#old warehouse for sale

[papermonkeyism]

There's a new contender for my least favourite returned item to handle at work.

Not the top spot for the least favourite, that one still goes for the overalls with the fleece lining that always seem to come back covered by pet hair and dandruff *on the inside* which take me approximately 20minutes each to brush clean.

No. But there's a new contender for the second place.

So there's this simple, black casual dress, that on its own isn't too bad. Not like some other fashion line items that seem to be designed to be as hard to fold neatly into a bag, this dress isn't even near the hardest to handle.

However, two times out if three, whenever this particular dress gets returned, it comes back with its neckline covered in makeup. That I then have to spend forever trying to wipe and brush clean. (Sometimes not even managing that and being forced to send the item to second-rate box to go through that whole process.)

Can you maybe, please, when trying on clothing items (be it at a store or at home for web orders), think of the poor warehouse workers who have to clean up after you? Do me a solid and keep the items clean, will you?

[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.

[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

[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.

[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. 

[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.

[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.

[paladin-heart5]

Save Her (Part One)

Leon Kennedy x Reader

Summary; Leon's fiancee has been captured by an underground black market group. He needs to save her, but once he does, he needs to prepare for her recovery.

CW; hurt/comfort, captivity, swearing, blood/bruising, mild suicidal thoughts. (lmk if I missed anything)

Three weeks. For three weeks his best friend, no, fiancée, has been missing. And after all that time stressing, all those sleepless nights, he's got a solid lead. An underground gang that sells bio-weapon prototypes. They buy blueprints off the black market and build them to sell to high bidders. With the intel Hunnigan found, they gotta be the ones who have her. The question is, why would they take her? They better not be experimenting on her. He'll have to put a bullet through every head, just like the undead he spent most of his life killing. Maybe he'll do it anyway. When he came home from work one day, he found the door broken open, many signs of a struggle, but they still got her. No ransom notes, nor blood. The anger in his eyes was strong, they can't just take her away like that. She's going to come home safe and sound. She has to. 

“The location has been sent to you, but you'll need to be careful getting down. There's likely going to be some form of security, definitely cameras. Keep your head down.” Hunnigan explains as Leon, Chris, and Rebecca gear up. Leon knew he couldn't do this alone, he needed his friends. Jill is on another mission, and Claire is traveling for TerraSave. Chris wasn't going to let him do this in the state he's in. Barely a wink of sleep, very little food in his system. He had to force him to do both just so he wouldn't kill himself. He can't save her when he's passed out on the ground. “Head to the warehouse, clear the area, and find the hatch. The rest I won't be able to help much with.” She finished explaining, earning a nod from Leon.

“Got it, thank you, Ingrid.” He says softly. Ingrid gives a hint of a smile.

“I care about her too, bring her home safely.” She states, pointing at them. Leon chuckles and gives a two finger salute. The three of them are off in no time, settling into Chris’s jeep before taking off. Rebecca looks through her computer for possible access to the cameras at the warehouse.

“It doesn't seem like there are many camera's underground, just in the warehouse itself. So I'm guessing there might be some muscle down there. Judging by some old files, their number of sales on the black market have increased by 40% in the last three months.” She explains to the men. Leon's leg bounces anxiously as he listens, Chris frowning as he thinks. 

“I just don't understand, what do they want with Y/n?” The muscular brunette asks. Rebecca hums and types for a couple of minutes before answering.

“My guess, using her knowledge as a biologist to build their newest experiment. Though I can’t seem to get through this inscription, so I won’t know for sure until we get there and see it for ourselves.” The professor explains.

________________

The echoes of men cheering down the hall caused a spike in her heart rate. The cold floor of the cell she’s on makes her shiver as she sits in only a dirty hospital gown and undergarments. Her hair is greasy, and knotted. She'd kill for a shower if she wasn't so weak. Y/n hugged her knees to her chest, the chains connected to her ankle making a clanking sound. Bruises and cuts litter her skin, all that fighting ended in such pain. She just wanted to be home, resting in bed with her soon to be husband. But those words from the fuckers that took her. They haunt her, every day she starts to believe them.

“He's not coming for you, doll."

“And even if he did, he won't love you.”

“You belong to us now.” 

She squeezes her eyes shut as she holds her head. Tears starting to prick her eyes for the hundredth time since she's been stuck here. Leon would never leave her like that. He loves her, he promised that when he proposed. “He's just having trouble finding me.” She mutters, but still; as time goes on, hope continues to fade.

____________

The ringing of gunshots caused her to wake with a start. She can hear shouting and footsteps all around. Y/n curls up and covers her ears, too afraid to even try to see what's happening. Could be friend or foe, but it's hard to tell at this point. All those torturous nights of scaring her into talk, forcing her to do tests. She's simply too tired to move, to think. She's not even sure she wants to live anymore. 

“Leon! Check all the cells! We have to get her out quickly if we're gonna blow this place.” A familiar voice called out, followed by footsteps nearing her cell. Why can't she remember that voice, and did he say Leon? As in her soon to be husband? Perhaps her mind is starting to play tricks on her. That little bit of hope left could be tricking her. 

However, the footsteps get louder. A shadow of a man draws closer, and she isn't sure what to do besides try to hide herself. When the footsteps stop suddenly, she peaks her head up slightly. A tall man, fairly muscular and sandy blond hair stands in front of her cell. His eyes are a beautiful blue, but they seem dull. As he sees her, his heart stops, breath hitches. It's her, his future wife. Y/n stares at him in disbelief, this definitely has to be a trick, that man looks just like Leon.

“Y/n..” The sound of her name was breathy, but it immediately made her feel a sense of comfort. His voice, deep and smooth, it's very soothing. Though she still can't be sure that her mind isn't playing tricks. She hugs herself tighter, shaking as he approaches slowly. He kneels down in front of her, worry and sadness clear in his eyes. He frowns and slowly reaches his hand out towards her face. A whimper escapes as she tenses, which only makes him feel worse.

“It's me, baby. It's Leon.” He says softly, managing to graze his fingers along her cheek. Her eyes widen, they look almost lifeless to him. They become glossy as tears quickly begin to pour. 

“You're- you're really.. here?” She asks quietly, earning a nod from the blond. The tears fall heavily down her cheeks as a loud sob racks her body. Leon quickly grabs her hands, trying not to let himself fall apart because he just can't. He has to be strong for her, he needs to get her to safety. Chris runs by and hears her cries, stopping in his tracks. He looks over and his eyes widen. He begins to step into the cell, noticing the chains. He then pulls out a set of keys that he collected from one of the guards.

“Leon, here.” He calls softly, giving him the keys. Leon looks back and smiles thankfully. “Where's Rebecca?” He asks, quickly unlocking the chains around Y/n’s ankles. 

“Grabbing the files so we can figure this out. Let's go, quickly.” Chris states before rushing out. Leon looks at his fiancee and cups her cheek. 

“Baby, I'm gonna get you out of here, okay? Just hold on to me.” He watches her head nod in acknowledgement before carefully lifting her up. She grabs his vest as he carries her bridal style, following where Chris went.  Her glossy eyes wander around tiredly as they move. Everything feels fuzzy, the sounds of gunfire become muffled. Even Leon's voice fades in and out, but when she realizes he's talking, she looks up at him slowly. He holds her close, realizing how pale she is. When they finally find Rebecca, she goes to Y/n to check on her. 

“We have to get her to a hospital. Now.” She states with a firm tone. The two nod and get what they need. Chris sets up some C4 in the computer room before they all rush out. Another group of guards enter the hallway, guns blazing. Leon takes cover, shielding her from harm, while Chris and Rebecca clear them out. Once they're all down, they run out to the warehouse and jump into the jeep. Leon looks down at his lover to see she's unconscious.

"Shit, Y/n!" He calls, trying to shake her awake, but she's out cold. He feels her neck for a pulse, luckily it's there, but faint. He shouts at Chris to hurry, and Chris detonates the bomb before speeding to the hospital.

Please be okay.

~~~~~~

A/N; Welcome to the first part of my first little series! Hope you enjoyed it, more to come soon!

[allthingsfern]

About my new camera

Yes, I bought a new camera, but it was not a last minute decision. Well, the camera purchase was pretty much last minute after I saw a video about the camera I chose and did some research on the Web & Youtube.

For about a year I've been wondering if I should sell my Sony a7r3 body and Sony/Zeiss Sonnar T* 55mm f/1.8 lens, which came highly recommended, including by Ken Rockwell, who I also turned to for advice about my new camera. The 55mm f/1.8 lens was highly recommended; it was one of the original set of lenses for the Sony a7 line of mirrorless cameras.

I wondered about getting rid of it because, while I enjoyed using it and got some great photos with it, my 24-105mm f/4 Sony G lens also took great photos, and it covered the 55 mm range. Granted, the 55mm produced super creamy bokeh, but the 24-105 f/4 did too, though maybe not as creamy. Maybe for me, as a vegan, the 24-105mm f/4 bokeh was (is) creamy enough?

Anyway, here is one of my favorites, taken with the 24-105mm f/4 about 6 months after I bought the a7r3. (I've owned an a7r3 for over 6 years now...)

Like butter?

Back to the new camera story. About a year ago, I saw this video about "one camera/one lens."

I also watched a video where he discussed keeping camera gear down to a useful minimum "5 Reasons to Keep Your Equipment Simple feat. Documentary Photography Daniel Milnor." His insights resonated with me because I am not a gear head. I like having one lens on each camera body and not having to fidget. I like to keep it simple.

Then, about 3 weeks ago, I watched this video.

Now, I go make photos in SF often. Every once in a while I also go to Oakland, which has, at least in the 30 years I've been in living in California, a super bad reputation. I've never felt unsafe in either city walking around with my a7r3 with the medium sized 24-105mm f/4 lens on it. Granted, I carry it in the original, small, Peak Design sling bag, which I immediately christened my Audrey Hepburn camera bag because it is so elegant, especially with the little brown leather handle on top.

BTW, I also own the Peak Design messenger bag, but I almost always use this one for my camera and use the messenger bag for when I need to carry my laptop. The 5L sling bag had a bonus: Both my a7r3s with their respective lenses attached fit in this one little bag. Tight, but they fit.

Anyway, that video about feeling safe did set me to thinking, since I am getting older and walk around alone, but it also made go back to wondering if I should carry both cameras, which I rarely do anymore.

Then Adrian Vila posted this video.

And then I found his original video, about 4 years old, about the RX100 vii.

the idea of carrying a smaller camera with a 24-200 zoom intrigued me, I did some research, including visiting Ken Rockwell's site, where he highly recommended this camera (see the review here).

I was convinced, but I knew that the camera is 5 years old (and Sony has no plans of releasing a newer model), so I looked up prices for used, and if I could find them, new cameras. I eventually just opted to get a new one and am going to sell my a7r3 with the 55mm f/1.8 lens. Interesting fact: The Sony RX100 line (7 models) all have a Zeiss Sonnar T* zoom lens. Mine has a 24-200mm f/2.8-4.5 variable lens, so I am still going to have a Zeiss lens, even after I sell my 55mm Zeiss.

Then there was the coincidence that they actually had an RX100 vii in stock at the Sacramento store. I visited the Mike's Camera Website, choosing specifically the Sacramento location (they have several locations in California and Colorado) and saw they had one for sale, so I drove last there Wednesday to buy the camera.

Funny thing is, I learned they don't usually carry the RX100 vii anymore (it is, after all, discontinued) but they happened to get a delivery of one just that day from their warehouse. (I could have ordered it and it would be delivered to the store or to my apartment.) The sales person (Colton) went to check if it was ordered by someone, but no, so the camera was mine.

I explained to Colton how when I went in to buy my first a7r3 on 12-26-17, they did have it, but I wanted the 24-105mm lens, which was just released (and in popular demand) and was told they only had one, which someone pre-ordered. However, the salesperson (Taek) checked and it turned out that person had not gone in to pick up the lens or contacted them about it, and it was sitting in the store for 6 weeks, so Taek opted to let me have it. As Colton said, I have good camera Karma.

So, yes, I am going to be using a smaller camera with a smaller sensor (1 inch) that has only 20 MP as opposed to my a7r3's 42 MP in a larger full frame sensor. However, while thinking the new camera purchase over, I thought about the awesome photos I got from my Nikon D50 with its dinky 28-80mm f/2.5-5.6 lens, and the RX100 is a huge step up.

Finally, here are 2 photos of my new camera.

OMG, my a7r3 is dusty...

Ok. That's all for now.

The adventure continues...

[married-to-a-redhead]

When it comes to firearms, I enjoy bringing back to life old school curio and relic rifles where others might have given up. This is a Maltby Enfield No4 Mk1 from 1944 that I ordered from Royal Tiger Imports when they had a one day warehouse sale. It is always a gamble when you order from RTI - you never know what you are going to get and a lot of the time it’s not good. This gun cost me $150 and when it arrived at my door, it looked pretty hopeless. It had a loose butt stock, was missing the rear top wood, also missing the middle barrel band, and the bolt was absolutely stuck closed from rust. After banging open the bolt with a dead blow hammer, I looked down the barrel and it looked pretty rusty. Honestly everything was rusty and most people would have probably given up.

But then I noticed something - this was a numbers matching gun, including the magazine which is almost unheard of for No4 Enfields. So I persevered. I disassembled it and it turned out that almost all the rust was just surface rust. With a lot of elbow grease, I was able to get most of it off and surprisingly there was not a lot of pitting. And I deeply cleaned the barrel which revealed it was a five groove barrel and the rifling was basically intact under the surface rust. From my parts bin, I found a spare rear top wood and barrel band, tightened up the butt stock, and reassembled the gun.

The result is what you see above - the gun won’t win any beauty contests but it will more than likely be a good shooter. The stock fits well and has the appropriate level of barrel down pressure that Enfields require. I’ll try and get to the range soon to see how well she shoots.

[weirdowithaquill]

Traintober 2023: Day 18 - Blueprints

Crovan's Gate Works is Home to many Blueprints:

Crovan’s Gate Works is one of, if not the, largest steamworks in the United Kingdom – and the single best equipped. It services steam locomotives from all four of Sodor’s railways, as well as engines from across the country and further. Many of the engines who appeared in the infamous ‘The Great Race’ movie – especially those from Europe – were actually engines being overhauled at Crovan’s Gate when Mattel sent people to do research for the film. The works has machines that can make any part needed for an engine on the Fat Controller’s railway, and beyond – but that’s not all they have.

In a dark, slightly dusty room underneath the main offices, there are filing cabinets. Row upon row of the things which stretch out through the basement. And in these filing cabinets are the blueprints. There are thousands of these blueprints carefully sorted and filed away in this room. Everything from the designs of the A1X Terrier through to the Streamlined Coronation class. It’s all in this one room.

And it was originally the folly of Sir Topham Hatt I, back in 1897.

When he was the CME of the Tidmouth, Knapford & Elsbridge Light Railway (TK&ELR), Topham Hatt began collecting old blueprints. Some people collect stamps, others collect coins – but Topham collected blueprints. He had already copied many of the Great Western’s blueprints during his time as an apprentice at Swindon Works, and these he kept with new plans sent to him by his friend William Stanier in his office.

When building the TK&ELR Coffee Pot engines, he consulted a huge number of blueprints, trying to find something he could build considering the extremely low amount of resources he was allocated. And he did utilise some ideas from the various blueprints he had acquired – specifically a redrawing of the ‘blueprints’ used for the Novelty from the Rainhill trials… only the blueprints Hatt had were extremely well-drawn fakes, which did a bit of messing with the exhaust system. Topham Hatt mixed these blueprints with several others, but the exhaust system became infamous for spewing out dirty brown water.

This led to Topham Hatt deciding that the best way to avoid such an embarrassment in the future was to get more blueprints. He managed to bargain the blueprints of almost every engine he ever bought into the deal, with one notable exception: Henry.

Henry was built using stolen blueprints which were muddled and half-right. Hatt never managed to nab the stolen blueprints for himself, which made diagnosing Henry all the more difficult. It was actually Richard Hatt – Topham’s great grandson – who found the formerly stolen blueprints. He managed to find them in a garage sale!

Percy was another engine whose blueprints did not fully arrive with the engine. The warehouse Hatt bought him from had a grand total of around 59% of his original blueprints, with the other 41% being scattered across the West Country, the Midlands and Wales. If you can believe it, Topham Hatt went on the hunt for these blueprints all throughout the 1930s, and was able to snag the last one from the wreck of a bombed house in Cardiff in 1941.

When British Railways was formed in 1948, the now Sir Topham Hatt utilised his new position on the board of the company to gain access to every blueprint British Railways had under its control. Carriages, trucks, engines – even railway adjacent lorries, ships and buses all had blueprints that Sir Topham was able to have copied and sent to Crovan’s Gate. These were all placed in a special room and have been updated since.

Sir Charles Topham Hatt also added to this collection – but for a very different reason. In the 1960s, as Sodor gained more independence – and more diesels – it became increasingly clear that the island had to repair its engines on its own. To this end, Sir Charles began having copies of engines he bought sent to Sodor so that in the event of repairs, the works at Crovan’s Gate would be able to use the original blueprints before beginning the overhaul, saving time and allowing the workers to know what parts the engine might need. Sir Charles also had updated blueprints of all of his engines drafted, as many of his older engines had been heavily modified since arriving (such as Edward, Henry and Gordon), meaning that new, accurate blueprints were required. The first of these would be Edward’s when he went in for an overhaul after his ‘Exploit’ in 1965.

Today, there are thousands of blueprints kept at Crovan’s Gate Works, with new ones added each year. These are often copies of blueprints for locomotives built outside of the UK, as it is believed that Crovan’s Gate Works has a copy of the designs for every British locomotive, carriage, and wagon to have ever run – bar those which never had blueprints.

Back to Master Post

[meloncholy-words]

Robin: A Word That Means Run (Chapter 2: Red Hood)

Red Hood died as a Robin, and came back as something else. The name still means something to him.

A/N: Forgot to post this on Friday. Most of this chapter was pulled out of my ass because I don't know how drug dealers or city work works so. Enjoy <3 Again, actual canon does what it wants so I do too. If it's bad I apologize, I rewrote this like 7 times because I kept accidentally writing myself into corners

~~~

Chapter Warnings: Explosions, gun violence, canon typical violence, swearing, drugs and drug dealers, drug dealing to kids(it's only mentioned), past character death(it's Jason), brief descriptions of that night but nothing graphic, weapon inaccuracies probably, descriptions of blood and injury. No death occurs! Let me know if I should add more warnings please.

AO3 | Chapter List

The new bunch of dealers Red Hood was tracking were starting to become an issue. He would have been happy to turn a blind eye for a bit, get a feel for their operation before approaching them with either the offer to be under his control or the threat of being run out. But the kids in the alley talked. Not usually, but to Hood? Always. The kids told Hood that these guys were trying to sell to them, which was a pretty big no-no.

So Hood couldn't let them think they were getting away with this anymore.

Taking down their initial startup was pretty easy. All he needed to do was break a few bones and shoot a few limbs before they were scattering like flies. And that would've been the end of it, if they didn't seem so determined to set up shop.

This time around, the didn't stick to one place. Every time he got a tip as to where they might be, the place always turned up empty. They were in those places, if the scraps left behind were anything to go off of, but they'd gotten annoyingly good at scattering before Hood could appear.

The only good thing that seemed to be coming out of this dance was that not having a consistent place of operation meant selling the drugs was actually pretty hard to do efficiently. These dealers were pissing Hood off by still being around, but at least he could piss them off right back by tanking their sales.

One more bust in trying to track them down, and he was thoroughly frustrated.

There wasn't a lot to find as he stalked through the abandoned warehouse, mostly just scattered trash and a few old chairs likely picked up off the street. No forgotten drugs, no loose files, no dropped receipts, nothing that could be used to hunt them down any further.

A grumble rumbled deep within the mans chest. It had been a few weeks since he'd been trying to get a hold of these guys. He'd been itching to get his hands around their throats, slowly ingrained no-kill rule be damned. But he had other things to worry about, other scumbags, and he didn't want to dwell on these ones any longer than he had to. Which meant that he'd need help, which meant that he couldn't kill them.

Whatever. Dealing with this issue was more important than the disdain he had for dealing with his family, and they'd known he'd been on this for weeks now. They'd be willing to help.

Tapping into the Bat comm line, he was met with a conversation he didn't care for.

"Listen- listen! The cookie part of the Oreo is objectively the best!" Nightwing yelled into his mic.

"How does it feel to be fucking wrong?" Red Robin shot back.

"Well I wouldn't know, because I'm not."

Gods he hates this family.

"Exhilarating debate going on! I'll stop you right there," Hood cut in, ignoring the whisper of Thank fuck from Oracle. "O, can I get some help here? I need you to try getting camera footage from around me. Every time I try I'm too late and footage is missing, but you might be fast enough."

"Yep, on it. Give me a second." If Jason strained, he might be able to hear the clacking of a keyboard and mouse over his dumb siblings arguing over a cookie. Then there was silence; O had switched their channels. Jason would be sure to visit her with pastries more often. "It looks like we're a little late. There's a path of cameras with recently cut footage. So we can't get them on camera, but we might be able to track them down. That good enough for ya?"

"Yes, thank you, Oracle, my beloved eye in the sky."

"Haha, don't flatter me." She sounded like she enjoyed it anyway. "You've been on this for a while, should I send someone over to help you? You might be able to tie this up faster, but I get it if you wanna do this alone."

"Actually, that would be great. Who've you got for me?"

There was more silence. "Ok, Red's the closest to you, but he's only passing by on his way to a potential armed break in. That would take him ten to get over there, and fifteen if it turns out to be a real threat, not including the additional travel time to circle back around to you. Bats is only about seven out though, and he's unoccupied. Everyone else is more than ten. Thoughts?"

Hood audibly groaned at that. Ten minutes wasn't a long time to have to wait, but it may end up being just long enough to be a problem. Red wouldn't ditch his mission, which Hood didn't blame him for, but that would be a twenty minutes wait. Batman was the only logical person to send over. But that meant he'd have to be around Batman, which he wasn't sure was worth it.

Possibly let these guys escape, again, or have to deal with Batman? Escape or Batman, escape or Batman, escape or...

"Fuck it, send the old man over." He hoped he wouldn't regret this.

"Got it. Sending you both directions to that last camera. He should get there a little bit after you."

"Thanks O, you're the best and I love you~!"

The trail led him to a few blocks of old, abandoned buildings. This place had been sectioned off by the city years ago, deemed too unsafe due to the amount of chemicals and pollution that seemed to unnaturally gather around this singular point. Bruce had been trying to put in money for years to get this place cleaned up, but the city didn't seem to notice. Or care.

It was the perfect place to lay low until Hood was off of their trail, and then they could go somewhere actually habitable, because no one would even think about being here for more than ten minutes. Except that Hood already here, and this was ending tonight.

The soft flutter of a cape let him know that the old man was here without him having to turn around. Sure enough, there was a living shadow beside him in seconds.

"So, we split up and try locating them faster?" It was the fastest option, and they could cover double the distance in about the same time.

Batman only grunted in acknowledgment, the bastard, before he faded into the darkness on one side. Hood scoffed, muttering something under his breath as he took to the other side.

The place was a mess. There was glass and graffiti everywhere, bits of door and wall scattered along the roads. An average Crime Alley look, to be sure. Hood scanned the windows and doorways carefully, looking for any sign of life, or even where their potential vehicle might be. Anything to give away the location of these bastards.

His comm crackled in his ear, a deep voice coming out of it.

"Found them." A simple two words, and Hood's grapple was clinging onto a building, pulling him to the direction of the Bat.

By the time he made it over to the building of their choosing, the sounds of an altercation could be heard from above. Jason couldn't help but be a little jealous that they hadn't waited for him. The sounds of metal batarangs clanging against wall and floor was soon overcome by the loud ring of gunfire and Hood tucked and rolled into a window that wasn't broken just yet.

There was blood. Blood and broken bones and grunts of pain and exhaustion in the air. Jason was careful to deal harmful, maybe permanent but not fatal damage. The joints were hard to aim for, but putting a bullet into their limbs was good enough. They had been trying to convince Jason to switch to rubber bullets recently, and as the drug dealers who thought selling drugs to kids was a good idea yelped and screamed and writhed in pain on the floor, he was glad he hadn't been convinced just yet.

Movement caught his eye. Movement that fled out of the door, that thought they could get away. Hood wasn't going to let them. Everything was almost wrapped up here, Bruce would be find on his own while he went to deal with this straggler.

The form weaved between buildings with the grace of a Gothamite who knew when to run and a rabbit who knew it had been caught. It was clunky and frantic, but it knew how to run like hell from danger. Unfortunately for them, Jason could run like a predator.

The person dipped into a building, one at the end of a block. There was nowhere to go after this - not unless they were willing to be out in the open with a marksman chasing after them. And who would want that?

Jason slowed to a walk. More of a stalk, actually. His steps were firm and calculated as he entered the space. There were stairs to one side that led to nothing(the second floor was missing), and a door to the other that likely led into a dining area. Door number one it is.

Slowly, carefully, cautiously, Hood grabbed the doorknob, pushing it open.

On the far wall there was an open window, pushed and left open. Silent in comparison to it breaking instead. And in the middle of that room, a few feet away from the window, was an old, worn out dining table. On the dining table?

Bombs.

Old bombs that had likely been sitting here collecting dust. Likely to be used in the destruction of this place before the city decided it wasn't really worth it and left all their equipment just lying around in one of the most unsafe places in the city. In the center was a timer that was ticked down to 0:02.

Jason had been here before. In front of a timer that ticked down the seconds until he died, in an old abandoned place that no one would ever find him in and no one was coming for him. He hadn't made it out on that day, dying until the smothering, fiery rubble of another building in another country.

But things were different now. He was older, smarter, not tied up and left to rot and die in the cold. He could get out. He could close the door and run, maybe try to use all the weight he'd gained to break down the wall. He could do that. He should do that. He should-

"Robin!"

He knows that name. It used to be his. He used to wear it proudly, happily. He wore it to everything, even his death day. He'd died with that name, taken it to the grave and when he crawled his way back out it wasn't his anymore. He'd grown to resent the person it belonged to, then learned to get over it. There was another Robin now, one that was neither of them. Robin was not longer him - hadn't been his in a long time.

He moved anyways.

There was warmth and tightness around him, pulling him close and away from that bomb that reminded him of his biggest failure. Pulling him into his fathers arms, and suddenly it didn't matter that he was a lot bigger and heavier than that man now. Because it wasn't true.

Here in his arms, shielded from an explosion, he was 12 again, smiling and laughing and bright and happy, because he had never died before, and the name Robin was magic to him.

It took a moment for the world to stop spinning, for his ears to stop ringing. When it did stop, he was still there in those arms. He wasn't 12, though. He was 22, and his dad still held him close.

Stray pieces of wall continued to rain down, lighting pittering and pattering against the bomb-proof material guarding him. There was dust in the air, thick and heavy and gross, but it didn't touch him when he was buried so deep into the darkness. A few seconds passed, and when Jason felt that they were properly in the clear, he shoved Batman away, picking himself up and dusting himself off.

"Do you think that's funny?" he yelled, spinning around. There was a light anger in his voice - not as bad as it was when his eyes glowed a vibrant green, but not as soft as when he mocked his brothers in the kitchen. "Where do you get off, old man, calling me that name again? What's wrong with you?"

Batman stared at him for a moment from where he lay on the floor, then another.

"Well?

A small smirk picked at his lips. "You responded to it."

Jason sputtered for a second, thankful that his helmet covered his face because he may have gone a little red. "Yeah- well- you try betraying three years of instinct next time!"

"Instincts you haven't used in seven years?"

"That- I- I've only been conscious for like three of those years!"

"Of course, Jaylad." The old man was standing now, upright and facing him with a soft smile on his face.

"Pssh, whatever. There's- we still need to get that other guy, we don't have time to sit around and handle sentimental shit."

"Of course."

"Don't say shit to anyone,"Jason called as was already turned around, walking fast in the direction he decided to go. He didn't bother listening for a response, huffing to himself and mumbling something under his breath, too quiet for his helmet's modulator to pick up.

Yeah, he regretted bringing Bruce along. A lot.

Well... maybe only a little bit.

[haee-elia]

spence-tober: day 27 - brewery owner

pairing: brewery owner!spencer reid x fem!reader

summary: in which you and your son (along with someone else special) support the opening of your husband's brewery

word count: 1530

warnings: alcohol, children, announcement of pregnancy, one mention of reader being on birth control, the reader was seemingly very easily able to get pregnant

spence-tober masterlist

Standing outside in the cool, brisque air of the evening isn’t too uncomfortable. It would be without the wool shawl on your shoulders and you make sure to wrap it around yourself a little tighter to keep in your natural body warmth. 

You also bend down to your six-year old son, Arthur, and zip his parka up to his chin, making sure he can stay warm as well. He’s tired and you can tell within the next hour and a half, he’ll start getting a little petulant so you keep a close eye on him. There’s some wooden adirondack chairs not too far from you, circled around a controlled fire pit if needed. 

Artie could always curl up into a chair if he really got tired quickly. It had been, after all, a long day for him.

He was still getting used to attending school and then after school until you or Spencer could come pick him up. Since the sale of the small warehouse that Spencer was renovating into his very own brewery, Artie was also often carted to and from the warehouse as it was being built, renovated, and decorated. He even helped choose some design elements.

For years, Spencer had only done brewing as a hobby. That was when you first even met him. You always encouraged his hobby and with time, he became very good at it. So good that he stopped working as a bartender and got a few various jobs working for different corporate breweries. It had always been his dream to save up enough money to buy a small place and open his own bar and brewery. 

Now, the time had finally come.

The small abandoned warehouse went up for sale and you knew it to be the one. Encouraging Spencer to buy it was a whole ordeal, but when he finally did. When his signature hit the paper and he held the deed in his hand, you knew it was excited to get started. That was a little over a year ago and since then, your husband has poured his heart and soul into the place. 

He was currently standing off to the side, eagerly talking to some friends who had come out for the grand opening. It had been successful so far. 

The grand opening was set for three o’clock and when Spencer set forth his little speech that he had prepared, there was already a crowd of people. Now, the sun was setting in the horizon, hours later. It cast a nice glow over the renovated warehouse and the backyard patio where everyone now gathered.

People had come and gone and the brewery wasn’t going to be open for much later into the day. At least for it’s first official day being open. Spencer mostly wanted the day to be for friends and family to celebrate, not worrying about the number of patrons or bottles of beer sold. 

The large, animated smile told you everything you needed to know. Spencer was happy, very happy.

A yawn breaks you from your thoughts and steals your attention away from your husband and back down to your son. His hold on your hand has gotten a little looser.

“Are you tired, baby?” You ask him, watching him rub his eyes with his free hand.

He hesitates, but Artie nods and with that, you guide him over to an empty large adirondack chair for him to sit in. 

“You can just sit here for a bit, then we’ll go, okie dokie?” You confirm with him, bending down in front of him.

He nods and you ruffle his hair. His chocolate brown, messy locks that are so much like his father’s. Artie looked a lot like Spencer. He’s still young, but the way he carries himself, his hair, his eyes. They all match the look of Spencer.

If you asked Spencer, however, he would always point out the little similarities that Artie held to you. 

“Hey, Artie. You doing okay, buddy?” A voice says behind you. A very familiar voice. It’s Spencer.

Artie blinks his eyes open a little, willing the sleep away and nods, excited to see his dad. 

You turn around and stand up from your position in front of the chair and see your husband. The same chaotic hair and glittering brown eyes. Spencer, however, has started to grow a small beard and has some rough, brown stubble to show for it. He’s wearing an outfit you picked out from him. Spencer has no eye for clothes. 

“He’s just a little tired. Had a big day at school with the play and all.” You inform your husband, a smile on your face.

Spencer nods, “Okay, let me just say goodbye to a few people and we can go.” He says.

You shake your head and place your hand on his arm, “No, stay. It’s your grand opening.” You try to convince him.

“Artie’s not long for this world.” Spencer retorts, pointing to Arthur who is, indeed, nodding off into dreamland.

You feel guilty. You feel guilty and you know why. You’ve been together with Spencer for ten years and it had been eight years since his dream originated of owning his own brewery. From taking his small creations that he fixed only for friends and family and opening it to the public. To sharing that experience with everyone. Spencer had been in the midst of saving money, you contributing even to his chagrin, and had budgeted according to when he wanted to propose to you and get married in a modest wedding. 

What you hadn’t exactly budgeted for was the arrival of Artie. Even though you had been married for over a year and on birth control, somehow you had fallen pregnant with Arthur. Both of you wanted children, but you always convinced Spencer to save up for his brewery first. Neither of you ended up regretting the unplanned Artie, but you had always felt a bit guilty when some of Spencer’s savings drained for baby Arthur.

“But Spencer, you won’t get another grand opening. You should stay and enjoy it, I’ll take Artie home.” You offer.

He shakes his head, “No.” Then he takes your hands in his, rubbing his finger comfortingly on the back of your hand, “The brewery doesn’t come before you or Artie. We always tuck him in together.”

“But this is your dream.” You say in a last ditch effort.

Spencer shook his head again, “You’re my dream. You and Artie and any other children we might have in the future. Nothing comes above my family, that’s my dream. I just happen to be living it everyday.”

You concede and nod, letting Spencer run off to an employee to get them to close up for the night. You say your rounds of goodbye to your friends who have come out for the night of celebration, always keeping a watchful eye on your son.

Collecting your son in his strong arms, Spencer scoops him up and has no problem walking with him through the backyard where you are led back into the main part of the brewery. 

A long bar stretches across the metal room with lines and lines of drafts for the bar with a few added concoctions of Spencers. Tables and other fun decorations fill the rest of the space with a few added streamers and banners just for the grand opening.

“Did you see my surprise for you?” Spencer asks you as you walk through the room.

Artie is out completely now, so there is no need for whispering between the two of you. You carry your own things, plus Spencer’s and Artie’s.

You shake your head, “No, what was it?” You show a confused expression on your face.

He’s as confused as you are, “The drink menu. Your favorite is officially named after you. I thought it was a sweet gesture.”

“Oh, I didn’t get a drink tonight.” You explain to him. You get the front glass entrance door for all three of you.

“You didn’t?” Spencer asks, even more confused now. 

A smile curls up on your lips. You reach your shared vehicle and grab something out of the floorboards near Artie’s seat. Somewhere Spencer wouldn’t have seen it since you had left the grand opening early to pick Artie up from after school, then heading back to the brewery.

Spencer transfers Artie into his car seat in the back, putting the seatbelt on for him as he’s still asleep and takes the bag you hold out to him. He’s still quite confused and can’t see into the bag as you’ve filled it with tissue paper.

“Artie will be quite put out that he wasn’t able to give this to you, but we can just pretend in the morning.” You say, vague about the actual contents of the bag.

Spencer gently sifts through the bag and then takes out a singular card. Before he can even read the words, his eyes lock onto the ultrasound that hangs on the cardstock paper. 

“What?” He says softly. It’s a rhetorical question and you know he’s saying it out of shock and surprise.

“We’re pregnant again.”

a/n: i always try to make the names true to character for Spencer. Luma with his philosophy lightbulb joke he made that one time and the fact Diana can mean luminescence. Then Diana, of course, his mother in the show. And now Artie, or Arthur, after Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, also known as his favorite author in the series. just little Easter eggs.

[peterparkersnose]

Matchmaker

part: 2 part 1

pairing: Javier Pena x fem!reader

word count: 2.1k

warnings: slut shaming, jealousy, snitches, angst, mentions and use of weapons, blood, near death experience, hospitals, regret, fluff at the end :)

a/n i hope you enjoy! i hope its not too sappy, i know javier pena would never realistically say/do any of these things unless he was p whipped but... you never know. that gif is so sexy dude fuck i want him so bad fr fr 

summary Y/N and Javi go check out the abandoned building and run into some trouble

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read time: 7 mins 44 seconds

The old warehouse that your team had raided the past month came into view. Javi drove along the dirt road and hummed to a tune on the radio.

The closest you were ever going to get to driving with a boyfriend and singing songs in the car. Right?

The car pulling up and the slams of the car doors should have been enough to run anyone out of that building. It was swept by security every night and made sure it was abandoned.

“What do you think your going to find in here?” Javier asked, pulling up the do not enter tape around the entrance. You shrugged. “I dunno. It just feels wrong.”

The empty building echoed from your heels. You and Javi walked around the first floor.

“This is just a big empty box of concrete,” he sighed, walking over to a pile of scrap wood and kicking it ever so slightly. The sound from that bounced off the walls, startling a few stray birds.

This sudden noise scared you. You turned around to reach for your gun and tripped on your heels. Javi saw this and reached out his arms, catching you in his embrace. You were breathing heavy as he held you in his arms.

“Just some birds, mi amor.” he chuckled, helping you re gain your balance.

Following him upstairs, you couldn’t get his strong grip on you off your mind.

Upstairs was more complicated. There were still abandoned work benches and offices that weren’t swept out in the demolition. Any homeless person or one of Escobar’s men could have snuck in easily and stayed here for a while. You were sure the guards didn’t check every single office, as there were too many.

You searched the various papers left on the benches and ground, nothing interesting stood out to you.

“Are you gonna help?” you asked Javi, bent down going through a stack of files about grain sale statistics in Spanish. “Shh,” Javi said, silencing your hands filing through papers. You hadn’t noticed how quiet he got and how far ahead of you he was.

“What’s the matter?” you asked, standing up into full view and shrugging your hands.

The door to one of the offices swung open. A man was talking very loudly into a phone in one hand, a gun in the other.

You turned to grab for your gun. He was standing mostly in your view, and saw you first. He mumbled something in Spanish and didn’t hesitate to aim at you. He shot his gun as you recognized what was happening. You moved fast enough for him to shoot your shoulder.

Javier panicked at how quickly the scene happened. Without a second thought, he aimed his gun at the man and shot him in the chest a few times.

“Y/N!” he yelled, rushing around the tables to find you. He found you flat on your back, eyes wide open in shock. “Shit, shit.” he whispered, falling to the ground and taking off his suit jacket to wrap around your shoulder.

“We’re going to need to walk, can you walk?” he asked. You stared up at him in unimaginable shock, unable to answer. “Y/N! Shit. Have you ever been shot before?” he asked, his right hand moving for his walkie talkie strapped to his belt. “A-28 we need medical at 748 Carerra 48,” he said urgently, repeating the message into the box until he got a dispatch response.

You were bleeding and you were bleeding a lot. Your breathes became choppy as Javier held you in his arms. He kept wondering if he shot an artery or not. “Stay with me, please.” he whimpered, moving your hair out of your face. He had accidentally wiped blood on your face. He looked at his hands, and then his shirt. All were deeply painted with crimson. “Please, no, please don’t do this.” he pleaded, holding your body close to his.

“Javi…” you whispered in his ear. “Everything is going to be okay.” he assured you. Shouting came from downstairs.

“Up here!” Javier yelled. Paramedics filed into the office space and spotted you two quickly. He helped them lift your body onto a stretcher. Your wide eyes stayed locked on him. “I-I have to go.” he said to you, holding your hand and following you down the stairs. “No,” you muttered, tightening your grip on him. The shallowness of your voice tore him apart.

The caution tape had been cut by the paramedics. When he reached outside, the majority of your squadron was out watching the scene unfold. The ambulance was small, big enough only to fit you and some paramedics. “No,” you begged, reaching your good arm towards him. “Don’t-” you sighed quietly, only enough for Javier to hear.

“Leave.” you finished. His last view of you was your longing eyes locked with his and his suit coat wrapped around your wound. The dark blue had become soaked with a purple/red. The back doors to the ambulance slammed shut. Javier was left in the dust from the now screeching vehicle making its way as carefully as it could down a dirt road.

Javier broke down on his knees. His bloodied hands cradled his face. He publicly cried for the first time since he was a child. The whole squad watched him break down in front of the scene.

“Javi,” Steve said, carefully approaching him and placing his hand on his shoulder. Javi shrugged off his hand. He returned to his feet, used his wrists to clear off any tears on his face, and rolled up his sleeves. Steve walked back to the police car with him.

The view of the man who had shot you came into place. He was being carried out by other paramedics. Javier recognized him as one of Escobar’s men. His heart sank.

Your feeling about this warehouse was right.

-

Steve stood with Javi on one side, Connie on the other. They watched you through the glass of your bedroom. Javier was leaning on the wall, resting his head against it. His eyes kept fluttering shut until he was reminded of his surroundings and was flung back into this horrible reality.

“Maybe you should get some sleep,” Connie suggested, tucking her clipboard under her arm. “Nah,” Javi said, opening his eyes once again to look at you. “I got her, you don’t have to worry.” she re assured Javi. “She’s the best in Colombia,” Steve said smugly, swinging an arm around his wife. He was happy to have a reason to spend time with his wife during work hours, but upset over the circumstances.

His eyes moved to the hospital couch next to your bed. Then back to you.

They removed the bullet successfully. It didn’t hit an artery, but a major vein going towards it. After a two hour long surgery, you came out with a wrapped shoulder extending down to your elbow, and a recovery note from the doctor. You were going to be fine. They put you in a medicated sleep for a while, just to let the shoulder get used to the placement and to heal before you were awake and moving around. You were expected to make a full recovery.

“It’s getting late, man.” Steve said, checking his watch. A little after nine. “You should go home.”

Javi scoffed at the suggestion. “Not until she’s awake.”

Steve sighed. “She’s going to be fine, you need to-”

“I can’t. I almost lost her. The thought of her dying and never coming back scares the absolute shit out of me.” he hissed at Steve. Steve’s eyes widened as he stepped back. “You good?” he asked. “No. I-I…”

“You like her, don’t you.”

Javi didn’t answer, instead just crossed his arms and looked at you. He closed his eyes and took a deep breathe. “I don’t think I could live without her,”

“Then do something about it!” Steve exclaimed, smiling. “She cares about you, man. She cares a lot about you. So do something, please. I’m begging you!” he laughed, his hand slapping Javier’s back.

“Have a good night, my friend.” he smiled, trailing off into the hallway.

He made his way quietly into your room. He slowly shut the door behind him. He took off his watch, his belt, his shoes, and removed his badge and gun holster from his waist and set them down at the table next to the couch.

He made his way over to you. His thumb brushed over your forehead as his hand caressed your cheek. The blood had returned to your face, you weren’t so deathly pale anymore. “Good night, mi amor.” he whispered, giving you the softest kiss on your forehead.

He unbuttoned a few buttons on his shirt and pulled up his sleeves. He attempted to get comfortable on the hospital couch and shut his eyes.

-

Your eyes fluttered open just a bit before dawn. Putting the pieces together, you reached over to touch your wound. You seered at the touch, wiping your eyes instead and taking in your surroundings.

Hospital. You were well aware of what happened and remembered it so clearly. You thought you were going to die, die without holding Javier Peña at least once.

You blinked and turned your head to look at the sunrise. To your surprise, there he was. Javier Peña asleep on a couch. How long had he been there?

He looked exhausted. His hair was disheveled, his freshly new outfit was already wrinkled. You remembered how he took off his suit jacket and draped it over your arm. He was always such a gentleman, even when he didn’t try.

The beautiful Colombian sunrise began. The deep pinks, yellows, and oranges never failed. Your arm hurt horribly, but you weren’t concerned at that moment. Javi was there, everything was okay. Letting your mind wander, you lay waiting for him to wake up or a nurse to wander in.

-

“And everything is feeling alright?” the nurse asked. “Mhm, yes. Thank you,”

Javi shot up straight out of his slumber at the sound of your voice.

“Well good morning to you,” you chuckled, smiling at his sudden awakening. “Why didn’t you wake me?” he asked, checking his watch. Seven thirty.

“You looked so tired, I couldn’t.”

Javi got up and went to your side. He grasped your hand, and knelt down. “I’m so happy your okay,” he sighed, kissing your knuckles.

“You alright?” you asked, eyebrows raised with a suspicious tone. “Better than alright,” he smiled, looking down at your hands. He wanted to slap a ring on there as soon as he could.

Connie bursted through the door holding your breakfast tray.

“Ah, so you finally told her Javi. Congrats, the two of you.” she smiled, setting the food down in front of you. Swiftly turning to leave, Connie didn’t realize she spoiled his whole plan.

Javi had the look of defeat on his place, wishing this could have gone so much differently.

“What is she talking about?” you asked. Javi sighed. “I wish this could have been under better circumstances,” he sighed, getting up and rubbing the back of his neck anxiously.

“And?” you asked, nervous to what he was about to say.

He took a deep breathe.

“Seeing you on the brink of death scared the shit out of me Y/N. I thought I lost you.”

“What?”

“Steve told me something a few days ago in the break room-”

“Oh?” you asked, already knowing what Steve said. What a fucking snitch.

“And I really thought to myself. What am I looking for? I spent all my time with these other women, searching for something to fill the void. Nothing ever seemed good enough from them. It was never enough. But what Steve said made me think. Why was I seeing other women when the one I truly wanted was in front of me the whole time?”

Your jaw was dropped.

“I’m stupid, okay? I-I… watching you grab for me in the ambulance broke my heart. It made me realize things I never thought I wanted before.”

“And what’s that?” you asked, a smirk appearing on your lips.

“You.”

“Really?” you smiled.

“Yes!” he exclaimed, returning to his knees. “If you would have me…” “Of course I’ll have you,” “Please, Y/N L/N, be mine.”

He wrapped his arms around you, cautious of your wound. His cologne reeked off of him along with sweat, but you didn’t care. You felt his mustache tickle your shoulder.

“I won’t ever let this happen again. I won’t ever let you go.” he whispered in your ear.

“Like I’m ever going to let you leave,” you chuckled.

Who would have known Javier Peña’s street days would end with a single bullet.

tag list: : @dani5216 @uwiuwi @alohastyles-x @samanthacookieone @maddieinnit0 @alexxavicry

(my queue didn’t post for some reason yesterday, just caught it now)

[hometoursandotherstuff]

The 1909 Canal Greenwich Condominium building is the former Tetley Tea Company Warehouse. (I wonder if it still smells of tea.) It's now divided into 8 condos in the Greenwich Village area of New York City and one unit is for sale. It has 2bds, 3ba, & is $4.4M + an absurd $2,556mo. HOA fee.

This is a 1st fl. unit, so these are the the big frosted windows we saw out front. I wonder if those security doors are functional.

Not only is this place gigantic, but it has 3 levels. What I like about it is that it's very old industrial chic. Look at the ceilings.

Look at the original factory floor. Gee, that's a lot of floor to clean.

Just look at the size of this place. It gets so cold in NYC in the winter (I live 20 min. away, so I know) how in the world can you even heat this place, let alone afford to?

I would suppose that if you didn't have all those bulbs on the ceiling, it would be very dark. I don't see many lamps, but lights must have to be on all day.

Look at how far back the dining room is. I would need a speaker system to call people to meals.

The kitchen is very cool. Love the exposed brick. The stainless steel appliances are very hi-end. I wonder if the island is even included, b/c it's on wheels.

There's a powder room and an original door. Look at the tiny sink- wash one hand at a time.

The primary bedroom & bath are in a loft and I'm disappointed that there are no walls, just curtains. A curtain separates the bedroom from a sitting area.

There's a nice exposed brick wall up here.

The bathroom has some high tub. Even the step is high.

The 2nd bedroom is in the basement. Not so sure I like that.

The en-suite bathroom. I wonder if there's a light in that shower, it looks a little dark.

It has an electric sauna. As much as I love industrial lofts, I would pass on this one. (Not that I could buy it, anyway.)