lincoln campbell

Even though several of her teammates were now in New York and working with S.H.I.E.L.D. again, Daisy was still keeping her ground on her own. Maybe it was just her being stubborn, but after what S.H.I.E.L.D. did to Cal and seeing how many people she’d hurt in the process of Pleasant Hill, she just couldn’t even stand to wear that emblem on her arm anymore. It didn’t feel right. Nothing really felt right for her most of the time except for S.H.I.E.L.D., so it was hard having to adjust to a life without the organization at her core. Freelance vigilantism worked for her before, so she was back at it. She bought a cheap van to stay in some nights when she stayed out late, getting whatever leads she could on the Sinister Syndicate. Her hopes were to pass some stuff along to big Peter, but so far she had no luck. In fact, she’d accidentally taken down part of an abandoned building the other day while fighting Electro. That night she was out again, a black hoodie pulled over her head as she walked through Hell’s Kitchen and tried to keep her eye out for anything suspicious. As she passed by that same abandoned building as the other night, she could have sworn she heard static. No, she knew he heard static. Grumbling under her breath, she pulled her hoodie down and clenched her fists as she turned the corner and held her hand out, ready for the inevitable fight she was about to get herself into. 

Or at least— that's what Lincoln remembered. There was supposed to have been an end, the one he had closed his eyes and waited for. He was surrounded by stars, the wide open vastness of space closer than it had ever been. And the world had been far away, blue and green and swirls of white painted on a stark black canvas. Lincoln had felt lucky to witness it all.

Lucky, maybe— but not deserving. He had tried and tried and tried to be good, to be better, to help people. There was so much guilt to burn through and Lincoln felt deep in his bones that he would never be done trying to make up for the mistakes he made, for the people he hurt, for the lies he believed and followed.

Daisy never gave up on him. But why? He could never figure out why. All Lincoln ever did was drag her down, even when he tried to help her. It was a mess. He was a mess.

But even through all of that, he loved her. It was a feeling he never wanted to feel again. It was too intense, too vulnerable, and too powerful. Love didn't protect someone from being hurt, and Lincoln was all too familiar with the pain and chaos he could cause someone.

So, he got rid of the chaos. He found a way to keep Daisy safe in more than a few ways. He sacrificed himself so that she had a chance to forgive herself, so that she could move on, and so that he would never put her in harm's way again. It all made so much sense. The choice was easy.

Lincoln had closed his eyes and used his last few breaths to remember the stars and the earth and the way that Daisy smiled on the good days. But he didn't expect to open them again.

The first thing he felt was confusion. The second was panic. He was dead, right? Whatever he was seeing now, it had to be his mind playing tricks on him— trying to calm him down, to make sense of the end.

Lincoln wandered the length of a few buildings, his mind in a fog as he practically stumbled with every step down the sidewalk. His mind was trying but he sure as hell wasn't calm, and he veered off course to try and catch his breath.

The building he stopped at was abandoned and starting to falling apart, so he moved towards one of the larger chunks of concrete debris and took a seat. All he could feel was his heart rate continuing to speed up, so after a few seconds he stood back up ad began to pace. He couldn't figure out what was real— what if this was a dream? Would he ever wake up? Nothing felt right.

As he paced, his eyes were glued to the ground and his arms were tight and straight at his side as his hands flexed open and closed. Each time his fists uncurled, small tendrils of blue electricity sparked between them.

Then there was a voice. Lincoln stopped dead in his tracks and held up both hands on instinct. The sparks in his hands grew into a bright glow, ready to strike if needed.