workers yesterday. ''Louise, right? Louise, with all due respect—'' 

She takes a deep breath of restraint when she finds nothing but a crumbled straw wrapper in the pockets of her leather jacket. Sharp words spill on the other end of the line, and she squeezes her eyes shut, pinches the bridge of her nose. ''I'm not going to argue with some mid-level bureaucrat, get him on the phone— No, no, you listen! I need a black passport, don't— Fuck—'' 

Jane's grip on the iPhone loosens with the sound of a disconnected call echoing blatantly against her ear. Simon can hear her mutter a spool of curses, the sound of gravel screeching under her feet, and how all sound seizes as she pauses at the sight of him. 

The smoking area is dimly lit, but there's no mistaking the broad-shouldered figure with the cramped up skull mask looming in the corner of the building. Simon appeared in her sight so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that Jane would not be surprised if he materialized out of thin air. It would suit him; Ghost that he is.

Smoke pools out of the soldier's mouth, the balaclava pulled up to his nose; exposing a sharp chin with a shadow of stubble forming its way up a jaw set tight. He is hunched over, his elbows digging into his thighs. He doesn't look up to see that the expression on her face is one of mute surprise, or that her eyes narrow at the sight of him. 

''Thought you'd be gone already,'' she calls over, lounging near the door she slipped out of. 

''Change of plans,'' he returns easy and low, eyes glued to the book in his calloused hands. 

It's only been a few days, but his voice is as deep and as resonant as Jane remembers; it fills the air and makes her blood rush with the mental images of his fingertips digging into her skin. 

There's always a certain quietness after she's been fucked good—the world stands still for a moment, and it helps to quench the thirst, to fill the void.

Jane needs to hold something in her arms sometimes. Something unattainable and distant. Something unwise. Something like him. 

''Mind if I bum one?'' She nods to the lit cigarette between his scarred fingers, stepping closer.

For a split second, she thinks he's going to ignore her—then he dog-ears the page he was reading and abandons the book onto his lap. 

Simon looks up all casually and unfazed, shakes his head. 

''Last one,'' he says, half-lidded stare fixed on her in that particular Ghost sort-of-way. The way he always gets when you rip out the half-assed social niceties and expose the weirdo underneath. 

Jane exhales through her nose, leaning against a pole holding up the roof. The urge for frustration refuses to be ignored, so she buckles, comments: ''Of course,'' like she's taking notes on the irony of it all. 

''Stop pondering, will ya?'' Inhaling another mouthful of tar, Simon stretches out along the bench, crossing his booted feet at the ankles. The set of dog tags around his neck clink together when he scratches the underside of his chin. "No point in gettin' all antsy." 

She shoots him a cold, hard look for it—the one that makes his blood sing, makes him remember the expression in her eyes when she told him she wanted her target dead. 

''Thank you, Simon, for your unsolicited wisdom.'' 

The subtle fuck you isn't boarded in her voice, but it throbs under every word of hers. He doesn't bother scolding her for saying his name again, but the bitter taste of disapproval sure does coat his tongue. He's not foolish enough to argue with her when she's like this; all gutted and pent-up. Ready to hiss, bite, and lunge at his throat. 

The familiarity of it all stirs something up in him. For a moment, Ghost almost believes that it's sympathy, maybe—or at least a pinch of pity. A distant part of his mind remembers the dogged woman he faced when they first met; working out of a one-room shithole in a broken-down, brutalist apartment building somewhere in the Balkans. Reviewing surveillance logs, transcripts, and maps in shorts and a sports bra because the AC was utter rubbish. He recalls her hunched figure and unwashed hair as she worked out of the tiny living room—the space a mess of cables and empty microwave meals, her tech always charging. Her curtains always closed, dust dancing in the beams of light that crept their way inside.

Two days after the exfil, he barely recognized her anymore; with fresh clothes, twelve-hours of sleep, and hair neatly cut to a shoulder-length. It was like meeting a stranger, a whole different woman. He was certain, then, that the only way out for her was the same as his: leaving rotten and zipped up in a body bag.

Simon holds his half-smoked cigarette out to her, and she lets her head roll to consider the silent peace-offer. Her expression bleeds into something less angry in the face of him, and she hates that it makes him snort in response. 

Jane gives him the illusion of thinking it over before breaking away from her frozen stance and closing the distance between them. She takes the stub, and sinks onto the wooden bench next to him.

''Thanks.'' — ''Mhmh.''

Even with some distance between them, Simon towers over her. He doesn't make a sound, doesn't attempt to embarrass himself with comforting words and distracting small-talk. He's quiet—a man of few words and fewer smiles—but that's what drew her to him in the first place. There's caution behind his eyes, and his words are always cleaved off at the knee. A person weathered and hardy. A man who, just like her, has seen things most wouldn't even believe.

They both fall quiet passing the cigarette back and forth, and for a moment he thinks that the conversation has faded out completely. Simon's eyes return to the book in his lap, trying to find the spot where he left off before she interrupted him, but— 

''Do you think I went too far?'' Jane keeps her eyes forward, burying her free hand in the left pocket of her jacket. 

Simon hums in response, dark and low. ''Doesn't matter what I think,'' he says in a way that makes it clear he believes it, too.

''But you are somewhat capable of forming opinions, yeah?'' 

It coaxes a half-huff, half-laugh from him. He gets it. Logically, he gets it. Everybody is somebody's dog, hanging onto a leash; but he's military, and he much prefers to not comment on any of it. 

''You ignored authority,'' he starts, then pauses. ''Whether or not it was worth it, all y'can do now is handle the repercussions.'' 

''That's not an answer.'' Two dimples appear on either side of Jane's frown as she tucks some loose strands of hair behind her ears and leans forward. ''Forget I even—''

''I think," he interrupts calmly, but stern, ''that your self-doubt won't help you.''

Jane keeps her gaze flat, level. Perhaps if she mimics the face of apathy, Simon won't be able to see that she's hanging onto every word of his. What he says resonates; a quiet truth echoing through the air between them. The regret in her chest strikes like a bomb and for a moment, she fears the possibility of Shepherd cutting her TS/SCI clearance once and for all. She's been ignoring the thought, avoiding any evidence of worry that could shape her suspicions into something tangible, something real.

''Just thinking ahead'' she says quietly, scuffing her boot against the pavement below. "Little catastrophizing, worst-case-scenario planning." 

"Doomsday prepping?" He offers and gets a little smile for that. 

His chest tightens at the sight, an aching warmth interweaving his thoughts with sympathy. He looks away then, trying to collect himself. Seeking control, reaching for reason. Better judgment. Something else.

Jane studies his side profile for a moment, and Simon suddenly feels like she's too close, too comfortable in his presence. It's only a split second, the length of a heartbeat, but it's enough for Jane to take in the way he blinks his intrusive thoughts away. 

''Why are you still here, anyway?'' She asks in a change of tone, plucking the cigarette from his fingers.

''Taking a break,'' he drawls, words dripping slowly as molasses from his mouth. There is no further explanation offered, no words wasted on reasons or truths. Simon blinks languidly, his lips pressing together as he closes his book for good. 

''Because of Soap?'' There's an off-tone in her voice. ''I thought he is getting better already?"

Simon exhales roughly. ''No,'' he says with a lazy shrug. ''Yes.'' 

It's short and curt, but she doesn't let his vague hostility deter her. Jane just stares at him, impatience reflecting in her eyes, and he's not used to it; all the questions, the curiosity. 

''Do you know,'' he continues slowly, taking the cigarette back to keep his hands busy, ''the number of classifications and regulations I'd have to ignore to tell you shite like this?'' 

It's easier than admitting that he failed his psych evaluation for a second time in three years. 

Price is doing the paperwork for him, because they apparently want to negotiate some kind of terms for him. No rumors, no records, no further questions asked. Simon would be mad about it, if he wasn't so bloody tired. 

It's been years of regaining control and gripping bloody bathroom sinks. Endless hours of running, shooting, yelling over comms, and saving Johnny from the stupid, stupid shit he gets up to when nobody's there to keep an eye out for him. Simon is not a reckless man—at least not when he doesn't let his rage blind him—but you can't teach an old dog new tricks. 

He's not sure why he hasn't been able to admit to himself that his life has been nothing but fear, rage, vigilance, wanting, and searching, wanting, and never finding what eases the pain. 

He knows that Price goes back to a Rosewood desk with whisky and cigars in the upper right drawer, before driving home to a house and a woman that were once his. Laswell has a wife named June and a flourishing garden waiting at home. Gaz goes back to a two-bedroom flat in London, decorated by a girl he met during the siege of the U.S. embassy in Urzikstan. Simon doesn't have anywhere to be—nobody's waiting for him—so he stays. For Soap, he tells himself, and everyone who's paid to listen. 

The Scot's injuries happened under his watch, so he might as well play messenger for his moms, sisters and one-thousand nephews until he can travel back home. It's what a good Lieutenant does. It's what Price would do. 

''Alright,'' Jane says cold, flatly. ''It's none of my business anyway.'' 

She declines the last drag of the cigarette when Simon offers it to her, and he can't help but feel like he's been rude; like he just ruined something delicate. A particular flavor of guilt clings to the underside of his tongue, and he's willing to answer whatever her next question might be in order to make it up to her. 

He stubs out the cigarette, and it takes a moment or two before he realizes that his guilt is the reason she gave in so quickly in the first place.

''I'm not gonna tell ya,'' he says, prompting a smile to tug at the corners of her mouth; like she doesn't fully believe it, but is willing to play along. 

He is too exhausted to not condemn her for it, so he covers himself in heavy silence. Simon doesn't break eye contact, doesn't move—his dark glance intervenes with the amusement in her eyes, and when the quiet stretches on for too long, her eyes dart to his exposed lips shamelessly. 

''Anyone ever tell ya' to mind yer' own business, Spade?''

It coaxes a genuine laugh out of her. Simon is not sure he's ever heard her laugh before; the way the sound bubbles out of her throat, limpid and clear, and then almost turns into a snort. 

''I like you,'' she says pointedly, with purpose. 

"You're just bored.'' — ''And you aren't?" 

Simon remains silent, and the glint in her glance grows bright, pinning. Like she just learned a secret; an inside joke. 

It's unhealthy, this habit she's developed of digging her fingers in his wounds. She feels like a parasite trying to crawl under his skin, and she should probably feel far more ashamed of how much she enjoys the thrill of it. 

She has heard the stories, of course. The legends about the masked, faceless man; the perfect soldier, the silent killer. Everyone affiliated with Shepherd or Shadow Company in the slightest is aware of Ghosts' reputation, and Jane had been curious to meet the man. Dead-eyed, mass of muscle. A walking depiction of death. 

The warning signs about him are written in blood, telltale stories, and that half-lidded stare of his; Stay away, they say. Keep your distance. 

''Don't—,'' he starts with the exhaustive sort of contempt: the kind that says he is tired and bored of this tedious game. ''Don't look at me like that.''

Jane bats her eyelashes at him. ''Like what?''

 ''Like you want something from me.''

''Maybe I do—''

"You don't,'' he interrupts, tongue like a blade. ''All bark no bite, last time I fucked you.'' 

In some twisted ways, his fury excites her. The insistence on his dominance, too, and Jane laughs out loud at words that don't sting. She's practiced; chin tipped up, meeting his disapproving stare with a smirk.

''You ever let anyone kiss you, Lieutenant?''

He looks away, hisses through his teeth in frustration. ''That what you want?''

''I think,'' Jane retorts in a tone both cruel and tender, ''you want it, too.''

The hard look in his eyes lets something uncurl in her. Something satisfied, something real. 

''You do,'' she says again, and then he's on her; hand tangled in her hair, pulling her close. His grip on her scalp is not gentle, nothing about him is, and she smiles—shows teeth—at the broad display of it. 

Simon stares at her for a long moment, a frustrated hum forming at the back of his throat. She can feel his breath on her face. Almost hears the whir of the wheels turning in his head; calculating, calibrating. 

''You don't know what you're getting yourself into,'' he finally says, loosening his grip. 

''I've done worse,'' she spits out, pulling away. 

It happens somewhere between her leaning back and him not wanting her to. It happens and it's familiar, and new all at once; the way he stops her from turning away, pulls her closer by a fist of hair. He kisses her like he does everything else: a little cocky, a little mean. Their teeth clack together, and Simon kisses Jane long and searching—like he was waiting for it to happen.

Like he means it. 

》 Previous Part | Next Part 》 Masterlist.

》 Tag-list: @devcica @glitterypirateduck @queen-ilmaree @widemiffyhappy @cathnoneofyourbusiness

[agentoffangirling]

Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. to Janani K Jha songs, bc why is everything she writes so AoS-coded?

Achilles Heel: Very self explanatory, I feel, a song about being the other's weakness, FitzSimmons

Thanatos (End of Us): Another romance song, being together even if it kills, so very Huntingbird (I think that's the ship name?)

Ms. Protagonist: The loss of innocence from childhood to adulthood, so very s1 Skye to s7 Daisy Johnson. Could also apply to Jemma over the seasons

Library Card: A song about growing up as a nerd? Jemma Simmons

Golden Age: Really could be any woman in the MCU, but since this is more about the hidden and misunderstood women of history, I feel like it's better suited to the "background characters" of S.H.I.E.L.D., for lack of a better word, such as Victoria Hand and Piper

Sunday Crossword: Philinda struggling to convey their feelings, slowly falling out of love and ending as friends

Machine Learning: Fitz. 100% Fitz, oh my god, it's so him. It's literally a song about not knowing how to socialize and always feeling like a robot

Three Specters: Daisy in season 5, feeling lost and thrust into a position of power with little preparation. The song specifically describes being haunted with past memories, which is so her in those moments

Prophecies: Technically a song dedicated to the artist's parents of how they sacrificed everything for her, Daisy's family dynamic w/Coulson and May

Two Roads: Honestly I had a hard time with this since it's about choosing between the safe path and the new one. I'm going with Mack always having to choose between his personal life and S.H.I.E.L.D., especially since he's always threatening to quit (and never does)

Rome (Outro): the collective trauma everyone had by the end of the season and finally taking time for themselves. The song is basically about calming down and taking it slow

Slow Burn: Being in a relationship that just consumes you in all the right ways, that makes the both of you better is so Dousy (OTP frfr)

The Maze: Stuck in a mental/physical maze that you struggle to get out of is perfect for the Framework arc

Hellbent: About literally going through hell, about agency. Melinda May, SPECIFICALLY after the situation in Bahrain

Gladiators: The team fighting any opponent, but the season 7 finale would fit best

Royal We: Staticquake. It's a song on toxic codependent relationships, and I am not loathe to admit (sorry Staticquake fans), that the way Lincoln's death leaves Daisy is quite close to what the song describes

The Siege: Deke Shaw, especially with how much shit the team they gave him later on (May could also apply to this, bc one of the lyrics is "and no cavalry will cave")

Weird Hills: Ward's betrayal on the team; the song is all about trusting someone who called themself a friend only to stab you in the back

Polyxena: A song about sacrifice and being used to further the story. Trip's death

The Judgement (I Think Too Much): The main lyric is "you think too much with your head and not enough with your heart", very Aida becoming Ophelia

Cut the Cord: While it's technically about "dreaming a release from validation" as Janani puts it, I also think this fits well with the whole prophecy subplot of s3b and Daisy trying to subvert it

Nike: Phil Coulson, how his death is always weaponized against him but everyone forgets about him all the other times

Library of Alexandria: the lost innocence of S1, Bus Kids and how we never see them happy following s1

[autism0fadown]

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[pumpkinsy0]

ill draw another “the loud house sad images” where lincoln is floating away as an angel w his sisters reaching out for him and crying as johnny and the gang

but for now take the hospital scene

[vulptalia]

Another Civil War head cannon that kinda goes without saying but I don’t think Alfred actually fought in the Civil War. In my mind he went on moral trips w/ Lincoln and such (granted that Alfred could bare to stand for a duration or sit unsuspectingly lol) and visited Union troops on the front lines, but he never saw any combat himself.

[hermanunworthy]

!DNDADS S2 EP46 SPOILERS!

im getting to listen to this right as it drops. and frankly. i am TERRIFIED. ive heard about Bad Things Coming and i fear this episode may kill me. pray for me guys

- WTF DOES THIS TITLE MEAN. WHY LINCOLN

- NO ONE WILL DIE THIS EPISODE #AFFIRM

- MATT. NOT THE TIME.

- THE CLUSSY???

- WILL BEING AN ADAMANT CASS DEFENDER. U ARE SO REAL MAN

- I HATE LISTENING TO THIS AT HOME IM LAUGHING TOO LOUD ALREADY

- THE MOANING. QUIT IT ALREADY IM GONNA CRY

- SCAMSTER ORIGIN STORY WTF????

- we already knew this. but. evil. they are so silly and awful

- 3/4 NOOOO I WAS HOPING FOR HERMIE DAD ARC..... but ofc were not gonna get it

- NOT WILL GETTING EXCITED ABOUT ACTUALLY FIGHTING TAYLOR. FUCK

- SWIFTLI AND NORMSCARY YESSS

- WILL WHAT IS THIS VOICE UR DOING

- the fact that theyre not remembering hermie as the actual next in line is killing me im ngl

- FREDDIE RANDOMLY MAKING NPCS W DUDEBRO VOICES IS MY FAVE THING

- MATTS LAUGH WHEN HE ROLLED THAT NAT1. GOD I FELT THAT IN MY SOUL

- OH *ABRAHAM* LINCOLN??? IS THAT WHO THE TITLE IS REFERRING TO 😭

- WTF IS THIS EPISODEEEE I KNEW THEYD DO SOME CRAZY DUMB SHIT TO GET OUT OF TJIS

- HERMIE HERMIE HEMRIE

- WHY ARE U ONLY JUST NOW REMEMEBRING HERMIE

- ISTG IF THAT IS HERMIES ONE ONLY LINE THE WHOLE WPISODE IM GONNA KILL

- NOT TAYLOR INHERITING THE CLOSE FIGHT BETTING INSTINCTS

- FIND JODIE????? IM GONNA DIE

- hang on hold up. breakfast break

- ANTHONY "BC HE PUNCHED U REALLY HARD" "YEAH FUCKED UP RIGHT??" IM CRYING

- WHAT IS THE FANART FOR THIS FIGHT GONNA BE LIKE.

- NORMALS IN DEATH SAVES NOOOO

- "HIM LOOKING BACK ON HIS LIFE, HIM GETTING DUNKED ON 24/7" STOP IT WILL STOP IT I DONT NEED THIS RN

- oakicks nation were winning ig

- "THATS BRISK BABY" SCREAMING

- SO THE JEZZBALL WASNT BC OF HENRY.... ☹️

- NO NO NO PLZ DONT HURT NORMAL MORE

- PLZ IM SO STRESSED I NEED NORMAL TO BE SAFE

- MATT IS JUST SO UNHINGED THIS EP

- IS LINK GONNA KILL SHMEGAN???

- RON IS STILL HERE???

- TAYLOR IS SO USELESS NOW HELPPP

- THIS EPISODE IS SO DUMBBBB

- NOT ANOTHER EXPLODING HEAD DEATH

- NORMAL IS OKAY!!!!

- HE LOST HIS MUSTACHE LMAOOO

- david lovesatan will NEVER be jodie foster >:[

- NOOOO THEYRE GONNA TAKE DOOD

- SHMEGAN IS DEAD

- NORMALS GONNA GET FUCKING HIT AGAINNNNN I CANT DO THIS

- DOOD UNLEASHED?????

- THIS IS DOODS 100% EXPLOSION FOR ALL MY FELLOW MP100 FANS OUT THERE

- .....is it too early to say that this episode is NOT as bad as i feared

- bc i seriously thought henry would be coming back and shit would happen w hermie and it would be super awful evil but ig thats NEXT episode. god

- TY BETH FOR REMEMBERING HERMIE 🙏🙏

- WHERE ARE THEY???

- okay fbi office okay..... okay....

- WHAT???? HERMIE?????? WHAT

- WHAT

- WHAT

- AM I GONNA GET SOME AWFUL HERMIE CLIFFHANGER. I WILL KMS

- WHY IS HERMIE CHOKING WHAT

- WHY IS HERMIE BLEEDING OUT?????

- IF HERMIE DIES I WILL DIE. DONT DO THIS TO ME WHAT IS HAPPENING

- HERMIE GOT SHOT

- OH GOD OH NO

- ANTHONY. COME ON.

- HERMIES CALLING OUT FOR FUCKING NORMAL??????

- WHAT THE FUCK

- PLZ DONT KILL HERMIE PLZ

- NO

- GUYS.

- GUYS

- IM GONNA KMS

- HERMIE IS DEAD.

- HERMIE LIKES NORMAL BACK AND HERMIE IS DEAD.

- guys im done

- i literally cant even process this i cant even cry yet im just

[bookqueenrules]

Who is the returning character(s) in TOWL? Beth is a VERY viable option.

Returning TWD character(s) in TOWL have been confirmed both in an Entertainment Weekly and a TVLine article.

Here are the clues given so far about the returning character(s):

It is someone more unexpected than a WB or Fear character. 

Some “hidden history” will be revealed, and that revelation will include the return of AT LEAST one other familiar face.

PM said that Jadis holds “many secrets”.

When asked about catching up with a familiar face or two, Andrew Lincoln said, “There might be a COUPLE more surprises.”

There are timeline contradictions that show it cannot be anyone around the flagship during the Commonwealth “take over” including, Judith/RJ, Carol, Darryl, Father Gabriel. or anyone who was in the series finale before the one-year time jump.

AL and DG have mentioned that it has been around “six years” since Rick and Michonne have seen each other, and that they have a “a five year old” son. Remember, this may go multiple seasons, so they won’t start it too far out in the timeline.

Everyone realizes that Gimple does NOT follow the most obvious timeline when crafting the show. However, he recently has put very specific time drops in the shows.  WB starts exactly 10 years after the beginning of the apocalypse. Jadis is in season 2 which is just a couple of months past the start time of August 2020.  

So, Jadis would be able to be back in Philadelphia in 2021 with the same awful haircut for TOWL. (Don’t forget she knows what Beth looks like. She painted a portrait of her for Maggie. Also, calling them “walkers” would be another giveaway.)

When Darryl arrives in France, Isabelle specifically says that it has been 12 years since the start. So, it’s 2022-2023 in the TWDU. It was confirmed that when we see him in Maine, it is a few months after the one-year time jump at the end of the series finale.

So, the Commonwealth arc takes place in 2021 in TWDU. The time jump is to 2022.  Therefore, NONE of these characters can be in Philadelphia in 2021.

Not to mention that there is no “hidden history” as all of these characters have been on the show for years, and we have been told that, aside from some flashbacks, all the action in TOWL will be set in the current timeline of the show. 

So, what are the other possibilities?

It could be Morgan.  However, there is a problem with the timeline for him as well, and there is no time for any “hidden history” because Morgan has been around Padre for the last 7 years.  Also, it’s not THAT unexpected as literally the last time we saw him he went looking for Rick.  He would have gone back to Alexandria first, and, in 2021 and 2022, we saw Alexandria without Morgan. Lenny James has said he was done playing Morgan unless it was something “really special”. I think they would be able to get him back for a crossover limited series, but not for something as open-ended as TOWL seems to be.  I expect him to return to reunite with Rick at some point, but not in these first 6 episodes.  Additionally, he was suggested as the returning character in the EW article. I don’t think Gimple would let them spoil it if he was the only returning character surprise. 

Heath is a possibility. However, it has been confirmed, after being implied in TWD that Jadis traded him to the CRM.  He would definitely have been an A.  At most, I would expect to see his zombie corpse. The actor who played him just starred in The Color Purple movie.  I am not sure he would come back. As Heath was only in six episodes, I don’t think it would be that much of a reveal.

 Beth.  We know there is “hidden history” there.  We never saw her buried.  We never saw TF leaving Atlanta.  I can’t think of another core character where we don’t see what happens to their body.  She was last at a medical facility.  We know helicopters were seen around Atlanta where Grady was. It would definitely be unexpected.  We also know that the Beth story has always been Gimple’s baby.  He wrote her first arc, her suicide attempt, in Season 2.  He loves the idea of those others consider “weak” surviving and becoming strong.  You can see that through Carol’s arc, Eugene’s, and Gabriel’s.  Would he let Zabel, who is running the DD show spring a surprise he has been planning for since at least season 4? If Beth does return, I expect she will be in a much higher position of power than Rick(she is the new sheriff in town) and will help Rick and Michonne survive in some way.

I assumed Beth would show up in the Daryl/Carol spin-off and that might still be the case, but it does make sense to me that Gimple would want to save that reveal for a show where he had more control and that would have the most “original” TWD viewers.  Beth would be another hook to get them back. They will wonder what other “hidden histories” are still out there. They will wonder where Beth will show up next. Will she reunite with Maggie in Dead City or Daryl and Carol in Europe? Gimple recently confirmed in an interview that the CRM DOES have a global reach.  I expect Beth to work in some capacity in the medical/research field in the CRM. She could easily end up in a sister research facility in Europe. I almost wonder if the Consumed twist will be Beth rescuing Carol and Darryl. A reverse of what was supposed to happen in Consumed. If TOWL is set in 2021, Beth has over a year to arrive in Europe BEFORE Daryl and Carol.

Thoughts?

[petervintonjr]

"The majority of you blame the poor Negro for the humility inflicted upon you during that conflict, but he had nothing to do with it. It was your love of power and your supreme arrogance that brought it upon yourselves. You are too feeble to settle up with the government for that grudge. This hatred has been centered on the Negro and he is the innocent sufferer of your spleen."

Right from the start, Thomas Ezekiel Miller's life would be unusually complicated. Born in 1849 South Carolina, his mother was herself a half-Black, half-white daughter of one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence; and his father a white man who rejected his parental responsibilities and insisted his child instead be given up for adoption. Thomas was then raised by two Free Black parents, Richard and Mary Ferrebee Miller (who had themselves been freed in 1850). After the war he began his legal education in New York. While Thomas's unusually light complexion would have certainly permitted him to "pass" as white in New York (or indeed, in any northern state) but after receiving his degree in 1872 from Lincoln University, he instead chose to return to South Carolina, where he would determinedly live his adult life as Black.

1872 fell squarely in the middle of Radical Reconstruction, when the Northern military still firmly controlled the former Confederate state governments, and Miller, even while still pursuing his law degree, became the Commissioner of Beaufort County education, determined to get more Black teachers into the Charleston city schools. From there he was able to leverage into becoming elected to the state general assembly in 1874, 1876, and 1878. Over the course of these three terms he was at last admitted to the bar in 1875, and was named Republican state party chairman in 1884.

Miller's next goal was to run for Congress (S.C., 7th Dist.); he lost against Democrat William Elliott, but Miller successfully contested the election results when it was revealed that many Black voters in key localities had not been permitted to cast their ballots, and Miller was sworn into the 51st Congress on September 24, 1888. In 1890 he ran for re-election, again facing off against Elliott, but this time Elliott hung onto his victory, again challenging the election results as fraudulent. (Is this all beginning to sound just a little too familiar?) The S.C. state Supreme Court ultimately ruled in Elliott's favor on the basis of "inconsistent ballot sizes and colors." (Come on people, does history repeat itself that blatantly?) Miller pursued his appeal and made a stirring speech on the House floor in support of a proposed Federal bill that would oversee federal elections and protect voters from violence and intimidation. Unfortunately by the time the elections committee convened to confirm Elliott's victory, Miller had already lost in the next election primary to George W. Murray, thereby ending his sole term in Congress.

Miller returned to the state legislature for another term, eloquently pushing back against the growing sentiment that Blacks were contributing to the South's slow economic recovery, arguing instead that White southerners were in fact primarily responsible for the region's economic problems because they were motivated by bigotry and vengeance, in denying Blacks full citizenship rights. Miller also attended the state constitutional convention in 1895 along with fellow former congressman Robert Smalls (see Lesson #107 in this series) but to little avail; the convention ended with prohibitively high property ownership requirements, crippling poll taxes, and wildly skewed literacy tests being written into law and effectively ending Black enfranchisement in South Carolina.

Now out of public life, Miller's final years were committed to his law practice and also to the establishment and modernization of the Colored Normal, Industrial, Agricultural and Mechanical College of South Carolina (now the State College of South Carolina). He was named to its Board of Trustees and then served as its President until 1911. He and his wife Anna Hume moved to Powelton, Pennsylvania in 1921, but after Anna's death in 1936 Miller moved back to Charleston, where he stayed until his own death in 1938.

[risetherivermoon]

---

“Link..can I call you Link?” Taylor asks, feeling smug. Lincoln furrows his brow and then nods. She sniffles again, wiping her nose on the back of his hand. “This place will be incredibly weird! More so weird than what you are used to! However, I, your noble prince and grand leader! Will guide you, protect you even.” Taylor grins and Link just looks at them with a confused look.

---

2nd day of swiftli week!! heres what i wrote for the angels & demons prompt, i got really hyped for this prompt because i love angels & demons aus and i already had one going so woo!

i wrote something for the @3sinnrsn1angel blog i run, so go check that out if you like the oneshot since itll give more context and content for this au!

although this oneshot is readable w/o full context,

crazy how i was able to write another oneshot for this event, bc im like so bad at these types of stuff but this was really fun! i love these two!

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Fairy tale 1921 mansion in Bemus Pt., New York has 5bd. 5ba. $5.2M.

How grand is this entrance hall?

Love a sunken living room. Look at the wood walls.  Too much miscellaneous furniture detracts from the beauty of the wood, though. 

Interesting that they chose knotty pine. 

Huge dining room. 

That backsplash! This is the pantry, but I would’ve carried this thru to the kitchen.

Not too crazy about the kitchen- what is up w/the faux brick wall and desk?

This stone room is lovely. 

I would make this a conservatory. 

Interesting guest powder room.

Very large hallway and landing on the 2nd level. 

The main bd. is spacious.

Nice dressing room w/closets.

This secondary bd. is a large size and it’s nice and bright.

Very attractive home and look at the size of the garage. Lots of potential. 

Plus, there’s another full-size residence on the property.

And, look at these 2 wonderful cottages.

12.50 acres of beautiful land. 

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/73-Lincoln-Rd-Bemus-Pt-NY-14712/305218336_zpid/

[frithwontdie]

Do white Americans owe reperations to blacks? NO!

In America, Reparations have already been paid. To the point that it’s beyond ridiculous. Whites have gone out of their way to artificially boost Nonwhites at every turn. Trillions of tax dollars and donations have been spent over decades trying to boost non-white achievements and social status. Also dept relief, Crt, affirmative action, first step act, donations for past wrong doings, school degrees, food stamps, welfare programs, etc.

Alot of whites and some jews through out American history tried to help blacks become a separate & self-reliant people (the pursuit of Booker T. Washington) through education.

The Freedman's Bureau (1865 to 1872) :

The Freedman’s Bureau (officially known as ‘The Bureau of Refugees, Freedmen, and Abandoned Lands’) was created by Americans to feed and provide other life necessities to the Negro population of the South after the Civil War ended in 1865. However, well before the end of the Civil War, Americans organized all over the North various organizations to feed, clothe, educate and provide other needed necessities for the newly freed Negro people Note: according to W.E.B Du Bios, more than 50 organizations were active in relief capacity for the southern Negro by 1866.

"The First white people in America, certainly the first in the South to exhibit their interest in the reaching of the Negro and saving his soul through the medium of the Sunday-school were Robert E. Lee and 'Stonewall Jackson'. ...Where Robert E. Lee and 'Stonewall' Jackson have led in the redemption of the Negro through the Sunday-school, the rest of us can afford to follow. " - Booker T. Washington 1910

The Tuskegee Institute:

This icon of Black education was founded by the great Booker T Washington and was also the brainchild of an Alabama prominent banker by the name of George W. Campbell (White man). Another White man, an Alabama state senator named W.F. Foster, spearheaded the necessary funding for the Institute through the state legislature. The result was a yearly appropriation of $2000.

The following white Americans, all self-made millionaires, gave small fortunes - their own hard earned money - to this Negro self-sufficiency school over their lifetime:

--Andrew Carnegie

--John D. Rockefeller

--Henry Rodgers

--Collis Huntington

And,

--Julius Rosenwald*

--Anna T. Jeanes*

* Julius Rosenwald was an immigrant Jew and self-made millionaire.

* Anna T. Jeanes, a white woman, was not a self-made millionaire, but inherited her money from her husband.

Howard University

Howard University was chartered in 1867. It was championed by an American Civil War General, Oliver Otis Howard (November 8, 1830 – October 26, 1909), and the school hence bears his name. Howard University is also the ONLY higher education school ever to be directly funded by the US taxpayers (it still is).

Lincoln University

Lincoln University (Pennsylvania) was an exclusive college for Negroes and was created in 1854 by a white man named John Miller Dickey, who also became its first president. Lincoln University was originally named Ashmun Institute. The first Black president of the university was not elected until 1945.

Fisk University

Fisk University was an all-Negro college that was established by three whites, Erastus Milo Cravath, John Ogden and Edward Parmelee Smith in Nashville, Tennessee, in 1866.

Wilberforce University

Wilberforce University, located near Xenia, in Ohio, was an all-Negro college created by whites from the Methodist Episcopal Church in 1856. It was named after a white man, William Wilberforce, who was an 18th century abolitionist.

Cheyney University of Pennsylvania

Cheyney University of Pennsylvania was an all-Negro school established in 1837. A white man named Richard Humphreys had bequeathed $10,000 in his will (10% of his estate) in 1832 for the sole purpose of creating a place of education for the Negro race.

Atlanta University

Atlanta University was founded by whites associated with the American Missionary Association, in 1865. Around 1866, its survival then shifted to, and depended upon, the Americans associated with the Freedman’s Bureau.

In 1922, the Carnegie Corporation and the Rockefeller Memorial gave $25,000 each to create the Journal Of Negro History.

In 1924, George Eastman (Kodack Co.) gave Tuskegee Institute $1 million dollars.

John D. Rockefeller

Mr. Rockefeller donated almost $180 million dollars to the General Education Board, which was chartered by Act of Congress in 1903. Much of this money was spent supplying educational aid to the Negro people, specifically in the southern states (Mr. Rockefeller‘s $180 million translates to almost 2 billion dollars in today's dollars!)

George Peabody Education Fund for poor Southerners

George Peabody Education Fund was established by a white man named George Peabody, and was designed to help Negro colleges in the South at the turn of the century.

The Slater Fund

The Slater Fund was established by white, James Fox Slater, in 1882. Its primary purpose was to support southern Negro schools. Around 1915, this fund was worth about $1.75 million.

The Jeanes Fund (Jeanes Foundation)

A white woman named Miss Anna T. Jeanes, a Quaker, created 'The Fund for Rudimentary Schools for Southern Negroes’ in 1907 from the monies left to her by her late husband. The purpose of the fund was to help Negroes create teachers for their people. It was endowed at one million dollars (a staggering sum at the time).

The Southern Education Board: In or around 1900, whites created the The Southern Education Board. It's funding was initially provided by the Slater Fund and the Jeans Funds. Americans, trained in the area of farming, would go to rural farms (Negro and American) and educate them on better farming techniques. The Southern Education Board was also very concerned with the high southern Negro illiteracy, which was, in 1900, almost 50% (for southern Americans, around 11%).

Phelps-Stokes Fund

Established in 1911, a white philanthropist and self-made millionaire Anson Phelps Stokes created this fund for the purpose of improving Negro life through education. Its endowment was approximately $900,000.

Minor Fund

This fund was established by a white female, Miss Myrtilla Minor, in 1851. Its purpose was to provide aid to schools who would teach Negro girls to be teachers for their people.

In 1910, according to the US census, 50% of Negroes (about 4.8 million) lived in urban centers (all created by white males). That means there would be approximately 2.4 million Negro males living in the urban centers of America. About 1/3rd would be too young to work, so that means there were about 1.6 million Negro males of working age living in American-built cities in 1910. Of those 1.8 million Negro males, 350,000 (almost 20%!) worked in a factory job (all factory jobs for the Negro were supplied by White men i.e. not ONE factory job in America was created by a Negro male --so, concomitantly, no white man was employed by a Negro male in a factory job. Note: At this time in American history, you worked or you starved. (source: Chronological History of The Negro pg. 358)

Naturally, with whites, being so generous supplying jobs to black men, naturally, more black men were encouraged to come to the American-built urban areas.

Julius Rosenwald

Without question one of the most generous of the Euro race toward the black people was Julius Rosenwald (Jewish). Most of his charity was gifted through the Rosenwald Fund (depleted in 1948)

Cushing Fund

A white woman, Miss Emeline Cushing, established this fund in 1895 for the purpose of financially assisting colored schools.

Whites Create Special School - In Mississippi. - For Negro Boys To Own Land

Daniel Hand Fund

A white self-made millionaire, Daniel Hand, established the Daniel Hand Fund in 1888. It was endowed at $1 million dollars (two-thirds of Mr. Hand’s entire personal wealth!). Mr. Hand stipulated that all of the Fund would be directed toward Negro education in the former slave states. When Mr. Hand died in 1893, he bequeathed the rest of his remaining wealth to this fund.

Andrew Carnegie

Mr. Carnegie, when he retired, was considered the richest man in the world. He also became the biggest philanthropist in America and gave generously to Negro educational causes, which included giving $600,000 to the Tuskegee Institute in 1903.

Harmon Foundation

The New York City Harmon Foundation was established in 1922 by an white man named William Harmon (1862-1928). Its purpose was to aid and assist Negro art, artists, businesses, education for Negroes, farming needs, music, and other causes for the Negro.

Garland Fund

This White-male-established fund was used to help the NAACP through the Great Depression.

John D. Rockefeller Jr.

Mr. Rockefeller, Jr. built the Dunbar Apartments in New York City, a mammoth complex consisting of six buildings - 511 apartments - specifically to house low-income Negroes in Harlem. He also built and funded a bank in NYC solely for Negroes.

Katharine Drexel

Katherine Drexel was born November 26, 1858 and died March 3, 1955. She was an American female, a nun, philanthropist, educator and later canonized as a Roman Catholic saint.

"She became a nun, and took the name Sister Katharine, dedicating herself and her inheritance to the needs of [non-occupational ranking] Native Americans and African-Americans in the western and southwestern United States, and was a vocal advocate of racial tolerance. She established a religious order, the Sisters of the Blessed Sacrament for Indians and Colored People. She also financed more than 60 missions and schools around the United States, and founded Xavier University of Louisiana[1] - the only historically Black, Roman Catholic university in the United States to date."

The United Negro College Fund

In 1944 the United Negro College Fund was created. Almost all of the funding for its initial operation was provided by the General Education Fund and the Rosenwald Fund.

Mr. William Trent, a black man, in the course of his 20-year tenure as its first executive director, raised over $78 million for this fund, almost all of it coming from generous white liberal Americans (Senator John F. Kennedy gave all of the profits from his book ‘Profiles in Courage' to this fund).

Also American Jews also gave money to black people. Before 1950, it was mostly coming from the Rosenwald fund.

Minority scholarships:

Low income:

It’s open to illegal immigrants, too, but white people? Forget it. And when we learn that “800 Compton residents to get guaranteed income in two-year pilot program,” since Compton is only 2 percent white – yes, just 2 percent – white people won’t get that money.

Having to change the requirements of mental retardation, because too many blacks IQ's were that low.

https://mn.gov/mnddc/parallels2/pdf/90s/99/99-MRI-MLW.pdf