#the case of the Pennsylvania Gun

[ineffabletwaddle13]

Holmes's habit of touching his ear when he laughs

[reasonsforhope]

"Research on a police diversion program implemented in 2014 shows a striking 91% reduction in in-school arrests over less than 10 years.

Across the United States, arrest rates for young people under age 18 have been declining for decades. However, the proportion of youth arrests associated with school incidents has increased.

According to the U.S. Department of Education, K–12 schools referred nearly 230,000 students to law enforcement during the school year that began in 2017. These referrals and the 54,321 reported school-based arrests that same year were mostly for minor misbehavior like marijuana possession, as opposed to more serious offenses like bringing a gun to school.

School-based arrests are one part of the school-to-prison pipeline, through which students—especially Black and Latine students and those with disabilities—are pushed out of their schools and into the legal system.

Getting caught up in the legal system has been linked to negative health, social, and academic outcomes, as well as increased risk for future arrest.

Given these negative consequences, public agencies in states like Connecticut, New York, and Pennsylvania have looked for ways to arrest fewer young people in schools. Philadelphia, in particular, has pioneered a successful effort to divert youth from the legal system.

Philadelphia Police School Diversion Program

In Philadelphia, police department leaders recognized that the city’s school district was its largest source of referrals for youth arrests. To address this issue, then–Deputy Police Commissioner Kevin Bethel developed and implemented a school-based, pre-arrest diversion initiative in partnership with the school district and the city’s department of human services. The program is called the Philadelphia Police School Diversion Program, and it officially launched in May 2014.

Mayor-elect Cherelle Parker named Bethel as her new police commissioner on Nov. 22, 2023.

Since the diversion program began, when police are called to schools in the city for offenses like marijuana possession or disorderly conduct, they cannot arrest the student involved if that student has no pending court case or history of adjudication. In juvenile court, an adjudication is similar to a conviction in criminal court.

Instead of being arrested, the diverted student remains in school, and school personnel decide how to respond to their behavior. For example, they might speak with the student, schedule a meeting with a parent, or suspend the student.

A social worker from the city also contacts the student’s family to arrange a home visit, where they assess youth and family needs. Then, the social worker makes referrals to no-cost community-based services. The student and their family choose whether to attend.

Our team—the Juvenile Justice Research and Reform Lab at Drexel University—evaluated the effectiveness of the diversion program as independent researchers not affiliated with the police department or school district. We published four research articles describing various ways the diversion program affected students, schools, and costs to the city.

Arrests Dropped

In our evaluation of the diversion program’s first five years, we reported that the annual number of school-based arrests in Philadelphia decreased by 84%: from nearly 1,600 in the school year beginning in 2013 to just 251 arrests in the school year beginning in 2018.

Since then, school district data indicates the annual number of school-based arrests in Philadelphia has continued to decline—dropping to just 147 arrests in the school year that began in 2022. That’s a 91% reduction from the year before the program started.

We also investigated the number of serious behavioral incidents recorded in the school district in the program’s first five years. Those fell as well, suggesting that the diversion program effectively reduced school-based arrests without compromising school safety.

Additionally, data showed that city social workers successfully contacted the families of 74% of students diverted through the program during its first five years. Nearly 90% of these families accepted at least one referral to community-based programming, which includes services like academic support, job skill development, and behavioral health counseling...

Long-Term Outcomes

To evaluate a longer follow-up period, we compared the 427 students diverted in the program’s first year to the group of 531 students arrested before the program began. Results showed arrested students were significantly more likely to be arrested again in the following five years...

Finally, a cost-benefit analysis revealed that the program saves taxpayers millions of dollars.

Based on its success in Philadelphia, several other cities and counties across Pennsylvania have begun replicating the Police School Diversion Program. These efforts could further contribute to a nationwide movement to safely keep kids in their communities and out of the legal system."

-via Yes! Magazine, December 5, 2023

[messylxve]

old flame | aaron hotchner x reader

part two

content warning: angst, yearning, sad hotch, tension is THICC, mentions of abduction, guns, pregnant character, angry cops

pt1 pt3

Aaron still thinks about you most days. There was not much he clung onto from his years before, but you were one of the few he couldn’t let go of.

He supposed it was because you were one of the few things he never got closure for. You had just disappeared one day, completely untraceable as if you never wanted to be seen by him again.

And he didn’t know why.

It was a rather quiet day in the BAU. Morgan and Prentiss goofed off while Reid rambled on about…something. Aaron stuck it out in his office per usual.

He should have been doing paperwork, but his mind wandered elsewhere. It wandered to the picture in his wallet. He gazed at it sadly, wondering when it all went wrong.

The picture was of you and him: a selfie taken on a camera from when the two of you went to a store late at night and decided to cart each other around in the shopping carts.

Strange how some of the happy memories he had left, were of you.

“Hotch.”

He flipped his wallet shut, his attention now on JJ as she stood at the doorway of his office. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he cleared his throat. “What do you have?”

“Multiple abductions in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. Two girls, a woman, and a boy. All ranging in ages, but all related to officers under the police force.”

“What’s the time difference between each?”

JJ shook her head, flipping through one of the folders. “Three days.”

Hotch quickly pocketed his wallet and stood from his desk. “We’ll do the debriefing on the jet, alert the others. Wheels up in 10.”

To say it was chaos in Harrisburg Police precinct was an understatement. Phones rang endlessly, people rushed around and the sound of arguing echoed from the chief’s office.

“It's not usually like this,” one officer greeted. “This has become personal for a few of us and they aren't taking it lightly.”

Hotch scanned over the precinct, the uneasiness in the air radiating out to his team. “I suggest you take those officers off the case. We can't afford any distractions from anyone to interfere with this.”

“That's what were working on,” he nodded over to the office where four uniformed individuals crowded around a desk. “They aren't making it easy.”

Hotch’s frown deepened before looking around. “Do you have a space for my team to set up?”

“Yes, right this way,” he motioned for the group to follow him before turning back to Hotch. “Chief wants you in her office before we begin breaking things down.”

“Thank you.”

Hotch didn't know why he didn’t suspect something when he heard the shouting the first time. Walking closer, he realized he knew that voice. It was the voice that had haunted him for years.

“Do not question my authority again. The four of you are suspended from this case. If I hear another complaint, argument or so much of a whisper about my decision your guns will be confiscated until the case is closed. Am I clear?”

Aaron’s heart stuttered. His hand found the doorframe to grip as he watched in awe.

A small chorus of ‘yes chief’ followed your reprimand from all but one officer.

“Am. I. Clear. Smith?”

The man grit his teeth, staring you dead in the eye. “Yes chief.”

“You’re dismissed.”

Each officer left the room, leaving the two of you alone and suddenly you felt like kids all over again.

“Aaron.”

“y/n,” he breathed out. “I didn’t know—,”

“Neither did I,” you interrupted, knowing exactly what he was talking about. You felt your defenses slip away for the first time in a long time in his presence. You hated to admit it but it felt good. Seeing him again despite all of the years away.

But that look in his eyes, the pain and heartbreak. It took you right back to the day you fucked up.

It was almost as a spell was casted, Aaron saw your walls form again.

You cleared your throat and folded your arms. “There are only so many officers I can have on the field for this, so I thank you and your team for being here.”

“I- of course.”

Aaron had never felt so unsure during a case.

“Agent Smith says he was on the phone with her right before it happened and she hung up quickly,” you mused, standing in the front entryway of the Smith home with Hotch and Morgan. “Jessica Smith was 8 months pregnant when taken…”

“Which means she couldn’t have put up much of a fight,” Hotch finished your thoughts. Your eyes found his for just a moment and your heart stuttered in its chest. Had it been so many years ago, the two of you would have laughed about it, or shouted jinx, but not anymore.

“But she still would have put up some semblance of a struggle. She didn’t fight at all.” You cleared your throat.

Morgan looked oddly between the two of you, crossing his arms. “Right, so is it possible the unsub had a weapon. Threatened her to let him in.”

Hotch shook his head. “I don’t think so, the unsub had to be someone she trusted.”

“But didn’t want around the kids,” you muttered, eyes staring down the entryway.

Morgan furrowed his brows. “What makes you say that.”

Your eyes flickered up to Hotch, that’s where they wanted to go, but you trained them on Morgan instead. “The other kids were home, would’ve ran to the door to see who might be there.”

Hotch watches you carefully as you walk over to the door, your gloved hand closing it. “Mom makes it to the door first, sees the unsub through the peephole and recognizes him, but thinks it might not be a good idea for the husband to know he was there.”

You turn away from the door, facing the men. “She hangs up the phone abruptly, tells the kids to go play and leaves her phone right here on the table before opening up the door.”

You open the door slowly and step outside, noting the mud on the welcome mat leading to the the first few feet of the house.

“The mud from the prints match the ones at the other scenes, but they don’t run through the house…they stop here.”

“She didnt want him far into the house at all,” Hotch finished off again.

“So that means the unsub is someone each family knows and Jessica recognizes, but is a sore subject, not wanting her husband to know he was there,” Morgan theorizes.

“Someone who was fired or discharged,” you realized.

Hotch furrowed his brows. “Have you recently let go of officers.”

You nodded your head. “A few. But there’s no way to go through files like that without getting unneeded attention from other officers.”

Hotch turned to Morgan. “Call Garcia, tell her—,”

“No need,” you interrupted. “I have direct files saved to my personal computer. It’ll be faster.”

Hotch eyes stayed on you, contemplating his choices.

“Morgan, get back to the precinct, update the others. l/n and I will retrieve the files.”

The car ride was…awkward to say the least.

Hotch had a million things he wanted to say, he needed to say. But somewhere between his heart and his voice, it died upon delivery.

“Spit it out,” you blurted out suddenly, forcing his attention to you.

“What?”

“You’re twiddling your thumbs and biting the inside of your cheek. Every time you look at me you take this gasp of air. What do you want to tell me?”

So many years had passed and yet you could still read him like the back of your hand.

“That was impressive back there…” he swallowed hard. “You’d make a good profil—,”

“Please don’t tell me you cooked up all of your guts just to tell me I’d be a good profiler,” you laughed.

It sounded harsh, but there was something in your tone that eased Aaron’s heart. He laughed too for the first time in a long time.

“No I guess not.”

However just as easily as the moment eased up, it easily tensed back into that painful silence.

“Why did you leave,” he blurted out finally.

Your smile dissolved so quickly, it pained Aaron to be the reason it was even there.

“I got an offer from UPenn. Full ride.”

Aaron frowned. “Congratulations.” It was genuine, despite how hollow his voice sounded. “But that’s not the real reason is it.”

Your voice suddenly felt very raw as you attempted to swallow back your emotions, but just as quickly as they left, it came back. “No…”

“Why—,”

“Because,” you burst out. “After that night, when you begged me to…” you couldn’t bear to finish that sentence. “…what we did…I couldn’t go back to what we were. It hurt too much to. I was ready to tell you everything when I saw you again but…you and Haley. She… I couldn’t do that to her.”

You were bearing your emotions out, on the verge of tears releasing every pent up emotion since that night and Aaron never felt more stupid in his life.

They had finally come at a red light when Aaron spoke up. “What night? What did I…what did I ask you to do?”

He was terrified of your answer.

But you. Everything in you stopped. Your heart, your brain, even your breath. Everything was so silent when you turned your head and finally looked him in the eye for the first time in ages.

“You really don’t remember?”

He shook his head. “No.”

No

No

No

His single word reverberated through your bones, sinking deep into your soul. What do you mean no?

You turned to the road, a humorless chuckle falling from your lips. “You don’t even remember.”

“y/n,” Aaron called your name with such desperation. “Please.”

You looked back at him, hearing that tone in his voice. Suddenly you were taken back to that night. Between the pleas in his voice and that depressingly sad look in his eyes, he looked just the way he did all those nights ago.

God how long is this light?

“You were drunk. Haley accused you of being in love with me. You begged me to kiss you to prove it was a lie.”

His heart squeezed in his chest and his lungs felt as if it was wrapped in barbed wire. It hurt.

“Did I?”

Your eyes flickered over to him for just a millisecond.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

part three out now!!

taglist: @mackannkees @gghostwriter

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 3: The Ones Who Died Without A Name]

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes, Jace is here unfortunately.

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Holiday” by Green Day.

Word count: 6.1k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

The Tahoe runs out of gas just west of Ashland, Ohio, coasting to a stop along the shoulder of State Route 96, sapphire skies and cotton ball cumulus clouds, emerald fields of Swiss chard and beets slowly being nibbled bare by deer and rabbits, the inheritors of an abandoned earth.

“Well, that’s it,” Baela says, offhand, blasé, as if it’s not a disaster. You’ve sorted this out, it didn’t take long: there are people who aren’t allowed to panic. If they do, it’ll be like a dam crumbling, and the flood will burst through to drown everything, like when Noah’s wrathful God decided it was time for the world to start over. Baela can’t panic. Aemond can’t panic. And maybe you can’t either. Rio gives you a skeptical look—Are we really about to walk to Oregon?—and you slap his thigh encouragingly as you climb over him and out of the Tahoe.

“Everyone gets a gun,” Aemond says as he starts distributing them: Rugers for Rhaena, Baela, and Helaena (although she winces as she obediently takes the revolver, immediately tucking it away into her burlap messenger bag), .22s for Daeron and Aegon, Remington 12 gauges for Jace and Rio, who gives you his M9. You’re better with it anyway. Aemond’s Glock 20 is in a handmade leather holster he took from the cellar of the house back in Distant, Pennsylvania. Luke, still a potential zombie, will not be armed; but Aemond slings the strap of a .22 over his own shoulder for in case Luke recovers.

“Safeties on, right kids?” Rio goes down the line checking everyone’s gun. “Remember what we practiced, use your sights, don’t go pointing the barrel at anyone unless you’re okay with blowing a hole in them. The noise is risky, but getting bit is worse, so use your best judgment.”

“I don’t have any of that,” Aegon says, grinning.

Rio grabs Aegon’s sunburned face roughly and smacks a kiss onto his cheek. “I know, Honey Bun. Don’t you worry. Stick close and I’ll do your thinking for you.”

You spy it up the road a ways on the right, half-obscured by tree limbs: a white and orange sign, a logo shaped like a diamond. “Oh my God. It’s a Stewart’s.”

“A what?” Aemond asks, squinting at the sign. It’s late afternoon, and soon the sun will be sinking into the west like a drowning man through deep water, and like all prey animals you are restless without the promise of shelter.

“A Stewart’s Root Beer. They used to sell hot dogs and barbeque and all these neat soda flavors like key lime and black cherry. We had one where I grew up. That was the fancy place. You knew it was a good day if you ended up at Stewart’s for dinner.”

Aemond considers you, that subtle ceaseless curiosity. “We can stay the night there.”

“I thought we didn’t want to waste any daylight, Aemond,” Jace jabs as he helps Luke—miserable but presently human—out of the Tahoe. “That’s what you said when I wanted to check out that Barnes & Noble, Aemond.”

“What the hell do you need books for?” Aegon says. He’s grabbing clear CD cases out of the center console of the Tahoe. He pounds on the eject button and then punches the CD player when he realizes he won’t be getting that particular disk back. “Oh, you bitch! I had Shakira on there!”

“I would like to preserve my ability to read at higher than a fifth-grade level. I wouldn’t expect you to understand. I was going to work for Sullivan & Cromwell, you know.”

“And now you’re a jobless loser just like me. Isn’t life funny?”

“You can’t be serious,” Baela says to Aegon, his arms full of CD cases. “You’re going to carry all those to California? You don’t even have a way to listen to them.”

“I’m not leaving my mixtapes.” Aegon shoves them into a U.S. Army backpack he found at Fort Indiantown Gap and then hoists it onto his back with a grunt.

Aemond tells Jace: “We only have a few hours until the sun starts going down. We don’t know what’s up ahead. We should take advantage of a safe place to sleep if it’s available. Getting caught out in the open after dark is the worst case scenario.”

“Whatever, Aemond. It’s your call. Everything is your fucking call.” Then Jace plods out into a field of rabbit-ravaged Swiss chard to relieve himself semi-privately, his back to the Tahoe.

“Hey, Chips Ahoy,” Aegon says, taking the folded-up map out of the pocket of his shorts, mint green plaid. “Want to tell me if there are any nuclear power plants near our route so we can steer clear of them and not get irradiated?”

“Uh, well, I don’t exactly have them all memorized…” You examine the map, hoping the black-ink cities will jog your memory, trivia you catalogued years ago, snippets you’ve heard from your fellow seamen. “Perry’s in Cleveland. We won’t be anywhere near that one. Fermi is up by Detroit.” You hesitate as your fingertips skate past Chicago. “Braidwood, LaSalle, and Byron are someplace between Chicago and Peoria, but I’m not sure where. And then there are a few others around the border of Illinois and Iowa. West of that, I don’t know. Rio?”

“Cooper’s in Nebraska, dead east of Lincoln. That’s all I got.”

Aegon is nodding, making notes on his map with a glittery forest green gel pen. “Cool, cool. If I don’t end up eaten or a zombie, I can look forward to being a sterile, glow-in-the-dark mutant.”

Luke frets: “What if we accidentally drink contaminated water or something?”

“Then you die an agonizing death, kiddo,” Rio says. “Your cells dissolve and you turn into human Jello and there’s nothing anybody can do about it.”

Luke swallows noisily. “Awesome.”

“You might just get cancer if the dose is small enough,” you tell him. Luke does not seem pacified. Rhaena gives him a sip of warm Coca-Cola from a plastic bottle from the Wawa.

Jace comes trudging back to the road, zipping up his khaki chino shorts. “Alright, are we ready?”

Helaena is gazing solemnly out over the fields of green leaves, red roots that grow like arteries into the soil. “We should try to find antivenom.”

“Antivenom?” Aemond asks, distracted as he makes sure nothing of importance was left in the Tahoe. The keys are still dangling from the ignition; you won’t need them. There’s no breathing the Tahoe back to life. There’s no returning to Aemond’s house back in Boston. There is only the West, beckoning you to cross rivers and plains and mountains to join her, and to do it as people did two hundred years ago, no cars, no phones, no escape hatches. The only way out is through.

“For the snakes,” Helaena says.

Aemond stares at her. The stitches in his face are dissolving as the flesh weaves back together, jagged maroon scar tissue, beautiful savage ruins, landscapes of improbable survival. “Helaena, antivenom has to be refrigerated. Even if we miraculously found some, it wouldn’t be useable.”

She nods, eyes wide and glazed, still peering into the fields, into the earth.

~~~~~~~~~~

A hand brushing the loose strands of hair out of your face, a whisper through the dissipating indigo of sleep: “Guess what today is.”

You startle awake and yelp as you bolt from your assailant. Aegon is watching you without any shame whatsoever. People are laughing as they gather up supplies so you all can get moving again, brushing teeth, arranging hair, drinking glass bottles of Stewart’s soda found last night in crates in the storeroom, snacking on bags of Utz chips. Sunlight is streaming in through the windows; specks of dust glimmer in the air like comets through the inhospitable void of outer space.

Luke says from where he is sitting on the floor, his arms and legs tethered: “Hopefully the day when somebody’s going to untie me.”

“It’s my birthday!” Aegon announces.

You’re still blinking at him, disoriented. “What…?”

“Aegon, I told you,” Aemond says, sipping a bottle of Stewart’s key lime soda. “It’s not your birthday. It’s not the 23rd.”

“It’s the 20th, right?” Rhaena says.

Rio looks to you, bewildered. “Isn’t it like the 25th?”

“We’re still in June?” Luke says. Now Aemond is hacking through his ropes with a hunting knife from the cellar in Distant, Pennsylvania.

“Your hand is healing up. Your color is good, your temperature is normal. I guess we can officially declare you human for the foreseeable future.”

“I knew it,” Jace says, combative so no one will see the desperate relief underneath.

Aemond examines your hands next, calloused over where the heat of the transmission tower burned the skin. There is no pretext for needing to tend to them any longer, no antiseptic or ointment or gauze. Aemond nods somberly at your palms, as if he isn’t entirely happy to pronounce them cured. His hands linger on yours for slow, unnecessary seconds.

“So what are we going to do special for my birthday?” Aegon presses eagerly.

“We’re going to walk between ten and twenty miles towards California,” Baela says.

“That’s not a birthday activity!”

Daeron groans as he inspects the screws and bolts of his compound bow. “Aegon, it’s not your birthday!”

“Shut up. You can’t even apply to get a credit card.”

“No one can get a credit card now! Currency is worthless!”

Rio offers you a cherries and cream soda. You take it and say: “Aegon, how old are you? On today, your alleged birthday?”

He hesitates. “That’s not the important part.”

Aemond smiles as he tells you, mock-whispering: “He’s thirty.”

“Thirty?!” Rio exclaims. “That’s like, an actual adult age. Marriage and a mortgage, shit like that. What were you doing before everything went insane?”

Aegon gestures vaguely. “I was considering a number of opportunities.”

“He was living on my couch,” Aemond says.

Rio shakes his head, grinning. “No job? No school? No nothing?”

“I wasn’t doing nothing. I played a lot of golf.”

“He was totally doing nothing,” Jace says. “I was in my third year of law school at Harvard, Baela was getting a master’s in Aeronautics and Astronautics at MIT, Rhaena just started an Anthropology PhD, Luke was getting a master’s in Screenwriting at Boston University—he was going to be very sad and very broke, but still, he had a plan—and Aegon was doing…nothing.”

“I’ve never had a real birthday party before,” Aegon tells you; and there is something in his murky blue eyes that is tremendously sad, wounded, childlike. “I might not get another chance.”

“What do you want to do?” Now people are alarmed, skittish glances and mouths open to object. You are encouraging him.

“I don’t know yet,” Aegon says. But he’s glad you bothered to ask. You can see it on his face.

It’s not until several hours later—after noon, the sun high and blazing, everyone’s unpracticed feet aching and blistering in their shoes—that Aegon experiences a revelation like the angel Gabriel appearing to the Virgin Mary or Sir Isaac Newton extrapolating gravity from an apple falling on his head. Aegon’s epiphany appears in the form of a bowling alley in Shenandoah, Ohio called Luxury Lanes. It is remarkably unluxurious, a nondescript black rectangular building with a few doors in the front, one small tinted window on each, and no other openings. To Aegon, it is an oasis in a desert.

“I want to go bowling!”

“Aegon, we’re not going bowling,” Baela says, breathing heavily but trying to hide it, her hands massaging the small of her back. Aemond is watching her worriedly. Baela is the only person not burdened with carrying any supplies beyond her hammer and shiny new Ruger—and she resisted this accommodation at first—but still, she suffers more than anyone.

“Once again, it is my birthday—”

“Aren’t bowling allies soundproofed?” Rio asks Aemond. “You know, so they don’t get noise complaints?”

“Uh, I guess so…?”

“It’s kind of a fortress, isn’t it?” Rio continues. “Not many ways in or out. We wouldn’t be seen or heard. Might be a good place to stop for the night. ”

“Yeah!” Aegon says. “Right, Aemond?”

Aemond looks at you. It takes you a moment to figure out why. “I think the bowling alley is a good idea,” you tell him. “It’ll be safe, assuming we can clear it. And Aegon can have his party.”

Aemond is skeptical. “A party?”

“Survival isn’t just about not dying. It’s also about holding onto the things that make us human.”

“Like bowling!” Rhaena says excitedly. “It’s preserving a tradition! And I used to be so good at bowling. I bowled a 250 game once.”

“I have no idea what that means,” Aegon says, still delighted to have her on his side.

“There’s a sign for a Walmart maybe half a mile up the road,” Daeron points out. “We could search it for supplies and then double back here.”

Aemond polls the audience. Everyone agrees.

Shenandoah is tiny, rural, religious, and out of the way from the major highways. The Walmart doors are chained shut with padlocks, and amazingly no one has taken that as an invitation to drive their car through them or otherwise shatter the glass yet. Rio is honored to be the first. He takes the butt of his Remington shotgun and punches through the glass of the locked doors, kicks away loose shards, whistles and shouts to lure out any zombies. A dozen of them come reeling out of the aisles and towards the doorway. Daeron shoots down most of them with his compound bow. Rio kills two with the butt of his Remington, his new favorite toy. Aegon, the birthday boy, uses his golf club to beat in the skull of a teenager who is still wearing glittery pink nail polish and fake eyelashes. According to her nametag, her friends and family once called her Raelynn.

Inside the Walmart, Jace and Aemond take one side of the store, you and Rio the other, doing a quick sweep to make sure you didn’t miss any undead employees or customers waiting for the chance to sink their teeth into you. And when that’s done, you begin shopping.

The shelves are probably two-thirds empty, but there are still treasures to be found. You push carts through the aisles and fill them with candles, lighters, Chef Boyardee, Doritos, canned soup, fruit snacks, tuna pouches, 5 gum, bottles of Snapple, socks and underwear, hair ties, t-shirts and shorts, Kleenex tissues, pads and tampons, toilet paper. Baela finds some cute maternity dresses. Helaena picks through the pharmacy for useful medications, Aemond shadowing her with a baseball bat in his hands and his Glock at his waist.

“Chips, they got Cheddar Whales!” Rio exclaims, tossing several boxes into your cart.

“I miss grocery stores,” Rhaena says as she climbs the shelves to get the last box of Teddy Grahams.

“I miss going to the mall and getting Auntie Anne’s pretzel nuggets,” Aegon commiserates. Then he stumbles upon the liquor aisle and his eyes light up like high beams. “Aemond!”

Aemond appears—perhaps a bit flustered—and deliberates for a while as he browses the selection, Aegon waiting anxiously, before he decides: “Since it is allegedly your birthday, you can drink tonight. And you can pick one other person to drink with you. But only one.”

“Rio,” Aegon says immediately.

“Come on!” Daeron whines.

Aegon is already putting bottles of Captain Morgan rum into a cart. “Sorry. Illegal. Underage.”

“I’ve helped you butcher countless zombies, but I can’t drink?!”

“Just Say No, as Nancy Reagan would tell an innocent child such as yourself.”

Jace strides over, sly and playful, gnawing on a Twizzler. “Aemond, were you over there rummaging through the medicine aisles again? What do you keep looking for? Condoms?”

There is an awkward silence, an extremely awkward silence. Aemond glares at Jace. Jace’s eyes go wide.

“Oh, I, uh…I was definitely joking. But…congrats on the possible future sex!”

“I already checked,” Luke tells Aemond apologetically. “You know condoms were the first thing to get bought up or looted everywhere.”

“Okay, great,” Aemond says quickly, willing the conversation to be over. There is blood, hot and mortified, flaring in his cheeks. He was thinking of you, he had to be; the only other single woman here is his sister, and obviously that’s not an option.

Jace takes another bite of his Twizzler. “Just pull out, man.”

Baela, incredulous, gestures to her belly. “Because that worked out super well for us.”

“I told you to stop riding me!”

“Yeah, a whole two seconds before you impregnated me with your super-swimmer Michael Phelps sperm.”

“Please don’t make me listen to this,” Luke begs. “I’m starting to wish I really was bitten.”

“Don’t you know all the tricks to not getting someone pregnant, Aemond?” Jace says. “Wasn’t that going to be your specialty? You wanted to be a vagina doctor? So don’t you know all the mysteries of the vagina, Aemond?”

“He was going to be an OB/GYN,” Baela says, unamused.

“Really?” Rio turns to Aemond. “Why would you want to do that?”

“So he gets to look at pussies all day,” Aegon says morosely, as if heartbroken that such a path is inaccessible to him.

“That’s not why,” Aemond insists, mostly to you.

You smile. “I didn’t think so. What’s the actual reason?”

“Interns do rotations in different departments so we can figure out what we enjoy and what we’re best suited for. I knew within two days of my OB/GYN rotation that that’s where I wanted to be. Giving birth is the only life-threatening trauma that is necessary for humanity to continue. I wanted to help people get through it as safely and painlessly as possible.” Then his gaze darts to Baela. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make it sound worse—”

“No, it’s okay, I’m very much aware. It hurts like hell, people die. Believe me, I’d be thinking about that even if you hadn’t said it. I think about it all the time.”

“I have an idea you’re not going to like.”

“What?” Baela says. Aemond nods to the nearest shopping cart. “No way. You’re not going to push me around in one of those.”

“I believe it’s an adequate solution until an alternative appears.”

She sighs. “I’ve lost my body, my career, my society, my parents…must I lose my dignity too?”

Aemond winks. “Only when you’re too tired to walk.”

“Alright, Aemond. I realize you’re under the impression that this is a favor. So thank you.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

“Let me give you a favor in return.” Then Baela begins shooing everyone except you and Aemond out of the liquor aisle. “Grab anything else you want, we’re leaving in five minutes! Jace, come look at the baby clothes with me…”

When the two of you are alone, Aemond says: “I really hope that didn’t make you feel too weird. I’m not someone who gets uncomfortable about the…um…the subject matter in general. But I wouldn’t want you to think that I was trying to…I don’t know. Assume anything or pressure you into something that you weren’t already open to. Obviously I like…um…I mean, enthusiastic consent is essential, and I just…I would never try to convince anybody or…you know what, I’m just going to stop talking now. Okay?”

“Aemond, I’m fine. I didn’t think it was weird.”

“It’s a compliment,” he confesses, flushing pink again, touching his chin, perspiration gleaming at his temples.

Now you have to show interest so he knows you’re on the same page. You’ve never had to think this way before, you’ve never liked anyone enough to play the game. “So hypothetically, if someone didn’t want to get pregnant but there were no condoms, pills, etcetera…what are the options?”

He looks at you, pleasantly surprised. “Well, there’s the rhythm method. It’s not perfect, but it’s been around forever and is reasonably reliable if done correctly.”

You are only vaguely familiar. “We didn’t get a lot of sex ed down in Kentucky.”

Aemond chuckles then leans in, a mischievous curl of his lips, a craving in the crystalline river blue of his eye. He grips the shelf above your head, his arm a canopy. His voice is hushed. The front windows of the Walmart face west where the sun is setting; golden light floods in to illuminate the store. “Is your cycle regular?”

“It is, actually.” This should be embarrassing, but it’s not; it’s exhilarating. You’re imagining him seeing you, touching you, unearthing secrets you’ve never been tempted to share with anyone else.

“So if we imagine it like a circle…” He draws one on the back of your hand, invisible, mesmerizing, blue-white lightning crackling up the path of your metacarpals, wrist, ulna and radius, humerus and clavicle, descending ribs like the rungs of a ladder to jolt the sinus rhythm of your heart. “The start of your period would be Day One.”

“Okay,” you say, hypnotized as his fingerprint skates in an arc across the bumps of your knuckles.

“Ovulation doesn’t happen until around Day Fourteen. You might have noticed some increased arousal and…wetness. Clear in color, elastic consistency.”

Your eyes are trapped in his face, smooth skin, jagged scar tissue. You tease him back, stepping closer. You can hear people snickering in the next aisle as they eavesdrop. You don’t care about them, and neither does Aemond anymore. “Now that you mention it…”

“That’s nature trying to trick you into reproducing. Day Fourteen is crunch time. Once ovulation occurs, the egg is only good for up to twenty-four hours. And then the rest of the cycle you’re effectively useless, as far as making miniature humans is concerned.”

“Wait, you’re telling me people can only get pregnant one day a month?” This seems improbable. “How has the species managed to survive this long?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that,” Aemond admits. “Depending on the health of the specimens, sperm can survive up to five days inside a woman’s body. And it’s difficult to tell exactly when ovulation occurs. So, in practice, there’s basically one week a month when you’d want to avoid a man…completing the act, if you will.” He’s still smiling, taunting, famished, imagining the same scenes you are. You know this with a categorical certainty, as if you’re reading his thoughts like stark stripes of distance on a measuring tape. “And that’s also the week when your hormones are demanding you have sex, inspiring you to make all sorts of impulsive yet extremely consequential decisions.”

“Don’t I know it,” Baela laments from the next aisle, and there is a rupture of wild giggles.

“Anyway.” Aemond lifts his finger from the back of your hand and you have to stop yourself from reaching for him as he recedes from you. “There’s a basic overview.”

“It was very educational.” You follow him out of the liquor aisle.

“I’ve used the rhythm method for years,” Rhaena says as everyone makes their way towards the front of the store with their carts. “Clearly that’s just anecdotal, so don’t think I’m officially endorsing it. When I’m in my fertile week we add condoms. Well…we used to. Back when we could get them.”

“Ugh, I hate condoms,” Baela grumbles.

“We can tell,” Aegon says.

“I hate the way they feel, I hate the way they smell…”

“They’ve never bothered me,” Rhaena says. “I don’t notice that much of a difference. And it can be fun to try different kinds.”

“Are you on drugs?” Baela whirls to you. “Seriously, what is wrong with her? I’m right, aren’t I? Condoms are awful.”

Rio gives you a cautious look, uncharacteristically reticent. He’s not going to be the one to reveal it. He doesn’t know if it’s something you’re willing to share. But if anything is going to happen with Aemond—and you want it to, already you know you want him—then it’s something you think you should be honest about. You want him to know about you. You don’t want to have to create some false version of yourself to wear like a pelt, heavy, smothering, something that will inevitably need to be taken off.

“I am regretfully not qualified to say.”

“You’ve never used condoms?” Baela asks, a bit dubious.

“I’ve never done any of it.”

Everyone freezes at the defunct checkout counters and turns to gawk at you. “No sex?” Jace says. “No nothing?”

You shrug, smiling a little self-consciously. “I made out with a guy once.”

“The Marine from Corpus Christi?” Baela asks. They’re obsessed with him, they’re convinced there’s some lore to be excavated, translated, displayed like a relic in a museum. There isn’t. Sometimes people pass in and out of your life as seamlessly as shadows or sunlight, no weight, no indentations, nothing to recall or relay. He existed and then he didn’t. He was an airplane drawing contrails in the sky that faded before the blood red fire of dusk filled the horizon.

“No. Someone from home. Just a guy, not even worth mentioning.”

“Girl, you gotta fix that, soon, pronto, like yesterday.” Jace seems genuinely horrified. “You can’t die a virgin.”

“You really can’t,” Daeron adds, and Aegon pretends to be distraught over the loss of his youngest brother’s virtue.

“That’s what I’m always telling her!” Rio says.

“Not everybody wants to have sex,” Helaena murmurs as she records today’s findings in her spider notebook.

“True,” Jace concedes. “And that is totally legit. Mother Teresa, Queen Elizabeth, Jesus Christ, Buddha, Joan of Arc, Sir Isaac Newton, Nikola Tesla, the Jonas Brothers for a while, all great people. But Chips is not celibate by choice, correct?”

“Buddha had a wife and son,” Aemond says, preoccupied. He isn’t looking at you now, which is concerning; he’s peering down at where his hands grip his shopping cart, his brow creased with…what is that? Unease, disapproval, concern, thoughtfulness, fear?

“It’s not some big thing,” you backpedal. “I don’t have a hangup about it, I just never met a guy I liked enough, and enlisted men, they’re…well, a lot of them are taken, or cheaters, or idiots. Or all three.”

“Not to worry, Chipper.” Aegon claps a hand on your shoulder; and you aren’t sure if it is his purpose to break the tension, but he seems to have that effect regardless. “If you ever wish to be initiated into the art of lovemaking by a slightly below average and entirely unintimidating penis, I’d be thrilled to assist you. I love condoms. But in their absence, I am the king of pulling out. 100% success rate. Zero bastard children running around to my knowledge.”

“You should give Jace lessons,” Baela says.

And the last thing Aegon takes from the Walmart is a green battery-powered Toshiba CD player so he can blast to his mixtapes.

~~~~~~~~~~

Flickering candles lining the middle lane, drinks and snacks strewn across the tables, Rio’s Moonbeam propped up so it’s aimed at the disco ball still hanging from the ceiling from a time before the dead started devouring the living. Daeron is at the end of the lanes to reset the pins after each player’s turn. Helaena is keeping score in her notebook; Rhaena is currently in the lead by a massive 80 points. Aegon is wasted, dancing on a table and crunching Cool Ranch Doritos beneath his bare feet, his blonde hair flopping. Each time it’s his turn to bowl, Aegon has to roll the ball down the lane with two hands like a child. Rio, several shots deep but unable to feel much shy of half a bottle, is singing along with him to Cruise by Florida Georgia Line, but it’s really more like shouting, each sentence an off-key monstrosity that makes you laugh.

“Baby, you a song, you make me wanna roll my windows down and cruise!

Down a back road, blowin’ stop signs through the middle, every little farm town with you!

And this brand new Chevy with a lift kit, would look a hell of a lot better with you up in it!

So baby, you a song, you make me wanna roll my windows down and cruise!”

You cleared Luxury Lanes easily; the only difficult part was figuring out how to get into the area called the pit where, in normal times, felled pins were mechanically collected and sorted. There were two former employees roaming around back there in their tattered uniforms, snarling and drooling blood. Both were rapidly neutralized.

Someone always has to be by the front doors, watching through the small tinted windows for signs of trouble, whether from zombies or living humans. Aemond is currently on guard, nursing a Snapple. According to the bottle, the flavor is called Takes 2 To Mango. You grab your own Snapple—plain and simple Lemon Tea, no charming gimmicks—and walk over to join him.

“So now I guess it’s my turn to say I hope that conversation didn’t make you feel weird.”

He smiles politely, glancing out the window. “No, I’m completely fine.”

“Good. Because I don’t want you to look at me differently than you would any other girl, like I’m better than them, or worse than them, or like there’s anything wrong with me, because it really isn’t something I consider to be paramount to my identity, and people always seem to get all twisted up about it, but it’s a pretty boring story, I just…”

“You’ve never liked someone enough to take the risk. I get it. I don’t think you’re a freak or anything.”

“Okay. Good.” The next song on Aegon’s mixtape is Shaboozey’s A Bar Song. Jace is dancing with Baela, spinning her around as she giggles. With Rhaena’s coaching, Luke bowls his first strike. You rest your head on the door as you gaze up at Aemond, the phantom of a smile on your lips. “I might like you enough.”

And he says as if it’s the worst thing in the world, a plague, an infection, an apocalypse: “You’d fall in love with me.”

It hurts, of course it does, this flippant rejection. He burns you, he cuts you, he stitches you up with no anesthetic. You try not to show it. “You’re…confident.”

“No, I don’t mean because of anything specific I would do, it’s just…it’s natural to form a certain…attachment. To the first person you’re with. It leaves an impression.” Not an impression like a first judgment, superficial and swift; an impression like an imprint, a hollow, a prehistoric fossil that is preserved through eons. “That was already true before. And everything is more intense now, because life is so…” Aemond takes a while to settle on a word. “Precarious.”

You say like a challenge: “Are you still in love with the first girl you slept with?”

A shadow that ripples through his face, a flinching he tries to hide. You shouldn’t have asked. Still, you feel like you need to know, like you’ll run out of oxygen if you don’t. “I think I’ve gotten enough distance from it to realize that she wasn’t…wasn’t good for me in a lot of ways. It was an unconventional situation. But I still carry all these pieces of her around with me, yes. I don’t think that will ever go away.”

“Aemond,” you say gently. “Who was she?”

He is evasive, smirking. “It’s a cliché.”

“Was she a patient? That’s very Grey’s Anatomy of you.”

“No. She was my professor.”

An older woman, wise and experienced and captivating and sophisticated. He’s cut you again, a blade slicing effortlessly through veins like soft butter. “Oh. From med school?”

“Undergrad.”

“You were really young,” you say, a little startled.

He nods. “I was eighteen when it started. I was this shy, insecure, friendless freshman, she was married with two kids around my age. And it was off and on, but there was never anyone else for me, she took up too much space in my head, in my chest, like I couldn’t breathe unless I knew we were okay.”

“It went on for seven years?”

This seems to stun him, hearing how much of his existence she bottled like a terrarium. “I guess so.”

Is she dead? Missing? Safe somewhere with her husband and kids? “Is she…gone?”

His gaze drops to the floor. “Yeah.”

“Did you see it happen?”

“I was the one who killed her when she turned.”

It’s indescribably horrible; you don’t know what to say. “Aemond, I’m…I’m really sorry…”

He is abruptly nonchalant, the blue of his eye cool and dispassionate. “Look, I’m not prepared for this to be anything more than casual. And I don’t think casual is really in the cards for us. So it’s probably best to leave it alone.”

“Right,” you agree numbly, not meaning it.

“We’re headed different places, I’m going to California, you’re planning to end up in Oregon, it’s just…a bad idea to muddy the waters, I think.”

“Because I haven’t done this before.”

He shrugs ambiguously. “It’s a contributing factor.”

“Well you seemed pretty interested before you found that out, so.”

“I don’t mean to offend you.”

“You aren’t offending me. You’re disappointing me.”

Now Aemond is offended. “By trying to protect us?”

“No, by saying you don’t think I’m a freak when you clearly do, and by having some savior complex, or a whore-Madonna complex, or whatever’s going on in your head, it’s always such a mystery to everyone else.”

He downs the rest of his Snapple and shoves the bottle into the nearest trash can. You hear it thump against the bottom, no garbage bag. “Alright. This was fun.”

“Maybe you’re afraid of making a mistake, just like I always was.”

“Maybe I don’t want to have to teach you how to do everything,” Aemond snaps.

“I taught you how to shoot.”

“The fact that you don’t realize how wildly different those two situations are proves you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Okay, bye. Sorry about your zombie girlfriend.”

Aemond glares at you, shocked, furious. “That was so fucking low.”

It was. You regret it. But you can’t bring yourself to tell him that. You flee to the far end of the bowling alley and sit alone at a table draped in shadows. After a while, Rio notices and ventures over to see what’s wrong, a bottle of Captain Morgan swinging from one hand. He’s tipsy now.

Rio sighs as he takes a seat beside you, reaching over to rub your back. His hands are large and indelicate; what he means to be comforting is more like getting manhandled. Sometimes he leaves bruises, but it’s not his fault. Nature gave Rio the body of a killer. If anyone is going to survive the zombie apocalypse, it’s him. “What’s going on, Chips?”

Your voice breaks as you say it; tears sting in your eyes. “I hate caring about people.”

He bursts out laughing. “Yeah, it’s the worst, isn’t it? But once in a while it works out.”

“Bryan.”

And now he knows you’re serious. You have his full attention, large dark eyes fixed on your face, lines etching into his brow beneath the artificial starlight of the disco ball. “What are you asking me?”

“We can’t leave them and walk to the West Coast ourselves, can we?”

“I mean, technically we could, but it would be really stupid. Everything’s so much easier with ten people. And also I think I’d have to kidnap Aegon and take him with us, I love that little dude. Why? Do you really want to leave them?”

“No.”

“I figured.” He offers you the half-empty bottle of Captain Morgan.

“I’m not drinking that.”

“Come on. It’ll take the edge off.”

You look at him. Rio looks back, smiling now.

“I’ll watch out for you,” he says. “And if you get bit I’ll shoot you dead, no hesitation, swear to God. I remember our promise. I won’t let you die alone.”

“You’re a good guy.”

“I know.” He nudges your arm with the bottle of Captain Morgan. “A few swigs won’t hurt. It’ll help you sleep.”

You take the bottle, twist off the cap, drink down amber-gold poison that burns like gasoline, like fire.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Kamala Harris herself has now borrowed Walz’s lingo and is also calling her opponents “weird”, while Walz is all over our television screens, bolstering the vice-president’s candidacy and playing “attack dog” against the Trump/Vance Republican ticket. I’ll be honest: last month, I would have struggled to pick Walz out of a lineup. This month? I’m Walz-pilled. I have watched dozens of his interviews and clips. And I’m far from alone. He has an army of new fans across the liberal-left: from former Bernie Sanders 2020 campaign co-chair Nina Turner, to one-time Democratic congressman Beto O’Rourke, to gun-control activist David Hogg. “In less than 6 days, I went from not knowing who Tim Walz is,” joked writer Travis Helwig on X, “to deep down believing that if he doesn’t get the VP nod I will storm the capitol.” According to Bloomberg, the Harris campaign has narrowed down its “top tier” of potential running mates to three “white guy” candidates: Walz (hurrah!), plus the Arizona senator Mark Kelly and Pennsylvania governor Josh Shapiro. Both Kelly and Shapiro have their strengths – and both represent must-win states for the Dems. Allow me, however, to make the clear case for Walz. First, there’s his personality. The 60-year-old governor would bring energy, humor and some much-needed bite to the Democratic presidential ticket. There’s a reason why his videos have been going viral in recent days. Tim Kaine he ain’t. Pick the charismatic and eloquent Walz and you have America’s Fun Uncle ready to go. Then, there’s his résumé. A popular midwest governor from a rural town. A 24-year veteran of the army national guard. A high school teacher who coached the football team to its first state championship. It’s almost too perfect! Finally, there’s his governing record. You will struggle to find a Democratic governor who has achieved more than Walz in the space of a single legislative session. Not Shapiro. Not JB Pritzker of Illinois. Not even Gretchen Whitmer of Michigan. [...] Think about it. Democrats can have Tim Walz on the ticket, who called the anti-war, pro-Palestinian ‘uncommitted’ movement “civically engaged” and praised them for “asking for a change in course” and “for more pressure to be put on” the White House, or they can have Josh Shapiro, who called for a crackdown on anti-war, pro-Palestinian college protesters and even compared them to the KKK. They can have Walz on the ticket, who has reportedly “emerged among labor unions as a popular pick” after signing “into law a series of measures viewed as pro-worker” including banning non-compete agreements and expanding protections for Amazon warehouse workers, or they can have Mark Kelly, who opposed the pro-labor Pro Act in the Senate (but has since touted support for it). They can have Walz, who guaranteed students in Minnesota not just free breakfasts but free lunches, or Shapiro, who has courted controversy in Pennsylvania with his support for school vouchers. They can have Walz, who calls his Republican opponents “weird” and extreme, or Kelly, who calls his Republican opponents “good people” who are “working really hard”. This isn’t rocket science. Walz is the obvious choice. Not only is he the ideal “white guy” running mate for Harris, against both Trump and Vance, but he is already doing the job on television and online, lambasting Vance in particular over IVF treatment and insisting he mind his “own damn business”.

Zeteo News founder Mehdi Hasan for The Guardian on why picking Tim Walz as Kamala Harris's running mate is the best option (07.29.2024).

Zeteo News founder Mehdi Hasan wrote in The Guardian why Tim Walz should be Kamala Harris’s running mate. Hasan’s opinion piece is worth reading.

[teletubbyinlipstick]

DogWood Tree

Artemis. R.

“Only do what your heart tells you” - Princess Diana

(18+ for themes of assault. MINORS DNI! You are responsible for the media you consume. You have been warned.)

----------------------------------------------‐-----------

You were new to the BAU, having only been fresh out of the academy for 5 months, and an official “intern agent” for 3. It was understandable that you'd have hiccups along the way.

Yes, you had the badge, the gun, and the FBI vest you so dearly loved, but they considered you an “Intern Agent” as sort of a preliminary to see how you do with the team. See If you integrate well and adapt to a new habitat. Of course, you were allowed on cases. However, you always had to have a Supervisory Special Agent with you.

In all fairness, you were the youngest. Sometimes you need a guiding hand, not in a babying way-as you are 23 years old with a sound mind and job- but more of a young doe, wide eyed and eager to please.

Eager to impress.

Hotch and Rossi pinpointed that in you the second you walked in for an interview. Nervously playing with your rings, flushed cheeks, and every couple minutes, you'd tuck strands of hair behind your ear. It was sweet, so young and open. Could you really blame them for their instincts? They instantly took a protectiveness over you, treating you like family, almost like a daughter.

Not to mention how sweet the others are, adored with your youth and energy. Penelope gave you stuffed animals upon accidentally learning of your ever growing collection. JJ and Luke somehow memorized your coffee order immediately, and since you tended to show up 40 minutes after everyone, the two often took turns bringing you coffee.

Emily and Morgan were definitely your big brother/sister; they teased you relentlessly, ruffling your hair during training or round table meetings. Being the youngest was something they loved to tease you about. Arguing over who gets to “babysit” first. Morgan likes to hold your badge out of reach and giggle like a psycho when you inevitably climb a chair to reach it. Although the look on his face when Hotch scolds him for teasing is so worth the irritation.

The only one you couldn't quite figure out was Reid.

Spencer Reid.

An anomaly like no other, a mystery by any other name. The man doesn't say much to you outside of work. He's very warm, open, to the others, but he shuts down a bit when it comes to you. In fact, you can count on one hand the conversations you two have shared that didn't involve work. Those moments are beautiful, the soft giggles and his lips quirking up as he gazes at you with something you can't quite put your finger on.

They never last long enough for you to decipher. You can tell when he comes to himself a sudden, sharp, intake of breath before he tenses clears his throat and makes a beeline for the opposite end of the room. It's a bitter end to the brief sweetness.

You've tried to soothe the burn of whatever scorn you've caused from him, bringing him ginseng honey tea because JJ said it was his favorite. Only for him to smile strainly and leave the cup full at the top of his desk…so maybe he's weird about people touching his food and drinks…that's okay! Generosity comes in many forms, so next you tried holding a door open for him and quickly never did it again because the look he gave you made you want to crawl into a closet and rot.

It seems whatever kind favor you do for him irritates him greatly time and time again. It's exhausting and you can't imagine what you've done to warrant such…animosity. You were determined to please. To get to the bottom of this.

You were nothing if not stubborn!

Currently, the team and you are in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Having been flown out the night prior for 4 missing women reports, 2 bodies showed up downstream a river right outside a camp ground. All young, early 20s, camp counselors.

Upon landing Rossi and you were paired and sent to the camp, specifically the cluster of cabins where two of the women bunked together. In the car you both bounced theories back and forth a major one being he was a camp counselor who was rejected/humiliated by other counselors. Perhaps he was a grounds keeper, a sudden stressor has him reacting.

Rossi heads towards the front office intent on having a looj at the files. You trek on to the first cabin, Rebekah Daniel's was the first to go missing. The door was taped off caution signs covering the blood and dirt stains across the porch.

Entering the place was foul, it smelled of something awful and it was throughly trashed. A clear sign of a struggle. You do a swoop of the room where you find a snapped necklace caught under a window pane. Possibly where he had dragged them out.

Hotch calls not long after Rossi and you meet back up. Stating him and Reid might have a more defined geographical location of the unsub. You both conducted interviews with the other campers, splitting them into groups before dwindling down to one on one.

It unfortunately didn't bring much to light, so, heading back to the station you give Rossi and run through of what you found. He squeezes your shoulder, a proud grin on his face. Giving you a "good job, kid." For the effort.

It was time for the second update on JJ and Emily as they interviewed the girl's families. Something felt off the rest of the night. You couldn't pinpoint what exactly, but you were on edge and frustrated with how the interviews had gone…you're missing something. You just know it.

Now, technically you weren’t allowed to get on crime scene sites without a Supervisory Agent with you…but you had a random stroke of luck when remembering the writings on the bathroom stalls out near the campground you and Rossi had Investigated hours prior. So, really, who could blame you?

And that's exactly how you ended up running through the woods in nothing but sweatpants, sneakers, and a baggy t-shirt. It was almost 2am, your phone was gone, your jacket was gone, and most of your dignity was also gone. When you arrived, it was quiet, settled, and you were quick in getting to the stalls and snapping photos of the writing. Intending to study them at the hotel rather than in the woods…in the middle of the night. So imagine your surprise when your full force body slammed into the wall, ears ringing as a boot stomps onto your stomach. You have enough sense to latch on the leg the second time it comes down and use it as leverage to kick up into the man's groin. Scrambling up and over him crashing through the bathroom door frantically dialing Morgan's number.

You can hear him behind you. A snarl sound coming from his throat as he chases, It's predator and prey. Morgan picks up on the 4th ring.

“Yo, this better be good, kid.”

Barely managing a sharp squeal/wail when you're tackled again, phone flying from your grasp. Not hearing the frantic tone of Morgan calling your name. The man - who you now know is the unsub - grabs a fist full of your hair, his hand as big as your head as he shoves your face against the rough dirt and rocks.

“What a sweet little lamb you are. What're you doing all by your lonesome?” his voice was gravely, almost ill sounding, and you cried till your voice was hoarse struggling under him. A horrible sound of a zipper has you tensing, your left arm frees with his sudden pressure change. And you take that opportunity to pull your arm back, then snap it against the unsubs nose, and you can hear the sickening crunch of cartilage and bone. It's pitch black, and you don't notice the steep drop both you and the unsub come close to. Desperate to live and running on animal instincts, you use another pushing point on his outer thigh to create distance. You're up and on your feet, balancing on your left leg to deliver a swift kick to the head with your right when the unsub gets to his knees. motherfuckers got perseverance.

A brief glint catches the moonlight, and your eyes widen. Oh fuck.

He's got a gun.

Your delay was your downfall. In your sudden pause, it gave the unsub enough time to aim and fire. The bullet takes home in your shoulder, stumbling back, almost dazed as the ground gives way, and you plummet down a steep hill.

Oh god...

The team is gonna kill me.

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

This is nothing but one big rough draft I edited where I could, but yeah, it's not meant to be perfect. I hope you enjoyed it tho! Please feel free to give advice or point out any errors! I have a whole story in my mind, I'm negl. I don't know if I'll continue it, but imma try because I have a huge idea where it goes next so....maybe expect? I'll update more if anything changes.

[liver-f4ilure]

Criminals Still alive PT 1

Including only murderers

(OLD POST REDONE!)

Adnan Colak

(AKA. The Beast of Artvin)

Age: 71 (September 5th, 1952, Türkiye)

Crime: killing 11 people via axe ages 68-95, 6 of which were women whom he raped before killing. The span of his crimes were 1992-1995 in the Turkish district of Artvin.

Convictions/Sentence: 6 death sentences + 40yrs imprisonment however it was commuted to life imprisonment when Türkiye abolished the death penalty in 2004.

Where are they now?: released in 2005 under a conditional release arrangement.

Fact: I really can’t find a single thing on how he killed them but he was named the ‘axe murderer’

Artyom Anoufriev

(AKA. Academy Maniacs)

Age: 29 (October 4th 1992, Irkutsk, Russia)

Crime: Artyom and the other member of the academy maniacs, Nikita Lytkin, killed 6 people via hammer, mallet, baseball bat or knife. Artyom said he administered the first blows while Nikita mocked the victims. The two would hit the victim 15-20 times before they passed. In total they had 15 victims with 9 of them surviving.

Conviction/sentence: 6 counts murder, robbery, abuse of victims bodies and organizing extremist activities. Artyom was sentenced to life imprisonment while Nikita was sentenced to 24 years which was then reduced to 20years. However on December 1st 2021 he was found dead via su!cide. He had 9 more years left in his sentence.

Where are they now?: still incarcerated

Fact: the case was the first one involving violent extremism in the Irkutsk Oblast that was solved using forensic science.

Beverly Allitt

(AKA. Angel of Death)

Age: 55 (October 4th 1968, Grantham, England)

Crime: killing 4 children via injecting large doses of insulin and attempted to kill 9 other children during her time as a nurse (aka angel of death)

Conviction/Sentance: 4 counts murder, 5 counts attempted murder. Sentenced to 13 consecutive life sentences.

Where are they now?: still incarcerated

Fact:During early childhood and adolescence she would do ‘attention-seeking’ behaviours including going to multiple doctors and getting her prefectly healthy appendix removed. her motive for her crimes was FDIA ( factitious disorder imposed by another) aka Münchhausen by proxy.

Catherine Brinie

(AKA.The Moorhouse Murders)

Age: 73 (May 23rd 1951, Australia?)

Crime: murdering and abducting 4 women (attempting to kill 1) all ranging in ages from 15-31 with her husband, David Birnie (1951-2005) almost all their victims were rapd. The couple gained the name ‘the moorhouse murders’ since they committed the crimes in their house at 3 Moorhouse Street.

Conviction/Sentence: She was sentenced to 4 terms life imprisonment with possibility of parole after 20 years. Her husband pleaded guilty to 4 counts murder, 5 counts abduction and 4 counts rape.

Where are they now?: still incarcerated

Fact: the couple only had 1 survivor, Kate Moir who was 17 at the time of her escape and wasn’t believed by police when she made the report.

Charles Cullen

(AKA. The Angel of death)

Age: 64 (February 22nd 1960, West Orange, New Jersey USA)

Crime: Cullen, a nurse, killed 29 with a suspected 400 more people by injecting lethal doses of insulin and Digoxin. His crimes lasted from 1988-2003 and through several medical centres in both New Jersey and Pennsylvania.

Conviction/sentence: convicted of 29 counts murder and sentenced to 18 consecutive life sentences and will be eligible for parole June 10th 2403.

Where are they now?: still incarcerated

Fact: in 2006 during a sentencing hearing in a Pennsylvanian courtroom Cullen, for 30 minutes kept repeating”Your Honour, you need to step down” until Judge William H. platt had him gagged with cloth and duct tape. Yet through the cloth he still kept repeating his words.

David Berkowitz

(AKA. Son of Sam)

Age: 71 (June 1st 1953, Brooklyn New York USA)

Crime: killing 6 people (mainly couples) via .44 calibre gun, leaving 11 wounded and 2 via stabbing in ‘75. He also reported being apart of multiple unsolved arsons

Convictions/Sentance: 6 counts murder in the second degree, 7 counts attempted second degree murder. Sentenced to life imprisonment with possibility of parole after 25yrs

Where are they now?: Still incarcerated

Fact: Stacy Moskowitz was the only blonde victim of Berkowitz and didn’t survive. At the police station Stacy’s mother reported a detective called her ‘ms. Berkowitz’ instead of Moskowitz. He gained his name because of his motive saying his neighbours dog ‘Sam’ was the devil and told him to do it which he later claimed was fake. He also was apart of a satanic cult named ‘The sons of Sam’ but not any members have been found. He is the reason for a set of laws called ‘The son of Sam laws’ which prohibit criminals from profiting off media.

(I COULD DO A WHOLE INFO POST ON THIS CASE ITS SO INTERESTING!)

Dennis Rader

(AKA. BTK Killer)

Age: 79 (March 9th 1945, Pittsburg, Kansas USA)

Crime: killed 10-12+ victims all ranging in age (9-62) by suffocation or strangulation. First he would break into his victims houses (usually families) tie them up, torture them then kill them. He sometimes masturbated over his female victims.

Convictions/Sentance: 10 counts murder in the first degree (suspected more victims). Sentance to life imprisonment with possibility of parole after 175yrs.

Where are they now?: still incarcerated

Fact: Rader got so caught up in sending letters to taunt police that he sent a floppy disc which was traced back to him, leading to his arrest

Gary Ridgway

(AKA.the green river killer)

Age: 75 (Febuary 18th 1949 Salt Lake City Utah USA)

Crime: Ridgeway killed 49 woman minority of them prostitutes or underage runaways and would pick them up off the highway and strangle them to death via his own hands then would dump their bodies in the green river(coining the name ‘Green river killer’ or other forested areas and often returned to the scene to commit acts of necrophilia. His victims were found in both Washington and Oregon. His crimes spanned from 1982 to 1988 but it’s possible he was still attacking people up to 2001 when he was finally apprehended the same year.

Convictions/sentence: 49 counts aggravated first degree murder, 48 counts tampering with evidence and solicitation. Ridgeway was sentenced to 49 life sentences without possibility of parole.

Where are they now?: still incarcerated

Fact: Ridgeway would wet the bed up until he was 13. At 16 he led a 6yr old boy into the woods and stabbed him through the ribs into the liver, he thankfully survived.

Part 2 coming soon…

—

I DO NOT CONDONE!

-Vivi

[mariacallous]

Presidential debates have impact when they address questions and concerns about the candidates that are top of mind for voters. As the crucial presidential debate began, in a race that was statistically dead even, both candidates had work to do.

Kamala Harris faced three key challenges. First, 37% to 42% of voters in some swing states knew virtually nothing about her except that she serves as Joe Biden’s vice president. Filling in this gap, or at least beginning to, was job one. From the very first minutes of the debate, it was clear that she knew she had to define herself and that she did—as a child of the middle class who, in contrast to Trump, was not given $400 million to start a business. In addition, she repeatedly came back to her experience as a prosecutor.

Second, Harris has shifted her position on many important issues—health care (Medicare for All), climate change (fracking), and immigration (decriminalizing border crossings), among others—since she ran for the nomination in 2020. This left people wondering, what kind of Democrat is she—a classic California progressive or the next generation of the Clinton, Obama, and Biden-style center-left? She had to persuade voters that the new version of Kamala Harris is the one they will get if she is elected.

Here her performance was more mixed. She explained her shift on fracking but didn’t give as clean and crisp an answer as she could have on other issues where Trump has accused her of flip-flopping. However, she defended the Biden administration and her participation in the bipartisan immigration legislation that Trump killed, she let the audience know that both she and Tim Walz are gun owners who have no intention of taking away people’s guns, and she pushed back against the charge that she was weak on crime by emphasizing her experience and record as a prosecutor who put criminals behind bars.    

Third, as is the case with every candidate who hasn’t previously occupied the presidency, Harris had to convince swing voters that she has what it takes to serve effectively as the nation’s chief executive and commander-in-chief. Simply put, they needed to be able to see her as big enough to be president, a barrier that some previous candidates, such as Michael Dukakis in 1988, failed to cross.

Harris passed this test easily. She never got flustered, she made her points concisely and quickly, and she spoke with confidence about traditionally “male” issues like war, defense, crime, and foreign policy.

What did Trump have to do in this debate? Two things.

First of all, he had to come across as someone who is not mean and angry, obsessed with the past and prone to conspiracy theorizing. His campaign aides have urged him to fight Kamala on the issues. Yet, on the stump, Trump can’t seem to stick to the script. He reads the policy portions of his speeches with an obvious lack of enthusiasm and returns often to complaining about alleged ballot fraud in 2020, insulting Harris, and unearthing conspiracy theories that make little sense.

Trump began the debate with the advice from his advisors ringing in his head. His first answer on the economy took aim at the Biden record, one of the issues on which he has held a consistent lead throughout the campaign. But as time went on, his debate performance took the same course as the Trump rallies. He turned nearly every question into an answer about the threats from illegal immigration. Like the economy, this has been a good issue for him, but he did begin to sound like a Johnny One Note on the topic, and it is not clear that this issue is as powerful in swing states like Pennsylvania as it is in border or more Republican states.

Also, as the debate wore on, Trump simply could not stay away from weird stuff. He insisted that Democrats favored killing babies after they were born and allowing abortion in the ninth month. And he repeated a story about immigrants in Springfield, Ohio killing and eating people’s cats and dogs. One of the moderators, David Muir, had to step in to point out that reporters had called Springfield city officials who had investigated the story and found it simply wasn’t true.

The second thing Trump needed to do was differentiate himself from the most extreme stances of his party—many of which are described by his former aides in Project 2025. As he has done in the past, he distanced himself from this document during the debate, claiming “I have nothing to do with Project 2025. I haven’t even read it.” 

Although there are many questionable policies being considered by Trump and the right wing of the Republican Party, such as slapping huge tariffs on U.S. imports and deporting millions of immigrants—by far the most dangerous one for him politically is abortion. On that issue, his answer was, as it has always been, that everything is okay because now the states are deciding it. Not surprisingly, Harris’ attack on abortion was exceptionally strong. She pointed out the many states that have passed highly restrictive abortion policies and, in some cases, have criminalized the behavior of doctors who are providing reproductive services. Abortion rights is the single most helpful issue for the Democrats in 2024.

Republican strategists keep hoping the abortion issue can be buried, but recent steps by Trump allies in Florida and Texas have kept it alive. In the debate, Trump tried to distance himself from the extremes, arguing that he would approve of abortions for rape and incest and even going so far as to say the Florida six-week ban is too short. Nonetheless, the coalition he leads isn’t happy with his nods to moderation, and it is likely many Americans will continue to believe that he would sign a national abortion ban if a Republican Congress sent it to his desk.

In conclusion, there are three kinds of presidential debates. The first is when one candidate lands a knockout blow against the other, as Ronald Reagan did with Jimmy Carter in 1980. The second is when the debate does little if anything to change the flow of the race; the Clinton/Dole debates in 1996 are a good example. The third, intermediate outcome occurs when a debate yields an advantage to one candidate without ending the other’s chance to win, as happened when Mitt Romney bested President Obama in their first debate in 2012.

The first (and perhaps only) debate between Donald Trump and Kamala Harris falls into this last category. After a month-long Harris surge that erased the advantage Trump had developed over President Biden, the race had stabilized during the past two weeks. This debate seems likely to put new wind in Harris’ sails. Whether it will be enough to propel her to victory in the Electoral College remains to be seen. But her campaign and supporters leave the debate with renewed energy and hope. By contrast, the Trump campaign must reckon with the likelihood that their candidate’s performance pleased his base without rallying many new supporters to his side.

Throughout the race, Trump has enjoyed a solid lead on the question of strong leadership. While he may still hold an advantage, most Americans who watched the debate probably saw in Kamala Harris an adversary who held her ground, went on the attack whenever possible, and refused to be intimidated. This matters.

On the face of it, the Trump campaign has an incentive to seek a rematch. If it does, the Harris campaign will probably insist on rules more to its liking. If not, this debate will stand as the last high-profile event before the November 5 election and as the race devolves into trench warfare—a battle of communications and organization in the states that will decide the outcome.

Finally—in the minutes after the debate closed—the galactically famous singer Taylor Swift announced she would be voting for Kamala Harris. In today’s world, this may be worth as much or even more than Harris’ solid debate performance.

[offender42085]

Post 1009

Andrew Braddy, Pennsylvania inmate NU5558, born 2000, incarceration intake in 2019 at age 19, sentenced to 12 years; projected release date not available

Involuntary Manslaughter

In March 2019, a Latrobe man was sentenced to serve up to 12 years in prison after pleading guilty to a lesser charge of involuntary manslaughter for the August 2017 shooting death of his 15-year-old friend.

Andrew Stephen Braddy, 18, told a Westmoreland County judge he was guilty of the charges but said nothing more about his role in the shooting death of Devin Capasso. The teen was killed when a gun, held by Braddy, discharged as they listened to rap music in a Latrobe home.

“This was a tragic accident. It was his friend, and there were drugs being consumed. Drugs and guns never mix,” defense attorney Robert Mielnicki said.

Braddy was 17 at the time of the incident. He was initially charged with a general count of criminal homicide, and prosecutors said there was evidence he intended to kill Capasso, a crime that if he was convicted could carry a potential life prison sentence. Defense attorneys have for the last year insisted involuntary manslaughter, which is a killing that occurs as a result of a negligent or reckless act, was the more appropriate charge.

Assistant District Attorney Tom Grace said the plea bargain finalized Monday was appropriate.

“Factually, this charge is the best fit. It involved a reckless killing. This was a situation where young kids were fooling around with guns. There is no evidence of bad blood between them,” Grace said.

Prosecutors said Braddy and four others were in a fourth-floor apartment on Main Street on Aug. 29, 2017, when he and another teen showed off two handguns stolen from vehicles within the past week. As the group listened to rap music, Braddy started to wave one of the guns, manipulated the weapon to prepare it to shoot and told Capasso he was going to fire before he pulled the trigger, police said.

Westmoreland County Common Pleas Judge Rita Hathaway imposed terms of the negotiated plea bargain that calls for Braddy to serve six to 12 years in prison.

That sentence includes a 2 1⁄2 to five-year prison term for the misdemeanor involuntary manslaughter charge, the maximum penalty for that offense. The judge ordered Braddy serve a consecutive term of 3 1⁄2 to seven years behind bars for a count of possession of an unlicensed firearm.

As part of the plea deal, Braddy withdrew his pretrial motions that included a request to have his case transferred to juvenile court, a move that would have prevented him from remaining in custody beyond his 21st birthday.

3g

[senjuushi]

Antique Gun Character Intros

Since a good few people have asked for this now, here's a character intro post covering the Rhodoknight Antiques! o3o Disclaimer that I do not know these characters anywhere near as well as I do the Moderns, and as a result, my takes are subject to change as I get a better feel for them. Still, I hope this post makes the Antiques more accessible to y'all and gets me some more requests for them... XD

. . .

This is Enfield. Outwardly, he appears to be polite, good-natured, and normal. He’s very much not that. A lot of Enfield’s character is shaped by his younger brother, Snider, whose terrible behavior and constant threats of remodeling Enfield to be “just like him” are a real handful to deal with. They deserve each other. Underneath his noble exterior, Enfield is a little freak. He’s obsessive, smothering, and neurotically desperate to be of use, with stalker-y tendencies and a bad habit of idol worship. He wants to be good and helpful, and he’ll do some highly disturbing things to accomplish that. His relationship with Snider also has a weird amount of tension... of the suspiciously suggestive variety.

. . .

This is Snider. He’s awful. Snider’s whole personality revolves around the fact that he really, REALLY doesn’t want to be a person. His belief that he’s still nothing more than a weapon leads him to a fixation on combat and an utter rejection of anything too human for his liking. This includes eating, sleeping, and bathing. His gun is a special case that was made right on the cusp of what separates a Modern and an Antique— and as a result, Snider is technically both. He can function as whichever side he chooses to and only defaults to Antique because that’s what he finds most useful. He’s Enfield’s younger brother, a directly adapted and functionally superior model of gun, and because of that, he’s constantly trying to “remodel” Enfield into the same type of gun. They have a weird relationship where Enfield babysits him, Snider is unfailingly bratty and threatening, and the suspicious levels of maybe-sexual tension are just plain weird. 

. . .

This is George. For the most part. He’s the embodiment of the “cheerful, stupid American” stereotype that’s so common in anime. An all-around sunshine boy, George is good-natured, friendly, sweet, and more than a little oblivious. His main issues come from the fact that he shares a body/gun with the “Brown Bess” personality (the poster boy of the first game). George feels inferior to Brown Bess in both his capabilities as a weapon and his value as an individual, and he repeatedly expresses a belief that everyone around him would rather have his counterpart in his place. Though he tries his best to be good and useful, he’s painfully aware that his existence is kind of a disappointment. He’s way too self-sacrificing for his own good. 

. . .

This is Kentucky. He’s more or less an overexcited puppy who REALLY wants to prove himself. Passionate, energetic, and with very little volume control, he’s somewhere between adorably earnest and annoyingly intense. He has a sort of one-sided rivalry with his older brother, Pennsylvania, where he’s aggressively trying to surpass his big bro... while Pennsylvania just wishes they could get along better. Kentucky is also pretty short-tempered; he’s perfectly respectful to his Master but ready to throw hands with other guns whenever the chance arises. He cares a lot about aesthetics and his appearance, wants Master’s attention desperately, and is definitely compensating for a lot of internal insecurity. 

. . .

This is Pennsylvania. He’s a laid-back guy with a love of hunting and the outdoors. The level-headed parallel to Kentucky’s hot-tempered enthusiasm, Pennsylvania is calm, independent, and a bit aloof. He can get caught up in his own way of doing things to the point of forgetting about others’ feelings, but he’s well-intentioned and generally kind. A reliable “big brother” type who looks after others, he very much seems like the type who’d willingly get hurt if it meant protecting someone he cares about. He doesn’t have a lot of pride in the sense of how he appears to others and is more concerned with doing what needs to be done than getting his way or looking good.

. . .

This is Charleville. He’s a sweet little guy who’s very damaged. In the game’s story, his previous Master (before the player owns him) is literally renting him out. For his healing abilities as an Antique, technically, but the more sexual implication is still very much there. Because of this renting out and his previous Master’s general mistreatment, Charleville has an intense fixation on purity, perfection, and being appealing to everyone around him. He’s delicate, gentle, polite, and affectionate, but also has a bad tendency of hiding any problems in an attempt not to bother people. He values his physical appearance and holds himself to a strict standard of behavior, though his more attention-seeking side does slip out from time to time. Charleville desperately wants to be loved, especially by his Master, but he’s convinced he has to be all but perfect to earn it. 

. . .

This is Chassepot. He’s Gras’s older brother and the source of MANY of Gras’s problems. Like Gras, Chassepot initially comes across as a polite, charming gentleman. That’s very intentional. He wants Master’s affection and approval desperately and does everything possible to come across as the kind of capable, pleasant person who his Master can rely on and be close to. Under that surface, though, Chassepot is dangerously prone to feelings of jealousy, inferiority, and comparing himself to others. He’s easily provoked and can have a violent temper with other guns, and his past failures haunt him endlessly. It’s likely that he has the same tendency for rabies as Gras, but is just better at keeping it contained... in the short term. We know from the previous game that Chassepot can snap, and when he does, it’s bad. 

. . .

This is Tabatiere. He’s a laid-back, inoffensive person who’s perfectly open about the fact that he’s meant for a support role, not the front lines. Usually functioning as Chassepot and Gras’s babysitter, Tabatiere sticks to the sidelines, minds his own business, and tries to be helpful where he can. He’s deeply insecure, however, and his self-esteem is so low that getting too much attention, even positive, makes him highly uncomfortable. He has the atmosphere of someone who willingly accepts anything bad that happens to him because he can’t imagine deserving better.

. . .

This is Dreyse. He’s an ultra-strict, ultra-serious sort who values rules, order, and hard work. Between his massive body and imposing personality, he comes across as highly intimidating... but he’s as respectful and obedient as can be when it comes to authority figures. Dreyse has high expectations of himself and his performance, to the point where he’ll accept nothing less than perfection. No matter what physical or emotional distress it causes him, he’ll do everything possible to fulfill his orders and succeed as a Musketeer. Deep down, he has a lot of guilt over his past and personal failings, and the only value he sees in himself is as a weapon and tool. Herme respects him massively, and the two are close in a kind of weird way. Dreyse ends up as his caretaker during Iron Days, for example.

. . .

This is Jitte. He has that kind of happy-go-lucky, easygoing personality where he’s both pleasant to be around and kind of a ditz. Very much “drunk goofy uncle” energy. When his self-esteem issues aren’t getting in the way, he can be quite affectionate (especially with Master). Sensitive, earnest, and emotional, Jitte has nothing but good intentions in mind with everything he does. He has the typical bizarre gun insecurity, though, and worries a lot about if he’s as useful and worthwhile as the other Musketeers around him. His gun also functions as a jitte, which is more or less an Edo-period police baton. Though he seems pretty carefree, Jitte is surprisingly hardworking and takes pride in being able to protect people. He’s very moral, with a strong sense of justice. 

. . .

This is Karl. He’s a dignified little man who, despite his youthful appearance, is the oldest gun in the series. As in, he’s from the early 1500s. A unique weapon who belonged to Emperor Charles V, Karl has a long and prestigious history, and he knows it. He’s proud and well-mannered, takes his status as a famous piece of history very seriously, and is quite concerned with how he appears and behaves in front of others. Showing weakness is hard for Karl. He does a lot to hide how lonely and weak he can be, including active attempts to remain aloof and relatively unattached to his Master. The most he can tolerate is a professional, weapon-and-wielder relationship, since anything else would be opening him up to even more loss. I think he’s also weak to stress and VERY bad at dealing with unfamiliar situations; being esteemed as a valuable relic for so long means that he’s pretty sheltered and more unused to physical pain than he wants to admit.

. . .

This is Lorenz. He’s kind of insufferable. The mad-scientist intellectual type, he has a massive ego and a superiority complex to match. His type of gun was made in both government and private factories, with the government factory-made ones being notably superior in function— and this Lorenz is one of those. Like a lot of the Antiques, he’s eager and insistent to prove that he’s a useful, high-quality tool, even and especially when that means making himself look good at others’ expense. He’s extremely loyal to Karl, to a kind of pathetic degree... and also absolutely terrified of Dreyse. That leads to the part where Lorenz is very much a coward who’s playing tough in the hopes no one will see through the farce. He’s easily agitated, neurotically stressed, and can’t stand things not going his way. 

. . .

This is Cutlery. He’s a little brat who has the typical bizarre-gun problem of pathetically low self-esteem. His gun is a weird one— it’s technically three guns disguised as pieces of silverware that were used on pirate ships as a covert weapon. Cutlery has a whole complex about how “cowardly” he is, and despite his prickly attitude and initial rudeness, he’s painfully shy, insecure, and unable to handle attention of any kind. He’s prone to idolizing people and desperately wants close relationships, but is too anxious, defensive, and afraid of being hated to open up to people without panicking. That said, he can be awfully needy and clingy once he’s attached. He also has a strong fixation on food, to the point where hoarding behavior and general food insecurity seem likely.

. . .

[renecdote]

something human

For @thekristen999 💛

“Buck,” Eddie starts, gripping his sleeve.

“Don’t even think about telling me you’re fine,” Buck snaps, but he turns his arm and grips Eddie’s hand just as tightly.

You’ve got me, Eddie wants to say, of course I’m fine. But he bites his cheek instead. Breathes in through his nose. Feels the way it all hurts.

For BTHB: blood from the mouth

[Read on AO3]

The first thing he tastes is burning metal. Hot and acrid, the smell of fuel in his nose and the taste of metal like blood at the back of his throat. The chopper went down, Eddie thinks. We’re under attack. He rolls over, pushes himself up, grit and melting asphalt under his palms, and—

Not the desert.

Not a helicopter.

Pain, sharp enough to steal his breath, lancing through his chest, his head, his knee.

Buck.

“Buck,” a breathless groan. Eddie’s vision swims when he tries to push himself up to his feet. He doesn’t get further than his knees. Licks his lips and tries again, louder: “Buck?”

Everything is hazy with smoke. The Jeep is… The Jeep is up against a power pole, but it’s fine. Buck was walking, talking, but they only spared a minute for each other because—

because—

The truck is burning. Eddie blinks phantom sand out of his eyes, pressing a hand hard against his side, the pain like a lightning strike: blinding for a moment, the sizzling taste of it left on his tongue when the flash fades. He forces himself to stand up. Forces himself to breathe, and step forward, and breathe, and step forward. Buck went around to help the driver. Eddie—Eddie has to help Buck.

There’s a ringing in his ears that might be sirens, might be wishful thinking. Might just be the echo of the explosion. Buck was carrying a fire extinguisher when he went around the truck, because that’s the kind of thing he has in his car these days, just in case, Eds, you never know when you might have to fight a fire! It’s dented now, almost tripping Eddie up as he stumbles through the choking smoke. He blinks and tastes jet fuel. Blinks and tastes the grain spilling everywhere, hot and humid and burning.

El Paso isn’t crop country. Not really, not the way other places are. Eddie grew up with cotton on one side, cattle on the other, and pecans down the road. Grain fires are the kind of danger he never thought about until he went to war, of all places, and met a kid from Kansas who knew a hell of a lot more about farming than guns.

Hershey isn’t crop country either, but parts of Pennsylvania around it are. Montana is. And even if he hadn’t spent time in both those places, Eddie is pretty sure grain fires are just the kind of thing that Buck would know about. He’s also pretty sure neither of them expected to almost crash into one head-on half an hour out of LA.

Something pops within the truck, another surge of flames leaping into the sky. Eddie ducks away instinctively and—there, movement ahead—his eyes catch on the ground first, white sneakers like a beacon through the flames and smoke, and he follows them up the long line of Buck’s body to see him struggling to pull the driver out of the truck.

“Buck!” he calls again, coughing through smoke and pain, eyes watering.

Buck’s head turns, his lips already moving, gesturing with one hand: help me.

They get the driver out together, half carrying and half dragging him across the scorched road. Sorry buddy, Eddie thinks, half praying with the heat at his back, teeth gritted against a scream, a sob, he doesn’t even know. He’s shaking by the time they get to a distance that feels halfway safe. Training and adrenaline keep him moving while his lungs try to catch up, pain like a vice around his chest.

“Holy shit.”

Loud and jarring. Not Buck’s voice. Eddie turns and finds other cars have stopped now, a crooked line of bystanders gawking and holding phones up. He hopes one of them called 911.

Then Buck is the one cursing, low and rough, and Eddie turns back. Focus, he reminds himself, but it’s harder than it should be. His chest feels heavy and he knows, even as he’s working through all the steps he knows by heart, that they may have pulled the driver out, but they’re not going to be able to save him.

Another loud bang, a burst of flames high in the air, and Eddie winces against the heat of it. He thinks the ground is trembling, and he puts a hand flat against the asphalt, but maybe it’s just him that’s trembling.

“Come on,” Buck is saying, pleading, his whole body rigid as he does compressions, the rhythm repeating over and over and over.

It could be seconds or minutes before he pauses and Eddie checks the driver’s pulse automatically. He shakes his head. Buck keeps doing CPR.

It could be seconds or minuets before someone says, “We’ve got him,” and then there’s a hand on Eddie’s shoulder, pulling him back, pulling him out of the way.

He ends up slumped back on his heels, watching through a haze as the paramedics work. Their movements are quick, urgent, all of them grim-faced, and part of Eddie wants to look away, wants to be anywhere but here, but he can’t make himself move, even after they’ve lifted the driver on a stretcher and slammed the ambulance doors shut. The air is hazy with smoke and his eyes sting, the scene around him blurring as they water.

There’s something about the smell of burning fuel. The taste of it, the way it settles deep in his nose, the way it turns his stomach. Eddie feels dizzy with it. Dizzy with the shallow breaths that don’t let enough air in but still fill his mouth and nose with acrid fuel. Fuck. Has breathing always been this hard? The pain sharpens again, a knife between his ribs, and Eddie’s next inhale becomes a cough.

“Eddie?”

There’s blood on Buck’s shirt. His hands. Eddie doesn’t know if it belongs to him or the truck driver.

“Hey.” Hand on his shoulder, eyes wide and worried. “Are you hurt?”

Eddie starts to shake his head—nothing serious—but then he coughs, harsh and rattling, and tastes blood—sees blood, splattered on the sleeve he used to cover his mouth, bright red against grey cotton. There is a flash of adrenaline, fizzy like panic, and then something like clarity: oh, okay, maybe a little bit serious.

Buck has gone pale, his birthmark as bright as the red on Eddie’s sleeve.

“Hey!” Yelling to someone over Eddie’s head, consonants tripping over themselves. “We need another RA unit over here!”

 “Buck,” Eddie starts, gripping his sleeve.

“Don’t even think about telling me you’re fine,” Buck snaps, but he turns his arm and grips Eddie’s hand just as tightly.

You’ve got me, Eddie wants to say, of course I’m fine. But he bites his cheek instead. Breathes in through his nose. Feels the way it all hurts.

“Ribs,” he tells Buck. “Must have—” hissing when he moves, pain like a vice around his chest “—broken one, punctured lung.”

Maybe in the initial crash, maybe being thrown by the explosion, maybe with all the moving around. Buck is already lifting his shirt up, hands shaking as he probes gently around the bruises coming up on Eddie’s torso. Another firefighter is approaching, kneeling down beside them with an easy calm, the kind they don’t teach you at the Academy but you have to learn as you go. It reminds Eddie of Chimney and he squeezes his eyes shut then looks again just to make sure it isn’t. Realises immediately how stupid that is, of course it’s not Chimney, so maybe he’s a little more banged up than he thought.

We’re firefighters too, he wants to say, you don’t need to sugarcoat it. But he’s fast running out of breath to speak and he feels like he needs to save it, just in case.

“You’re gonna be fine,” Buck tells him, and Eddie has a vague memory of him saying those words when he got shot, or maybe just something similar, and it’s not the same situation, nothing like it at all really, but—

He doesn’t lose consciousness. He can see the worry on Buck’s face out of the corner of his eye the whole trip to the hospital. Through the oxygen mask strapped to his face, the needle stuck between his ribs to aspirate the air, the doctor at the other end who tells him he’s lucky, it’s only a partial collapse, but they might still need to put a drain in. Lucky isn’t really how Eddie feels—lucky would have been not ending up in hospital at all.

“Christopher—gotta call—”

“I’ve got it,” Buck promises. “I’ll call Carla, let her know what’s going on.”

He smiles, but it looks all wrong. Eddie catches him by the shirt before he can leave the room.

“Buck. I’m okay,” he says, as reassuring as he can through the oxygen mask over his face.

Buck’s eyes search his face for a long moment, his lip caught between his teeth. Then he nods.

“I’ll call Carla,” he says again, more steady this time. “Won’t be long.”

Eddie fights every instinct he has to hold on (forever, always forever) and lets him go. He closes his eyes, then opens them again a minute later, rotating his wrist, then his shoulder, just to check that he can. His head is aching, a concussion to go along with the broken ribs and punctured lung, and even with the hospital antiseptic soaking the air, he can’t get the smell of burning jet fuel out of his mind.

It’s a relief when the curtain is pushed aside and Buck ducks back into the cubicle. He settles into the chair beside the bed like he’s prepared to wait for a while, and Eddie thinks he should tell him that he doesn’t have to stay, but—he doesn’t. Doesn’t want to. It feels selfish, but he knows Buck wouldn’t leave anyway.

“Chris is okay,” Buck tells him before Eddie can open his mouth to ask. “Carla is going to bring him to the hospital, but she’s got another client this afternoon so she can’t stay. We can hang out here for a bit, or I can take him straight home once he’s seen you’re okay?”

The sentence ends on a nervous uptick, Buck’s fingers tapping against his phone case. Eddie watches, confused, his muddled brain taking too long to realise that Buck doesn’t want to seem like he’s overstepping, making decisions without consulting Eddie first. 

It’s only really hitting him now, that they were in a car accident. A freak explosion. That it could have been a hell of a lot worse. That everything about this would be worse if Buck wasn’t here with him. He looks at his best friend sitting beside the hospital bed, a bruise on his jaw and scrapes on his arms, stepping in to look after Eddie’s son like it’s the easiest thing in the world, and—

“Stay,” Eddie says, and he thinks he means I love you.

He thinks he has been meaning I love you for a long time, honestly, and he’s probably going to have to go back to Frank and tell him how much of an idiot he is for not realising sooner. Maybe call Hen and have a minor breakdown about it. Hen is good at advice, she’ll be straight with him.

Well. Not straight, but.

Eddie swallows all the words suddenly buzzing on his tongue and realises the taste of jet fuel isn’t as strong anymore. He’s still breathless, but. That’s maybe not entirely because of the punctured lung.

Maybe Buck can feel it too because when he smiles this time, it looks more real.

“Okay,” he agrees, soft and sincere. “We’ll stay as long as you want.”

He wants Buck to stay forever. Has always wanted that. Maybe one day he’ll be brave enough to say it.

“Thanks,” he says instead, letting his head fall back against the pillow and his eyes close.

He doesn’t sleep, but when Buck reaches out a few minutes later and gently takes his hand, it feels like a dream. Eddie smiles, and he only feels like a little bit of a coward, knowing it is hidden behind the foggy oxygen mask. They’ve got time, he reasons, he doesn’t have to be brave just yet.

Buck isn’t going anywhere.

[ineffabletwaddle13]

Holmes pokes/ touches Watson with one finger from the first day they met and Watson quickly picks up the habit himself, and even starts poking Lestrade too

[pregnancykink]

route 70 blues

When I was little, Dad taught us how the highways go: evens from east to west and odds from north to south. Starting up in Boston there's Route 90, all the way to Seattle. And then the 5 from the border at Blaine, through Seattle and down to the border at Chula Vista. Route 80 from New York, Route 70 from Maryland. And so on and so forth.

Route 70 was my favorite. There's an exit in Breezewood, Pennsylvania, and it looks like every exit on the east coast, but it was special to me because it had a McDonalds that Dad was always willing to stop at. Those were the days that you’d get the little slip that would tell you how much to pay based on which exit you were taking and there was a toll booth at Breezewood. I used to get a kick out of telling Dad how much he owed. Dean would never let me put one of those EZ-passes on Baby’s windshield, and now I just keep a couple $20s in the glovebox or pay the bills when they come in the mail. The car’s registered to a real address now.

We spent a lot of time on Route 70. Straight through a couple flyover states and ending in Utah. When Dean and I would play the alphabet game, we’d race to see who could spot the Zanesville, Ohio water tower first to get the Z and win it all. We would bet stupid shit on winning that game: who would have to clean Dad’s Colt next, who would have to cast iron bullets next. Who would have to make the beds at the next motel that would be home. That sort of thing.

But the main thing I remember about Route 70 was the way the sun would shine through the windows of the Impala once we’d get out of the green of the Kansas City suburbs and before we’d get into the Rockies. There was this little stretch where the fields turned tan with dead corn and wheat, and we’d stopped in a town called Burlington to sleep for the night on our way to a case in Moab.

It's a postage stamp town. There was a truck stop called Love’s and a motel named for the town, which was where we’d fueled up and then bedded down. I must’ve been about newly 16, Dean 20 and full of false-bravado. Dad was letting him go off on solo hunts more and more often by then, but he and I were together in the car at the time. I had been a steady passenger in the front seat by that point. And I remember – the sun was shining, and there were no trees to dapple it, and it hit Dean’s face just right. His freckles were finally coming back out in the May warmth and his eyes looked almost clear. He had a little grin on his face, the right side of his mouth pulled up as he nodded along to CCR’s Cosmo’s Factory cassette. Ramble Tamble was the opening track on the B-side. I always bitched about Dean’s music taste, but I didn’t mind the swamp rock so much. And I liked Ramble Tamble, because it reminded me of us. Drifting. A big long guitar solo that made Dean smile and made me think about moving from town to town.

Back then, I hated the way we lived, but I liked that the way we lived was something just Dean and I understood. Something just for us. No matter how many kids I couldn’t make friends with in school, eventually I'd get back in the car with Dean. And down the road we’d go.

In Burlington, Colorado, I knew I was in love with Dean. I knew it in that moment with the sun shining, with Dean's hands tapping on the steering wheel and John Fogerty crooning along in the background. I knew it in the way we’d share the motel bed since Dad only ever got rooms with two queens, and I knew it in the way that Dean would clean the guns next even though he’d spotted the Zanesville water tower first.

I'd wanted to lean over and kiss him. Instead, I'd said, “This is the tape with Up Around the Bend on it, right? I like this one.”

And he'd said: “Sammy, you might have some good music taste after all!” It'd made my chest bloom, and I loved him. I’d hold that inside for another decade before I said anything, and by that point, we were both doomed.

— for @wincestwednesdays "americana"

[ficyorick]

[BE] deleted scenes clean-up :) - ch3

i always put scenes im cutting out into a separate file, just in case i get to reuse them but these r definitely goners so i can share

Originally, the trip back from Pennsylvania to the cabin was a bit longer. I sort of cannibalized that moment to make the transition from Billy's being mad at Kessler to Billy taking it out on HL more of a punchy moment:

"Get the fuck out of my car." Billy turned towards the road and flipped the headlight control, switching to low beam. 

"I'm not in your car, buckaroo. I'm inside you." Kessler smiled his wide grin.

"Where were you taking me?" Butcher didn't acknowledge anything his dying brain was saying to him. "Where are we?" 

Kessler sighed like a parent who knew they just weren't getting through to their moody teen. He closed the glove compartment with a click, but not before dropping a pack of wet wipes on Butcher's knees. "On the way back. Figured you needed a distraction. We just got on 219, keep going straight and we'll be out of Pennsylvania soon."  

Butcher reached into the packet he himself dropped in his lap. He wordlessly wiped at his face and his hands, getting most of the already crusting blood off. The rest would have to wait till the cabin. Slowly, he released the handbrake and let the van start properly. Kessler leaned back in his seat, getting comfortable. 

"I could drive for you." He offered casually.

"No. I need to think." Butcher squeezed the gas pedal, eyes glued to the road. 

Kessler made a doubting noise in response but didn't press. 

It took them another day to get back where the cabin was. At some point, Butcher had to pull over and catch some shuteye in the back of the van. Kessler stayed in the passenger's seat while Billy changed his clothes to slightly less bloody and rolled a makeshift pillow from his jacket. He closed his eyes and saw only red, the bright red of the bunker corridor and the dark red of the blood from the Supes he ripped apart. Supes and whoever else was down there. 

Becca. Becca was down there too. 

Was she hoping to stop him? Stop Kessler? It was way too late now, she had to have known that. And even though she also was just a byproduct of his neurons dying off one by one, Butcher was mad that it was Kessler who got to see her. She wasn't real, she wasn't his Becca, she was just a hallucination. She was just him. Like Kessler. 

But he still wanted to hear her voice again.

When Billy woke up, he was in the driver's seat again and it was night already. This time, the control was given to him carefully, sensation by sensation, not all at once like after the bunker. 

"Oi, you twat." Butcher gripped the steering wheel again, feeling his hands as his again. 

Kessler was sitting back in the passenger's seat. "We're almost at the cabin. You're welcome." 

"I said I wanted to drive." Billy very quickly realized they were about to arrive at the very familiar driveway into the forest. He added more gas as soon as the surroundings began to make sense. 

"No, I know what you want." Kessler said and didn't elaborate, but the way Butcher sped up was enough of an answer for both of them. "You’ve been thinking about it ever since that gas station."

___________________

and if ur still reading... the original ending to the ch3 looked like this. before the very painstaking edit process the whole HL-on-Butchers-lap scene was WAY more... you know. more handsy. i decided to downplay it considerably bc I felt i was jumping the gun too early and im glad i did, i prefer butcher more tortured about the whole thing. this ending is like. its rly good but its basically the same moment from ch5 when homelander leans into the touch and calls butcher scared. i had to choose which one of these moments i get to keep and i went with the one in ch5 bc its one of the first scenes i ever wrote for this fic haha:

Homelander convulsed a few more times underneath his palm, groaning and half-sobbing violently. Butcher managed to start and flick away another cigarette before the body underneath his palm finally grew still. He realized he still hadn't taken his hand away. Homelander made another pathetic noise and spat loudly into the bowl, before shakily lifting himself away. He could barely hold his head up and had to immediately rest it on the toilet seat, pressing his cheek against it. His face was red, completely exhausted. Skin covered in sweat, both his eyes and his nose leaking fluids, a thread of drool on his lips. He looked completely devoid of coherent thoughts in his head, just complete blankness. Until he finally regained some focus in those wet, blue eyes. Homelander sluggishly blinked at Butcher. His eyes squinted, flicking downwards. And suddenly Homelander was smiling at him. A small, sleepy smile. 

"Are you hard right now?" He asked him, already knowing the answer.

Butcher looked down. And stormed out of the bathroom.

[beguines]

As was to be expected, the massive layoffs and record unemployment levels after the onset of the Depression dampened most worker militancy and union organizing efforts. Such was not the case, however, in the coal industry. As Dubofsky and Van Tine note, coal miners did not accept "their misery in silence or apathy . . . The years 1930, 1931, and especially 1932 saw mass violent strikes scar the coalfields". These strikes were for the most part led by Communists and independent radicals.

Theodore Draper describes the Communist Party (CP) activity in detail. Its organizational base was the National Miners' Union (NMU), whose September 9–​ 10, 1928, founding convention was attended by 675 delegates. John Watt of Illinois was elected president; William Boyce, a Black miner, was elected vice president; while CP coal miners' leader, Pat Toohey, was named secretary-​treasurer. In 1929 and 1930, there were numerous spontaneous strikes, in which participants sometimes called in the NMU after they were out. In 1931, there were four large strikes in different coal regions. In March, twenty thousand Pennsylvania anthracite miners struck under the leadership of non-Communist oppositionists. In July, twenty thousand West Virginia miners in the Kanawha Valley, led by Frank Keeney, a Lewis opponent supported by the left-​wing Musteites, went out on a prolonged strike. From May to June, four thousand miners in western Pennsylvania, eastern Ohio, and northern West Virginia struck under NMU leadership. These strikes spread quickly because the miners were in "such an explosive mood." According to Draper, thousands joined the NMU, many of whom also joined the Communist Party. In the Pittsburgh area, the Pittsburgh Terminal Coal Company signed contracts with the UMWA to avoid the CP.

The most dramatic 1931 strike took place in Harlan County, Kentucky, where thousands of miners worked in a state of peonage and company-​sponsored terror. When ten thousand Kentucky coal miners struck, the UMWA sent in Philip Murray to organize. The violence became so great that the union abandoned the area. In one gun battle at Ewarts, three deputies and a miner were killed, and thirty-​four miners were indicted for murder. In July, the NMU finally moved in, while the CP's International Labor Defense (ILD) took up the defense of the indicted miners. Draper, hardly sympathetic to the Communists, claims that "the circumstances in Harlan were so adverse that whatever the Communists did there seems somewhat incredible".

Draper also notes the extraordinary commitment of the CP to racial egalitarianism. He describes the white Harlan miners as fundamentalists, highly individualist, and racist. With less than 14% of Kentucky miners being Black (Draper claims only a few percent in Harlan County were African-​American), racial solidarity was hardly the strategic issue that it was in Alabama or West Virginia. Thus, when the issue arose about whether Black miners should eat at the same soup kitchens and tables as white miners, there was quite a bit of resistance from white strikers. "On this point, however, the Communists were adamant. After six or seven hours of discussion, they succeeded in convincing the miners that all of them, irrespective of color, should eat in the same kitchen". "It is fair to say that only the Communists in that period, in the heat of battle, would have taken such a firm stand on this issue". Although the strikers were badly defeated, the Communists did manage to gain worldwide publicity for the Harlan miners' plight, mobilizing leading intellectuals, including Theodore Dreiser and John Dos Passos, to go to Kentucky to conduct hearings. This case helped focus attention on the plight and repression faced by southern workers, especially in the coal mines.

Michael Goldfield, The Southern Key: Class, Race, and Radicalism in the 1930s and 1940s

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Noah Berlatsky at Public Notice:

Kamala Harris’s choice of Minnesota Gov. Tim Walz as her running mate is, in some respects, a standard, safe choice. Like most of her potential picks, Walz is a white man. He’s a popular Democratic governor with deep roots in the party. He’s by no means an odd or risky selection. And yet, at the same time, Harris’s choice of Walz is unusual, exciting, and even inspirational. Over the last forty years, Democrats have generally used the VP pick to try to cater to centrist swing voters. Some of Harris’s leading choices, like Pennsylvania Gov. Josh Shapiro and Arizona Sen. Mark Kelly, were in that mode. Instead, Harris chose Walz — a candidate who has a good deal of potential bipartisan appeal, but who is also well-positioned to excite Democrats, and particularly progressives. As such, Walz’s rise is a promising indication that Harris plans to continue and expand upon the approach of President Biden, who’s embraced progressive ideas and legislation as a way to unify and inspire Democratic voters.

Walz as safe pick

It’s easy to make the case for Walz as a safe, sturdy, and conventional pick for VP. He served in the National Guard for 24 years; he’s now the vice presidential candidate with the longest military career. In 1996 he left the military to to work as a high school history teacher in Mankato, Minnesota. He ran for Congress in 2006, a strong year for Democrats, and defeated six-term Republican Gil Gutknecht. He held the rural district through 2010 and 2014 — two red wave years — and even held on in 2016, when Trump won the district by 15 points. In 2018, he ran for governor and won. He won a second term in 2022. This is an impressive record, and one that seems almost custom-made for a vice presidential resume. Walz’s military record should appeal to at least some conservative voters, who tend to value military service in candidates. His strong record in a rural Trump district also testifies to his ability to reach out to red voters.

On the other hand, Walz’s experience as a teacher should play well with educators — a core Democratic constituency — and with teacher’s unions. He’s also shown himself to be exceptionally skilled at attacking Republicans. After he called Republicans “weird” on MSNBC, Democrats as a whole seized on the word to define the abortion-hating, single-women hating, book-hating weirdos in the GOP.   Walz’s conventional qualifications and strengths have made him acceptable within, and popular with, the mainstream of the Democratic Party, as evidenced by the wave of enthusiasm from mainstream party leaders.

[...]

Walz Is a Biden Democrat

Walz isn’t a leading left voice in the party, like Bernie Sanders, Elizabeth Warren, or AOC. He’s a mainstream Democrat who has been (stunningly) successful in pushing mainstream progressive Democratic priorities in Minnesota. After 2022, when Democrats won a narrow majority in the state Senate and House, the legislators and Walz passed a paid family and medical leave bill, banned LGBT conversion therapy, legislated a carbon-free electric grid by 2040, and legalized cannabis. They also restored voting rights to people released from jail, mandated gun background checks, and put in place a free school lunch program for all students, regardless of income.

That record has made Walz a darling of progressives, who have enthusiastically boosted his candidacy. It’s also the kind of record that appeals to all Democrats and makes him look a lot like another leading Democratic figure — Joe Biden. Biden came into office with a record as a moderate compromiser. He was not the choice of most progressives or leftists, who would have preferred Sanders or Warren in the 2020 primary. But once in office, Biden embraced a range of popular progressive proposals. Despite Republican (and Supreme Court) resistance, he’s pushed through billions in student debt relief. He managed to pass a bipartisan gun control bill. He passed massive investments in green energy. His administration’s aggressive antitrust enforcement has reversed decades of Democratic timidity in the face of corporate consolidation. His pro-union policies have ignited a major labor renaissance. Obviously, progressives and the left have serious differences with Biden, most notably on his continued support for Israel’s right-wing government. On many issues, though, Biden has created a new blueprint for Democratic governance — one which builds on progressive ideas and energy to craft a powerful, popular agenda that the entire party can embrace.

Kamala Harris’s pick of Tim Walz is a shrewd and smart one to complete the ticket.