#logo deign

[conformi]

Harold E. Edgerton, Bullet through Apple, 1964 VS Robilant Associati, Martini & Rossi, logo rebranding, 1995

[priya2023]

Graphic designing course in delhi

Graphic designing is one of the best course. This course gives more opportunities for career. Graphic design is more of a creative profession. Jeetech academy is one of the best graphic designing institute in delhi.

[jtl07]

okay here's the first part of a cinderella-ish au noodle that came to me last night while eating a fantastic pad thai and thinking of Beatrice's backstory in littledata's we will never be here again

so we open with Beatrice coming home, exhausted, her work uniform - if one could call the second-hand chef's jacket with the logo of her family's Chinese restaurant stamped onto the front a uniform - spattered, her hair one moment away from unraveling from its bun. to say that tonight's service had been busy would have been the understatement of the century, what with scheduled orders and a busier dinner rush than usual.

"you should be happy to work," her parents had said when they'd deigned the restaurant with their presence, only to deny Beatrice the time off she'd cleared with them a dozen times running up to this week. they'd even called out their other cook for some sort of private event that her parents of course hadn't told her about.

"you can handle things just fine, can't you?" it had been posed as a question but Beatrice knows a warning when she hears one, has grown up with them always in her ear.

"i hope Crimson's food gives their guests all food poisoning," Beatrice mutters as she rips her jacket off. Crimson might be head chef in name but she's barely at the restaurant, not to mention can barely cook in general.

and Beatrice isn't the only one who thinks so: she'd taken not a small amount of pride when her favorite regular, a woman she only knows by her initials, AS, with a perpetual smile and a pun whenever she picks up her order, had noted that the food had tasted horrible when Beatrice had been out sick.

Beatrice frowns: realizes that she hadn't seen her today, despite it being a Saturday. no wonder today was horrible, Beatrice thinks to herself as she slumps down onto the floor next to her bed.

she regrets the move almost immediately as she finds herself face to face with the borrowed suit draped over her chair, the dollar store mask on her desk. remembers what she'd tried to forget the whole evening: the masked cooking competition starting in less than an hour, the $100,000 grand prize and the contract with one of the most prestigious restaurants in the world. how she'd saved up for half a year for the entry fee. how she'd dreamed.

she should have known better.

should have known better than to dream, to want a life free of her parents' expectations, to carry on, to carry it all - their mistakes, their hopes, their legacy. should have known that her life was only for duty.

just as the tears start falling, Beatrice hears a commotion at the door. she lifts her head, wary - then gasps when the door flies open to reveal three women she's never seen before in her doorway.

Beatrice scrambles to her feet but before she can yell, one of the women - the smaller one with a bright grin and bouncy curls - speaks. "you're Beatrice right? we're getting you to the cooking competition."

Beatrice barely has time to breathe before the trio create a whirlwind within her meager studio apartment. they introduce themselves briefly - Mary with a grunt, Camila with a wave, and Chanel with a sharply raised eyebrow - and all Beatrice can do is stand and watch as they perform what seems like magic in just a few minutes.

"this mask needs to stay on at all times," Camila explains while Beatrice runs her hands down the velvet jacket Chanel had clothed her in. Beatrice can hardly recognize herself in the suit that seems tailor made for her, the hair Mary had expertly twisted out of her face as Chanel had applied her makeup.

"at all times," Beatrice repeats as Camila fits the black mask over her eyes. it's cool to the touch and, just like the suit, seems to mold to her features perfectly.

"the moment the mask comes off, the facial cloaking goes with it. if no one should be able to recognize you while it's on."

"facial cloaking-?"

"it's exactly like it sounds," Mary cuts in and starts to push Beatrice out her own front door. "we don't have time, come on."

Beatrice can only follow their commands as they go outside, expecting - well, she doesn't know what to expect. there's half an hour until the competition begins but they're on the wrong side of the city -

"heads up."

it's only through instinct that Beatrice catches the helmet before it hits her face. only now notices the motorcycle the women are standing beside. it's sleek, a model she's only seen in magazines, had never dreamed to ever see in real life. "you expect me to ride this?"

Mary snorts. "what, did you expect a pumpkin carriage? stop stalling and get going."

despite Mary's words, however, Beatrice takes a moment to take them in. "thank you - i have no idea how you found me or what i did to deserve this -"

"you didn't have to do anything, Beatrice," Camila says firmly.

Chanel nods. "you're more than deserving."

Mary hands Beatrice the keys. "now don't fuck it up."

Beatrice blinks back the sudden rush of tears and nods. puts on the helmet, sets herself atop the motorcycle, turns the key in the ignition.

let's fucking do this.

[part 2]

[jess-moloney]

I majored in design and marketing in college and those candles are very much on the “minimalistic” side of design. It’s a bit disappointing considering Jaime is a flamboyant dandy (that’s my best description for him, correct me if I’m wrong). Anyone can buy a candle anywhere. As a celebrity you want to market your product as a unique good / experience. You really don’t want to assume that your fans will just blindly buy something because they love you. I feel like this is such a common problem in the entertainment industry with celebrities and probably something that Jess is trying to exploit (if she’s involved). Especially, because of how cheap-looking the clothes at Ice Studios are. In my opinion, a minimalistic design can SOMETIMES be an excuse for less effort in a product. The more effort you put into deign of packaging and the formula/ingredients of a product, the more money you need to put into production.

Minimalism as a design can still look nice. He could have included an artistic logo or something that was also minimal. He could have done something that wasn't easily replicated by anyone else with a couple dollars who can access the internet. I doubt it would be that hard to replicate the look of the candle. Is the scent something custom? I kind of doubt it.

If he was going to go this route there were a lot more ways to make this special and worth the money but instead, it's just like any other generic candle you can get anywhere. I'm guessing even the type font isn't custom. Seeing this candle compared to his merch drop last year, that looked like more effort went into it, this just seems like it's a cash grab. That he's drawing out the anticipation as much as possible so when people do see the price they'll just buy it and not question it.

I'm so disappointed that he can't do a better job. It may mean spending more time on designs or money but it would pay off in the long run because more people would want to purchase it. I wonder who's advising him on this and it really wouldn't surprise me if it were Jess since she doesn't have an artistic bone in her body but is still somehow in his back pocket.

[hibiscus-tome]

(also posted here on ao3)

It’s not a bad day, exactly — but there’s a vice grip around Kaoru’s lungs, and a soreness to his jaw from how hard he’s been clenching it all day, and in the absence of a proper appetite, his stomach has once again skipped past hunger and tumbled into a cloying, familiar nausea.

So: it’s not the worst that he’s felt, at this time of night; if he gets a sports drink in him soon, he can start to claw his way back up. Just… in a minute. He can hardly be blamed for making himself as comfortable as possible, despite the circumstances.

He sits on the floor with his back against a chain link fence, on a rooftop he’s reasonably sure he’s not supposed to be on any time of the day, let alone late at night outside the building’s normal operating hours. His earbuds are starting to malfunction, the sound on the right side oddly muffled unless he holds the wire at a particular angle, and he’s turned down the volume on his MP3 player in the vain hope that the quiet, peaceful piano melody will fix whatever’s broken in his head this time around.

He closes his eyes and counts his breaths, in-two-three-four, hold-two-three-four, out-two-three-four-five-six-seven. It doesn’t touch the uncomfortable weight that’s settled on his chest, but it cuts into the noise buzzing in the back of his head, so he counts it as a win.

There’s the sound of footsteps nearby, assured at first and then hesitant. “Fuck off, Kojiro,” he grumbles. It’s not the most eloquent dismissal, but he’s been in a shitty mood all day, and Kojiro has the tendency to fuss when it gets this bad. (Which it’s not, because it’s not like anything in particular has happened to set Kaoru off this time. It’s just his shitty brain, being his shitty brain. Rubber, meet glue.)

The footsteps stop for a moment — but then there’s the shift of fabric as a warm weight settles next to him. The silence is evidence enough that it’s not Kojiro after all, but the stench of cigarette smoke confirms it.

He opens his eyes, looks up — and Adam doesn’t look once in his direction, opting instead to pull his knees to his chest and stare, blankly, ahead.

Kaoru won’t pretend to understand what exactly it is that Adam’s been dealing with outside the skate park; they leave this shit at home for a reason — but he can hazard a guess from the logo of a fancy prep school, emblazoned on soft jackets that are far better made than the nicest clothes Kaoru owns. There’s distance, sometimes, in Adam’s eyes when they skate — a faraway look there that only starts to fade an hour in, and sometimes not even then.

Kaoru’s not so presumptuous to think that it’s in any way comparable to his own shitty moods — but when Adam doesn’t move for a long moment, he pulls out his left earbud, running his thumb over it on the off chance that earwax has clung to it, and holds it out to him.

Adam doesn’t say a word — but something softens in his gaze, imperceptibly, as he takes the earbud. He doesn’t say a word as Kaoru scoots closer to lean against him, letting his head fall on Adam’s shoulder. Kaoru turns up the volume a little, and Adam doesn’t laugh at him for his old man music tastes, and for a moment that stretches to a small eternity, this is enough.

They won’t talk about it later. Kaoru will go home later tonight with Kojiro, sneak back into his house through the kitchen window, resolutely ignore his sister’s complaints at having to cover for him again and threats of revenge via household chores. His head will be in a fog and he’ll be in a worse mood tomorrow when he’s tired, but he won’t be able to say yet that all of this isn’t worth it.

Maybe, whatever’s got Adam so down will right itself by the next time they skate together — but Kaoru can’t quite shake the feeling that it probably won’t. It’s not something Adam will ever deign to share with him, when he already takes such pains to hide the life he leaves behind when he comes to the skate park. They leave this shit at home for a reason, after all.

/

It’s three hours to closing, and Kaoru regrets not taking the day off — but he’s already taken too much time off work between days spent confined to the hospital and the various check-ups and physical therapy appointments in the weeks after his discharge. His clients and his students’ parents have been understanding, but there’s a fine line where their patience with him will inevitably wear thin; he’s moved enough deadlines and canceled enough classes in the past couple of months that he’s dangerously close to crossing it.

His ankle has been weakly throbbing for the past half hour and there’s a band of tension that’s settled into his temples, four hours out from his next dose of painkillers. He’s worked through lunch and Kojiro will yell at him later for it, and his stomach has once again skipped past hunger and tumbled into a cloying, familiar nausea.

“Carla,” Kaoru calls out, an unacceptable degree of weariness in his voice. “Play Mendelssohn’s Songs Without Words, Book 1.”

“Okay, master,” she replies. “Songs Without Words Book 1, by Felix Mendelssohn.” A soft, peaceful piano melody echoes through the store.

Classes won’t start for another hour, and there’s always a lull in customers around this time of the day, so Kaoru takes a moment to bury his face in his arms on the table before him. It’s a bit uncomfortable from the pressure it’s putting on his knees, but the makeshift darkness helps a little. He doesn’t expect to fall asleep — he’s not tired enough, and he’s in too much pain for that — but his thoughts start to spiral in nonsensical directions when he tries to count his breaths, in-two-three-four, hold-two-three-four, out-two-three-four-five-six-seven.

Then the music quiets as Carla says: “Person detected near the front door.”

With a quiet groan, Kaoru peels himself off the table. His sleeves have left lines pressed into his cheeks that he won’t be able to rub away in time. The bell chimes as the door swings open, and Kaoru plasters on a smile that’s usually enough to get him through most customer interactions on days when he’d much rather eat glass than talk to anyone.

“Welcome!” he greets, very pleasantly.

—and in walks Diet member Ainosuke Shindo, in a ridiculously expensive-looking tailored suit and his hair neatly oiled back. When his gaze meets Kaoru’s, there’s an unacceptable degree of recognition in his eyes.

“Something I can help you with today?” asks Kaoru, before Shindo can remind everyone listening in why, precisely, they leave this shit at home.

Shindo takes the hint, and averts his gaze. “Just looking around,” he says, very stiffly.

… well, he’s not the first customer to do that. Not every one of them comes here with the intent of buying something, or signing their kids up for a penmanship class; the more touristy types act like it’s a museum, which works well enough for Kaoru when they keep their distance from the pieces mounted on the walls and don’t touch everything.

He wonders what excuse Shindo must have given, to be able to come in today uninhibited — what items he must have pushed around to free up his schedule for this. There’s a very old instinct, deep within Kaoru’s gut, to preen — but he resolutely crushes it before it can bloom into anything resembling gratitude for something that Adam had made very clear never existed.

(At S, the other skaters speak of a changed man. It’s the stuff of stories, to quantify just what exactly had dragged him out of that dark, dark hole he’d dug for himself — a shared love for a shared hobby rekindled, Langa extending his hand and Adam, for reasons that they all have yet to fully puzzle out, taking it. It’s precisely the outcome that Kaoru had planned for, the day he pushed Langa onto the track with duct tape binding his feet to his board, and yet—and yet—)

“How much for a commission?” asks Shindo, as he ponders a piece mounted on the wall closest to the front door: four flowing kanji, an excerpt from a poem.

“That depends on the size and number of kanji, sir,” Kaoru answers, very pleasantly. “But I should warn you...” And because he’s feeling vindictive enough: “I’m recovering from some injuries I sustained recently, so there will be a delay.”

Shindo hums. “My sympathies,” he says. “I heard it was an accident?” That had been the official record, at any rate — a convenient story to explain the hospital stay and the countless appointments since.

Eat shit and die. “Attempted manslaughter, actually,” Kaoru replies, airily.

The barb hits its mark, and Shindo winces. It’s not nearly as satisfying a sight as it ought to be.

Slowly, gingerly, Kaoru rises to his feet, hobbling over to the cashier’s table. In one of the drawers, there’s a sketchbook; he flips it open to a blank page, and reaches for a pencil. “What did you have in mind, Shindo-san?” he asks, politely.

Shindo frowns, his hand drifting upward to rub at his chin; within seconds, it becomes evident that past the confident, implacable exterior, he really has no idea what he’s doing here. Perhaps on another day, when Kaoru’s ankle isn’t throbbing and there isn’t a migraine threatening at his temples, he’d laugh.

“What do you recommend?” asks Shindo, blandly.

Kaoru exhales, slowly, and begins to write. There are a number of characters and phrases that come to mind, with varying degrees of cruelty — but Shindo had come here today, entirely unprompted. He’s done so without any scorn or disdain, and there’s nothing like boredom in his eyes as he watches him work. It’s not enough — probably won’t be enough for a long, long time — but it’s more than Kaoru had dared to hope for, the day he and Kojiro first heard that Adam had returned to Okinawa.

Somewhere in the way Adam leans over to peer at the sketchbook, too close – in the uncomfortable weight situated semi-permanently on Kaoru’s chest, that has nothing to do with the man who invaded his store — in the soft piano melody echoing through the store from Carla’s tinny speakers — a sentiment comes to mind: Something lost, found again. Something broken, only now starting to mend.

Kaoru turns the sketchbook around. Adam staggers back with a frown, not entirely comprehending — but that’s all right, at least for the time being. It’s a far more earnest attempt than anything Kaoru has seen from him in a long, long time.

“We can discuss styles and logistics at a later date,” says Kaoru, before he can utter another word. “You already have my contact information.”

The spell broken, Shindo’s head dips into a perfunctory nod. “Of course,” he replies. “Thank you.”

As Shindo turns towards the door, Kaoru steps out from behind the counter – but then his ankle folds painfully to the side, and he stumbles. It won’t be the worst fall he’s suffered, but it will be a painfully embarrassing one in all the ways that the only thing to blame for it will be Kaoru’s carelessness. He flings his arms out, grasping for the table as leg starts to buckle under him—

—and then Adam grabs his arm. His grip is firm, but not painful, and against everything Kaoru’s come to expect from him, every predictive model he’s run to prepare for this inevitable encounter, he does not let him fall.

“Please be careful, Sakurayashiki-san.”

Kaoru stares up at him for one moment, two — then, when he’s reasonably secure on his uninjured leg, wrenches his arm out of his grasp. “Unhand me,” he hisses, a bit uselessly when Adam makes no attempts to reach for him again.

Adam nods. “My apologies,” he says, just as uselessly when it doesn’t even scratch the surface of what he ought to be apologizing for — but there’s a reason they leave this shit at home, after all.

In the end, he buys a pack of brushes that Kaoru’s reasonably sure he’s never going to use — but money is money, and he can’t bring himself to feel too bothered about it. Adam leaves with an awkward wave, and when he’s out of sight, Kaoru reaches for a nearby chair and sinks gratefully into it.

There’s… no telling what’s going to happen, from here on out. Somehow, that’s far more frightening than when Adam had returned a stranger, and refused to look Kaoru’s way even once. At S, the other skaters speak of a changed man, but… could it be true? And if so, how long will it last? It promises a headache — worse than the one already threatening at his temples — but Kaoru has a class to teach in an hour, and so he puts it out of his mind for the time being.

He’d be a fool to hope, after everything — but maybe, if this continues, he can let himself be foolish. Just a little.

[peninkwrites]

Lines Drawn in Sand & Concrete - Ch 8 of ?

Bad sees red. Sapnap has his first real day on the job. Quackity questions his graphic design choices.

[CW: violence, guns]

crossposted to ao3

Ch 1

Ch 7

Ch 9

Mafia AU

~ Bad ~

Bad has never and will never give up on Skeppy.  It’s simply not an option.  He will tear this city apart until he finds him, he’ll tear this world apart if it means bringing Skeppy home.  They haven’t stopped their campaign to find and butcher every old ally of Schlatt who might have gotten big ideas about taking out an opposing mob boss, but Bad doesn’t delight in needless bloodshed.  As of late, it seems many of them have gone underground, having finally caught on to who is being targeted.  Bad is not utterly without patience.  Since his targets have all fled to hide under rocks, he instead waits.  He has vines creeping all over the city, ears listening around every corner, eventually, somewhere, someone, has to hear something.

Eryn has always been the best at the job.  Despite his age and limited experience, this kid always finds himself in the right place at the right time and always makes sure to bring it back home to them.  In some ways, Eryn reminds him of his son.  His loyalty and care bears a resemblance, but the ability to be stealthy and therefore dangerous, that is not something he has in common with Sapnap.   Sapnap had never been able to surprise him, not with his heavy tread and dangerous trust in others; rather, he hadn’t been able to surprise Bad until he turned eighteen.  That was one secret his son had kept well; his plans to leave him.

Ant raps once on the rusted door of the office and Bad motions him in through the filthy chicken-wired glass.  They haven’t moved in to the slaughterhouse very well.  The warehouse remains a warehouse and they merely have added blood to the rust.

“Hey, Bad, Eryn… I think he’s got something,” Ant sounds nervous, maybe even more risky, hopeful.

“Is he here?” Bad stands sharply.

“Yeah,” Ant turns and nods down the metal staircase, Eryn taking his cue and coming up the stairs to join them, a flier clutched in his fist.

“Hey, Boss,” Eryn is equally excited as he is wary.  “So, um, I think I should preface this with I wasn’t trying to nose around at the time, but ages ago, I saw… I saw the note the guy that took Skeppy left,” Eryn pauses, waiting for some scolding, but Bad doesn’t blink.

“Yes?  Go on?”

“And… and I was on the West side, there’s this fancy as shit building getting gutted, and they just sent out fliers, it’s for a casino,” Eryn offers the flier.

Bad is puzzled, glancing at Ant.  “Okay…?  I’m sorry, Eryn, I’m not sure I follow.”

Eryn offers the flier more insistently.  “Look.”

Bad accepts.  Once glance is all it takes.  The flier reads: JOIN US FOR THE GRAND OPENING OF LAS NEVADAS!  Followed by a date in six days time and an address vaguely familiar, but that is clearly not what piqued Eryn’s interest, rather, the logo.  A poker chip, on its surface, a smiley face.  Bad sees red.

“Ant?”

“I’ll get the car.”

“Eryn, did you notice anything else?  Do they have much security?  Is it near a police station?  Anything like that?” Bad asks, his voice calm in a way that makes Eryn nervous.

“No, nothing like that.  They had a sorta big guy directing construction shit, but no one looked armed,” Eryn shakes his head.

“Okay.  Thank you, Eryn.”  Bad first checks his holster, before deigning to add another gun to his belt.  If he felt like having a shred of more patience, he would have gathered reinforcements.  “Keep yourself out of trouble, we’ll be back soon, m’kay?” He presses some cash into the kid’s hands before he can protest.

Ant is quick to act, pulling up outside and driving fast, and Bad is grateful, but a minute into the drive, Ant can’t seem to resist a thought Bad has thus far deigned to ignore.  “It’s… it’s just a smiley face.  For all we know, it’s a coincidence.  It doesn’t even look the same.”

“Yes, the professional logo looks different to a ransom note,” Bad says icily.  “In what possible world would a new business opening happen to have the same symbol as whoever is holding Skeppy hostage?”  Bad stares down at the flier, half crumpled in his fist.  “It’s like they’re mocking us.”  

Ant glances over at his friend, but he can’t actually argue.  “Do we… Do we have a plan?”

“We can’t kill anyone, not right away.  The last thing we need is to get hasty and shoot the one person who knows where he is,” Bad can’t help but check his holster again.  “If there’s a crowd, we get a hostage, just to maintain control.  If there aren’t too many people, hopefully guns will be enough to keep people scared.  One of us will cover with a gun, the other goes in with… what do you have in your trunk?”

“Crowbar, hammer, baseball bat, the hunting knife you left there last time, rope, the usual,” Ant offers.  “Do we… Do we grab someone who looks important and take them back to the Slaughterhouse?  Or do we try and get this done then and there?”

Bad shrugs.  “Let’s see how quick the owner breaks.  If we have to, we take them and run.”

Ant nods.  Bad remains cold and calm, even as his heart races.  What if nothing comes of this?  What if something does?

Ant pulls up outside the old bank, which is looking shiny and new again.  Neon lights, currently off, are now installed between the pillars lining the front doors, reading in loud letters LAS NEVADAS.

“Bad, I see Foolish,” Ant says cautiously, leaning over the dash to get a better look through the glass front doors.

“What?” Bad follows his gaze, frowning.  Foolish is sitting on top of what was once probably the front desk of the bank, a long ornate counter now also adorned in neon and gold.  He’s on the phone.  Bad considers this, before quickly dismissing it.  “Foolish won’t be a problem.  He knows us, probably better than whoever hired him here.  We’ll just tell him to stay out of the way.”

Ant pulls up beside the building, out of view of the main street.  Ant doesn’t voice it aloud, but Bad knows what he’s thinking.  We’re being hasty.  This is dangerous and might not be worth the risk.  He doesn’t actually say it, though.  He knows better than that.  When it comes to Skeppy, for Bad there’s no such thing as risk.

“How do we go in?  Covert at first?” Ant asks, unlocking the trunk.

“We can’t go in swinging immediately, otherwise the only person to swing at will be Foolish, and I’m sure Puffy wouldn’t appreciate that,” Bad says.  He considers their stock of weapons thoughtfully.  A knife would be subtle, and tends to be his forté, but the rage and grief roiling in his blood draws him to the bat.  Less heft than the hammer or the crowbar, it’ll be slower to do harm.  Bad wants it to be slow.

“I wouldn’t call that covert, Bad,” Ant says pointedly.

Bad shrugs.  “Maybe we stopped by on our way to the park,” he says mildly.  The bat cannot be fully hidden, but he tucks it under his arm, inside of his jacket.  Ant keeps his gun holstered as they approach the glass doors.  Ant goes to open it, finding it locked, which makes sense considering it is an unopened business.  Bad steps up beside him, knocking sharply on the glass until Foolish looks over.  Bad waves, smiling cheerfully.

They can read Foolish’s lips through the glass, as he delightedly says “Bad!  Ant!”  And hangs up the phone.  He’s going to let them in.  Bad almost feels guilty.  Almost.  “Hey!” Foolish opens the door, stepping back to let them in.  “What’re you guys doing here?”  For a moment, his cheer wavers.  “Wait, is my dad okay?”

“She’s fine, Foolish,” Bad says quickly.

Ant scans the rest of the casino.  There’s no one else here save Foolish at the moment, tables being set out for the up and coming opening night.  “So, a casino, huh?” Ant asks.

“Yeah!  Yeah, it’s pretty cool.  I was just hired to do the renovations at first, but Quackity asked me to help with organizing n’ stuff, at least the setup, y’know?”

Bad looks at him sharply.  “Quackity?”

“Yeah!  This is his whole operation!  Did you not know that?” Foolish looks puzzled, glancing between the two of them.  “Why’re you guys here, actually?”

Bad smiles, receding into his calm facade.  “Right, of course!  I just thought you worked for Eret.  We’re here to see Quackity, actually.”

Foolish is now staring at the baseball bat under his arm.  “...why?”

“You know, to talk business,” Bad adjusts his coat.  “Nothing you need to worry yourself with.”

“Um, maybe I… maybe I should call Sam.  So he can… show you to the office,” Foolish isn’t a bad liar when he’s prepared, but this is not one of those times.  He starts to reach for the phone.

Bad sighs.  “Ant?”

Ant, looking almost apologetic, gets out his gun.  Foolish stops, wide-eyed, hands raised.  “You know we’d never want to hurt you, Foolish,” Ant says carefully.  “But, at the moment the owner of this place is our best lead on Skeppy.”

“On Skeppy?” Foolish is startled, still staring at Ant’s gun.  “Why… why would Quackity know something about Skeppy?”

“Well, why don’t we ask him?” Bad smiles.  “Where’s his office, Foolish?”

“I don’t… I don’t think I should tell you?” Foolish still stares at the gun.

Ant and Bad exchange a look.

“Come on,” Ant nods him back toward a door labeled staff only.  “We’ll find it ourselves, we just can’t have you running off to call the police while we do.”

Foolish has no choice but to follow, or rather lead, as Ant remains at his back.  “Y’know, if he knows something, you could probably just ask him normally––”

“Quiet, now, Foolish,” Bad says.  “Although, what’s that you were saying about Sam?  You don’t mean our Sam, do you?”

“Yeah!  Sam Warden?  He’s… he’s head of security now.  And, he probably saw you guys come in on the cameras, and you know how he is, he probably called the cops,” Foolish tries hopefully.

“I’m sorry, Foolish, you can’t convince us on this one,” Bad almost sounds genuine.  “Skeppy has to come first.”

Foolish tries to keep walking, but Ant stops him, nodding to the door they had almost passed.  Gold lettering reading HQ has been freshly added.

“Ah, shit,” Foolish sighs.

“You go in first, Foolish,” Ant nods him to the door.

Foolish winces, but it’s not like he has much choice.  He opens the door slowly, entering.  “Hey, Quackity!  Do you have a gun?” Foolish says with a hint of panic, but his warnings are too late.  Ant hits his head with the butt of his gun.  Foolish shouldn’t have tried to warn him, and his body hits the ground like a ton of bricks.

“What the fuck?!” Quackity and Sam each reach for their holsters, but by then it’s too late.  Ant’s gun levels on Quackity, Bad’s on Sam.

“Guns on the table, boys,” Bad says brightly.  His anger is pulsing in his blood.  The man across from him could very well be responsible for his heartache these past months.  “I would also move very very slowly.”

“Bad, Ant, what’re you–” Sam starts to speak.

“I gave you instructions, Sam.  You used to be not half bad at following orders,” Bad says.  “You might think I’d hesitate to kill you, but you know I won’t hesitate to really injure you, so, you should probably listen!”

Sam moves first, slowly, bitterly, he gets his gun out with two fingers, laying it on the desk.  Ant grabs it.

“Hi, Quackity!  Long time no see!  But I know you have a gun,” Bad says.

Quackity glares at him, fury clearly ill contained, but he too gets out his gun and lays it on the table.  “What the fuck do you want, Bad?”

Bad tuts him.  “Language, Quackity.”

“I don’t exactly obey niceties from someone holding a gun on me,” Quackity says icily.

Bad shrugs, taking Quackity’s gun as well.  He looks over at Ant.  “Why don’t you use Sam’s gun too?  I’ll need both hands for this.”

“Got it,” Ant nods curtly, leveling Sam’s gun with his chest.

Sam looks far more afraid than Quackity.  “What… what’re you here to do, Bad?” He asks, voice softer.

Bad laughs.  “Aw, don’t you worry, Sam, we’re not here for you this time!”

Quackity takes half a step back, but it’s not like he can go anywhere.  Sam, to Bad’s surprise, steps in front of him, keeping himself between Bad and Quackity.

“I thought we’d always been cordial, Bad,” Quackity says warily from behind his head of security.  “Why the sudden change of heart?”

Bad smiles, teeth too sharp.  “You know, I’m actually here to ask you that, Quackity.”  He slams the flier down on the desk, his other hand now taking out the bat.

Quackity stares at it, baffled.  “It’s my fucking flier, what’re you– are you gonna actually explain?”

“Interesting choice in logo, Quackity.  Familiar, even.  Hm?” Bad says, weighing the bat in his hands.

“What the fuck are you talking about?!”

“Get out of the way, Sam,” Bad says with that same dangerous politeness.

Sam stares at him, at his eye level.  “It’s literally my job not to do that.”  Even Quackity looks surprised by this.

“You know I’ve hurt you before,” Bad gives him one last chance.

Sam’s shoulders remain squared and tense, jaw set, but he nods, and holds firm.  So Bad brings the bat down on his freshly healed knee.  Sam collapses, choking back a scream, clutching his busted leg.

“What the fuck, Bad?!” Quackity snarls.  “You’ve lost it–”

Quackity crashes against the cabinet behind him, the glass shatters, blood now streaming from his busted lip.  Quackity tries to catch himself, only managing to cut open his hand as well as his arm on the glass.  He was lucky, all things considered. A few inches further, the bat could’ve easily dislocated his jaw.

“Language, Quackity,” Bad tuts him again.

Quackity braces himself against the desk.  He spits out a tooth.  Quackity’s voice remains relatively steady, a stark contrast to Sam on the floor.  “Not exactly an effective interrogation if you don’t tell me what you think I’ve done.”

“I assumed it would be relatively self explanatory.  I want to know why your logo matches the signature on a letter from Skeppy’s captor, and then I want to know where you’re keeping him.  And if you tell me quickly, I will dial back my previous threat to skin you in front of your loved ones, and maybe instead I’ll just do it privately,” Bad offers amicably.  “Oh!  Actually, if you’re quick about it and Skeppy is generally okay, I’ll make it easy.  A nice, clean headshot from Ant, how about that?”

Quackity’s anger turns to confusion.  “What fucking letter, Bad?  What the hell are you talking about?!”

Bad sighs, exchanging a look with Ant, as if to say what a shame, as next, he brings the bat down against Quackity’s chest.  He has to be careful to limit head injuries.  They need him conscious.  Quackity hits the ground hard, gasping for breath around bruised if not broken ribs.

“I think it’s too funny to be a coincidence,” Bad circles the desk, towering over Quackity.  “Does that not make sense to you?  Why else would it be the same, Quackity?  So just tell me where you’re keeping Skeppy, and we can finish this up right now!”

“I don’t… I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about!” Quackity shouts at him furiously, spitting more blood on the carpet.

Bad sighs.  “Y’know, I really believed you weren’t like Schlatt.  You were with him, but Puffy always seemed to imply it wasn’t by choice, not that she would gossip, just a general sense of concern, but now I’m starting to think you were two peas in a pod, huh?”

Quackity struggles to sit up.  “You don’t fucking say that to me–” He snarls, fury overtaking pain, but he’s downed again by Bad’s boot coming down on his hand, crushing his fingers.  Quackity screams, curling into a ball, cradling his broken hand, cowering with practiced precision to protect himself.

Bad feels a flicker of pity.  He genuinely doesn’t relish in this.  He’d trusted Quackity, and cannot understand why the man would turn so cruelly against them, but he can see no other explanation.  Bad raises the bat, but before he can do his best to shatter Quackity’s kneecaps, he hears a voice he hasn’t heard in a long time.

“Drop the guns, Ant,” Sapnap sounds almost composed, gun level with Ant’s head, but Bad knows him better, he hears the slight tremor.  His son isn’t looking at him.

Bad has stopped, staring at Sapnap and feeling as if a new knife has begun to twist in his chest.  “Sapnap?” Bad says weakly.

“I’m not screwing around, Ant.  Drop them,” Sapnap says sharply.  He’s still ignoring his father.

Ant drops the guns.

“Quackity?!” Another man is behind Sapnap, trying desperately to push past him, but Sapnap holds him back with one hand.  Sapnap is assessing the room with care, assessing them with care.  He can’t hold a gun on both Bad and Ant.

“Karl, hand me one of those guns,” Sapnap says to the man behind him, only once he stops struggling to get past him does he allow him to pass.

Karl listens, grabbing one of the guns Ant has dropped, passing it up to Sapnap’s left hand, but after that his eyes remain locked on the figure curled at Bad’s feet.

“Dad– Bad,” Sapnap almost falters, a grim expression close to fear, as he holds a gun on both of them.  “Drop the bat.”

“Sapnap,” Bad says again, and something about his voice, his tone aching and wounded and longing for a family long since gone, it makes Sapnap flinch.

“Drop it,” he tries again.

“He’s got Skeppy,” Bad is pleading.  “Sapnap, please.  He took Skeppy, he had to.  Please don’t choose him over our family.”

Sapnap’s eyes are shining, but he remains utterly focused.  “Why?”

“W-What?”

“Why do you think he has him?” Sapnap says sharply.

Karl stares at him with a hint of panic, realizing he had handed this man another gun and now they are all at his mercy, depending on who he decides to believe.

“It’s that smile, that stupid smiley face, it’s the same!”  He points accusingly to the flier on the table.  “It’s what whoever took him signed their notes with, Sapnap.  Why would it be the same?” Bad begins to take a step closer, the hand without the bat reaching out to his son, but Sapnap braces, holding the gun not aimed at Bad’s head, but rather his leg.  Bad doesn’t think his son could kill him, he could shoot him in the leg, so he stops.  “Sapnap, please.  I… I don’t have much family left,” Bad doesn’t try to bury the tremor in his voice.

Sapnap glances from Bad to Ant, cogs turning behind his eyes that Bad cannot fathom.

“The serial killer we’ve been after.  He doesn’t always kill.  Witnesses say he wears a white mask with… with a smiley face painted on,” Sapnap says carefully.

“What?” Bad doesn’t understand.

Sapnap glances at Quackity, before back to Bad.  “He’s too short.”

“What?” Bad is torn between pain and confusion.

“Quackity is too short,” Sapnap says more impatiently.  “The man in the mask is somewhere between 6’0” and 6’2”.  Medium build, and a couple people think he has light hair, but they weren’t sure because he always has his hood up.”

Silence, Bad and Ant at a loss for words, the rest waiting and praying the new guy will get them out of this.

“So…” Sapnap continues, uneasy from the silence.  “I think that’s probably who you’re looking for.  Not him.”  Sapnap frowns thoughtfully.  “What’d the face look like?  On the note?”

“Like–” Bad starts to point at the flier.

“No, it didn’t, Bad,” Ant says wearily.  “Think about it.  The note, it’s just a regular smiley face with a round mouth.  It’s different,” he nods back to the flier, the face with a squared off smile in the center of a poker chip.

Sapnap nods, as if this confirms something in his mind.  “This isn’t who you want, Bad.”

Bad stares back, surprised to find he still had enough heart left to be cut out.  This isn’t who you want.  It is who he wants.  He doesn’t think it’s his to want anymore, but he wants his son back.

“Karl,” Sapnap says over his shoulder.  “Stay behind me, I’m going to the right,” Sapnap enters the office, circling until the doorway is open.  “Both of you need to leave.  I don’t want to shoot you,” he says back to his father and sort of uncle sort of big brother.

“Bad,” Ant grabs Bad’s arm, pulling him toward the door.  Bad lets him.  Sapnap watches them go, and tries to ignore Bad watching him right back.  Sapnap follows, silent, careful, and he doesn’t stop until Ant has dragged Bad out the front door.  Bad watches him until Ant has dragged him out of sight.  It’s the first time Bad has spoken to his son in years, more years than he’d like to count.

He’d just hurt an ally, had a confrontation with Sapnap, and found out it had all been for nothing.  Sapnap had offered them another lead, but one without anywhere to go next.  This mysterious serial killer is as elusive to them as anyone else.

“Bad?” Ant says again once they’ve driven a few blocks from the casino.

“Did you see the way he looked at me?” Bad says softly.  It wasn’t the first time Sapnap had looked at him like that, but the first time in a while.  Bad had almost forgotten how much it hurt.  “Ant, what if we’ve lost them both?”

Ant looks back at him, and he doesn’t know what he can give.  He cannot give Bad any consolation for how to keep living now, not when he himself hasn’t figured out how he’s living past Velvet.  “I’m sorry, Bad,” it’s all Ant can think to say.

“I don’t know how much more of this I can take, I really don’t,” Bad gets more choked up, and that somehow snaps Ant out of it.

One hand still on the steering wheel, he reaches out, putting a firm hand on Bad’s shoulder.  “Hey.  You can take as much of this as you need to until we bring him home, right?  That’s the Bad I know.”

Bad nods, but it’s clear he doesn’t believe him.

Ant sighs, focusing on the road.  “You do what you can, Bad.  I’ll take on the rest.”

[080-studio]

Logo Design

The All Nigerian Pub Quiz

This is event is hosted in London, UK. It is the first quintessential Nigerian pub quiz. It celebrates Nigerian culture and community in new and exciting way.

Client: TheNaijaEnthusiast | Service: Logo Deign | Designer: 080 Studio | Year: 2023

[chloehaynesaub]

Logo idea generation

I began designing my logo by digitally sketching a few ideas in black and white. I designed them in black and white as through my logo deign research, I found that a good logo should work in both black and white and in colour. 

I used my initials/name within my logo, as I felt this was the best option for my brand identity to communicate what my logo is for. 

I created a few different style of logo. I created one that fit perfectly in a circle, which I felt would be effective to use as an Instagram icon. I also created a similar logo but with geometric approach. 

The logo with my name in full is my favourite out of the ones I have designed. I feel this design conveys my personality more than the others. I also thought I could adapt this logo to create a shortened version to use as an Instagram icon and other contexts I may need a scaled down version.

[maddiecopesblog]

feedback on my logo(ish)

We had a very useful group tutorial where everyone displayed their work so far and discussed what kind of impression the logos give off. I wasn't very happy with my designs so far as I don't think they reflect my style or the kind of work I want to do in future, but I displayed them anyway and took on the feedback received. Here were some of the comments:

I could use a simpler typeface, more of a sans serif one

my deigns hint quite strongly towards being an illustrator which is something I want to avoid, im a multidisciplinary designer and I want my designs to reflect that

it looks vintage, the term interior designer was brought up, which is a sector im interested but again, I need to convey that I have many different avenues for my artwork

maybe try hand rendering stuff?

My next step will be to further refine my logo, maybe using a different typeface

[janisrozenfelds]

Hi friends 👋,

I was playing around with the new ✹User Profile plugin Logo mark. Friendlier and cheerful. Next have to change the name of Figma Plugin 😁.

Check out User Profile Playground, which showcases new ideas for the plugin.

As always, Stay Adventurous Dear Friends!

[tamimhasnat]

AYMERIC Minimalist Logo

[sumkko]

20220520

[groundworkae]

How to Design a Logo | 5 Logo Designing Tips

Logo Design Tips: There is no one way to create a logo, and you have the opportunity to investigate different elements while making a logo for your online business organization.

Logos have become a fundamental piece of creating a brand image that makes consistency, triggers the client's memory, and builds up brands' trust with purchasers.

5 Easy Logo Design Tips

Online business Logo Design Tactics 

Notwithstanding the opportunity you have when planning a logo, you need to plan a compelling logo that attests to your specialty clients' preferences and sticks to standard industry guidelines. Here is the way you can accomplish that.

Toning it down would be best

When planning a logo, you may be enticed to incorporate all your business perspectives, which just winds up destroying the aesthetic. As is clear with numerous fruitful brands, great logo plans are comprised of a solitary realistic portrayal, for instance, the Apple Inc. or on the other hand Microsoft logos, or a book-based introduction like the bicycle trader condor or transportation ace FedEx.

There is no compelling reason to utilize many characters for your logo, as something basic and clear can get the job done. You can utilize your organization's initials as opposed to expressing the complete name

Streamline for versatility

Most online customers utilize their cell phones to look at and purchase items. Guarantee your image logo is streamlined for cell phones with an adaptable and satisfactory appearance on a portable screen.

A responsive logo ensures better client encounters across various stages consequently raising the brand's originality. Make sure to consider the screen sizes of other computerized gadgets, for example, tablets while upgrading your logo.

Use pictures 

Our psyches cycle pictures quicker than characters. In any case, caution should be taken when choosing pictures so as to not surpass the organization name except if your logo is exclusively a picture.

Your picked picture ought to speak to your image, personality, and USP. It would be insightful if the picture gives away the form of your business and doesn't leave clients having to re-think translations.

Keep it level 

Effective utilization of room includes all perspectives, and you don't want your logo to seem jumbled. Maintaining elements evenly has two primary favorable circumstances;

You can put it to one side where it is the primary thing the client sees

It guarantees that clients will see the item without looking elsewhere where they may get occupied

Stay aware of style

Prior to settling down on any thoughts, you should direct intensive examination on the cutting edge patterns in logo planning. Keep in mind, your logo will be an immortal portrayal of your business.

In a perfect world, you need individuals to immediately connect with your logo and relinquish the memory of what your organization offers. This makes an enthusiastic association with your clients as they partner their necessities with your solutions.

End note

 A logo recounts your business' story. It passes on the ethos and character of your image and the thoughts behind your items.

Imagination isn't sufficient when planning a logo, and you ought to consider different variables to guarantee that the logo is moral and in accordance with present day market patterns.

[dailybobbins]

Things to do in Buxton when you’re bored.

DB583

redbubble

[itsjustmyunpopularopinion]

No Geats reveal just yet (Tho, the official Logo dropped), but we’re getting a form for Vail? I mean, I’m assuming here, but it looks like Masumi’s presenting a Red/Vail version of the Rolling ViStamp

And we get a brief glimpse of a blue Weekend Rider

(My bets - Masumi tries to transform, fakeout, Tamaki is new Weekend Rider)

and a Red Rider form akin to Jack Revice…

Will Genta and Vail put their squabbling behind them? Will this be the end of the two? Will Daiji still be a little bitch in upcoming episodes? Will Tamaki EVER get to transform instead of being a running gag?

Guess we’ll find out in ep42.

I’m just hoping the red rolling ViStamp and Vail Driver won’t be P.Bandai exclusives…when and if they ever deign to release them.

‘cause I know that the Tricera Vistamp is releasing in Sept. as part of the DX ViStamp Selection 02 triple-set, alongside the Shoebill and Buffalo ViStamps.

[bosspigeon]

‘ this is your favorite, right? ’ for characters of your choice

The station is dark and empty, and honestly, Chase is more than happy with that. He's running on fumes at this point, after yet another last-minute Agency job that dragged on way longer than it should have, and he has absolutely no energy to put up with another human before sunrise.

Plus, he can blast music as loud as he wants to keep himself awake while he works his way through piles of paperwork that have been neglected for far too long. If anything can keep him awake with only the assistance of cheap, bitter black coffee brewed by the station's shitty coffee maker, it's the heavy percussion and raw, discordant vocals that got him through school.

With the backlog he's stuck with, it takes a good two hours to get through maybe three-fourths of the pile, but he also makes it all the way through some random punk album he hasn't listened to since he was an angsty teenager. He's pretty sure he found in the bathroom of some seedy club he bluffed his way into before he was old enough to drink. He'd consider it a fun trip down memory lane if he could remember anything from that night aside from finding the CD.

His eyes are dry and his shoulders ache, but he's nearly done, and he's still got at least an hour before anyone starts to arrive.

He leans back in his chair, his spine creaking in protest, and rubs his aching eyes. He's reluctant to open them, and he's getting to the point where he's not sure the angry music is going to be enough to keep him going without some help.

Another cup of jet fuel in the guise of coffee it is.

He pushes to his feet with a tired grunt, stretches a bit to shake out the worst of the aches from sitting in the same position for hours, and trudges to the door.

And then his phone buzzes loudly on his desk.

He sighs, but turns back to answer. If someone is texting him at the ass crack of dawn, it's probably something he can't afford to ignore.

turn that shit off

He doesn't even need to check the name to know who it's from. He scoffs and rolls his eyes, and doesn't bother to reply. He turns off the music, and within a minute, a certain pissy vampire sulks his way into his office. And he's got a tall cup with Haley's bakery logo on the sleeve, and a plastic dome lid to protect the pile of whipped cream drizzled with caramel on top.

Chase leans his backside against his desk and crosses his arms. "Treating ourselves today, are we?"

Mason doesn't deign to answer that. "I think I preferred the musicals to whatever the fuck that shit was."

"Did you come for a reason, or are you just here to judge me for reliving my crust punk phase?"

Mason scowls at him and shoves the cup unceremoniously into the detective's hand.

He cocks a brow. "What's this?"

Mason shifts and shoves his hands into his pockets, looking somewhere above Chase's head to avoid looking at him directly. "That's your favorite, right?" he asks gruffly. When Chase doesn't immediately respond, he forges on, "The weird... bubbly girl at the coffee place, she said that was your favorite. I've only ever seen you drink black coffee before, so maybe she was full of shit--"

Chase cuts him off by taking a grateful, noisy slurp from the cup, now that he knows that it's one of Haley's salted caramel lattes. The one she makes specifically for him, with two extra shots of espresso. He sucks down a good third of it before he looks up again, sighing happily. "Fuck, that's good," he groans.

Mason takes the bait easily, and Chase almost wants to laugh. "Should I leave you two alone?" he purrs, stalking into the detective's space to hem him in against his desk. God forbid, the vampire does something nice without covering it up immediately with some quality innuendo.

And, well, Chase wouldn't set him up if he didn't enjoy it. And if he wasn't wary about letting things get too honest himself. He pops the plastic lid off and licks a bit of caramel and whipped cream off the top, humming low in his throat. "You jealous, sunshine?" he asks slyly.

Mason plants one hand on the desk next to his hip and leans down, smirking. "Not at all. Just nice to find another way to make you moan. And with the place empty like this..."

Chase laughs. "Don't even think about it, sunshine." He takes another grateful sip of his latte and lets his tired eyes flutter closed for a moment, while he waits for the caffeine to perk him up again. "Even if I wasn't exhausted, I still have shit to do, and there are cameras."

Mason rolls his eyes. "You're no fun."

"I'll remember that the next time you want to get frisky in my backseat." With that, he rounds his desk again, twisting around the vampire to get back to his chair. "You gonna hang around? People will be showing up soon."

He pushes off the desk and tosses his hair, shrugging. "Wasn't planning on it. Got some debriefing with Adam to finish. Just wanted to drop that off." For a moment, Chase thinks he's just going to leave it at that, but he stays there with his hand on the desk, head cocked, looking at the detective with an unreadable expression.

And then he leans over the desk and brushes a quick kiss over Chase's forehead.

He's out the door before Chase recovers enough to call a quick, "Thanks."

His footsteps halt sharply, before they pick up again, slightly faster than before.

Chase smiles into his drink, takes another luxurious sip, and gets back to work.