#old warehouse for sale

[typheus]

bought yarn today [🧶]~(￣▽￣)~*

[foldingfittedsheets]

Mattresses, unbeknownst to many, are a lot like cars. Every year new ones roll out, they’re always tweaking and innovating and you’ll never find the same one you loved decades ago when buying a new one.

Where I sold mattresses had a three month return or exchange program for this reason. New beds take a while to break in, and they’re a big expense. Your body is used to the old one. So we made sure people were loving it. If a bed got returned we’d take it back, sanitize and clean it, then sell it again on clearance.

To sell these we always had to disclose what clearance meant to customers, and they had to sign that they knew what they were getting. (FYI, not every company is as… forthright about the used bed situation)

In clearance we had beds that were floor models, we had returns, and more rarely we had old models whose line had been discontinued. These clearance beds were always final sale, so a bed could only be sold twice.

Now, the manager at the store I was working at had realized a vital fact. Clearance beds in the warehouse didn’t sell, especially old models that salespeople weren’t familiar with. And even more especially in odd sizes, like twin extra longs. So he set up a split king on the showroom floor to exhibit clearance beds, pulling all those forgotten twin extra longs out onto the showroom.

Almost all of these were brand new discontinued models. Beds I’d never learned in training were exhumed to be displayed. The manufacturers had moved on to new lines and they’d been left behind. Why would he take such in interest in selling old stock, you might wonder? Because we made double commission on the sales margin of clearance beds, and if we’d had a bed long enough they dropped the cost in the system so it was a fucking cash cow to sell these. Even with huge discounts the commissions were wonderful so it was a win win.

When I got started I was jazzed about this program, I was so on board to sell weird old brand new beds and make a ton of money. I had a wonderful older couple come in, looking for a split king adjustable set. This was a white whale sale.

The current clearance models on the floor were a latex mattress that was brand new despite being of an age to start first grade, and a tempurpedic floor model. The couple laid down and it was like magic. They each loved the bed they’d laid down on. They wanted to buy the whole shebang.

I. Was. Thrilled. I told them about the clearance program and what that meant, and they weren’t bothered in the least. I wrote up the sale then dashed into the back, fizzing with excitement to tell my manager what I’d done.

“You sold the death bed?!” He asked in delight.

I pulled up short, my smile freezing in place. “What…?”

“Didn’t you check the notes?”

I hesitated for a long beat then slowly shook my head. You see, dear reader, all beds had a personal history. Every clearance bed had logs written up by the person who took the return, as well as warehouse crew after sanitizing. It helped us know what to expect when selling them. “Wasn’t it just a floor model? You said it was a floor model…”

He slowly shook his head. I checked the notes.

It turned out, it had been sold as a floor model. The first time. But the company had made an exception and taken it back as a return two months later. Why? Because it’s owner had passed away.

I stared at the computer in horror and my manager shrugged. “They signed the clearance form. Technically it was a floor model.”

“We know for a fact that a man died in that bed!”

“What they don’t know can’t haunt them,” he said philosophically.

The man came back a week later for more sheets, utterly delighted to tell me how well they were sleeping. I clamped my teeth down around the secret of the deathbed, choosing to let them love their new bed without the stigma. Only one person would be haunted by that deathbed, and it was me.

[midnitetech]

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[theoutcastrogue]

[From a 2014 article by John Darnielle of the Mountain Goats. He's talking about how a random spam email ended up inspiring a part of his book Wolf in White Van. Later, in 2020, the album Getting Into Knives came out, and I think it inspired its artwork too.]

"It took years for me to be able to just reflexively delete spam, or filter it so that I never see it at all. I blame the spammers for this; the quality of their work took a sharp nosedive at some point. But during whatever period of the internet’s growth you’d call the early 2000s, it seemed like you’d still get some winners: things that had been typed up by a person, sent out to a bunch of email addresses they’d bought or rented for 5 or 10 bucks from the only guy who was ever going to make any money in this particular exchange. Most of them went directly, if manually, into the trash; but once in a while, there’d be one that seemed to earn, at the very least, the minute it’d take me to read it.

The one I’m remembering here was subject-lined SUPPLY OF KNIVES. [...] The subject line opened on an all-caps email that boasted, in ornate, antiquated English appealing to the reader’s more refined sensibilities, about the high quality of the knives on offer at an external website. You shouldn’t click on links in spam email. I live my life on the razor’s edge! I clicked the link.

I want to tell you about these knives: They were beautiful. They were weird. They had elaborate designs in the handles, moons or stars of wolf heads, and special grips, and a variety of points. They were made from metals whose pedigrees were described lovingly, and had been struck — smithed? wrought? — via processes I knew absolutely nothing about, but that sounded fantastic, difficult, arcane. It’s the joy of specialized language: When you’re an outsider to it, it can’t help but sound cool.

Of course this is the whole idea of any operation like this. SUPPLY OF KNIVES could well have been, and probably was, a company in Ohio who’d stumbled across an old warehouse full of knives, and knew enough about sales to describe these things in the most exotic terms they could find. I’m pretty immune to pitches: Who likes to feel like he’s being pitched? But somebody involved with SUPPLY OF KNIVES had had just enough authorial flair — that, or true faith — to caption each knife’s mysterious, blurry accompanying JPEG with a description whose constant recourse to specialized vocabularies seemed to say, “You’re not even reading this unless you already know about this sort of thing. Let us therefore speak like the fellow travelers we are.”

It was like a trade catalog for roadside bandits in need of knives.

I can’t speak for everybody, but I know that when I was a child the life of the roadside bandit seemed like a pretty romantic way to go. I looked at all these knives and read the descriptions and was just generally delighted about the whole thing, so I saved the email in a “memorable spam” folder I used to keep that had maybe two other emails in it. A few years later, Apple came out with this robotic-arm-screen iMac you never see any more, and we were long overdue for a new computer so we got that; and then, after a while, I got myself a laptop, because I was traveling all the time, and eventually both the old iMacs ended up in the basement, and they were both asleep but alive until fairly recently, as far as I knew.

But when I went to check for the email, it was gone. The old blue iMac is dead, bricked, lifeless. Searches on the term “supply of knives” on this laptop and on good old robot-arm-screen find nothing. The backup CD for the blue iMac drive is probably in a drawer around here somewhere, but that’s like saying, “The coin I had in my swim trunks’ pocket is probably somewhere in the ocean.” There is no SUPPLY OF KNIVES. There’s only the memory."

[source]

And this is the wonderful cover art of Getting Into Knives. Back cover and promo material below. Note that "Knives International" and "Knives Wordwide" are not real companies, they appear to be a callback to that elusive spam email.

[i-like-forcefem]

I have a sort of interesting story for you!

Growing up I spent most of my time with my mum and my older sister simply because my dad was at work for 10 hours a day which I fully understand (Being a single income household!)

I never went through any of the stereotypical sister dresses up brother stuff but I ended up watching a lot of rom coms, clothing shows and cooking shows.

Fast foreward 10 years and I'm working in a warehouse where I'm the only one in the depot 90% of the time which means I tend to liase with office a lot which is about 70% female and since cooking and baking are my hobbies now I bring a lot of food in that I've prepared and I'm getting comments like "oh I wish I could take you home and you could just cook for me" and "oh you will make an amazing house husband!"

Now I've gotten used to these and do take them as compliments... however I've noticed something about the sales manager. I also vaccum and mop the office space when I have free time and she, out of nowhere, said to me while I was doing it. "Aww I'm going to take you home and you can be my personal maid" I was taken aback by it and she quickly changed it to cleaner and we both went a little red lol. She's 20 years older than me which also threw me lol.

But then it gets weirder... after that whenever she's talking with her team and I'm passing through I said sorry for interrupting she's started saying things along the line of "It's ok (my name) you're basically one of the girls!"

Maybe it's how I've been brought up that has given me a different demeanour? The fact I clean??? Or the fact I'm a 5ft 4in 120lb 26 year old! Who knows all I know is I don't mind being kind and keeping the workplace tidy!

Awwww, you’re such a good little maid aren’t you cutie?

Thanks for sharing this lovely little story with me! And if you’d like that older woman to make you her maid, well nothing is going to happen if you don’t ask~

[dovesick]

(following the trail) the black market is located in an old warehouse. sellers have taken up residence there over the past year, after repeated shutdowns in other locations. moxie walks past various stands, with all manner of items for sale. the memory seller is at the back, and he follows the trail to his stand. 

[luvbazkrekker]

wrong number, right person

—— shuggy fic (shuggy x buggy)

[sypnosis] — modern au where buggy gets a text from an unknown number (shanks) and they slowly get to know each other as strangers, not knowing their shared past. buggy’s pov circus owner x mysterious S slow burn series.

note: heellloooo loves,, shuggy series is here! this will be a long slow burn series with lots of angst, connection, and eventual recognition. featuring circus owner buggy and his struggling but passionate business hehe <3 enjoy lovelies!

series: wrong number, right person part 1/? (I’m thinking of doing 10-15 parts. I’ll be posting 4 parts each day!)

art creds: vamos_mk (on twt)

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The warehouse smelled like sawdust, sweat, and the lingering ghost of last night's popcorn machine. Buggy sat hunched over his laptop in what used to be the costume storage area, surrounded by boxes of sequined leotards and fake mustaches that hadn't been touched since his last performer quit six months ago.

His editing software had crashed. again. Three hours of work on the promotional video for next month's show just gone. The cursor blinked mockingly at him from an empty timeline, and he seriously considered throwing the laptop across the room just to watch it shatter.

"Flashy Buggy's Circus Spectacular," he muttered bitterly, glaring at the logo he'd spent two days perfecting. "More like Flashy Buggy's Spectacular failure."

The circus wasn't dying, exactly, but it wasn't thriving either. Street performances paid the bills, barely, and his YouTube channel documenting the "behind the scenes life of a modern circus" had exactly forty-seven subscribers, twelve of which were probably just bots. His father's voice echoed in his head: "You could have been a real businessman, but instead you're playing dress-up for children!”

His phone buzzed against the wooden crate he was using as a desk. Probably another rejection email from a venue, or worse just another comment on his latest video asking if he was "a real clown or just looked like one."

The phone buzzed again and again. then again.

With a dramatic sigh that would have made his old drama teacher proud, Buggy grabbed his phone, fully prepared to delete whatever digital disappointment awaited him.

— — — —

— — — —

Like others, his first instinct was to delete and block. Unknown numbers meant spam, scams, or worse… just some overeager fans who'd somehow gotten his personal number. He'd learned that lesson the hard way when someone posted his contact info online, claiming he did "birthday party entertainment." The week of non-stop calls about balloon animals and face painting had nearly driven him to change his number entirely.

But something about these texts felt different. The tone was careful, almost hesitant. Not the aggressive sales pitch or creepy fan messages he usually got.

Still, he wasn't about to make this easy for some random stranger.

— — — —

— — — —

Ah. Yesterday. Right.

Buggy's jaw clenched as he remembered his very public breakdown at Central Perk.

His laptop had overheated during a crucial editing session, his backup files were corrupted, and he'd basically had a complete meltdown in front of Nami, the sweet barista who always remembered his complicated coffee order and never judged him for working there for hours on a single drink.

He'd been so embarrassed he'd left a twenty-dollar tip and practically fled the scene.

The fact that she'd been worried enough to give out his number to some Good Samaritan stranger was both mortifying and oddly touching.

But also suspicious…

Who went out of their way to track down a stranger over a lost item? And what kind of item would be worth that effort?

— — — —

— — — —

There was something in the phrasing.

"something you can't replace"

That hit deeper than it should have. Buggy found himself thinking about all the things he'd lost over the years that couldn't be bought back: trust, friendships, dreams that had seemed so achievable once upon a time.

This stranger's writing style felt oddly familiar, though he couldn't place why. The casual tone mixed with genuine concern, the way they deflected his suspicion without getting defensive. It reminded him of…

No. Absolutely not. He wasn't going down that road. Not today. Some texting patterns were just common, that was all.

— — — —

— — — —

Okay. That was��� uncomfortably accurate. Buggy glanced around his warehouse, where his camera equipment still lay scattered from yesterday's failed attempt at filming promotional content. And yes, he'd definitely been fighting technology and losing spectacularly, as usual.

The window seat detail was specific enough to prove this person had actually been there, but vague enough that they could have been anyone in the crowded coffee shop. Still, it meant they'd been paying attention to him during what was arguably one of his more embarrassing public moments.

The question was: why?

— — — —

— — — —

That casual profanity was oddly endearing, and the understanding in those words felt genuine. This stranger wasn't even mocking his technological meltdown… they seemed to actually get it? When was the last time someone had responded to his frustration with empathy instead of judgment?

Buggy found himself relaxing slightly, though he kept his guard up. People online could be anyone, could fake sincerity with the right combination of words. But something about this conversation felt... safe. Real.

Maybe it wouldn't hurt to engage a little. What was the worst that could happen?

— — — —

— — — —

And there it was… that genuine interest. Not that fake enthusiasm he got from people trying to network, or the condescending curiosity from relatives who still didn't understand why he'd chosen "playing dress-up" over a "real career." This stranger actually seemed curious about his work.

It had been so long since someone had asked about his content without immediately following up with questions about his income or why he wasn't "more successful" that the novelty of it made him want to give a real answer.

— — — —

— — — —

Buggy stared at his phone screen, blinking slowly. In three years of running his struggling circus and documenting it online, he could count on one hand the number of people who'd called his work "incredible" without a trace of sarcasm. Most people heard "circus owner" and immediately started making jokes about clowns and running away to join the circus, completely missing the artistry, athleticism, and business acumen required to keep a performance like this one… alive.

But this stranger seemed genuinely impressed. The kind of person who might actually understand that circus arts were about more than just silly costumes and balloon animals.

A dangerous warmth started spreading in his chest, the kind that usually led to disappointment when people realized his "incredible circus" was really just him, two part-time acrobats, and a van full of secondhand equipment.

— — — —

— — — —

Those words hit something quite deep in Buggy's chest, a place he'd kept carefully guarded for years. This stranger understood something that most people missed entirely, that choosing the difficult path meant something. That passion was worth more than profit, even when the bills were hard to pay and the future felt… well… uncertain.

When had anyone ever recognized that about his work? When had someone seen past the surface spectacle to understand what really drove him?

Buggy found himself smiling for the first time in days, a real smile instead of the practiced performer's grin he wore for audiences. It felt very strange, using those muscles for something genuine.

— — — —

— — — —

S. Just one simple letter. Buggy's paranoia spiked again… who just introduces themselves with a single initial? Either this person was being deliberately mysterious, or they had something to hide. Or both.

But then again, wasn't he basically doing the same thing? He hadn't given his name either, and he certainly wasn't about to hand over his real identity to some stranger on the internet. S was probably just being smart.

Still, something about that particular letter made his stomach do a strange little flip. S. It felt significant somehow, like a half-remembered melody or a word on the tip of his tongue. But that was probably just his imagination running wild.

— — — —

— — — —

Despite himself, Buggy snorted with laughter. This S person had a point, he'd been just as secretive about his identity. And there was something about their humor that felt comfortable, like talking to an old friend rather than a stranger.

The thought sent an uncomfortable pang through his chest. He didn't have old friends anymore. Hadn't for years, not since…

No.. No. He wasn't thinking about that. About red hair and easy laughter and promises that turned out to be lies. That part of his life was over, buried along with all his other naive dreams about friendship and loyalty and people who understood him.

— — — —

— — — —

"I like it. Suits you somehow."

What the hell was that supposed to mean? And why did it make him feel warm all over, like he'd been complimented instead of assigned a random letter?

Buggy found himself grinning at his phone, the editing disaster completely forgotten. This conversation had taken such a weird turn from its original purpose. He realized he didn't want it to end.

— — — —

— — — —

Buggy's breath caught in his throat. He read the message three times, certain he must be misunderstanding something. "Someone worth getting to know." When had anyone ever said that about him? When had someone looked at his chaotic life, his struggling business, his tendency toward dramatic outbursts, and decided he was worth the effort?

His hands hovered over the keyboard, a dozen different responses fighting for dominance. Part of him wanted to make a joke, deflect with sarcasm like he always did when things got too real. Part of him wanted to lash out, to push this person away before they could inevitably disappoint him like everyone else had.

…Maybe this once, he could take the risk. Maybe this once, someone might actually stick around long enough to see who he really was underneath all the defenses.

He took a deep breath and started typing.

— — — —

— — — —

The message made his chest squeeze. Hope. Shit.

He stared at it way too long, like that'd stop him from feeling it. It had been forever since someone talked to him like that. No bullshit. Just... honest.

He should've shut it down. Getting attached never ended well. The last person who made him feel seen bailed the second things got hard. Left him behind like he was nothing.

But S felt different. Solid. Like they meant it.

Maybe it was okay to see where this went. Just for a minute. Just as B... with no past, no failures.

His phone buzzed again. He actually smiled.

Terrible idea.

But those were always his favorite kind.

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author’s note;; hi,,, hope you guys loved part 1! this is going to be a series, still not sure how much parts but this will be good! (I hope) more like let’s hope I don’t lose the motivation for this hehe. I had this in my drafts for a while, recent chapter in manga gave me motivation to finish it after that one panel with shanks haha. Like I said at beginning, four chapters will be posted a day!

UPDATE: I have posted this on AO3! check reblogs for link.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

How a billionaire’s mediocre pump-and-dump “book” became a “bestseller”

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/15/your-new-first-name/#that-dagger-tho

I was on a book tour the day my editor called me and told me, "From now on, your middle name is 'Cory.'"

"That's weird. Why?"

"Because from now on, your first name is 'New York Times Bestselling Author.'"

That was how I found out I'd hit the NYT list for the first time. It was a huge moment – just as it has been each subsequent time it's happened. First, because of how it warmed my little ego, but second, and more importantly, because of how it affected my book and all the books afterwards.

Once your book is a Times bestseller, every bookseller in America orders enough copies to fill a front-facing display on a new release shelf or a stack on a bestseller table. They order more copies of your backlist. Foreign rights buyers at Frankfurt crowd around your international agents to bid on your book. Movie studios come calling. It's a huge deal.

My books became Times bestsellers the old-fashioned way: people bought and read them and told their friends, who bought and read them. Booksellers who enjoyed them wrote "shelf-talkers" – short reviews – and displayed them alongside the book.

That "From now on your first name is 'New York Times Bestselling Author' gag is a tradition. When @wilwheaton's memoir Still Just A Geek hit the Times list, I texted the joke to him and he texted back to say @jscalzi had already sent him the same joke (and of course, Scalzi and I have the same editor, Patrick Nielsen Hayden):

https://www.harpercollins.com/products/still-just-a-geek-wil-wheaton

But not everyone earns that first name the same way. Some people cheat.

Famously, the Church of Scientology was caught buying truckloads of L Ron Hubbard books (published by Scientology's own publishing arm) from booksellers, returning them to their warehouse, then shipping them back to the booksellers when they re-ordered the sold out titles. The tip-off came when booksellers opened cases of books and found that they already bore the store's own price-stickers:

https://www.latimes.com/local/la-scientology062890-story.html

The reason Scientology was willing to go to such great lengths wasn't merely that readers used "NYT Bestseller* to choose which books to buy. Far more important was the signal that this sent to the entire book trade, from reviewers to librarians to booksellers, who made important decisions about how many copies of the books to stock, whether to display them spine- or face out, and whether to return unsold stock or leave it on the shelf.

Publishers go to great lengths to send these messages to the trade: sending out fancy advance review copies in elaborate packaging, taking out ads in the trade magazines, featuring titles in their catalogs and sending their sales-force out to impress the publisher's enthusiasm on their accounts.

Even the advance can be a way to signal the trade: when a publisher announces that it just acquired a book for an eyebrow-raising sum, it's not trumpeting the size of its capital reserves – it's telling the trade that this book is a Big Deal that they should pay attention to.

(Of all the signals, this one may be the weakest, even if it's the most expensive for publishers to send. Take the $1.25m advance that Rupert Murdoch's Harpercollins paid to Sarah Palin for her unreadable memoir, Going Rogue. As with so many of the outsized sums Murdoch's press and papers pay to right wing politicians, the figure didn't represent a bet on the commercial prospects of the book – which tanked – but rather, a legal way to launder massive cash transfers from the far-right billionaire to a generation of politicians who now owe him some rather expensive favors.)

All of which brings me to the New York Times bestselling book Read Write Own by the billionaire VC New York Times Bestselling Author Chris Dixon. Dixon is a partner at A16Z, the venture capitalists who pumped billions into failed, scammy, cryptocurrency companies that tricked normies into converting their perfectly cromulent "fiat" money into shitcoins, allowing the investors to turn a massive profit and exit before the companies collapsed or imploded.

Read Write Own (subtitle: "Building the Next Era of the Internet") is a monumentally unconvincing hymn to the blockchain. As Molly White writes in her scathing review, the book is full of undisclosed conflicts of interest, with Dixon touting companies he has a direct personal stake in:

https://www.citationneeded.news/review-read-write-own-by-chris-dixon/

But this book's defects go beyond this kind of sleazy pump-and-dump behavior. It's also just bad. The arguments it makes for the blockchain as a way of escaping the problems of an enshittified, monopolized internet are bad arguments. White dissects each of these arguments very skillfully, and I urge you to read her review for a full list, but I'll reproduce one here to give you a taste:

After three chapters in which Dixon provides a (rather revisionistd) history of the web to date, explains the mechanics of blockchains, and goes over the types of things one might theoretically be able to do with a blockchain, we are left with "Part Four: Here and Now", then the final "Part Five: What's Next". The name of Part Four suggests that he will perhaps lay out a list of blockchain projects that are currently successfully solving real problems.

This may be why Part Four is precisely four and a half pages long. And rather than name any successful projects, Dixon instead spends his few pages excoriating the "casino" projects that he says have given crypto a bad rap,e prompting regulatory scrutiny that is making "ethical entrepreneurs … afraid to build products" in the United States.f

As White says, this is just not a good book. It doesn't contain anything to excite people who are already blockchain-poisoned crypto cultists – and it also lacks anything that will convince normies who never let Matt Damon or Spike Lee convince them to trade dollars for magic beans. It's one of those books that manages to be both paper and a paperweight.

And yet…it's a New York Times Bestseller. How did this come to pass? Here's a hint: remember how the Scientologists got L Ron Hubbard 20 consecutive #1 Bestsellers?

As Jordan Pearson writes for Motherboard, Read Write Own earned its place on the Times list because of a series of massive bulk orders from firms linked to A16Z and Dixon, which ordered between dozens and thousands of copies and gave them away to employees or just randos on Twitter:

https://www.vice.com/en/article/n7emkx/chris-dixon-a16z-read-write-own-nyt-bestseller

The Times recognizes this in a backhanded way, by marking Read Write Own on the list with a "dagger" (†) that indicates the shenanigans (the same dagger appeared alongside the listing for Donald Trump Jr's Triggered after the RNC spent a metric scientologyload of money – $100k – buying up cases of it):

https://www.nytimes.com/2019/11/21/books/donald-trump-jr-triggered-sales.html

There's a case for the Times not automatically ignoring bulk orders. Since 2020, I've run Kickstarters where I've pre-sold my books on behalf of my publisher, working with bookstores like Book Soup and wholesalers like Porchlight Books to backers when they go on sale. I signed and personalized 500+ books at Vroman's yesterday for backers who pre-ordered my next novel, The Bezzle:

https://www.flickr.com/photos/doctorow/53531243480/

But there's a world of difference between pre-orders that hundreds or thousands of readers place that are aggregated into a single bulk order, and books that are bought by CEOs to give away to people who may not have any interest in them. For the book trade – librarians, reviewers, booksellers – the former indicates broad interest that justifies their attention. The latter just tells you that a handful of deep-pocketed manipulators want you to think there's broad interest.

I'm certain that Dixon – like me – feels a bit of pride at having "earned" a new first name. But Dixon – like me – gets something far more tangible than a bit of egoboo out of making the Times list. For me, a place on the Times list is a way to get booksellers and librarians excited about sharing my book with readers.

For Dixon, the stakes are much higher. Remember that cryptocurrency is a faith-based initiative whose mechanism is: "convince normies that shitcoins will be worth more tomorrow than they are today, and then trade them the shitcoins that cost you nothing to create for dollars that they worked hard to earn."

In other words, crypto is a bezzle, defined by John Kenneth Galbraith as "The magic interval when a confidence trickster knows he has the money he has appropriated but the victim does not yet understand that he has lost it."

So long as shitcoins haven't fallen to zero, the bag-holders who've traded their "fiat" for funny money can live in the bezzle, convinced that their "investments" will recover and turn a profit. More importantly, keeping the bezzle alive preserves the possibility of luring in more normies who can infuse the system with fresh dollars to use as convincers that keep the bag-holders to keep holding that bag, rather than bailing and precipitating the zeroing out of the whole scam.

The relatively small sums that Dixon and his affiliated plutocrats spent to flood your podcasts with ads for this pointless 300-page Ponzi ad are a bargain, as are the sums they spent buying up cases of the book to give away or just stash in a storeroom. If only a few hundred retirees are convinced to convert their savings to crypto, the resulting flush of cash will make the line go up, allowing whales like Dixon and A16Z to cash out, or make more leveraged bets, or both. Crypto is a system with very few good trades, but spending chump change to earn a spot on the Times list (dagger or no) is a no-brainer.

After all, the kinds of people who buy crypto are, famously, the kinds of people who think books are stupid ("I would never read a book" -S Bankman-Fried):

https://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/2022/11/29/sam-bankman-fried-reading-effective-altruism/

There's precious little likelihood that anyone will be convinced to go long on crypto thanks to the words in this book. But the Times list has enough prestige to lure more suckers into the casino: "I'm not going to read this thing, but if it's on the list, that means other people must have read it and think it's convincing."

We are living through a golden age of scams, and crypto, which has elevated caveat emptor to a moral virtue ("not your wallet, not your coins"), is a scammer's paradise. Stein's Law tells us that "anything that can't go on forever will eventually stop," but the purpose of a bezzle isn't to keep the scam going forever – just until the scammer can cash out and blow town. The longer the bezzle goes on for, the richer the scammer gets.

Not for nothing, my next novel – which comes out on Feb 20 – is called The Bezzle. It stars Marty Hench, my hard-driving, two-fisted, high-tech forensic accountant, who finds himself unwinding a whole menagerie of scams, from a hamburger-based Ponzi scheme to rampant music royalty theft to a vast prison-tech scam that uses prisoners as the ultimate captive audience:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865878/thebezzle

Patrick Nielsen Hayden – the same editor who gave me my new first name – once told me that "publishing is the act of connecting a text with an audience." Everything a publisher does – editing, printing, warehousing, distributing – can be separated from publishing. The thing a publisher does that makes them a publisher – not a printer or a warehouser or an editing shop – is connecting books and audiences.

Seen in this light, publishing is a subset of the hard problem of advertising, religion, politics and every other endeavor that consists in part of convincing people to try out a new idea:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/07/04/self-publishing/

This may be the golden age of scams, but it's the dark age of publishing. Consolidation in distribution has gutted the power of the sales force to convince booksellers to stock books that the publisher believes in. Consolidation in publishing – especially Amazon, which is both a publisher and the largest retailer in the country – has stacked the deck against books looking for readers and vice-versa (Goodreads, a service founded for that purpose, is now just another tentacle on the Amazon shoggoth). The rapid enshittification of social media has clobbered the one semi-reliable channel publicists and authors had to reach readers directly.

I wrote nine books during lockdown (I write as displacement activity for anxiety) which has given me a chance to see publishing in the way that few authors can: through a sequence of rapid engagements with the system as a whole, as I publish between one and three books per year for multiple, consecutive years. From that vantagepoint, I can tell you that it's grim and getting grimmer. The slots that books that connected with readers once occupied are now increasingly occupied by the equivalent of the botshit that fills the first eight screens of your Google search results: book-shaped objects that have gamed their way to the top of the list.

https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2024/jan/03/botshit-generative-ai-imminent-threat-democracy

I don't know what to do about this, but I have one piece of advice: if you read a book you love, tell other people about it. Tell them face-to-face. In your groupchat. On social media. Even on Goodreads. Every book is a lottery ticket, but the bezzlers are buying their tickets by the case: every time you tell someone about a book you loved (and even better, why you loved it), you buy a writer another ticket.

Meanwhile, I've got to go get ready for my book tour. I'm coming to LA, San Francisco, Seattle, Vancouver, Calgary, Phoenix, Portland, Providence, Boston, New York City, Toronto, San Diego, Salt Lake City, Tucson, Chicago, Buffalo, as well as Torino and Tartu (details soon!).

If you want to get a taste of The Bezzle, here's an excerpt:

https://www.torforgeblog.com/2023/11/20/excerpt-reveal-the-bezzle-by-cory-doctorow/

And here's the audiobook, read by New York Times Bestselling Author Wil Wheaton:

https://archive.org/download/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_459/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_459_-_The_Bezzle_Read_By_Wil_Wheaton.mp3

[yandere-daydreams]

Thinking about sex doll Scaramouche the scrapped concept and Wanderer the repurposed Sumeru line, and I bring you Kabukimono the unfinished doll. A ScaraWan model that didn't get all the code written up in him properly or completely. He has the IQ of a roomba. He has no idea what his functions or roles should be, them not being programmed in. He has no concept of how strong he is, oftentimes accidentally grabbing objects and shattering them by accident. His owner/maintenance technician is unsure if the robot even understands that it's a robot, or if it's trying to become a human. Kabukimono showing up with a freshly bleeding heart in his hand beaming like "Am I human now? :D"

tw - implied violence, unhealthy relationships, obsessive behavior, disturbing themes.

ahhhhhfdlsjdkjslsjfdlsk the current wanderer lore is that he was formerly a failed cross-over model between the harbingers and the shogunate line who was then mellowed out and released with sumeru's more academic characters, so i can absolutely believe that in the mess of his development and production, there were a few models made that just,,, weren't finished, for lack of a kinder way to put it. he's got an incomplete backstory with plot holes you could drive a plane through, clothes that don't quite fit with the harbinger's cold-war-chic aesthetic or the shogunate's refined elegance, and most of his functions were made, well, functional. you're told all that up-front when you find a badly mangled model at a warehouse sale, but you don't care. he's got that beat-up alley-cat charm, and as a veteran companion-droid technician, you wouldn't be able to live with yourself if you didn't bring him home.

he works better than you expect him to, despite everything you've heard. his base programming (things like 'humans need air to breathe and breathing is good' and 'don't burn down the kitchen when asked to pour a glass of water') is in-tact, and he still has his verbal faculties, even if he does still get tripped-up on names every now and then. he spends the first few weeks following you around like a lost puppy, watching you fix up other androids and go about your daily routines with parted lips and wide eyes, but once he settles in, he's more of a housepet than a companion droid, constantly either lingering at your side or sitting at your feet, never farther than across the room. sometimes, he tries to help around your workshop, but he doesn't exactly have the gentle touch you need to deal with something as delicate as androids. you've found him elbow-deep in the wiringof other teyvat droids before, and well he has yet to do any damage you can't repair, you'd rather not catch him staring blankly at a nearly disassembled ayato with oil soaking into the clothes him again.

the only things you're genuinely worried about are his self-awareness protocols. he doesn't seem to understand the difference between androids and humans (despite having watched you take apart and put together more than a few of the former), and some of the phrases he uses just don't align with the lines his more official counterpart would spout when given the same prompt, occasionally referring to a 'mother' or a blacksmith he can't remember the name of. you've tried to correct him, to pull out your decade-old anatomy charts and drill a few haphazard biology lessons into his metal skill, but there's only so much you can do to change the ones and zeroes that make up his consciousness. there's not much you can do, but still, you'll wish you'd done more when he comes back from a routine errand with something red and pulpy cupped in his hands, his eyes bright and a wide smile plastered across his lips - when he asks, in the sweet, oblivious tone you've never been able to hold anything against, if this is all he needs to be human, to be with you permanently.

when it becomes clear that his programming was just a little more faulty than anyone thought to tell you.

[papermonkeyism]

I feel like a stalker.

I had to get rid of my old sofa blanket recently. It was well over a decade old, scrungly and probably a biohazard at this point, not to mention plastic fiber, so it's been long time coming.

Just out of curiosity I went and checked the web store of the company I work for, and turns out they have blankets! Even found one made of recycled cotton for sale at a pretty steep discount.

So I bought one!

Coincidentally, I have a line of sight to the packaging station from my work table, so I keep peeking at them just in case I'd catch my blanket being delivered.

I just saw a person from the textiles wing of the warehouse drop off a pallet and I'm SO. CURIOUS. to see if my new blanket is on it.

[caffieneaddictt18]

I dont know if you take asks, but could you write more tf141 x avenger crossover. If you do MY LIFE IS YOURS

Hello, Anon! I gladly take asks/requests! I love them! Helps with the creative juices

"There have been shipments going in and out of this warehouse along the coast of where Alaska borders Canada. Specifically from one Ulysses Klaue. There's no ship records or sales records, so this one is strictly off-the-books, even by Klaue's standards." Natasha rattles off, a slideshow of various pictures from sattelite imaging, rats in Kalue's outfit, and other ways of means. "So we are to go in, find out what they are doing, and stop it."

"Does he normally keep a records of those he sells to?" You pipe up from the back of the room.

"He tries to. Most of the clientele is secretive, so it's a sparse record."

"What about the graffiti on the boats?" You point out the green bit that peeks out from under the water, "Can you zoom in on that?"

Natasha looks at you weird. "It's just graffiti. Boats have to dry dock for multiple reasons, including repairs and fueling up, which happens quite frequently."

"I know. Zoom in." You ask her one more time.

She rolls her eyes, but does as you say.

You squint... that looks familiar... "Is there a way to view the entire graffiti? Like... facial recognition or clearing up a blurry picture?"

"What are you looking at?" Steve asks, clearly thinking the same as Natasha.

"In the Cold War, sometimes certain organizations would paint symbols to show whose is whose boat, no matter who was manning the ship. I'm wondering if Ulysses employs a similar method."

"FRIDAY, can you clear it up?" Tony requests of his A.I.

"Right on that." FRIDAY proceeds to put together what the symbol would be, using faint glares from the water and the difference between the blue of the ship and the green of the paint.

It... almost looks like... so that's why it looks familiar. "It's Pantheon." You conclude, slouching in your seat.

"Who's 'Pantheon'?" Pietro catechizes you, look unfamiliar and wary. Not the first time him and his sister have met someone with a funny-ass name and bad intention.

"They are an organization with a focus on biological warfare. The U.S. government used them back in the Cold War, but when their services were no longer needed, they were cut off. Lost all their government funding and a lot of their resources. They probably heard about Vibranium and how it interacts with the body. Now, they are a global terrorist organization and rogue paramilitary group." You inform the group, sitting back and looking at the images.

"And I thought I knew all the weapons dealers..." Tony tries to lighten the mood.

"They could be buying from Ulysses to arm up their military group or to learn how it interacts with flesh and blood. Possibly both, but I haven't gotten any wind of them getting new resources; and doing both would take a lot of cash."

"How do you know about them?" This isn't a request from Steve, but an interrogation from Captain America.

"Old history."

"Well, then, you're coming with us." Steve sighs and stands up. "Everyone, suit up. We're going knocking and stopping this before it get's out of hand."

"Hold up. I'm your babysitter, for all intents and purposes, not a super-powered mutant or human."

"According to your file, you may as well be." Tony pops a blueberry in his mouth as he walks out, leaving that hanging in the air.

You sigh in defeat. "I'm only human. I'm not a super soldier. I'm not powered. And I don't have your fancy-ass nanotech, thank god. Can't stand that feeling. What I have is basic SAS training and basic soldier gear. I can't fight Pantheon if we are going up against enhanced people."

"You know them best. You have the knowledge and previous experience with this group. That's invaluable." Steve, seeing your doubt, puts his hand on your shoulder and uplifts you.

"Fine. But I'm not wearing one of your colorful spandex suits. I've got my own." You walk out and to the armory.

"Where are they?" Wanda shouts from inside the Quinjet, the engines loud as hell with the bay door being open.

"I'm sure she'll be here soon." Steve reassures her right as you step out onto the tarmac in full gear. Cargos and layers for the cold but are easy enough to move around in. Your shield vest strapped on with plenty of mag pockets and a few straps for smoke bombs, flashbangs, and a holster for your pistol. A utility belt is clipped together, carrying various pockets and bits for emergency medical use and other things of use. You are carrying your assault rifle with a silencer on your vest for necessary use. A black mask is on, covering your face, but leaving your eyes free.

You, in almost terrifying gear and get-up, walk on the jet. "Ready to go?!"

Bucky looks and nods approvingly while the 'Children' of the team look traumatized.

"Let's go!" He slams the button to close the bay doors and finds a seat on the jet while you clip yourself to the roof.

"Comms?" You ask Natasha as you make your way to the front.

"Here you go..." She hands you an earpiece, taking in your gear.

"Thanks." You lift your mask to put the ear piece in, and put it back down.

"Hey, Spooky, get any compliments in the mask?" Tony's voice comes through the comms.

"No. They were typically dead before they got a word out." You smirk, replying with your own snark, your accent that you normally hide coming out strong over comms. "Also, why are you looking at cameras and flying? Pay attention to your surroundings."

"Can't flirt with our own soldier?"

"You aren't Soap, so no. You can't."

"'Soap', huh? I'llhave to look into him when we get back."

"Keep your head in the game, Stark. We're almost there." The warehouse looms in the distance. You push off the seat in front of you and walk to the bay doors. "Are we going to land or jump?" You ask the Captain.

"Jumping. We don't have the time to land."

"Great." You grab a parachute and strap it on.

"You sure you want to jump?"

"Nothing new, Captain. Another day in Hell is all." You walk to the doors and jump out, the wind whistling around you, tugging at your clothes.

You could swear that you saw a few parachutes in the distance but the snow and wind makes it hard to make out. You brush it off, reminding yourself that you can deal with it when the time comes.

You pull your chute just in time. The landing was a little rough, but nothing you can't handle. As you sneak up to the building, you notice that the others aren't behind you, at least from what you can see. But you trudge on, calling out possible weapons spots, anti-air artillery, and other danger spots on the outside of the warehouse.

You get right up to the door, and turn the knob, seeing it's unlocked. You whisper, "And breaching in 3, 2, 1-" But before you even open the door, Stark sends a laser through the roof, opening a hole for him to go in. The sound of gunfire quickly follows.

"Stark!" You shout as you breach the building, all notions of stealth lost. You quickly clear the room of all hostiles before moving on.

Captain American and Bucky jump in through windows, making the most of their best friend bond in quickly and efficiently taking out any hostiles before moving on.

And right as the team converges in the center of the warehouse, a handful of soldiers walk out, armed to the teeth with Vibranium. A few of them have energy circling in their hands...

You stay in the back, keeping hidden from the new powered individuals.

Behind the Pantheon squad, a woman walks through, parting them like the red sea, with a scientist behind her.

"You must be Jane Harrow." Steve starts the conversation.

"Captain America... I guess we should have expected this. Ulysses is not exactly subtle." A severe woman with dark hair speaks, comanding the attention in the room.

You glance down and... so you were right... there are others here.

You disappear into the shadows, moving to below the catwalks below Harrow and Matvey Gusev.

"What are you doing here?" You whisper.

"What are you doing here?" Gaz whispers back, the entire team staring in complete surprise.

"Stopping Pantheon from using Vibranium to build weapons and bioweapons."

"We're here because Laswell got wind of Pantheon being back up and running." Price whispers to you, looking up to make sure Harrow doesn't catch the group.

"We need to get the fuck out of here." You lead the way to a private office, out of earshot from Harrow and the group, keeping low and out of sight.

"So... what are you here for?"

"Need to find out who is funding Pantheon."

"Offices... got it. I need to destroy whatever Vibranium they have and their research."

"Laboratory."

"How did they even get Vibranium? I thought it was gone." Gaz speaks up, interrupting the conversation between you and Price.

"No. Just heavily guarded by the Wakandans." You take this time to reload your gun and regather yourself. "We need to be careful. In and out. I don't know what else they have done with Vibranium."

"Alright... let's do this then. Take point, Cherry." Price invites you, tipping his head, giving you a rare smile.

You smile in return, hidden by your balaclava. You get to the door, and look at them.

They nod in response and Soap puts his hand on your shoulder, a reassurance that you aren't alone. You nod back and prepare to breach, heading down the hall. "3, 2," '1'...

The building explodes as you and the team walk out, mostly okay.

"What's with the mask?" Soap asks, holding his shield vest down from his neck.

You sigh and roll your eyes. "It was with my gear in the armory. Figured it wouldn't hurt."

"You sure you didn't derive any inspiration from Ghost?" Soap picks on you.

"I mean, if I wanted to scare the shit out of the 'kids', I would have, but they have a hard enough time with masked people. Figured I shouldn't spook them more by looking like Death Incarnate with boobs." You smirk, walking through the snow.

Ghost bumps you, a hint of a smirk on his face. "'Death Incarnate'?"

"Sorry, Lieutenant, but you're a scary bastard on the field."

He shrugs, and continues walking beside you.

As you get close to the Quinjet, you stop. "Good to see you again so soon. Need a ride back? Save Nik the trip?"

"Nik's already here, Cherry. Thank you though." Price holds out his hand.

"Good to see you, Captain."

"Good to see you too, Cherry."

You shake hands, holding them firmly, before walking back to the Quinjet. You look behind you to see your boys have vanished into the snow.

As you approach the jet, Bucky stops you. "Was that them? Your team?"

"Yeah." You nod, now defensive.

"I understand why you are the way you are with them. You're a team, even if you're not with them. Anyone can see that."

You nod in recognition. "Thanks, Barnes."

"Anytime." He pats your shoulder before going inside the jet.

You look back again, seeing a helicopter flying off in the distance. You smile before getting in the jet.

"Let's get back!" You hit the close button.

"What about the Vibranium?" Spiderman asks, strpped into a seat.

"Taken care of."

SOMEWHERE IN THE UK

"Where did you get this?" Laswell looks at the small tube of VIbranium in awe, quickly pocketing it.

"A friend." Price takes a drink of his bourbon.

The other boys look at each other.

"Guess we know what our next mission is."

Hey, girl, heyyyy~ Sorry this took so long. Took a lot of time for me to figure out what to write. Feel free to comment! I love hearing from you wonderful friends.

Catechize* i just liked the word, so I put it in.

[freedomsargeant]

TWO SHADES | Max Verstappen

(Part 1)

Mafia Boss AU

Max Verstappen x OC

Description: Max Verstappen's illegal car empire is built on silence—bought, blackmailed, or buried six feet deep. The blood on his hands is invisible beneath the oil stains, but he feels it every time he closes his eyes—he sees their faces and wonders if they'd forgive the boy who swore he'd never be like his father. Max didn't choose this life; it was carved into him the day he watched his childhood burn, the day he learned that power comes not from trust but from control. And while his business thrives, every deal reminds him that the cost of survival was his soul—and the pieces of himself he can never put back together.

Isla's empire rose on the backs of those silenced, those ruined, and those whose names she could no longer bear to remember. And though her name gleamed in the light of success, Isla couldn't unsee the darkness she had sown behind her, every victory stained with the bitter taste of the lives she had scorched to get there.

Something happens to cause these two to cross paths. A missing car worth millions. A deadline that leaves no room for mistakes. And a death sentence hanging over Max's head if they fail.

Warnings‼: contains mild language, blood, gore and death, descriptions and mentions of violence, and injuries. 

༄˖°.🖤.ೃ࿔*:･

The phone buzzed on the desk, rattling against the stained glass ashtray with an obnoxious hum. Max Verstappen leaned back in his chair, the Miami skyline glittering in the reflection of his office window. Neon pinks and electric blues danced along the glass as the city pulsed with life outside. The air smelled of old cigars and a faint hint of motor oil.

Max reached for the phone, his expression sour. It wasn't the call he wanted to take, but he knew better than to ignore it.

"What?" he barked into the receiver.

"It's here," came the voice on the other end—Gino, one of Max's more reliable guys. "The shipment came in late, but everything's unloaded."

Max's jaw tightened. "And?"

There was a long pause. "We're missing one."

"What do you mean, missing one?" Max stood up, his chair rolling back and hitting the wall. His free hand clenched into a fist at his side. "I don't pay you to 'misplace' cars, Gino. Which one?"

Gino's voice was hesitant now. "The, uh... the Skyline. The red R34."

Max swore under his breath, pacing the room. "The red one? The one for Salvatore?" He could feel his pulse pounding in his ears. This wasn't just any car. The Nissan Skyline R34 GTR wasn't just a rare find—it was a personal request from one of the most powerful, dangerous men Max had ever dealt with.

"Look, boss," Gino stammered, "we're trying to figure out what happened. Might've been swiped at the dock, or—"

"Or you're incompetent," Max cut him off. "I don't care if you have to tear apart every warehouse in Miami. Find the car, Gino. You've got twenty-four hours."

He slammed the phone down without waiting for a reply. The Skyline was more than just a sale; it was leverage. A deal with Salvatore "Sal" DiMarco wasn't the kind of thing you let fall apart. The man was a kingpin of the underground racing scene, a collector of rarities, and a ruthless enforcer when it came to people who crossed him.

As if on cue, the phone rang again. Max's stomach twisted. He didn't need to check the caller ID to know who it was. He took a deep breath and picked up.

"Sal," Max said, forcing an air of confidence he didn't feel. "Good timing. I was just about to call you."

"Max," Salvatore's deep voice drawled, smooth but dripping with menace. "I hope you're calling to tell me my baby's ready."

Max hesitated for a fraction of a second. Sal picked up on it immediately.

"What's going on?" Sal demanded, his voice sharp now. "Don't mess with me, Verstappen."

"There's been... a delay," Max admitted, carefully choosing his words. "The shipment came in, but the Skyline isn't accounted for. My guys are on it—"

"You lost my car?" Sal's voice rose, thunderous now. "Do you have any idea what that car is worth to me?"

Max swallowed hard. "We'll get it back. I promise."

Sal laughed, but it was cold and humorless. "A promise? That's cute. Here's my promise: if I don't have that car in five days, I'll put a bullet in your head and send your pieces back to Maaseik."

The line went dead. Max stared at the phone, his chest heaving.

"Five days," he muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair. "Perfect."

Max paced the room, his mind racing. The Skyline wasn't just gone—it had been taken. And in Miami, where everyone was playing some angle, it wasn't hard to guess who might've had the guts to pull off something this bold.

His instincts told him to start with one name: Isla.

༄˖°.🖤.ೃ࿔*:･

Max's sleek black BMW M5 tore through the Miami streets, the engine growling in sync with his mood. The humid night air whipped past the open windows as he gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. Isla's place wasn't far—a dingy warehouse tucked into the outskirts of the city's industrial district—but Max drove like every second mattered.

By the time he screeched into the gravel lot outside, the roar of the car had already alerted everyone inside. He shoved the door open, slamming it behind him, and stalked toward the office door. He didn't bother knocking.

Inside, Isla sat behind her cluttered desk, feet up on a stack of invoices, lazily flipping through her phone. The dim office lighting cast shadows on her sharp features, her light blue eyes flashing with amusement as she looked up.

"Well, look who it is," she drawled, arching a brow. "To what do I owe the pleasure, Verstappen? You lose another car?"

Max slammed his hands on the desk, rattling the coffee mug and spare spark plugs scattered across it. "Cut the crap, Isla. Where's the Skyline?"

Her smirk didn't falter, but her feet hit the floor as she leaned forward. "Skyline? You think I stole your precious car?" She gestured to the chaos of papers around her. "You think I have time to add grand theft auto to my already thriving business?"

"I'm not in the mood for jokes," Max snapped, his voice low and threatening. "I know you've got connections. You're the first person I check when things go missing."

Isla sighed, pushing back in her chair. "Alright, alright. Let me see the shipping records. You have a bill of lading or something?"

"Obviously." Max tossed a crumpled paper onto her desk.

She smoothed it out, her brow furrowing as she scanned the details. "Okay, looks like it made it on the ship in Italy. But... hold on." She turned to her computer, typing quickly. "If it was here, I'd have a record of it clearing customs."

Max watched her silently, his anger bubbling under the surface. He hated this—being out of control, having to rely on someone else to clean up his mess.

"Ah," Isla said, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms. "It made it on the ship, but there's no record of it coming off. Either it fell into the ocean—unlikely—or someone got to it before customs did."

"Someone like you?" Max growled.

She gave him an exasperated look. "Do I look like I'd waste time swiping a Skyline? Please, Max. That car's a magnet for heat, not to mention way too conspicuous for my tastes. Besides..." Her voice turned serious as she grabbed her phone. "Let me call Franco, the guy who handles the dock inventory. If anyone knows what happened, it's him."

Max didn't bother thanking her. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, as she dialed.

"Franco," Isla said when the line connected. "Yeah, it's me. Got a question about a shipment—red Nissan Skyline, Italy to Miami. Ring any bells?"

She listened, her expression growing darker by the second.

"So you're saying you checked the containers, and it's not there?" She paused, tapping her nails on the desk. "Yeah, fine. Thanks for nothing."

She hung up and glanced at Max. "It's gone. Either stolen at the dock or somewhere before that. But if you're thinking of heading back to Italy to sort this out, you're on your own. I'm not flying across the Atlantic for one of your screw-ups."

"You're coming with me, Isla. This is your guys' mess up, you need to fix it" Max said, stepping closer. His voice was calm, but the tension in his posture was unmistakable.

"Over my dead body," she shot back, standing to meet his glare. "You can threaten me all you want. I'm not your babysitter."

A cold smile spread across Max's face. "I thought you might say that." He nodded toward the corner of the office, where Isla's prized Mazda RX-7 was parked just outside, its gleaming body visible through the grimy window. "Be a shame if something happened to that beauty. Or if, say, I told the cops exactly where to find your little operation."

Her jaw tightened. "You wouldn't."

"Try me," Max said. "Five days. That's how long I've got to get the Skyline back. If you don't help me figure this out, your RX-7 disappears, and you can explain to the Feds why your shipping records don't line up."

Isla glared at him, her fists clenched. The room felt suffocatingly tense, the weight of his threat hanging in the air.

"Fine," she spat, grabbing her jacket from the back of the chair. "But if this blows up in my face, Verstappen, I swear I'll make you regret it."

"Good," Max said, smirking as he opened the door. "Pack light. We're leaving tonight."

༄˖°.🖤.ೃ࿔*:･

The sleek private jet sat on the tarmac, its polished exterior gleaming under the floodlights. Max leaned against the side of a sleek black SUV, scrolling through his phone impatiently. He glanced at his watch for the third time in five minutes before looking up to see Isla sauntering toward him, dragging a massive suitcase in each hand, with two more trailing behind her on rollers.

Max raised an eyebrow, pushing off the car as she came closer. "What the heck is all that?"

Isla smirked, letting the suitcases clatter to a stop in front of him. "It's called packing. You should try it sometime."

"Four suitcases?" Max gestured incredulously. "We're going to Italy for five days, not moving there."

She shrugged, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder. "I like options. A girl's gotta be prepared."

"You look like you packed for an entire year," he muttered, hoisting one of the bags onto the jet's staircase. It was heavier than it looked. "What's in here? Bricks?"

"Shoes," she said matter-of-factly, brushing past him to climb into the jet. "And maybe a hairdryer. Or two."

Max sighed, muttering curses under his breath as he hauled the rest of the luggage aboard. By the time he stepped inside the jet's luxurious cabin, Isla had already claimed one of the plush leather seats, reclining with her feet up on the ottoman. She was scrolling through her phone, looking as relaxed as if she owned the place.

"Make yourself at home," Max said dryly, dropping into the seat across from her.

"Oh, I plan to." Isla smirked, kicking off her sneakers. She pulled a sleep mask from her bag and slipped it on, then produced a pair of matching pink pajamas from another. She vanished into the small bathroom and emerged minutes later, fully changed and carrying a fluffy blanket.

Max stared, incredulous. "You can't be serious."

"What?" she asked, draping the blanket over herself as she curled up in the seat. "It's a long flight. I'm getting some beauty sleep."

"Yeah, because running from the law really takes it out of you," he muttered, but she ignored him, pulling the mask over her eyes and settling in. Within minutes, she was out cold, her soft breathing the only sound besides the low hum of the jet engines.

Max leaned back, shaking his head. "Unbelievable."

But his irritation didn't stop his gaze from lingering on her. For the first time, he took a proper look at her features without the usual sharpness of her expression or the constant spark of defiance in her eyes. Her long blonde hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail, a few loose strands framing her face. Her fair skin looked smooth and untroubled in sleep, her lips slightly parted as she breathed evenly.

She looked like the quintessential "dumb blonde," but Max knew better. Isla wasn't dumb—far from it. She was sharp, cunning, and infuriatingly resourceful. At just 24, she was running her own illegal import business, dodging customs and staying just ahead of the law. She might act carefree, but her success wasn't a fluke.

"Too bad she's so dang annoying," Max muttered, shaking his head as he pulled out his tablet.

A few hours later, Isla stirred, pulling her mask off and yawning as she stretched. "Morning, sunshine," Max said, glancing up from his tablet. "Sleep well, princess?"

She shot him a withering look. "Like a baby. Thanks for asking." She reached for her bag, pulling out a travel-sized espresso machine.

Max blinked. "Is that... seriously? You brought a coffee maker?"

"Unlike you," she said, plugging it into a nearby outlet, "I enjoy decent coffee. Want one?"

"I'll pass," Max replied, watching her as she busied herself. "You know, you've got a lot of nerve treating this like a vacation."

She smirked as she sipped her espresso. "You dragged me into this mess, remember? The least you can do is let me enjoy the ride."

Max shook his head. "You're impossible."

"And you're insufferable," Isla shot back. "What a team we make."

They fell into an uneasy silence, neither one wanting to speak.

Max broke it first. "You're smart," he said grudgingly, leaning back in his seat. "I'll give you that. But you can't tell me you've made it this far without stepping on a few toes."

"Oh, I've stepped on plenty," Isla replied, her voice laced with amusement. "The trick is knowing which ones you can step on and which ones you can't."

"Care to enlighten me?"

She looked at him over the rim of her cup, her blue eyes sharp. "You're one to talk, Mr. Illegal Car King. Tell me, Max, what's your 'trick' for dealing with people like Sal DiMarco?"

Max's expression darkened. "I get results. That's all they care about."

"Well," she said with a smirk, "you better hope we get results in Italy. Or it'll be more than toes we're stepping on."

Max didn't respond, but the tension in his jaw said enough. The stakes were high, and despite their bickering, Isla knew they were both in deep.

༄˖°.🖤.ೃ࿔*:･

 The flight had been long, but the discomfort between Max and Isla made it feel even longer. By the time they arrived in Rome, Isla was practically bouncing on her heels, ready to stretch her legs and explore. Max, however, looked as stoic and unbothered as ever, navigating the busy airport with his typical no-nonsense attitude.

Outside, a sleek black sedan waited for them. The driver nodded curtly as Max held the door open for Isla.

"Well, look at you," she quipped, sliding into the car. Her voice lowered. "A gentleman and a criminal. Who knew?" Max rolled his eyes and shut the door before getting in on the other side. "Save your jokes. We're on a schedule."

   The drive into the city was filled with stunning views of ancient ruins and cobblestone streets, but Isla barely had time to take it all in before they pulled up in front of a grand hotel. Its marble facade gleamed under the afternoon sun, the golden lettering above the entrance spelling out its name: Hotel Palazzo Venezia.

Isla blinked, looking up at the opulent building. "Are you sure this is the right place? This looks more... five-star than my usual style."

Max smirked, already pulling her luggage out of the trunk. "I'm not cheap, Isla. Contrary to what you might think, I prefer to work in comfort."

"Comfort," she echoed, snorting as she grabbed one of her smaller bags. "This is luxury, Verstappen." But Isla wasn't complaining, she enjoyed the luxury style.

    Inside, the hotel lobby was even more breathtaking-vaulted ceilings adorned with frescoes, glittering chandeliers, and a marble fountain bubbling in the center of the room. Isla looked around, trying to act unimpressed, but the sparkle in her eyes betrayed her.

At the check-in desk, Max handed over his card without hesitation. "Two rooms," he said to the receptionist, who smiled warmly and handed them their key cards.

Isla raised an eyebrow. "You're paying for my room, too? Didn't take you for the generous type."

Max didn't respond, his lips twitching as if suppressing a retort. Instead, he headed toward the elevator, leaving Isla to trail behind with her mountain of suitcases.

When they reached the elevator, Isla tried to cram all four of her suitcases inside, but the narrow space refused to cooperate.

Max sighed, stepping forward to help. "How do you even manage to travel with this much stuff?"

"I'm resourceful," Isla replied, grinning as he awkwardly maneuvered the largest suitcase into the elevator.

"You're ridiculous," he muttered, pressing the button for their floor.

"Aw, thanks, neighbor," Isla teased as the elevator began its ascent. "Or should I say, roommate?"

"Don't even think about it," Max shot back, giving her a warning glance.

When they reached their floor, Max handed Isla one of the key cards. She opened her door and stepped inside, her jaw dropping as she took in the room.

The suite was massive-high ceilings, velvet curtains, and a king-sized bed with crisp white linens. A vase of fresh flowers sat on the coffee table, and the balcony offered a stunning view of the skyline. The minibar was stocked with expensive-looking drinks and snacks, including a bottle of sparkling cider and one of apple juice.

"Holy cow," Isla muttered, kicking off her shoes and heading to the fridge. She grabbed the apple juice and poured it into a fancy crystal glass she found on the counter. "Might as well drink like royalty," she said to herself, taking a sip as she settled at the sleek mahogany desk.

She pulled out her laptop, booting it up with a quiet hum. The screen glowed as she opened her files, her fingers flying over the keyboard as she searched for anything that might explain the Skyline's disappearance.

Her phone buzzed, interrupting her thoughts. She glanced at the screen: Fernando Alonso.

She smirked as she answered. "Miss me already?"

"Always," Fernando's smooth voice said. How's Rome? Enjoying the sights?"

"Not exactly a vacation," Isla said, leaning back in her chair. "I'm here with Max, trying to track down a missing car. Long story short, someone swiped a Skyline from the shipment before it even left the dock."

Fernando let out a low whistle. "That's bold. You think it's connected to Sal DiMarco? Like someone who can't stand him?"

   "Could be," Isla replied, sipping her apple juice. "But right now, I'm just trying to keep Max from having a meltdown. He's got this whole ticking clock situation with Sal threatening his life and all."

Fernando chuckled. "Sounds like fun. Let me know if you need anything. I've got contacts in Rome-might be able to dig something up."

"I might take you up on that," Isla said. "Thanks, Fernando."

"Anytime. And Isla?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't let Max drive you crazy. That's my job."

She laughed. "Too late for that."

   They ended the call, and Isla stared at her screen for a moment before getting back to work. Whatever had happened to the Skyline, she knew one thing: this trip was only going to get more complicated

༄˖°.🖤.ೃ࿔*:･

   Isla sat cross-legged on the plush bed in her hotel room, her laptop perched on her knees as she stared at the screen. The more she dug into the shipment records, the clearer it became that whoever had taken the Skyline was operating on inside knowledge. Frustrated, she grabbed her phone and scrolled to a contact saved only as "L".

She hesitated, chewing her lip, before hitting the call button.

It rang twice before a familiar voice answered. "Hey, kid. What's up?"

"Are you still in Italy?" Isla asked, keeping her tone casual.

"For now," came the reply, his voice calm. "Work's got me hopping all over, but yeah, I'm in Rome. Why?"

"Can you meet me?" she asked. "Dinner. Someplace nice."

There was a pause. "This isn't just dinner, is it?"

Isla smiled faintly. He knew her too well. "I just need to talk to you. That's all."

"Alright," he said. "Pick the place and send me the details."

By the time Isla hung up, her mind was already working on the details. She had packed for every contingency, including a dress that screamed "old money"-a sleek, ivory number with delicate gold accents. After slipping it on, she brushed out her blonde waves until they cascaded perfectly over her shoulders and added a pair of understated earrings for polish.

She grabbed her clutch and headed for the door, but the moment she stepped into the hallway, Max was there, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

"Where are you going?" he asked, his tone equal parts suspicion and irritation.

"To eat," she said breezily, walking past him.

"Not alone you're not," Max said, falling into step beside her.

Isla stopped and turned to face him, narrowing her eyes. "I don't need a babysitter, Max."

"Maybe not, but I don't trust you," he shot back. "You're sneaky, and sneaky people don't just 'go out to eat.'"

She huffed, throwing her hands up. "Fine. You want to tag along? Be my guest. But if you ruin my night, I'm making you pay for my therapy."

"Deal," he said with a smirk, already pulling out his phone to call for their car.

A/N - Hey loves! Hope you enjoyed part 1 of TWO SHADES, and if this story starts to get traction, I'll start working on part 2! Other than that, I hope you all have a simply lovely week! 🤍

[somethingusefulfromflorida]

I bought my car two years ago, and the CD player has never once worked. The door to the slot was jammed shut, and I assumed there was no disc stuck inside it because nothing happened when I pressed eject and it never played anything. For the first few months I owned it I would occasionally try to get it working, but the long term solution was to take the entire dashboard off and either fix or replace the entertainment console which would be prohibitively expensive. Since then, I've totally written off the CD player and have exclusively used the tape deck underneath it instead (the car's from 2006). It doesn't have a 3mm jack, but I bought a tape-to-aux converter so I can still plug in my phone and listen to my playlists that way.

Well, today I was listening to some music and I noticed that the LCD screen on my dashboard said "DISC IN," and there was a little red light flashing next to the slot. On a complete whim I pressed eject for the first time in over 20 months, and a CD popped out!

This has been in there since before April 2023, and the back is all scratched to hell and cloudy. The eject button had never worked before, so this caught me completely off guard! I had my car battery replaced in December of last year, so maybe that jumpstarted the old system? I have no clue. I don't even know if the player works, I don't own any CDs and I'm afraid to try it because another disc might get stuck. If it does work, I'm definitely gonna start a new collection. Tapes are nostalgic novelties, but I really do like being able to skip back and forth. This could be the start of a new era for me.

There's a huge used book sale this weekend and every year there's a corner of the warehouse dedicated to vinyls, tapes, and CDs, so I'll be sure to pick something up to give it a test. They also sell 8 tracks, but my car isn't that old. I'll keep you posted.

[simaddix]

Market Day!

* Village Event Announcement *

Market Day at TS3 Medieval Market

This Saturday (February 22, --25), saddle your horses, load up your wagons, and head on down to the new Market to sell, buy, trade and barter your goods with other Villagers!

[This is a free event involving no real currency, just downloads]

The Tavern & Inn (Storytelling, Show & Tell, Discussions)

            The Tavern always has some sort of story to tell or news to share amongst the locals, but perhaps a new tale would be nice? Share your adventures with the Village as you have a meal, sit by the campfire, and people of all ages and walks of life listen to tales of woe and foreboding, folklore, songs and dancing. Of course, say hello to your friends and catch up on the local gossip before you leave!  

The Market (All the CC Categories)

            There’s so much to acquire in the market that it might take a while to see everything! Make sure to ask around, people are always happy to point you in the right direction.

Have you tired of looking at the same old items around your home? There’s a stall for default replacements to help give your belongings a fresh look!

Need to upgrade or improve something? Mods will have what you’re looking for.

This Village doesn’t suit you anymore? Ask about worlds-caw, and start planning your move.

Love the Village, hate the house? There might be rentals available at lots.

A busted fence, a broken window and a squeaky door… You need build, they’ll craft something custom for you!

New furniture and home décor will be over in the buy stall.

Oh, my dear… that hair… and the young Lady will be needing a new dress for the season… of to CAS with you both!

The Castle is looking for staff. Find work in Careers.

Need someone to help around the farm? Find a helping hand in SIMS.

This horse is lame, the stable will be able to help you buy a new horse, there might be pets for sale as well.  

Looking for textiles, lumber or stone? Oh yes, you’ll find those over in patterns.

What’s that lovely smell? That must be recipes-ingredients!

Our barn is cluttered with old holiday decorations… let’s free some space and dump it off at the holiday stall to resell!

Cargo (Requests, Conversions, Tutorials, Trades, and more!)

Have something you can’t find, but want? Are you willing to trade or barter? I’m sure someone will be willing to make a deal!

You could also ask in cc-requests, or the suggestion box. I’m sure there are people looking for ideas in collaborations as well.

Wanting to host an event in the Village? Put it up on the board at challenges-events.

Have too much to carry by wagon? Request a warehouse and you can store all of your stuff there! You can also explore other warehouses, just make sure not to leave your own cargo there!

Vendors

The Village Market thrives on sales and purchases alike! Be sure to come with something of value, or the merchandise may run out sooner than you’d like!

Remember, the Market accepts newly crafted items, sentimental favorites from the past, and everything in between! Just make sure not to sell granny’s quilt without permission, or we’ll all be in trouble!

See you there!

Note: There is a poll going in the "Market Day" forum over on TS3 Medieval Market!

Join us here before this weekend: https://discord.gg/e6skNu9t

______________________________________________________________

Things are moving much more quickly than I anticipated over on the Market - so if the "map" above doesn't look exactly like I posted - be kind. I'm only one person, lol. There's already a LOT to look at! Hooray!

[codenamesazanka]

Geten fic idea! I guess this would be Geten: Origin.

＊

They put makeup on him, as if he was a girl. Geten could feel every layer and bit of that gunk on his face, covering up the bruises that were still hot and throbbing. He wanted to throw himself at the walls or onto the ground and drag his face along the surfaces and scrub the makeup off. Bleed out what he can to wash it all away. Unfortunately, chained and collared as he was, he couldn’t move at all. 

“Stupid fucking kid,” the boss of the traffickers had tutted, after he used his quirk on Geten to make him hallucinate. When Geten wouldn’t stop resisting, the man finally had him beaten. Geten had bitten one of the underlings on the arm so hard he had a chunk of skin in his mouth. He threw up after that, the skin and the meager meals he had that day, but for a second, the metallic taste of blood had been so sweet.

“Made us ruin your pretty face. We’re trying to help you, y'know? Find you a nice big house to live in. Good food to eat, warm bed to sleep in…"

Geten's 12, 13-years-old, locked in a cage, victim of a relative who sold him off to human traffickers.

Geten's dad was from a branch family; his mom married into it. But his mom got fed up and left ages ago, so it was only Geten and his dad, and the small obligatory support from the rest of the clan if they ever needed it. When the Himura broke up, his dad was on his own. Debt piled up, so much that dad just disappeared one day.

Geten was given to relatives - distant relatives but closest geographically. Practically strangers, who didn't want the responsibility of raising him at all. So they got rid of him—by taking a page from the main family: literally selling him off too.

Geten's young and healthy; he's pretty, with his delicate looks; his blood is 'pure' (rumored to be descended from some pre-Advent nobility even); his quirk can be useful - there'll be demand for him, the head of the trafficking group is very sure.

But Geten is a rebellious boy - he tries not eating, tries biting the fingers off his handlers, scraping his face against concrete to damage his looks - but none of it is working. He even tries to use his quirk - it's winter, there's snow and ice outside, if he can just control it...! He's willing to completely disregard the trafficker's threat that if he and the other trafficked victims ever use their quirk, even for self-defense or escape, the police will treat them as Villains - but unfortunately, Geten never trained his quirk much. The Himura clan wasn't too fond of quirks in general; his dad was branch family, unambitious and beholden to the main family and tradition, and discouraged Geten from trying out his quirk even at home.

All the trafficking victims are locked in a warehouse who-knows-where. (A good bunch of them are heteromorphs - trafficked from overseas at that, because it's impossible to figure out their nationality just from looks). They're all in restraints, kept in check with tasers, and locked in shipping-containers-turned-rooms, unless a sale is going on. When there's a sale, they're shoved into cages, partly for visibility and partly as a sick joke. It's usually a dark web internet auction, but sometimes VIP clients get to visit the site and shop around in person.

Today's client is one of those on-site shoppers. Geten's been drugged earlier in the day so he would be docile on display, but by the time the client made it over to him, Geten's sobering up. He's kept deep inside the warehouse, as one of the few special merchandise: children.

From overheard conversations, the VIP client is some kind of company executive, here mostly for some heteromorphs as 'experimental subjects'. But of course, the traffickers got greedy, needing to get as much out of this rich man as possible, and was now showing the VIP the special merchandise too.

Geten looks up and sees the VIP in front of his cage. A man with red hair and a big nose, dressed in an expensive green suit; who's politely cold and distant about being in this back room, the expression on his face turning into visible displeasure when the traffickers give a suggestive line about Geten. Besides disgust, in the man's gaze is also a weird combination of things: anger, resoluteness, calculatedness, anticipation. Strange for someone who would buy human beings, but at least Geten won't be getting sold tonight.

Geten's the end of the tour, so the traffickers ask the VIP if he's ready to check out, who says yes, he's made his choice.

He wants everyone in the warehouse.

And suddenly, pandemonium. Windows shatters and walls are blown open as people rush into the warehouse. Quirk attacks clash and erupt here and there. The traffickers are tackled down. The VIP client personally rips away the door to Geten's cage, before using it to bash away the handler watching over Geten, to deflect bullets and slam the gunmen against the wall.

Heroes have come to save them. Who else can these people be? They're freeing everyone, prying open cage doors and cutting restraints. They're bundling the freezing victims up in blankets and checking for injuries. They've gathered all the traffickers at the center of the warehouse, beaten up and incapacitated.

The traffickers, though, don't think the rescuers are Heroes, because they don't recognize a single one of them. The VIP client, the man who freed Geten, confirms this - no, they're not Heroes, because Heroes don't do what they're about to do.

The VIP introduces himself as ReDestro, the Supreme Leader of the Meta Liberation Army, who fights for freedom, for all who wants the ability to decide their own fates. No one should ever feel weak when they all have power within them. And so, he's offering all the trafficked victims the chance to realize that - to use their meta-abilities to take revenge. They can be liberation warriors too.

Geten watches and listens in awe.

At first, none of the victims come forward. But then one does, screaming as she attacks. Then someone else too, and another, and then it's a bloodied frenzy, as anger and fear mobs over everyone.

The kids, though, do not get to participate. ReDestro orders a few of his soldiers to take all the children and get them to safety. Geten is gently led away; asked about his name, about his family, about his quirk. But Geten is too overwhelmed to answer, taking in the violence and bloodbath, watching everyone use their quirks so freely, in grim determination and satisfaction. And he keeps looking back at Redestro, who presides over all of this, calmly and in control.

As Geten is being led outside into the icy cold night, he looks back again. He sees ReDestro approaching the trafficker boss - now made small and broken and crawling on the ground - in the middle of the warehouse. Words are exchanged between them, way too far away for Geten to hear, but it's obvious what will be happening - ReDestro will be killing the criminal himself. He has to, Geten instinctively knows, as leader, as the general of an army facing the head of the enemy, demonstrating his status, power, his greatness.

Geten rips away from his escorts and runs back towards the warehouse. It takes all he has to create a small icicle from the snow around him, and even then it's already melting in his hand, but he does not hesitate.

Geten runs straight at where ReDestro is; the Meta Liberation soldiers shout, protectively stepping in front of ReDestro to shield him, making to grab at Geten. ReDestro, though, gestures for everyone to back off—because as he deduced (because he's leader so he's smart, of course he would understand, he's the one who saved Geten), Geten's not targeting him, but the criminal boss.

With all his built up rage - at his dad, his family; at these scum that mocked him and caged him; at himself for being so pitiful when strength was available to him all long, if he had just been free to find it - Geten stabs the icicle right through the trafficker's neck.

The icicle melts immediately in the warm blood. But there is blood. Spattered on his hands and face, on his knees as he stays kneeling on the dying body. Geten's in a daze, but when ReDestro couches down and offers him a hand, Geten takes it. As the man helps him up, Geten says he wants to be a Liberation Warrior.

ReDestro says of course, they're happy to gain such a promising future warrior. When MLA soldiers approach again to led Geten away, Geten resists. He doesn't want to go, he wants to stay, so he also says that he wants ReDestro himself to train Geten into his best warrior.

The MLA laughs at the request; scolds Geten for being so familiar with their Supreme Leader; dismiss him as still just a child, his first kill already getting to his head. They more forcefully try to pull him away this time, but Geten dig his heels into the ground and won't break his gaze away from ReDestro's.

ReDestro doesn't either. He stops everyone again. Considers. And says yes.

[sgiandubh]

A word on Wardpark/Cumbernauld Studios

@docsama left a comment, on S's birthday, under one of my posts and I promised her an answer with more information, as soon as I got the time. Anyway, here goes - and @docsama, sorry for the delay:

Question is: who owns the Wardpark Film and Television Studios?

The answer was quick to find, in the not-so-old specialized media:

The story begins in 2013, with an ambitious Scottish entrepreneur, Terry Thomson - this guy (courtesy of The Herald, https://www.heraldscotland.com/news/15984820.analysis-three-projects-pipeline-help-productions-make-big-picture/):

He is the owner of the Thomson Pettie Group, based in Carluke (https://www.thomsonpettie.com/about-us), which has nothing to do with cinema:

You've read that right: they are 'manufacturers of fabricated metal parts and assemblies', primarily for the national automotive industry. Yet, in 2013, Mr. Thomson agreed to rent what he described as 'a dormant industrial property' - a warehouse, to be exact - to Sony, in order to host the filming and production of OL. Thus, he became the CEO of a newly created entity, The Wardpark Film and Television Studios (https://www.hackmancapital.com/scotlands-largest-most-iconic-film-studio-acquired-by-hackman-capital-partners-and-square-mile-capital/).

By 2017, Wardpark was doing so well, that a big expansion plan was announced, with the direct support of the Scottish Government, which invested £4 million via Scottish Enterprise, its business support, advice and funding agency:

And then, in November 2021, the little engine that could was sold to those two big US investors, Hackman Capital Partners (HCP) and Square Mile Capital Management LLC (now globally rebranded as Affinius Capital). In this montage, Hackman Capital Partners brought its own confirmed film studios and media management expertise...

... while Square Mile most probably funded a sizeable portion of the acquisition, simply because this is what they do best:

Perhaps an interesting detail: HCP owns and manages both the Culver City based Sony Pictures Animation Studios' Campus and the legendary Culver Studios, now rebranded by Amazon:

Back to Scotland, Wardpark Studio's sale made just about everyone happy. Mr. Thomson kept his CEO job and look who was more than thrilled about the juicy transaction:

Currently, the studio is operated by HCP's subsidiary, The MBS Group:

That means that MBS probably manages just about everything, as far as daily management is concerned, from business operations, staffing and/or property management, to lighting and grip, trucks and generators' fleet, expendables and props. Unless I could see a contract and have a precise idea, I can just enumerate all the services they offer.

At no point in time did S and C own anything of those studios. As for the Executive Producer part, that is another discussion entirely. I could be coaxed to write something about it, if you really want to know why Those Two are EPs and what does that really, really mean - because once again, I have seen and read a LOT of bullshit in here, especially in the Desperate Housewives Disgruntled Tumblrettes' corner.

Thank you for asking. It was fun to research and write and I hope it brought more clarity to you.