#welding supply near me | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

syoddeye · 3 months

Text

big game

ghost x f! reader | ~5k words cw: simon lies, mean simon, red flags? what red flags, hunting, animal death (discussed), predator/prey, knives, bad restraints, bad suspension, rough (arguably bad) sex, clothed man & naked woman, blood, murder, italic abuse. please tell me if you need something tagged. a/n: a cross between this post and this post. banner by @/cafekitsune. 🔪

Simon lets slip that he owns a cabin nearly a year into the relationship. It’s the kind of thing where you could and maybe should be upset, but you play it off as no big deal. You have to. This is Simon. The man didn’t show his entire face until the sixth or seventh date.

(He joked about it, too, that first time—Breathe a word about this mug, and I’ll have to kill ya. You laughed, delirious as he split you in two. He didn’t.)

It’s a few hours away from the city, on the far edge of the boonies. It’s long beyond the truck stops and hog refineries that dot this part of the country. Far from delivery and traffic lights. Deep in an unincorporated village, in an unincorporated area. Its remoteness would make one wonder how a foreign ex-soldier found such a location, but again. This is Simon. Ages ago, you learned questions earn neither his favor nor answer.

The property is impressive for its locale. Two bedrooms. A decent kitchen. Heating and cooling. A garage and a shed. Renovated within the last decade and upgraded piecemeal when Simon has time. It sits on a lake shared by only two other cabins, both residing around a reedy bend and well out of sight.

Upon arrival, Simon doesn’t offer a tour, telling you to poke around as he unpacks the car. Well, a jerk of his head and a gruff, “Go on in.” Since you started seeing each other officially, he doesn’t often let you burden yourself with chores. No lifting a finger if he’s available.

The place is sparse. Occupied but not lived in. While stocking a cupboard, Simon explains the previous owner, an older gentleman with cheap taste, left behind what decoration remains. A few tacky fishing signs hang on the walls, intermixed with sun-bleached squares on the wood paneling. A curio box collection of novelty keychains in the hall to the bedrooms, full of states and a couple of names. The lumpy pillows on the sofa pouf tobacco-scented dust when you test its cushions.

Tiptoeing into the main bedroom, you imagine how you might spruce up the austere space. Considering he moved into your apartment after three months, you assume it’s a matter of time until this becomes your cabin, too.

(It was incredibly romantic—the move. Near sunset, Simon appeared like a specter in the pouring rain, with his few worldly belongings in tow. Kissed you hard and fast, told you he couldn’t stay at his place anymore. That he needed you. You. All your effort paid off.)

The memory brings a smile to your face.

You’ll turn the cabin into a cozy love nest like your apartment. Blankets, candles, a rug or two. Though he’ll never admit it, Simon must desire comfort like anyone else. The first night he burrowed into your duvet, luxuriating in the cotton and silk, he fell asleep like an old hound freshly sprung from a shelter. He tossed most of his stuff the next day—said you had everything he needed.

Looking around, you realize you have your work cut out for you. The austere room more a cave than a refuge. The man's bed doesn't even have a frame. Just a neatly made mattress with tucked sheets and two flat pillows. A secondhand dresser and a stack of plastic drawers for extra storage. On the bright side, the adjacent bathroom is spotlessly clean, with a caddy holding melamine sponges, bleach, and other supplies on a shelf. He's always been tidy, likely a military thing.

From the living room, you're greeted with a scenic view of the lake and the adjoining deck through the glass door. A pair of wooden chairs sit side-by-side in front of a fire pit, one of Simon's old welding projects. Down the gentle slope to the shore, a small dinghy rests in the water, tied off at the aluminum dock. A smattering of yellow and white water lily pads hug the bank.

Peaceful. Picturesque. Private.

But your eyes hitch on a strange beam.

Bolted between two mature trees, a hefty piece of timber sits within plain sight of the deck. A series of evenly spaced, fixed eyelet hooks and two pulleys catch the light when the breeze shifts the canopy of the bur oak overhead.

Simon joins you on the deck, the planks creaking beneath his bulk. A cracked beer dwarfed in his hand.

“Did the former owner have kids?” You ask as he sips.

“Kids?”

You point at the curious installation. “Isn’t that for a tire swing? Seems like the perfect spot.”

Simon stares, narrowing his eyes slightly with a chuckle. The tone of it prickles—the same snide laugh he makes at his own awful jokes. When he’s in on the punchline, and you’re not. One of the few things that sour his image.

“Kids? Fuck no,” He shakes his head. “That’s where I ‘ang deer and the like out to bleed.”

You bristle and duck the arm he means to drape around your shoulders, ignoring how he huffs baby and c’mon, don’t be like that between snickers.

He finds you in the bedroom, sorting the clothes you packed with punchy aggression, fuming and embarrassed by his teasing. Stupid and naive, that’s how you feel, for all your care and commitment. You’re just so silly, such a townie, for not recognizing a piece of lumber as a barbaric vehicle for slaughter.

Two wide mitts glide over your sides as you try your best to ignore the behemoth behind you. You are by no means small, but Simon. Fuck, Simon, you whisper, half-exasperated when he nuzzles into the crook of your neck—he’s—fuck, he is big.

It’s an hour before your clothes are finally put away, and you’re already down a pair of underwear for the weekend. Simon leaves you sated and dozing, a tactile apology accepted, and retrieves you to fix supper when he’s hungry. Later, parked in the chairs in the yard, watching the end of the sun’s march to the horizon, you broach the topic again.

“Will you take it down?”

“Sweetheart, what do ya think I do on the weekends you work?”

You shiver. Ten seconds ago, you’d’ve said read or weld or fish. It’s ridiculous how your mind cannot wrap around the idea of Simon out in the woods, stalking through the trees and underbrush, hunting. Decked out in blaze orange and realtree, rifle cradled in his hands. You know his history and what he’s capable of. What he’s done.

But this is different from his military career. Simon said he didn’t want to do any of that. Enlisting was how he escaped a lousy home life; he didn’t plan to get stuck in it for as long as he did. He confessed once, after a silly tiff over your job, that the day he was discharged was the best day of his life, second only to the day you met. That’s where the disconnect lies. Hunting and killing for sport, that’s not the Simon you know.

You tell him as much.

“That so?” His smirk matches the rising moon. A waxing crescent.

You insist.

Simon cracks his neck. “Tell you what, I’ll make you a deal,” he starts, fingers flexing around the neck of the beer bottle. “I’ll quit, if I can bag one last trophy.”

The thought of burning the beam distracts you from the flicker in his eyes. The ugly thing is the only hiccup keeping the cabin from textbook perfection. You don’t want to think of Bambi’s poor mother dangling like some macabre ornament whenever you look outside.

“Fine. What’s the trophy?”

Simon grins.

“I better win a fucking award for this. It’s freezing.” You’d said, tugging on your sneakers.

He laughed wickedly. The sound burned right up your spine.

“You’ll get a fucking award, alright.”

Simon sent you off a half hour ago if the time on his watch’s dull, glowing face is correct. He buckled it around your wrist before you darted into the woods, tightening it as far as it would go. It spins loose around the bone anyway. He warned you to watch your footing, pressed bear mace into your palm, and then gave you five minutes to make yourself scarce. Inwardly, you preen. To go undiscovered for this long—you’ve surpassed your own expectations.

However, squatting with your back to a distressingly damp tree trunk, regret eclipses pride and buzzes under your skin. Hopefully, it's not a parasite from one of the puddles you stomped through. It's out of devotion, you tell yourself, itching under a wet sock, that you agreed to this game. Out of love. There isn't much you wouldn't do for Simon. From the moment you met him, it's been magnetic. Poetic.

And that first date? Cinematic. You went out with one man and returned home with another. Your date caught Simon staring from across the joint, a mean set of eyes in a ski mask eating you alive. What kind of man lets another steal his ‘bird’? That’s what he called you—birdie. Need some company, birdie? Complete disregard for the flop-haired man across the table. Cupped a hand to your date’s ear, said a few words, and Mike or Matt or whatever his name was vacated his seat, leaving the big Brit to take his place.

Bringing him home was a foregone conclusion, the decision finalized as you watched him, absolutely rapt, stab the meat of your entree and claim it as his own. Rolled up his balaclava just enough to take a bite with a row of crooked teeth. Breath hitching at the scars, the pale white lines stretching over his chin. You didn’t even know his name when you blurted out the question. And it’s with fondness you recall the flash of surprise in his eyes at your resolute zeal. Didn't make him work for it, offered yourself up on a silver platter.

('Course, afterward, you had to convince him not to fuck you in the parking lot, promising breakfast in the morning if he slept over. He did. For two days. He kept turning up after that.)

You may be hiding in the woods, but he's the animal. Yes. A neglected stray you dedicated the better part of a year into domesticating. Lured him with food, a warm bed, and sex. Assiduously filing down his sharp teeth and rough edges with your body. Introducing him to creature comforts, to living versus mere survival.

Which, again, prompts the question—why hunting? Didn’t you take care of him? If he needed more, all he had to do was ask. Take. Prying a burr off of a sleeve, you wonder if it's like the old saying goes: you can't teach an old dog new tricks. Maybe he needs to chase or track, and you’re another soft-handed city slicker keeping a working dog cooped up in an apartment.

If you still saw your therapist, she’d probably suggest you dissect that. But you don’t, and you’re not inclined to schedule a session. Besides, Simon said all shrinks are—

A twig snaps. It shocks you how quickly you push to your feet.

Twenty feet or so dead ahead, a hulking mass moves through a thin shaft of moonlight.

You run.

Huffing and puffing, you charge clumsily through the trees, miraculously avoiding clusters of roots and shielding your face with your hands. Feels unnatural to run from him. The blood rush in your ears drowns out the heavy thuds on the ground behind you, Simon pursuing, shirking stealth for speed.

Inevitably, he overtakes you. An iron grip latches onto your shirt, and a kick sweeps your legs. The bear mace flies from your hand into the brush, clanging off a tree. You dangle for a spine-tingling second, suspended, heart lurching into your throat. He leverages your tumbling momentum to swing you to the ground at his feet through strength alone. Landing on the cold floor of the woods expels a gasp, a second following as a boot presses between your shoulders. No force behind it; its presence alone enough to keep you down. Despite the dirt and twigs surely sticking to your front and the borderline painful thunder of your heart, you smile in relief. It’s over. His last hunt. The boot lifts.

“Nice work, big guy,” You cough, breathing hard. “Can we—Simon?”

Before you can move, Simon nudges the toe of a boot into your ribs, compelling you to roll over. You startle at the sight looming above, a strangled, incoherent string of mouth noises trickling out of shock. A pair of brown eyes peer through the orbits of a skull attached to a mask. They trail from your face to your stomach, where he takes advantage of your stupefied babbling, binding your hands with cord. You meet his gaze, heat creeping up your neck, and his eyes crinkle.

About a dozen questions surface on the return march to the cabin. None survive the swirling vortex of your head, unwilling to risk appearing perfidious.

Simon flexes his grip over your bound hands. “Gonna have some fun.”

Your faith does not lapse, though fear simmers low in your belly when he doesn’t lead you to the cabin but toward the beam. A fluorescent nylon rope now feeds through the hooks and pulleys, and an oxidized steel, wide-based triangle sways freely. Beckoning. A humiliating whimper escapes as he positions you on a circle of dead grass, hands of a hangman on your hips.

“Said you wanted a fucking award.”

A fucking award. A fucking award.

Simon reclaims his watch and then methodically changes your bindings. A hand to each vertice, he fastens you to the gambrel and kisses away a rogue tear. He tugs and tests the rope. It shouldn’t induce a flood, and yet.

“Is it—Can it hold me?”

“Birdie, this is built for stags and boars. It can hold me.” He strokes your cheek, tapping the bone with a knuckle, then breaks away. “Stay put.”

As if you have a choice.

Leaving you with the frogs and crickets, you watch Simon retreat indoors. A breeze carries a cool rush of air from the lake, your thin top a poor barrier to the slight chill. You take deep, rattling breaths to slow your heartbeat, still racing from the pursuit.

A distant click breaks the quiet, followed by a low, electrical buzz and the sudden, blinding intensity of light. It sears your vision before you can screw your eyes shut, blinking away the phosphenes with a noise of displeasure. The sensation’s almost enough to knock you off your feet. You squint, sight adjusting, and track the source to a previously unseen flood lamp affixed to the oak tree some distance away.

Simon returns shortly after you regain your bearings, his imposing silhouette accentuating his mass. Closer, he’s stripped down to a fraying and stained white t-shirt, but your eyes hone in on the rig fastened around a thick thigh. The cut of the strap guides your eye to the straining denim, and the image of his dick flashes in your mind, scorching like the flood lamp.

He extracts a knife from the sheath, steel reflecting light like a mirror. You squirm, a cross between impatient and uncomfortable. Is he cutting you down already? What was the point—

He pulls the front of your shirt, setting the knife edge to the hem.

“Simon,” your voice jumps high in your throat. “Don’t you dare.”

A steady upward glide answers the warning, cleaving the material in two open drapes. The breeze hits your sweat, the band of your bra suddenly chilled and sticking, though that doesn’t last long as he slices through it, too.

“Someone could see!” you stammer, nipples tightening in the night air.

“You’re frettin’ over nothin’, sweetheart. Nobody’s out here. Open.” Simon demands, pressing the hilt to your lips. “Good girl.” he praises when you relent to bite the compressed leather between your teeth, catching a whiff of polish. He rips off the remnants of your top and bra, dropping them to the ground in scraps. A big hand fondles and weighs a tit in its palm as if he hasn’t played with it before. There’s a deep inhale from behind the mask as he swipes a thumb beneath its mass, then a chuckle. “Work up a sweat?”

The hand with the knife carefully discards the mask, revealing smears of eyeblack, and he pops his thumb into his mouth to suck it clean. A gasp slips out when he steps closer, hand engulfing the tissue again, pushing it up to glide his nose along the underside, tongue trailing. He nips, soothing after you yelp.

You mourn your expensive leggings when he shreds them next, reducing them to ribbons—another deep breath and a throaty laugh, selfish and all too pleased.

“Knew I smelled ya in the woods.”

“You ruined–you tore them–”

“Thought you’d get lucky tonight?” Scarred knuckles drag from your ribs to your thigh, squeezing, his thumb rubbing sweet circles over old stretch marks. Your wires cross, his blatant rewrite of the afternoon makes your lips purse, but his hand, Christ, your toes curl in your sneakers. “A quick screw in the woods?” He sheathes his knife to trace a finger along the crease of your thigh.

Air whistles through your teeth in a sharp inhale. He skims, dipping to gather some of your wetness, licking his fingers clean again. He hums appreciatively. “Get off on being chased? Fuckin’ dripping, birdie.”

Your hole twitches at his teasing, and you know he must see it with the sneer he gives you alongside the abrupt plunge of two fingers. The hand on your thigh migrates to your ass, pulling you snug to the webbing.

“Simon!” A curse hisses out as he burrows his fingers in as deep as they’ll go, curling—not for your pleasure, no, but to keep you there, a crude hook. The rope strains as you squirm, impaled, and stretched too tight on his hand, clenching uncontrollably as if your cunt can’t make up its mind. A flurry of sensations meets head-on with reason, and logic’s never been your strong suit. Reduced to need and want in equal measure, a single twist of his fingers confirms you’re as desperate as the night you met him.

You don’t notice his other hand abandoning your backside for the rope. What squeaks first, you or the pulleys? It’s sudden, the way you slide off his fingers with a lewd pop, feet leaving the ground. He hoists you up and up, the movement practiced, tying you off like the boat secured around a cleat hook.

Some feet off the ground, naked and shivering in the dark, exposed—you should feel fear, but the other shoe, instinct or intuition, doesn’t drop. All the vulnerability does instead is send a white-hot pulse to your clit. A plea leaves your mouth before your brain considers anything else. Pelvis tilting. He awards your eagerness with a grind of a zipper and a gratified grunt. Simon tugs his jeans and boxers down, then bends slightly to hitch your legs.

Your legs settle around him, and though he huffs when you squeeze, trying to ease the pressure off your wrists, you think he likes it. The ropes above slack little, raised higher than he’s tied you. With a massive hand back on your hip, he uses the other to feed his cock into you, bringing the line taut once more as he pulls you down.

The steady shove and fullness push a low whine from your mouth, which Simon smothers with a toothy kiss. It stings some—you’re not nearly wet enough, only quieting with the faith he’ll make it better. However, the fact that he doesn’t give you time to adjust isn’t promising.

He ruts. Barges in. Takes what he needs in full strokes. Builds a pace that rattles the hardware and your insides. The pain steadily stressing your wrists and lower back is secondary. Third, probably, to pleasure and heat, though the former isn’t building as fast as the latter. Sweat beads in your hairline and neck, collecting under your breasts and in the creases of your belly. Makes your calves slick where they press into his sides, the cotton of his shirt sticking to his and your muscles.

“Simon, I can’t–” The words eke out, abdomen and thighs burning, friction in the wrong places.

His arms flex, boots shuffling over dirt and grass to further beneath you, cock dragging along your walls at a drastic angle, head jabbing into your cervix. More support, less comfort. A bitter trade-off, exchanging one hurt for another. The pinch of his brow makes the bursting stars at the edges of your vision worth it.

Each thrust shakes you in the rope, pulleys whining in solidarity. The sound of skin slapping skin echoes across the cabin’s yard, coupling with your gasps and Simon’s ragged breaths. After a particularly harsh snap of his hips, laughter, deep and gular, trickles out of his mouth. "You feelin’ alright, sweetheart?" he drawls, voice oozing sangfroid. “Y’like your award?”

That has you shuddering. His hands settle on your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh in a way that’s sure to leave marks. “Look at you, strung up so prettily. Pretty fucking ornament.”

Bambi’s poor mother.

Simon's voice and the image of a dangling deer carcass collide, punctuated with a thrust like a battering ram. It forces another string of needy sounds. Discomfort and desire coil in your stomach, twisting into a warm mass with a life of its own. You feel every inch as he withdraws and shoves in. The heat of him, the hardness. Nylon chafes your skin, each buck a reminder of your helplessness. Restraints are nothing new, but this is—

The air leaves your lungs in one big whoosh as Simon hits a sweet spot.

You slump a bit, legs close to jelly from bracing.

Finally, an adjustment. Simon slows to meld himself further into you, and it’s then, sucking in deep breaths, you marvel at how perfectly level you are to be fucked like this. He bands a single thick arm beneath your ass in a casual display of strength, the other snaking between you. Chin to chest, he spits, the glob hitting your clit like a bullseye. You’d cringe if his thumb didn’t chase after it, spreading his saliva. The sudden break, coupled with his attention, makes you quiver. Anticipation gaining on torment. His thumb’s rhythm quickens, alleviating the aches. You’ll be sore as hell come morning, but as you have before, you’ll forgive again.

With a new, albeit haphazard, focus on your clit, he rolls his hips at a more languid pace. The shift is a knife’s edge between torture and bliss.

“Still want me to take it down? Don’t know if I will, birdie, like the idea of keepin’ you up ‘ere, ‘anging for the takin’ whenever I want ya.” A chuckle vaporizes into a hiss. “Shit, you like the sound of that?

If you could manage speech, you’d say yes. Simon’s rewired your synapses in a matter of seconds with the rough pad of a finger. He’s backlit from this angle. Haloed. Suits him, you think. What you’re feeling is rapturous, however ruthless it may be. Animalistic, really. If you let him leave the beam—this is what you’ll remember. Not some fresh-killed doe staring into nothing. But you, Simon, and the orgasm he harvests.

It creeps up on you. You howl, jerking in the ropes, muscles spasming and weeping. Revived with a burst of adrenaline, your legs try to close automatically, only to press uselessly into his sides. There’s no stopping him and nowhere to go until he’s done. Your body sags in its ties like a puppet.

Simon snarls something, and his palms return to your ass, abandoning all pretense. A haze rolls, thick as molasses, over you as he uses you to his end. He goes silent the few seconds before he comes, breathing harshly through his nose. One last snap of his hips, a deep grunt, and his cock floods your pussy. His chest heaves. Breaths heavy and stunted. Burrowing into your chest, he digs his nose into your sternum and rasps his teeth over your frantic heartbeat.

Your eyes droop along with the rest of your person. Everything disappears under a tenebrous wave.

Movement. The grind of the pulleys. The sawing of a knife. A sliver of lucidity buoys you, a headrush from popping to the surface after drowning. Your head throbs, the world spins, and by the time you make sense of it, you hear the familiar creak of the cabin steps.

Simon lays you out on the lumpy mattress, brushing his fingers over your hair and skin. He disappears, and you float in and out of consciousness. Thoroughly fucked.

You briefly wake when he tucks you in. The crux of your legs is damp, and a faint medicinal smell emanates under the blanket. Layers of gauze over aloe wrap your wrists where they lay beside your head on a flat pillow, and you wiggle your fingers experimentally.

“Sleep.” He says, poking your forehead.

Your throat hurts. “Stay.”

The bed dips when he obliges. He molds to your back, smushing your chest with an arm and cupping a tit. His breath fans over the shell over your ear, and when you’re on the edge of sleep, he murmurs something, but the words run together.

Somehow, he falls asleep before you. Sated. Ran out. You take care of him, and he takes.

An emaciated tick floats with its legs curled in on itself in a glass on the floor next to the bed. You stare at it for too long, then roll over.

Simon’s awake, though his eyes remain closed and body still. You wince, thighs rubbing together and interlacing your limbs over his. His lip twitches, but he doesn’t shove you off.

You trace a scar jutting across the meat of a shoulder and stare at his chest, pock-marked like besieged castle walls. Months ago, you asked about the stories behind the wounds. The question went unanswered, and it earned you a week of getting fucked face-down. So you simply drop a kiss to a crater on his pec and then his chin.

“You broken?” He mutters.

“No.”

“Then fix us some breakfast.”

It’s Herculean with how your flanks and thighs protest, but you hum through the kitchen and diligently rustle up the meal. Visions of a life dance through your head. An ivory lace curtain will suit the window over the sink. The smoke-damaged, yellowing cabinets need scrubbing. There’s hair stuck in the hoarfrost of the freezer, which makes you gag. Leftovers from one of Simon’s hunts.

No sooner than you plate the bacon does Simon emerge. No need to call. He’s trained.

The cell reception is terrible, one of the features that sold him on the property. Calls drop sporadically, and texts scrape by at the shed. His phone vibrates when he sets foot over the threshold—messages from his pet, all sent within a few hours. Poor thing’s bored at work. He wouldn’t know the feeling. His morning’s been productive. Enjoyable.

Simon’s lip curls, and he leans the fishing rod against the shed door. Sliding his phone into a pocket, he turns back to fetch the tackle box. He lumbers past the wriggling cunt strung up on the newly installed gambrel, the plastic crinkling underfoot. The steady drip of blood is barely audible over their whiny throes. Probably hurts. Hooks through the Achilles tendons will do that, but they’ll go quiet soon enough. If he times it right, they’ll be done when he returns for supper.

He nearly pricks his thumb, spearing the worm onto the hook. Watches it writhe. He huffs a laugh and spares a glance back at the cabin. The two trees that once held the beam. It’s a loss to no longer watch game struggle from the comfort of the deck. He surprised himself with how he complied with his girl’s request. She earned it, he supposed. Cried and begged and bled for it. Usually, that sort of response draws his knife, not his interest. But she’s an odd one. Different. A rare beast.

He casts the line.

“Do you want to fuck me?” She’d asked all those months ago, less than a minute after he threatened to hang her date by the balls. Blunt and to the point. Refreshing. He was unaccustomed to finding them so willing, but she fucking imprinted on him like a wobbly-kneed fawn. Nosed his open, reaching hand like a stray, hungry pup. She saw him for what he was—the bigger, meaner predator. Top of the food chain. Thinks some part of her knew she was better off bowing her head and licking his cock than running. She stuck her neck out, took him home, and gave him her pussy without a fuss.

It’s cute, the way she thinks she’s made him agreeable. How she works on him and his hygiene and manners. Doesn’t get that if it were up to him, he’d sleep on the floor, in the dirt, used to a lifetime of bunking down in shitholes. The cabin’s simply suitable for his hobbies. The fact it’s a decent vivarium for the sweet girl is a bonus, a place to keep her nice and soft so long as she’s good. ‘Course, the sight of her hanging by her hands made the idea of introducing her insides to the outside cross his mind, but he won’t cut her down just yet. Not when he’s got her leashed.

Hours later, the cooler packed with largemouth bass and walleye, he unpacks the dinghy and trudges toward the shed. It’s silent, save for the insects and the birds.

The nosy prick from the bait shop sways, unmoving. Coated with his own fluids and dripping. He chuckles. He should call her.

#ghost x reader #ghost x f!reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x f!reader #mind the tags #posting and skittering off

668 notes · View notes

hezzabeth · 10 months

Text

There was someone singing in the greenhouse, someone with a pitch-perfect deep voice. Revati closed her eyes, pressing her ear against the glass door.

In a field where the paper daisies grow,

Underneath the sun's harsh glow,

I wander through, light and free.

Paper daisies, pink and white,

Your petals so bright.

I sing to you as the world beyond burns.

The smoke coils in the sky far above,

But your petals still dance around me.

Don’t be afraid; soon the rains will come.

Everything lost will grow again.

Paper daisies, pink and white,

Your petals so bright.

I sing to you as the world beyond burns.

The stars begin to rise,

My hands scooping your seeds.

Soon you will take flight

Towards the soft moonlight.

There was an old, prop piano in the abandoned Holly Bush Tavern. The only person who could play it properly was Mr. Gupta. During holiday festivals, he would coax melodies out of the sticky keys while Mrs. Gupta sang in a nasal voice. This was different. The singer’s voice filled Revati in a place she didn’t know was empty. The singing stopped abruptly as Revati’s weight caused the door to creak. Of course, the door creaked. The greenhouse was a wobbling claptrap box made out of welded-together old windows. Miss Grassroots, a tourist who had been dead for almost six years, had built it. Inside lay the heart of Baker Street. The heart had begun as a rose garden. Nanni was the one who began picking up the fallen red petals, drying them, and turning them into tea.

Revati only had vague memories of the first day of the invasion. Mrs. Grasston and Dusk had invaded the kitchens and gift shops. Together they managed to pool together seeds and cuttings in order to grow a small food supply. There was a wall of tomato vines, grown from several seeds found in old slices left in the bin. There were the garden beds where the potatoes and carrots grew. In fact, the potatoes were what kept Baker Street from starving to death. Next to one of the largest windows, the herb and weed boxes grew. Revati’s father was the one who ripped open gourmet tea bags in their home, discovering dried seeds inside. Bridgadeiro Bun was sitting under the lemon tree. “You’re a pretty good singer,” Revati said gruffly. “I was just trying to cheer up Deshia; she’s been feeling a bit depressed lately,” Bridgadeiro said, patting the tree's trunk. “Who’s Deshia?” Revati asked, faintly confused. “The lemon tree, of course! She said nobody's chatted with her for years,” Bridgadeiro said. Suddenly, the tree shook its branches, causing a fresh lemon to fall into Bridgadeiro’s lap. “Thank you for the gift, sweetheart,” Bridgadeiro said, patting the tree again. Revati stared at the lemon tree, not quite sure what to think. Could a tree really be depressed? It would explain why the lemons were so withered and small.

“All Buns speak plant; it's the same gene that causes our pink hair," he said. Revati glanced around, her eyes briefly falling on the giant pumpkin vine near the door.

"Are the plants talking right now?" Revati asked curiously.

"Most of them fell asleep hours ago. When they were awake, they just kept jabbering on about a golden lady," Bridgadeiro remarked.

"So, the lemon tree is depressed? I could get Aurora to come in here and read to her," Revati conceded.

"It's more than that. She misses the lady who planted her; she doesn't understand why she vanished and never came back," Bridgadeiro remarked. Revati found her hands stroking the book of fairy tales nervously.

"If she's talking about Mrs. Grassroots, she died," Revati replied flatly. Six years ago. Six years ago, there were over a hundred tourists living on Baker Street. Nanni, who had spent years living with mother, insisted on moving into an abandoned hat shop near the edge of the park.

The day the tornado hit was the same day Nanni decided to tell Revati all about her family history.

"I always carry the death stone in my handbag, along with everything else I'd ever need in an invasion," Nanni pointed out. Technically that was true; Nanni's giant handbag was filled with almost anything.

Outside, Revati could hear her father trying to roll down metal shutters. There was the sudden horrible roar, and Nanni's wall exploded in a cloud of rubble.

"A lot of people died," Revati finished, her voice trailing off. First came the tornado that caused a gap in the mirror walls. Then the trickle of automatic vegetable cleaners who decided to exploit the crack. Finally, the battle on Mansfield Park between the cleaners and a group of tourists.

"The lady that planted this tree was actually a member of the Lost Princess rebel army; she convinced a bunch of tourists to fight with her," Revati remarked, shaking her head. Then she firmly opened the book of fairy tales.

"It looks like some people survived," Bridgadeiro replied.

"I don't want to talk about it; I just want to read! Here, you can read with me; you might like this story," Revati replied.

Once long ago, in a lost village near the foot of Mount Raya, there lived a special little girl. She was known for her kindness and her deep love for nature. Everyone in the village called her Naisha. Naisha had a special gift; she could talk to plants. The villagers often saw her whispering to the flowers; they adored her magical gift.

One day, Naisha learned about a legendary tree called the Kalpavriksha. The old ladies in the village whispered that it had the ability to grant any wish. Drought, fearsome and terrible, had swept through the land. Flowers withered, no longer able to whisper. Trees forgot their songs. Naisha decided she must seek out the tree and wish for one thing alone: rain.

"Wake up," a voice screeched, and Revati's eyes snapped open, the book of fairy tales tumbling onto the ground. Aurora was standing above her, the bright morning sunlight making her hair glow.

"Morning," Revati yawned and then jumped when she realized Bridgadeiro was asleep next to her.

Bridgadeiro slowly awoke, smacking his lips together.

"Juniper said you were in here; she never mentioned the boy," Aurora remarked coldly as Revati slowly stood up.

"Anna made him sleep in here; I must have passed out while reading," Revati said.

It was then that Revati realized Aurora was holding a tray filled with fresh strawberries.

"Hmph," Aurora said, shooting Bridgadeiro a suspicious look as he also stood up, patting the tree trunk.

"Let me guess, Queen Victoria sent these with an apology?" Revati asked.

"Yes, and a request to fill her vodka order," Aurora said, placing the tray on the ground.

"If she was really sorry, she'd give us a strawberry plant," Revati pointed out.

"Oh, you don't need one of those! You have the fruit," Bridgadeiro remarked.

"You can't just shove a strawberry in the ground and hope for the best; it rots," Revati replied. Bridgadeiro merely leaned down, examining the strawberries. After a few moments of careful examination, he picked up the biggest, brightest berry.

"You can; you just need the right formula," he said. He vaguely walked towards one of the empty garden beds that was going to be turned into an onion patch. Carefully, he dug a small hole and placed the strawberry inside before covering it in earth. Then, he reached into his massive jumpsuit pocket and this time pulled out a small vial of portable perfume.

"One pump should do it," Bridgadeiro remarked before pumping a cloud of perfume onto the soil. The earth began to twitch and vibrate, and Revati gasped as greenery sprouted from the soil. The plants quivered and then twisted as white flowers bloomed. The petals then shriveled and fell off as the center of the flowers grew into green berries. A few seconds later, the berries blossomed into a deep red.

"They shouldn't be doing that! Strawberries take two weeks to grow," Aurora gasped.

"I suppose they would in the wild, but I just gave them a pump of my Gene Grow fusion serum!" Bridgadeiro said, leaning down to examine the strawberries.

"They should produce fruit every day, but only if you talk to them nicely," Bridgadeiro added as he picked a strawberry and handed it to Revati.

Revati sniffed it suspiciously before taking a tiny bite. It tasted just like a strawberry.

"Does that stuff work on all plants?" Revati asked curiously.

"It tends to go a bit haywire when you spray it on legumes; you end up with giant beans that have no nutrients," Bridgadeiro said.

"I saved your life; think it's only fair you spray all the plants in here," Revati said firmly.

"It would be better if I planted their seeds outside and created new crops; otherwise, the rapidly growing plants could burst outside the walls," Bridgadeiro replied. Revati nodded crisply.

"I'll be sending someone to check on your efforts later today; I'll be far too busy working," Revati replied with as much dignity as she could muster in a sleep shirt before marching out of the greenhouse. The book of fairy tales lay abandoned on the ground.

Revati carefully changed into her work uniform. When she was a child, her wardrobe consisted of souvenir t-shirts from the gift shop fashioned into dresses. Now that she was almost an adult, Revati had to get creative.

Most of the gift shop sweatshirts had been swiped long ago. Instead, Revati put on the top half of the cafe's old uniform. It consisted of a magenta and purple striped waistcoat with a navy blue blouse covered in tiny clocks. The bottom half should have been a matching bustle skirt. Revati switched it with the men's purple trousers. Revati then carefully redid her braid and applied some more soot lipstick. Aurora, still wearing the same clothes from yesterday, was waiting for her in the kitchen.

"You're wearing your second best outfit," Aurora remarked.

"I suppose I am," Revati replied as she grabbed her coat.

"I thought you said you were done with romance after that whole mess with Little Hardi last summer," Aurora said, and Revati stopped walking.

"I am!" she protested, and Aurora pressed her thin lips into a disapproving frown.

"You were sleeping with him."

"God forbid I fall asleep next to another human being," Revati said as she marched through the cafe past Nanni, who was sewing something.

"You kept him! You gave him a job," Aurora added knowingly.

"I didn't keep him! He's not a feral child; he can leave whenever he wants," Revati snapped as they stepped outside, and she put on her sunglasses. Olde Landon was always at its worst in the morning. Like all major tourist attractions and cities, Old Landon had an atmospheric blanket high above the park's surface. It meant that nobody in the park froze to death at night, but it also meant the morning light was far too bright.

"Is that Little Hardi and Queen Victoria standing next to the fountain?" Revati sighed wearily.

"They both arrived at sunrise; I told them you were busy, so your mother made them breakfast," Aurora remarked.

"Sunrise; of course, they sacrificed sleep so they could get here first," Revati remarked, marching towards the two other leaders. Queen Victoria was wearing one of the park's costumes, a stained white lace wedding dress. Little Hardi, on the other hand, was wearing a deep blue doublet with a ruff collar and matching tights.

"Little Hardi, is your brother still unconscious?" Revati greeted him.

"We took a vote last night, and he played Macduff," Little Hardi replied.

Revati, who knew fully well what that meant, had to stop herself from flinching.

"You killed him? That's a little harsh," Revati pointed out.

"It was for the best; we need a strong leader during a time of invasion," Little Hardi remarked practically.

"Time of invasion? Isn't that a little dramatic?" Revati had to ask.

"There must be another crack in the wall; thank Jane, it's probably not too big! You two would be far too young to remember the vegetable cleaner invasion," remarked Queen Victoria.

"I was twelve," Revati said dryly.

"I was fourteen; the tornado destroyed the Hamlet's haunted castle ride, and the appliances killed the actor playing Ophelia," Little Hardi pointed out.

"You're both still tiny children as far as I'm concerned; I can't believe this is who I have to work with," Queen Victoria replied, and Revati brushed past her with annoyance, heading to the dress shop across the street.

The shelves of the dress shop had long ago been stripped bare. All that remained were the three Penny Farthing Bicycles that had been part of the shop's window display. Revati wheeled her Penny Farthing outside only to see Queen Victoria having a heated discussion with Aurora.

"What do you mean she's going to ride to the wall by herself? All representatives from all towns should go!" Queen Victoria was screeching, slapping Aurora's shoulder with her fan.

Revati parked her bicycle and marched towards Queen Victoria, grabbing her hand.

"Slap my assistant again, and I'll break your fingers; you know I can do it," Revati growled.

Little Hardi, who was now sitting by the fountain, laughed.

"I was just speaking the truth! We have a treaty; during times of crisis, we unify," Queen Victoria said, her voice tight and a little frightened.

"I don't see Lady Morganna here," Revati pointed out, referring to the ruler of Medieval faire.

"You know perfectly well Medieval faire cut us all off after the tornado hit! They probably all died off years ago," Queen Victoria snapped back. Queen Victoria was right. Medieval faire was located in the center of a massive fake castle complete with a drawbridge. After the invasion, Lady Morganna had yanked up the bridge and refused to speak to anyone. Anna and Nanni had tried to visit several times with baskets of dried lemons. They were horrified when someone from above threw the contents of their toilets onto the streets.

"My new friend said he saw naked people in the wilderness dancing around a murdered television! Sounds like Lady Morganna to me," Revati merely replied, pointing to Bridgadeiro. Bridgadeiro, who was in the middle of taking several pumpkins out of the greenhouse, waved.

"Could be a coincidence; regardless, you are not going to the wall! We need to have a proper group committee meeting first! Then a vote," Queen Victoria's.

Revati just rolled her eyes and released Queen Victoria's hand, causing her to stumble and fall onto the floor. Revati then reached into her jacket, pulling out her stun gun, shoving it into the queen's stomach. The Queen made a faint whimpering sound as her eyes rolled backward, and she collapsed again. Revati then aimed the gun at Little Hardi, who held his hands up, protesting.

"I'm not going to stop you! I came here to propose marriage," Little Hardi insisted.

"Marriage? To me?" Revati asked dubiously.

"All kings need a consort, and I'm not interested in Big Hardi's husband," Little Hardi said, slowly getting down on one knee.

Revati stared at him and shook her head.

"I'm seventeen," Revati pointed out.

"Well, the wedding wouldn't be for another couple of years," Little Hardi replied.

"I thought we agreed to keep our relationship professional after the handkerchief incident," Revati pointed out, and Little Hardi held a hand to his heart.

"I told you dozens of times I had nothing to do with my brother's plot," Little Hardi insisted.

"He accused me of cheating on you using an old prop handkerchief as evidence, and you believed him despite it being the exact same plot of the play Othello," Revati pointed out. The entire incident occurred over a year ago and ended with Revati kidnapped and tied up on the stage in a white fluffy nightgown.

"I'm a very insecure person," Little Hardi pleaded. Dating while trapped in a fun park during the apocalypse was difficult. Before the feral children came along, Revati was the youngest person on Baker Street. All the teenagers in Whistleton were raised to be incredibly prissy. Most of them refused to do anything more than dance or hold hands. Little Hardi had been a fun, age-appropriate choice. Little Hardi was happy to do far more than hold hands.

"No," Revati said firmly.

"No? Really?" he asked, sounding faintly surprised.

"First of all, your legal system involves killing criminals on stage in the middle of plays, which is horrifying," Revati pointed out, and Little Hardi shrugged.

"Secondly, I'm not an idiot! You just want to marry me so you can take over our greenhouse," Revati pointed out, and Little Hardi gasped as if looking deeply insulted.

"That's not true! If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damasked, red and white, but no such roses see I in her cheeks," Little Hardi pleaded as Revati climbed onto the penny farthing.

#nanowrimo #nanowrimo2023 #science fiction #speculative fiction #speculative worldbuilding #futurism #sci-fi #creative writing #scifi story #science fiction novel

810 notes · View notes

verysmolnerd · 5 months

Text

Dating post NWH Otto

Been wanting to do a hc collection of Otto related stuff if you’ve seen my previous headcanons. But they’re really not HCs as they are more story oriented. :p

First of all, dating him appeared to be off the table. In his mind at a least… Even thought he was no longer seen as an enemy of the public, there is so much suspicion that he’s still evil. Like all reformed criminals are.

Not to mention that since he’s a supervillain, he doesn’t get privacy from the daily bugle. Not to mention finding a job that’s willing to hire him. The robotic arms welded to his back and his criminal record is enough evidence of what his previous experiments did to him.

He can only work for Oscorp which also has a reputation of cranking out scientific orientated supervillains. He’s making a living, but the judgement of others becomes more prominent.

It’s hard to tell at some point. Which is harder? Reforming and reconvening into society or fighting off the actuators and Spider-Man at the same time.

He’s pitied by the public eye or alienated entirely. Nobody takes him seriously, even if he’s never killed a person, nor attempted to. He only wanted to finish his work under the influence of his own work.

Then along came you with a company merger when Oscorp was bought by a larger company.

You never interacted with him, you were in a different department and were far too busy to talk to any of the newer Oscorp employees, which includes a lot of the supervillains.

It’s not like you wanted to talk to them. They’re still people, not zoo animals like your colleagues assume they are. So the best way of showing respect in your eyes is to give them the space they needed. If they want to talk to you, then they’d find you.

However, neither of you expected to meet outside of work.

Of all places you’d meet…. a public library. Informal, tired, and bags under your eyes. It’s almost like a college love story, while one partner sacrifices their grades in order to help another graduate with honors.

He was holding a book by Neil deGrasse Tyson and you were holding a three pines book. (Honestly, you though he was Armand with the level of exhaustion you had)

You just stared at each other, Otto even dropped his book. He apologized and then you commented on the book.

So now you’re both sitting in a lounge talking about the type of books you had. Which buds into conversation.

There’s almost a relief in his eyes that you were holding a normal conversation, as if he’s a normal person. He felt seen and purely human only for a moment.

So it’s natural for him to gravitate to you. AKA you see him near your office during work. Whether he needed something, he’d get it from your side of the building just to see you.

You’ve caught him gazing at you from your door window. For a man with four additional arms and eyes, he seemed pretty blind sighted by you and would walk into a water cooler.

So he also starts messaging you via faxes or other mundane office supplies. You’re shocked that he’s using them to lure you into his clutches.

One fax you got was just his phone number. Like that’s anything subtle. Smooth one, Otto. There was also one just asking you out for dinner… you faxed him back.

“Ask me in person and then we’ll talk.” He read aloud. The fact that you’re going to play his silly games is promising on his end. The last person he’s done that to was.. well.. it’s best not to bring up the past… for now.

So when you have him ducking under your door to get in your office with a paper rose (that he folded himself) he’s nervous, and the actuators are giving that away very well. Other than that, he’s very good at hiding emotions.

And now you find yourself sitting across from him at a nice restaurant.

Now that the professionalism line has completely evaporated, you both open up. Otto seems to loosen quite a bit the longer you two were talking.

You ended up closing down the place, and the wait staff were kind enough to remind you that they need to leave.

Then, he ended up spending the night with you. Not wanting to part with you. And you are you to deny that. He intrigues you as you do him.

Then one thing led to another and now you both are sitting on the couch, sharing a bottle of wine.

He trusts you with information that no other human being could have ever known.

Of course he tells you about Rosie. He hesitated at first, but you were quick to reassure him that he could. It was therapeutic almost. To hear about the previous light in his life.

“Oh, you’d love her. She thinks outside of the box. And she always had riddles to tell, never the same ones. She was so smart.”

He’s more vulnerable around you! He trusts you with his life, even though he’s probably protect you more than you can him.

That being, you both move into an apartment and now you’re with him almost every waking moment.

His actuators do a lot of work for him that he doesn’t like doing. The menial tasks that are just awful to him.

He carries you to rooftops to get a view of New York or any other surprise date he’d come up with.

The actuators wrap around you to show his subconscious form of admiration. Sometimes the actuator claws would clamp on your body as a form of kisses or long hugs.

He loves to cook. He knows recipes and often makes the same dinners that Rosie would make him.

You know that woman is happy to see that he’s moved on, the shadows of his past are able to be forgiven.

You also pet his actuators and sometimes use them as an extension to his hands, so you hold hands with his actuators.

He also uses the arms to pick you up for a proper kiss. He’s super affectionate if you haven’t picked that up already.

He loves to read books to you. Sitting on his lap, snuggled up against him as he reads TS Eliot.

You wear his glasses sometimes, you have no idea how he can see. He’s blind pretty much.

He’s wearing his heart on his sleeve around you, and he loves with all his being.

Treat him nicely, he’s already lost someone before and he’ll go to wits end to make sure that doesn’t happen again.

#doc ock #doc ock x reader #otto x reader #otto octavius x reader #otto octavius #the nerd’s headcannons #head canon #fanfic things #fanfic #headcannons #the nerd writes

167 notes · View notes

witchofthesouls · 1 year

Note

How would the DJD react to a lone carrier? Maybe the carrier is stuck on a another planet trying to negotiate with the local market for tickets or shanix to get home? Would they go feral or would they just only somewhat interested? What if the reason the carrier is stuck is because they got abandoned by their partner who is on The List and didn’t want to cross paths with the DJD so left them behind to save their own ass, that could be juicy…

(Tarn's dignity will always suffer with me, so he majorly fucks up because of regulations he inputted himself in the initial days of his gun-ho zeal to the Cause and Megatron's worldview.)

Camiens have a reputation for falling in love too fast and too hard, and like any blitzed and infatuated mechling swooning over their first love, you fell for the rugged outworlder. It was like a tale from a stupid romance holo, but instead of a deepening connection from constant hardship, you were left destitute on a planet that didn't need your expertise and a forge full of newsparks.

The mech was happy enough to frag you silly and more than content to have a ward manager to weld his wounds, but you warned the mech of your spark-lineage and its coding quirks and the mech still had the audacity to not only freak out at impending sirehood but to actually do a runner as well.

Apparently, death caught him before you could because the mech took all the damn credits and shanix with him.

Luckily the group that got Deadzone had a functioning ship to drop you off near Camnius at the low price of your ex-lover's T-cog.

And you delivered that T-cog, still warm and wet from his fritzing corpse into the leader's hand. Beautifully intact despite his smelted frame.

Nicket, their CMO, dragged you to her medbay before any of the mechs could do anything, and practically shoved the empty job posting into your nasal ridge while checking your progress.

"Let me get this straight," You rub your temples, trying to force the stress away when Nickel tells you the reason why she nor any of the other mechs can't help with your carriage. "Instead of being able to proposition any of the mecha here, I have to sleep with the one that finished off Deadzone?"

"Unfortunately true." The medic grouses as she wipes her servos with a rag and you close your panel. "Some idiot thought that the winners caring for the losers' mates in gladiatorial matches was romantic."

There's a story behind that and you're not sure if you want to find out. Instead, you focus on the important part. "And that idiot?"

"Tarn." Nickel says, flatly.

"And who got Deadzone?"

"Also Tarn."

You're stuck with the mech that has no idea what to do with you, so he defers to stiff, awkward politeness. Nickels notes your expression and offers full use of the medical supply closet to have a private meltdown inside of it.

Sometimes, being a ward manager does have its perks.

_______

Because Nickel memorized the schedules, you approach Tarn on his downtime and knock on his habsuite door to rip the patch off.

"Hello, Tarn, I'm here for donor services." You pray that Nickel had beaten into his head that carriers needed resources. Otherwise, his refusal will launch a rut-induced riot by your own activated heat-protocols.

The mech nods and steps into his habsuite and you follow the nonverbal permission.

"Would you like something to drink?" He asks, gesturing to a cabinet and a spare convertor.

"No, thank you." You're being awkwardly polite because Tarn is as well. Your sensory panels twitch, partly anxious, but mostly to check if there are hidden cameras in the room. You click your glossa, door wings twitch again, and it reads as clear.

You have no idea what kind of weird scrap he's into, but you didn't expect the tank to simply... lie down on his berth.

"Do what's necessary then." And he just lies there, staring into the ceiling as if it held the secrets to the galaxy.

Solus save your spark.

You take a deep inhale and exhale through your vents.

"Okay," you step forward and eye his pelvis. "I'm going to need you to open this-" you tap twice over the panel that covers the spike housing "-and pressurize. I need to know what I'm working with."

He follows your instructions to the glyph. And it's a very generous proportion to the mech, there are treads lining its sides, deep grooves underneath the shaft, and solidly purple with a fat node sitting beneath the crown.

It was also dry.

You reach for the extra lubricant bottle in your subspace and smear a hefty dollop across your palm and digits because you want to minimize friction burn since he's definitely the largest spike in your experience.

You grip it firmly, sliding up and down the underside as you thumb the tip, it weeps and it's a healthy bright pink hue with no detection of infection. You don't feel anything off with the texture that would have denoted hidden spines or a knot or an expansion mod. The plating does overlap to create subtle ribbing...

Your face may be impassive, but your valve eagerly wets itself in anticipation, it gnaws and you can feel the innermost calipers trying to set to their widest setting, and you blame the active carriage because you never had been so turned on by a silent handy on a mech that reads 'clean' to your diagnostic tools before.

You tell him that it's best that you ride him, and it's true. You don't voice that you're 99% percent sure he has no prior experience, but you did voice that Nickel would be displeased trying to repair valvular lining and mesh on a carrier with only one valve.

You straddle him, nudging him to your rim until it catches, so you hold him firm to sink down in slow increments. He's big. Your thighs strain with the painfully slow pace of sinking down, hitching up, and sinking down further to carefully pop the next rib into you that spreads you wider and wider until you feel like bursting from the fullness.

Tarn is not as unaffected as he projects, despite that air of neutrality you can feel the underlying hunger nipping at your field, see his digits claw into the berth, and feel that massive spike twitching hotly as you brush over sensors you didn't even know existed inside your frame. You keep your own spike shut with medical lockdowns because you have no idea if Tarn would tolerate that mess on him.

You finally meet his housing and it takes a good moment to acclimate, frame slick and already steaming from that effort. You set to slow grind, bracing on his chassis, biting your lower lip as that node slides over a cluster of nodes that sets your valve to spasm and ripple.

There's a familiar wetness at the back of your valve that makes your spinal struts shiver and sensory panels rapidly flick to disperse the sudden swell of charge.

"Did you just-" You strangle out the words because merciful Pits the mech is big, and heat bursts directly into your chamber putting you on edge.

Tarn, who hadn't uttered a single noise ever since you mounted him and still hasn't looked at you since lying down, then said, very quietly, "I'm sorry."

You're far away from home, fucking a beyond awkward stranger because of archaic bull-scrap of a rule since the mech that was nearly your Conjunx wasn't the person you thought he was.

Tears start to well in your optics and you blink rapidly to keep it away since Tarn actually makes contact with your face and gets a dipole-deer-in-the-headlights expression, even with the mask.

That stupid fucker was dead and you're still here seething over it.

Tarn had said, Do what's necessary. Well, this is damn well necessary.

You lift yourself off his spike and immediately turn around to face the door. Without a word, you seat yourself again by not-so-gently guiding him back into you. And it's easier this time, granted you ignore the jarring sensation between too much and please more.

You can deal with an awkward-as-the-Pits frag, but you will not tolerate that pity.

Because you're ridiculously wet and primed since carrier-coding is in an absolute tizzy over this spike, you viciously ride said spike at a brutal pace, clanging hard enough to leave bruises upon protoform, and ignoring the stretch in your valve, your vents practically wheeze with every drop that shoves Tarn to the back of your throat and leaves your insides quivering, unsure if it's from pleasure or overwhelmed by the sensation of taking a mech that's beyond your schematics.

Luckily it had an adjustment period, Tarn isn't thrusting upward, and nothing in your system is currently red-lining.

The tank doesn't say anything else, he doesn't even touch you. Instead, you hear something breaking in the room, but it isn't your frame and you can't bring yourself to care.

You keep the pace for the rest of the ordeal, annihilating your thoughts until it channels all of the urges to raise the dead back to life (just so you could personally gut Deadzone over and over) into getting the newsparks the transfluid they need. You can taste Energon in your mouth, bleeding down your intake, cooling fans roaring, and beneath the mad clanking, there's the audible noise of lubricant splattering out.

It's hard to say what burns harder, your frame and fuel lines or the hate boiling in your spark.

You keep it up even when your chamber bloats, heavy and hot, forcing your howling thighs and back through the onslaught, ozone thick with the Energon on your glossa as you speed and lose count of the overloads, and it isn't until Tarn's spike fully softens within your calipers' death grip do you finally stop.

And because you refuse to crash here in the mech's room, you don't pause to rest, you simply swing off of Tarn.

"Thank you and good night," you shout at the guy. Raging and hurt you may be, but you still have manners and Tarn did his duty to the damn regulations.

You hobble-stomp back to the med-bay, a wildfire as your spark, even as your pelvis throbs and joints scream to rest. Nickel takes one look at your face and immediately points to the supply closet. "I sent you the code."

You jam in the sequence and the moment the door shuts, you scream.

____________

:: Tarn, what did you do!? ::

:: Nothing. ::

:: I can tell. ::

64 notes · View notes

full-of-mercy · 1 year

Text

@flosalatus -- closed starter

Few and far between are the opportunities to take a break, take a breather, collect themselves. Sorely needed, one presents itself after days of driving in near-silence broken only by pressuring their Preacher into handing in the bounty on some raiders they'd left tied up and alive in the government's hands.

Courtesy of Roberto's encyclopedic knowledge of watering holes scattered throughout the wastes, this one is special in its own right, the dusty jewel of a lively settlement called Opryton.

The proprietors of Fiddle Me This Saloon probably didn't consider how suspicious the colloquial name of the business sounds. Or maybe they did, considering the clientele and the agreements necessary to keep a place like this safe and operational.

Either way, they have salvaged some lost technology, kept it operational since the Big Fall, and leverage it to create a sonic landscape that flows along with drinks and food, the benefits of being along a big city road. Speakers line the walls and strut supports, glossy stacks thoroughly at odds with the scrap nature of the building, old space-faring parts lovingly welded together against the punishing environment.

Someone had a sense of humor. The building is curvy like a violin. A small scratch of truth in advertising, maybe, making room for two above-ground stories of music and dancing.

Wolfwood retreats to find a seat along a wall - not like there are any corners to be had here, of course - and takes up a post to people-watch with a bottle of whisky and a fresh supply of good cigarettes. They'll be crumpled before long, probably.

Not that he cares as he lights up.

Roberto, within earshot of Vash, nudges Meryl, muttering something about loud enough, drunk enough, and could leave their dubious con-man murderer tag-along in the dust. Meryl breaks away from her superior, scurrying up to the bar counter, gleeful at the notion of eating somewhere with a menu.

#verse: stampede #flosalatus

4 notes · View notes

krystalglobalengltd · 1 month

Text

5 SIMPLE STATEMENTS ABOUT MANUFACTURER OF MONEL ALLOY TUBES AND PIPES EXPLAINED

Monel 400 is a nickel alloy, primarily composed of nickel and copper, with traces of iron and other elements. It has a very high strength and resistance to corrosion. Coupled with its thermal conductivity and ductility, Monel® Alloy 400 is a good material to use in heat transfer units that use sea water, hydrofluoric acid, sulfuric acid, and alkalies

Krystal Global Engineering Limited

Since 2006, Krystal Global Engineering Limited (KGEL) is committed to supplying high-quality products and services at competitive prices and serving their customers with innovative ideas. KGEL is one of the leading manufacturers & exporters of Nickel Products worldwide. Incepted in the year 1990 by a visionary group, KGEL has emerged as a reputable Stainless Steel company with the vision to be the Leader from INDIA in Stainless and Nickel Alloy Tubes with success based on Operational Excellence and Superlative Services.

Manufacturer of Nickel Products

Also regulated by these criteria are standard checks to make sure the proper top quality of Slash threads. That’s in which Thread View – a thread measurement system, which can be thoroughly built-in into your thread chopping line – comes into Enjoy. When you've got a need for Monel alloy tubes and wish an answer now, transform to PJ Tube – We have now 60+ many years of experiencing providing Extra for our consumers when and the place they have to have it most. Metallica is probably the greatest stockholder, supplier and manufacturer of Monel alloy tubes; nickel alloy tubes, instrumentation tubes, capillary tubes, hydraulic tubes and LSAW pipes in India. SMS group has more formulated the drive bench course of action into CPE (Cross-roll Piercing and Elongation) and TPE (Three-roll Piercing and Elongation). This means thee merchandise array is has thereby been extended when compared to prior ideas as well as procedures supply considerable benefits when it comes to equally high-quality and cost efficiency. LOCATION- Strategically located in the DFW location, NTP is centrally positioned inside the US delivery network, cutting down shipping and delivery times and offering use of an array of resources normally available as soon as the next day. Power is accustomed to stretch the metal into the specified thickness and condition and easy the surface. Such a metal tubing satisfies ASTM A519 criteria. It supplies substantial produce power, near tolerances and a sleek end which is preferable For several mechanical applications. Pipe is usually recognized by NPS, Together with the wall thickness outlined by SCH. NPS is dimensionless designator and is a sign of a measurement although not an precise dimension. NPS 1/eight through NPS 12 has an out of doors diameter that may be described by the ansi pipe dimensions. Chilly drawn Monel alloy tube generally provides a shinier appear without any weld strains rising the aesthetics from the products and solutions through which it really is included. This Shelby, OH, Krystal Global Engineering Limited. Mumbai manufacturer has 650 staff and takes advantage of a vertical approach that encompasses mining of Uncooked elements. Every single tube is custom made for The client’s particular software, and we offer lots of technical specs and grades. From substantial purity to heat exchanger to instrumentation and aerospace, We now have your Remedy.

ALLOYS Excellence whenever is our assure to you personally, MANUFACTURER OF STAINLESS STEEL TUBES AND PIPES and we will do Much more to maintain it. We’re a a person-quit-store designed with your preferences in your mind – so we produce Much more tubing with Much more versatility, a lot quicker than every other tubing vendor out there. Chilly Drawn Monel Alloy Tubing is established by warm rolling SAE 1018 carbon metal, then drawing it at area temperature. In the course of the drawing approach, the pointed finish in the tube is handed through a die. See how the VisiPak structure staff served establish multi-fuctional clamshell packaging for an entire line of replacement refrigerator filters. We procure major portions of products from Indian carbon metal pipe mills and abroad manufacturers of stainless steel tube and pipe.

#Monel alloy #best Monel alloy in Mumbai #top Monel alloy in Mumbai #best manufacturer of Monel alloy in Mumbai #top manufacturer of Monel alloy in Mumbai #top exporter of Monel alloy in Mumbai #best exporter of Monel alloy in Mumbai #monel alloy manufacturer in Mumbai #monel alloy exporter in Mumb

0 notes

layercodes · 3 months

Text

Services - Sairam Constructions Villupuram Best Construction Company In Villupuram | Top Building Consultants & Contractors In Villupuram | Best Construction And Consultancy Services In Villupuram |Building Contractors In Villupuram| Building Contractors Near Me Villupuram Pondicherry|Top 10 Best Home Construction In Villupuram |Top Building Consultants & Contractors In Villupuram |Top 10 Best Building Contractors In Villupuram

Who We Are Modern Construction& Building Agency Dedicated Services Experience Team Modern Industry Tools Best Services We Provide Best Quality Construction Service Residential Building Construction Read More Interior Design Read More Commercial Projects Read More Welding & Laser Read More Material Supply Read More Home Refurbishments Read More Get Consultation Need Consultation For Build your Find Best Construction Company In Villupuram .Sairam Constructions And Promoters Best Construction and Consultancy Services for your dream projects in Villupuram and Pondicherry"

#ConstructionVillupuram #VillupuramBuilders #BestConstruction #BuildVillupuram #ConstructionExcellence #VillupuramInfrastructure

0 notes

natasasblog1 · 3 months

Text

Argon Tank Refilling Stations: Finding the Best Options Near You

When welding, having a reliable supply of argon gas is essential for high-quality results, especially for processes like MIG welding, TIG welding, and flux core welding. Whether using a MIG welder, a stick welder, or a flux core welder, running out of argon gas during a project can be frustrating and costly. Therefore, finding a dependable argon tank refilling station near you is crucial. In this blog, we'll explore the key factors to consider when choosing an argon tank refilling station and how to find the best options in your area.

Importance of Argon Gas in Welding

Argon gas plays a vital role in welding, providing an inert atmosphere that prevents oxidation and contamination of the weld. This is particularly important for MIG and TIG welding, where a clean, controlled environment is necessary to achieve solid, high-quality welds. Using an argon tank ensures that your welds are free from impurities and defects, resulting in a professional finish.

Factors to Consider When Choosing an Argon Tank Refilling Station

Proximity and Convenience:

The closer the refilling station, the more convenient it will be to refill your Argon Tank. Look for stations that are easily accessible from your home or workshop. Proximity saves time and transportation costs, allowing you to focus more on your welding projects.

Quality of Gas:

Ensure that the refilling station provides high-purity argon gas suitable for welding purposes. Impurities in the gas can compromise the quality of your welds. Reputable refilling stations will offer certified, high-purity argon gas that meets industry standards.

Pricing and Refilling Options:

Compare the pricing of different refilling stations. Some may offer discounts for bulk refills or loyalty programs for regular customers. Additionally, check if the station provides both refilling and exchange options. With an exchange option, you can swap your empty tank for a full one, saving time compared to waiting for a refill.

Safety Standards:

Safety is paramount when handling compressed gas cylinders. Choose a refilling station that adheres to strict safety protocols. The staff should be trained in handling and refilling gas cylinders, and the facility should follow proper storage and transportation guidelines.

Customer Reviews and Recommendations:

Look for customer reviews and ask for recommendations from fellow welders or welding supplies stores. Positive reviews and recommendations indicate reliable service and customer satisfaction. Welding forums and social media groups can also be valuable sources of information.

Finding the Best Argon Tank Refilling Stations Near You

Local Welding Supply Stores:

Many welding supply stores offer argon tank refilling services. Stores like Welding For Less provide a wide range of welding supplies, including argon gas refills, welding gas tanks, and other essential equipment. These stores often have knowledgeable staff who can guide you in choosing the right products and services.

Gas Suppliers:

Industrial gas suppliers often provide refilling services for various gases, including argon. Companies like Airgas, Praxair, and Linde have multiple locations and offer reliable refilling services. Check their websites or contact customer service for the nearest location and available services.

Online Directories:

Online directories and mapping services like Google Maps can help you find argon tank refilling stations in your area. Enter "argon tank refilling station near me" in the search bar to get a list of nearby options. These directories often include customer reviews and ratings, helping you make an informed decision.

Local Hardware Stores:

Some hardware stores like Home Depot or Lowe's may offer argon tank refilling services or exchanges. While these stores may not specialize in welding supplies, they can be a convenient option for quick refills.

Conclusion

Ensuring a steady supply of high-quality argon gas is essential for achieving optimal welding results. You can find the best argon tank refilling station near you by considering proximity, gas quality, pricing, safety standards, and customer reviews. We offer a comprehensive range of welding supplies at Welding For Less, including argon tanks, MIG welder machines, ESAB welding helmets, and Everlast welders. We aim to provide the best products and services to enhance your welding experience. Visit Welding For Less today to explore our offerings and find the best solutions for your welding needs.

#mig welder #welding for less #esab welding helmet #stick welder #welding table

0 notes

bu1410 · 4 months

Text

Good afternoon TUMBLR - June 6th - 2024

“Mr. Plant has owed me a shoe since July 5, 1971.”

Gazoducto Samalayuca - Sasabe. Mexico - Nuevos Casas Grandes - Chihuahua.

Part 2

youtube

First visit to Patio. In the late afternoon, with Mr. Caracciolo, we went to visit what they locally called the ''patio'' and which was nothing other than the logistics base and the construction site offices. The patio was located at 42 km (and just two curves....) from Casas Grandes on the highway to Ciudad Juarez. I immediately noticed that the patio area was well organised, with the prefabricated offices facing the street (later I would have a get series of cactus and flowers taken from the surrounding land planted around the offices.

After a tour of the patio, I returned with Davide to the offices: Mr. Fratus, the current Project Manager, had arrived. The reasons to replace him are to be found in the conflicts that arose between the aforementioned Fratus and the local staff, with the Works Management, and lastly with the Sicilsaldo owners. All these situations, after only just 6 months of stay, had reached a point of no return, and therefore the Owners had decided to replace the current PM, in agreement with the Works Management. A rather embarrassing situation was therefore created when Mr. Caracciolo introduced me to Mr. Fratus, who, apparently, had no intention of leaving his job. After two days he would return to Italy, but he declared that he wanted to meet face to face with the owner of Sicilsaldo, and then a final decision would be made.

First visit to site The Samalayuca – Sasabe project consisted of a 36'' gas pipeline with a total length of 611 km. – of which 307 km had been assigned to SICILSALDO. The pipe that was supposed to carry the gas from Texas started from a Power Station under construction in the town of Samalayuca, just outside Ciudad Juarez. After more than 600 km in which it would have always run a few kilometers South of the US-Mexico border, the pipeline would have returned to USA in the locality of Sasabe.

Along the pipeline, several intermediate stations would have allowed the installation of outlets to supply users in Mexico. The works had been underway for about two months, even if the progress was not as hoped for at the moment. The day after my arrival in Nuevos Casas Grandes, we went with Davide and Fratus to visit the pipeline near the town of Janos. The construction site was all enclosed in a space of 3 km - the large trencher machine rented from the Texan company Double M was digging the trench where the gas pipeline would then be installed. Just behind, the automatic welding line, with the automatic welding sheds that guaranteed the completion of each joint in about 3 minutes.

Then comes the NDT (non-destructive testing) company, the bandaging of the joints, and finally the side boom line to lower the pipe in the trench, after the latter had been adequately prepared to receive it by the action of the special means that spread it at the bottom of the dig a bed of fine sand. Everything seemed to be working properly, even though the work was taking place on the side of the Janos – Monteverde road. A narrow local road on which huge trailers passed at high speed to transport the agricultural products of the area: chilli peppers, cotton, onions. To further complicate things, the simultaneous installation of the pylons for the new electricity line along the North side of the road, on the opposite side from where our operation was going on. We returned to NCG and there was one of those sunsets that ''Estado Grande de Chihuahua'' is rightly famous for - after a quick dinner, we all went to bed.

I never saw Mr. Fratus again. One day someone told me that he had started selling ceramic tiles.

Italian colleagues In the 10 days or so that separated us from the departures for the end-of-year holidays, I made sure to meet and get to know my Italian colleagues: I wanted to understand as quickly as possible who I would be dealing with, both from a human and from the professional point of view.

Davide Caracciolo – Country Manager Before leaving Italy I had been given very little information on the logistical and administrative situation of the Company in Mexico. I knew that the Country Manager was called Davide Caracciolo, and that was all. I have already described how I met Davide, thanks to an elderly stewardess from Aeromexico, on the plane to Chihuahua. Caracciolo is a person with consolidated work experience abroad, first with SAE SADELMI, then with the ENEL POWER group. He worked in Nigeria, and then mainly in the Arab Emirates. However, a very good person, he came into conflict several times with Carso's top management, who even threatened to remove him from the project.

Gaetano Valenza – Admin/Finance Manager A good administrator, unfortunately dominated and designated victim of the Finance Manager of SICILSALDO Headquarters. An element of still young age, but he could already rely on previous work experience in Panama. Gaetano suffers from the "Sicilian syndrome". I'll try to explain myself. SICILSALDO, was implicated in serious events at the time of their first two projects in Mexico. In one, since SICILSALDO was in a joint venture with a Colombian company (whose owner was later arrested in Miami for drug trafficking) it suffered continuous thefts and tampering by the partner. Indeed, the SICILSALDO server was found to be under the direct control of elements of CocoMex (this is the name of the Colombian company) who ''managed'' all of SICILSALDO's electronic correspondence. And to add insult to injury: SICILSALDO was ignominiously kicked out of the project, thanks to lies artfully invented by the alleged partners, several pieces of heavy equipment were stolen by the Colombians, taking advantage of the company's disorientation. The equipment - excavators, tracks, welding machines etc., were later recovered thanks to the help of the Mexican police (certainly not for free). All this while the Project Manager Michelini was subjected to a serious attack by elements undoubtedly paid by CocoMex, and only the exit of customers from the supermarket in front of which the attack took place saved his life.

Rocco Di Francesco Rocco, in addition to being a very good Construction Manager, is also the brother-in-law of SICILSALDO owner. He was therefore the owner's eye on the Samalauca – Sasabe project, going beyond the sole role of the CM. A person of exemplary correctness, an example of a hard-working, willing Sicilian, always eager to improve himself. From the beginning as a simple welder's assistant, up to reaching the top position in Construction.

Armani Tomaso Originally from Berceto in the Apennines, Tomaso is the man who acquired the Samalayuca-Sasabe project thanks to his past experience in Spain, and the high-level friendships acquired there. In his role as Business Development Manager, he was the trait d'union between Sicilsaldo and the Client, given that he sat in the so-called ''Committee'', i.e. the decision-making body made up of the members of the consortium who had the responsibility of managing the realization of the entire work. A man of great experience in the pipeline field, he has perhaps sometimes sinned against ''indulgence'' towards his Spanish and Mexican friends, even if we must recognize the objective difficulty of moving between the different interests of the project participants.

Fabio Michelini Fabio was a SICILSALDO employee ''loaned'' to the consortium which represented the expression of the three companies involved in the construction of the Samalayuca – Sasabe gas pipeline. In theory he should have been our ''Fifth Column'' within the CAFIG organization. In practice - given the smallness of the person - he was kept in the dark about all the decisions and strategies by the management group represented by the two Munozs (one Mexican and the other Puerto Rican) and by Mr. Minchinela, a Spanish guy working as Field Construction Manager for Client side. In practice Michelini was of no use, except to make us angry during the weekly meetings, with his idiotic questions about work progress and so on. In fact, at a certain point in the project it was "returned" to us: without too many preambles, Eng. Munoz dismissed him from the project and Fabio returned to SICILSALDO where he would not have had any duties. His friend Tomaso Armani saved his a**s by inventing the position of Claims Manager for him. Typical question from Michelini during the weekly meeting:

Have you done the preliminary topographical survey of the mountain area?

No, it's a very rough area a and inhabited by drug traffickers - furthermore it is you - the Client - as per the contract - who is responsible for the preliminary topographic survey.

Why don't you rent an helicopter and do it yourself - or go there with mules?

Who's going to pay for the helicopter?

Certainly not us…. And that was where it ended… Michelini's personal history had taught him nothing. Only two years earlier, during the execution of the tragic Queretaro project, Fabio was attacked outside a supermarket by three young local people. They massacred him with stones, and from the photos I saw, it could be assumed that he was dead. He survived, and after $130,000 worth of plastic surgery he was as good as new. But he evidently had forgotten how stone blows to his face hurt, and he continued to behave in an ethically unacceptable manner. Michelini was the typical person who never stops spitting on the plate where he ate every day: a great self-esteem (based on nothing) and nothing more. Direct testimonies from Rocco Di Francesco said that Michelini also behaved like this during the previous pipeline project in Kuwait. Another ''strange'' characteristic of Michelini - a staid man of few words, dispenser of sarcasm at all hours - was his inveterate habit of driving at very high speed on every road and condition. Our vehicles were known in the region, there were eye-catching stickers on the sides of the vehicles with the name of the project. We ''sponsored'' all the police, and several times the traffic officers came to the office asking ''who is that crazy person driving the Toyota pick-up on the highway to Agua Prieta''. One day his friend Mr. Armani was travelling with him. Suddenly he ordered Michelini to stop on the mountain pass that led to Agua Pietra because the guy continued to overtake even when there were blind curves. Armani got out of the car, telling him to go away and adding:

''After half a century of work I finally reached retirement, and I do not intend to die on a Mexican highway for an idiot like you''.

Border between State of Chihuahua and Sonora

Oscar Ferrario Oscar was the Quality Manager, a very important role within a project like the Samalayuca – Sasabe gas pipeline. The role requires great technical knowledge, reasoning and managerial skills. Oscar possessed the technical knowledge, but was totally lacking in all the other key features mentioned above. Furthermore, a few years earlier, he had been the victim of a scary road accident in Chile, where he ended up in a ravine on a mountain road. He had been recovered with little hope of salvation, but evidently his time had not yet come. The consequences of the accident were felt in terms of the ability to concentrate: with Oscar it was difficult to reach the conclusion of a reasoning, most of the time he got lost in meanderings unknown to us. Many times, at the end of a meeting, Oscar would return to my office and ask for confirmation whether what he had understood during the meeting was true. In any case, Oscar was one of the few – perhaps the only one – who managed to get me out of my mind during the project, and twice. The Quality Control department was saved thanks to the great commitment of Claudio Marino and the big hand given by Rocco Di Francesco.

Michele De Simone Typical representative of the ''convinced Italian Communist'' (i.e. playing the rich man with other people's asses) Michele was the construction site administrator. After a dark period following the untimely death of his wife, Michele recovered well to the point of making hunting for local women a reason for living. His role was needed on the site, but he gave it a very limited interpretation, which could easily have been filled by any Mexican employee, but with decidedly lower costs. I remember during a strike of our workers, we gathered people in a hotel in Juarez. While Rocco and I spoke to the workers, trying to reach an agreement that would satisfy the employees and the company, Michele spent the whole time sorting invoices with the hotel employee where our people lived, as if the ongoing strike didn't concerned him too. We saved him from being cut by Director Ascia a couple of times, until Mr. Brunetti himself ordered Michele's definitive return. As soon as he arrived in Italy he underwent that long-postponed hemorrhoid operation, prolonging his convalescence for months.

Franco Carossa A guy from Genoa, a personal friend of Caracciolo for years, and to whom he owes the call to Mexico. He took care of the accounting and cost control of the project. He too, a man with great international experience (he worked for many years in the Gulf countries), was in my opinion one of the architects of the turning point and ultimately the success of SICILSALDO in the Samalayuca – Sasabe project. After his arrival on January 2017, he gave a more 'linear' approach to the project's accounting, also working to solve problems outside of his expertise. Some memorable arguments with Armani and Caracciolo were of a ''strong'' character, always resolved with all due respect to everyone. In the end he left the project due to differences with the owners, remaining in Mexico for a few more months to work on the same project but with another sub-contractor.

Claudio Marino A young Sicilian with great skills and willingness to work. He took care of Quality Control but not only that, always lending a hand in times of need during construction. A bachelor, he missed several returns to Italy during the project, but did not receive any recognition from the SICILSALDO management. Indeed, the personnel office even accused him of having taken more days off than he should have, ordering him to pay back some money. So in addition to the damage (non-recognition of unused contractual airline tickets) also the insult. Crazy.

Cordalonga Crocefisso Another young Sicilian (with that name…) of great value, but unfortunately with a character tending towards self-pity and discouragement. Its role is one of the most difficult in the context of a gas pipeline construction, especially considering the morphology of the pipeline route (in addition to the desert, 40 km of Sierra, with continuous ups and downs up to an altitude of 2,200 meters above sea level). Absolutely NON resistant to alcohol, during the posada (Celebration) at the end of 2017, his mates - knowing it - made him drink 2 glasses of wine: he started singing obscene songs at the top of his lungs, and then they had to carry him in their arms first to the car, and then deposit him in the his room in the hotel. From where he ''resurrected'' only in the afternoon of the next day.

Further comment on the young Sicilians of the project The young Sicilians met on the project deserve a special mention: with professionalism and dedication they completed a difficult project both for technical reasons and for other ''environmental'' reasons (the euphemism that our client used to avoid using the word ''Narcos'' since Mexicans are very sensitive to this word). Unfortunately, in addition to their undoubted qualities and merits, I also had to find some serious shortcomings in them. The latter prevent (and will prevent) the human and professional growth of figures who, if adequately followed and sponsored (i.e. courses etc.) would represent great human capital for SICILSALDO. I am referring to people in their 30s, high school graduates, who barely speak Italian, let alone the foreign languages that are so fundamental in professional life nowadays. Young people who, on the one hand, can give a lot - and obtain just as much - are held back by attitudes linked to old habits and customs typical of the place where they come from. It's a shame for them first and foremost, for the company they work for, and ultimately for the Italian country system.

Pasquale Sorice – Base Chief and Logistics Officer One of the worst, unfortunately. Someone we couldn't trust. He has disappointed us several times, in every respect. Terrified when there was a prospect of a closure of the activities and a return to Italy. Typical Southerner who grew up in a military environment, of which he had absorbed all the defects, including the Italian language - written and spoken - which is used only by the Carabinieri. Capable only of trying to highlight his own ''merits'', hiding his shortcomings.

Solito Salvatore It deserves a separate chapter. Sicilian from Gela, in the previous project in Mexico he had appointed himself ''Procurement Manager'' (He fixed a nameplate on his office door) despite just having experience as a warehouseman in a retailer wholesale of plumbing materials. Protagonist of legendary feats on Algerian project, such as when he spilled several drums of a chemical product for cleaning the pipeline into the river near the site. The next day the foam submerged all the villages that stood along the river itself. The police arrived at the site base with the intention of arresting everyone for "causing an ecological disaster". The matter was ''fixed'' with great difficulty. In Mexico it was customary to set out for surveys in the areas where the pipeline should have passed, resulting in unspeakable damage. In the previous SICILSALDO project in Mexico he had rented a shiny Porsche Cayenne for the Project Manager, while he had settled for a more modest Hummer. He left one day for the Agua Prieta area to carry out a survey on logistics (hotel, facilities, knowledge of places and people, etc.) about which, as always, nothing will be known, he returned after about a week. The results – if we can call them that – were:

Issuance of an expense report bearing the wording ''ESCORT''. (When the expense report arrived in Gela, it provoked a call from the owner of SICILSALDO in which Solito was told ''that you pay for the ESCORTs out of your own pocket!) Salvatore replied that it wasn't about what people thought, but rather an ''armed escort'' to safeguard his person while carrying out his duties in a very dangerous area, frequented by drug traffickers. After months, during a visit to the same places I made with Rocco Di Francesco (without ''escort'') we were contacted by the local village head who asked us ''where Salvatore Solito had ended up and the photovoltaic panels he had promised as a gift to the village ''. (sic)

Santamaria Giuseppe He was the head of automatic welding, a role of great responsibility. Unfortunately, endowed with an ''inadequate'' character (to put it mildly), he will cause considerable problems with the local staff, from whom he will receive more than a few slaps in his face. He will be replaced by his nephew, a young and capable guy, who will not make him regret it.

Contuzzi Giuseppe Grandson of Santamaria, of whom, as mentioned, he took over when it was decided to bring him back permanently. A golden boy, willing and competent. He was the involuntary protagonist of a road accident that could have had fatal consequences. After almost three years of stay, the day of definitive return to Italy had arrived for Giuseppe too. As in a novel by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, the chain of events should have alarmed us, but instead…. Giuseppe would have left on a Saturday, but the purchasing office manager - Joel Campos - came to my office and told me:

I have to go to Chihuahua, if you agree I will give alift to Giuseppe, there's free seat in my SUV.

Good – I say – in that case we save having to send a driver for 300+300 km. It was around 2.00 pm on an ordinary Saturday, when the phone rang and I was informed by Doctor Norma that Giuseppe and Joel were admitted to the Chiuhuahua hospital after having had an accident on the highway, about 60 km from the city. . They were all quite well, no one seemed to have suffered serious consequences from the SUV rollover. In the emergency room they were undergoing tests to ascertain any problem. I ordered the Doctor to leave for Chihuahua with a driver, and once she arrived there to update me on the conditions of the people involved. It was late in the evening when the Doctor called me from the Chihuahua hospital, and reassured me about the conditions of the people - three - involved in the accident: everyone was quite well, the one who had fared the worst was Joel who had suffered a dislocation of his right shoulder. It had gone well, seeing the condition of the SUV, crumpled after the crash at the junction of the A45 autopista, near the Caseta de Cobro Ojo Laguna. I decided to reach Chihuahua the next day. I left very early in the morning, and at 10.00 I was already at my destination, after 300 boring kilometres. I met Giuseppe, Joel and his girlfriend at the Micro Hotel Inn & Suites. Giuseppe, a boy with an imposing physique, had only suffered some abrasions in the rollover. The girl was miraculously unharmed and Joel had her arm in a sling and her shoulder in a bandage. Everyone was surrounded by relatives, who promptly rushed to hear the news of the accident. I took Giuseppe to Chihuahua airport where he boarded for Mexico City, from where he would continue to Italy in the evening. So I went back to Nuevos Casas Grandes with Doctor Norma Valles and Joel's girlfriend.

Favale Amedeo A retiree, but still an excellent excavator operator. He and Rossetti were responsible for the most exposed and dangerous excavations of the entire project, the excavator balanced on impressive slopes. And then a good cook, he always prepared excellent pasta dishes for Sunday lunch.

Fazio Antonino The only real chief mechanic who had the project. Very valid from a technical and organizational point of view. A man with great experience working with Impregilo on construction sites all over the world. Unfortunately it is not without flaws on the human side. He resigned about ten times, in constant conflict with the whole world. It was thanks to Antonino that the SICILSALDO -NUOVA GHIZZONI construction equipment, most of which were very dated - somehow managed to complete a very difficult project from an environmental point of view (heat, cold, desert, mountains). Sicilian from Busto Arsizio, with a difficult character typical of very small people, he was a true ''adventurer'': he spent years in Africa, Central America, owner of pizzerias in Santo Domingo, ice cream parlors in Honduras, shoe shops in Panama . In any case, Fazio's contribution was decisive for the execution of the project. .

Lo Bello Giuseppe – known as ''The beautiful'' The progress of the project had reached a level where testing could no longer be postponed. In a pipeline the tests essentially consist of:

Cleaning of the affected section of pipeline (generally 15 - 20 km) by passing what in jargon are called ''cleaning pigs''.

Once the cleaning has been accepted by the Customer, a volume of water is introduced to fill the entire section subject to testing.

When filling is completed, we move on to the step-by-step pressurization phase, until 1.5 times the operating pressure of the gas pipeline is reached.

Once the testing pressure has been reached, this must be maintained for 24 hours, demonstrating that no leaks have occurred on the line, and therefore the test must be considered successfully completed. Continuing the series of less than positive characters sent from the Gela office - we remember more than 12,000 km away - one day I receive a call from the owner of SICILSALDO Gino Brunetti, who announces the imminent arrival of a certain Lo Bello Giuseppe, who will be the designated testing supervisor.

Make sure you follow him step by step, because this is a dangerous guy! In Algeria during the testing of the 56 inch the tube arrival trap was blown up!!! Luckily it happened at night, and no one got hurt!!! Only the night watchman was hospitalized for the beginning of a heart attack, whatever you want….

Sorry Gino…and do you still send a guy like that around the world?

It's ok…he's not a bad person…but keep an eye on him! Then came ''The beautiful'' as he was generally called. A person over 60, bald, he didn't speak a word of Spanish or even English. Which was quite strange, given that on his Facebook profile I noticed under studies '' University 'of Catania' '. He stayed with us for an entire shift - three months - during which, relying on the topographer, he created the testing sections, 23 in total. The topographer essentially did the work, but the ''Beautiful'' tried in every way to credit himself for it. Lo Bello was not even able to compile a comprehensive inventory of all the equipment that arrived from Italy. So at the end of the three months, I decided not to let him return, and I asked the Headquarters for a replacement capable of managing the very important - and dangerous - testing phase.

MEXICAN STAFF Ramiro Flores Great Ramiro (in every sense given that he is 1.97 m tall) originally his role was as an IT engineer: he had to take care of keeping telecommunications functioning at all times, which is certainly not easy in a country like Mexico. We are talking about WIFI, computers but not only: the radios with which, above all for security reasons, people communicated in areas without Internet coverage (unfortunately many given the planimetric conformation of the project, with more than 70 km of desert and 40 km high mountain). Ramiro then demonstrated great will and spirit of adaptation when he was asked to manage transport, drones for topography and videos to upload to Youtube, the supply of fuel (another very sensitive issue in Mexico, with continuous thefts from part of transporters and employees). I can state without fear of contradiction that Ramiro was the most loyal and efficient of the Mexican employees throughout the project. His contribution was often decisive in achieving the set objectives.

Araceli Montero Araceli was our Environmental Engineer. In a project in which a lot of emphasis on sustainability were placed, the environment, and above all on the so-called restorations - that is, the contractual commitment to restore the route of the gas pipeline as it was originally, after having laid it. Furthermore, care was taken of the animal and environmental resources along the route of the pipeline, i.e. that the fauna (snakes, bears, birds, mountain lions, etc.) suffered minimal impact as a result of the construction activities. Lastly, care was taken to eliminate processing waste (tyres, electrodes, oils, fuels, food waste) which had to follow strict protocols. Without forgetting the aspect of archaeology, always important in Mexico, even if in the area where we worked the finds were not as numerous as they could have been in other regions of Mexico. Speaking of the cactus that I had transplanted in front and behind the offices, Araceli said: ''They will die in 2 weeks''. After 3 years the cactus were still blooming which was wonderful o see.

Francisco Carrillo

Technical office engineer. A very good guy, who I would only place second to Ramiro in terms of contribution to the project. Intelligent, prepared, at a certain point he wanted to leave SICILSALDO to obtain a doctorate in Ireland. Extremely kind and polite, I am sure that the future will hold great satisfaction for him.

Habbid Ruiz Alvarez – Logistics Habbid was in charge of logistics: in practice he lent a hand with local purchases, supervised transport a bit, and was responsible for managing lunch for the employees who worked on the line, therefore distant from towns, restaurants, snack bars, supermarkets. Of distant Arab origins, Habbid was a human case, in what sense, you might ask. Well the individual was completely 'subjugated' (like many Mexicans) by American films and TV series. He lived his work experience as if he were engaged in the war in Vietnam. If he had to escort an exceptional transport, he would install his pick up with flashing lights, a roof rack on the roof housed very powerful multicolored headlights, he dressed like Rambo, with combat boots, camouflage suit, knives hanging from his belt, mirrored glasses, helmet with all sorts of stickers of projects and enterprises in which he had not participated. And then obviously GPS, walkie talkie radio with which he spoke continuously, informing us of the most insignificant detail of the transport. He resigned one day, suddenly, justifying his decision with a banal:

''I don't feel fulfilled enough here with you'.

Victor Gomez I immediately thought of Victor when I was asked to go to Mexico. He had been my Construction Manager during Iraq project, and I had appreciated his skills and expertise. Being Venezuelan he obviously speaks Spanish, and so I mentioned his name to the Sicilsaldo Personnel Office. Victor's hiring wasn't easy, he had to take a quick trip to Italy (from Seville where he was at the time) but in the end everything worked out for the best. When we opened the mountain front, I assigned him to direct the operations and the construction - with very difficult logistics - was organized as best as possible by Victor. The staff was based in Agua Prieta, the first city we encounter in the state of Sonora when arriving from Chihuahua. The city is characterized by the border ''wall'' with the USA built by Clinton administration (which no one ever talks about as if the wall were a Trump exclusive) to try to limit the entry of illegal immigrants into the USA.

The construction site was located about 45 km from the city, in the Sierra de San Luis, a very rugged mountain chain with peaks up to 2,500 meters above sea level. The area of operations was reached via a dirt road that served to connect the ranchos in the area. Everything went well in the management of the mountain construction site, until the arrival of Cuvato Crocefisso. Inevitably, a straight like Victor - ''hombre vertical'' as the South Americans say - would never have been able to get along with Cuvato, and this explains the reasons for the Venezuelan's irrevocable resignation. Moreover, justified by Victor with the situation that had arisen in Venezuela during those years, with the popular revolt against the Maduro regime. Victor's family lived in the center of Caracas, right in the area where serious riots occurred every day. Hence his concern, and his early return to his country, from where he then emigrated to Spain, bringing his wife and daughters.

Doctor Norma Valles Doctora Norma was head of our Health and Environment service. A young girl with no experience in occupational medicine, but who knew how to grow during the course of the project, managing as best as possible all the difficult and bloody phases that followed. Unfortunately, there were accidents, some serious ones but fortunately never lethal. But always indirectly linked to work activities, such as road accidents during transport and reaching work fronts.

Norma also professionally managed the prevention aspects such as vaccination campaigns, maintaining serums against possible snake bites (they were found every day). And then she carefully handles the aspect of the food supplied by the various catering companies to the workers along the line (which is not easy, considering the great distances between the places of production of the food and the places of its consumption).

Alejandro Gonzales Alejandro was our Chief of Construction Personnel. We were forced to fire his predecessor, a certain Alejandro Renteria, due to a never clarified story in which he collected a percentage of the salary of Mexican employees that he managed to funnel into the company. It must be said that, following the continuous stop and go caused by the unavailability of work areas, layoffs and hiring, especially of general staff, were the order of the day. Something that was absolutely not easy for the average Mexican worker to digest, for which Alejandro was threatened several times. Alejandro was originaly from Chihuahua city, and the main interest in life was one: eating! Very professional, tall, red-haired, with a beard and moustache, he had an exceptional stomach: there was never a shortage of something to munch on his desk: snacks of the most varied qualities that Mexicans are crazy about. It was he who proposed and established the monthly list of staff birthdays, which we always celebrated in the office meeting room, eating cakes even worse than the Iraqi ones.

Alejandro Rebollar Alejandro is a young and capable engineer. He was selected and hired by Victor Gomez for the technical office of the Agua Prieta site. Following Francisco Carrillo's resignation, I asked to move Alejandro to our technical office. Of a mild nature, for years he had been engaged to Araceli Montero, our ecology engineer, with whom he got married at the end of the Samalayuca-Sasabe project. Alejandro proved capable of carrying out all the tasks of the site technical office alone, contributing effectively to the formulation of the monthly progress, and solving numerous technical problems inherent to the project. But not only that: he proved to be 'a skilled' 'diplomat' 'in relations with the Client supervision (which was certainly not easy, considering the elements that made up the CARSO staff). Alejandro managed to gain their trust, especially that of Medina ''Merdina'' the Spaniard always ready to look at our technical/economic requests with a magnifying glass.

Lety Gomez & Dani Jimenez I talk about it together since Lety was in a relationship with Dani Jimenez, a Spanish pipeline supervisor, 15 years younge. Relationship that still continues to date. Lety was our local purchasing manager. She is a woman in her fifties but still attractive, very sporty (she regularly participated in the non-competitive marches that often take place in Mexico) and her son is already a great student at a university in Calgary, Canada. Senora Gomez is the most professional, honest and dedicated person you could hope for in a purchasing department. During the course of the project, there were numerous attempts, including by Italians, to attribute dishonest actions to Lety in carrying out her work. She always came out with her head held high, once even submitting her resignation, which was not accepted. Dani is a very good pipeline supervisor, he has always carried out the tasks assigned to him with devotion and courage (in Mexico it takes a lot of courage to carry out the work in contact with people who are sometimes very rude, to put it mildly).

Lot of emphasis is put by Mexican during their ''Indipendence Day'' on Sept 15th

Cinthya Nallely Parada López - ''Tuti Fruti'' In Mexico it happens very often that employees suddenly resign. The fact of working far from home, where sometimes wives, children, elderly relatives have left behind with their problems: everything contributes to the fact that defections are the order of the day. Our planner had suddenly left one day, and then after a search through advertisements in newspapers and Internet channels, we selected Cinthya. From the photo of her on Linkedin she appeared to be a cheerful, spontaneous and above all ''normal'' person. She was hired after an interview with Annie Monroy, the personnel manager of the Mexico City office. In hindsight she shared a detail of no small importance with them: their photos on Facebook profiles were NOT representative of what she actually was! In the photos were missing those 25-30 kg that change a person's physiognomy. Many thanks Adobe Photoshop!!! Be that as it may, the omelette was made (with the complicity of Monroy, who to tell the truth had done and will do numerous stupid things but as Davide used said ''how do you chase away a single mother…? Like when she accused myself of being ''racist'' because I didn't make the Company's driver available to a Mexican who had to go to Chihuahua (300 km) to go on holiday. This was when there was a convenient bus service. So I was sitting on the airplane from Mexico to Chihuahua when Cinthya (one of the things I immediately specified was the spelling of her name…) introduced herself and perhaps read my disappointment/surprise on my face: she was simply enormous! She even found it difficult to ''walk'' and when she passed someone else in the very narrow corridor of the offices, one of the two had to enter a side office to let her pass. (I'm serious). Cinthya was professionally poor, but she was confirmed because in the end the Client's needs from a planning point of view were certainly not at the level of any project in the Middle East. And then the planner enjoyed the help of Francisco Carrillo, who when he saw Cinthya in difficulty did not skimp on helping her. On this point I must admit that young Mexicans are different from their peers: if they realize that one of them is in difficulty professionally, they don't hesitate to do everything they can to help him. Cinthya was also notable for her insatiable hunger: she practically ate at any time of the day, her desk was covered with snacks, chips, and all sorts of snacks. At the 'posada' (celebration) at the end of 2017, once almost all the participants had left, she made sure to fill a gym bag with all the bottles of wine that were left on the tables.She did it herself by asking Rocco with a hopeful look:

Can I collect the left over bottles Señor Roco? (with only one C…) are them paid, right?

Jorge Banda ''Chavelo'' Former ''malandro'' (in Mexican ''outlaw'') he came after a few years spent in a ''gated community''. Typical ''jack of all trades'' that is always needed in a project. Of imposing size and even greater kindness of heart. Always ready for a joke, and above all always ready at any time of the night, on Sundays and holidays, to respond to emergencies. Very capable in negotiations with subordinates, and always resolute in dealing with landowners who claimed undue compensation. Great party organizer and capable of epic hangovers, but punctual the next day upon resumption of activities. Chavelo was undoubtedly one of the strong points of the project.

Adriana Palomino When I arrived on the project, in the office there was a girl named Cristina Perez who worked as a Document Controller and secretary. Caracciolo thought it appropriate to call her in Mexico City (perhaps in a city of 22 million inhabitants there wasn't a girl who could fill the position of Document Controller? It was necessary to call a girl from Casas Grandes, pay for an apartment, a trip, a plane ticket every three months etc.…oh well…). So after making a small selection, the choice fell on Adriana Palomino. A former secretary of the Alcalde (mayor) of Nuevo Casas Grandes, she was left without a job when the former lost the last local elections. Yes, because in Mexico it works like this: whoever wins the elections - municipal, provincial, for state government or the general ones - once installed, fires all the employees and hires people loyal to him! A formidable means of ''clientelism''! Adriana wasn't much of a professional professionally, but we didn't have great expectations for the position of Document Controller. All we needed was a person who knew how to keep an archive of all documents, drawings, correspondence with the customer, etc. On the other hand, Adriana informed us that at her "venerable age" - undoubtedly over 35 years old - she continued to study by correspondence with one of those universities that do a roaring trade in the USA, taking advantage of the good faith and hopes of better life of thousands of unfortunate hopeless South Americans. When we were nearing the end of the project, she also suddenly left us, telling us that she had found – as every Mexican's dream – a job in Phoenix, Arizona. And as a ''Systems Engineer''!! (which ''systems'' we were never given to know). Of Adriana I remember the way in which she left the ''posada venue'' at the end of 2017, to my and Rocco's great surprise. Around 11.30, seeing that the people had all left, with an expression between surprise and disappointment she asked:

Is it all finished, right??? Having established that ''the party was over ' she jumped into her Jeep and with a reckless maneuver and loud screeching of tires (with which she wanted to underline her annoyance that ''nothing of what she expected had happened'') I left us ' stunned and speechless.

Jesus Esmir Escarrega Jesus is another of those ''casos particulares'' that I believe you can only meet in Mexico. Originally from Baja California, he was an employee of the civil works company ERKAM to which we had initially contracted the earthmoving of the mountain section. The company later proved to be unreliable, so the contract was terminated. However, we asked the owner of the company to be able to use Jesus, who had proven to be a valid supervisor. Once the economic agreement was reached, Jesus coooperated with us for about two years, especially in the so-called 'ROW (Right of Way) the initial phase of the pipeline works, where the supervisor plays a fundamental role. He was able to guide men and vehicles, manage relationships with the rancheros, who at the beginning always try to put a spoke in the wheel with the most absurd requests. And then arguments and misunderstandings arise, access closures, requests for compensation for ''non-existent'' livestock that suddenly disappeared due to our activities. They - the rancheros - requests compensation for the impossibility of proceeding with harvests of products that have never been sown (hence the preliminary visits, to compile surveys on the actual state of the land crossed by the pipeline). Jesus was very good at this, and above all he was gifted with a quality that is unfortunately rare in Mexicans: absolute honesty. So we had no fear that there would be attempts on his part to make backroom deals with the landowners. Jesus then took it upon himself to maintain relations with some of the more 'reticent' ranch owners because they were linked in some way to the Narcos and their activities. He was one of those who warned us when 'we should avoid going' to a certain area, because on that day an 'exceptional transport' would take place. And so the day before we had to park our construction equipment so as not to disturb the transit of the Narcos vehicles. Which, as I had the opportunity to see a couple of times, when they are engaged in ''transport'' they go fast… very fast. Jesus was also supervisor of the 'explosives' phase: more than 40 km of trenches opened with the use of dynamite almost always in remote mountain areas.

Antonio Medina – Sorry, even after years I still can't describe this individual, the disgust I still feel for him is so strong.

Victor Groc Victor a young but very capable engineer. He was perhaps the only one from the Works Supervision team to help us (in the right sense of the term). While Medina did nothing but look for ways to get in the way, or sift through the contract and specifications to avoid paying extra works, Victor on the contrary always behaved in an impartial manner, trying to do his best for the good of the project. Originally from Vera Cruz, once the Samalayuca-Sasabe project was finished he was sacked from Grupo CARSO (to be confirmed in Mexico is like and perhaps worse than in Italy, you need to have more than one Saint in Heaven). Victor started a consultancy business in association with other engineers and architects.

Otilio Aguillero Fernandez A Spaniard from the Basque province, Otilio was one of the lucky ones who spent almost 5 years collecting a salary of over 10,000 euros, benefiting from a 45/15 shift (therefore returning to Spain for 15 days for every 45 days of presence) His contribution to the project was almost zero, but at least unlike other Spaniards he did not create excessive problems. In the sense that other Spanish supervisors, to justify their presence in the eyes of the Client, sometimes invented actual false reports, just to say:

'''View''You see? If I hadn't been there it wouldn't have been discovered that the Sub Contractor does this''. Otilio's activity took place mainly in the field, therefore traveling with the off-road vehicle along the track, trying to make it midday for lunch, and in the evening for dinner. Sometimes, during the weekly meeting, arguments arose between Otilio and his compatriot Medina' on matters of secondary importance. But the real reasons for disagreement lay more in the fact that Antonio is from Madrid, and therefore considers himself ''superior'' compared to the Basque Otilio. For his part, he had the typical Basque stubbornness, and always wanted to have the last word.

Herman Bayona Herman is a Colombian and on the Samalayuca-Sasabe project he represented the final customer, namely CFE (Comision Federal Electricidad) A curiosity: Herman had worked with SAIPEM in Iraq, which he had just left a few days before my arrival in 2015. This fact favored a certain ''complicity'' between us, avoiding all those ''potential misunderstandings'' that always happen on a complicated project like the one in Mexico between representatives of the Client and the Sub Contractor.

Injenero Martin Velazques Hernandez Garcia - Explosives Specialist A true explosives genius. Not even one of the numerous ''events'' (as they are called in jargon) failed. More than 40 km of trenches opened with the sequential technique (the explosions start from one point and end in another at a different distance from time to time, depending on the section decided upon) and in any case never less than 200 metres. The explosive phase is something very complicated in Mexico. First you need to contact a company with a permit to handle/transport the explosive. We found a fairly reliable partner in ERKAM, always considering that we were in Mexico. Subsequently, it is mandatory by law to have the supervision of an Engineer in possession of all the licenses required for the placement and detonation of explosive material. And we found him in the Injenero Martin Velazques Hernandez Garcia. He was authorized to negotiate with the military, setting the date of transportation, installation and detonation of the explosive. Once set, the dates and times cannot be changed, otherwise the entire event risks failing. Preparation for the explosion is a long and tiring phase, especially when - almost always - the event takes place in a mountain area. The drills mounted on tracks make holes of 2'' or 2'' 1/5 in diameter, at least 3.00 meters deep and 2.00 to 3.00 meters apart, where the dynamite charges will be inserted. Once a section of at least 200 linear meters has been prepared (sometimes even up to a kilometre), the area is ready for the event. Meanwhile, one of the biggest dangers is rain. In case of bad weather the holes easily fill with water, and therefore it must be extracted, given that the housing of the explosive must be absolutely ''dry''. The event typically lasts three days. On the first day the soldiers - usually a squad of around 15-20 men - arrive at the place where the event is to take place, inspect the area and make sure that nothing can happen as a result of the explosion. On day two a military convoy transports the explosive material which must be consumed on the same day, without the possibility of it being stored in any way. On the third day, the results of the explosion are noted, a report of the entire event is drawn up, and the military, after inspecting the area, leaves the area. It should be noted that CARSO - especially in the figure of Senor Minchinela - tried until the end to contest and refuse the payment of the surcharge owed to us for all the activity completed with the explosive. Clinging to unlikely interpretations of the contractual clauses, they argued that the price per linear meter of excavation ''included'' the surcharge due to the greater difficulty in opening the trench due to the use of explosives. In essence - said the ''friends'' ''You (SICILSALDO) ascertained the conditions of the route before formulating the price of the excavation (a survey had been carried out with a tourist plane) and therefore you were aware of the difficulties you were facing. The use of explosives is finally a ''facilitation'' for you (Sub Contractor) to have greater progress compared to excavation with mechanical means (hammer mounted on an excavator)''. I don't know how the dispute ended, certainly with around 19 million USD at stake, the tug of war lasted a long time (and who knows who came out the winner).

#Youtube

1 note · View note