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wfhsg · 9 months ago

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On the other hand, price of shipping containers can also be affected by supply and demand, as well as other factors such as tariffs and global economic conditions. Additionally, modifications to the container, such as adding windows or insulation, can also increase the cost.

When purchasing a shipping container, it’s important to consider not just the upfront cost, but also any additional costs such as delivery and modification fees. Working with a reputable supplier can help you find the best quality container for your needs at a fair price.

#freight

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privexcontainers34s · 2 years ago

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privexcontainers.com

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massivepainterdonut · 2 years ago

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Shipping containers. Storage solutions.

Welcome to come west, a nationwide storage and shipping container supplier with fabrication and refurbishment services. We specialize in supplying, fabricating, and modifying storage and shipping containers for various industries. With container sizes ranging from 10 to 45 feet in length, there is a size available to accommodate nearly any project. Through our groundbreaking and exhaustive fabrication process, we maintain the highest standards of production and quality assurance to ensure that each storage container is durable, secure, and leakproof. Whether you need shipping or storage containers regularly or you are seeking a temporary rental unit, comexwest aims to provide you with top-of-the-line new and used shipping and storage products at an affordable price.

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lotuscontainers · 3 years ago

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20ft High Cube Double Door Containers | High Cube Double Door Containers for Sale

Want to add more flexibility and space for your cargo? LOTUS Containers brings 20ft high cube double door containers with 2 leaf doors at both ends which is approximately 30 cm higher than normal Double Door Containers. There you go! More cargo loading flexibility for your goods from both front and rear end. Oh! did we mention you can compartmentalize the box as welll!

#Double Door shipping containers #Double door shipping containers for sale #40ft double door containers #40ft high cube double door containers

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semperintrepida · 4 years ago

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100% Relative Humidity

Kassandra had just finished inspecting the fenceline along the back forty when she saw the flash of red — not the orange-red of fire or the arterial red of blood, but the deep bright red of ripe berries, the kind that caught the eye and made the mouth water with imagined sweetness. The berries stood out against a backdrop of Kermit-green leaves the size of her hand, and she grinned with recognition: thimbleberries. Kyra's favorite.

Perfect. She'd been daydreaming about Kyra all day. Kyra, bent over the kitchen table. Kyra, pressed against the bookshelves downstairs. Kyra, splayed across their linen sheets, her skin dusky with arousal, whispering—

Soon. She'd have Kyra in her hands soon enough. She dug out a handkerchief and set to picking, despite the cloudy skies threatening rain, and she was careful to keep from damaging the fragile fruit as she placed them into the sling of fabric. All sorts of berries thrived in Oregon, but the thimbleberry had resisted all attempts at cultivation. Too wild, too graceful to tame, it carried its nature within its delicate flavor. All other berries paled in comparison.

A big handful was all she risked picking — too many in a pile and they'd crush themselves — and then she journeyed through the woods back to the house she and Kyra had built on a hillside overlooking a hollow in the Coast Range, in one of the last stands of wild forest left after the timber companies had clearcut every mountainside and replanted them with nothing but Douglas fir.

There were Doug firs here, yes, but also western red cedars, hemlocks, spruce, and pines, and she'd even found a few Pacific yews scattered across the acreage. After a career of trying to save forests from wildfire, she'd finally gotten some trees of her own.

Raindrops pattered the grass around her as she knocked the sides of her boots against the post at the bottom of the stairs up to the house. Even in Oregon it was rare to see rain so early in August.

Inside the mudroom, the door to the kitchen was wide open, and she shed her boots without making a sound. Kyra was standing at the kitchen sink, humming as she cleaned a paintbrush, and Kassandra crept up behind her, silent in her sock-covered feet. She carefully avoided the squeaky floorboard near the woodstove, then slid her body against Kyra's, pinning her against the counter so she couldn't turn around and deck her after being startled.

"What—" she gasped, then blew out a breath of exasperation. "Did you have to scare me?"

Kassandra smirked. "You'll forgive me, 'cause I have a present for you," she said.

"Oh yeah?"

"Close your eyes and open your mouth."

Kyra did. No hesitation. And Kassandra rewarded her with one of the thimbleberries.

A moment later, she turned around as far as Kassandra's hips let her, her face beaming with delight. "They're finally ripe?"

Kassandra smiled and nodded.

Kyra had a smudge of dark green paint above her brow and another under her chin. "We need to go picking."

"Yep." She held another berry to Kyra's lips. "Maybe tomorrow. Rain's starting up."

Kyra sucked Kassandra's finger into her mouth along with the berry, and she flicked her tongue against the pad of fingertip she'd captured, her warmth erupting into heat. Then she set Kassandra free, gifted her a silky smile, and turned back to the sink.

Kassandra's heart revved up, valves opening wide, the pump coming online. She set the berries on the counter. "Are you done for the day?"

"Yeah." Kyra flicked the brush, the water in the sink milky with paint. She'd spent all day working in her studio. It was once the old machine shed, and they'd knocked out the wall that faced the valley and put in floor-to-ceiling windows. If Kassandra knew mountains and forests by the miles she'd walked across them, Kyra knew how to capture them with paint, in large-scale landscapes of rocky crags and misty woods and still waters.

Ten years they'd been together, as Kassandra worked her way up from her first Hotshot crew to leading a crew of her own, and Kyra began making a name for herself with her paintings. Ten years, but they'd spent much of it apart for months at a time, as Kassandra's crew shipped out to fight fire from Washington to New Mexico. She'd even gone to Australia a couple of times.

There was nothing else like it, the way a wildfire moved like a living thing, how it could be benevolent when contained, or demonic when left to its own devices. And she'd loved her work: the camaraderie of her crew, the challenge of 16-hour shifts over days and nights, the satisfaction of a fire contained. She'd even loved the danger.

But a couple years back, when that deadfall had caught her and nearly taken her arm off above the elbow, Kyra had begged her to quit if her arm didn't come back right.

Her arm healed, almost good as new. She'd always been good at that.

But she still quit anyway.

The wildfires were bigger now, the terrain more rugged, the seasons longer. She used to work for six months at a stretch; now she could work almost year-round if she wanted to. But every shift was a gamble of life and limbs, and Kyra had already spent years waiting for her at home, dreading every phone call.

It was time. Her life was no longer hers alone to risk, not if she wanted to spend a good long chunk of it with Kyra, and she needed her limbs, to do things like slip her hand inside the waistband of Kyra's trousers, to slide along the curve of Kyra's ass, to find the source of Kyra's heat. She'd always been good at that, too.

Kyra was damp and only a little swollen. Disappointing. "You didn't think about me at all today, did you?" she whispered into Kyra's ear, a pout in her voice, milking it for all it was worth.

Kyra's ass pushed back against Kassandra. "I... had to focus." She'd been finishing up a painting, the canvas almost as tall as Kassandra, bound for some rich man's house up in the San Juans. The sale would pay their property taxes for the year.

She'd been working so hard lately. She deserved a reward.

That was something Kassandra could give her. "How about focusing on this?" she said, and she slid her fingers close to Kyra's clit, close, but not quite touching, and grinned when Kyra dropped the paintbrush into the sink and pressed her palms into the countertop.

"Fuck," Kyra said, her voice quivering, and soon her muscles were quivering too, as Kassandra's fingertip set a fireline around her clit and Kyra's body answered with wet, sticky heat.

"Patience, love."

Kyra's laugh was short and incredulous. "Patience? That's rich, coming from—"

She slipped two fingers inside and stole the rest of the thought, and Kyra gasped and rocked her hips in reflex. Kassandra leaned forward and pinned Kyra harder up against the counter, and she buried her face into Kyra's hair, breathing in the toasty scent of her, warm and familiar and perfect...

Then she heard Kyra's voice, saying, "How long can you hold out, really," the burr of it vibrating into her own chest and lodging there as Kyra clenched her muscles tight around Kassandra's fingers.

"Sounds like a challenge," Kassandra said, and her free hand brushed Kyra's hair aside to expose her neck, stroked across her solid shoulder and bicep and forearm down to her hand, and their fingers entwined as Kassandra bent and started branding hot kisses into the arc of her neck. And sometimes it wasn't a kiss — it was the sear of raked teeth, or the burn of suction, Kassandra's wants flaring against her surface.

Oh, how she wanted. The heat in her belly burned along her veins, like fire spreading through tree roots under the forest floor. She wanted to fuck Kyra hard until she came, then fuck her again and again. But the gauntlet had been thrown. How long can you hold out?

Now Kyra was trembling and panting as Kassandra worked her up with short, teasing strokes that climbed but never peaked. But as rarely as Kyra ever begged out loud, her body always did it for her, her mouth falling open, her thighs spreading wide to expose how fucking soaked she was.

Oh, how Kyra wanted, too.

She was so wet that she ran down Kassandra's fingers, pooling in the palm of her hand. Ready and willing. And so Kassandra smiled, flexed her fingers, and...

Stopped.

Outside, it was raining hard enough for fat droplets to splash in through the open window. Kassandra pulled her hand away, her heartbeat doubling up at Kyra's whimpers of frustration, and she reached across the sink and tugged the window closed.

Her hands on Kyra's hips, firm, pulling her around so they stood face to face. A kiss as she loosened buttons, tugged trousers down. And then she lifted Kyra up to sit on the edge of the counter next to the sink, and Kyra stared at her, breathless and flickering.

She ran her hand through Kyra's slick heat, eased the tips of her fingers inside. Kyra sighed and her thighs spilled open wider. Wanting more. God, she was beautiful this way.

Then Kassandra leaned closer so their foreheads touched, and Kyra lifted her arms and circled them around Kassandra's neck, and they breathed each other in, and Kassandra closed her eyes and listened to the surge and splash of her own blood.

"Kassandra?"

"Hmm?"

"If you don't do something in the next two seconds, you're sleeping in the studio tonight."

Kassandra played dumb. "Oh, was there something you wanted?"

Kyra rolled her eyes. "Isn't it obvious?" She always had an attitude when she was being done to.

"Something like this?" Kassandra asked innocently. And she stroked deep deep inside, easily, languidly, until Kyra tilted her head back and let out a moan in perfect counterpoint to the rain drumming against the roof.

Kassandra was retired now. She had all the time in the world, and she made sure Kyra knew it, knew that the stamina that had powered Kassandra up and down mountains while carrying fifty pounds of gear and a chainsaw was now going to keep Kyra right on the edge of orgasm as long as Kassandra wanted.

Rain on the roof, dripping from the eaves, soaking the earth, the air scented with dark rich soil and the musk of need as they moved outside of time. "Oh god," Kyra said at some point, as she wriggled on the countertop, eyes closed, arms a circle of tension around Kassandra's neck. She was close, too close. Kassandra pulled back. Slower now. Not so deep. Feel Kyra quivering around her fingers, feel Kyra want.

All Kyra had to do was say please. She knew it, always had. But she was stubborn, so stubborn that it gave her secret away.

"You love it when I do this," Kassandra said, and then she leaned forward and kissed Kyra, helping herself to that sumptuous mouth while her fingers kept moving in the rhythms of build-up and denial. "I haven't been taking care of you well enough, if you could go all day without thinking about me."

"'s not true."

"Maybe I should wake you up every morning like this." Her fingertips sought the deepest place, that soft, hidden spot, and she lavished it with gentle attention until Kyra was writhing against her. "Work you up so you're just about to come, and then... stop." And she stilled her fingers to match her words.

Kyra buried her face into the side of Kassandra's neck, shuddering into her in long, rolling waves.

"You'd think about me then, hmm?"

Kyra groaned into her skin.

"I like this idea."

Kyra lifted her head and stared at her, eyes dark as loam and filled with pure, naked wanting. Her lips parted, and her mouth moved soundlessly as she breathed, showing flashes of tongue that made Kassandra's clit burn. Later. They'd plenty of time for that too.

Kassandra smiled. "So remember this part," she said, and then she fucked Kyra for real.

It was glorious, the way Kyra arched her back in offering, the way the muscles in her neck and arms corded as she held on tight, the way she cried out with the fierceness of a hawk as she came. She rippled around Kassandra's fingers, her pleasure imprinting itself into Kassandra's skin, and Kassandra pulled her close, held her as she trembled and caught her breath.

"Fuck," Kyra whispered.

"I was planning to," Kassandra said, and she scooped Kyra up from the counter and carried her in her arms.

"Oh yes. More," Kyra said, smiling her slow, silky smile. "But this time in bed."

Kassandra was already on her way.

Part of the Heat Index...

#kyssandra #kassandra #ac odyssey #wildland firefighter kassandra #yes lol yes yes yes #shameless smut #plot what plot #distracting myself from this hell week by writing smut #*slaps the top of this fic* this bad boy can hold so much self-indulgence #this is what sellout was supposed to be before i screwed up that story #yes mom I'm writing smut now #heat index

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lokislittlesigyn · 4 years ago

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A Day’s Work - Pt.1

Hi everyone!! This is an older fic I started a while ago and was pretty happy with. It seemed a good opportunity to get started with posting things. Basically, this is a random au (may simply classify silly/nonsense fics into a separate au category of their own) based around Marvel, focusing on Loki and my own interpretation/characterization of his wife Sigyn. hence... you know, my blog name and pfp and. yeah, you get the picture.

Pairing: Loki / Sigyn (basically an oc based off the marvel/myth namesake)

Warnings: The Collector being creepy (as usual), some capture but don’t fret! It’s short-lived.

Summary: The Guardians of The Galaxy have been, well, guarding the galaxy on their own time. But when a handsome reward for the safe return of an Asgardian princess is released, they may get more adventure than they bargained for.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Peter, you're an idiot." Gamora took a seat in the Milano’s cockpit, releasing a loud sigh.

"Yeah, yeah, I know..." Peter turned the ship, and within seconds the were on their way to Xandar. "It's not my fault that guy had literally the ugliest mug in the galaxy."

"He was not carrying a mug," Drax piped up from behind them, furrowing his brow at Peter.

"Face, then! Ugliest face."

"I disagree." Drax settled back into his seat. "You have the ugliest face."

"I am Groot."

Peter glared over his shoulder. "If you don't cut it out, I swear I will turn this spaceship around." Soon, the bunch of misfits reached Xandar. Landed, and took the opportunity to roam the city - partly in search for unclaimed bounties.

"Okay, since we haven't had the best luck under Quill's leadership lately, I’m electing myself as new leader of the group," Rocket smirked, holding a tiny baby Groot on his shoulder.

"Hey!" Peter huffed, "That Sakaarian was just one guy. One dude out of the whole universe. Every one of us has had a - a slight disagreement, over a keg of beer."

"I am Groot."

"Okay, except you. But you don't count."

"I am Groot!"

"All right fine, you count!"

Gamora rolled her eyes, walking over to a large, white wall, containing a screen that was shifting between advertisements. "Hey, come look at this." She put her hand up, stilling the screen.

Peter furrowed his brow, his hands on his hips. "Reward for the safe capture and return of an.. Asgardian? Asgardian princess?"

Rocket whistled. "Gorgeous."

"Yeah, I guess she's pretty-"

"I was talkin' about the money."

Peter's eyes settled on the bounty price, then widened. He grinned. "How do you guys feel about a rescue mission?" ~~~~ Sigyn awoke with a pounding headache. She blinked. Looked down at her bound hands. Great...

It was dark, but in the further reaches of the shadows she could make out the edges of rusty metal walls. In front of her stood an equally-rusted cell door. Past it, another cell stood, identical if not for the fact it was empty. She stood, steadying herself against the wall. Voices came from down the hall.

"...won't remember anything. I gave her a double dose."

"Dunno, Asgardians are tough..."

"Not this one."

Two men stepped in front of her cell. Each wore patchy, well-worn clothes. One looked tanned and scruffy, the other had blue skin marred with scars.

"Oh look, she's awake," The blue one chuckled.

Sigyn stepped back, eyeing both of them. "Where am I?"

"That's not much'a your business, is it?" The man glared at her.

"Where are you taking me?"

"Knowhere." He smirked.

She blinked. "What... You must be taking me somewhere."

He nodded. "Knowhere. Hang tight, princess." Both men walked off, leaving her alone. She huffed, eyeing the door... Then noticed the clothing she had on. Interwoven leather and cloth, bits of metal, armored bracers on her forearms... Nothing like what those men wore.

What was going on?

She sat back down, defeated. Her headache became overwhelming, throbbing... She placed her head in her hands. ~~~~ Meanwhile, onboard the Milano, Rocket stepped over to a table in the center of the common area. "Now, behold." Rocket set a metal object that looked haphazardly thrown-together on the table. "A genuine Asgardian tracking device. Call it an A-T-D."

"You found a way to track Asgardians?" Peter raised his brows, arms crossed.

"Well yeah, why'd you think I called it an Asgardian tracking device?"

"I am Groot."

"Exactly! The nerve of some people!"

Peter rolled his eyes. Gamora spoke up. "How does it track them?"

"Now that is a good question." Rocket pressed a button on the side of the device. It started beeping slowly. "I won't reveal all my secrets, but it basically traces Asgardian DNA."

"Where did you get Asgardian DNA?"

Rocket grinned. "I have my ways."

"So we'll follow your tracker until we find the princess, grab her, maybe shoot some guys, and take her back to Asgard safe and sound?" Peter shifted his weight.

"That's the plan."

"..I love it. Good work, Rocket."

"Well, I am the resident genius." ~~~~ Soon, the Guardians reached Knowhere to the tune of Drax’s snoring, the tracker’s continuous beeping, and Suspicious Minds playing softly.

The tracking device released another loud, long bloop before returning to its rhythmic beeping - unfortunately, out of sync with the music.

"That toaster of yours better work," Peter huffed.

"I told you, Quill, it's already working. It's brought us this far, hasn't it?"

"We'll see. Asgardians are usually easy to spot anyway," Gamora stood, walking to the front of the cockpit. "They're loud and overbearing. Proud."

"Yeah but they've got a full medieval look, right? Armor and everything?"

"Yes, usually."

"So we're looking for a ren faire princess. Got it."

Rocket and Gamora exchanged a confused look. She shrugged.

The Milano landed, and the Guardians - after waking up Drax - began their search. Peter lead the way.

"All right, we should stick together. Remember what happened last time we came here."

"You ruined our chance at selling the Orb?" Rocket smirked.

"Okay, first of all, that wasn't entirely my fault." Peter huffed, glancing at Gamora. "Where should we start..?"

"I think we should follow the tracker," Gamora glanced around, "And keep an eye out for anything sapphire. Asgardians like wearing distinct colors - from her picture, it looks like sapphire is hers."

"Right."

"Hey, I got something!" Rocket held up the tracker, which had begun beeping faster. "This way!" He scampered off, the team in tow.

They reached the same bar they'd visited before,when waiting to meet the Collector.

"Geez, this thing is going crazy..."

"Rocket." Gamora said.

"I mean it's really losing its mind. Maybe I should've-"

"Rocket!" Gamora pointed to the betting table.

There, on the other side, the princess was being lead to the Collector's back room.

"...Oh."

~~~~

The two men from before lead Sigyn through a strange, crowded room, past droves of cheering spectators. What was going on? She tried bumping into people to get their attention, tried catching someone’s eye, but the blaster pressed to her back kept her lips sealed.

They reached a back room. Walked through a maze-like trail of glass cages, lead by a pink woman whose smile looked far too forced.

Sigyn looked inside the glass cages, gasping when one of the beings inside moved. What is this place? she thought, swallowing hard when they stopped walking. Sigyn stood between the rugged aliens who lead her, staring forward at the strange man before her. He lowered a contraption that looked much like a mix between binoculars and glasses, setting them and the precious stone he was examining on the table before him.

"May I present, Taneleer Tivan, The Collector." The pink woman nodded to him, then disappeared behind more glass cages.

"As promised," The blue man smirked, "An Asgardian. The princess herself. Safe and sound. Not a scratch on her."

"Oh," the Collector leaned over the table, studying Sigyn much like he had the stone. She tensed. Felt a chill go down her spine. "How you managed a feat such as this, I cannot grasp.." He walked around the table, reaching out to Sigyn. When she didn't move, the men forced her hands toward him. He took one, kissing it, gaze never leaving her face. "It is an honor, fair princess."

Sigyn was frozen in fear. She clenched her jaw, pulling away from him as soon as he'd let her. "I-I.. What do you want with me?"

The Collector only chuckled. "She looks reasonably healthy.." He grabbed her jaw, turning her face back and forth. She gritted her teeth, staring at him.

"About that..” The blue man smirked. “We want two million additional units. Seeing as she's a healthy, young princess, seems fair.."

"Yes.. Yes, that would be fair. Stellina," He called. The pink woman returned. "Transfer the units to these gentlemen."

"Wait- I'm not for sale!" Sigyn struggled against her captors. "I am not a princess! I don't know who you think I am, but-"

"Quiet," the blue man snarled. "We hit her with a big dose of Amnesiac Gas."

The Collector glanced at her with an amused expression. "How long until it wears off?"

The man shrugged.

"Well, never mind, then..." He sent Stellina to open one of the glass cages. "I trust the Asgardians have no idea you are here?"

"Not a clue," The other one snickered, "We made out in the dead of night. Didn't even know it was us takin' her."

The men started moving toward the cage. Sigyn's heart leapt from her chest.

"Wait- Wait, no, no no no, please don't! Please!" She kicked, managing to rip her arm away from one of the men, only to be firmly grabbed by the Collector himself, who kept one hand around her wrist, the other on her throat. "Now, little beauty, don't struggle so. I do not intend to hurt you." He brushed a finger across her cheek - gentle. Too gentle. Tears welled up in her eyes. "You will be a prize addition to my collection." In a swift movement, he pushed her into the cage, and before she could jump out, Stellina closed the door. It locked with a snap.

Sigyn slammed against the glass, tears flowing out steadily. "No! Let me out! Please, I beg you, I'll do ANYTHING!" She hit the glass with her fists.

"Pleasure doing business with you as always, gentlemen." The Collector shooed the two men off, then turned to Stellina. "Do something about that noise. But do not hurt her, or you will take her place."

Stellina bowed her head, then turned to Sigyn, who was still pounding on the glass.

#lokixsigyn #loki fanfic #logyn #aaaaaaa?#guardiansofthegalaxy #gotg fanfiction #assortedau

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bethagain · 4 years ago

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I saw a post the other day lamenting that Din probably hasn’t felt the sun on his skin in years, and it reminded me that I never did share a tumblr version of this fic.

So, here's part III of my series On From Here. In which Din moves some rocks, eats some cake, and sits in a sunbeam.

Honest Work

The inn has a mechanical lift. It’s a small square box that lowers on a pulley. A thin cable rises from its roof and disappears into darkness above. Din looks at it skeptically and then takes the stairs. They’re narrow and dark, the treads shallow.

“Leave the key!” the innkeeper calls after him, as he strides across the dimly lit lobby toward the exit.

Making an enemy of his host here is not a good idea.

He pauses to lay the key on the counter. The dull brass shank of it clinks against its worn metal fob. There’s nothing in the room to steal, anyway.

The town center consists of a handful of low-slung buildings, all with the same tile roofs. Din pauses at the window of a repair shop. Everything inside looks old, mechanical, un-streamlined. They’d probably know exactly how to fix up the Razor Crest, with its pre-Imperial control system and antique wiring. If there were still a Razor Crest to fix.

Next is a general store, with bolts of fabric, tools, and fresh produce all for sale together. There’s a four-legged riding beast tied outside, a simple saddle on its back. A woman is choosing meemfruit from a bin near the door. She turns to watch him walk by.

There doesn’t seem to be a proper drinking establishment. At the end of the row is a small cafe, with a handful of tables and a bar at the back. Several of the tables are occupied. Some people on their own, some groups of adults, a couple of families. Most have plates of food in front of them. A shelf above the bar holds an assortment of liquor bottles.

This place will have to do.

He orders a glass of whiskey, for the sake of manners, and settles in at the bar to wait. The armor serves as its own advertisement.

"You're not going to find what you’re looking for here."

He turns toward the voice. The words are from a grizzled man seated at a corner table.

Din doesn’t bother answering, just squares his shoulders back toward the bar again. Every place has someone who’s hiding. And someone else who wants them found.

The man has come over to the bar, now, and is sliding onto the stool beside him.

Great.

"This is not that kind of town."

"Every town is that kind of town."

"Not here." The man signals to the waiter, who pours something from a spigot and sets it down. Tiny bubbles break its surface, making a faint sound of static. He takes a drink. "We didn't hold with the Empire. We don't hold with the New Republic. We live and let live, around here."

"Fine." Maybe if Din agrees, this man will go away.

"You try to bring somebody in, the whole town's going to stop you."

"Look," says Din, "I have no quarrel with anyone here. I'm just looking to earn a few credits."

The helmet’s interface lets him know that someone’s taken the barstool on his other side. The screen fills the gaps in his peripheral vision. It’s a woman, long hair in a braid, sleeveless top and arms of solid muscle.

“Not here,” she says.

The other tables are emptying, more townspeople coming to form a semicircle behind him. Even the children are glaring at him.

Damn.

“All right.” He knows better than to move his hands without a warning. “Let me pay for my drink, and I’ll be on my way.” He reaches slowly for the pouch at his waist, keeping his hand well clear of his blaster. “What do I owe you?”

The bartender names a figure. Din doubles it, setting down the small stack of credits before rising to leave.

The bartender tries to give the extra back. “That’s too much.”

“You keep it,” Din says. “Payment for the trouble.”

“Hold on.” It’s the man on the barstool beside him again. “You really just looking for work?”

Din waits, standing there by the bar. The townspeople stay there in their circle, but hands are starting to drift away from holsters. The weapons here seem to be mostly slugthrowers. Mechanical things, not blasters with their circuitry and electrics. Interesting.

“Any kind of work?” the man asks.

There are limits, even for someone like Din. “Honest work.”

The man grins at him, white teeth flashing through his unruly beard. “You look strong enough,” he says. “If it’s not beneath you, in your fancy armor there. I need somebody to move some rocks."

The job is not at all what Din had in mind, but it does, indeed, sound like honest work. And he’s not in a place to be picky.

He’s sitting next to the bearded man on a plank across the front of a high-wheeled wooden cart. The cart is pulled by two solid-looking beasts, four-legged and shaggy. Their pace is sedate and steady, the cart rolling easily over grassland. They’re headed toward a row of trees in a valley, between rolling hills.

The trees mark a stream, the man says, and on that stream is an old stone dam that diverts the water. “We’re opening up new farmland. Need to get that water back in its proper course. Get it down to the right place on the land. My regular crew could do it, but it’s heavy work. They’re not itching to volunteer.”

“Why not use an antigrav lifter?” Why pay a man for a whole day’s work, when a simple machine would cut that down to a couple of hours.

“We’re not big believers in tech around here. Parts have to be imported. Electric’s complicated to repair. We don’t care to be dependent on anyone, any more than we have to.”

That explains the shop in town, then, with its antique machinery in the window. And the hotel lift, and the drying jets that don’t work anymore.

“That’s why the slugthrowers?"

“You noticed. That’s right.” The man chuckles. “Keeps things calmer, too. If you have to forge a new bullet every time you use one, you’re a little less likely to draw.”

The cart trundles along. The sky overhead is a clear blue, the sun warm. Din nudges up the cooling system in his armor.

They go along a little way among the trees, until they’re beside a narrow stream of clear water. It emerges from a low pile of stones at the edge of a pond.

From his seat on the cart, the man points to a smaller valley that runs off to the right. “The pond drains over that way, now. Pull the dam out, and it’ll run the way it should again.”

Din takes in the clear stream, the small oval pond, the branching valley. “Who’s using that water now?”

“The folks over yonder were a little too friendly with the Empire,” the man says. “Town asked them to leave.”

“Did they leave?”

“I thought you bounty hunters had a rule about asking questions.”

“This isn’t a Guild job,” Din says.

“Suppose not." The man turns to reach toward the back of the cart, and Din tenses. But he’s just picking up a wooden box by its leather handle. He hands it to Din. "Here's lunch. We're not fancy but our crew eats well. Water in the stream's safe to drink. And don’t worry, there’s no one left to come bother you.”

He waits while Din climbs down from the cart. “You could walk out when you’re done, but it's a long way after a day's work. I'll be back to get you at sundown."

Din watches the cart make its sedate way back through the trees, the shaggy beasts pulling at their traces, the man humming off-key as he goes.

He finds a flat rock to put the lunch box on. It contains a dented metal cup, a stack of wrapped sandwiches, some pieces of a fruit he doesn’t recognize, and a generous slice of cake that smells of ginger and dark sugar.

He closes the box back up again and goes over to inspect the dam.

This certainly isn’t his usual kind of work. But a ship needs fuel and a man needs food, and pushing on to the next port with just the credits he has on hand feels reckless. Unwise. Plus, being in debt to Boba Fett is like a deep itch under his skin. It’s not comfortable. He wants it gone.

Din is no engineer, but piloting a ship means he’s used to thinking in three dimensions. He considers the shape of the dam, the way the rocks are stacked atop one another, the chinks where the water flows through. The thing looks like it was hand-built, the stones large enough not to move with the water but small enough to be picked up. The original stream cut a gully into the soil, but it’s shallow, the dam itself only a bit over knee-high.

The forest floor here is carpeted with broad, leathery leaves. Wide-trunked trees are spaced far apart, with little undergrowth between them. Their canopies cast shade across the ground. Here and there, a few sunbeams find their way through.

If he starts at the far side, removing the rocks in vertical columns, the stream should come slowly back to life. His gloves will protect his hands from the roughness of the stone. His boots are already sticking in the mud at the edge of the water. They’re water-resistant, good for a while in a rainstorm, but they’re going to be soaked through by the time he’s done.

At first, muscles complain at being asked to move in ways they’re not used to. This steady pattern of bend, lift, bend is very different from the sudden, sharp quickness of a fight. His daily workouts are rigorous but they’re precise, prescribed patterns. Each of these stones has a different shape, a different weight. Keeping his feet out of the water, keeping his balance on the slight slope makes each one its own physics problem, its own little challenge.

Soon enough, though, he’s settled into the rhythm of it. He remembers to use his legs when lifting, to save strain on his back. He kicks up the cooling system again, as sweat begins to gather under the armor.

The armor’s physiological monitors are simple, but they register heartbeat, breathing, temperature. Normally, he ignores the ping that says it might be time to take a break, to drink some water and catch his breath. Because normally, when that ping goes off, taking a break would either be desperately stupid--in the middle of a firefight?--or stupidly desperate, like during the hours walking the Tatooine desert back to Mos Eisley, carrying the wreckage of a speeder bike, no water at all on board.

This time, he gets the dented cup from the wooden box and carries it over to the stream. It’s already flowing faster, but his work has kicked up sediment. Din goes back to the box, grabs one of the wrapped sandwiches, and sets out to find the pond’s other outlet.

It’s not far. The other stream burbles over a few rocks at the edge of the pond, then curves through another shallow gully and off down a gentle slope and away. One of the great trees rises nearby, a couple of its wide roots undercut by the water.

He’s starting to feel chilled as the cooling system interacts with sweat-dampened clothing, so he switches the cooling circuits off. The helmet’s interface tells him the air outside is still warm.

Din considers, sandwich in one hand, cup in the other. There is a sunbeam crossing over the tree roots, making the water sparkle.

The forest around him is quiet.

Decision made, he dips the cup in the stream, then chooses a spot to sit on one of the wide tree roots, back against the trunk. He balances the cup on the leaf-covered ground, sets the sandwich down beside it. Then he lifts the helmet from his head, setting it in his lap as he rests his head on the tree’s rough bark, eyes closed against the brightness of the sun.

When did he last feel sunlight on his skin? It’s been a while. Before he picked up the child, surely. It hasn’t been safe to let his guard down. How long before that, though? He thinks back, but it’s a blur of work, the halls of the Nevarro covert, the streets of strange towns.

Din knows better than to stay in the sun for long. Skin that’s always covered has no defense against UV rays. After a few minutes he shifts to the shade, sitting crosslegged on the forest floor. The water from the stream is sweet, with a slight mineral taste underneath. The sandwich isn’t bad either, fresh bread dotted with different kinds of grain, slices of some kind of tender meat and crisp green leaves with just a hint of bitter.

He makes his way back around the pond to continue the work. Wiggle each stone free. Lift, carry. He’s building a sort of stone cairn, setting each one down neatly, just because it feels good to see the thing take shape.

His gloves are soaked by now, as he has to reach into the water to get at the lowest rows of stones. The water can’t be good for the circuits in the vambraces so he sheds those, too, setting them down on the flat rock beside the wooden lunch box, where his helmet already sits.

He could keep the cooling system running, but it’s not designed for this kind of exertion. The constant movement will keep the power cell charged, but he’s sweating in spite of it, and the chill from the beskar is a distraction instead of a comfort.

He’s already vulnerable without the helmet and the vambraces. He lays out cuirass, pauldrons, hip and thigh plates on that flat stone. His hand pauses on the blaster, but if it’s waterlogged it’s not going to work at all.

He looks down at the thick fabric of the flightsuit, already wet at wrists and ankles. He's got another layer underneath it. May as well leave that too.

He makes a detour through another sunbeam on the way back to the dam.

Without the armor to filter the outside world, he’s aware of the warmth of the sun on his back. Of the change in temperature between sun and shadow.

Without the helmet’s interface, he marks time by how the patches of sun creep slowly across the forest floor.

When a rush of water takes him by surprise, soaking him from elbow to wrist and chest to hip, he sheds his shirt, laying it out on the stone cairn to dry.

The air is still warm. The water that splashes his wrists is cool. He pauses again for food, then sets back to work. At one point he cups his hands in the running stream and drinks, then runs wet hands through his sweat-soaked hair.

Clearing the last few stones means sinking his hands into mud to wrest them free. When he’s carried them over and set them atop the neat pile, he looks down and finds he’s covered in mud from chest to waistband.

His employer said he’d be back at sunset. Din looks up, judging the height of the sun in the sky. Late afternoon, he guesses, edging into evening. It’s unpleasant fitting the helmet back on over wet hair, his face still damp with sweat, but he does it. The chrono built into the interface tells him there’s a good two hours until sundown.

He turns a slow circle, heat and motion sensors overlaying his vision, sound turned up high. There’s birdsong high above him, but otherwise the forest is still.

He fetches his shirt, piles the armor and flightsuit into his arms and carries it all to the edge of the pond. Then, thinking what the hell, he shucks boots, socks, and leggings and wades on in.

Din doesn’t know how to swim. It’s not a skill he normally needs in his work. It’s not a skill he particularly needs now, either. But the mud is pleasantly soft against his feet, the water soothing to tired muscles. He ducks his head under, scrubs at the dirt on his chest, rinses away sweat.

For the second time today, he uses his shirt to dry off. The approach of evening is bringing a slight chill to the air, so he pulls his other clothes back on, fastening the flightsuit over his bare chest this time before setting the pieces of his armor in place.

Back at the flat stone he considers another sandwich, decides on the cake instead, and then sits there a while, licking sugar from his fingers and watching the stream at its full strength now as it sparkles its way down the valley.

True to his word, the man is back with the wagon just as the sunbeams finish fading. He takes note of the neat cairn, and of the unfettered stream. “I wasn’t sure you’d really do it,” he says. “Guy like you. Work like this.”

Din just looks at him, impassive behind the helmet. He’s pretty much done with dignity these days, but this man doesn’t need to know it.

“Well,” the man says. “We’re clearing more land tomorrow. If you want another day’s work.”

“I’ll take my pay for this one.”

“Of course.” He counts out the amount they agreed on and drops it into Din’s hand. “I mean it. We can always use a strong set of hands.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Where are you staying?”

Din names the inn.

The man nods. “I’ll drop you there?”

“That would be fine.”

The first stars are out by the time Din steps down from the wagon, credits in his pocket and the last two sandwiches in his hand. He picks up the key from the innkeeper, climbs the narrow stairs, locks the door of the room behind him. He hangs his wet shirt in the shower room, lays out his wet gloves and socks to dry, strips off the armor and sets it carefully on the floor. His skin smells faintly of mud and minerals, but he can’t be bothered to shower. He sits by the window to eat, watching more stars emerge from the clear, dark sky.

The money in his pocket won’t buy much. It’s a little more fuel, another day or two of getting by.

He’ll leave in the morning. Probably.

He still has no idea where to go.

#the mandalorian #fanfic #din djarin #my fic

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intermodalcontainers · 20 days ago

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