#wire for rebar

[srjsteel]

Binding Wire: The Unsung Hero of Construction Structural Integrity

Introduction

Construction projects depend on numerous materials to turn architectural blueprints into reality. Among these essential elements, binding wire is an often-overlooked basic element that plays a critical role in construction engineering and structural stability.

Understanding Binding Wire: More Than Just a Simple Strand

Binding wire is a special metal wire designed to give critical reinforcement and connection in the construction process. Usually, this versatile product is manufactured from high-tensile steel or galvanized materials, serving multiple essential functions that ensure the strength, durability, and precision of construction projects.

Key Characteristics of Quality Binding Wire

Corrosion Resistance: Premium binding wires are treated to withstand harsh environmental conditions

Flexibility: Enables easy manipulation and secure fastening in complex construction scenarios

Tensile Strength: Capable of offering high-tensile support to hold reinforcing steel and concrete systems

Diameter Options: Coming in different diameters with various sizes that fit different building needs

Construction Engineering: Critical Applications

Binding wire is more than a connection—it represents a strategic product that addresses multi-construction problems:

1. Reinforcement of Concrete

In concrete construction, binding wire is used to hold together reinforcement bars (rebar). It tightly binds steel mesh and rebar sections together to allow for uniform load distribution and prevent structural weaknesses.

2. Scaffolding and Support Structures

Construction sites require strong temporary structures that can resist high stress. Binding wire gives the necessary connections to develop stable, reliable scaffolding and support frameworks.

3. Masonry and Brick Laying

Precise alignment and proper placement of bricks and blocks require binding wire to hold structures intact and aesthetically precise.

4. Metal Fabrication

Welding and other metal joining processes often make use of binding wire to maintain parts in precise locations in the fabrication and assembly of the product.

Choosing the Best Binding Wire: What Professionals Need to Know

In construction projects, several important criteria determine the effectiveness of the binding wire:

Material Composition

Galvanized Steel: Better resistance to rust

Stainless Steel: Offers highest strength for extreme applications

Black Annealed Wire: Suitable for interior or shielded building uses

Critical Selection Parameters

Tensile Strength: The higher, the better resistance to stress

Coating Class: Influences durability to environmental degradation

Diameter Class: Meets project-specific criteria

Adherence to Industry Code: Wire meets construction codes and standards

Environmental and Economic Factors

Today's construction industry focuses on sustainability and efficiency. Binding wire helps meet these objectives by:

Reducing material waste with precise reinforcement

Structural durability

Potential repair and maintenance costs

Efficient building methods

Best Practices to Use Binding Wire

Effective use of binding wire requires technical knowledge and cautious usage:

Proper Tensioning: Avoid overtightening and undertightening connections

Clean Installation: Remove debris and provide smooth wire placement

Regular Inspection: Check binding points for signs of wear or corrosion

Tools: Use binding wire cutting and twisting tools only

Conclusion: A Small Part of a Larger Whole

Binding wire is one of the smallest things in comparison to massive steel beams and complex construction machines. It is, however, one of the most significant components regarding structural integrity. Understanding its subtle application and choosing a quality product will ensure a safer, more reliable, and efficient construction process.

Note to readers: It's always advisable to contact professional engineers and utilize local building codes in the selection and implementation of binding wire.

[gidianthe]

i get off 9 hours breaking my back with a structural belt building some bullshit racks and i log onto tumblr and go through the shadowzel tag while smoking a cigarette on the porch then i go to bed at 8pm

[caninedragons]

Every time I go into a hardware store I only need one specific thing and have no clue where it is cause I never go into hardware stores and therefore have no clue how they're set up.

They are a maze that I clearly don't belong in and I sadly don't have my dad to storm through it and find what I need plus more for me

[oysterie]

sage green jeans my size on the one dollar rack thrift store 😳

[kapilasteel]

The Strength Behind Your Success – SRJ HR Coils

TMT bars constitute the important foundation of cutting-edge production, serving as the skeletal guide that transforms architectural visions into tangible, enduring systems. At the coronary heart in their structural integrity lies an often overlooked hero: exceptional binding wire—the critical element that determines the actual resilience and longevity of construction tasks.

Construction experts apprehend that TMT bars are a long way more than simple metallic rods. These specialised bars are engineered to provide fantastic electricity, superior corrosion resistance, and extraordinary structural guidance. Their unique thermomechanical treatment method creates a strong outer martensite layer with a softer, more ductile middle, making them the favoured choice for crucial infrastructure initiatives.

The Science Behind Structural Reinforcement

The performance of TMT bars extends beyond their inherent characteristics. Binding wire plays a crucial role in creating a unified, stable reinforcement framework that:

Ensures precise bar positioning

Distributes load evenly across structural elements

Prevents concrete cracking

Enhances the bond between concrete and reinforcement

Provides additional structural stability

Binding Wire: The Unsung Hero of Structural Integrity

The quality of binding wire can make or break a construction project. Low-quality wire introduces significant risks that can compromise entire structures:

Premature structural deterioration

Reduced load-bearing capacity

Increased vulnerability to environmental stressors

Potential safety hazards

Economic Considerations: 8mm Rod Price Dynamics

When evaluating the 8mm rod price per piece, contractors must look beyond immediate cost savings. The seemingly attractive 8mm rod price might tempt budget-conscious projects, but the long-term consequences of inferior binding wire can be catastrophic:

Exponential maintenance costs

Potential structural repairs

Reduced building lifespan

Compromised safety standards

Experienced professionals recognise that the 8mm rod price is an investment in structural longevity, not merely an expense to be minimised.

Technical Deep Dive: Binding Wire's Critical Performance Metrics

Professional-grade binding wire transforms TMT bars from individual components into a comprehensive reinforcement system. Key performance indicators include:

Tensile strength exceeding industry standards

Superior corrosion resistance

Optimal ductility

Consistent diameter and composition

Enhanced bonding capabilities

Real-World Impact of High-Quality Binding Wire

Construction experts have documented remarkable improvements with superior binding wire:

Up to a 20% increase in structural load-bearing capacity

Extended structure lifespan by multiple decades

Significant reduction in maintenance requirements

Improved resistance to environmental degradation

Selecting the Right Binding Wire: A Strategic Approach

Choosing binding wire is a complex decision that requires comprehensive evaluation:

Material Composition: High-carbon steel with precise metallurgical properties

Corrosion Resistance: Advanced protective coatings

Tensile Strength: Certified performance metrics

Dimensional Accuracy: Consistent diameter and flexibility

Workability: Easy manipulation during construction

Industry Standards and Quality Assurance

Professional-grade binding wire must meet rigorous quality standards:

ISO certification

Compliance with national construction regulations

Independent laboratory testing

Traceability of manufacturing processes

The Holistic Impact of Binding Wire Selection

Beyond technical specifications, binding wire selection reflects a commitment to:

Structural safety

Long-term performance

Economic responsibility

Professional excellence

Economic and Safety Implications

The consequences of binding wire selection extend far beyond initial costs:

Potential legal liabilities from structural failures

Reputation risks for contractors and developers

Long-term economic impact on infrastructure projects

Public safety considerations

Making an Informed Investment in Structural Excellence

Selecting high-quality binding wire for TMT bars transcends a simple purchasing decision. It represents a strategic investment in:

Structural integrity

Public safety

Long-term economic sustainability

Professional reputation

Professional construction demands nothing less than the highest standards of material selection. From skyscrapers to bridges, from residential complexes to critical infrastructure, the quality of binding wire determines the difference between a structure that merely stands and one that truly endures.

Professionals understand that every component matters. They choose binding wire that transforms good construction into exceptional engineering—a testament to human ingenuity and technical precision.

[kemystery-chemicals]

Exploring Different Types of TMT Bars and Their Applications

In the realm of construction, TMT (Thermo-Mechanically Treated) bars have become the backbone of structural integrity, offering superior strength and resilience to concrete structures. However, within the category of TMT bars, there exist various types, each tailored to specific construction requirements and environmental conditions. Let's delve into the different types of TMT bars and their diverse applications.

1. Fe-415 TMT Bars:

Description: Fe-415 TMT bars are the most commonly used type, characterized by their moderate tensile strength and ductility.

Applications:

Residential buildings

Low to mid-rise commercial structures

Small bridges and culverts

2. Fe-500 TMT Bars:

Description: Fe-500 TMT bars offer higher tensile strength compared to Fe-415 bars, making them suitable for structures requiring increased load-bearing capacity.

Applications:

High-rise buildings

Industrial structures

Heavy-duty infrastructure projects like bridges and flyovers

3. Fe-550 TMT Bars:

Description: Fe-550 TMT bars are engineered to provide even greater tensile strength and durability, making them ideal for structures subjected to extreme loads and harsh environmental conditions.

Applications:

Seismic zones

High-traffic areas such as highways and airports

Power plants and industrial facilities

4. Fe-600 TMT Bars:

Description: Fe-600 TMT bars represent the pinnacle of strength and resilience in TMT bar technology, offering the highest tensile strength among commonly available TMT bar grades.

Applications:

Specialized infrastructure projects with stringent safety requirements

High-rise structures in earthquake-prone regions

Heavy industrial applications

5. Corrosion-Resistant TMT Bars:

Description: Corrosion-resistant TMT bars are specially designed with additional alloying elements to enhance their resistance to corrosion, making them suitable for coastal areas or structures exposed to aggressive environments.

Applications:

Marine structures such as seawalls and docks

Chemical plants and refineries

Water treatment facilities

6. Weldable TMT Bars:

Description: Weldable TMT bars are formulated to facilitate easy and reliable welding, allowing for efficient construction processes that require the joining of reinforcement bars.

Applications:

Prefabricated construction

Retrofitting and repair work

Large-scale construction projects with intricate designs

In conclusion, the diverse range of TMT bars available caters to the varied needs of construction projects, offering solutions for everything from residential buildings to heavy industrial infrastructure. Understanding the characteristics and applications of each type of TMT bar is crucial for selecting the most suitable option to ensure the structural integrity and longevity of the built environment.

[skzmachinery]

[tactical-jellyfish]

Injuries (drabble)

Warnings!: Injury described, canon-typical violence (you know, like war). Nightmare. Comfort. Off-screen kiss on the cheek. Swearing. [~2.2 k words]

Beneath your haunches, the ground is trembling with the force of the cracking bullets in the air, vibrations blasted through tainted oxygen so hard that they infect cracked concrete and really test your hearing protection.

The firefight is one of the nastiest you've seen yet. A concerning amount of the fire you hear is decidedly not cover fire, cracking off the (former) concrete pillar and it's collapsed sibling that are turning out to be nearly-perfect cover, even if there's more rebar and mesh than you would like.

Your comms are trying, poor things, but there's little to be done, and you know it when Gaz's voice cuts as he tries to relay orders to you. Or, hell, maybe they were orders, you couldn't hear shit through the static either way

Boot soles grit against sandy concrete as you try to bite out a return message. Position compromised, you try, but the words don't leave when you see what looks like a medium-sized stone tossed over your barrier.

"Fuck!"

You try to run, but the comm's wire (and with it, your hearing protection) is snagged, pulled out by a burr of rebar breaking through the pillar's surface, tangled hopelessly in the mesh.

There's no time, and still, you try.

Always assume that a grenade tossed at you has two seconds or less till it does its best to turn you into red mist.

You had forgot.

And still, the blast is never quite as small as you think.

There is no pain in the immediate seconds after, and you silently thank deaf ears in the heavens for adrenaline, until you spot a movement a few meters away, peeking out from a corner.

It's automatic. Your rifle bends to your wills, a machine that is operated by an equally robotic entity. One of blood and one of metal. The way real warfare has been for thousands of years.

A body hits the floor, but you don't hear it, you see red painting the forehead, leaking through a too-weak helmet. You hide behind the more upright of the pillars, before watching another assailant burst from the corner, shoulders shaking as they grab their dispatched colleague by the shoulders, shaking them helplessly as though to will life back into their body.

Once more, you take a shot, and there is no miss.

It's a somber thing, but there is no time to offer condolences or sympathies, not when the broken box of your comms finally figures something out and flashes a yellow pinprick for you.

Evacuate ASAFP. You May Or May Not Be Important Enough To Wait For.

A twinge hits your arm as you lower it, and a wet warmth floods the area, but there's little time for that now. Having a chunk of grenade in your arm is preferable to being dead, by far.

Running has always been good for you.

You've never liked to sit still, not at work. The movement is what prompts the blood in your veins to pump, your heart to follow with hummingbird-fast beats. The burn in your lungs, it's what makes you real.

But, at the same time, the ache in your arm has taken time to grow as it stains your uniform with a deep red, forcing a sharp pain up your nerves and into your brainstem with every thump of your boots against the cracking ground.

You switch your rifle to your non-dominant hand, but it does little once the high of adrenaline starts to fade, and your foot also starts screeching its protest, weakening with each forced stride, no matter how much you push forward.

The helicopter is already raring to take off, and you try to shout out to your team, but you can't hear yourself.

Your foot hits the floor one last time, and flash of agony is so intense that it forces what should be another cry from you, but once more, no noise hits your ears.

Knees buckle, fabric is scraped off with skin in tow, and your damaged body lays heavy on the ground.

Another boot appears in your peripheral, and you try to look up.

Just before the face comes into focus, a particularly nasty gush of blood leaves the wound in your arm, and takes your vision with it.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The floor beneath you is inky black, and cold.

A boot thuds down right before your face, and Price's face comes into focus, bristly bearded and bristling with rage.

His voice booms from seemingly everywhere around you, like you've been plugged into a surround-sound system made in hell.

"Rookie, whot the hell were you thinking, going in like that? You knew your coffin'd be empty if you died, right?"

It's so loud your ears are already starting to ache, the noise piercing every fiber of your being and rocking your cells with the vibrations, tearing your muscles apart from the inside.

A sharp sting spreads through your foot, but your neck refuses to allow you to look as muscles lock up, and another face steals away your attention, even as the pressure mounts.

"Ah, Cap, they're green. Might well bury'em alive. Sae's the time, aye?"

Soap's face is different. Low-sitting eyebrows pinched down, but a wicked smile present on thin lips, practically reveling as the floor seems to swallow you whole.

You know the laughter you hear, but it brings no comfort when you see Gaz cackling next to the Scot.

God, he looks so pretty when he laughs, and it does nothing but twist the knife when you watch him lean against Soap, before looking down at you.

"It's alright, luv. Some people just... don't make the cut. Way of the world, innit?"

The comfort is false, you know it is, but your damaged heart takes it anyway, to somehow make believe that it's not your fault, that you had just aimed too high.

When Ghost appears, there's no more defense you can give yourself.

As usual, the only thing you can see is his eyes. Light brown like mud that's just about to crack, honeyed when the light hits just right.

He says nothing, but he turns away, and some part of you can't allow that, even as the room starts to pivot on some axis you can't see.

You try to reach forward, to plead, but your voice doesn't work, and your legs are stuck, sinking into the black with no foreseeable way out, rotating faster and faster, a bug spiraling down into the drain.

A grating, long BEEEEEEEEEP floods the space around you first, painfully high-pitched and absolutely unbearable because it seems to match exactly with the ringing flooding into your ears.

You're certain that there are a few specific parts of your body that ache, but in the haze of painkillers, it's a simple dullness.

That being, until hands are on your shoulders.

Price stands above you, brows pulled down in worry, lips tuned in a stiff frown, and he speaks.

"------! - ------- --- ---- ----! --- ---- –"

He pauses when he watches you fail to acknowledge what he's saying, staring up at him with a pinch in your brow, eyes calculating as always, but now trying to put together what he's saying.

"-- --. ---, ---- -------! ----'-- --- -----."

Price's head follows a movement you only catch the tail end of. A body leaves the door, walking quickly, but there's no squeak of boots on linoleum.

His hand is under your chin, then, gently guiding you to look back up at him, baby blue eyes full of sympathy, a fatherly sort of concern that looks oddly welcome on his weathered face.

Price is slow to move, making sure you watch as he gently takes the plastic cup from the crappy nightstand beside the stiff bed your body lays on, taking a mock sip himself before holding it out to you.

Something is wrong, but you reach out a lead-heavy arm anyway.

It doesn't work very well, but thankfully Price catches it before it can spill.

It's humiliating, sure, but you still sip when the plastic rim kisses your parched lips.

You don't look, but if you had, you would see John smiling, reassured, ever so slightly, that you'd be alright. Not quite the v-shape you had come to know, but close enough.

You smile back, in turn. Weakly, but you do.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Soap spends a good deal of time in your room, in the first few days.

It's like he refuses to let hospital food actually be eaten by you, with how he keeps on bringing over his leftovers and heating them up in the microwave down the hall for you.

The first time, it's soup. Then, a stew, a little thicker, with some bread, which is followed by a simple sandwich.

But that's not all. He's joking with you the whole time, smiling as you come back into being a person again.

Yet another day, and the door opens.

The trial hearing aid planted in your ear does little to muffle the ringing that has become characteristic since your injury, but when the hinges squeak, your tired head snaps over to the Scot in your doorway.

"Fuck. Simmer down some, hen o' mine. Don't stare at me like that. I got ye sumthin'."

Your curiosity is met with a chuckle, and a small, wrapped package being set into your lap. After a few seconds of stillness, he gently prods you to open it.

A book of sudoku, crossword, and other puzzles. "To pass the time," Johnny says fondly. "Gotta keep the brain sharp, I'm sure."

He's sat beside your bed, and for once, you dare to do something new. You reach for his shoulder with an arm, and pull him into yourself.

That's the first time you have the balls to hug someone you work with.

He hugs you back.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The diagnosis is only half shocking.

To you, that is still much too shocking to be comfortable, but Gaz, by your side, is much more active than you, in the discussion.

"Nerve damage? To what, specifically?"

"They can recover, right?"

"Would you recommend surgery or physical therapy? Both?"

"What's the timeline before they can have a re-evaluation for service?"

John had insisted that someone went along with you, and the Lieutenant was out training with Soap. So, that left Gaz.

He's a very good patient advocate, really, and at some point, you start looking at him in his seat beside you instead of paying all your attention to the doctor.

The white light is the pure opposite of flattering, but he manages to look good because of course he does, he's Gaz.

Brown eyes suddenly snap over to you, and his lips turn down slightly in concern before a warm hand gently settles on your shoulder, jostling you just enough to call you back to reality.

"What? What's- is something wrong, Garrick?"

Your voice is a little rougher than usual, not properly pitched as per usual, but enough.

He sighs lightly, but starts to smile softly when he does.

"Your hearing aids are in, right luv?"

"Y- I- I think so?"

"Ringing or no ringing?"

"It's- mate, it's not supposed to go away for a few weeks, I don't think."

Your voice is a bit more practiced, that time. Better.

The doctor, across the desk, pauses in her scribbling on the notepad (you're sure they think they're writing something, but there is no way that those are words), and looks up at you.

"Dead right. I'm glad you're well-read on your condition."

Her voice rings out once, and in the quiet, an alarm rings.

"Shit. I am so sorry, we're running over and I need to get to my next appointment. I'll see the pair of you again in a week, alright?"

You nod, but Gaz, on your side, seems just a bit ticked by the ordeal, but he takes you with him, already whisking you off into the café to get you some actual food.

And hell, if you kiss him on the cheek when he drops you back off at your room for the night, that's alright. Your little secret.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I swear to God, I'm gonna fucking kill you, Lieutenant."

Your punches hit the bag repeatedly as your words bite from your lips, sweat-coated and annoyed.

"Not until you hit your previous times, sergeant."

Ghost, bastard he is, is training you again.

Sure, you're out of physical therapy now, and sure, you do want to train, but he's just such a bastard about it.

A particularly hard swing is where you focus that annoyance, and the bag very nearly comes back for your face.

He stops rocking on his heels, and the relative silence is soon broken.

"Good for the day."

He declares, and you look back up from the red, padded synthetic leather, brows furrowed.

"What?"

"You wanted to be done for the day, right? You're done."

You stand, confused and maybe a bit upset, hands still wrapped up tight.

"No, I want to earn being done for the day. I was annoyed with you. Those are different."

There is a shift of the fabric of the mask you see, indicative of some sort of real facial expression.

"You're going to do just fine, rook."

His voice is warmer, this time.

[srjsteel]

Why Binding Wire Quality Directly Impacts the Longevity of Dowel Bar Installations

In any well-carried-out infrastructure project, binding wire won't be the star; however, it is often the silent hero.

Tucked away from view, it quietly holds collectively vital additives like dowel bars and construction rings, appearing as a bridge between intent and execution. The pleasantness of this unsung fabric can be the difference between a structure that stands the test of time and one that fails when it is subjected to the most.

The Hidden Backbone of Reinforcement

At first glance, binding wire may also seem easy: just twisted steel tying two elements collectively. But in truth, it is a structural dedication. Especially while securing dowel bars, the wire must keep anxiety and form below steady strain, it from vehicular load, thermal expansion, or shifting subgrades. Inferior fine wires lose tension over time, which weakens the alignment of bars and reduces the efficiency of load switching among pavement slabs.

On large-scale production sites, especially on highways and airport runways, even a minor lapse in reinforcement balance can lead to catastrophic failures. Engineers understand this all too well, often, every time, every ring is subject. That’s why there’s no room for compromise on the subject of the material, keeping it all together.

The Real Cost of Using Low-Grade Wire

A dowel bar setup is only as reliable as the material that holds it in its vicinity. If binding twine corrodes early or becomes brittle, the alignment and anchorage of the dowel bars are compromised. This results in cracking inside the concrete, spalling, and eventually untimely failure of the slab. Once this happens, repair isn’t simply expensive—it’s disruptive and time-ingesting.

What’s more, terrible first-rate cord won't bond nicely with creation rings, especially in high-moisture or saline environments. The wire's gauge, tensile strength, and corrosion resistance directly affect how well it performs on-site  Cheap twine may also keep some rupees in step with the package deal, but it often leads to primary structural problems that far outweigh any initial savings.

The Technical Perspective: Why Quality Matters

Highly exceptional twine is made from low-carbon metal and undergoes a particular annealing system. This makes it smooth enough to bend effortlessly but robust enough to keep its form beneath a load. Such traits are critical when used with dowel bars that want to stay aligned throughout the enlargement joints without lateral motion.

Properly annealed cord would not snap or flake at any point of twisting, which guarantees uniform tension throughout all creation rings and joints. It also resists rust better, preserving structural integrity even when exposed to water and competitive weather situations. For packages in coastal regions or industrial zones, this delivered resistance isn't always a bonus—it’s a need.

Trusted Materials Build Lasting Infrastructure

Every nice-aware engineer understands that infrastructure isn’t just about electricity; it’s approximately patience. From bridges and expressways to urban flyovers, the overall performance of dowel bars depends heavily on how they're tied and secured in place. And that protection starts off with the dependable binding cord.

In India’s rapid-paced creation atmosphere, in which timelines are tight and expectations are excessive, making an investment in the right substances could make or break a mission. Reputed suppliers ensure consistency in tensile power, diameter, and rust resistance. These are not minor technicalities—they may be fine checkpoints that immediately impact the structure’s lifecycle.

Final Thought

Precision in construction starts at the micro stage. The integrity of dowel bars, the alignment of production jewelry, and the very existence of a pavement slab rely on the quiet energy of binding cord. It won't shout for interest, but its effect speaks volumes through the durability of the very last shape.

[grumpyeagleandfriends]

To Flee, To Gather

Summary: The team find themselves in the Balkans in the spring of 1999, in a small town near the Serbian-Albanian border. Nicky and Joe stumble upon a tragic scene inside one home.

A glimpse into their thoughts on children.

A/N: A pre-cannon one shot with lots of angst.

I was watching a multi-part documentary on Yugoslavia in the 90s and this one shot was inspired by that. The conflicts in that region were not very long ago and relations remain tense to this day. This is purely fiction and in no way meant to take sides or make any kind of statement.

This story features death, specifically child death.

Hurt/Comfort. Angst. War themes. Death. Blood and Injury. Joe & Nicky centric, pre-Nile joining the team. Nicky is a licensed doctor and I cannot believe that Rucka hasn't acknowledged this fact in the cannon yet. Like C'MON. Can't be alive for a thousand years with the one goal of serving others and not learn medicine. Give me a break.

It's close.

They arrive in the village of Dragaš very shortly after a group of combatants, maybe only a question of a couple of hours. After days of aerial strikes and ground fighting in the region, many of the homes and buildings are pockmarked by bullet holes and in states of near collapse. Dragaš is no exception, and it wears the wounds of the on-going war openly. The tumbled facades of concrete buildings reveal skeletal rebar, the occasional glimpse of a tiled kitchen or a carpeted living room, once intimate spaces now open to the sky. In the silence, a lone goat picks through the debris, nosing at a spilled sack of grain. The mountains loom over the village, stoic and indifferent, birds settle on telephone wires.

The four of them are exhausted from only two weeks on the ground. The scenes are the same everywhere they go, and their mission never changes: gather survivors, treat the injured who are savable, then move everyone fit for transport over the border to safety. The victims they find alive are almost uniquely women and children. The men in each town are dead or captured, too often this includes the elderly and boys as young as thirteen.

The work of clearing through the village is slow. Forty odd homes and a dozen scattered shops take hours to sweep. There are wounded to tend and bodies to clear, many of the dirt roads are muddy from several days of rainfall. The last house they reach is eerily intact — miraculously spared by the bombs, its walls barely grazed by gunfire. Clean laundry still flutters on a bullet-stitched balcony. When they step past the low stone wall into the garden, the silence tightens around them. A child’s bicycle lies capsized in the mud. A frayed football rests before a chalk-drawn goal on the wall. A rope swing drifts from a thick branch, its seat empty.

The front door gapes open. They know that there are only two options: the inhabitants either fled or were not spared. 

Before any of them can speak, Andy turns to face the group. 

"Book, with me. We can start walking the survivors up the road." She issues the command while moving back to the gate, never looking over her shoulder to see if he's following her. "Joe and Nicky, clear this place. Meet us at the school."

Booker lingers. His gaze snags on the toys strewn across the front garden. For a moment, the weight of the past days presses visible on him: shoulders bowing, jaw clenching. He blinks hard, hefts his rifle.

"Coming, boss." 

Nicky watches him stalk off in the direction Andy left. He knows that Booker will undoubtedly grumble, but he makes a note to check in on their brother later that evening. He's the only one on their team to have held sons in his arms. No one will outwardly acknowledge Andy's act for what it truly is, but they all know that it is a small moment of mercy. 

Joe’s hand brushes Nicky’s arm, a silent focus to bring him back to their task. Together, they quickly comb around the perimeter of the house, making sure that no one is outside before finally breaching the front door. Nicky enters first, rifle ready. 

Downstairs in the front sitting room, they find a man lying dead across the floor, dressed in an undershirt and sweatpants, still wearing house shoes. His hands are bound and it's clear that he was executed through the back of the head. Signs of a struggle appear a few paces in front of the narrow staircase. A broken vase lies in scattered pieces, a woman's body is crumpled on the ground in a pool of blood, wearing a light blue bathrobe. She was shot several times. 

"Nicky..." Joe's eyes are trained on the papered wall near the stairs. There is one small, lone photograph of the family that hangs crooked, only one corner of the frame sits correctly on the nails hammered into the plaster. The man and woman sit smiling on the same brown sofa in the front room of the home, smartly dressed with two boys on their laps. 

To see the faces of the family all together, smiling and alive, makes the air around them suddenly smell stale and putrid. They don't know the woman's name, but they can only imagine that she tried to stop the soldiers who entered from going upstairs. 

They must urgently check for the children, but Joe is unable to tear his eyes away from the woman lying down on her side. His look is tender, almost apologetic. 

"We need to move her first. It's not right to leave her like this." He says decidedly, already sliding the strap of his rifle so his weapon rests on his back. 

Together, he and Nicky maneuver her body into the sitting room, setting her carefully on the sofa. They take the additional time to move her husband next to her, positioning them so they sit side by side. 

Nicky can only think how macabre it is to be positioning them exactly like the crooked photo hanging on the wall. 

They waste no time before turning toward the staircase. The wooden steps groan under their weight as they charge up, each creak a trespass in the hollowed-out silence.

At the top, the scene they find is unspeakable. 

There are two doors, each leading to a bedroom. On the left, the door to the parents' bedroom yawns open, there's a rumpled quilt half-dragged toward the hallway. The other door is smaller, its frame chipped with crayon marks. Inside, metal framed twin beds sit askew. The bodies of two young boys are perfectly still, pillows pressed over their faces, the fabric puckered around the bullet holes. One of the boys looks to be around ten, the other one much younger. They are both still dressed in pajamas. 

A stuffed bear lies face down beside the smaller boy's bed. 

Joe's eyes close. He exhales, soft and controlled, but his hands stay clenched around the stock of his gun, white-knuckled and useless. He cannot help but think about the men who committed the act, about their choice to cover the boys' faces before execution. Could it be considered cowardice or a perverse way of trying to soften the atrocity? 

Nicky is the first of them to move.

He sets aside his rifle and bag before stepping toward the far bed. When he lifts the pillow, the boy beneath looks peaceful—eyes closed, lips slightly parted—as if merely sleeping, save for the neat, dark hole in his forehead. Nicky hesitates, then draws him gently into his arms. He carries the limp body reverently, taking the time to make sure his lolling head rests upright against his shoulder. Downstairs, he lays the boy between his parents on the sofa, tucking him close as though for warmth, murmuring a soft apology to his unhearing ears.

Joe goes to the bed of the younger boy last. He's no older than four or five, and it takes several long seconds to gather the necessary courage to lift the pillow from his face.

Time stands still once he does.

Blood saturates the hair at his crown, the mattress beneath him is stained in an expanding rust-colored bloom. Unlike his brother, there’s no clear entry wound at the center of his forehead. His eyes are open, though glassy and unfocussed. His nostrils subtly flare with each rapid and shallow breath, yet he doesn’t cry out. It’s unclear how long he’s been lying there. He’s frozen in a mix of shock and terror — his system too overwhelmed to react. 

Joe barks Nicky’s name. The sound of fear and surprise in his voice rips through silence of the home like gunfire.

Thunderous stomping is heard on the steps, and it seems barely a second passes before he’s back in the room. The urgency in Joe's tone has him holding his sidearm in one hand, but he promptly shoves it into the back waistband of his jeans when he sees his husband sitting beside an awake child. 

Joe's hand rests on the boy's knee. He’s speaking to him in rushed, simple Albanian — his voice strained.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I yelled. It’s okay. This is my friend. He’s a doctor."

Nicky stoops to grab his bag before he crosses the floor, already yanking off his tactical gloves with his teeth before pulling out a fresh pair of nitrile gloves from his pocket. He reaches over to make brief contact with Joe’s shoulder as he lowers himself down onto the opposite side of the small bed — a silent communication of It's all right, I’m here. 

Gently, he combs back the boy’s dusty brown hair.

“Va tutto bene, piccolino. Fammi vedere, eh? ” The soft words curl warm in his throat.

With animals and small children, he always finds himself slipping into Italian. His mother tongue may technically be Zeneize, but over the centuries Italian became the language in which he best knows how to soothe and be soothed. It's the sound he associates the most with comfort, with the feeling of home — the language that he and Joe speak to each other. 

His large hands cradle either side of the child’s skull. Carefully, he cranes forward so he can better inspect the wound. Most of the bleeding seems to have come to a stop. Even a small laceration or gash to the head will gush heavily, so Nicky’s not surprised by the amount of blood on the mattress. His fingers part the matted hair for a closer look, finding a four centimeter graze with no exposed bone, and no signs of crepitus upon gentle palpation. 

It's nothing short of miraculous. The bullet looks to have only skimmed across the top of his scalp. 

Nicky continues to speak quiet comforts to him. With one hand he pulls out a small penlight from his jacket and peers into the boy’s eyes, they’re blue-green not unlike his own. His blown pupils are equally reactive, both sluggishly tracking together. It's enough for Nicky to be sure that the damage to his head is only superficial. The moment he feels the boy's strong carotid pulse against his fingertips, he reflexively sighs out a hushed whisper of gratitude — to what exactly, he no longer cares to define. His own concept of God became indescribably complicated so long ago. 

Physically, he knows this child will be fine. The graze from the bullet never touched his skull. Psychologically, there are wounds that he will carry until whenever he leaves this Earth.

This aspect of his trauma is evident to them both. Dilated pupils, elevated heart rate, failure to acknowledge touch or sound, they have seen these symptoms too many times before — the mind's retreat when the body can't escape. The entire time Nicky examines him, he never makes a noise, he’s limp and cooperative while his head is gently lifted and turned. Even when Joe touches his knee, squeezes his hand between his own, he remains stone still. Completely catatonic. 

Their bodies sitting on either side of his bed mercifully block most of the room from view. The moment Nicky announces that he’s okay, before the boy can even try to move or look around, Joe bends and gathers him up. His hand molds around the back of his head, keeping his face tucked against his chest, not allowing him to see. 

He speaks to him quietly as he carries him from the bedroom, down the staircase and out of the house. His Albanian is shit, but it’s thankfully enough to communicate on a child’s level. It's mostly promises that he's safe, that they are taking him to friends who will help, that they won't leave him. 

Once outside, they find a garden hose along the side of the house. As gently as they can manage, Joe cradles the boy while Nicky cups a bit of water in his own hand to try and rinse some of the blood from his hair.

He should be crying. 

It’s the only thought Joe has while he watches the boy’s face. He has saved enough children over nine centuries to know that the absence of tears can be more alarming than any wound. The water from the spout is cold, it undoubtedly stings when it makes contact with the scrapes along his scalp, but the boy only blinks, slow as a doll's glass eyes. They’re standing directly under the warmth of the early Spring sun, and Joe can feel the way he trembles in his arms. 

“Basta, Nicolò, sta tremando…” 

They cut the water, then dry his hair with a clean t-shirt from Nicky’s backpack. 

Joe opens his mouth to suggest finding a blanket inside, but stops when he sees Nicky hastily shucking off his own jacket. It's a sherpa-lined denim one Joe bought him in Colorado decades ago, by far the warmest thing either of them can offer. 

“He’s in shock.” He quietly insists while stepping over, helping wrap the material around the boy’s body. His thumb brushes against his small cheek, still no tears. 

The walk to the other side of the small town takes only thirty minutes. Joe continues to speak to the boy off and on, if for nothing more than to keep his mind occupied in hopes that he won’t think about what happened back in that house. He weaves his broken Albanian into temporary distraction, listing the types of animals he sees in the neighboring fields, the names of the different vehicles and farm equipment they pass. His words are clumsy buoys in the silence, but the steady sounds coupled with the fresh air start to have an impact. The boy's eyes follow a circling hawk overhead, something in his gaze finally begins to thaw.

Joe adjusts his weight, now carrying him so he sits upright on his arm instead of cradled against his chest. He keeps the jacket wrapped around his body, folding the collar up so it protects the back of his neck. There’s still a chilly breeze in the air despite it being a warm day for early April. 

He points to himself, pressing his hand against his chest before pronouncing "Jozef". Then he gestures over his shoulder to where Nicky casts a long shadow behind them, saying "Nikolla". The tip of his index finally touches the boy’s shoulder, and he asks if he can tell them his name or his age. 

For several moments, there's only the sound of their boots walking over the muddy road. The child finally wriggles his hand out of Nicky’s jacket to show four fingers.

Ordinarily, Nicky would be the one to take point in these circumstances, walking in front with his rifle drawn, eyes scanning the rooftops. But there's no need in this gutted town that now lies still. He can detect no movement between the bullet riddled walls, all survivors are congregating at the school further down the road. 

Instead he walks behind Joe, watching his attempts to try and interact with the child. 

He can just see the top of the boy’s head resting on Joe’s shoulder. His pale blue eyes occasionally peek out, ignoring the coaxing smiles Nicky gives him, instead fixating on the ghostly sight of his vacant village. 

The only other reaction they see from him comes every time a growling plane passes overhead. Nicky can’t help but grimace at the way he buries his face down against Joe, his arm sharply hooking around the man’s neck in panic.

Joe continues to walk along casually, his footsteps purposefully unrushed as he speaks reassurances into the boy’s ear, his hand smoothing up and down his back. 

Sometime after the third plane passes over, Joe pivots smoothly on his heel and begins walking backwards. The grin he flashes Nicky is worn at the edges but warm. He jostles the boy gently, nodding for him to look over in Nicky's direction. Whatever secret he murmurs near his ear is impossible to parse, but the boy’s fingers creep into his mouth as he listens, his wide eyes fixed on Nicky with something like cautious study.

Nicolò wonders if maybe the distress on his face eases slightly. 

Joe slowly turns back and resumes walking forwards. They keep making steady progress down the road, the boy continues to stare at Nicky as they walk along, only stopping when Joe’s hand comes up to cup around the back of his head. With a bit of gentle guidance, he easily goes down against his shoulder again, fingers still in his mouth.

Nicky has witnessed this thousands of times over the centuries — the instinctive gift Joe has with children, the way they curl into his warmth. This knowledge is something that he carries in his bones: his Yusuf would make a father of boundless joy, if only their immortality didn't render such a fate so impossible. When Nicky thinks of the cautionary tale of Booker’s family, he knows that in many ways this is a kindness. The anguish of helplessly watching while your own children grow old and decompose touches on a truth to their existence that is both unyielding and unapologetically raw — love may be infinite, but it simply isn’t stronger than time. 

Despite these thoughts, occasionally Nicky still finds himself gripped by that old, foolish ache whenever he watches Joe with a child in his arms. It thrums inside of his chest like a second pulse. Look at what we cannot keep. Look at what I cannot give you.

The village school’s iron gate arches above them as they enter. The once bright paint of the building is now cracked and marred by machine gun fire. Just beyond the entryway, the courtyard hums with a fractured order. Lines of survivors are winding between aid workers in vests marked with fading acronyms, their clipboards and tired voices weaving a fragile net of logistics. Military trucks idle near the perimeter, their engines a low growl beneath the murmur of names and destinations.

A hush rolls through the crowd upon their arrival. A flurry of whispers begin as villagers take note of the child they carry. 

Near the supply pallets, Andy’s hands still from opening a large crate. She straightens to her full height and her eyes meet Joe’s across the distance, then drop to the boy. A fractional pause. He’s the only one? The question hangs between them, unspoken.

Joe gives the barest shake of his head, his lips pressed firmly together. No others. Just him.

Booker walks up along the side of a transport truck, wiping grease from his hands onto his trousers. He follows the crowd’s stares, finding Nicky’s grim expression, then the little boy bundled up in an adult's jacket. His breath catches before he swipes a palm over the back of his neck, as if trying to scrub away the tension coiling there.

Before Joe can call out for the boy’s kin, the crowd near the eastern wall of the courtyard fractures. A woman’s voice slices through the noise, raw and trembling. She comes darting forward, tear tracks stain either side of her face while she cries out. 

Imir!

At the sound of his name, the boy momentarily stiffens before twisting around in Joe's arms. The first sign of someone truly familiar and safe causes his face to crumble. His mouth twists into a pained expression before he begins to openly weep, his hands now raised towards the woman.  

It takes only a moment for an explanation to reach them. One of the aid workers steps in, translating the woman's rushed words. She’s his mother’s sister.  

Nicky should feel relief in the fact that this little boy still has family to go to, that there are people here who know and love him. He does. He absolutely does. And while this feeling may loosen the knots of grief settled deep in his stomach, it becomes tangled with something somber when he glances at Joe. 

No one else would notice. No one else has studied Joe’s hands for nearly a millennium to know exactly how they cradle a blade, mend a tattered garment, or sketch the minute details of a person's likeness. But Nicky sees. He can plainly see the hesitation when Joe’s arms constrict, just once, around the boy’s weight. He catches the way his husband exhales, soft as a prayer, before finally passing Imir to the begrieved woman.

______________________________________________________________

Later, on the fringes of the refugee camp, they lie side by side in the hollow belly of an empty transport truck. Tomorrow will bring another border crossing, another village reduced to rubble and need.

Just outside the canvas flaps of the covered truck bed, a sea of green disaster tents stretches far across a large field in the countryside. The frigid mud on the ground is thick and makes walking difficult for those who are not able bodied. It oppressively crusts over everyone's boots in stubborn clumps.

Joe's arm lies heavy across Nicky's chest, as if he fears that the entire world could lurch in the night and drag him away if he doesn't anchor him down. The foam mat beneath their body crackles with every minute adjustment Joe makes — his knee jerking, his shoulders rolling. He's restless even in exhaustion.

“Yusuf..." Nicky breathes his name in the dark.

It functions like a scalpel, cutting away any needless pretext. Joe knows that it's both a question and command, a prompt to unload whatever may remain on his shoulders. 

He exhales through his nose, his mouth pressing against the familiar ridge of Nicky's spine. It's been two days since they had a proper wash and somehow the man still carries traces of their last clean clothes, his odor a mix of detergent and the faint tang of perspiration. Joe thinks longingly for the next occasion he can tug Nicky under the spray of a hot shower, thoroughly rake his hands over every inch of the man's body and wash away the physical traces of this mission. 

“What did you say to him?” Nicky continues, blinking slowly against the heavy weight of his own eyelids. “Today when the planes were flying over?”

There’s a stretch of silence. Joe’s breath is warm as it fans across the back of Nicky’s neck.

“Just to not be afraid.” It's spoken in a mumble, his attempt at dismissal tastes bitter even to himself.  

Nicky huffs. It's a quiet, knowing sound.

“Is that all?"

His husband will always know how to press onward until he arrives at the truth in his words. There are no white lies or evasive tactics that can work when speaking with Nicky. He sees people for what they are so easily, extracting deceit like pulling splinters from flesh. Somehow it's never judgmental. His Nicolò is certainly not naïve, but he freely gives the world far more grace than it deserves, this includes Joe. 

Caught, Joe nuzzles the man's nape. His hair has grown just long enough to curl around his ears and touch the back of his shirt collar. Fuck, if it doesn't soothe him. 

"I told him...when I'm afraid, I look at you." His throat clicks as he swallows. "If I see no fear in your eyes, then I find none in myself. So if neither of us fears, why should he?"

He feels Nicky's hand travel up to find his own in the dark, his thumb presses to the pulse point in his wrist. 

"I didn't know your Albanian was so poetic..." 

The dry observation startles a laugh from Joe, too loud in the fragile quiet. 

He retaliates by pinching a bit of skin at Nicky's side, earning a hushed curse in Italian from the man pressed to his chest. It takes minutes for them to resettle, for the intimacy of the moment to cover them once more. 

Joe's lips travel over the clothed skin between Nicky's two shoulders, across the base of his neck. He delights in the warmth of him, in feeling the toned muscles of his back pressed to his front, the softness of his stomach beneath his arms. 

“He reminded me of you, Nicolò.” The admission comes with a note of grief, one that manages to surprise them both. 

He can feel Nicky go still against him.

“You know, many times I have tried to picture you as a little boy." His lips brush the smooth skin at the back of his neck. He noses once more at the man's hair, trying to use the scent as a means to ground himself. "I will never know, but today with him—” Joe grimaces as his voice cracks, his eyes momentarily shut. "I thought about when your family sent you away, how you couldn’t have been much older than him. Hardly more than a babe." 

It's a thought that Joe has had many times. But to speak of it here so plainly, under the weight of the day they shared, he feels the sharp sting in his eyes. His grip tightens on Nicky without meaning to. The thought of him so young and vulnerable, being sent away by those meant to nurture and protect him, he'll never not feel the injustice of it. 

Nicky says nothing. His fingers trace idle patterns through the hair on Joe's forearm, but his breathing has gone carefully even.

“We couldn’t have kept him, I know that.” Joe continues, half his face now pressed against the other man's warm back. “But if there had been no one...if he'd had nowhere else—” 

Nicky turns in his arms, firmly touching their foreheads together. In the dark, it's impossible to see his expression. There's only the touch of his lips landing on the bridge of Joe's nose. 

"I know, amore mio."  he murmurs. "I know.”

------------------------------------------------------------------

End note/translations:

Va tutto bene, piccolino. Fammi vedere, eh? - It's okay, little one, let me see, hm?

Basta, Nicolò, sta tremando. - Enough, Nicky, he's shivering.

[itsblueflamebae]

If only I could

synopsis: if mac could, they would be there for you

wc: 675

cw: angst, hurt no comfort

notes: pre-game. gender neutral reader.

Mac doesn't have a mouth, but they do have feelings - if they could, they would tell you to take your eyes off them and please, please, rest.

Maybe they would cook something for you - you were looking for a pie recipe last week, and then you gave Arma a new trauma. You often eat in front of the monitor, and maybe Mac would awkwardly hold a knife because their fingers not used to do that, but they would try to make sure you get some sleep while they are cooking. Your old house was full of dust and sorrow – the yellow-flowered wallpaper turned into chrome, nauseating rods, covered with rattling corrosion. Mac will forever be grateful to you for taking them from your old apartment to your new, spacious home. You could have left them behind in those four walls for the new owners, you could have sold them, and Mac would have been disassembled for even more profit, but you value them – through laziness, you wipe between the rows of the keyboard with an q-tip, and Mac feels like you're stroking their shoulder.

Mac has never been fussy – they remember the move, waiting to appear on a new table. There were a hundred boxes packed side by side, squeezed by powerful slabs, compressed by concrete layers, studded with rebar, painted with beautiful colors, covered with the best wallpaper, and filled with empty Ikea furniture. You were radiant with happiness back then, but now it's the thirteenth hour of you staring at the screen.

If Mac could, they would make your day better.

Once, you pasted all sorts of stickers from different cartoons around your workplace and a dozen sugar-to-the-gritty pictures from Pinterest with motivation. A paradoxically ugly pile of phrases with the concept of productivity, as you would later mutter. Illusory, with beautiful photos of stage blogs, a hollowed-out culture of performance, biting like a wild, cautious dog, tearing through the fortress of flesh and skin.

If Mac could, they'd peel those stickers off, but you did it first.

And if only Mac could, they'd turn themself off and take you for a walk. They'd give you some water. Mac was looking for a way to help you, but you couldn't see. They searched a hail of kilobytes of information, awkward zeros, but they didn't find anything. If they could, they would cry. They would curl up in a ball of bare wires and threads with a thousand volts, trying to cry, but instead of eyes, they have bottomless, dry, salty lakes and zeros and ones on their sleeve and instead of their eyes. Machines, they say, are perfect in their own way – powered by the internet, with an iridescent current flowing through their veins of wires. Perhaps this is true, but now, without upgrade, without knowing that you are okay, Mac is powerless. The brightness of the screen slowly dims. It's not intentional, but you forget to blink, and you're sitting so close that Mac's motor starts running at an unseemly pace. For some reason, on a day like this, neither your fingers on the keyboard, traveling over the buttons like on the moles on the body of Mac, nor anything else brings them joy, absolutely no-thing. They begin to slow down slightly, as you are more likely to decide to turn them off and go to sleep.

One day it will be better, they believe with the remnants of their thoughts. Perhaps one day you will find a way out of your hibernation, you will be happy within these walls, alone or with a partner or partners. Perhaps one day, your screen time at the monitor will be less than thirteen, then ten, and then five hours a day. Mac will be covered with a crust of dust like ice. But if this means your happiness, then Mac will not hold you. They cannot. They are just your computer and a bunch of pixels, after all.

Mac would have sighed, but they don’t know how.

[scary-grace]

Opposites Attract - a Shigaraki x f!Reader fic

Your quirk lets you capture almost anyone with ease, and you can't believe you let Shigaraki Tomura escape. Shigaraki can't believe it, either, and according to the League, there's only one possible explanation -- you let him go because you've fallen in love with him. He decides to find out if it's true. You decide you won't fail to capture him again. You both get a lot more than you bargained for. (cross-posted to Ao3)

Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7

Chapter 1

This was supposed to be your day off. It’s all you can think about, which isn’t a good thing, because you’re in the middle of a villain attack and using your quirk at all requires a significant amount of your focus – but it was supposed to be your day off, dammit. You’re supposed to be doing something fun. Going shopping. Getting a haircut, or mani-pedis, and going out for drinks with your friends at a place crawling with photographers. All the stuff young, single, female pro heroes are supposed to do. So what if you hate that stuff, and you were probably going to sleep all day, wake up at 5pm, make dinner, and marathon the Alien franchise until you fell asleep again? You could have gone out.

But instead you’re here, because Eraserhead caught himself another spinal fracture, and when the doctors threatened to tie him to the bed if he tried to leave before they were done fusing it, he called in a favor you owe him and made you supervise his first-year-class from hell on a field trip to the brand-new Kamino Memorial Park. Go to Kamino Park, they said. It’ll be safe, they said. There’s no way in hell the League of Villains will hit the place a second time.

Well, they’re hitting it, and they’re hitting it hard – and it was supposed to be your goddamn day off. You throw out your arm to stop the trio of students you’re shepherding to safety as three knives thud into the grass in front of you, and make yourself a promise: The next time Eraserhead asks you to do anything, you’re telling him to go to hell.

“Hey, um –” One of the students taps your shoulder, and you know without even asking that they’ve forgotten your name again. “We got our provisional licenses. We can fight now.”

“You can, but you won’t. Create a perimeter and protect the civilians,” you order. You’re not sure why the League of Villains is here, but there’s no way you’re feeding a bunch of kids back into the same meat grinder they escaped from a month ago. “Other pros are on their way, and so are the police. In the mean time –”

You flick your fingers, calling up a magnetic field, and the knives lift out of the grass, hovering in midair. “I’ll keep them busy.”

You consider taking the knives and sending them back the way they came, but unless you want to fatally wound Toga, you’ll just be handing her weapons back to her. You curl your hand into a fist, compacting them into useless wads of metal. You’ve already used your quirk to tear up the park, creating uneven, unsteady terrain that’s dangerous for anybody who doesn’t have a way to take the fight airborne. Now it’s time for you to do what you do best. You narrow your focus, sensing out the concentrations of suspended iron that represent the League of Villains, and once you’ve got them, you lock them down.

Most of them, anyway. One proves a little more difficult to grasp than the others, and you get moving, using one hand to pull rebar and wiring out of the ground. You need it to ensnare the three you’ve already captured while you chase the villain who slipped away from you. You secure Toga and Twice, but Dabi burns his way free, and Twice sends a clone after you. Since it’s a clone, you don’t feel bad about yanking every molecule of trace metals out of its body and turning it to sludge.

Dabi’s on his feet, but you’re a bad matchup for Dabi for a lot of reasons. He’s got a ton of extra metal in his body. He throws his hands out towards you, blue flames already flickering. You fix your quirk on the staples holding him together and start pulling them out.

“What the fuck?” Dabi snarls, recoiling. Blood is already beginning to ooze from the holes on his wrists. “If you think you can just take me apart –”

You yank out another two – one from each wrist. “Stand down. You’ll run out of those before I run out of power.”

It’s true. Your quirk is Magnetism, and using it is easy for you. Using it safely is something else, but you can yank out every staple in Dabi’s body without breaking a sweat or destroying any property. Not that you want to do that. “I don’t want to hurt you, so just –”

There’s a shift in metallic concentration just behind you, and you dive to one side, just in time to avoid Shigaraki Tomura’s hand as it tries to close over your shoulder. A Twice clone is after you, too. You take the staples you pulled out of Dabi and fire them through its eye and throat as you roll out of Shigaraki’s reach. The leader of the League of Villains laughs, low and raspy. “Killing somebody? That’s not very heroic.”

You hate it when villains banter, but you’re not letting that one stand. “That’s not the real Twice.”

You’ve got the real one, and now you’ve got Dabi, too – at least for a few seconds. Maintaining a hold on Dabi, Twice, and Toga at once is within your abilities, but doing that and trying to capture Shigaraki at the same time – and maintain the barriers you’ve set up – and stay sharp enough to bounce Shigaraki into midair if he tries to touch the ground and vaporize Kamino Memorial Park out from under your feet – all of that is testing your concentration. When you lose concentration while using your quirk, bad things happen.

Shigaraki reaches for you again. A hero like Eraserhead would retaliate physically, kick or hit back, but you don’t want to be anywhere near Shigaraki’s quirk. You draw back out of reach, taking a step back every time Shigaraki steps forward. “You’re an underground hero,” he says. “Didn’t you learn what we do to underground heroes from what happened to Eraserhead?”

“Yeah. He shook that off, and sent me to take care of his light work.” The longer you can drag this out, the better – you can hear sirens approaching, and you know that Yokohama’s other pros are on their way. “Isn’t this a little high-risk for you? Returning to the scene of the crime so you can – what?”

Shigaraki sneers at you from behind the hand. “What do you think?”

You really couldn’t care less. Someone shouts for you, and your concentration slips for a second too long. You have to decide who to let go of, and between the three you’ve restrained, Toga’s the least dangerous. You let your control over the iron concentration in her blood relax and focus on trying to restrain Shigaraki instead. He’s hard to get ahold of. His body’s iron concentration is less than it should be. You lock him down for a second, but you can’t get a grip, and he slips free, smirking. “I know who you are,” he says. “The Capture Hero – Skynet. Not much of a capture hero, huh? You can’t even hang on to me. Are you sure the villains you’ve bagged didn’t let you get them?”

“No, they just didn’t have anemia,” you snap. Shigaraki blinks. “You don’t have enough iron in your blood for me to manipulate.”

Anemia’s not uncommon, but you’ve never come across a case this severe in someone you’re trying to capture. His iron concentration is so low that you can’t hold him for more than a split second. That level of anemia is crippling, and the words fly awkwardly out of your mouth before you can stop them. “Are you, like – okay?”

“What?”

He’s stopped trying to grab you. You should capitalize on it, pull up more rebar and wire to hold him down, but your mind’s off on its own track. “Do you get headaches?” you ask. “What about dizziness? Do you get tired a lot?”

Shigaraki looks disconcerted. He nods – then shakes his head, snarls, and sinks back into a fighting stance. “Why do you care?”

“What about a rapid heart rate even when you’re not doing anything?” When he’s doing something, like he is right now, it’s got to be even worse. You two have been trading barbs for thirty seconds at most and he’s out of breath. “You need to take care of yourself. This isn’t healthy.”

“Shut up!” Shigaraki lunges for you, and you twist aside. You get a good look at his fingernails as his hand goes by. They’re pale instead of pink. “Why do you care? So you can capture me and keep your precious reputation?”

You’re actually a little insulted. “So you don’t die!”

Shigaraki stares at you. The hand reaching out for you drops, and you close the distance between the two of you to shove him hard, knocking him backwards. Once he hits the concrete, you’ll figure something else out. You can hold him until someone else gets here.

But someone else is here, and they’re not here to help you. Shigaraki tumbles directly into a warp gate, staring at you like you’ve lost your mind the entire way.

Damn it. You can’t grasp the warp villain – wherever his real body is, it’s a long way from here, and you’re at risk of losing Dabi and Twice now, too. You tighten your grip on them, but even as you do, you see another portal opening out of the corner of your eye. This one is in midair, threatening to swallow a group of civilians who decided that hiding behind the All Might statue was a better choice than evacuating like the students ordered them to. “The civilians, or my associates,” the warp villain rumbles, from everywhere and nowhere. “Your choice.”

It's not a choice. You release your grip on Dabi and Twice, both the iron in their blood and the metal and wire holding them down, and warp gates devour them both. The warp gate above the civilians shuts, decapitating the All Might statue in the bargain, and as quickly as everything began, it grinds to a halt.

“Skynet!” someone snaps from behind you, and you freeze. “You let them go?”

Miruko is Number Six on the charts, and she outranks you by a lot, but you still bristle at her tone. “The civilians –”

“If you’re not stopping villains, you’re not doing your job.” She looks pissed. You have a feeling that she’s only holding off on kicking you because it’ll look bad in front of everybody. “If you’d held onto them a second longer, I’d have been here, and –”

“We could have helped!” That’s one of Eraserhead’s students – the one with the spiky red hair. “If you’d let us help –”

“You’re just kids. Do you have any idea what Eraser would do to me if I had –” You trail off when you realize that whatever it is, Eraser’s going to do it to you anyway for even letting the kids near the League of Villains. “I was the senior hero at the scene. It was my call. If you did what I told you – which you did – you did the right thing.”

“You did the right thing,” Miruko says to the student. The police are here. The cars skid to a stop, and you feel the iron concentration in what’s left of the park shift. There’s a helicopter in the air, too. More people, more cameras. Miruko is glaring at you. “You’re the one who screwed up.”

Yeah, you did. You stare dispiritedly at the headless statue of All Might as Eraser’s class regroups around you, as somebody starts questioning Miruko – the new senior hero at the scene – about what went wrong here. A few thoughts spin through your head, mainly of the hell you’re about to catch from the press, the heroic establishment, and the HPSC. Shigaraki Tomura’s case of life-endangering anemia makes it in there, and so does a hit of frustration at the fact that you’re in trouble for choosing to save a bunch of civilians from getting bisected by a warp gate. But the main thing that’s on your mind is the same thing that’s been there since the first spurt of blue flames erupted over the park: This was supposed to be your day off.

“Well, that blew,” Dabi says as he picks himself up off the floor of the League’s new hideout. “Whose idea was this, again?”

He’s glaring at Shigaraki. Shigaraki glares back. “I didn’t hear you say we shouldn’t do it.”

“I said we shouldn’t,” Twice pipes up. He’s still got a piece of rebar wrapped around his ankle. “No, it was a great idea!”

It seemed like a great idea when Shigaraki thought of it last night – go to Kamino Park, rattle the heroes’ cages, show everybody that the League of Villains isn’t scared of anything and isn’t even close to down for the count without Sensei to guide them. Then again, Shigaraki was three cans deep into a twelve-pack Compress had lifted last night, so his judgment might have been off. Twice is still talking. “I mean, we scared the piss out of those civilians. Those hero brats were running scared, too! And did you see what Kurogiri did to that All Might statue?”

“No,” Shigaraki says. He looks at Kurogiri. “What did you do?”

“Over there.” Kurogiri points, and Shigaraki looks. The head of the All Might statue is sitting on the warehouse floor. “It would have been a shame to leave without a trophy of some kind.”

“It’s on the news,” Magne sings out. She opted out of mission, and now she’s watching it on the League’s TV, lifted last week by Compress, which is hooked up to their generator, which was also lifted by Compress. “And it’s not looking too good for the heroes. That little one’s in big trouble.”

“Good. She’s a bitch,” Dabi mutters. His hands are bleeding. “What was that quirk, anyway?”

“Magnetism,” Shigaraki says. He feels weird. Maybe it’s the quirk. “She can manipulate magnetic fields. Any metal, on any of us –”

“I didn’t have any!” Twice protests.

“Then she used the iron content in your blood,” Shigaraki says. You told him how you were restraining the others. Amateur mistake. Or it would be, if there was any way to not have iron in his blood – but that’s a problem, too. “She couldn’t grab me. She said I didn’t have enough.”

“Is that so?” Kurogiri studies Shigaraki. “Did she say anything else?”

“Anemic.” It’s a weird word. Shigaraki scratches his neck. “She was weird about it. She wanted to know if I get headaches, or dizzy – or tired –”

The answer’s yes, which is why it was weird. It was weird that you knew. But the weirdest thing is what you said at the end. “She asked me if I was okay, and when I asked her why she gave a shit –”

“She answered you?” Magne mutes the TV, looking surprised. “What did she say?”

“What did I miss?” Toga skids into the warehouse before Shigaraki can answer. “I got away, but none of you came with me, so I went to the meeting spot alone. What happened?”

“The hero let us go,” Dabi grunts. “Shigaraki was just telling us about a little chat they had.”

“Ooh, you talked to her?” Toga sits down next to Twice on the ground, peering at Shigaraki. “What did she say?”

“She doesn’t want me to die.” Shigaraki feels his face contort behind Father’s hand as he says it. “Weird.”

“Weird,” Twice agrees. “Since when do heroes play mind games like that?”

It’s quiet for a second. “So she asked if you were okay and she doesn’t want you to die,” Dabi says slowly. “I don’t know, Shigaraki. It sounds kind of like she likes you.”

Shigaraki’s mind goes totally blank. “What?”

“You must have won her over,” Magne chimes in. “All that charisma you’ve got – how was a poor underground hero supposed to resist the leader of the League of Villains?”

You seemed like you were resisting just fine, until you couldn’t grab him. But it’s weird that you weren’t angry. You actually sounded like you were worried. Like you really cared whether Shigaraki has anemia, or whatever the fuck. Like you care if he’s okay. “Don’t be stupid. That’s not –”

“Come on, boss, don’t sell yourself short,” Twice says. “If you can seduce any hero you want, how come you didn’t seduce Miruko?”

“Ooh, Miruko’s so pretty!” Toga grins. “The other one’s okay, too. What was her name again?”

Shigaraki coughs, trying to make his throat feel less weird, but it’s not just his throat. It’s his face, too. “Skynet.”

“You said she was getting in trouble. I bet that’s why,” Dabi says to Magne. “They must have all figured out that she’s in love.”

“Shut up,” Shigaraki says. Nobody listens. He raises his voice. “Shut up! The mission was a success. Why aren’t we talking about that?”

“We are,” Toga says. Her grin’s devolved into a goofy, dazed smile. “You have to teach me how, Tomura-kun. If we make the heroes fall in love with us, it’ll be even easier to win! I want Ochako. No, Tsu. No, Izuku –”

Shigaraki stops listening. He picks himself up off the floor, hating the way his head spins, and makes his way over to Kurogiri. Kurogiri studies him. “Anemic,” he repeats. “The hero listed the symptoms of iron-deficiency anemia. Do you experience any of them?”

Shigaraki doesn’t answer. Kurogiri waits, just like he always waits, and Shigaraki figured out a while ago that the fastest way to make the itching stop is to answer the question. “Some of them,” he says. Kurogiri’s eyes tilt in the way that means he thinks Shigaraki’s full of shit. “Fine. All of them. So what?”

“Did she say anything else?”

Are you okay? “No,” Shigaraki says, pushing away the memory of how fast your expression shifted, how you went from focused on keeping Shigaraki’s comrades trapped and trapping him the exact same way to looking – worried. “That was it. Kurogiri, do you –”

“Yes, Shigaraki Tomura?”

“I mean, they’re just – they’re joking, right?” Shigaraki keeps his voice quiet. If any of the others hear this, he’s going to have to kill them. And maybe also himself, so he won’t have to remember that he thought about this at all. “There’s no way anybody – I mean, a hero – would like me. They’re kidding. Aren’t they?”

He wants Kurogiri to say yes. He wants him to say yes fast, and then to not pick on him for even considering it, and then to forget this ever happened. Instead Kurogiri thinks about it. “It is not impossible that they are correct,” he says. “Her behavior was unusual for a hero in her position. And it is likely that she knows more about you than you do about her. Perhaps she does have a certain – perception of you.”

“Great.”

“It could be,” Kurogiri muses. “She drew your attention to an issue that impacts your health, and therefore your effectiveness as All For One’s successor. And she chose to let you go. If the hero known as Skynet does have a soft spot for you, it has worked undeniably in your favor. It might behoove you to allow her to continue to nurse it.”

“Yeah, no.” Shigaraki shoots that idea down immediately. Any idea that makes him feel that weird is obviously a bad one. “I’m not going to track her down and say I’m not interested, but the next time I run into her, I’m saying it and you can’t stop me. None of you can stop me.”

He raises his voice, making sure everyone hears, and everyone looks up from whatever they’re doing. “Of course we can’t,” Magne says. “But you’re naïve if you think you can stop her. Nothing can stop a hero on a mission.”

“And nothing can stop true love!” Toga smiles at Shigaraki. “I believe in us, Tomura-kun! We can win their hearts together!”

The weird feeling multiplies. Shigaraki scratches hopelessly at the side of his neck and thinks about the remains of last night’s twelve-pack. Getting drunk again isn’t going to help, but it’s hard to imagine it making things worse.

Chapter 2 ->

[nevadancitizen]

-> HURTING, LONGING, LOVING – DANCING TO DISCO MUSIC

synopsis: you wake up and have no memory of simon. you can only hope to find him among your fractured memories and the scattered lights of a disco ball.

word count: 2.3k

characters: simon "ghost" riley, amnesiac! gn! reader

trigger warnings: transient global (aka temporary) amnesia, mentions of canon-typical violence/interrogation

notes: heavily inspired by disco elysium and part one of @roosterr 's amnesia series. go give it a read if you haven't already (＊๑˘◡˘)

Nothing surrounds you. Only warm, primordial blackness – the pond you learn about in Biology 101, the one where everything and everyone comes from. You don’t know this, of course, because you’re curled up in it, your mind fermenting in it. You’re no larger than a grain of yeast. You don’t have to do anything anymore. Ever. Never, ever.

But you’re growing. Gram upon gram of yeast, slowly morphing into meat. Muscles and bones and organs and a beating pig heart, decaying as soon as they grow. Soon you’ll need to do things. There’s a faint tickle of an idea. Soldiers. Battlefields. IEDs and tanks. You don’t know what to do with this information.

Somewhere within the idea – a sensation! Pain. Arcing, shooting pain, lightning through every new nerve in your new body. The limbed and headed machine of pain and barely-dignified suffering is firing up again. It wants to walk the streets of Manchester. Hurting. Longing. Loving. Dancing to disco music.

It wants someone. You want someone. A blurred-out face, someone you’re kneeling at the feet at. A ghost of a man. So lost he doesn’t even know what his face looks like. 

“I swore I wouldn’t let you go,” your barely-formed mouth mumbles. Your teeth are hot, melted-together plastic and your tongue is jet-fuel-fired rebar. 

Look up. No. You were just talking to yourself. That’s all you ever do. Even in this primordial pool. And the act is wearing thin, the spots of the disco ball fade around you…

The warm blackness is instantly replaced with a cold, artificial light. You bring your hand up to block it – since when have you had these? Gangly things with a red wire further down in… your elbow. That’s not a wire – that’s a tube. Of blood? Your blood. You have blood.

You remember now. You were born with hands and elbows, knees, feet, organs and fat and a copious amount of blood. A collarbone you’ve broken more than once. A body that was molded in the crucible of battle.

And holy shit does that body hurt. That hindbrain wasn’t exaggerating when it said that you are a being of suffering. 

A dull throbbing is behind your eyes as they rove around the room. They land on a button neatly labeled Call Nurse. You press it and wait.

Everything after that is a blur. Nurses, doctors, “Follow my finger with your eyes, but don’t move your head,” poking and prodding with various instruments, “Tilt your head back so I can feel your neck,” blue latex gloves, “How much do you remember?”, bright lights in your eyes.

One nurse checks the dressings on your forehead. It’s just above your temple. His hands are rubbery and unfeeling as he re-dresses it. A trickle of cold liquid dribbling down from an alcohol swab. Bandages press against your skin. “What’s your name and date of birth?”, “Can you name the members of the task force you’re a part of?”

A man cuts through the blur as he comes thundering through the door. A balaclava with a skull pattern. Three men are behind him, hanging in the doorframe, out of the way. But the man moves quickly towards you, standing on the edge of the crowd of medical professionals, pacing back and forth, eyes on you, like how a sheepdog circles its sheep. Longing, waiting. Held back by an invisible leash of respect.

After a while, most of the personnel disperse, leaving you with a transient global amnesia diagnosis, a nurse, and the men. But even then, they leave after casting a glance at the sheepdog.

He moves closer, then stares at you for a while. He’s expecting something. His brown eyes are like sodium lights. A small trickle of streets and the sky. In your mind, you know he’s the place to be. You’re still alive while he’s around. 

Yeah. He’s groovy. You want to disco with him. He is disco. But somewhere, a deep unaccessed area of your mind is saying, “You don’t want to disco like this. Not really. Not in the deepest part of your soul, where blond eyelashes only make you sad.”

Wait – come on, what are you talking about? Sad blond eyelashes? Blond eyelashes are fun!

“Why do I hurt all of a sudden?”

“Hey, it’s alright, darl.” He kneels by your bed and takes your hand in both of his. They’re warm, rough, calloused in places you thought couldn’t be calloused. “It’s me, it’s Simon.”

“What?” You pull your hand away from his. “I don’t know a Simon.”

Simon scoffs, but it’s more of an exhale of disbelief. “Don’t you remember me?”

“No.” You narrow your eyes. “Should I?”

Simon crumbles before you. His sodium streetlight eyes go out with an explosion of guilt – the bulbs pop with a fizzy sound. He looks like he should be groveling at the feet of a feudal lord, providing excessive evidence of his crimes, or throwing a cat-of-nine-tails over his shoulder and ripping the flesh from his own back. Whatever made him this way – you can be damn sure it was your fault. Those three simple words, instead of “I love you,” are “No. Should I?” 

“It’s me.” Simon’s voice cracks as he speaks. Tears flood his waterline. He takes off his mask, revealing his pale face and dyed-blond hair. “It’s your Simon.”

“Simon,” you say softly. You look at him and hurt. A hole in your still-beating pig heart. Blood spills out from where the bullet went in. 

“No. Nothing.” You look down at his hand. It’s palm-up, splayed out where you let go of it. It curls up into a fist, then Simon pulls it into his lap.

He says nothing. Just stares at you like you’re familiar yet somehow unknown. 

You don’t know what to say. You just can’t conjure up any thoughts as you stare back. The morphine can’t be the cause of your dumbness. And it certainly isn’t the new modafinil that was just introduced to your system. 

You search his eyes and feel, above all things, lost. Lonely in a hospital full of people. 

Simon pulls away. His breathing is heavy and labored. A single tear slips down his scarred cheek. He doesn’t look like he’s one to cry. The tear leaves a trail of wet that looks like a new scar.

He tugs his balaclava back on and shuffles out, casting one last longing glance over his shoulder before closing the door behind him with a soft click.

That’s where it is. He is disco. He’s stumbling through the streets of Manchester. Hurting. Longing. Loving. Dancing to disco music.

You’re stuck in the hospital for a week for physical therapy and observation. Simon visits intermittently. He brings things to jog your memory – men that are part of Task Force 141, small snow globes from where you and he have apparently been deployed. Some of them work. But none of them bring back any memory of your apparent relationship with Simon – your boyfriend.

Today he comes in with a small device. It’s not a phone, but resembles it. A small wire comes from the amp and ends in a small circle of plastic.

You point at it. “What’s that?”

“It’s a contact microphone.” Simon settles in the chair that’s set up by your bed. He points at the blocky part of it. “This part holds the recording. You can play it back if needed.”

“Are you going to play it back?” You ask.

“No,” Simon says. “This one is blank.”

You take it from Simon’s hand and turn it over, looking at it. Examining. “Then why are you showing me this?”

“You are…” Simon sighs, trying to find the words. “You were a profoundly talented interrogator. You used contact microphones to record the interrogation, the confessions, the works. There’s a specified interrogation chamber underground. Contact microphones pick up the noise better down there.”

You continue looking it over. Fiddling with the wire. Running your thumb over the mesh of the microphone.

“Anything?” Simon says.

You close your eyes and think. Contact microphone… violence, blood. There’s a welding torch in there somewhere. The smell of bubbling flesh and burning hair. Cauterization without anesthesia. It was that way on purpose.

You open your eyes and look at Simon. “Interrogation.”

“Obviously.” Simon huffs out a laugh. It sounds forced. “I told you that.”

“Yes.” You sigh, looking down at the contact microphone. You try to think more. Contact… physical contact. Your fist making contact. Something hard. Solid bone breaking under your hands. 

But also… something soft. Something that smells good. Smells homey. A black hoodie with some cheesy skull pattern on it. Actually, a closet full of black and grey clothes. A monotone voice to match a monotone closet.

The clothes smell faintly of cigarettes. A carton that’s mostly empty. They taste better than regular cigarettes – they’re some European brand. 

“Do…” You look up at Simon. “Do you smoke?”

“Why?” Simon asks. “Do I smell like cigs?”

“No. Just…” 

You close your eyes and try to remember more. The carton is a brown-orange color. The back is plastered with warnings about nicotine being an addictive chemical. No filters. A smooth, walnut-esque finish.

“Revaality,” you finally say and look up at Simon. 

“Yes! Yes.” Simon takes your hand instinctively, excitedly. He smiles. Like crying, it doesn’t really fit him, but you’re glad he’s smiling anyway. “That’s the brand I smoke. I smoke Revaality.”

He takes your face in his hand and guides you to look at him. His sodium light eyes are bright once again. “Anything else? Lovie, please…”

You cringe away from his touch. Again, Simon is punched in the fucking face when he remembers that you don’t know him. Not like that. 

Simon pulls his hands away. “Shit. I…”

“It’s okay,” you say quickly. “I know.”

I know you know a different version of me. The thought lingers, loud and unsaid. Simon, you’re a man with a lot of past, but little present, and almost no future. I’m sorry we only live in your memories, because I don’t even have those.

“I’m trying.” You look down at the contact microphone. “Believe me, I’m trying.”

“I believe you,” Simon says. “It’s just… it’s hard.”

Silence for a while. The artificial lights above you buzz and cast harsh shadows on Simon’s face. He looks… tired. 

“I still love you,” he says quietly. Almost a whisper. “I… you’re the best thing to ever happen to me.”

He rests a hand on the railing of your hospital bed. “I’m not the best. I drink. I smoke. I have a laundry list of mental issues and types of trauma. So much it’s not even funny.”

“But you…” he sighs. “You fell in love with me anyway.”

You look up at him. He’s crying again. A pang of empathy in your heart. You don’t know why, but you don’t want to see him cry. The tears that cut through the dirt on his face are unbefitting. 

“I’m sorry.” Your voice is a mirror of Simon’s. Soft and wavering. “I want to remember. I don’t even know what happened to me. The doctors always dance around it when I ask.”

Simon bunches the end of his sleeve up in his hand and wipes away his tears. “You were a fucking idiot. That’s what happened.”

You scoff. “Excuse me?”

“Not in a bad way.” Simon lets go of his sleeve and rests his hand on the railing of your bed again. “You love too much and too hard. You saved me.”

“It… the building…” He squeezes his eyes shut, forcing his waterline to clear of tears. “The building was coming down. We thought we were out of danger close. But there was a piece of rebar that…”

Simon looks down at his lap. He’s ashamed. “It was supposed to hit me. I was supposed to die. I’m used to it. I’m used to close calls and blood transfusions.”

“But I’m not used to…” He glances up at you through his eyelashes. His long, blond eyelashes. “People I care about being hurt. Or people caring about me in general.”

“Simon.” You reach out and lay your hand over his where it rests on the railing. He holds his breath like he’s afraid.

A pause. You want to be sure of your words before you speak. 

“I’m going to try my damndest to remember,” you say. “Even if I don’t remember everything, I – I want to try to learn to care about you again. Because, based on our limited interactions, I know you’re a good man. Even if you drink and even if you smoke and even if you have a laundry list of mental issues and an assortment of trauma.”

Simon slowly brings his other hand and rests it on top of yours. His callouses brush against your knuckles. Abrasive yet comforting in a way you barely remember. 

“Thank you,” he whispers. “Really, truly. Thank you.”

And, in this moment, Simon finally has some sense of control in an ever-turbulent world. The world that tried to take his one and only love. The world that has taken his one and only love and is only now feeding him droplets of what he knows – what he once knew. He must exercise this control carefully, lest he lose you again. 

In the sky, there are no dogfights and no silverplate bombers. Only stars and the rabbit curled up on the moon and a singular winking comet. God is in Heaven. Everything is normal on Earth.

Somewhere, the spots from a disco ball freckle the dance floor once again.

[kapilasteel]

Why Smaller TMT Bars Cost More Than You Think

TMT bars form the literal backbone of construction projects, yet many builders struggle with understanding the pricing paradox of smaller diameters. The cost of 8mm rod per piece frequently surprises both homeowners and contractors because, when it comes to necessities for construction, smaller doesn’t necessarily equate to cheaper. Project managers who anticipate that material costs will increase proportionately with size are frustrated by this paradoxical reality.

Material Costs and Budgeting Challenges

When examining construction budgets, the cost of materials like 8mm TMT bars and binding wire significantly impacts overall expenses. The pricing structure for these critical components follows unexpected patterns that catch many off-guard during procurement. A thorough understanding of these dynamics can prevent budget overruns and improve project planning.

Manufacturing and Production Costs

Manufacturers calculate TMT bar pricing based on weight rather than diameter, creating a situation where smaller 8mm varieties require more processing time and resources proportional to their weight. This manufacturing reality directly affects the 8mm rod price per piece that customers encounter at suppliers. The production process for smaller TMT bars demands more precise control and additional passes through machinery, increasing labor and energy costs per ton produced.

Increased Binding Wire Consumption

Additionally, binding wire consumption increases substantially when working with 8mm TMT bars compared to larger diameters. About 8–10 kg of binding wire are needed for every ton of TMT bars in a typical building project; smaller diameters necessitate more frequent anchoring sites along reinforcing grids. Often overlooked in initial budgeting, this hidden cost results in unforeseen expenses as projects move forward.

Flexibility and Labor Costs

Although 8mm TMT bars’ exceptional flexibility makes them perfect for intricate structural designs, their production and installation call for specific care. Each bend and curve adds labor costs that ultimately reflect in the final 8mm rod price per piece. Skilled workers must take additional care with these more delicate components, further increasing project timelines and labor requirements.

Market Demand and Seasonal Fluctuations

The 8mm rod price per piece also reflects market economics—these smaller TMT bars see higher demand in residential construction, where precise reinforcement patterns and lighter structures predominate. This demand-supply equation pushes prices higher despite the reduced material volume. Seasonal fluctuations further complicate pricing, with construction booms driving up costs of these essential smaller-diameter components.

Quality Standards and Production Challenges

Quality standards for smaller diameter TMT bars remain equally stringent, requiring the same rigorous testing and certification processes as larger varieties. Each 8mm rod undergoes identical thermo-mechanical treatment regardless of size, maintaining durability standards while adding to production costs. The cooling process for smaller rods must be precisely controlled to ensure optimal microstructure development throughout the metal.

Logistics and Transportation Costs

Transportation costs disproportionately affect smaller TMT bars since shipping charges typically apply by volume rather than weight. The 8mm rod price per piece incorporates these logistics expenses, which represent a higher percentage of total cost compared to larger diameter options. Binding wire faces similar logistics challenges, with its relatively low density increasing volumetric shipping costs.

Cost Optimization Strategies

Builders can optimize costs by carefully calculating required binding wire quantities and strategically bulk-purchasing 8mm TMT bars directly from authorized dealers. These approaches help mitigate the premium pricing associated with smaller diameter reinforcement materials. Exploring alternative binding techniques can also reduce overall binding wire consumption without compromising structural integrity.

Conclusion: Balancing Costs and Structural Performance

Understanding these pricing mechanics empowers construction professionals to budget accurately and avoid mid-project financial surprises. The next time a project requires smaller diameter reinforcement, remember that the 8mm rod price per piece reflects complex manufacturing economics rather than simply material volume. This knowledge provides leverage during supplier negotiations and helps justify material selections to clients concerned about initial costs versus long-term structural performance.