#I have a lot of Point Reyes photos I haven’t posted yet

[graveyardrabbit]

Point Reyes Lighthouse

11/12/2023

[fabricated-misslieness]

Can you do a headcanon or scenario for reaper,mccree,genji,soldier where their s/o shows them that there is some fanfiction and headcanons about them?

Genji, McCree, Reaper, and Soldier: 76 x gender neutral reader 

What’s up with all this 4th wall breaking shit

Requested: Yes

Warnings: Swearing

Gabriel Reyes

The man already has trust issues, so the minute he sees a ‘photo’ of himself, he’s skeptical. He’s not as much of a boomer as people paint him out to be, in fact, he’s not even gen z, so the first thing he does is check the publish date.

He’s silent, but he’s freaking out in his head. 

The date is recent. He wouldn’t have pardoned it completely if it were from around the time when he was the Overwatch Strike Commander, but compared to something recent? Talon isn’t one for going public, neither is Blackwatch, so how the hell would people get their hands on a photo of him?

He assumes the post is something either exposing him, news about something he did, a wanted poster, or some rando somewhere that somehow got a picture of him and was asking who he was.

He’s so consumed in creating plausible reasons as to why there’s a picture of him, that he almost forgets to read the title. Almost.

“ ‘Reaper x gender neutral reader’ ” He reads under his breath. He pauses for a second, contemplating. “What the fuck.”

He knows what this means, vaguely remembers it from when he was younger, 40 years ago. Damn that made him feel old, but this isn’t the focus right now.

First of all, how would somebody be attracted to him? No offense to his s/o, but who would fall in love with a masked man? If only you knew, Gabe.

Second, how-- what? The fuck? People shouldn’t even know of his existence, yet here this was.

“Gabe, you good?” He doesn’t look good, but you ask anyway.

“No.” His response is immediate. He’s not good, he’s not good at all. He’s not even going to read this thing, he’s going to go straight to Talon and find out who the fuck told anybody about his entire existence.

“It’s nothing.” You hold him back from standing up, reassure him with one of your caring smiles. But this time, it doesn’t work.

He’s uneasy, creeped out, and a little angry. Imagine how hard it would be as a Talon executive if everybody knew who he was.

Talon and publicity don’t mix.

“Honey, not everybody knows about you.” Your attempts to reassure him are futile.

Anyway, this results in even more trust issues and some dead Talon workers.

 

Genji Shimada

“Genji.” You called, patting the spot next to you. The fact that your smile was a little eager and you looked excited made him a bit hesitant. What did you have for him today?

The last time you were this excited, you had something weird to show him.

“Look.” You held out your phone in front of him.

The first thing he saw was a picture of himself. It was a little creepy because of how much detail it had, but he brushed it off, seeing as during his last few years of the organization were Overwatch years. If he were still in Blackwatch he would definitely be creeped out.

The second thing he saw was the title, ‘Genji x gender neutral reader’ “What does that mean?” He asked.

“It’s fanfiction.” You replied.

“Fanfiction? What’s-- Oh.” He vaguely remembers what fanfiction is from his younger years. He wasn’t particularly one for reading them, even with his crushes on some fiction characters, but one of his best friends did.

Then it dawned on him. “Wait, Genji x… Oh. Oh! What the fu--”

He nearly yeets your phone away from himself. If you weren’t there to stop him, he would’ve yeeted it. 

He’s confused to all hell. “WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE?! HOW DO THEY KNOW WHO I AM?! WHY ARE THEY ATTRACTED TO A CYBORG?!”

That’s… quite the insult to you, seeing as you’re dating him…

Anyway, you literally have no idea either, but hey, his reaction was fun. Genji wondered what they would do if they knew you two were dating. Then he remembered, ships are a thing and we’re a literal ship come true. All the explicit, r-rated, angst, fluff, crack that would be written--

He looks like he’s having an existential crisis.

To lighten the situation, you decide to let him read it. Even though that was the cause of all these problems, why did you suggest this--?

He’s so silent throughout the whole thing that you might even think he’s overheated if he didn’t have his mask off.

When he’s done, he looks up and around the room. Unbeknownst to you, he’s trying to find the ‘cameras’ that are surely in here somewhere. How else would they know about him?

Once he accepts that there are no cameras, and in fact, there is no way that anybody could be this accurate, yet they are, he gives up.

“How are they so accurate?” He sighs, sinking into the couch.

“Let’s not think about that.” You try to reassure him, you try to pull the phone away from him but he holds on tight.

He narrows his eyes at you, “How many are there?”

36, counted them myself. 36?! 

“A lot.” Your reply was vague… judging by your look, it was on purpose.

“(y/n), what the fuck.”

To sum it up, existential crisis.

 

Jack Morrison

“What’s this?”

He’s not startled by the picture of him, since he was the commander of Overwatch, they even made a statue of him. But then he realizes this isn’t any old picture of him, this is a picture of him in the present, with his old grey and visor instead of the usual blonde and young look.

He has to hold himself back from cursing up a storm. As much as he wants to, it wouldn’t help the situation.

He moves from the picture to the title, hoping that it’s either just a coincidence, somehow, or some picture of him from street cameras, even if it was in good quality.

“Soldier: 76 x gender neutral reader.” He reads to himself. “What?”

“It’s fanfiction.”

“What’s that?” Oh, he is such an old man. Even though Reaper is older than him, he knows.

You have to explain it all to him. The definition of the word ‘fanfiction’ itself weirds him out, but to learn that it’s both fanfiction and self-shipping of him himself and the reader?

“How do they know who I am?”

“I don’t know, dear.” You reply. This was not a good idea.

He moves on curiously to reading the contents of said fanfiction. The way he talks, the way they describe how much of a private man he is, it feels like they’ve written him just like he is.

It’s eary, and it creeps him out to hell to the point of sending a shiver down his spine.

“Did you make this?” He asks. He knows you wouldn’t do something like this, but he’s only hoping that you made this only to keep himself sane.

“No.”

Without the protection of hope, his mind wanders all places. This isn’t a coincidence. What is this? Who made this? Do I have to smother the source?

Panic settles in.

This is your fault now, you have to make sure he either forgets this or that the author means no harm.

Panik Boy

 

Jesse McCree

“D-Darling, what is this?” He lets out a nervous laugh at the sight of himself. How the hell did they make it look just like him? Maybe it was a thank you gift, like a painting of gratitude for his vigilante work, that ought to explain it, right?

Then he read the title, ‘Jesse McCree x gender neutral reader’. “What does this mean?”

“It’s a ship,” He nods and hums, he knows what ships are. His cousin had plenty of them from one of their Thursday afternoon cartoons when they were younger. “Of the reader, the one reading the story--”

“It’s a story?” Jesse interrupts, his brow is raised and he looks thoroughly confused.

“Yes, it’s a story,” You continue, stating your sentences like a teacher would a toddler. “The reader, being shipped with you.”

“W-With me?” The fact that he’s stuttering should be giveaway enough for you to tell he’s conflicted. “Wha-- How would that work?”

You explained again, this time slower and with more detail, hoping he’d understand.

He did this time, but of course you’d have questions to answer.

Why did you think this was a good idea?

“Well how do they know about me? I haven’t done any interviews or nothin’.”

God you wish you knew. Maybe if you did it’d be funnier. “No idea, babe.”

He had many questions but he didn’t want to bother you with them, since you probably didn’t know the answers based on that question. So instead, he focused on the fan fiction itself.

The way they described what he said, it was just like how he talked. They nailed the accent. They knew all his habits, his personality… how the hell did they know?

He puts the phone away and reassures you he’s fine, but you’re sure he’s not fine.

He has trust issues after this, he can’t help but think for at least 5 seconds about anybody around him and their ulterior motives.

[slippinmickeys]

Five Seconds (1/8)

This is the sequel to “Of the Eight Winds,” which began from a small simple prompt from Sunflowerdeedsandscience: “Mulder is unhappily married when Scully is partnered with him, and while he doesn't cheat (because sorry that's not romantic), he falls for her so hard that he finally gets the courage to end the marriage and start fresh.” That prompt took on a life of its own that became ‘Of the Eight Winds.’ This fic immediately follows the events of that piece — I would encourage reading it first if you haven’t.

This is not written in the same Rashomon structure as the original — it is absolutely linear. Hope that doesn’t throw anyone.

I’ll be posting the first two chapters today, and then one chapter a day until next Monday. You can also find it on AO3 here.

PROLOGUE

They say in the heat of the moment, you have five seconds to make a decision. Five seconds between right and wrong. Five seconds between life and death. As Mulder stood watching one gun pointed at his children and another pointed at an immensely pregnant Scully, five seconds seemed an eternity.

XxXxXxXxXxX

6 Months Earlier

She watched the house from the shadows. Occasionally from her car. It was harder to follow the woman as she worked at a secure government facility, but the man was easy. He had a small private psychology practice in a townhouse in Old Town. He usually ate lunch at a Panera near the office or brown bagged it from home.

The kids both attended a private prep school out in McLean. The girl drove herself and her brother most days. The boy would often stay late for sports practice (ice hockey, if the equipment was any indication) and the man would usually pick him up. Their lives were pretty routine.

After two weeks, she finally made an appointment with the man’s scheduling service and waited nervously in the outer office. Right on time, he opened the door.

“Olivia?” Dr. Mulder smiled at her, “come on back.”

She passed him through the doorway and settled into a plush leather couch.

He sat down in a chair across from her and crossed his leg, looking relaxed. Up close, she noticed that his hair was starting to grey at the temples, but he still looked fit, and conveyed an easy manner.

“Thank you for seeing me,” she said, trying to calm her nerves.

“Of course,” he said, looking down at his notebook, “I see you were referred to me by Dr. Heitz Werber?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself,” he said.

She took a breath.

“I grew up here in DC. After grad school… My father worked for the State Department and I, uh, went into the family business.”

Dr. Mulder nodded, his expression neutral.

“I can imagine that’s pretty stressful work,” he said.

“It was,” she said, “I don’t do it anymore.”

He nodded again, waiting for her to fill the silence. She went on.

“The work I did… it hurt people. And I’m… I’m trying to make amends.”

His expression gave nothing away. She steeled herself, took a deep breath.

“Dr. Mulder, my name is Olivia Kurtzweil. Our fathers knew each other a long time ago. I’m here to warn you. You and your family are in danger. Your wife and her baby…”

His nostrils flared, but he maintained his composure.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out several pictures.

“I can prove it,” she said, “This is me and my father, this is me and your sister Samantha. And this is our fathers together.”

“I think you need to leave,” he said, his voice tight for the first time. He was not looking at the pictures.  

She rose.

“There’s not a lot of time.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a piece of paper with a phone number on it, set it next to the pictures, which she left on the office’s small coffee table. “Call me at this number. Soon. I’ll tell you all I can.”

With that she left, her heart hammering in her chest.

CHAPTER ONE

Arlington Cemetery May 2nd, 2018

Mulder descended the stairs quickly, the leather bottoms of his dress shoes scraping loudly on the dusty grit of the steps. The occupants of the underground lair were the perfect people to call when you needed information, but good housekeepers they were not.

He entered the code on the security box at the door at the bottom of the staircase, and the door swung open.

“Guys?” he called into the cavernous space once the door sealed shut behind him.

“In here!” he heard a muffled call from near the back.

He stepped around gunmetal shelves awash in circuitry and computer parts and turned right into the sanctum sanctorum of the place: the desktop on which sat the AMD Threadripper 3000. Two men were hunched over the screen, one sitting, one standing just behind him.

Grease-stained napkins were wadded up next to the keyboard and crinkled butcher paper sat nearby, sporting the red-splotched remains of marinara sauce and a few errant banana peppers.

“You want a meatball sub, Mulder?” came the nasally voice of the man standing, “We got extra.”

“I don’t relish the thought of being up all night with heartburn, Langly, but thanks,” Mulder said, and Frohike turned from the chair, his wispy hair now more white than grey.

“They’re from Gino’s,” he said around a mouthful, “you’re missing out.”

“Tell that to Gino,” Mulder said, “didn’t he die of a heart attack in ‘04?”

“His wife is still running the place, bursting with health,” Frohike said, and reached for a styrofoam cup.

“But she doesn’t eat the subs,” said Mulder, and swung into a nearby chair. “Where’s Byers?”

“Staying with Suzanne for the weekend,” Langly said, like he couldn’t imagine why.

“Is that safe?” Mulder asked. The Gunmen had been hiding out in a government-built safehouse under their own graves in Arlington Cemetery for more than a decade.

Langly shrugged.

The three men looked at each other for a moment. Finally, Mulder spoke again.

“What did you find?”

“Enough,” said Frohike, turning back to the screen. Mulder stood and walked up behind him.

Frohike tapped a picture on the screen.

“Olivia Kurtzweil,” he said, “born December 4th, 1963, daughter of Dr. Alvin Kurtzweil and Ruth O’Brien Kurtzweil. Graduated from Sidwell Friends School in Washington DC in 1981, got a PhD in both Biology and Virology from Boston University in 1987. Employment records get kind of muddled after that, but it would make sense if she worked for the State Department, though what a Biologist/Virologist would be doing for State is troubling.”

Mulder leaned back. It was the same woman who’d been in his office earlier that day.

“And the pictures?” he asked, “of our fathers together? Of her and Samantha?”

“The real McCoy,” Langly said, “they don’t appear to be altered in any way. Sent them to Chuck Burks, too. He concurs.”

Mulder sighed heavily.

“What’s going on, Mulder?” Frohike asked, his tone serious.

“She came to my office today, Olivia Kurtzweil,” he said, nodding at the screen, “she told me that Scully is in danger.”

“In danger?” Langly said, puzzled, “how?”

“Scully is…” Mulder paused, “she’s pregnant,” he said, and he saw both men’s eyebrows go up. “This woman told me that our family... that Scully and the baby are in danger.”

Frohike and Langly traded looks.

“We haven’t told anyone about the pregnancy,” Mulder went on, “and Scully’s OB is an old friend from med school that she trusts implicitly. This Kurtzweil woman knows about the baby and insists it’s in danger. I need to know what’s going on.”

“Firstly,” said Frohike, who stood and put a hand on Mulder’s shoulder, “Mazel tov.” Mulder smiled at him. “Secondly,” he went on, “it appears as though this woman is telling the truth -- at least about who she is -- I would talk to her. See what you can find out.”

“How’s Scully taking this?” Langly asked.

“I haven’t told her yet,” Mulder said, and the boys traded another look. “I didn’t want to scare her without knowing more.”

Frohike squeezed his shoulder again and then let his arm fall.

“Let us know, huh?” he said, “However we can help.”

Mulder nodded and drifted back toward the door, a ball of worry sitting heavy in his gut.

XxXxXxXxXxX

“Where are the kids?” he asked as soon as he walked in the kitchen. He hadn’t even taken off his coat.

“I had a good day, thanks for asking,” said Scully with a grin. She was loading the dishwasher and turned to look at him. Her face fell, turning serious. “The kids are upstairs. What’s wrong?”

“I had a patient come in today…” he started, and her features softened. She probably thought it was just empathy for one of his patients, a tough case. “Scully, she showed me a picture of herself as a kid. With Samantha.”

“What?” Scully said, standing up straight, “how?”

“I don’t know,” he said, and moved past her and into the living room, making for the bookshelf that held old family photo albums. He pulled one out and skimmed through it. Pulled out another. Halfway through, something caught his eye and he flipped back a couple of pages until he saw it. A picture from the same 70’s-era party at his childhood home on the Vineyard that Olivia had shown him. There was his father standing next to Alvin Kurtzweil, and down in the corner, both wearing swimsuits and gap-toothed smiles, pigtails frizzy and wet, sat Samantha and a 7 year-old Olivia Kurtzweil.

He felt his breath leave him.

Scully had come up quietly behind him, put her hand on his arm.

“Mulder?” she said.

“I need to make a call,” he said.

He pulled the note Olivia had left with him out of his pocket. She picked up on the first ring.

“Olivia, this is Dr. Mulder,” he said. “We need to talk.”

XxXxXxXxXxX

The next morning at 9:00am, they found themselves sitting across their kitchen table from Olivia Kurtzweil, Special Agent Monica Reyes, ASAC John Doggett and Assistant Director Walter Skinner.

Scully was sitting, arms crossed in front of her defensively, at the head of the table. Reyes sat next to her, looking at Kurtzweil with an equal amount of curiosity and distrust. Doggett was too amped up to sit and paced through their kitchen. Skinner sat, quiet and still, looking as menacing as ever at the far end of the table.

Mulder felt a certain odd protectiveness toward Olivia, and couldn’t help but treat her a bit like a patient.

“Olivia,” he said calmly, “why don’t you start at the beginning.”

The tale she spun was as fantastic as anything they’d ever heard in their years on the X-Files. Olivia had been groomed from childhood to work on what she called “The Project.” When Samantha Mulder had been abducted, The Project had used her DNA to create alien-human hybrids. Throughout the years, these hybrids had been used by different factions of The Project to further their agendas in relation to a colonization project that Olivia said once threatened the world. She had fought with others to bring it down and now, The Project’s last ditch effort to resurrect itself lay in the cells of the child Scully was carrying.

“How was my father involved?” Mulder said, his voice like ice.

“Your father did everything he could to protect you and your sister,” Olivia said after a pause. “He was the person I initially approached when I became disenchanted. He and I worked together for years dismantling everything we could.”

Mulder narrowed his eyes at her.

“You were at my father’s funeral a couple years ago,” he said, recognition dawning on him, “I saw you at his wake.”

Olivia nodded.

“He couldn’t save your sister,” she said, “but he saved you. And in the end, he saved me.”

“My sister,” Mulder said, his stomach feeling as though it were in his feet, “is she alive?”

“No,” Olivia said, “I’m so sorry. And that’s the problem. Your sister’s DNA was the only one that was able to create viable hybrids. Her DNA was the key. And the last living hybrid sacrificed herself before a rogue faction could get her. That rogue faction is after Scully and your baby for the DNA markers particular to your family.”

“Then why aren’t they after me?”

“The particular markers they’re looking for are rendered dormant after a baby is born. The genetic material they can use is only found in--”

Scully spoke for the first time, finishing Olivia’s explanation. “Embryonic stem cells from our baby.”

Olivia looked pained and nodded. “It’s their last, best hope for restarting the program,” she said.

“How do they even know about the pregnancy? We haven’t told a soul.”

“A hack on your medical records is my guess. HIPAA means nothing to these people.”

“I’m less concerned with the how and more concerned with the why,” Mulder said. “You say embryonic cells. That means they’re on a clock, right? Once the baby is born...”

“Destroy the umbilical cord. The placenta. Those cells are only found in a few places. Destroy anything they might be able to use. After that… you and your baby will be safe.”

“So no one else in our family is in danger?” Scully asked. Her eyes darted unconsciously to a family picture that was framed on the wall above Olivia. It was a candid photo, taken the year before when they had hired a photographer to take Lily’s senior portraits. In it, Mulder and Scully were holding hands, looking at their two kids who were laughing about something Will had said. They were all smiling and carefree. In the moment, it felt like a world away.

“I know the technology and the biology it draws from,” Olivia said, “I helped design it. Their only hope is getting their hands on the embryonic stem cells from your baby. If you were planning on getting an amniocentesis test -- don’t.”

“Why not?” Skinner asked, “why not just give them what they want?”

“Because they’ll never stop,” Reyes said.

Olivia shook her head sadly. “She’s right. They take and they take, and they don’t care who gets hurt or what is lost.” She looked to Mulder. “Your father and I worked for years to shut it down. Finish it. Hide your wife. Protect your baby. Once it’s born, you should all be out of danger.”

“Tell me about this rogue faction,” Doggett’s voice coming from the corner of the kitchen startled everyone.

“Mercs for hire,” Olivia said, “Only one of them that I know of is familiar with the working pieces of The Project. I don’t know him well. I only ever saw him in the periphery.”

“Do you have a name?” Doggett asked.

“I doubt it’s his real one,” Olivia said.

“We’ll take whatever you can give us,” said Reyes, who shot a look to Doggett.

“I only ever heard him called ‘Krycek,’” she said.

Mulder felt his gut drop.

XxX

“What do you think?” Mulder asked Scully, as they sat together around their empty dining room table. Doggett, Reyes and Skinner had left and it was nearly noon, the sun bright outside their windows. Nevertheless, the room felt cold. Mulder could feel anxiety press on him from all sides as though he were under water.

“I don’t know what to think,” Scully said, a hand resting unconsciously on her stomach, which had just started to push out. “Mulder, for almost fifteen years our lives have been ordinary, calm. After all this time…? It strains credulity.”

“Scully I would agree with you. But… some of the things we saw when we were on the X-Files… We know credible threats. This feels like a credible threat.”

“Do you really believe everything she said? About your sister?” He could see her skeptical reserve crumbling.

Mulder let that question sit in the air for several long moments. “Just tell me if the science checks out,” he finally said.

Scully huffed an almost amused sigh. “I couldn’t even begin to-” she started.

“Scully, you yourself were filling in the blanks of Olivia’s story. If what she says is true, does the science check out?”

Scully gave him a long look. “Yes,” she finally said.

He held her gaze, a feeling of overwhelming affection coming over him. “Scully,” he said quietly, “we have to get you somewhere safe.”

She looked down, added another hand to her abdomen so she was cradling it with both. On the countertop, there was a half drunk bottle of Deer Park and a single yellowing banana. Someone had left their iPhone headphones sitting in a semi-coiled loop, and there were crumbs in front of the toaster, dishes in the sink. They sat in the middle of a half-lived life.

“I won’t leave without you,” she finally said, “without you and the kids. We all do this together. If the threat is really what Kurtzweil says it is, I couldn’t bear the thought of them trying to use you or the kids to get to me.”

Mulder nodded curtly.

“I’ll go to the guys,” he said, “see what they can do for us. Skinner and Doggett and Reyes will do what they can to protect us, but I think given everything we’ve heard, it’s best to avoid… governmental oversight.”

“I’m inclined to agree with you,” Scully said.

“We need to leave soon. We can’t wait.”

Apgar jumped on the table then, looking for affection. Scully, who normally wouldn’t tolerate a cat on any eating surface, reached out and pet the cat absently, her eyes far away.

“Where are we even going to go?” she asked.

[netpanty88-blog]

Streetsies 2018: Pro-Car NIMBY of the Year

The coveted Streetsie.

Anti-bike NIMBYs — a tale as old as time.

NIMBYs — shorthand for “Not in My Backyard” — have reared their ugly heads in each of the 12 years since Streetsblog launched. The days of fighting for feet of space on Prospect Park West may be over, but as the city brings things like bus lanes and bike lanes to new neighborhoods, new NIMBYs are a perennial obstacle.

Even with the city adding more than 20 miles of protected* bike lanes per year and support for those bike lanes surging, 2018 was a marquee year to fight that things that, in the words of former Streetsblog Editor in Chief Ben Fried, “make cities tick.”

For most of those car-owning NIMBYs, making streets safer for pedestrians and cyclists, and faster for scores of bus riders, isn’t worth losing a few parking spots per block. Avoiding L train gridlock Armageddon isn’t worth

With that, here are the nominees for the 2018 Streetsie for “NIMBY of the Year.”

‘Queens Streets for All’ — Sunnyside’s Parking Protectors

To understand the motivation behind “Queens Streets for All,” the Orwellian organization formed by Sunnyside business and community leaders to fight protected bike lanes on 43rd and Skillman avenues, one need look no further than the clever way their message changed over time:

The anti-bike lane messaging evolved over time to mask its true priority: 116 parking spots. Image: Macartney Morris

That’s right, even as they claimed the bike lanes would herald total retail collapse in the neighborhood, opponents were only ever concerned with one thing: unrestricted, free curbside access.

All bike advocates and the DOT wanted was a safe cycling connection between Queens Boulevard and points west. In response, bike lane opponents inundated them with vitriol: online comments and Facebook forums filled with thinly veiled homophobic attacks on TransAlt Queens Chairman Macartney Morris and Council Member Jimmy Van Bramer, who online critics claimed was only pushing the bike lanes to please his husband, a former TransAlt board member; repeated assertions that Gelacio Reyes, whose death spurred calls for the bike lanes, caused his own death at the hands of a drunk driver; discounting all bike lane supporters as “outsiders”; and below-the-belt tactics like demanding pro-bike lane-fliers be prohibited from community meetings yet allowing anti-bike lane-fliers to proliferate.

In the end, opponents found a champion in Rep. Joe Crowley — but the mayor defied him and the community board, and decided to install the project anyway. A few weeks later, Crowley was defeated at the polls (just a coincidence?).

Still, the vitriolic rhetoric made for unfortunate outcomes: Even after their defeat, opponents of the bike lane continued to disseminate falsehoods about a supposed increase in pedestrian injuries, a rash of business closures, and debunked concerns that emergency vehicles were being impeded by the bike lanes. And then in November, following a suggestion made earlier in the year in the comments on a Sunnyside Post article, someone (police have not found the culprit) tossed thumb tacks along the bike lane on 43rd Avenue.

It was a potentially deadly politically motivated attack on innocent civilians — which some likened to terrorism.

That’s a lot of excitement for one nominee — defiant pro-car NIMBYs, a congressman defeated, an attack on innocent cyclists, angry business owners and a bold mayor. Hard to beat that for the Streetsie, but other nominees have a lot going for them, too.

NEW BIKE LANES! Right in front of the apt! Thank you @JimmyVanBramer ! Also in chalk someone rode RIP, JVB??? Weird…whatever it will rain ?? today and be gone!@TransAlt @Streetfilms @juaninQNS pic.twitter.com/uDar7RbbVs

— Kyle Carscaden (@velo53x11) August 31, 2018

Arthur Schwartz and the 14th Street Coalition

If you ask lawyer Arthur Schwartz and his allies in the West Village, their quixotic campaign against DOT’s plan to improve bus and bike priority on 14th Street and 13th Street ahead of next year’s L train shutdown could be equated to Jane Jacobs’s legendary — and ultimately victorious — effort to stop Robert Moses from building an expressway through Soho.

Schwartz’s repeated attempts to use public meetings to stir up drama all fell flat. At one meeting, he called DOT Commissioner Polly Trottenberg a liar to her face — which earned a sharp and immediate rebuke from City Council Speaker Corey Johnson. At another, he made sure he was the last person to speak, which meant he unloaded an impassioned and fiery diatribe to a mostly empty room.

In reality, Schwartz and company have done little more than create a seemingly endless stream of headaches for DOT and MTA bureaucrats tasked with managing what is essentially a 15-month long natural disaster. Through multiple lawsuits, they’ve yet to stop the project — but they’ve managed to scare DOT from pursuing more ambitious transit and bike-priority street designs.

Simply put, the busway and bike lanes are the only thing standing in between the city and gridlock Armageddon. Without them, L train riders who can afford to do so will opt for taxis — and the folks in 14th Street Coalition will be even worse off.

Tony Avella and Queens Community Board 11

Photo: NY Senate

DOT installed a protected bike lane on an Eastern Queens segment of Northern Boulevard in 2017, but opponents haven’t given up their fight to get it removed.

For a year and half, Community Board 11 leadership has been fighting to replace the bike lane with a costly and insufficient sidewalk-grade pathway. Whereas DOT’s bike lane replaced a car lane as a means of slowing traffic, opponents deny that speeding is a problem at all. In June, opponents rallied where they brandished catchy signs such as, “Honk if You Support the Community Board 11 Bike Lane Plan” and “We Want Common Sense Vehicular Traffic Patterns.”

Opponents were supported by a few elected officials, including State Senator Tony Avella, who personally organized and attended rallies supporting the bike lane’s removal. In his September primary, Avella was squarely defeated by former city Comptroller John Liu — self-professed cyclist and supporter of bike lanes.

The bike lane has been in for over a year at this point — maybe 2019 will finally be the year opponents accept that.

Manhattan Community Board 9’s Carolyn Thompson

Thompson has been in the fighting bike lanes business for nearly three decades in Morningside Heights, as the former chairwoman of Community Board 9 and the current chairwoman of the board’s transportation committee.

For 21 months, Thompson has stalled a committee vote on DOT’s relatively timid traffic-calming redesign of Amsterdam Avenue above 110th Street. To slow traffic on the deadly corridor, the design repurposes a travel lane in each direction for unprotected bike lanes, painted medians, and turn lanes.

All the while, Thompson stubbornly refuses to entertain the project. Even though the turn lanes would actually speed up traffic, Thompson refuses to accept that.

“All it’s going to do is slow traffic down,” she told Streetsblog in October. “Every time you say you’re taking out a lane, you’re slowing traffic down. I don’t care what they’re saying, it slows traffic down.” (Fact check: It does not.)

And the winner is…

Queens Streets for All, for its brilliantly Orwellian name and vitriol so unabashed that it apparently inspired a terrorist.

Anti-bike lane protesters in Sunnyside in July. Photo: David Meyer

Source: https://nyc.streetsblog.org/2018/12/31/streetsies-2018-pro-car-nimby-of-the-year/