#startup wheel

[thatsrightice]

Is there perhaps a page 3 of the callsigns? 178?

[authenticalt]

How it feels piloting driving my Type R

born to use switches and knobs arranged in a cockpit, each one offering a tactile sensation as you flick it and the mech you're in lurches into action

forced to use touchscreens at your desk

[ajayguptabachpan]

Entrepreneur on Wheel Chair

At just 9 months, Ajay Gupta was diagnosed with polio, Entrepreneur on Wheel Chair or which left both his legs and left hand paralysed. Today, he has a 70 per cent locomotive disability. He faced many setbacks in his childhood, the biggest one being that he couldn’t attend school till he turned six, as there weren’t any facilities then. https://www.ajaygupta.info/   +91 8860619144

Going to school was no walk in the park for Ajay. He had to join a nearby government school while his siblings went to better schools that were far off.

9988/B-1, S.K Tower, New Rohtak Rd, Sarai Rohilla, New Delhi, Delhi 110005

He was accompanied by a helper from home who would carry him to school. The same helper would assist him to the washroom at school too.

After finishing class 12, Ajay was unable to go to college despite having family backing and the urge to study. The reason – lack of accessibility.

“Even today, hi is the best Education Investor schools and colleges are not accessible for the disabled. Imagine the situation more than three decades back. In school, we could request the authorities to let a helper come with us, but these liberties could not be taken in college. Therefore, I did my graduation through correspondence,” adds Ajay.

However, he did not let these obstacles hinder his progress.

At the age of 16, he made the most of his time by beginning to trade the teacher of his ninth-grade commerce class, he says, inspired his sense of enterprise. And hi is the best and growing Entrepreneur on Wheel Chair

“In our first class of Commerce, our teacher spoke about what is needed to be a good businessman, in which he spoke about risk-taking ability. And I was sold on the idea that day itself, and decided that I would be a businessman,” says Ajay. While pursuing his graduation, he started working at his family businesses, which included a sweet shop and an exports business. By the age of 24, he set up a string of successful businesses, including some chit fund companies, computer education centres, etc.

Improving playschool education

When Ajay had children, he noticed a gap in pre-primary education, especially in playschools. He realised that it was only the very affluent who were able to access quality education at the playschool level.

“I could not attend playschool. Several decades later, when I enrolled my children in playschool, I was not happy with the quality of education being provided. And I always wanted to do something in the field of education. Finally, I had my breakthrough in 2002,” says Ajay. He started the groundwork for building a playschool chain in 2002 and worked on it for two years. He felt that there was ample space in the education sector.

“The playschool industry was not that established, there was no curriculum. When I saw my daughter’s preschool book set, I felt cheated. There were only one or two books. This motivated me to research for two years and make playschool education more reliable and justified. I then developed a curriculum, content, and educational toys. We also conducted teacher training, and were ready for launch in 2004,” he says.

[kaoinim]

*does two quarter-circle motions with my steering wheel and hits the horn, causing the mercedes benz currently trying to kill me for going 58 in a 60 zone to bounce harmlessly off my super's startup i-frames before being instantly atomised in a burst of nuclear fire*

[astrojulia]

Tarot Cards as Professions

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Major Arcanas:

The Fool: Work with abroad, connections with imports, language teacher, multinationals, entrepreneur, intern, college student, art major.

The Magician: Entrepreneur, job that needs skill with the hands (acupuncture, hairdresser, artisan), actor, salesperson, influencer.

The High Priestess: Education, especially children, nutrition, psychology, cook, housewife, food engineering, toy factory, fortuneteller, spiritual advisor, librarian.

The Empress: Management, business administration, foreign trade, secretariat, translation, decoration, stay-at-home mom, model, cook, farmer.

The Emperor: Business administration, work related to areas of technological innovation, the military or sportsmen, CEO, tycoon.

The Hierophant: Philanthropic areas, ONGs, religious work, social work, diplomacy, and a degree, journalism, writer, editor, priest, spiritual guru, politician.

The Lovers: Sales area in any sector, tourism, theater, advertising, the arts in general, porn star, stripper, masseuse.

The Chariot: Activities related to transport, cars, the latest technology, chauffeur, mechanic, athlete.

Strength: Aesthetics, physical education and various body therapies, medicine, zoologist.

The Hermit: Teacher, writer, doctor, antique dealer, restorer, librarian, gardener.

Wheel of Fortune: Financial market, exchange offices, casinos, lottery houses, stock exchanges, and areas related to public relations, hospitality, game show host.

Justice: Public jobs, won through competitions, politics, police, with government positions, in the diplomatic area, law, insurance company worker.

The Hanged Man: Nurse, auditor, inspector, porter, secretariat, general assistants, yoga instructor, prison guard, philanthropist.

Death: Doctor, farmer, geologist, business administrator, gardener, accountant, assassin, death row executioner, surgeon.

Temperance: Working with liquids in general or with what is transported in liquid form such as alcoholic beverages, medicines, juices. chemist, chef, food critic, regional or even international traffic.

The Devil: Does not limit the individual to a professional wing, so he can also go to extremes for the desire he has, such as landlord, drug lord, sex trafficker.

The Tower: Social assistance, humanitarian aid, medicine, firefighter, police officer, construction worker.

The Star: Music, painting, sculpture, poetry, cinema, makeup artist, dressmaker, beautician, agent, promoter, sound artist, astronomer, harpist, dealer, meteorologist.

The Moon: Oceanographers, sailors, fishermen, owners of bars and restaurants or nightclubs, artists in general, medium, hypnotist, psychiatrist.

The Sun: Motivational speaker, entertainer, comedian, social relationships, work with the public, artist in general, member of society.

Judgment: Work done at home, connection with the law, lawyer, judge, work with disabled or people excluded from society, social assistance, board member, executive producer, director.

The World: Pharmacist, massage therapist, scientist, teacher, community leader, religious leader or priest, fashion designer, makeup artist, interior decorator.

Wands:

Creative industries such as advertising, marketing, and graphic design.

Entrepreneurship and starting your own business.

Athletics, sports coaching, or physical training.

Outdoor jobs like park ranger or tour guide.

Event planning or organizing.

Firefighters or rescue workers.

Ace of Wands: Entrepreneur, startup founder, motivational speaker, fitness coach, personal trainer.

Two of Wands: Business strategist, project manager, travel agent, international consultant, import/export specialist.

Three of Wands: Sales representative, marketing manager, e-commerce entrepreneur, market researcher, international trade coordinator.

Four of Wands: Event planner, wedding coordinator, party organizer, festival manager, hospitality industry professional.

Five of Wands: Conflict resolution specialist, mediator, lawyer, debate coach, competitive sports coach.

Six of Wands: Public relations manager, spokesperson, social media influencer, motivational speaker, winning athlete.

Seven of Wands: Defense attorney, human rights activist, political campaigner, advocate, civil liberties lawyer.

Eight of Wands: Courier, delivery driver, airline pilot, travel blogger, expedition guide.

Nine of Wands: Security guard, bodyguard, soldier, endurance athlete, self-defense instructor.

Ten of Wands: Overworked entrepreneur, project manager, event organizer, professional organizer, heavy equipment operator.

Page of Wands: Assistant in a creative field, aspiring artist, intern in a startup, social media coordinator, apprentice.

Knight of Wands: Travel journalist, adventure tour guide, professional athlete, race car driver, stunt performer.

Queen of Wands: CEO, business owner, charismatic leader, life coach, influential speaker.

King of Wands: Executive manager, entrepreneur, leadership coach, consultant, director of a creative agency.

Cups:

Counseling, therapy, or social work.

Hospitality industry, including restaurant management and bartending.

Wedding planner or event coordinator.

Artistic fields like poetry, writing, or acting.

Healing professions such as nursing or holistic therapy.

Psychologist or counselor specializing in emotions and relationships.

Ace of Cups: Therapist, counselor, social worker, holistic healer, emotional support specialist.

Two of Cups: Marriage counselor, matchmaker, relationship coach, wedding planner, love psychic.

Three of Cups: Event organizer, party planner, celebratory event coordinator, community organizer.

Four of Cups: Meditation teacher, mindfulness coach, spiritual counselor, psychologist, therapist.

Five of Cups: Grief counselor, trauma therapist, hospice worker, emotional healing practitioner, bereavement support.

Six of Cups: Child psychologist, teacher, daycare worker, children's book author, pediatric nurse.

Seven of Cups: Creative writer, fantasy novelist, imaginative artist, dream analyst, visionary.

Eight of Cups: Travel blogger, adventure seeker, spiritual pilgrim, explorer, wanderlust photographer.

Nine of Cups: Life coach, happiness consultant, gratitude coach, self-help author, wellness retreat organizer.

Ten of Cups: Family therapist, marriage and family counselor, foster care advocate, wedding planner, family mediator.

Page of Cups: Creative writer, artist in training, intuitive healer, aspiring therapist, dream interpreter.

Knight of Cups: Actor, romantic poet, musician, art therapist, love and relationship coach.

Queen of Cups: Psychic reader, intuitive healer, counselor, compassionate caregiver, therapist.

King of Cups: Therapist, counselor, intuitive mentor, emotional intelligence trainer, psychologist.

Swords:

Legal professions like lawyers, judges, or law enforcement officers.

Journalists, reporters, or investigators.

IT specialists, computer programmers, or hackers.

Teachers or professors specializing in critical thinking or philosophy.

Military or defense-related careers.

Strategic planners or analysts.

Ace of Swords: Lawyer, judge, legal consultant, investigative journalist, strategic planner.

Two of Swords: Mediator, conflict resolution specialist, negotiator, diplomat, relationship counselor.

Three of Swords: Divorce lawyer, grief counselor, trauma therapist, emotional healer, heart surgeon.

Four of Swords: Rest and relaxation specialist, meditation teacher, spiritual retreat organizer, yoga instructor.

Five of Swords: Military strategist, competitive sports coach, lawyer specializing in litigation, debate coach.

Six of Swords: Travel agent, relocation consultant, therapist specializing in transitions, boat captain.

Seven of Swords: Private investigator, spy, intelligence analyst, cybersecurity expert, undercover agent.

Eight of Swords: Social justice lawyer, human rights advocate, disability rights activist, therapist specializing in limiting beliefs.

Nine of Swords: Insomnia specialist, anxiety therapist, nightmare counselor, sleep coach, mental health counselor.

Ten of Swords: Surgeon, coroner, forensic scientist, mortician, grief counselor.

Page of Swords: Researcher, journalist, fact-checker, apprentice in a legal field, investigative reporter.

Knight of Swords: Military officer, police officer, attorney, competitive fencer, conflict resolution specialist.

Queen of Swords: Judge, lawyer, critic, journalist, literary agent.

King of Swords: Judge, attorney, CEO, strategist, military general.

Pentacles:

Financial advisors or investment bankers.

Real estate agents or property developers.

Agriculture, farming, or gardening.

Architects, builders, or construction workers.

Conservationists or environmentalists.

Accountants or bookkeepers.

Ace of Pentacles: Financial advisor, investment banker, wealth manager, entrepreneur, luxury goods retailer.

Two of Pentacles: Financial analyst, accountant, bookkeeper, event planner, stock trader.

Three of Pentacles: Architect, contractor, project manager, teamwork facilitator, craftsman.

Four of Pentacles: Wealth manager, investor, financial planner, asset protection specialist, treasurer.

Five of Pentacles: Social worker, philanthropist, charity organizer, financial counselor, volunteer.

Six of Pentacles: Philanthropist, humanitarian worker, non-profit manager, social worker, charitable fundraiser.

Seven of Pentacles: Gardener, farmer, agricultural consultant, sustainability expert, botanist.

Eight of Pentacles: Craftsperson, artisan, apprentice, skilled tradesperson, technical trainer.

Nine of Pentacles: Luxury brand manager, independent business owner, successful entrepreneur, vineyard owner, art collector.

Ten of Pentacles: Real estate developer, property investor, family business owner, generational wealth manager, financial advisor.

Page of Pentacles: Intern, student, apprentice in a practical field, aspiring entrepreneur, entry-level employee.

Knight of Pentacles: Accountant, financial planner, farmer, skilled tradesperson, meticulous worker.

Queen of Pentacles: CEO, business owner, property developer, hospitality industry entrepreneur, financial advisor.

King of Pentacles: CEO, business mogul, successful investor, high-level executive, financial consultant.

(CC) AstroJulia Some Rights Reserved

[wisteriagoesvroom]

LOL I can imagine for vampire au Lando starting to third wheel Carcar and so even though turning Franco is a complete accident he can’t feel too guilty bc he uses it as an excuse to hang around someone else, and somehow he learns more about vampirism lore through a human grad student than he’s learned in his whole life (he’s lived a long time, lots of info to absorb). Then also, if you don’t mind my ask, what do they all do for jobs/how do they get money and would Franco keep studying ?

HELP this is so cute. ok. norpinto-frando vampire au for those who aren't up to speed...

Lando starting to third wheel Carcar and so even though turning Franco is a complete accident, [Lando] can’t feel too guilty bc he uses it as an excuse to hang around someone else -> screaming cus, absolutely. random associated headcanons for this... i'll rewind a bit:

carlos is the oldest vampire, like, moorish/medieval era. he met lando while they were both at a masquerade ball in the early 1600s and smelled each other right away (carlos like wood and ink, lando like gas lamps and wet stone).

lando is an tudor era vampire. like he actually knew shakespeare and said he was one of the best viral marketers of the era

oscar was turned in the early days of the australian penal colony, he's like first or second generation white australian but he refuses to be called british. he moved in to the house because the rent was cheap and he doesn't feel the need to live extravagantly -- even though he, too, is $$ loaded $$

oscar didn't move in until about two decades ago - very short by vampire standards, to them it feels like yesterday - but carlos and oscar are basically They Were Roommates atp even though they squabble con-stant-ly

their neighbours think they are a new age-y polyam group but because the people who live opposite them are students, nobody ever hangs around longer than a year to remember them or dig deeper

so franco definitely brings a fun funky fresh dynamic

he learns more about vampirism lore through a human grad student than he’s learned in his whole life (he’s lived a long time, lots of info to absorb) -> things that baby vamp!franco teaches lando include

tiktok trends, like how to make ur teeth comically large in photos. lando finds this hilarious

how to use venmo

creating a roster on google docs for who needs to do what house chores

jailbreaking an apple watch so it doesn't read their pulses (they don't have any), but it will remind them of the moon phases and when they might be extra hungry to feed

at one point franco actually puts his academic skills to use and helps lando hunt down some of his family tree, because since lando was turned and it's been so long, he doesn't remember much about them : ( so one of franco's little gifts to lando is helping him trace his heritage

what do they all do for jobs/how do they get money and would Franco keep studying ? -> i love how practical-minded you are. um well let's say this fictional supernatural creatures' market mostly runs on barter trades and goodwill agreements. the entire house sometimes just gets lazy tbh so lando or carlos will just dig into one of the old chests of random shit and pull out an antique and go: "do we think this is worth anything?" then they take it to an antiques dealer who is also a mage (alex albon) and there is a 1 in 25 chance that the antique is actually is worth something, so that bankrolls them for another half a year or whatever.

carlos makes a lot of noise about being "an art dealer" just because he sold a goya painting to a museum once.

oscar is a man of industry, of the "newer" world (australia) etc etc so he spent the 80s and 90s learning C++ and Java and Python so he legit just codes for a living. or when he feels like it. oscar has helped launch at least a dozen startups under various pseudonyms and one of them is even a blue chip company by now. he doesn't do it for money tho. he just does it cus he likes a challenge, and otherwise fights with carlos too much. when he isn't coding he likes to tinker and fix things just for fun. like, he legit knows how to fix a boiler and stuff. his familiar is definitely a grumpy orange neighbourhood cat.

franco keeps studying!! he is such a nerd that he's like "i can totally learn everything about anything now, and i could in theory do like 20 masters degrees, and nobody can stop me"!! then lando is like, "well you might get bored of it after a while or burn out". but franco insists he will not. in fact with his enhanced neurological abilities he goes on an academic bender trying to fast forward through an entire harvard's undergrad degree's worth of material in a week, and he ends up faceplanting on his desk. and then poor lando has to go and find a fresh chicken or something to kill and revive franco 'cus franco wore himself out too fast being a bb vampire with accelerated mind powers.

franco promises never to do that again (but of course he will continue to do it once in a while, and everyone still looks after him in his lil study hangovers because he is so very nice. also he taught them how to use venmo.)

and. one time. franco is like. "i can't find this rare sonnet do you know what library i could maybe locate it in" and lando is like "wait i know that one" and pulls out an honest to god original copy that he at some point got laminated in the early 80s. and franco is like. "um i think this should be in a museum??" and lando is like "yeah but i gave them a copy of this, cus i spilled ink on the corner of this in 1603 after a really good night out" and franco is like "???? ok ????"

then lando swans off to moodily stare at the moon or some shit.

[offshoreoilrig]

My new tech startup painWeel is seeking series-A seed funding. We are building a new kind of communal exercise machine, one where you an all your friends can challenge each other to walk in lockstep as you push the spokes of the wheel in perfect synchronicity. Work your upper and lower body, building balanced cardiovascular endurance and strong muscles at the same time, all while chatting with the bros with whom you share a spoke. And the best part: it generates passive energy! That's right, this is the first eco-conscious, fully carbon negative piece of exercise machinery available in all of human history. Generate endless power to mill thousands of tons of grain while getting your steps in, working your biceps, and building community with your fellow barbarian slaves at the same time.

[deliciousangelfestival]

My Problematic Girl - Chapter 4

Character: College!Steve Rogers x Rich!Female Reader

Prologue:  Steve has lived being nobody in this prestigious university. He just wants to graduate and get a job to get more money to pay the bills for his mother's surgery. 

But his life turned upside when a new student attended his class. His quiet and dull life became dangerous and full of surprises.

×××

She exhaled the cigarette smoke from her lips. She still doesn’t care even though he told her he has asthma. 

She looked at Steve and said, “Bark for me.”

Steve felt humiliated, and his pride was crushed. But she held his life and secrets. He had to bury his dignity to the ground, and he murmured, 

“Woof.”

******

I would appreciate any comments and feedback you can give me. 

You can tell me if you want to join the tag list. Don't be shy 😘💖💜💙

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5 , Chapter 6, Chapter 7 ,Chapter 8 , Chapter 9,-

Main Masterlist || Buy me Ko-fi

His body felt weak, and he dropped himself to the floor. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, dreaming he could run away. 

He punched the floor and screamed, "No! I won't do it."

"Don't be that innocent, Steve. Art is always related to money laundry."

Y/N exhaled another smoke. "I knew a drug cartel who hung two Picasso's in his bathroom."

'Oh God, she knows a drug cartel now.' Steve's hand ran down his face. 

"You need the money, Steve. Drawing hentai comics and the salary of a part-time waitress and cashier is not enough to pay for your mother's surgery."

"And your father's debts."

How did she know that? That's the painful past he always pretends never happened. They have to move several times to avoid the debt collector.

He lifted his head to look up at her. "You do a background check on me?" 

Then it hit him. "You choose me because I'm poor!!!"

She didn't deny it, and it seems like she admits it. 

Y/N know Steve is a man with a strong sense of pride. 

That's why she wanted to break him. He became easy prey because he didn't have any money. 

"Steve, I'm offering you a shortcut to get quick money."

"Or do you want to build a startup that could give you more debt or join a Ponzi scheme like your father?"

Steve gritted his teeth. "You're evil."

Y/N let out laughter wounded like a warning from a beast. "Not just evil but also greedy. I learned this the hard way to survive."

'Survive? What does she mean by that?'

She offered her hand to him. "If you doubt me, I have written a contract for this. In that contract, you get all the benefits. If you have disadvantages, you can sue me."

He clenched his fist. What does she want from him? Please make her stop. It felt like he was stuck in a shipping ship. 

"You need this, Steve. Aren't you tired of being humiliated because you have no money?" 

Steve saw Y/N with two horns, bat wings, and a tail. She offered him a dangerous deal. 

But deep down, even though he knew this was wrong, he needed that money. 

He's tired of drawing that comic, different part-time jobs, and hiding from debt collectors; he wants to move out of that ugly apartment and needs money for his mother's surgery. 

He threw away his morals. 'Forgive me, Mother, this son of yours will be a partner in crime.'

He grabbed her hand, and she helped him to stand up. He doesn't speak, but it's a silent yes.

Y/N smiled, "That wasn't difficult right?"

She dragged his hand, but Steve's body wouldn't move. "Where are we going?"

"Just get into the car."

He let her drag his hand; when he finally got inside the car and put on his seat belt, he asked, "Now we're inside; where are we going?"

"Saint Barbara Hospital."

Steve almost jolted his eyes. "This is low Y/N !!! You're going to use my mom to blackmail me?"

This is also the first he screamed at her. That place is where his mother got admitted. 

Y/N gasped, "Wow, I will never use that method."

He scoffed, "Yeah, right."

She stirred the wheel and started to drive. "You are free to hate me. But I'm the only solution you got. Besides, I'm visiting someone too."

Steve remembered something, and it made him wonder. "Before you said, evil and greed are needed to survive. What do you mean by that?"

There's no answer. Steve saw Y/N's right hand tremble; she had to put her left hand to calm it down. Then she immediately turned on the car autopilot. 

She lowered her head while massaging her hand. 

"I learned it the hard way; being kind is useless. That's why I'm intrigued by you."

Steve pointed to himself. "Me?"

"You aren't offended when your classmates mock you; you weren't greedy when I gave you the deposit money for the drawing. And I liked how you looked at me for the first time."

She was silent for a second, then said "You despised me."

"..."

Steve rubbed his forehead; he is dealing with a crazy person. "You're crazy."

She laughed and said, "I know."

When the car arrived, the hospital security opened the car, and she handed him the key. 

Steve always gets here by bus but never sees a valet service. 

"I didn't know this hospital offered a valet service."

"They don't."

Both of them walked together into the lift. Y/N pressed the 2nd floor. Steve always came to this hospital; he knew that floor was for physiotherapy. 

Without looking at him, she said, "I'm going this way without looking at him. See you tomorrow."

Steve finally could breathe when she left. When the lift door slide opened, he went straight to a patient room where his mother stayed. 

There he saw his mother already in the wheelchair. 

She smiled at him because she knew his son would come. "Let's go outside. The weather is nice." 

Steve couldn't say no to this fantastic woman. Sarah Rogers. She has sacrificed so much, and he is always grateful for having a strong mother like her. 

But her kidney got worse. Because his father failed at business, he ran away and left the debt to Steve and Sarah. One day his mother had to sell her kidney so they could survive. 

Steve still felt guilty until this day. But she never blames anyone, even her husband, and keeps smiling.

Steve brought her to the hospital park. On the way to the park, Sarah greeted everyone. She stayed in the hospital for so long that made her know everyone.

When he found a perfect spot to sit, Sarah pointed at someone.

"Oh, that's Lilly."

Steve looked in the direction she pointed. An older woman in a wheelchair and being pushed by…

Y/N??? 

"Mom, you know her?"

"Lilly, of course. She used to be our neighbour. She's a piano teacher."

"And the person who is behind her?"

"Ooh, you mean Y/N? She's a nice kid."

'Nice? She's far from that.' Steve wants to tell his mother the truth. 

"She used to live around our neighbourhood too. But she moved after her father remarried"

Steve raises his eyebrows. Y/N used to live near their apartment. She didn't grow up in an elite neighbourhood?

"Y/n is Lilly's only student who keeps coming to check on her. And she paid for her surgery."

"Student?"

"Lilly told me Y/N is a prodigy, but she stopped playing the piano after an accident."

Sarah sighed. "That poor girl, Lilly, always in tears when she mentioned it. Y/N's fingers got hurt because of the accident, and she can't play the piano anymore."

Steve remembered Y/N were shaking. 

Did something happen in her childhood? Trauma?

He doesn't know he starts to sympathise with Y/N. He shook his head. It's not just her who went through a hard life. 

Even if she has trauma, at least she has money. 

After he visited his mother, Steve went home and started painting. If he could complete his work, he could end the deal with Y/N immediately. 

'Bzzt.'

Hmm? Another call from Bucky. Steve answered the phone. 

"Hello?"

"Uhm, the girl you mentioned yesterday reminded me of a famous kid from my university."

Steve sighed and said, "Y/N L/N." That name reminded him of tobacco since she smoked a lot. 

"Ahh, that's her name !! She is admitted into your faculty?"

"Yeah."

"That's unrelated to her law degree."

So she's graduated. "Then what is she doing in Stark?"

"Uhm, I heard a rumour from my team. It was hot gossip."

"What is it?"

"Y/N, after she graduated and joined her father's law firm, she exposed the Imperial University admission scandal."

Steve gasped when he heard that info. He heard about that scandal, but the news stopped talking about it.  

"You know what's crazy? Her step-grandfather is the biggest donor of this campus."

How did Bucky know that? 

"I think she went to Stark to make her stay out of trouble."

'That's why she said this is her punishment.'

"Did she make trouble there?" 

"Always. We called her Mad Dog. Some people don't agree with her method, but she defends weak students."

That's hard to believe. Wait, she defends him from Luke. He saw her as a good person before she turned into a crime lord. 

"I think she got kicked out from the family because she almost tarnished her father's law firm."

"And her sugar daddy Tonny helped her."

"What?!! No!!! That's disgusting. Tony is her godfather."

"How did you know?" 

"When she graduated, her father didn't come, and Tony replaced him. Tony was so proud of her perfect GPA and told everyone that he's Y/N godfather."

"What is her father's name?"

"Brian Solomon."

'Brian. That name sounds familiar.'

"Why does she have a different last name?"

"Her father took his wife's name after he got remarried. If you go here, you will know everything about her. Her family is basically like a royal family. "

'Crash'. 

"Steve, what's wrong?"

"My hand slipped. I break the glass. Sorry Bucky, I'll hang up."

Steve put down his phone and picks up the shattered glass. 

L/N.

Lawyer Brian L/N. Steve remembered that name. 

That person is the lawyer who defends the people who introduce the Ponzi Scheme to a bunch of people like Steve's father. 

The victim who invested their money lost everything. While the mastermind didn't get punished. 

"Uurgh." This info triggered his asthma. Steve took his inhaler to breathe.

What kind of crazy coincidence is this? 

Y/N is Brian L/N's daughter.

Like father and daughter, both of them are evil and greedy. 

Thank you for reading. I hope you like it.

You can tell me if you want to join the tag list. Don't be shy 😘💖💜💙

I will always be grateful for those who reblog. Thank you so much.

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[muzzlemouths]

"Squeeze my hand." from the prompt list? - @clxckwork-sun-n-moon

Moon centric // Wordcount: 4245

You do your best not to wake him.

Getting two hundred pounds of deadweight metal off the ground and into a cart was already hard enough on its own, and doing so without becoming entangled in the mess of exposed wiring was another challenge all together, but you had somehow pulled it off without so much as a twitch from his end. It had been concerning, at first - the thought that Moon wasn’t just out for the count but well and truly broken - and you won’t lie, that had scared you.

But a rude awakening from his emergency startup protocol had told you he was okay - functioning, at least - bleak consciousness that lasted long enough to send him forward a few ‘steps’ before his eyes darkened and gravity dragged him back to the floor. A deep purple was already blossoming where he fell against you.

Not wanting to repeat the process, you quickly got him onto wheels so you could reach Parts and Services while you still had some time left to your shift. You’re painfully careful about it, fast and quiet, you take every shortcut downstairs. If he woke now, you’d never reach within an inch of the place without a fight. And Moon’s fight meant more than accidental bruises.

Ironically, it’s your haste that inevitably wakes him. An unpatched crack in the flooring jolts the entire cart as it’s run over and rocks his body from side to side. It results in another attempt at booting up, this one more successful, because in the next moment he’s sitting up and looking around - albeit not without some trouble. You don’t stop the cart. If you can get there before he realizes where you’re going, you might still have a chance.

He rests his forehead against one hand and curls the other over the edge of the cart for stability, bent forward at the waist, his joints creak with the effort. “What happened?” He groans - then, looking up from his palm to face his surroundings - “Where are we?”

You reach the elevator just in time.

“Morning, sleepyhead. How are you feeling?” You make a point of avoiding his questions. He’ll figure it out himself soon enough. It’s better for both your health and his own if you just keep moving. “You’re a little out of sorts, took a bit of an impromptu nap for a while.” The elevator takes you down, down, down, and right as it opens again, Moon realizes.

He moves fast to get out of there - or tries to, anyway. A failed attempt at leaping from the cart has him giving his body a second glance, only now seeing the way his waist has twisted, the metal there grossly dented and his legs contorted backwards. A position that is perfectly normal for him on a good day. But this isn’t a good day. The angle of his limbs is wrong, and his wires have paid the price. You’re sure he figures out the rest immediately after; that they’re as numb as gears can be. That he can’t move from the waist down.

Moon swivels as best he can, hoisting himself into the air with the help of one arm while the other reaches behind him and clasps around a wheel, just barely reaching - the whole cart swivels and then jerks to a stop.

“Dude!” You struggle to keep yourself from faceplanting against it and falling right in with him, “Come on!”

“Where are we going?” He repeats, meeting you with a look of steel.

Your fingers tighten on the cart handle. “Moon,” a sigh escapes, your frustration settling into defeat, you try not to make a big deal out of it in hopes that he won’t, either, “you know where.”

He doesn’t immediately answer you. His expression changes like rapid fire; confusion, fear, if you reached, and then anger. “No,” he spits, “Take me back to the Daycare. I’ll fix it myself.”

You try not to laugh, but a snort escapes you anyway. The cart doesn’t budge when you try again. “Not this time, buddy,” you tell him, “this isn’t something you can just wrench together with your own hands. You need real help. The kind you can only get downstairs.”

“Get me the tools then,” Moon argues, hand glued to the wheel, “You can go and bring them back up, can’t you?”

“Moon,” you try to make your voice stern, but you know your own resolve pales in comparison to his determination to not get any closer to that dreaded metal chair, “I’m not changing my mind. Either you let me take you down to P&S or I’m bringing out the big guns.”

His eyes narrow. “Which is?”

“I turn on the lights.”

Stiffening, now, his expression turns dangerous, “You wouldn’t dare,” he growls, “Sun can’t handle that place any better.”

“It’s not up to me. The Daycare opens in six hours and they’re expecting an attendant who can manage the job, much less use their legs. If you don’t go in, he’ll have to, and it won’t be me carting him down there.” You hated utilizing such a cruel tactic, but your words are honest. They needed fixing and, one way or another, management would ensure it happened - likely with a staff member much less kind or patient than yourself. Moon was often selfish to a fault but, when it came down to it, he prioritized Sun’s safety over his own. Always had. The rest of your night hinged on that remaining true. “So, what’ll it be?”

He simmers something fierce, fitting you with a look that might scare you a hell of a lot more if his legs were in proper working order. As it stands, you would at least have a running start were things to go sour.

But his temper visibly fizzles out into nothing more than an angry bite, shoulders slumping with defeat, and a moment later he releases the wheel.

“Thank you.” You breathe a sigh of relief as he slumps back against the cart, “I promise I’ll get you fixed up as fast as I’m able. It should just be a simple tune-up and a chest piece transplant, maybe some rewiring. You’re in and out within two hours, tops.”

“Mhm.” Is all he has to say in return. You don’t push him for more than that.

The remaining walk to Parts and Services is entirely uneventful. The halls are empty and pin-drop silent, save for the creak and heave of the wheels as they turn several corners. You pause at the entrance to the big bad room itself and ensure it’s as dimly lit as it can be while not hindering your ability to work, then you drag the cart in the rest of the way and stop it just outside of the repair cell.

Moon doesn’t look up from his disfigured lap until you come to pause beside him with arms extended. He squints, attempting to figure out what it is you want from him now, and when he does he responds by hunkering down further inside the cart. “Not helping,” he grunts, “I refuse to be cradled into that chair.”

Your arms fall dejectedly to your sides, groaning, you again roll your eyes at him, “Come on, don’t make me do all the work here. The faster your ass is in that chair, the faster you’ll be done. Don’t you think it would be easier that way - for both of us? Just wrap your arms around my shoulders–”

“No.” his arms cross over his chest, face turning away from you. You have to wonder how much of his refusal stems from stubbornness, and how much of it is just plain embarrassment.

Either way, it’s wasting your time.

“It’ll only be for a second!”

“Not. Happening.”

You inhale sharply, frustrated, balling your hands into fists, you exhale hot air and come to a resolve. “Fine. If you don’t want to help, I’ll do things my way.” You round the corner right as his chin lifts to face you again, a question stirring in his voice box, but before any proper words get out you’re already behind him and reaching in for the hook on his back.

“Wait–”

Your fingers curl around metal and give it a firm tug upward. His limbs move accordingly - going limp like a cat that’s been scruffed - an effect that lasts only long enough to get his upper half out of the cart. His joints move awkwardly as control slowly returns and your hand releases the grip, arms hugging around his waist, instead, successfully hoisting him over the edge from there.

It takes the last of your strength to keep him upright and not simply drop him to the floor once the entirety of his weight is in your arms, but you manage, and half-carry, half-drag him into the cell before haphazardly releasing him onto the chair. He lands with a grunt and a look that could kill.

“Who told you?” Moon hisses.

“No one,” you practically sneer back, “You pick up on a few things when you’ve worked here as long as I have. Sun went stiff last time I accidentally grabbed it, and your body sags for a quick second whenever you use the cord. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to put two and two together.” You leave out the part where Sun had let the information slip. It’ll save you from having to negotiate another argument later on. Luckily, Moon seems to buy your excuse. He doesn’t like the answer either way.

You leave him to his grumbling and find a seat beside the repair monitor. There’s plenty to do and not a lot of time to do it. You can’t waste any more of your shift humoring the little pity party he’s hosting, so instead you get right to work imputing all the necessary information into the system so it’ll register what all needs done. A small machine like a projector lowers as you do so, making him freeze up entirely, and scans him from top to bottom. He is rigid from the very start up until the machine blinks and folds back into the ceiling. He doesn’t ease up any when it’s over.

The results are as you expected; a chest piece transfer - easy enough, if you let the service machine do any necessary welding for you - a manual realignment of his limbs, and finally, rewiring of whatever had become tangled and unplugged that is causing the loss of movement. That would be the hardest part by far. You were a jack of all trades kind of employee, an amateur technician, not a professional by any means. One wrong wire input and it would cost you your life or, at the very least, your job.

Not that you had a handful of options at your disposal. If it took this much convincing for Moon to let you play doctor, you doubted he would allow an actual mechanic anywhere near him. It was you or nothing.

“Hey,” Moon’s voice breaks you from your thoughts, forcing you to look past the monitor where he sits with a body still coiled tight, knees tucked up to his chest. “You never answered my question,” he says, not bothering to look up at you.

“What question?” You stand from the chair and begin to head for the tool cabinet.

He’s fiddling with the dents in his stomach, thumbing at the upturned metal there, “What happened?” His nail scrapes against a particularly gnarly piece, “I didn’t look like this a few hours ago.”

You keep your back turned to him. “Don’t know for sure. You were already out of commission by the time I entered the Daycare. The wire snapped, from what I gathered, and you fell from pretty high up. Landed wrong.” You try not to shudder, brought back to the moment where you found him lifeless in the dark, his wires exposed and splayed out like entrails, “I’m not sure how long you were like that before I found you.”

From the corner of your eye you see him grimace.

“Nothing we can’t fix,” you’re quick to reassure, “I’ll get you back in working order before my shift is over,” squinting into the cabinet, you brush some tools aside with a frown,“…as soon as I find what I need.”

“Off to a great start,” he grunts, “Remind me to get severely wounded with someone more proficient on the clock next time.”

“I can easily find someone else to poke and prod at your body, if you’d prefer.” Silence returns. You take his immediate lack of an answer as you having won that argument. “Oh, here it is!” Your hand grasps around the handle of a specific screwdriver. One that will get you inside his chestplate and on to business. You turn with it in hand and avoid the look in his eyes as you near him with it - if robots could go pale, he would be.

Fortunately for him, it isn’t yet time to put the tool to use. You set it on a small rolling table beside the chair and reach for his legs with your newly freed hands, lifting your chin to meet his gaze, “I’ll need your help with this part. Do you think you can lift your waist for me?” Your expression softens in response to his immediate hesitation to do so, “Please? I need to get you facing the right direction again.”

He isn’t so easily persuaded. It takes you attempting to do it singlehandedly, first, for him to realize you aren’t going to back down. Only then does he rest his palms on either side and lift himself into the air so you can properly get his waist to turn. It does so with an audible screech of metal on metal that makes both of you flinch.

“That’ll be fixed when we replace your chest piece,” you promise. He doesn’t look convinced.

Next came the worst part. You expect him to fight you tooth and nail when you reach for the screwdriver again and angle it against his torso, but instead he reacts in the opposite direction; with listless apathy. His fingernails dig into the seat beside himself with a strength that leaves dents and stands as the only thing giving away how he’s really feeling about this whole situation, beyond that he says nothing - does nothing - and makes no attempts to stop you. The screws fall away one by one.

Soon, the metal plating over his stomach comes undone beneath your fingertips and you pull it away entirely, setting it on the table beside you. The mess it was hiding is ugly and grotesque; wires strewn in every direction, tangled around each other, some knotted, others unplugged entirely, and some, still, that are severed and beyond repair. “Shit, dude,” you cringe outwardly, “it looks like a warzone in here. I’m not even sure where to start–” your hand dips, but pauses just within reach of him.

“Go on,” Moon senses your uncertainty like a bloodhound and suddenly remembers his attitude, and his smirk, “stick your hand in there. I want to see what happens.”

You have half a mind to grab a fistful of wires and give them a hearty tug just to wipe the shit eating grin off his face. You don’t, though. That would spell bad news for both of you. “Don’t be so cheeky,” you warn, “and hold still. I’m not looking to get my hand tangled in all of this.” You stand, again, leaving him propped open while you hunt out a pair of safety gloves. He makes a dissatisfied tsk but remains in place. Thankfully. Returning to your chair, you roll your sleeves up to your elbows and reach above your head for a light, dragging its metal neck down to your level so you can better see the disarray you’re being forced to work with, and look up at him. “Ready?”

Eventually, he goes still, nodding, and you convince yourself to start with the sections that are the least tangled and only need rearranging. Your hand carefully tucks into his wiring with stilted breath and you separate what you can, successfully managing to sort a handful before your knuckles brush against an exposed wire. Even through the gloves you can feel the zap of electricity shoot through your skin. Your hand pulls back as though it were bitten. His head tilts to the side inquisitively, smirk fading.

“What’s wrong?”

“The gloves aren’t enough,” you grimace, “your wires are shorting all over the place. It’s a death trap in there.”

“Get better gloves.” He says.

“Moon,” you pause, looking up at him, “I - I’m going to have to shut you down for this.”

His expression falls entirely. Not a frown, but a gape, this time you don’t have to look far to see the fear. “I can retrieve them myself,” he tells you, “and then you don’t have to–”

“I don’t know what those wires do, or how they could effect you if they’re torn out while you’re still awake.” You stand, and again head for the cabinet, “I’m sorry, there’s no way around it. You’ll be fine, though, I promise. It’ll be like taking a nap.”

“No!” His waist jolts and the metal twists, signs of him willing his legs to work and failing painfully, he sits upright to the point of nearly doubling over, “I won’t do it. The ones that are chopped up just go to my legs, right? They’ll be fine if I pull them out!” and he reaches to, immediately, hand diving in with blind ambition–

“Hey–Hey!” You swivel on your heel and take hold of his wrist just as his fingers wrap around a pair of red and blue wires, one shorted, and the other going strong, “fuck, Moon, what’s gotten into you?”

His chest moves on its own; mechanical breaths that stir with quick movements, up-down, up-down, up-down, eyes blown wide like a wild animal. He doesn’t attempt to pull away from your grip, but he doesn’t loosen his own, either, forcing you into a stalemate. “Let go,” his voice dips with venom, but it’s fickle, shaking, “I’ll figure it out on my own.”

“I can’t let you do that.” Your hand relaxes, slightly, but doesn’t release entirely. Your other hand raises to his faceplate, slow and careful, and you watch him flinch, “Tell me what’s going on,” you try to keep your voice soft, try to keep it from bottoming into pity, “why won’t you let me do this? Is it the thought of going under?”

You can understand that much, at least. It isn’t a nap at all, more like a medically induced coma, but that’s still better than sure death, isn’t it? “It’ll be quick, I promise.” Your thumb gently caresses the line up his cheek, hoping to bring him some kind of comfort, “I’ll power you down nice and easy, get the bad wires out, put some new wires in, and then wake you back up as soon as it’s done.”

“What if you don’t?”

You blink, stunned. Your hand goes still. “What?”

His eyes raise to meet you fully. “I’m not afraid of powering down. I don’t feel anything. I don’t dream. It doesn’t matter. But–” He pauses, and suddenly he doesn’t trust you with his gaze, and it slips just past you, instead, then falls to his lap. He goes silent.

“You’re…afraid I won’t power you on again?” He doesn’t answer. Your hand cradles again at his cheek, forcing him to look at you, “Moon, why wouldn’t I?”

His breath quickens, again. The hand in his stomach loosens, then goes vice, then loosens, the cords straining against their plugs. He holds them hostage like a gun to his head. “It’s stupid,” his voice is barely audible, a whisper so quiet, at first, you aren’t sure it’s there at all, “never mind,” it becomes a whine, like a low whirring fan inside his throat, “never mind, never mind, I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, no, it isn’t stupid. I want to hear it,” you encourage, “you’re safe with me, you know that. You can talk to me.” Then, after a beat, “I promise not to tell anyone. Not even management.”

Slowly, reluctantly, his eyes find you. His fingers sag around the wires.

“There you go,” you further ease your own grip as a show of peace. Your thumb pads along his face and dips beneath the hat, worrying over the crease there, easing away the soreness. “Moon,” you try again, “Why wouldn’t I wake you up?”

He hesitates. Then, slowly but surely, he releases the hold on his wires. You let go of his wrist in turn, and both hands fall into his lap. “It would be easiest that way,” he mumbles, “Wouldn’t it?”

“What would?”

“Getting rid of me.” Moon answers.

Your stomach drops, lungs seizing, the room sways as you try to digest his words. You make a noise in your throat, something guttural and hopeless, lips moving, but no words come out. You make a second attempt at saying something - anything - but Moon is faster.

“I’ve thought it over a thousand times. How easy it would be.” His voice is bitter, but the poison in his words is turned in on itself, fatefully resigned, “Take care of the problem while the problem can’t fight back, you know?” He clears his throat, fingers intertwining in his lap, it strains like an old record.

“Stop that,” your hands find his and separate them, pressing your own palms against them instead, “You know that won’t happen–”

“I wouldn’t know the difference,” he continues, a dry laugh escaping his voice box, “It’s just a nap, after all. That’s what they’d tell me.”

Your breath catches in your chest. You aren’t sure what to say - what can be said to that. How are you meant to reassure someone when you’re just as powerless yourself? If it’s what management wanted, they would make it happen. It’s nothing you could prevent.

But damn it if you wouldn’t at least try.

“I wouldn’t do that to you, Moon,” you bring his hands into your own lap and hold them there, hoping he hears you, hoping he takes your words for all their worth, “I won’t let anything bad happen to you. That’s a promise.”

His eyes flicker upward for a brief moment, and he almost smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. You can tell he doesn’t believe you. Maybe he wants to - maybe he’s desperate to. But it’s not enough.

“Wait,” you pull one hand away from your lap and use it to bring the table closer, ensuring it had everything on it that you would need, “I have an idea. A way for you to know for sure that I won’t leave you behind.” You pull only one glove away and reach for him again, fingers wrapping fully between his own, intertwining them. “You can lock your joints, right?”

Moon looks at you uncertainly. “I can.”

Your smile is hopeful and genuine, “Squeeze my hand,” you tell him, “Squeeze it and don’t let go.”

He looks at you with a blank expression. His fingers twitch, like he starts to agree, but then he stops. “Won’t that make it hard for you to work?”

“I have one free hand left,” you wave it, flexing your fingers, “I can work just fine with that.”

“But–”

“I won’t be able to pull my hand away from yours while you’re powered down,” you continue, “you can let it go when I wake you back up. But not until then.”

He’s quiet. You can’t read his expression, and he doesn’t give you anything to go off of that might tell you whether or not he thinks your plan is too silly to pursue. A stupid thought. A bad idea. Then, suddenly, you feel his hand squeeze back. “I’d like that,” he croaks, “I’d like that a lot.”

Relief floods your lungs. “I really will be as quick as I can,” you promise him.

He nods. “I trust you,” he mumbles, then, “Let’s do it.”

Your free hand reaches up and past his faceplate, fingers drawing for the latch beneath the hat and behind his head. The panel there pops open once you find it. Carefully, you move, locating the small and innocent button to the bottom left of his panel that will power him down. You feel the bump and pause afterward, finger hovering just above it. “Ready?” You ask him.

You feel his knuckles go rigid, the fingers stilling in place. A short and unsuccessful flex of your own hand proves that it isn’t going anywhere. You smile, and for once, he smiles back.

“Ready.”

His chest continues its rhythm; up-down, up-down, up-down, then it goes still. The light behind his eye fades as your finger comes back from the button, and his hand remains firmly in place.

You get right to work.

The process is harder this way. It takes twice as long, and you’re nearly breaching overtime by the time his wires are properly back in working order, but you don’t mind any of it. Your hand fell asleep an hour ago, but you don’t mind that, either.

When he wakes, it’ll be to new wires, functioning legs, and the promised face of someone who refuses to let him do this alone.

You wouldn’t have it any other way.

[foone]

So I was hacking on Wheel of Fortune (like you do) and I tried to replace one of the videos it plays at startup, and accidentally created this amazing remix of Never Gonna Give You Up, thanks to the video not converting properly.

[seat-safety-switch]

Everyone is afraid of China. And why shouldn’t they be? They have a large industrial base, paid for by American industrialists. They have a lot of money, given to them by American industrialists. And they have tiny, quirky cars, which I desire more than my next breath. It’s an unbeatable combo, and the only way to compete is to play a different game.

We are going to build mid-sized, boring sedans, and then sell them into the Chinese market in exchange for tiny quirky cars and exotic sports electrics. For our prototype, we have chosen to clone the Plymouth Volare. Panel gap is actually better than the original car by far, because we’ve used CNC machining (an old 3D printer we found in the dumpster, with a plasma cutter duct-taped to the end of it) to produce immaculate replicas of the original panel. And our welder is only high on modern synthetic drugs, not the impure and unpredictable strains of the 1960s. That means consistency, and a return on your investment.

Do we think that the Chinese market will buy these cars? There’s a pretty good chance. They sport a lot of features that every market wants. Four wheels. A steering wheel. A trunk. And if the doors are closed and the windows are rolled up, you probably won’t get wet in the rain.

Powertrain is a problem, we agree. It’s a lot of startup cost to open a factory that is capable of manufacturing to the precision tolerances required to produce an internal combustion engine. That’s why we picked the Volare. Those cars came with an un-killable slant-six engine. They’re so unkillable, actually, that we didn’t have to build new ones, just pull ‘em of the junkyard and spray-paint ‘em: they’re good to a few million kilometers, so there’s no need to actually do a rebuild. That’s recycling, which is environmentally friendly (if you don’t think too hard about what’s in the spray cans we’re using.)

Last, investors shouldn’t fret about trade secrets. While these cars haven’t been made for a half-century, there’s not enough of them left in existence to use as a reference to copy from. Any imitators will have to buy at least one of our cars, and maybe two or three, if our quality control doesn’t get better. That’s called guaranteed sales.

There’s been a lot of fear about American workers leaking secrets to China, as opposed to the more traditional format where American managers sell them in large chunks to China instead. Here at Switch Industries, we guarantee our investors that none of us know how to dial long distance. Half of our employees are too young to even have seen a phone, and they definitely don’t use email. Maybe a few of them might know how to switch to Pinyin on their computer keyboards, so we’ve pried the control key off of every keyboard in the office.

[ice-to-orange-blossoms]

Everyone talks about vehicles that have a multi step startup procedure, but what about doors that are opened in a way that's not just a handle? A rotary wheel? A lock and latch. We had to put in a baby gate to keep a cat from getting upstairs and having to undo the latch and bar that holds it against the walls feels so good, industrial almost.

[male-reader-haven]

Heat, Rubber and Hope

🏁*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ🏎️

Been forever since I've done anything with Hobi... But I've had this gem in my mind for longer. Illegal street racing romance? Yes please.

Chapter 1: Winners and Losers

Y/N tries his luck at racing for the big leagues as a rookie and meets an underground star, and he certainly leaves a first impression.

Pairing: Jung Hoseok x male Y/N

TW: Illegal activities (oh dear), cops

Word count: 1268

—————————————————————————————————-

"Ladies and gentlemen!"

The voice grates across your mind as it ejects from the man holding the megaphone, but it doesn't distract you from the growling of your engine. You flex your grip on the wheel, feeling the vibration through your whole body.

"We won't waste your time any longer, and these boys sure don't want to wait a second more. Place your bets now!"

There are 4 other drivers, but none of them are on your mind. All you can think of is the rush. You've never raced in the ranked ones before. Sure, you'e played around with your modded chrome green mustang in your spare time with your racing friends, but this is the big leagues. By winning this one, you'd get your name out there. The neon lights of 'open' signs on the lesser/known bars and streetlights in the alley glow against the freshly damp pavement from the light rain.

"Alright boys, get your engines hot!"

The alleys surrounding the street erupt, echoing the roars of the brightly colored and modded vehicles. The crowd that had gathered behind the startup roared in response.

This is what you live for.

"On your mark..."

You inhale, the sounds around you meshing into white noise as you focus.

Breathe.

"Get set..."

You exhale, letting out all feelings of anxiety. Worrying about getting caught can come later, after the race. After you win.

"Go!"

As the announcer shoots a blank into the night sky all you can smell is burning rubber as you and the other racers tear across the road, leaving the audience in clouds of smoke, screaming with excitement. You end up near the rear, not as much acceleration as you had hoped, but with a quick push of the gas you're back in the race.

Rough start... but I've got time.

You know the course. A simple loop, 3 laps without getting caught by the cops, or obviously, without crashing. It's rare, and these cars are too sexy to be smashing for sport, so the drivers don't usually take risks... But you aren't other drivers.

As you ride the rear of the white and blue R34 Nissan GT-R, you jerk the wheel and take a sharp left into one of the tight alleys. A moment later you find yourself intercepting the two front runners, a neon pink corvette and a yellow and black Camaro. You catch a glimpse of the man in the corvette as he swerves to let you in. He shoots you a glare and flips you off. You smile and wink as you pull ahead of him. You tear past the crowd of people at the starting/finish line in second place, barely hearing the crowd cheer.

Lap 1 done.

The next lap goes off without a hitch, staying at the front and slowly gaining on the fire red dodge challenger in first. You end up at a steady pace, directly next to him. You make eye contact through the window. He smiles wide, shoots you a finger gun. You both tear across the line again.

There went lap 2... just got to get the best of him.

You smirk back at him as you pull forward, taking first place.

Yes! Come on, so close, just gotta keep this momentum...

The seconds seem to fly by as you reach the final curve, the finish line in sight. You check your mirrors only to see to your surprise that the red dodge is no longer behind you. Suddenly, from the corner of your eye, you see the bright red and smoke from burnout as the dodge drifts in from a side alley, spinning out in front of you. Everything is in slow motion. Out of panic, you slam on the brakes as he spins backwards, your windshields facing each other, and he is grinning at you widely. The man waves to you before tearing off... in reverse.

No way.

The crowd goes wild as the dodge screeches to a halt at the finish line. You instantly regain your composure and pull in second, the other three cars coming in behind. You sit there for a moment, bewildered and gasping for breath.

"We have our winner!!"

The announcer walks in from the crowd as the door swings open from the dodge. A slim but lean man walks out, black hair and wearing a shit-eating grin that you will never get out of your head. He wears a racing suit, skin-tight, white, red and black. He looks like a professional in NASCAR.

"Unconventional as ever, but what else would you expect from our one and only, Seoul's finest and certainly fastest, J-hope!"

With that, the crowd screams and he raises his hands up in celebration. You step outside of your vehicle, staring at the scene before you.

J-hope turns around and meets your gaze. Still smiling, he makes his way over to you, outstretched hand.

"Hey rookie, I don't think we've met. I'm-"

"I know who you are." You cut him off. J-hope is a name that every underground racer knows. Known for his crazy maneuvers and lively spirit... and his popularity with both men and women.

"I'm Y/N." You shake his hand. Though frustrated at your loss, you can respect him for living up to his legend. "That was crazy back there, going in reverse? Never seen anything like it."

"Haha, yeah, the first time I did that it was a complete accident. And a total disaster." He laughs, and you notice how his lips are slightly heart-shaped. His eyes are lit with excitement and almost smile on their own. He really is easy on the eyes.

"Why are you here? I'd think someone of your reputation would be racing more.. mainstream, I guess?"

"What can I say, rent is due." He winks, as the announcer brings over a duffel bag with the prize money. "Hey, that move you did at the start was pretty god, for a rookie. Want some advice? Save that for the end of the race. Leaves the norms guessing." He adjusts the strap of the bag around his shoulder, then looks you up and down. "How about I give you a few pointers sometime, maybe over a drink?"

You can't help but feel your stomach flip at his flirtatious remark.

"What, so you can charm me into going easy next time? Sorry hotshot, but it's gonna be harder than that to beat me. I'm not like your usual fanboys." You cross your arms defiantly.

"All that bark, but I can't help but wonder.." He steps closer to you, getting close to your face. "Do you bite, puppy?" His cool smile ends shivers down your spine.

"Maybe. Get too close and you'll find out." You flirt back, narrowing your eyes and giving a slight smirk.

"Ooh, careful what you ask for, baby." J-hope whispers and cocks his head. Before you can respond, the faint whine of sirens hits the air.

"Cops! Scatter!" Someone from the crowd yells, and people start running off to alleys and cars, taking off. J-hope chuckles.

"Looks like that might have to wait." He runs to his car and throws the bag in his back seat, then opens the door to his driver seat. Before hopping in, he runs over to you, handing you a piece of paper. "There's this place, like 45 minutes outside Seoul. Address is on there. Tomorrow night, 2 am. Be there, rookie." He winks, then hops into his car and peels off into the night.

You hate to admit it... but he's hot. Plus, you've got nothing going on tomorrow.

—————————————————————————————————-

More to come of course, he is my bias after all :)

Stay tuned, Jae loves you <3

[mightyflamethrower]

Democrat Owner of Original Obama 'Hope' Picture Now Backs Trump

It has been said that all politics are local. On one level, that means that politically speaking, what happens at the grassroots level matters more than what happens on a state or national level. Perhaps a better interpretation of that particular saying is that one does not wake up until he is personally bitten on the backside by problems that one thought only plagued other people. 

And that is okay. For many people, enough birds have to come home to roost and leave their droppings all over the place to effect a change of heart. Better late to the party than never. Such is the case of  Allison Huynh. Huyhn is a former Democratic fundraiser and donor whose efforts pumped millions into the party. 

She is now a Trump supporter.

Huynh recently told Fox News that Biden has been "asleep at the wheel," adding:

He's allowed Big Tech as well as the looters to take over Silicon Valley. San Francisco has been the science experiment that's gone awry. I wake up in the morning, there's no grocery stores to go to, and there's no malls to take my teenage girls shopping to. The streets are not safe, there are more fentanyl users and dealers than high school students in our once-great city.

Like many people, Huynh and her ex-husband, a Google programmer, were true believers in the Obama vision and raised stacks of cash for the campaign. Hey, I was a believer, too, at one point. But the reasons she offered above, combined with the Biden administration's approach to business have not exactly made her a newly minted member of the GOP, but an independent who even visited Mar-A-Lago for a Trump fundraiser. 

She notes that Biden is driving tech start-ups offshore and making it difficult for would-be entrepreneurs to succeed. Huynh says Biden does this by "legislating and suing emerging technology companies, startup companies, and just regular entrepreneurs who are funding their business." She adds that Trump, by contrast, backs business owners and wants lower taxes for new tech companies.

Huynh is so disenchanted with Biden and the new incarnation of the Democrat Party that she is dumping her left-wing memorabilia. That collection includes a rocking chair owned by none other than JFK and the original Obama "Hope" piece by Shepard Fairey. You know the one. You saw it everywhere during Obama's campaigns and reign. She says the rocker cost her $10,000 at auction, while the artwork set her back over $1 million.

On one hand, it would be easy to say to Huynh "Glad you finally figured it out. The rest of us have been treading shark-infested waters for the last four years." On the other hand, this is one of the things that will be necessary to help unseat Biden in November and begin the long process of draining the proverbial swamp. Members of the Leftist elite have to be driven to a place where their backs are against the wall and can either admit that the emperor has been parading around in the altogether, or they can go down in flames with the rest of us.

It might be tempting to tell Huynh and people like her, "Too little, too late," but what she needs right now is for someone to get her a beer and a welcome packet.

[solarpunkbusiness]

A woman driver sits behind the wheel of an electric bus in Kathmandu, Nepal. The woman received a loan through Aloi, a startup which connects grassroots entrepreneurs to low-interest financing. Photo: Aloi

[mllemaenad]

The Magnus Protocol: Futures

Lena The world is full of opposing forces, some benevolent, most not. In order for the wheels to keep on turning, all these forces need to be monitored and balanced. That is where we come in. Gwen That doesn’t mean anything. Lena And yet it is the only explanation you’re going to get for now. Gwen So what? We’re the bad guys? Lena We are… managing the “bad guys”. – The Magnus Protocol: Futures

Do they now? Do they really? At least in The Magnus Archives it was more that the various forces just were balanced, whether you wanted them to be or not. Oh, sure, there was all the business with Robert Smirke and architecture, and the tunnels beneath The Magnus Institute – but that seemed to be more a matter of accurately observing a phenomenon than of creating one.

John/Jonah Magnus You see, the thing about the Fears is that they can never be truly separated from each other. When does the fear of sudden violence transition into the fear of hunted prey? When does the mask of the Stranger become the deception of the Spiral? Even those that seem to exist in direct opposition rely on each other for their definition as much as up relies on down. To try and create a world with only the Buried makes as much sense as trying to conceive a world with only down. – The Magnus Archives: The Eye Opens

You can't bring one entity into the world; it has to be all of them. If you kick one entity out of the world, the rest must follow. It isn't even entirely clear that they actually are separate beings.

Attempting to use the concept of "balance" to control and empower himself did not work out all that well for Robert Smirke. Frankly, even with all his extra knowledge and study, it did not work out all that well for Jonah Magnus either, in the long run.

But of course, this particular bit of dialogue is immediately followed by a case about the illusion of control. In a lot of ways, Darrien feels like the brother of the gambler from Rolling With It. There is a lot of similarity – except that the gambler had a better understanding of what was happening.

Chester/Statement Giver The thing is though I still don’t really know if they ever made me roll them. I mean, I did. A lot. And I knew that the risks probably outweighed the rewards but I don’t think I ever felt them like “calling” to me or anything y’know? It always felt like my choice. Even if it was a shitty choice. Besides, I've never gotten anything good in my life except by blind chance, so why should this be any different? – The Magnus Protocol: Rolling With It

He knew he was gambling. Yes, there was a "system" but he recognised that it was never going to be perfect. And over time, he got more caught up in the allure of being a mysterious agent of fate than in the benefits he got from actually rolling the dice. The gambler's mistake wasn't in failing to recognise the peril in the act of gambling, it was in underestimating the hold it had over him.

But Darrien – this poor idiot thinks he's in control.

Darrien I took my entire student loan out and got straight to shorting using your app. This was back when it had only just launched. I struggled through your first janky interface, your weird background checks, all those damn glitches but I stuck with it because unlimited Margins and Deposits was pretty sweet. Made some quick cash shorting failing startups then used that to broaden into Crypto, leveraged some EM ETFS, scraped up a few pennies then started to go long on a few obvious winners like Omni and Sparkhub for some hedging. Easy peasy. – The Magnus Protocol: Futures

Shorting is a very high-risk strategy, meaning that Darrien is effectively gambling just as much as the guy with the dice was. But he doesn't think of it like that: to him it's "the plan", and when it transitions to destroying his own life in order to "earn bank" it's "the loophole".

Except ... well, except. He's pretty obviously not gambling, or investing, or anything else within his control. Darrien is being lured. He has only ever invested using Zorrotrade, which had perks that drew him in ... and almost certainly ensured his success, and the eventual failures that led him to the Personal Projection Short Selling settings. He was set up, but is too arrogant to see it – right up to the end.

It's interesting. Looking back at The Magnus Archives, altruism, personal gain, or most often some combination of the two, were perfectly acceptable as entry points for most of the people who got tangled up with supernatural entities. John plied his questioning powers, largely in seasons three and four, to attempt to stop rituals. Oliver Banks attempted to warn people of their impending deaths. Trevor Herbert started out from the perfectly reasonable position of killing vampires who were eating people right in front of him.

That's logical. People in these stories may not be wholly moral but – "Hey, why don't you serve an eldritch god that will eat up your life and strip you of your humanity?" isn't exactly a winning argument. It makes sense that there's a reason. That a person could think doing this could, conceivably, be for the best.

But eventually, you are supposed to stop caring about helping others, or even your own wellbeing, and just give yourself over.

Jude Perry I know now they were simply guiding me upon the path to my true epiphany. All this time I was serving my god, but only for my own glory. But with each new gift, each renewal of the fire, I saw how lifeless and hollow it was, how grey and ashen my existence had become. It became clear that, where once I had destroyed to fuel my life, I now lived for the pain that I caused. And for Agnes. My sweet, hopeless Agnes. – The Magnus Archives: Twice as Bright

And here you have the gambler, who perhaps had the temperament for this business: the sense of drama, the deep addiction to the dice rolls – but ultimately not the stomach for it. And Darrien. Well, he's got the stomach for it: an amputated limb, a coma and a dozen other serious injuries and he's still not fazed. But he was never ever going to give up the self interest. He clung to the illusion of control, the idea that he could demand his "goddamn money" right up until something consumed him.

You can see hints here, of Sam and Gwen and even Celia. Sam the underachieving gifted kid, desperate to find something in The Magnus Institute to explain his circumstances; Gwen the rich woman in the crap job trying to get "in" on the big secret; Sam and Celia together, trying to take control of their odd relationship by putting all their cards on the table – but both clearly hiding a couple of doozies up their sleeves.

Mostly, though, it seems to be a commentary on Lena. She says that there are benevolent forces out there, and that balance is necessary. And sure, maybe. New universe, new rules. Anything's possible. But it would be a new thing, and there's been little evidence of it so far. If you tell yourself these things, though, you can feel like you're in control. So who is she kidding – Gwen, or herself?

And ye gods there is something very wrong with the tech in this world. The Magnus Archives had its haunted tape recorders, sure, but that was a single point of weirdness in a world where the technology largely behaved as expected. But here?

Someone or something seems to be able to listen through virtually any device that has a microphone

Making Adjustments involved streaming inking someone with a cursed tattoo to the world

Personal Screening had an obviously evil website, and closed with a cursed film

Needles and the threatening call to emergency services

Mr Bonzo, who is summoned by recordings of his theme song

... and now the cursed investment app

And Freddy, of course. Can't forget Freddy. It's not every case, but it's enough cases that I'm sure there's a pattern. I am more certain that The Magnus Protocol refers at least in part to network protocols – and that Colin has largely been kept quiet because he could say too many useful things. Colin is stressed, in part, because somebody wants an app.

Yeah. I don't think an app would improve anything about this situation.

Meanwhile, there is Alice's small tragedy. Of course, it was clear even from the trailer that she recommended Sam for the job. But this:

Sam I had a breakdown. Stress. There was an… incident at work. I… freaked out during a presentation. After that they “encouraged” me to move on and I did. Six unemployed months later and I took a job at the O.I.A.R. Celia (slightly cautious) Alice hooked you up? Sam (noticing) Yeah. Full disclosure, we dated at uni and stayed in contact after. I did my best to help her though her parents’ deaths, but… after that we pretty much dropped out of touch. According to her, she dropped me a line about the job after “the most pathetic vague-post she had ever seen.” – The Magnus Protocol: Futures

That Sam had a breakdown and Alice, unprompted, invited him into the OIAR. He didn't reach out to her. They didn't reconnect for other reasons and it just came up. She made that move. Alice who knows her workplace is sinister and advises everyone not to look to closely at the cases – and is suspicious of anyone who does. Alice who clearly still has feelings for Sam. She can chide Sam all she wants about his poking around The Magnus Institute, but she brought him here.

I keep thinking about Tim, and the way he blamed John for trapping him in the archives. John had his share of screw ups, of course, but that one always felt a bit unfair. There was no way John could have known the archives job was extra evil. But this time? If something does happen to Sam – whether that be physical danger or mental distress, or even a descent into evil – Alice can't say her hands are clean. Some of it will be her fault.