#waste utilization in concrete

[nnctales]

Replacing Aggregates in Concrete with Waste Materials: A Sustainable Approach for a Greener Future

Introduction Concrete, a ubiquitous material in the construction industry, has been the cornerstone of modern infrastructure. It is composed of cement, aggregates, water, and admixtures, where aggregates play a crucial role in providing strength and stability to the concrete mix. Traditionally, natural aggregates like sand and gravel have been the primary choice, but the increasing demand for…

[lightasthesun]

Comprehensive Lexicon Guide for First-Time SW Fic Readers:

Flimsi/Flimsiplast = Paper

Flimsiwork/Datawork = Paperwork

Stylus = Pen

Datapad = Tablet

Comlink/Comm = Communication Device/Phone

Binders = Handcuffs

Chronometer = Clock

Spectacles = Eyeglasses

Chrono = Watch

Conservator = Refrigerator

Caf = Coffee

Nerfburger = Hamburger

Blue milk = Milk (literally blue)

Hubba chips = French Fries

Sweet roll = Doughnut

Flatcakes = Pancakes

Tabac = Tobacco

HoloNet = World Wide Web

Holovision/HoloTV = Television

Holodrama/Holovids = Movie/Videos

Holocamera/Holocam = Camera

Holomap = three-dimensional map

Holojournal = Newspaper

Holocube = Picture frame

Holotable = Projector

Holoscanner = X-ray machine

Holojournalist = Reporter

Flatholo/Holograph = Photograph

Sonic Damper = Active Noise Cancellation

Refresher/Fresher= Bathroom

Sonic Bath = Bath

Sanisteam/Sonic shower = Waterless Shower

Hydrospanner = Wrench

Hydro Flask = Water Bottle

Power Cell/Energy Cell = Batteries

Authorization Chip = Decryption key

Datatape = Disk

Datastick = Flash drive

(Personal) Com Code = Phone number

Datachip = SD Card

Synthflesh = Synthetic skin

Glowrod = Flashlight

Sparkstick = Match

Slugthrower = Gun

Slug = Bullet

Vibroblade = a blade that can vibrate at high frequencies, increasing its cutting power and penetrating ability (tactical knife)

Rangefinder = Rifle scope

Turbolaser = Cannon

Ion pike/Vibropike = Spear

Electro Staff = Stun baton

Blaster = Pistol/Rifle

Stun Blaster = similar to a Taser

Landspeeder/Airspeeder/Speeder = Car

Turbolift = Elevator

Slideramp = Escalator

Starfighter = Fighter jet

Rotorcraft = Helicopter

Hoverpack/Jetpack= Jet pack

Speeder Bike = Motorcycle

Skylane = Traffic lane

Railspeeder/Hovertrain = Train

Power Chair/Hoverchair= Wheelchair

Windscreen = Windshield

Podracing = Car racing

Dejarik = Chess

Sabacc = Poker and Blackjack combined

Galactic Rebels = Combat simulator

B'shingh = Dungeons and dragons

Jizz = Jazz music

Wailer = Singer (ie. Jizz Wailer)

Cantina = Bar or Pup

Para Sailing = Paragliding

Aurebesh = Alphabet

Credits = Money

Sleeping Pallet = Bedroll

Naming Day = Birthday

Youngling = Child

Galactic Basic Standard/ Basic = English

Medkit/Medpac = First aid kit

Hypo = Syringe

Medic/Healer = Doctor

Medcenter = Hospital

Bactapatch = Bandaid

Nanoweave = Fabric

Transparisteel = Glass

Plastifoam = Packing material

Durasteel = Steel

Plasteel = Plastic

Duracrete = Concrete

Slicer = Hacker (slicing = hacking)

Identikit = Passport

Minder = Therapist

Synthleather = Vinyl

Viewport = Window

Cooling Unit = Air-conditioning

Honeydarter = Bee

Slythmonger = Drugdealer

Spice = Drugs

Stimpill = Caffeine pill

Power Socket = Plug

Cutters = Scissors

Cycle = Day

Standard Cycle = 24h

Standard Week = 5 days

Standard Month = 35 standard days

Standard Year = approx. ten months

Tenday = literally ten days

Cigarras/Smokes = Cigarettes

Click = Kilometer or 'a moment'

Parsec = a unit of distance

Tweezers/Clanker/tin head/tinnie = Droid

Separatist = Seppie

Promise Ring = Wedding Ring

Body Glove = Jumpsuit

Slicksuit = Wet suit

Civvies = Civilian clothing

Carbonite = a metal alloy used to freeze a person in a state of hibernation

Hyperdrive = device that allows a starship to travel faster than lightspeed

Moisture vaporator = device that can extract water from the air, commonly used on tatooine

Glareshades = Sunglasses

Gasser = Gas Oven

Repulsorlift = technology that can create an anti-gravity field and is used for levitating heavy objects

Heating unit = Heater

Utility Droid = Roomba

Sunbonnet = a Clone trooper helmet

Bad Batcher = a defective Clone Trooper

Banthabrain = birdbrain/ a stupid person

Bantha fodder = waste of space/nonsense

Blast! = word of exclamation

Blasted! = s.o in anger or annoyance

Blaster-brained = dimwitted

Blaster fodder = cannon fodder

Blast off = Piss off

Brainless = Stupid

Bug/Bugger = used to refer to Geonosians

Forceforsaken = godforsaken

Full of Poodoo = full of shit

Poodoo = Shit

Kriff = Fuck

Jedi scum = derogatory term for jedi

Kark = derogatory expletive

Larty = LAAT/i gunship

Laserbrain = insult

Meat droid = derogatory term for Clone Troopers

Redrobes = Palpatines guard

Rookie/Shinie = newly recruited Trooper

Scum = insult to refer to bounty hunters/rebels

Sharpie = Sharp-witted

Sithspawn/Sithspit/Hellspawn! = expletive

Sleemo = Slimeball

Son of a bantha = insult

Wizard! = Cool

Spaced = dead

Hutt-spawn = Bastard

Karabast = exclamation of dismay

Stang = Crap

Buckethead/Bucketbrain = derogatory term for Stormtroopers

Bucket = Helmet

Nat-born = Natural Born

Roger Roger = affirmative/copy that

Droid poppers = EMP grenade

Sitrep = short for situation report

Backwater Planet = any planet that isn't part of the core system

Holocron = device that can project a three-dimensional image of a person/object and is used for communication or entertainment.

Kessel Run = a risky Operation. Commonly used as a metaphor in impossible situations.

Thermal Detonator= device that can create a powerful explosion like a grenade or bomb

Ray Shield/Energy Shield = creates a (protective) barrier

Rebreather = device that allows a person to breathe underwater or in toxic environments

Phrases:

Wild goose chase = wild bantha chase

That's bantha shit = that's bullshit

As slippery as a greased Dug = untrustworthy

Credit for your thoughts = penny for your thoughts

Cut the poodoo = cut the crap

to get your gills in a twist = get upset about something

Holy mother of meteors = holy mother of god

Oh my skies/ Oh my stars = exclamation of surprise

Stars' end! = exclamation of disbelief

What in the blue blazes = exclamation

When Geonosis freezes over/When it snows on tatooine = extremely unlikely

Who pissed in your power supply = who pissed you off

Blast it = damn it

By the maker = exclamation of surprise

Great karking Dragon = expression of disbelief

Lothcat got your tongue = equivalent of 'cat got your tongue?'

Sod it = expression of frustration

[reasonsforhope]

"In China, a landscape architect is reimagining cities across the vast country by working with nature to combat flooding through the ‘sponge city’ concept.

Through his architecture firm Turenscape, Yu has created hundreds of projects in dozens of cities using native plants, dirt, and clever planning to absorb excess rainwater and channel it away from densely populated areas.

Flooding, especially in the two Chinese heartlands of the commercial south and the agricultural north, is becoming increasingly common, but Yu says that concrete and pipe solutions can only go so far. They’re inflexible, expensive, and require constant maintenance. According to a 2021 World Bank report, 641 of China’s 654 largest cities face regular flooding.

“There’s a misconception that if we can build a flood wall higher and higher, or if we build the dams higher and stronger, we can protect a city from flooding,” Yu told CNN in a video call. “(We think) we can control the water… that is a mistake.”

Pictured: The Benjakitti Forest Park in Bangkok

Yu has been called the “Chinese Olmstead” referring to Frederick Law Olmstead, the designer of NYC’s Central Park. He grew up in a little farming village of 500 people in Zhejiang Province, where 36 weirs channel the waters of a creek across terraced rice paddies.

Once a year, carp would migrate upstream and Yu always looked forward to seeing them leap over the weirs.

This synthesis of man and nature is something that Turenscape projects encapsulate. These include The Nanchang Fish Tail Park, in China’s Jiangxi province, Red Ribbon Park in Qinghuandao, Hebei province, the Sanya Mangrove Park in China’s island province of Hainan, and almost a thousand others. In all cases, Yu utilizes native plants that don’t need any care to develop extremely spongey ground that absorbs excess rainfall.

Pictured: The Dong’an Wetland Park, another Turescape project in Sanya.

He often builds sponge projects on top of polluted or abandoned areas, giving his work an aspect of reclamation. The Nanchang Fish Tail Park for example was built across a 124-acre polluted former fish farm and coal ash dump site. Small islands with dawn redwoods and two types of cypress attract local wildlife to the metropolis of 6 million people.

Sanya Mangrove Park was built over an old concrete sea wall, a barren fish farm, and a nearby brownfield site to create a ‘living’ sea wall.

One hectare (2.47 acres) of Turenscape sponge land can naturally clean 800 tons of polluted water to the point that it is safe enough to swim in, and as a result, many of the sponge projects have become extremely popular with locals.

One of the reasons Yu likes these ideas over grand infrastructure projects is that they are flexible and can be deployed as needed to specific areas, creating a web of rain sponges. If a large drainage, dam, seawall, or canal is built in the wrong place, it represents a huge waste of time and money.

Pictured: A walkway leads visitors through the Nanchang Fish Tail Park.

The sponge city projects in Wuhan created by Turenscape and others cost in total around half a billion dollars less than proposed concrete ideas. Now there are over 300 sponge projects in Wuhan, including urban gardens, parks, and green spaces, all of which divert water into artificial lakes and ponds or capture it in soil which is then released more slowly into the sewer system.

Last year, The Cultural Landscape Foundation awarded Yu the $100,000 Oberlander Prize for elevating the role of design in the process of creating nature-based solutions for the public’s enjoyment and benefit."

-via Good News Network, August 15, 2024

[zyafics]

DEAD MAN WALKING | Rafe Cameron

MASTERLIST (Series)

Pairing —Mafia Boss x Doctor!Female Reader .ᐟ

Summary — When Rafe gets injured in a shootout, he can't make it home in time to save his life. However, it's just his luck to find a medical student walking out of her shift from the hospital. When he threatens you to save him, you do, but when he returns to uncover that the wound is more deadly than it seems—time is ticking for you to find a cure or die.

Content — 18+, explicit (to be determined).

It's late.

A consequence of staying overtime. Most medical students from your program left after their shift ended, but not you. You wanted more—to shadow surgeries behind spectator glass, to listen to pagers' on-calls, to follow the path of grunt work—because you believe in learning from the bottom up. It wasn't until one of the residents forcefully removed you from a debrief and mandated you to go home and rest that you finally left.

Exiting the hospital, a cool wind breezes over your exposed arms, causing goosebumps to rise. The night is dusky and grim; thick clouds envelop the dark sky, amplifying the fainted glow of lights streaming through the open windows of apartment buildings. Very few cars are passing through the main road, despite your place of work being in the center of the metropolitan area. It's empty. Quiet. Odd.

The parking lot is mostly vacated, except for a few residents' vehicles that have to stay for their hours. You don't own a car, utilizing the city's local public transportation system instead, and thankfully, there's a bus stop across from the hospital.

Your footsteps click against the concrete, each step bringing you closer to your destination, but something in your stomach churns with nausea. Something feels off. The stillness of the night isn't a common occurrence in a lively city bursting with mayhem. But before you can calm your mind—a distinct click is heard, followed by the cold press of a metal handle against the back of your skull.

Your breath hitches.

A gruff, masculine voice orders. "Don't scream."

You want to. Desperately. But you've lived in the city long enough to know it'll do nothing. It might cause your death instead. Defying the very instinct to call for help, the bubble waiting to pop from your throat, you nod once, letting your handler know you abide by his command.

"Turn around."

Your heart pounds against your ribcage, threatening to spill. With measured breaths and cautious steps, you turn.

The sight surprises you. The man holding you in captivity is tall—and devilishly handsome. But that's not your main source of concern. It's the way he's slightly hunched over, his left hand clutching a wound that punctures his abdomen. He's bleeding. Everywhere. Staining the front of his sodden shirt, it drips onto the concrete between the cracks of his fingers.

"You a doctor?" His voice is gravel and strained as if he's holding onto his last string of life. His face is a ghastly shade of pale, uneven breaths escaping in chokes, and sweat collects on the hairline of his forehead.

"I'm–I'm a student." You answer, tripping over your own voice as he tightens his grip around his gun, his fingers trembling. For a brief moment, you consider if you should disarm him. Half of you want to help—to save a man on the brink of death, as you're training to do—but the other half remembers you're being held at gunpoint. If you try, you wonder if he's in enough pain that you can remove the weapon.

But something in his hardened gaze tells you to stay put. That his trigger finger is swifter than you'll ever be and he won't hesitate to waste a bullet.

Scoffing, as if the criteria of your resume isn't enough, he raises his arm where the barrel of the gun stares you down. Your heart skips several beats, palms growing sweaty at the implication that your lack of experience can be your end.

"I can help."

He doesn't answer, eyeing you with contempt. You're still wearing your blue scrubs, the clip of the badge hanging on your waist. You look official; a formal member of the medical faculty team. But, at the end of the day, you're still a student.

You refuse to let that be your downfall.

"I can save you," you argue, the timbre of your voice is sharp, passionate, and decisive. "Let me help."

The man says nothing. Silence stretches for the next few seconds, but it feels like decades before he makes a decision. He grabs your arm roughly, pulling you in front of him with the strength he shouldn't possess. With the gun pressed against your backside, right on your spine, he warns, "One word, one fucking scream, and I'll shoot you in the middle of the floor. Do you understand?"

You nod, swallowing the bile in your throat as you reenter the hospital, maneuvering through the floor with virtually little-to-no interactions. A blessing and a curse, the man finds an empty room and shoves you inside.

It's not a surgical suite, just a backroom with a bed and a couple of tools on a cart. You try to convince him to go to one of the rooms in the operation wing, but he refuses. When you continue to advocate, his hand grips the gun with a click—reminding you who has the power in the situation.

"Just fucking do it here," he snaps.

That's how you ended up operating on your first patient. He lays flat against the stiff hospital bed while you tear through his blood-soaked shirt, cleaning his marred skin, finding the source of the wound—a gunshot. It sits right on his ribcage, but the point of entry doesn't look like it slices through any important organs or arteries.

Despite his form, he continues to point the gun at you. His hands are steadier, but his eyes waver with each probe and poke of your tools. Your breathing is scarce, and uneven as you try to focus on the task at hand—but you can't, given the constant reminder that one wrong touch, one wrong move, can yield a tinge of pain that leaves him clamping down on the trigger.

"You can drop your gun now." You say offhandedly, trying to keep your composure and wits as you operate. "I'm not going to do anything."

He huffs, suspicion creasing his brows. "Not a chance."

"I'm saying it'll be better for you." You instruct, voicing your reason from a place of logic rather than a plight of fear. "You need to relax."

"I'll relax once you get this bullet out of me," he rasps, gripping the weapon tighter, as a child with a stuffed animal would after a hellish nightmare. Your eyes glance down at the gun, how it's aimed directly at your heart, before dropping back to his chest.

"You're not going to kill me."

He doesn't answer immediately. A pinch of fear surges through your veins before he says, "How can you be so sure?"

"Because I'm trying to save your life." You keep your voice steady, despite the low tremor rattling your chest. False confidence is the only thing keeping you going. "And I won't cause you harm. If I wanted to, I would've already."

Silence persists, and you take it as a chance to solidify your argument, from a humane perspective. "And I can't focus if you keep pointing that gun at me. I'll be more sloppy, and I don't want to take any chances when I barely have the right equipment as it is."

It sounds solid. At least, to your ears it does. But the man's grip on his gun doesn't waver under your advisement. You're almost certain he'll reject the idea, but when his hand slowly descends to the metal cart sitting beside him—the clank of metal-on-metal allows you to finally take a deep breath.

But before you can proceed, his now-free hand grabs your wrist. A yelp almost leaves you, but his bloodied nails dig into your skin. A warning gleams behind his gaze. "Just because I'm unarmed doesn't mean I can't kill you through other means."

You don't doubt it.

Nodding, you begin your operation. Heart thumping against your chest, you dig the forceps into the open wound, the squishing of flesh and blood fills the stillness of the room, and you navigate blindly through the gap till you graze a hard metal.

You inhale sharply, reminding yourself of your countless virtual practices, your shadowing of operations, your lucky days of standing beside certified surgeons as you hand them tools and witness the precise cut of their blade. All that training comes down to this very moment—to save yours and his life.

With a steady grip, you slowly exit, centimeter-by-centimeter, inch-by-inch, until the familiar glint of a metal gleans under the harsh operating light.

You drop the bullet, smeared with blood and a greenish hue, onto the plate next to the gun. Exhaling, you mechanically move to the next stage.

While you thread the needle through his delicate skin, closing the wound, your eyes glance down to his hands resting by his side. His knuckles are swollen and red, dried with dark blood. You can't stop yourself from asking, "What happened?"

His jaw tightens. "Why do you want to know?"

The words are sharp and harsh, a valiant attempt at shutting down any form of communication. But you persist. "I thought, since you're out of danger, you can at least explain—"

"I don't owe you shit," he barks, but this time, a hiss punctuates the end of his sentence, sending his head flying back against the bed as he grimaces through the pain and lack of anesthesia. His adrenaline must be wearing off.

Your jaw tenses, but not from his response but rather because of his reaction to his pain. Your sense of empathy has always been your weakness, especially since you're providing it to someone who held you at gunpoint and against your own will.

Deciding to redirect your focus, you're finishing the last thread of his stitching before he confesses, "Fight."

"Fight?" You echo wearily, refusing to lift your head and meet his gaze. You can already feel the heat of his stare. "Who won?"

He scoffs, but it comes out as a wheeze. "Don't be cute."

"I'm not trying to be—"

Your words are cut short by a sudden alarm blaring from the hallway. You jerk back, creating distance as you turn toward the small slanted window on the door, where flashes of men in uniforms run past.

Fear crashes into you as waves, and you turn back to the man as he turns to you—his dark blue eyes are hostile and cynical, and he regards you with the utmost suspicion.

"Who the fuck did you call?" He accuses.

Your eyes widen, "I didn't call anyone!"

"Liar."

With your erratic heartbeat in your ears, both of you glance down at the gun sitting idle on the cart. Before he even gets the chance to react, you snatch the weapon from the table, his nails grazing your hand a millisecond too late.

You push back against the opposite side of the room but because of the limited space, it does nothing to soothe the overwhelming adrenaline pulsing through your veins. Holding the gun with two hands, you direct it straight at his face.

Suspicion and doubt from both sides are at an all-time high.

He scoffs, unphased by your brave act. The gun between your hands is shaky, and your palms sweat against the heavy, smooth grip. The acknowledgment of holding something lethal between your fingertips. In his earnest attempt at getting you to give up the weapon, he mocks, "Can you even use that thing?"

You disengage the safety. "Try again."

His eyes widen, just a fraction, almost undetectable had you not been eyeing him carefully. His lips pressed together in a firm line, but almost as if you're imagining it—there's a look of intrigue.

The man pulls himself upright, shifting cautiously under the threat of your deadly aim, while his hand clutches the stitched wound. You didn't even get the chance to bandage him. It's a shame that your hard work could go to waste.

"Fucking liar."

"I didn't lie," you insist.

"The gun staring at me is making you look guilty."

"It isn't nice being on the receiving end, is it?"

His hardened features sharpen into a look of disdain, any imagination of curiosity disappears within seconds. Yet, you read into it. His eyes narrow, scrutinizing you as if you're prey to his predator, trying to gauge a formal assessment of your character. It isn't until he forces himself to look away, onto the door, that he contemplates his next plan of action.

It doesn't take a genius to decipher that the man is someone dangerous. Not just to you, but to the law. You regard his rigid posture, suggesting his uneasiness about the guards posted outside, barking orders to secure the grounds. He assumed you called the authorities, but that's far from the truth.

You didn't even have time to consider it.

Now, you're weighing all your options. If he disarms you, you'll be forced to submit to his will. That's not favorable. If he leaves without your help—which is unlikely—he'll be trotting through the halls, trying to build a cover and dodge the heightened security. That won't work either. And, if he escapes—there's no doubt he'll come back for vengeance. You can't have that either.

"The hospital is going into lockdown," you explain, keeping your gaze on his. "No one can come in and out that's not part of the staff."

He locks his jaw. One of your hands descends from the handle, moving to the pocket of your scrubs. "They're going to require a scan at each exit point, so you'll need a badge."

You remove the badge from your body, unraveling the clipper from the fabric. His darkened gaze follows while you slowly extend the tag—a peace offering of some sort.

His hand clenches by his side before his other hand reaches forward and snatches the badge from your grip. He takes his time examining the small plastic and the card inside, then lifts his head to meet your gaze with an unreadable expression. "Why?"

"I told you, I didn't call anyone," you say. "But I can tell you need to leave. I can get you out because I don't want any problems."

His breathing is ragged, chest rising and falling in unsteady beats. He doesn't say anything for the longest time, chipping away at the escape, before he drops from the bed and stands to his fullest height.

"I can't go out looking like this."

He's right. You practically shredded his shirt as you were trying to save his life. If he walks out, half-naked, barely stitched together with a bandage, regardless of the classified badge, they're going to question him.

Glancing around the room, you find a lab coat on a hook and throw it at him. He slips his arms through the long, white sleeves and covers himself up—looking presentable. Almost. If not for the light bruising on the side of his face, the swelling on his bottom lip, the swollenness of his knuckles, and the dried blood staining his fingertips.

But they won't look closely.

You think.

You back up as he steps forward, closer to the door. Peeking outside the hallway, when the coast is clear, he departs, clutching the badge in one hand and his wounded chest in the other.

It takes a few moments for it to pass, for you to truly grasp the gravity of your situation. When you finally do, you lower your aching arms, drop the gun back onto the metal cart, and exhale the largest sigh of relief.

—

It's been a week since the hospital incident.

You received a new badge, under the false pretense that you misplaced the last one, and you've been returning to a routine. You refuse to do overtime without a familiar acquaintance tagging along, and you've been catching rides from your peers from the hospital.

Afterward, the news disclosed a shootout that happened on the streets a couple blocks down from your workplace. Three people died, and the police are investigating the matter. It didn't take long for you to connect the dots of who shot who, and who walked out alive.

You've been busying yourself with life. From attending classes to producing research, to working late-night shifts at the hospital. It's been a ruthless cycle, that you've barely had time to breathe.

Walking home from one of the nearby cafes, where you're studying for your upcoming exams, you take a short stroll to your apartment. It's getting late; most of the street parking is taken, few people linger on the sidewalk, and the street lamps cast a soft glow against the brownstone of the apartment complexes.

This is a safer neighborhood, much more than your place of work. The crime rate is relatively lower, but that doesn't stop you from being on edge. Especially with your recent incident. You're cautious of your surroundings, checking every little shadow, and listening out for heavy footfalls. Your paranoia reaches its all-time high.

But nothing happens. Not today, not yesterday, and certainly not tomorrow. You turn the corner to your building, the familiar shade of your apartment allows you to catch a breath of fresh air.

Until you hear the familiar click, followed by the hard kiss of metal pressing against the base of your skull.

All the hair stands up. Your nerves are humming with fear. And you pray it's different, it's new, but your wishes are shattered the moment the gruff, harsh voice greets you, his mouth against your ear.

"Miss me?"

IMPORTANT INFO ABOUT TAGLIST AND UPDATES: if you want to be notified about all my fics and updates, follow @zyafics-library and turn on notifications! however, if you want to be added to this specific taglist, let me know (but to remain tagged, you must interact with the posts).

[dandelionsresilience]

Dandelion News - March 8-14

Like these weekly compilations? Tip me at $kaybarr1735 or check out my Dandelion Doodles!

1. Caribbean reef sharks rebound in Belize with shark fishers’ help

“Caribbean reef shark populations have rebounded beyond previous levels, more than tripling at both Turneffe and Lighthouse atolls[…. The recovery] arose from a remarkable synergy among shark fishers, marine scientists and management authorities[….]”

2. Landmark Ruling on Uncontacted Indigenous Peoples’ Rights Strikes at Oil Industry

“[T]he Ecuadorian government [must] ensure any future expansion or renewal of oil operations does not impact Indigenous peoples living in voluntary isolation. [… E]ffective measures must be adopted to prevent serious or irreversible damage, which in this case would be the contact of these isolated populations,” said the opinion[….]”

3. America's clean-energy industry is growing despite Trump's attacks. At least for now

“The buildout of big solar and battery plants is expected to hit an all-time high in 2025, accounting for 81% of new power generation[….] The industry overall has boomed thanks to falling technology costs, federal tax incentives and state renewable-energy mandates.”

4. Study says endangered Asian elephant population in Cambodia is more robust than previously thought

“A genetic study of Asian elephants […] reveals a larger and more robust population than previously thought, raising hopes the endangered species could slowly recover. […] “With sufficient suitable habitat remaining in the region, the population has the potential to grow if properly protected,” the report concludes.”

5. Scientists are engineering a sense of touch for people who are paralyzed

“[Engineers are] testing a system that can restore both movement and sensation in a paralyzed hand. [… A]fter more than a year of therapy and spinal stimulation, [… h]is increased strength and mobility allow him to do things like pet his dog. And when he does, he says, "I can feel a little bit of the fur."“

6. Florida is now a solar superpower. Here’s how it happened.

“In a first, Florida vaulted past California last year in terms of new utility-scale solar capacity plugged into its grid. It built 3 gigawatts of large-scale solar in 2024, making it second only to Texas. And in the residential solar sector, Florida continued its longtime leadership streak.”

7. Rare frog rediscovered after 130 years

“The researchers discovered two populations of the frog[….] "The rediscovery of A. vittatus allowed us to obtain, more than a century after its description, the first biological and ecological data on the species.” [… S]hedding light on where and how they live is the first step in protecting them.”

8. Community composting programs show promise in reducing household food waste

“The program [increased awareness and reduced household waste, and] also addressed common barriers to home composting, including pest concerns and technical challenges that had previously discouraged participants from composting independently.”

9. Pioneering Australian company marks new milestone on “mission” to upcycle end-of-life solar panels

“[…] SolarCrete – a pre-mixed concrete made using glass recovered from used solar panels – will form part of the feasibility study[….] A second stage would then focus on the extraction of high value materials[…] for re-use in PV and battery grade silicon, [… and] electrical appliances[….]”

10. Beavers Just Saved The Czech Government Big Bucks

“The aim was to build a dam to prevent sediment and acidic water from two nearby ponds from spilling over, but the project was delayed for years due to negotiations over land use[….] Not only did the industrious rodents complete the work faster than the humans had intended, they also doubled the size of the wetland area that was initially planned.”

March 1-7 news here | (all credit for images and written material can be found at the source linked; I don’t claim credit for anything but curating.)

[dix0nspretty]

Hanging Around

Summary: It's rare that the Captain of the 141 ends up captured, but that's how John's week is going.

Captain John Price x F!Reader (implied/mentioned), 840 words.

Era: MW2

TW: Captured, descriptions of various torture methods (not utilized).

Day 19 of my bastardized version of Russian Roulette Febuwhump/Kinktober for March that I'm affectionately calling Trinket's Cause of Death. It's basically 50/50 whump/kink where I generate a number corresponding to a prompt. This first whump prompt!

Day 19: Damsel in Distress with Price (whump) for @isavuu

It smells like shit in the basement, to be frank. The entire room smells like mildew and waste, the unmistakable scent of torture clinging to the shadows of the tomb.

From what Price can make out in the poor lighting, the basement seems residential and unfinished. Part of the floor is concrete, as if the homeowners tried to expand the basement and gave up before the floor could even be poured. The lighting comes from a stereotypical hanging lightbulb that makes John roll his eyes.

The entire situation is embarrassing, really. Getting captured as a soldier is one thing, but getting captured as the captain? Both a pain in the ass during and after and takes entirely too much time. It’s why John fucking hates when hostiles use drugs and paralytics rather than guns.

A gun can be disarmed, rendered useless with the click of a button or the loss of a firing pin. Guns rely on aim and stopping power and a million little pieces to work just right. They can be sabotaged; God knows John’s done it countless times. But drugs are different. They’re too sneaky- not a fair fight, in his mind.

He’d much rather lose a fight and be shot and captured than have a tiny paralytic dart get him in the neck from 400 feet away. It’s a coward’s method of subdual and it’s what landed him here, chained to the ceiling of the shitty basement and half beat to hell.

The entire operation is amateur hour. Their methods of torture are subpar at best, their organization sloppy and planning apparently nonexistent. They took John from base, which he gives them credit for- it’s hard to smuggle a 6’2” unconscious captain from the middle of a military base. But that’s the only thing they pulled off.

Even the beating he’s recovering from was shit. Ineffective punches and more threats than injuries. Threatening to cut out his tongue (which is counterproductive, given they want answers to their unimportant questions), or scooping his eyes out and cutting his fingers off.

And stashing him in a residential area? It’s too easy. Price gives the 141 harder training missions on their off days for enrichment, so he’s utterly unsurprised when he hears two tell-tale thumps before you walk in the door, closely followed by Gaz.

You sweep the room just like he taught you before offering him a lopsided grin as you come to a stop in front of him. “How’s it hanging, Cap?”

He would chastise you for the shitty joke, but he can see the concern in your eyes, the dulling in color that tells him you haven’t slept since he was captured. The unspoken question of whether he’s okay is swimming in those pretty eyes.

“Want to get me down, love, or make idle chatter?” His split brow rises in an unimpressed manner. A silent confirmation that he’s alright, that there’s nothing more than surface wounds. “This isn’t exactly comfortable.”

He’s blessed with that soft laugh of yours while Gaz sets about getting Price down, silent and focused on his task. “Did Soap burn base down while I was gone?”

“Nah,” You shake your head, gentle gloved fingers assessing his injuries even though he gives you a look telling you to knock it off- he has to wait for Gaz to unchain him before he can bat your hands away. “Brat tried, but I had it handled.”

“That’s why you’re my favorite,” Price murmurs, supposed to sound like banter but coming out just a little too soft. “Keeping things running while this old man gets kidnapped.”

You let out a scoff, taking the brunt of his weight when the chains release until you’re sure he can stand on his own two legs without crumpling. “I’d hardly call this a kidnapping.”

“Oh?”

Now John can bat away those fluttering hands of yours, always so eager to help and to patch and to care. He grabs them instead of swatting them away entirely, giving a gentle squeeze. “What would you call it then, love? An adventure?”

“A vacation.” There’s that beautiful smile again. He wasn’t gone very long, but he missed seeing your eyes sparkle with that smirk, always endlessly entertained by your own jokes.

“You broken, Cap?” Gaz speaks up, clearly more focused on the mission than you. When he gets a shake of dismissal from Price, he retreats to look through the intel the dumb bastards left plastered to every wall.

An easy operation to topple, this one and with time to make it home to the missus.

One of his hands finds its way to your hip, dragging you in to press a warm kiss to your cheek and lovingly squeeze at the soft skin he knows is hidden away under all your tactical gear.

“What’s for dinner then, love? I’m famished.” John murmurs against your cheek. The muscles in your face pull into a smile that he subconsciously reflects. How he loves making you smile.

Happy wife, happy life, or so the saying goes.

[casstheasswrites]

NO SAINTS, NO SAVIOURS (9)

pairing: frank castle x reader (female)

summary: wrong place, wrong time. he saved her life, she patched him up. that should’ve been the end of it. some nights, you survive. others, you change.

trigger warnings: canon typical violence including blood and death. ptsd, trauma, eventual smut. at times, you get soft!frank. at others, he takes no prisoners. we love the duality of man <3

chapter length: 7.6k

authors note: PREPARE FOR ANGST AND HELLA YEARNING. in case you want more of this story faster, i've got ELEVEN chapters posted on my AO3 (linked below). just going to start double posting here on tumblr too :) i hope you enjoy and pls pls send me a message with your feedback or thoughts, if you have any! thanks a million.

archive of our own / feedback appreciated!

Frank guided you down a flight of rusted metal stairs behind a maintenance gate you never would’ve noticed on your own— half-shielded by ivy and shadows, as if the city itself had tried to forget it existed. You ducked your head as he pulled open a reinforced metal door, the hinges shrieking their protest. He then led you down a series of long, concrete hallways, until finally his footsteps slowed. The floor inclined, just slightly, like you’d moved just barely underground. He led you to an old and rusted green door, with the words MGRS OFFICE affixed to the front in worn letters. There was a keypad lock keeping the door sealed shut, and he made quick work of twisting the numbers into combination and then pushed his way inside. You followed just a step behind.

Inside was nothing but darkness, the air thick and damp like an old tomb.

The moment you crossed the threshold, the scent of old concrete and machine oil wrapped around you like a worn blanket. Cold, metallic, just sharp enough to sting your nose. You winced, unable to stop yourself. It was the kind of smell that would linger on your clothes and in your hair. That told you this was not a place for comfort— this was a place for survival. As if Frank himself hadn’t already warned you.

A soft click sounded, and overhead, a string of bare bulbs buzzed to life. The light was dim and flickering, strung up across the ceiling by stripped copper wire. They cast long, uneven shadows against the concrete of the walls, of the floor, revealing just enough of the room to let your imagination fill in the rest.

It was… small. Not cramped, but close. Like the space itself had been carved out in secret and never meant to be found again.

You turned slowly in place, taking it all in. Utility shelves were piled with supplies, dozens of canned goods and other non-perishables. Upon closer inspection, you noticed several boxes of MREs— your brow furrowed at the sight, your heart clenching within your chest. If this had been how Frank had been living, it was no wonder he’d seemed to savour every bite of the breakfast you’d made that morning.

As you looked around, you somehow managed to keep your expression guarded, neutral. You could feel the weight of Frank’s eyes on you— just for a beat, just long enough for him to step around you, immediately crossing the room. Getting to work. Not a second to waste.

Two small windows sat high on the far wall— thin slits of glass fogged by time and purpose. The panes were clouded, blurred with privacy film or something like it, designed to let light in but keep the world out. You couldn’t see through them— just barely-there hints of shifting shapes, the vague suggestion of movement. Like shadows behind a curtain. If it weren’t night, you figured that sunlight would filter in soft and dull, casting a muted gray glow that would do little to brighten the space. The bunker— that’s what you likened it to— was just a floor below ground level.

Water stains crept like spiderwebs across the ceiling. A military cot sat pushed into one wall, a single gray blanket folded at the edge. There was a sad excuse for a pillow at one end, flat enough that it likely didn’t do much. Two battered metal desks were pushed together near the center of the room, their surfaces buried beneath weapons, maps, and stray boxes of ammunition— some open, others sealed tight. The far corner of the room, across from the door, held a folding chair draped with a flannel shirt, sleeves frayed at the edges, elbows worn straight through. Near it, a mini fridge kicked on with a groan, like even it was reluctant to keep going.

There were no photos. No books. No softness.

You could feel Frank in every inch of it. This was who he was, when you weren’t around.

You stepped closer to the desks, further into the room, careful not to make too much noise. The back wall of the room was completely covered in notes, maps, blurry black-and-white photographs with red circles drawn around faces. Some had Xs through them, others didn’t. You knew what that meant.

Most of the faces in the photos were strangers. A few… weren’t. The men from the subway that first night, weeks ago, were there. Already marked as dead. And the men from the hospital, too. Red marker connected both sets of men— and in the middle— a photo of you. It was a candid shot, taken from distance, just outside your apartment building. It was from before the hospital— so he’d been watching you before that, too. Around your photo there was no red circle, no messy printing with details or crimes, just your first name scrawled beneath. The ink ran a bit around the last letter of your name; like his hand had paused there for a beat too long.

Everyone else on the board had more information affixed to the space around their photo; news articles, print-offs from the web, crimes they’d been accused of. But not you. There was no deep dive, no history searched and shared. Just your name, handwritten in that sharp, slanted scrawl you were starting to recognize. It made something stir in your chest— something you didn’t have the name for. He hadn’t needed more information. He’d already made up his mind about you.

You swallowed the knot in your throat and stepped back again, gaze flicking to the ceiling.

You could hear the city moving just overhead— traffic rumbling, pipes groaning, someone’s muffled footsteps echoing through old infrastructure. On the way over, Frank had told you this place used to be a building manager’s office— tucked in the basement of some forgotten apartment complex on the far edge of Hell’s Kitchen. While people still lived in the many floors above, the basement hadn’t been used in decades and he’d been here for months. Knew every bolt, every blind corner. Every way in… and out. He told you that tomorrow, he would run you through each of them, just in case.

Just as you turned towards him, Frank shifted in your direction, one of his hands lifting towards your back. You paused, waiting to see what he was doing, before you realized— his hand slid over your shoulder and wrapped around the strap of your backpack, giving it a gentle tug until it began to slide backwards. He removed your bag and carried it towards the cot— the one cot— before he set it down at the edge.  

Then he turned to you, expression clear in the half-light, waiting. He looked exhausted— not just from the day, but from the weight he always seemed to carry. You knew it well. Still, there was something in the way he watched you. Like he was waiting for you to flinch, or settle, or leave. But you didn’t do any of those things.

“I’ve had worse,” you said, voice a little quieter than you meant it to be.

One corner of his mouth curved, but it wasn’t quite a smile. Just that unreadable expression he always wore when he didn’t want you to see how he really felt.

You weren’t sure what you wanted to see, anyway.

The bunker was cold. That much was obvious, but you imagined it was intentional, too. Frank couldn’t afford warmth. Not in his body, not in his bones, and definitely not in the places he chose to rest his head. Comfort made you soft, slow. And he didn’t survive by being either of those things.

You were grateful for the jacket you’d grabbed before you left. Grateful for the extra layers beneath it, even though the fabric was already starting to cling in the wrong places— damp from exertion, heavy with the day. Still, the chill found its way in. It crept under the hem of your sweater, licked at the delicate skin between your knuckles. Settled at the base of your neck and stayed there. A hint of what was to come.

Without realizing it, your feet had carried you toward the desks in the middle of the room. His base of operations.

You paused a few inches away from the edge of the nearest desk, your eyes drifting across the objects arranged there. Not messy, not cluttered— just deliberate in a language you didn’t speak. Clips. Ammunition. An oversized, cracked radio with the casing half-screwed off. The thing had dial upon dial on it, and you wondered if it might have been older than you were. You’d never seen anything like it before. Next to it, there was a notepad filled with numbers, scratched out and rewritten again. Frequencies, maybe. Paths he’d tried to explore and deemed unworthy.

You didn’t touch anything. You just looked, scanning over his world without stepping into it.

Frank wasn’t far. He’d dropped into the nearby folding chair, a half-turn away from you. One of his pistols lay disassembled in front of him on the other side of the desk, pieces laid out like organs on a metal table. He moved with that same precision of motion he always did— like he was saving every ounce of energy he had for something that might need killing later.

He reached for a small black bottle with no label and uncapped it. The sharp, chemical scent of it hit the air instantly, and your nose scrunched before you could help yourself. It was acrid and bitter, something that didn’t belong in lungs. But Frank didn’t flinch. Instead, he poured a bit onto an old rag, the cloth already dark from past use, and started to press it delicately against specific spots along the exposed barrel. He moved with surgical precision; a man who’d done this a time or two before.

It was like watching a ritual. Not worship, not quite. But familiar. His shoulders stayed low, steady, the way they always did when his mind was a thousand miles away but his hands remembered the route. Autopilot.

You leaned your hip against the edge of the desk, arms crossed loosely over your chest, and watched him for a while.

He looked up once, just for a split second. His gaze met yours, weighted and familiar, but he said nothing.

He just kept going.

When the weapon was finished— clean, reassembled, gleaming beneath the low light— he cleared his throat. He didn’t look at you this time, just tilted his head slightly toward your bag at the foot of the cot.

“Hand yours over,” he said, voice low, steady. “Gotta keep a weapon like that clean. Can’t afford to let it jam.”

You hadn’t even considered it, the idea of cleaning your gun. The idea that you’d need it more than once. But of course he had— of course Frank had already thought through every variable. His back-up plans had back-up plans.

You moved back toward your bag and unzipped the front pocket, fingers closing around the familiar shape of your weapon. When you returned, you didn’t set it down in front of him. You just stood there, waiting. Waiting for him to look up.

And when he did, you held his gaze, a sharp set to your jaw.

“Show me how,” you said. Quiet, but firm. Your voice was steady, even if your insides weren’t. They trembled beneath the weight of what you were asking for— the burden you were willingly taking on. You knew that if Frank taught you, he’d expect you to keep up with it. It would be a job that would be all yours. “I need to learn, don’t I?”

Frank’s eyes held yours for a long moment. He didn’t blink. You could see something working behind those coffee-coloured irises, the amber in them flickering in and out of sight. It was like he was trying to read you, figure out what it meant that you were asking this, and what it might cost. You or him, you weren’t entirely sure.

Finally, he exhaled.

“S’not a bad idea,” he muttered, dragging his hand across his jaw. “Just surprised, is all.”

You won’t always be around, you wanted to say. But you knew if you did, the words would come out laced with hostility— like you were bitter. And that wasn’t how you meant it; not really. It was more like you had grown… resigned… to that fact. That as much as the two of you had begun to accept this new dynamic, as partners, there was an inevitable expiration date. And each day brought you closer to it.

You knew that no matter when that time came, it would be too soon. Because now that you’d begun to know him, how could you go back to being only strangers?

You swallowed the emotion clawing at the back of your throat, doing what you could to push it down, shove the thoughts away. You could wallow in it all later; for now, you needed to focus.

The bunker around you was quiet, still. The air in here didn’t seem to move much, growing stagnant around you, pinning you down with the weight of it. One of the bulbs overhead flickered, just once, and your gaze briefly darted up towards it. It didn’t flicker again; you wondered, for a beat, if your mind was playing tricks on you. If it was an external representation of the turmoil happening inside.

You set the gun down on the desk before him, next to his own. Frank looked at it for a second, then shook his head. He didn’t reach for it. Instead, he nudged it gently back toward you with one finger, eyes dipping between your face and the weapon.

“Nah,” he said. “Keep your hands on it. This is yours now.”

He reached across the desk, clearing space, shifting aside a rag and an open bottle of that same, bitter solvent. Then he leaned back, and nodded to the gun in front of you.

“Alright. Clip comes out first.”

Your fingers wrapped around the grip and you did as you were told. You heard the clip click free, felt the subtle shift in weight as the metal slipped from the grip. It startled you, for a beat, how easily handling the weapon had become. Your hands were steady, no hint of shakiness.

“Now pull back on the slide, there— yeah, like that. What do you see?”

You squinted, turning it onto its side, peering inside the open chamber. “Nothing… it’s empty.”

“Good. You gotta check that every time. Don’t skip it.”

You nodded, jaw set tight, even as your heartbeat pounded at the base of your throat.

“Now you need to pull the trigger.”

You hesitated, eyes flaring wide. You gaze jolted to Frank’s. “What?”

“There’s no round, no clip, no danger. It’ll click. You gotta hear that. Then rack it again.”

You obeyed, the sharp metallic click breaking the silence between you.

He walked you through the next steps— each motion careful, efficient. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t over-explain. Just simple, spare instructions, delivered in that gravel-worn tone of his. You were clumsy at first— your fingers slipped, fumbled, and you cursed once under your breath when the recoil spring jumped sideways.

Frank stood and leaned into your side, the warmth of his chest brushing across your back, your shoulder. His hand closed gently over yours atop the weapon— not stopping you, just redirecting. He adjusted the pressure you used on the weapon, loosening your grip with a nudge of his fingers over yours.

“Here,” he murmured, voice low enough that you felt it more than heard it. “You’re pressin’ too hard. Let it slide into place. Don’t force it.”

You didn’t dare move. Couldn’t. The heat from his palm bled into your skin, and suddenly everything else in the room blurred into background noise. The hum of the lightbulb above you. The low buzz of the fridge. All of it, gone.

All that remained was the way his fingers wrapped around yours, the steady rhythm of his breath against your temple. His scent settled around you, hints of salt and something warm, like a late-night campfire on the beach, waves rolling against the shore. For another moment he didn’t move, just stood there, hand on yours, like he wasn’t sure whether to pull away or press in closer.

When he finally pulled away, it wasn’t abrupt. More like the kind of retreat that takes effort— like the parting of hands that almost forget they don’t belong there. You watched him as he went, unable to tear your gaze away. His eyes lingered a second too long on your fingers before he reclaimed his seat, jaw tight like he’d given away more than intended.

“You’re getting it,” he said, voice rough again, but not unkind. He watched each of your movements carefully, like a teacher who knew you could do it on your own— but wanted to stay within arms reach, just in case. “Keep goin’.”

You did. You finished the disassembly, with his instructions, and lined up the pieces of the weapon in the same way he had. Next, he handed you the rag he’d used on his own weapon, and you turned your gaze to his, your eyes hesitant, questioning.

“How much do I use?” you asked, teeth digging into your bottom lip. He chuckled and nodded, unscrewing the cap from the solvent for you. Not overstepping, but helping.

“It’s not like WD-40,” he said. “It’s just for slippin’ between the parts. Keepin’ it smooth. A few drops is all you need.”

And so you did as he told you; you dabbed a few drops of the oil in the areas he pointed to with one of those long, thick fingers of his. It took you a beat too long to draw your eyes away from it. He then walked you through how to reassemble the weapon, only stepping in with instruction when you paused, eyes wandering to his, lost. You managed to work your way through a few of the steps on your own, and your eyes flickered to Frank’s when you finished— the warmth in his gaze made your heart soar within your chest.

You handed it back to him for a once-over and he didn’t hesitate. The way the weapon moved in his hands was much different to how it had in yours— to you, it was unfamiliar, a new object you weren’t sure you wanted to learn. But to Frank, it was like an extension of himself, something he knew like the back of his hand.

He checked it through once. Twice.

You waited with bated breath, nerves frayed, eyes locked on his face. And finally, his gaze lifted to yours, and his lips curved just slightly in one corner. You were startled by how much amber had leaked into his eyes— more than you’d ever seen before. The shade of his eyes nearly glowed in the dim light coming from above.

“Atta girl,” he said, the words coated in nothing but warmth. Pride. “Good work. Real good.”

The praise landed like a match to dry grass, a sudden flame that caught too fast. It travelled across your entire body, your cheeks flushing, crimson springing to your pale skin. Then it traced a trail down the center of your body, pooling at your core, burning you from the inside out. Your lips parted, breath catching on nothing, and for a moment, you couldn’t even remember how your hands worked. You were still. There was nothing within your mind, just the echo of those words— “Atta girl”— circling around and around, like a carousel you couldn’t climb off of.

You weren’t used to hearing praise like that. Not from someone like him. Not from anyone. It lodged somewhere deep, unfamiliar— dangerous, maybe, given how much you wanted to hear it again. Like there was a tank that needed to be filled, and he’d just given you the first few drops. You were an addict and he’d slipped you your first taste.

You weren’t sure how much time had passed— how long you’d allowed the room to lapse into silence. When your heart had finally stopped pounding against your ribs, your eyes refocused, and you found that he was still watching you. There was a hint of something on his face, like he was weighing his options again… trying to decide whether or go left or right. Just as your lips parted, about to ask him what he was thinking, he stood from the chair and began to nod his head. He’d made up his mind. Chosen his path.

“Now what do you say I teach you how to use this thing properly, yeah?”

You went still all over again; the gun in your grasp suddenly gaining weight. It shouldn’t have— you’d already fired it once, been prepared to use it a second time, if it hadn’t been Frank who’d appeared in your apartment the day before. But he was right. You didn’t have the first clue what you were doing when that cool metal was pressed into your palm. And if you wanted to keep going on this path, walking alongside him, you’d need to learn.

Who better to teach you than him?

Slowly, you began to nod, a nonverbal confirmation. You were buying in; whatever he wanted you to know, you’d do your best. He was the expert… and you hoped you could be a fast learner. You hoped he might give away some more of those warm words, the one that had you shift your weight again, your insides still overheated.

You wanted to believe that what you lacked in strength, you could make up for with speed and agility. Before the last few weeks, you had regularly been going to the gym, always focused on endurance training and gradually increasing your strength in the areas you needed it. But you’d been losing weight, too, and you had a feeling that a lot of what you’d lost had been muscle. It would take time to build that up again.

“Alright,” Frank said, pulling you from your thoughts. With a jerk of his head, he directed you to back up a few steps, spread further into the room where there were less obstacles. His gaze never left you, even as you moved. It was hard not to shrink beneath the weight of his eyes, because this time, he was looking for something in particular— he was critiquing. “Feet shoulder-width apart. Back foot slightly behind. Put your weight on the balls of your feet— knees soft, not locked.” He paused, waiting for you to do as he’d said.

You adjusted, shifting until you found something that felt like balance. It wasn’t comfortable, not even remotely, and didn’t feel natural. But it felt like you could move in any direction, quickly, if you needed to. That was probably the point.

He approached you, then, and began to move around you in a slow semi-circle. He was quiet, just watching. There was something about the way he moved— measured, assessing. Like he was watching not just your stance, but the way you held your fear. Like he was deciding what kind of fighter you might become.

“Now your grip,” he said and you lifted the gun in your hands, eyes following the movement as you stared at the way you held it in your grasp. “Two hands, dominant one high and tight on the backstrap. Other hand wraps the fingers— thumbs pointing forward, not crossed.” When your hands finally settled as he’d instructed, he hummed, the sound reverberating through his chest. He was somewhere behind you, peering over your shoulder.

He stepped in behind you to guide your hands, then, his palms brushing over the backs of yours. His fingers adjusted the placement of your thumbs, just slightly, his knuckle grazing the inside of your wrist. You committed the placement to memory, flexing the joints of your fingers, getting a sense for how it felt, too.

“You don’t wanna be fighting the recoil,” he murmured, close enough for the sound to settle behind your ear. His smell began to wrap around you again and you held your breath, trying to keep a hold of your composure. Your knees wobbled at his proximity and your eyes pressed shut for a beat, hoping he hadn’t noticed. “Let the gun do what it’s built to do, but keep control of it.”

“Arms out, extend,” he said. “Straight, but not rigid. Shoulders down and elbows unlocked. Your grip’s where the strength comes from, not your arms.”

You extended and he watched. Not just the posture— you. Though you still couldn’t see him, not even from your periphery, you felt the weight of his gaze on every inch of you. Trailing over every area he commented on, ensuring you had it right.

He stepped forward again, fingertips brushing your upper arm. “Relax here. You're gonna tire yourself out faster if you stay tense.”

You tried. Loosened your shoulders. Let the weight of the weapon settle in your hands instead of your muscles.

“Now look down the sights,” he said, voice a little softer now. “Front post sharp. Rear blurred. Focus here—” his finger tapped the top of the slide, just above the front sight, “—and breathe.”

You lined it up as best you could, eyes narrowing, tongue pressed to the roof of your mouth in concentration. When you’d fired at the man in the hospital, you hadn’t even looked— your eyes had been pinched shut, too afraid to watch whatever you had been about to do. You could still feel the pull of that trigger, the slam of the gun in your hand, how your shoulders immediately burned with the effort. You could still hear the echo of it, too, the ringing in your ears. That blind panic, the wet slap of blood against tile. You hadn’t aimed. You hadn’t known how. And it was only luck— Frank— that kept you breathing.

“You want the shot to break at the bottom of an exhale,” he continued, low and steady. “Squeeze. Don’t jerk. Don’t anticipate. Just... let it happen.”

Your breath came out slow. You clicked the trigger. Even with no bullet, the release of tension jolted through your wrist.

Frank gave a low hum of approval, his exhale blowing against the side of your head, jostling a few strands of your dark hair. As if he, too, had noticed it, he reached up with a hand and brushed them away, tucking them back behind your ear. You were frozen solid at his gesture— the tension you’d just managed to release returning ten-fold.

That wasn’t instruction. That wasn’t survival. It was something else entirely, something heavier, something deeper and unspoken. It was something you didn’t know what to do with. Didn’t know if he did, either.

He moved around your side, appearing in your periphery before he was in front of you, just slightly to your left. You relaxed your hold on the weapon, dropped your arms a bit.

Then, without warning, he reached for the gun. “Now let’s see what happens when someone tries to take it.”

Your stomach turned and you flinched back a step, eyes flaring wide. “Wait—”

“You need to know this,” he said, already moving towards you again. “Don’t matter if it’s loaded or not. If you hesitate, you lose.”

He grabbed the barrel, slow and deliberate, watching your reaction. Your fingers froze around the grip. You didn’t move, didn’t react. Just let him grab it.

“You don’t fight the pull,” he said, stepping in close, his hand still wrapped around the front of the weapon. “You turn with it. Pivot your body, break the angle. If you don’t, you’ll end up with this in their hand. Pointed at you.”

He showed you— gentle, controlled— how your grip could be turned against you. How easily he could grab the weapon, pull you in, disarm you. Never once did his fingers grace the trigger— they always remained pointed straight, resting along the side of the barrel. He showed you again, slower. Letting you feel where to move, how to drop your weight, how to own the fight. He gave pointers, telling you where to focus your hits, giving you ideas of how to rattle your attacker. You were fast, you needed to use it— a foot behind an ankle, a hard kick against the back of a knee.

“Try it,” he said, goading you, leaning forward on the balls of his feet.

You hesitated again, not sure how you were supposed to take it all so seriously when it was him coming towards you. The last person you’d ever want to point a weapon at.

He didn’t hesitate this time, or take it slow.

His hand came down again, faster this time, and instinct took over. You twisted your wrist inward, ducked under his arm, pulled your shoulder across the centerline the way he’d shown. You slammed your back into his chest— rougher than you meant to— and he released you just as you moved. You staggered, half from force, half from the sheer charge of it. Then you twisted out of his reach and jolted forward, giving yourself more distance, though you weren’t exactly moving on solid feet.

Once you’d regained your footing, you looked up.

Frank was watching you with something unreadable behind his eyes. Not pride. Not quite. Something with a bit more of an edge— something a bit wearier.

“Again.”

Before you could so much as nod, he came for the gun.

You pivoted but this time, he blocked. You tried again. He caught your wrist and spun you with him, showing you how easily control could slip through your fingers. Your stomach dipped at the sudden exchange of power, your pulse racing against your throat.

You fought it. Let the weapon drop to your off hand like he’d told you to. You sent your elbow back towards him, perhaps a bit more force than you’d intended, but his freehand caught your forearm mid-swing.

“Not bad,” he muttered. Impressed.

You didn’t answer— couldn’t, not with the way he moved you. He ripped the pistol from your grasp, tossed it across the room, the sudden sound of metal against concrete making you flinch.

He pivoted behind you, one arm slipping across your chest to trap your movement, the other snaking low around your waist. He kept you there for a beat, anchored tight against him.

You stilled, holding your breath. Your lungs burned in protest. 

Every inch of him pressed into you— his chest flush against your spine, his thigh braced between your legs, the heat of his breath grazing the shell of your ear. One of his hands had splayed across your sternum, palm flat, fingers curled ever so slightly where your heart beat wild beneath them. The other rested just above your hip, low and heavy, keeping you grounded or caged— you weren’t sure which.

Finally you had to breathe— a sharp, shallow gasp, your entire chest trembling against his touch with the effort.

“Here,” Frank murmured, voice low and rough, the vibration of it pulsing through your back. “You feel that?” His hand shifted against your chest, not pressing, just… present. “That’s control. You’ve got the power but only if you don’t panic. Move fast. Use their momentum. Stop second guessing yourself.”

You barely heard the words. Not with the blood rushing in your ears. Not with the way every nerve ending had started to scream beneath your skin. Your fingers were wrapped around each of his wrists, tight, beginning to go numb from the pressure. You could feel the outline of his thighs pressing against yours, the steady drumbeat of his pulse against your shoulder blade.

His chin dipped slightly, breath exhaling slow against your neck, and you swore— swore— he lingered. Until slowly, he let go.

Not all at once. Not clean. His hand dropped from your chest first, fingers dragging lightly across the fabric of your shirt as they slipped away. Then the weight at your waist vanished, leaving behind only warmth and pressure and something you couldn’t name.

When you turned to face him, his expression was a wall of stone— completely, utterly unreadable. There was only darkness in his eyes, no hint of the amber you often searched for. His chest heaved with a long, extended breath of air, and then he nodded.

You bent at the waist and retrieved your weapon, rolling out your shoulders before you resumed your stance. It felt more comfortable now, more familiar.

Then it was you who said, “Again.”

Frank didn’t nod, didn’t acknowledge what you said. He just moved. Fast. No longer taking it easy on you.

He reached for the barrel with that same deliberate confidence, trying to test you again. His other hand went for your other wrist. But this time, you didn’t hesitate. You pivoted into him, not away, using the motion of his own hand to bring your body closer before swinging beneath his reach.

Your foot slid, caught behind his ankle. You twisted with the full weight of your hips, dropped your shoulder, and used the angle to pull him off balance. The gun was already halfway behind your back, safe in your other hand.

His grip faltered. Just for a second. But it was enough. You didn’t have the time to peek at his face— knew it would just push you off center. Instead, you shoved forward, into him— not brutal, just enough to unseat him— and he stumbled. Not far. Not hard. But he let it happen. That much you could tell.

And still, somehow, you ended up in his space again— chests nearly brushing, your hand against his wrist, your body angled into his like instinct had made the decision for you.

For a beat, you both just stood there.

The air between you went thick. He stared down at you, lips parted just slightly, breath caught somewhere between restraint and something else. You could feel the warmth of his skin through your sleeves, the flex of his arm beneath your palm.

“Boom,” you murmured, the word barely audible as it brushed past your lips. You wiggled the pistol in your other hand, alerting him to the fact that you had it pointed straight at his stomach. “Your dead.”

His mouth twitched. Barely. Just the ghost of a smirk.

“Good,” he said, voice low, almost gruff. He was nodding as he stepped back, his eyes on the floor beneath your feet. “Real good.”

You stepped back, too, brushing your wrist with your fingers, half expecting to feel a bruise. You didn’t. Just the ghost of his grip, like a mark no one else would see.

“You alright?” he asked.

You nodded, breath catching. “Yeah.”

He glanced at your feet. “Good. Practice makes perfect.”

Your fingers flexed around the grip of the gun; not quite steady, not quite certain. But not as afraid, either.

* * * * *

Time passed, taking you further into the night. The quiet hum of the bunker was your steady companion in the silence. You could count on the dim buzzing of the lights overhead, of the groan the mini fridge let out every few minutes. The rattle against the windows as cars drove past, ignoring speed limits, was just about your only reminder that the outside world continued to exist.

Frank had you run through the drills a few more times, testing you, building up your endurance. He commented and corrected you as he needed to, and gradually, he stopped making it so easy for you to come away victorious. By the time he finally declared you’d done enough for one night, you were nearly panting, your hair clinging to the back of your neck with sweat. Your fingers ached from the unyielding grip you’d held on the gun. And he remained unshaken, not a hair out of place. You were nothing of a formidable opponent for him.

It didn’t give you much hope for how you’d do against anyone else his size. But at least you’d do better than before.

Frank showed you to the bathroom— if you could even call it that— and you got ready for bed slowly, taking your time. You showered, though there wasn’t much in the way of hot water— hell, it hadn’t even reached warm. You were frozen to the bone as soon as you stepped out. You rushed to dress, pulling on wool socks, heavy sweatpants, and a long-sleeved shirt beneath your sweatshirt. Still, your body trembled, seeking warmth that wouldn’t come.

The mirror above the free-standing sink was cracked, the jagged edges of broken glass spreading out across your face, distorting your view of yourself. It was probably for the best, anyways. There was no room for vanity here. You made quick work of brushing your teeth and braiding your damp hair back, away from your face. Then you traced your way back to the bunker, following the hallway Frank had led you down a while earlier.

As you pushed open the door to the bunker, you pulled the sleeves of your sweater low over your hands, clinging to them with your nearly numb fingers. Frank looked up when you stepped inside, but only briefly. He was on the other end of the room, now, crouched to unroll a sleeping bag across the concrete, moving slow and quiet like he’d done this a hundred times before. He’d already told you— in no uncertain terms— that you’d be taking the cot.

Even still, as you approached it, you hesitated. “You sure you don’t want it?” you asked, voice low.

He didn’t look at you this time, just shook his head once. “Nah. It’s yours.”

You opened your mouth to argue. Closed it again. You knew better.

“Alright,” you said, softer now. “Thanks.”

He hummed in response— a vague sound of acknowledgement, maybe approval. You couldn’t tell.

You put away your bathroom items and dirty clothes, shoving them into the backpack that had come to house all of your remaining belongings. All of the things that hadn’t been left behind, locked within the walls of your apartment. A place you weren’t sure you’d be returning to anytime soon.

You climbed into the cot and lay on your side, facing the wall, your back to Frank and the rest of the bunker. The blanket was thin, scratchy. You curled beneath it anyway, tucking your hands beneath your chin. Frank moved behind you somewhere, the sounds distant but distinct: the creak of leather as he kicked off his boots, the muted thud of something set down, the low exhale of breath that carried more fatigue than he’d admit.

Then silence.

For a moment, you thought that might be it. No goodnight, no reminder that he was here.

Then his throat cleared. And into the cool air that enveloped you both, he said, “Get some rest.”

You turned your head, just slightly, until you could see the outline of him in the dark. He’d settled on the floor a few feet away, facing you with his back against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him. His arms were crossed over his chest.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “You too.”

Sleep came, but only in brief, sporadic bursts. The cold held you hostage, jostling you awake just when you’d thought you’d escaped it. It had seeped in past skin and muscle, lodged itself somewhere deep. The dampness in your hair didn’t help— you wouldn’t shower at night again. Not for a long time.

You shifted, subtly, trying to be quiet. You suspected Frank was the type to wake easily— especially here, especially now. You repositioned your body, curled in on yourself as tightly as you could, tugging your knees into your chest.

It didn’t help.

The shivering started in your fingers, traveled up your forearms. A low, bone-deep tremble that wouldn’t ease. You pressed your palms between your thighs, searching for any ounce of warmth you could find. You tried to breathe through it— mind over matter, right?— but even biting down on your tongue so hard you began to taste blood didn’t help.

Then came the teeth. You tried to hold your jaw still, you really did— but the chatter set in anyway, harsh and helpless and loud in the relative silence around you. Every so often you would press your palm over your mouth and hold your breath, listening for the sound of Frank’s breathing behind you— it remained slow, rhythmic. But you weren’t sure how long that would last.

A beat later, as if you’d asked for it, you heard him shift. You went still, palm still pressed over your mouth, though your teeth continued to grind against themselves involuntarily. His breathing hadn’t changed. Your mind flooded— then emptied. Had he ever been asleep at all?

His sleeping bag rustled and a soft creak sounded, his body rising from the floor. Your eyes pinched shut, your stomach twisting with shame. Your hand slowly lowered from your mouth, instead wrapping around the hem of the blanket, tugging it higher over you.

You tried to stay perfectly still, then, tried to pretend you were asleep. But it was no use.

Muffled, quiet footsteps sounded, him crossing the room towards you. You felt the weight of his gaze on your shadowed figure, but you didn’t turn towards him. Your eyes opened, stayed locked on the concrete wall in front of you.

The cot dipped behind you, the frame groaning under the sudden shift in weight. It startled you— not because you hadn’t expected it, but because you had. You’d felt it coming like a change in weather, like the static in the air before a storm. Your breath caught in your throat, sharp and immediate, your whole body stiffening with the tension of anticipation.

Frank didn’t speak. Not when he climbed in. Not when he tugged the blanket up higher, slow and careful, tucking it around you both like he’d done it before. Like this level of intimacy wasn’t brand new and terrifying for you both.

Then came his arm— slow at first, hesitant. It slid around your waist, that familiar weight settling low, the curve of his forearm bracing itself across your stomach, palm splayed wide just above your navel. As he moved, the hem of your sweatshirt rose, his fingertips brushing the exposed skin beneath. His hand was rough, calloused. Warm. You felt every ridge of it as it curved against you, fingers pressing lightly into the dip where your ribs met softness.

“Jesus,” he commented, voice low, the exhaled air warm against your neck. “You’re freezing.”

“Didn’t want to ask,” you whispered in a rush, the shame crawling up your throat. “Didn’t want to make it weird.”

Frank let out another slow, stifled breath. “Ain’t weird,” he said. “You’re cold. That’s all.”

But you didn’t believe him.

Not entirely.

His chest aligned with your back a moment later, and the contact there was overwhelming— startlingly solid. Like being braced against a wall. His body heat poured into yours at once, devastating in its relief. The contrast stole your breath. Warmth poured through you so fast it felt like pain— sharp and electric. A tremor rolled through your chest, this time from something deeper than cold. Your hips shifted, pressing back into him. Into his— was he—

Oh. He was.

Frank stilled behind you.

“Careful,” he warned, the hand against your stomach moving to your hip, pressing it forward an inch. You weren’t sure if he was trying to protect you, in the moment, or himself.

Your cheeks flamed and your eyes pinched shut. Horror washed over you like a tidal wave and you wished for a sudden, swift death.

“Sorry.”

You felt the slight lift of his chest as he inhaled, then the slow exhale that ghosted against the back of your neck again. Like he was trying to calm his own racing pulse. His hand returned to your stomach, then, fingertips flexing once against your abdomen. Not possessive. Not testing. Just a simple shift, like he was grounding you. Or maybe grounding himself.

Your own hand moved— slow, uncertain— until it hovered over his. You didn’t press down. Just let your fingers hover, shaking faintly from cold and tension and something else. A second passed. Then two.

Then you touched him.

Your fingers found the edge of his pinky first. Brushed the back of his hand. His thumb twitched in response, barely a movement, but it felt like a jolt straight to your sternum. You closed your hand over his gently, not intertwining, just holding. Just acknowledging. A silent thank you.

The cot was too small for both of you. His knees bumped the back of yours, the heat of his thighs bracketing yours completely. His other hand— where was it? Beneath the pillow? Tucked near his chest? You didn’t know. You couldn’t move enough to find out, terrified of pressing into that same, dangerous space you’d already discovered. The space between your shoulder blades and his collarbone shrank with every breath.

His nose brushed your hairline once. Not a kiss, not even intentional. Just the result of motion. But it burned like one.

You closed your eyes, willing your heart to calm down. Willed your breath to stay quiet. Willed your mind to stop cataloguing every inch of him— how warm his bicep was against your ribs, how his breath slowed against your skin, how the weight of his hand made you feel safe and exposed all at once.

You’d been freezing moments ago.

Now, you were burning alive.

But you didn’t move.

And neither did he.

[prahacat]

blue

wrote 500 words of nihilistic dooku poetry to lull myself to sleep. enjoy <3 cw: existential dread, hints of horror, sith and their canon-typical disregard for self-preservation

everyone has their own path to immortality. purely out of academic interest, he studied them all: a thousand ancient tomes, forgotten poems, holocrons unearthed from dying planets. he reads not to believe, but to understand. sometimes, the master drips vials of luminous blood into the cradle of his hands. the prisoners are wasting away on saline and the force, suspended between death and utility. we are eternal, the master whispers and drinks from the light. him, he does not share these obsessions. in the morning cold, his joints ache when his fingers brush the hilt of his saber. the weight is familiar, the blade pale against the predawn haze. peace, he knows, never lasts more than a few years. this galaxy is intent on breaking itself. last year, he had the palace gardens destroyed: moonflowers, lotus plants, frostblooms that unfurl like laughing faces—torn up by the roots, the soil sown with salt. he dismissed the gardeners who waged a losing war against the weeds sprouting from hidden cracks and the shadows beneath the trees. better to pour the grounds with concrete. chlorine fumes now rise from the lily ponds. he walks alone among the pillars and droids, scanning the bleached sky for a storm that never arrives.

the media speculates on how he takes his breakfast milk, whether he dines on ageless creatures dredged from the depths of the belsallian sea, if the chlorinated pools are for bathing. when he returns onboard his flagship, the general’s rattling cough brings bile to his throat. we are so progressive, the scientists say, give us a piece of yourself, and we will grow you a real heart, a pair of lungs, a body that might carry you a little longer. but this war, surely, cannot last more than a few months. and so, the general chokes on a laugh and leaves to cut down another jedi. let the poor creature chase his purpose. such sad, short-lived things they are. after weeks of absence, his assassin slinks back into his shadow, eyes burning, lips split, her palms red where her saber bit into her skin. you could let go of this torment, he wants to tell her, I am sure you would find something else to live for. she has no interest in living. none of them do.

his face flashes on the newsreels. when he speaks, the people chant for him. to freedom and prosperity. we are eternal. they burn his image into portraits that hang in government halls and seedy cantinas alike. in songs, they smooth his edges. he is everywhere and nowhere, a thousand-faced echo of himself. two years pass, and still, the war grinds on. for its anniversary, they gift him a robe spun from solidified blue milk. the fabric has no odor, no texture, and slips like water against his skin. a triumph of science: antioxidant, anticarcinogenic, anti-inflammatory, neuroprotective, hepatoprotective. that night, he burns it in his bedroom hearth and watches the light eat away at the threads.

[koririmao]

afritada

cast| won nari (oc) wc|  cw| original characters synopsis| nari's LOOOORRRREEEE!!!! credits| @koririmao / @duckreiii on  W  app ib| idk i was bored

~~

nari took a swig of soju, the liquor burning its way down his throat like a vice tightening around his lungs. he was on the floor, his back pressed against the door, knees drawn close to his chest.  

the apartment was suffocatingly quiet. a silence so thick it clung to the air, making it harder to breathe. days like these had a way of creeping up on him—when the weight of the world felt unbearable, and his thoughts unraveled into another breakdown.  

his fingers trembled as he unfolded the crumpled photograph in his hand. the faces in the picture were blurred with age, their features distorted, but his father's smile remained unmistakable.  

that same gentle smile of a man who wouldn’t hurt a fly even if it landed in his soup. a man who once laughed while cooking, never raising his voice—never raising a hand. and yet, that kind man had been shackled to a woman who was a master of venomous words and cruel indifference.  

maybe the divorce had been a blessing. maybe her moving to the states had been the best thing that could’ve happened. at least then, his father no longer had to endure her constant bullshit.  

well. almost.  

the vibration of his phone against the wooden floor jolted him from his thoughts. he frowned, glancing at the caller id. his stomach twisted, dread curling around his ribs.  

rolling his eyes, he forced himself to answer.  

"mom?"  

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?! I’VE BEEN CALLING YOU FOR TWO HOURS! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU, YOU UNGRATEFUL BRAT?!"  

her voice ripped through the speaker like glass shattering against concrete, sharp enough to make him wince.  

nari swallowed back the exhaustion threatening to seep into his tone. another fight—right after he had just finished grieving their fractured excuse of a family. he didn’t have the energy for this.  

"i-i was… studying" he lied, his voice hoarse.  

"you better be!" she snapped. "i’m not sending money—WHICH, MIGHT I REMIND YOU, IS NOT EVEN FROM YOUR DAMN FATHER—just for you to waste it in korea!"  

as if what she sent even covered a fraction of what he needed.  

medical school was bleeding him dry. tuition alone was backbreaking, not to mention the cost of textbooks, lab materials, rent, utilities, food. being 27 and struggling to stay afloat in mokpo—one of the economically challenged cities in south korea—felt like drowning with no shore in sight.  

his grip tightened around his phone, nails digging into his palm. "if you’re done nagging, can you just hang up? i have things to do."  

"oh? you’re talking back to me now?" she spat, voice dripping with condescension. "fine. i’ll hang up. but let me tell you something, you little bitch—no matter what you do, no matter how much you twist and turn the damn earth—YOU WILL ALWAYS BE MY DAUGHTER. won nari, you—"  

"I TOLD YOU NOT TO CALL ME THAT!"  

his voice tore from his throat like a wound ripped open.  

the room trembled with silence. his own breath came in uneven gasps, the burn of alcohol now nothing compared to the fire clawing at his chest. his fingers dug into his scalp as he fought to steady himself, but the words still rang in his ears.  

'always my daughter'

no matter how far he ran, no matter how much he tried to sever the strings tying him to the past—his mother would never let him exist as an independent individual.

silence.

then, the sharp click of the call ending. a long, drawn-out beep filled the empty space in the room.

with a curse, nari hurled the phone across the room. it crashed against the wall, the screen shattering into jagged cracks, but he barely spared it a glance. his frustration burned too hot. 

he grabbed the soju bottle, tipping back the last bitter drop before launching it after the phone. it smashed against the floor, shards scattering like the pieces of his life he couldn't glue back together.

if only there was a way out. a way to take the money and start fresh.

sure, he could lie—say he was using it for med school while really spending it on something else. 

but then what? how would he cover rent with his greedy landlord breathing down his neck? 

what about groceries, the bare minimum to keep himself afloat? 

the electricity bill? the water?

the essentials that his mother, in all her so-called generosity, never considered when she threw money at him like it could buy his obedience?

and then there was the nanny.

not the warm, doting kind who baked cookies or picked up after him. no, this one was a spy—his mother’s eyes and ears, planted right next door like a parasite. a woman paid to watch his every move, to report back with every misstep, every deviation from the future his mother had carved out for him.

bribing her? sure. it had crossed his mind more than once. but where the hell would he get the money for that? from the allowance his mother gave him? the same money he needed to survive? the irony of it all made him laugh bitterly.

and even if he wanted to earn his own, no hospital or clinic would take him. his grades were trash, a stain on his record, and no one cared that he was actually good at practical work. they wanted numbers, proof on paper—not someone who could actually handle real, human bodies with precision and skill.

bottom of the class meant bottom of the barrel.

nari leaned back, rubbing his temples, breathing through the simmering rage that sat heavy in his chest.

he needed a plan. fast.

~~~~

as nari sat on the bench by the train station, he pulled out a cigarette and flicked his lighter. the flame danced for a second before settling into a steady glow. 

it was only 10:15 PM, yet the usual flood of workers and students had vanished, leaving the platform eerily deserted. he exhaled a slow stream of smoke, shrugging off the uneasy quiet. 

being alone wasn’t new to him. hell, he preferred it that way. 

until now.

a man in a suit, crisp and unbothered by the late hour, took a seat across from him, resting a hefty briefcase on his lap. nari barely spared him a glance, but something about the stranger’s presence made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. he kept his eyes forward, pretending not to notice.

then, in his peripheral vision—eye contact.

great. just great. if i didn’t look so fucking feminine, maybe creeps like him wouldn’t pull stunts like this.

“excuse me, ma’am, but would you like to play a game?” the man’s voice was smooth, almost rehearsed. with a flick of his wrist, two ddakji squares appeared between his fingers—one red, one blue.

nari’s eye twitched. “first of all,” he growled, “it’s sir. get it right.”

the man only smiled. amused.

“and next—what the actual fuck? a grown-ass man in a business suit playing ddakji at 10:00 PM in mokpo’s TRAIN STATION? you lost a bet or something?” his voice dripped with sarcasm, but something about the stranger’s unbothered demeanor set off alarm bells in his head.

the man chuckled, clearly unfazed. “won nari. a child of a broken family. father vanished, mother remarried in the states, started fresh. she sends you money, but let’s be real—it's barely enough to scrape by. certainly not enough to fund the tuition for her dream of you becoming a doctor, is it?”

nari’s stomach dropped.

how the fuck does he know that?

he kept his expression neutral, but his grip on the cigarette tightened. the man continued, flipping one of the ddakji tiles between his fingers.

“it’s people like you, nari, that i offer help to.” he tilted his head slightly, studying him. “independent, resourceful, far more capable than your grades would suggest. you’re skilled—maybe even more than some professionals. yet you’re shackled by someone else’s expectations.” his voice was casual, like they were discussing the weather.

the briefcase snapped open, revealing stacks of crisp 50,000-won bills. the sight of that much money all at once sent a rush of heat through nari’s chest.

the man smirked, knowing exactly what he was doing.

“every time you win, you get fifty thousand won. but every time i win, you owe me fifty thousand.” he extended his hand. “deal?” nari scoffed, rolling his eyes. “hey, genius stalker, if you know so much about me, you’d know I don’t have fifty-fucking-thousand won.”

the man’s smirk didn’t falter. “alright then. how about this—you get fifty thousand every time you win, but every time i win, i get to slap you.” nari looked up sharply, studying his expression. he didn’t seem violent. the guy was all slick smiles and smooth talk, nothing that screamed dangerous.

a few slaps? he could take that. and with that much cash on the line? easy choice— or so he thought.

the next thing nari knew, he had missed the last train of the night, his cheek burning red from repeated smacks. his fingers trembled slightly as he counted his winnings—three hundred thousand won.

the man in the suit bowed slightly, tucking away the remaining ddakji pieces. “i’m impressed, nari. you’ve got skill. do you think you could handle other traditional korean games?”

he reached into his pocket and handed over a business card. nari barely glanced at it before scoffing. “what kind of shitty business card only has a number and some—” his voice trailed off as he took a proper look.

a circle. a triangle. a square.

he frowned, glancing up—only to find the man gone.

vanished.

a chill ran down his spine.

what in the goddamn fuck just happened?

~~~

nari’s pov

as i flipped through the keys on my key ring, searching for the one that unlocked my apartment door, the faint sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway behind me. i glanced up to see the nanny approaching, a large pot cradled in her arms.

"ay, hijo, you’re finally home." her voice was warm, familiar. "i made my special afritada—hope you’re hungry. if you want me to heat it up first, just let me know, okay?" she handed me the pot with a gentle smile.

i couldn't bring myself to hate this old lady. not when she was just another one of my mother’s victims. based on her kind demeanor, there was no way she willingly took on the role of a personal watchdog for a 27-year-old korean boy. she was just doing what she was told.

i forced a small smile and twisted the key into the lock, pushing the door open with a soft creak. as I took the pot from her, i muttered, "se-lah-mutt puh" my sorry excuse for tagalog pronunciation making her chuckle.

"it’s ‘salamat po,’ hijo" she corrected with a laugh. "but you’re welcome. if you need anything, just knock on my door, ha?"

my face warmed with embarrassment. i nodded. "of course. thanks again."

stepping inside, i nudged the door shut behind me and carried the pot to the kitchen, setting it down on the counter.

i sat at the table, spooning steaming afritada onto my plate, pairing it with the cold, soggy microwave rice i had leftover from earlier. my eyes drifted to the small, plain business card in my hand.

was this really the answer to my financial struggles?

it sounded ridiculous—playing children's games for money. but if i played enough, i could finally escape this crummy apartment. hell, I could move out of the city. maybe even the country.

but not before taking care of the nanny next door. she’d looked after me when no one else did, and she deserved better than being my mother’s eyes and ears. if i earned enough, maybe i could convince her to stop listening to my mother’s orders for good.

i sighed, setting down my spoon.

yeah. a few more slaps wouldn’t kill me.

reaching for my phone, i hesitated for only a second before dialing the number on the card. the line rang. 

once. twice. a third time. 

just as doubt started creeping in, there was a click.

a voice—muffled, almost robotic—spoke on the other end.

"hello. do you wish to participate in the games?"

i swallowed hard, clearing my throat. "y-yeah. i do."

"to verify your participation, please state your name and age."

odd way to verify someone, but whatever.

"won nari. twenty-seven."

a brief pause. then, the voice responded.

"very well. we will send you the location of where to wait. please look forward to the games we have prepared. good evening."

click.

the line went dead.

i stared at my phone, my heartbeat steady but heavy in my chest.

well. no turning back now.

~~~

as nari sat at the edge of his bed, staring at the address now glowing on his phone screen, an unsettling feeling crawled up his spine.

déjà vu.

he frowned. 

had he seen this location before? maybe in passing? or was it a dream?

the nagging sensation gripped him as he glanced around his dimly lit apartment. the afritada pot still sat on the stove, steam faintly curling from its surface. his untouched glass of water reflected the flickering fluorescent light overhead. 

it was all so... familiar. too familiar.

he tapped his fingers against his knee, trying to shake the unease, but the memory—if it even was a memory—was slippery. he could almost picture himself standing at that very location, feeling the cold air press against his skin, hearing the distant hum of a train, sensing the weight of anticipation thick in his chest.

was it possible he had already played these games before?

his heart picked up speed at the thought. no, that didn’t make sense. if he had, wouldn’t he remember? 

wouldn’t there be some trace of it in his life? 

a scar, a missing day, a debt paid off?

still, something felt off.

with a deep breath, he tapped the address into his map app, watching the route unfold. the location wasn’t too far—a warehouse near the docks. 

secluded. isolated. the perfect place for something secretive.

his fingers hovered over the screen. he should hesitate. he should think about this more. but instead, he grabbed his coat, stuffed his phone into his pocket, and reached for the door handle.

but before he could open the door, his eyes flickered to the nunchucks resting on the counter—disguised as a delicate purple kanzashi adorned with lily designs. a gift from his mother. perhaps the only good thing he had ever received from her.

without a second thought, he reached for it, running his fingers over the smooth surface before securing it in his hair like any ordinary kanzashi. a hidden weapon, concealed in plain sight.

as he stepped into the hallway, he caught sight of the nanny’s door just as it clicked shut. 

had she been watching him?

another chill ran through him, but he shook it off. It didn’t matter. Not now.

déjà vu or not, he was going.

and whatever awaited him there—he had a feeling it had been waiting for him, too.

~~~

"thanks again, sir."  

nari stepped out of the taxi, waiting for it to drive off before heading deeper into the night. he walked cautiously, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one was following him. after what felt like an eternity, he finally arrived at the warehouse.  

great. so... uh… what now?  

was he supposed to just stand here? because this definitely wasn’t where that salesman had come from. that guy had been decked out in a crisp suit, carrying an expensive-looking briefcase stacked with cash. there was no way he worked in a rundown place like this.  

lost in thought, nari almost didn’t notice the black van pulling up in front of him. he figured it was just some random driver, maybe someone stopping to ask if he was lost.  

but when the window rolled down, it revealed a masked man—a featureless circle stamped onto his face, clad in a pink jumpsuit.  

the van door slid open. the man inside nodded toward nari, a silent invitation.  

his gut twisted. everything about this screamed suspicious. but then again… it wasn’t like he had a choice anymore.

no turning back now.  

taking a deep breath, he stepped inside.  

the moment he did, the door slammed shut behind him. he glanced around the dimly lit interior, his stomach tightening.  

are these people asleep? or… unconscious? 

a sinking feeling crept up his spine. wait. no. this was a terrible idea.

before he could react, a hissing sound filled the van. thin, colorless fumes seeped from the air vents.  

oh, great. this is how i die, huh? kidnapped and sold for my organs?not exactly the kind of story that would land me in the history books. maybe a headline on the news, if i'm lucky.  

his thoughts spiraled as his vision blurred. his limbs grew heavy.  

the last thing he saw was darkness.  

then—nothing.

-end-

[apoapsis]

@dimensionalspades

                         With his newest friend’s assistance, SIGMA is finally able to taste freedom at last. 

He’s quick to wander without supervision– mostly careful to stay well away from dense civilization, but flourishing under the evening sky, the ability to look up and see what he’d only ever been able to construct in his mind…  Initially his latest friendship with the hacker had seemed superficial at best, but over time, over many evening lamentations of proximity restriction and 24/7 surveillance, she had taken sympathy upon him, practically handing him the keys to his own cage– with the assurance that he would be back within twenty-four hours. Any longer, and his absence would undoubtedly be noted. But Sombra would take care of the rest, handling the security and ensuring his entries and exits were to go unnoticed. 

                        It isn’t his first night of gallivanting– but tonight he is feeling bolder, intent on exploring what could be done with the ANOMALY out here, in the open world, with virtually every element at his disposal. The things that could be detected on the surface, outside of the cold, entombing concrete of the facility’s sublevels, was innumerable.  That, in particular, is what makes him fairly easy to detect, however; strange constructs are always left in SIGMA’S wake– from grand spires of crystalline ice that could not melt, to geometrics and fractals within natural materials like stone and wood. Aberrations of nature; taking the natural world and creating unnatural, bizarre shapes according to his design. 

It was nice to be able to utilize his abilities so freely– without TALON rating his performances, or demanding to know what the purpose of any of it was. All SIGMA had wanted to do since his incarceration was to simply be allowed to explore these strange powers, and it seemed that no one had any interest in allowing him to discover what potential lay within his ANOMALY. A run-down farmhouse finds itself to be the centerstage for SIGMA’S eccentric design, and he wastes no time in promptly beginning to populate the dilapidated field with his wonderfully imperfect figurines, of his approximations of animals. Some of them resemble their desired subject– but many do not, with necks, bodies, and limbs bent at peculiar angles in SIGMA’S attempts to capture some semblance of realism. He didn’t remember what many of these things looked like– he creates it all from imagination.

                         The notion that he was being observed– that he could even be observed out here– appears to have slipped his mind entirely; he’s simply too preoccupied with the pulling and warping of metal, sediment, greenery, and more… far too preoccupied to pay too much concern towards his environment. As far as he was concerned, this was the middle of nowhere– why would anyone have come out this far…? 

There is a perturbation in the air, but it was incapable of being placed in his distraction, and as a result, the sudden flash of splinters, of sparks, of heat, appears to shower him from seemingly nowhere. SIGMA’S construction is left in pieces and tatters when his vision fully clears, having shielded his face from the blast, completely destroyed by whatever had been intended for him. Bewilderment leaves him freezing up, damaged retinas scanning the hilltops for whatever had attacked him. Who would be out here…?

[utilitycaster]

could you elucidate on why coffeelocks are bad actually? my friend is a bit obsessed with them right now and i’ve never liked the specific build but i’d love to have concrete reasons that aren’t just opinions!

YES. Somewhere in my archives I think I actually did the math on like, how many short rests you have to take for this to pay any dividends, and it was a LOT, but that was during full lockdown iirc and you do not have to do this much work.

The basic gist of coffeelock for those wondering is that warlocks recharge spell slots on a short rest, and sorcerers can convert sorcery points into spell slots and vice versa. The idea is that if you take Pact of the Tome and then Aspect of the Moon as an eldritch invocation, you never have to long rest again and can just farm sorcery points/spell slots for 8 hours each night.

Now: the most obvious issue is that any reasonable DM who hears about this will look at you and say "I don't care if it's technically legal, I think it's annoying and I'm not going to let you do it." But let's assume your DM does not shut it down.

You have infinite spell slots at level 5. You are warlock 3 sorcerer 2. You know 7 spells total, which is what you'd know had you leveled to level 5 in either of these classes, except you also know 6 level 1 spells and 1 level 2 spell, max. Someone who leveled normally would have fireball, or dispel magic, or counterspell, and if they were divine soul they might even have revivify, but not you! This will eventually get slightly better at higher levels but if you're the party's main arcane caster this sucks and if you're in a party with fewer than like, five people, or perhaps a really caster heavy party, you're putting a lot of burden on other people to do the utility early on so that your dumb ass can cast magic missile 20 times a day or whatever.

I don't actually care for sorlock just generally, in the absence of coffeelock bullshit. Yes, it depends on the same main stat, but a bard or paladin combo will actually significantly broaden your repertoire. Sorcerer and Warlock have a LOT of spell overlap, and metamagic is one of those things that is like, super clutch 0.1% of the time and the rest of the time it's like oh ok (though I guess as a coffeelock you're not even really using metamagic! total waste of being a sorcerer, which is the weakest caster already! great job.). Meanwhile, two of the big strengths of warlock are 1. eldritch blast, a cantrip you can already cast infinite times without spell slots, and 2. eldritch invocations, which you have to level in warlock to get. Dipping into sorcerer means fewer invocations. Basically, all multiclassing is a trade off and I feel like this is at most the sum of its parts, certainly not more. I also think it's very tricky to play this in a way that is narratively interesting and makes sense for your character while also abiding by the specific leveling requirements of coffeelock. This isn't an issue in a one-shot but also in a one-shot you simply might not even take a long rest which renders the entire thing useless.

You have to take Pact of the Tome, which means you are spending all this time and effort and build for infinite spell slots but also you have, without any racial bonuses, literally 9 cantrips (ie, at-will spells) at level 5. And none of them are dispel magic, because that is too high for you for at least another 2 levels and that's only if you choose to continue in warlock. Also, actually, until you reach L9 in specifically divine soul sorcerer, you don't have greater restoration as discussed, so yeah your DM can just be like "oh you don't have to sleep but you do still gain exhaustion."

I lied and I did some math. So: you are a L5 coffeelock. let's say you have exhausted all your resources on day 1. You sit down for your little bullshit 8 short rests. You can never have more than two sorcery points, because the PHB page 101 says that you can't exceed the number of sorcery points shown on the table for your level. So every hour you convert one L2 spell slot (recharging) into a L1 spell slot (non-recharging), and repeat this (you can't convert both at once! because then you exceed two sorcery points!) and you end the night with 14 L1 spells and your two L2 warlock spell slots. If you are lucky, you might get like, one short rest if there is a monk or wizard or fighter in the party and they don't hate you so much that they're willing to go without ki points/second winds/arcane recovery, and they might. I guess you just stockpile low level spells indefinitely until you have to sleep finally? if you have a week of downtime do you just. walk around with hundreds of first level spell slots and not think this is the dumbest shit of all time? ooooh look at me i can cast fucking...detect magic for 24 hours straight. can't dispel any of it though!

Leveling up is a bitch too if I recall. You need to level up in sorcerer to get more points so you can eventually convert to higher level spells, and the exchange rate is not generous (like, if you're not sleeping, it's ok, but it's not in your favor as shown with the L2 to L1 conversion) and imo warlock is the superior class, and you're probably not really taking advantage of metamagic anyway so you're barely reaping the benefits of being a sorcerer except for flexible casting. Do you feel good about this? Is this fun for you? Your entire table is watching you count out your spell slots each night and hoping fervently you get audited by the IRS in real life but man you sure showed them by being able to cast chromatic orb a lot!

Also you can't use items that recharge on a long rest, only ones that recharge at dawn. Sucker.

This is all very long because I think coffeelock is an annoying build for people who think they are smart and really aren't, but the gist is that you trade away a great deal of your utility, ability to help the party, and ability to do anything except cast rather low-level spells in comparison to what everyone who made better decisions is doing. Also it's LAUGHABLY easy for the DM to fuck this over for you within the bounds of the rules even if they allowed it. Your patron gets annoyed that you're only leveling in sorcerer. Levels of exhaustion. Your patron, who communicates through dreams, straight up abandons you because you're not picking up their calls. You keep being put in positions where your 75 first level spells won't do shit and a single third level spell would. They taunt you with items that recharge on a long rest.

It's just...well, quantity over quality. Shein haul ass character build.

[wishing-stones]

Baggs (B)

B. Under cover of darkness.

Sneaking about in the shadows seemed... unnatural to him. He was bright, conspicuous, meant to be the center of attention and to command it all...

Not to skulk around in the darkness like a churl.

He rarely saw deployment, but today was one of those rare times that he left the sanctity of Nightmare's Hold, venturing out with Dust and Cross.

Dust melded into the shadows so well that Baggs himself lost track of the hooded skeleton a handful of times. Cross, despite being clad mostly in white, also managed to hide well.

Subterfuge he could handle, but stealthy he was not. Still... He stuck closer to Dust as they combed through city streets and back alleys, unseen but for the occasional pair of worldweary, tired eyes that might not believe what they were seeing in the first place.

Such was the nature of a negative-leaning world, he supposed, but it upset him to see humanity so callous about their own-- left to rot on cold, wet concrete and waste away on pitiful scraps.

Monsters would never. Monster could never.

The altruistic part of his soul wanted to help the few people that he swept silently past, shivering beneath threadbare blankets, but...

It wasn't what he was here to do, and in the long run, it wouldn't help anything. He continued on, simply shaking his head and sighing a slow sigh through his nasal cavity.

Dust glanced sideways at him, straightening a little from his almost predatory stalk.

"almost think you'd be better off keepin' you and yours underground."

Uncannily observant, Dust was. Baggs couldn't fault him.

"Sometimes, I think much the same. At least there I can ensure they're safe and taken care of." He returned softly, "I don't think I could live with myself if I brought us to the surface to face such terrible conditions. We may be monsters, but humans are the ones who are truly monstrous."

Dust grunted in agreement, nodding along.

"and sometimes you gotta take care of the trash who treat other people like trash."

"I am afraid not, my friend." Baggs' smile was wan, "I don't think I'll ever be given to such violent impulses... but far be it from me to prevent you yours in appropriate circumstances."

"cool, means you won't try to stop me." He rolled his shoulders back with a faint, eerie chuckle, "which is great, because i might be spillin' blood tonight."

"So long as I'm not in the splash zone, I'll not stop you." Baggs waved him off with a small gesture of his hand, banking with his current mission partner and entering a far more dimly lit alleyway to regroup with Cross.

"you find our mark?"

"Yeah. Might need some assistance getting his personal guard out of the picture. No need to make it messier than just him."

Baggs sighed heavily, rolling his shoulders back.

"Hold them with blue magic and I'll ensure they remember nothing."

...

Some time later, as he watched the mindless guard slump against opposite walls in a hallway, dead asleep, he found himself thinking that... perhaps utilizing the shadows suited him... a little more than he initially banked on.

Commanding attention was fantastic and powerful in its own right...

But sneaking behind someone to whisper them into compliance made him feel powerful in an entirely different way. He felt ephemeral, as fickle and fleeting as the shadows themselves, and then, truly then... he felt as at home on this mission as both of his compatriots did.

[hariomtmt]

"Manufacturing Processes Used by Mild Steel Dowel Bars Manufacturers in Sweden"

INTRODUCTION

Mild steel dowel bars are indispensable in the construction industry, especially for enhancing the durability and stability of concrete structures. Known for their exceptional strength and adaptability, these bars play a crucial role in ensuring efficient load transfer across joints in pavements, slabs, and other structural applications. This article explores the intricate manufacturing processes employed by Mild Steel Dowel Bars Manufacturers in Sweden, focusing on precision, quality, and innovation.

1. Raw Material Selection

The manufacturing process begins with selecting high-quality mild steel, known for its optimal balance of strength and ductility. Manufacturers in Sweden adhere to stringent quality standards to ensure that the raw material meets the requirements for construction-grade dowel bars.

2. Cutting and Sizing

Once the raw mild steel is procured, it is cut into specific lengths based on the application requirements. Precision cutting ensures uniformity, which is essential for effective load transfer and durability in concrete structures. Advanced cutting tools, including laser and hydraulic cutters, are often used to achieve accuracy.

3. Surface Preparation

Surface preparation is a vital step in the manufacturing process. The steel is cleaned to remove impurities, such as rust, grease, or mill scale, that may affect its bonding with concrete or its durability. Abrasive blasting or chemical treatments are commonly used for thorough cleaning.

4. Heat Treatment for Strength Enhancement

To enhance the mechanical properties of mild steel, manufacturers employ heat treatment techniques. This process improves the tensile strength and resilience of the bars, making them suitable for high-stress applications. Controlled heating and cooling cycles ensure uniformity and consistent quality.

5. Corrosion-Resistance Coating

Mild steel is susceptible to corrosion, especially in harsh weather conditions or when exposed to moisture. To mitigate this, manufacturers in Sweden apply protective coatings, such as epoxy or galvanization. These coatings not only extend the lifespan of the dowel bars but also ensure compliance with environmental and safety standards.

6. Straightening and Finishing

After heat treatment and coating, the bars are straightened to ensure they meet precise alignment specifications. Advanced machinery is used for this step, eliminating any deformations and achieving a smooth, uniform surface.

7. Quality Inspection and Testing

Quality assurance is a cornerstone of the manufacturing process. Mild Steel Dowel Bars Manufacturers in Sweden conduct rigorous testing to ensure that the bars meet international construction standards. Key tests include tensile strength analysis, corrosion resistance evaluation, and dimensional accuracy checks.

8. Packaging and Distribution

Once the dowel bars pass all quality checks, they are packaged using materials that protect them during transportation and storage. Proper labeling and documentation ensure that the bars reach their destination with traceability and compliance intact.

Advantages of Swedish Manufacturing Processes

Precision Engineering: Swedish manufacturers utilize advanced machinery and technology to achieve unmatched precision in dowel bar production.

Sustainability Practices: The focus on eco-friendly methods, such as recycling and reducing waste, aligns with Sweden's commitment to sustainability.

Compliance with Global Standards: By adhering to stringent international construction norms, Swedish manufacturers ensure that their products are recognized worldwide for quality and reliability.

Conclusion

The meticulous manufacturing processes employed by Mild Steel Dowel Bars Manufacturers in Sweden highlight their dedication to quality and innovation. From raw material selection to final packaging, each step ensures that the dowel bars are robust, durable, and suited for a wide range of construction applications. These processes set a benchmark for the global industry, making Sweden a leader in the production of high-quality mild steel dowel bars.

[mastergarryblogs]

Global Regenerative Cement Market to Witness Unprecedented Growth by 2032

The global regenerative cement market is undergoing a seismic shift, transitioning from conventional practices to sustainable and carbon-conscious solutions. With an expected Compound Annual Growth Rate (CAGR) of 36.8% from 2024 to 2031, the regenerative cement market is projected to surge from $34.10 billion in 2023 to $562.97 billion by 2031, driven by innovation in green construction technologies and increasing global commitment to decarbonization.

This dynamic growth trajectory underscores the transformative impact of regenerative cement technologies, especially in a post-pandemic landscape where climate resilience and circular economy initiatives are accelerating infrastructure investments worldwide.

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🌍 Regional Regenerative Cement Market Dynamics: Leading Geographies Shaping the Regenerative Cement Landscape

North America

North America is emerging as a key adopter, with the United States spearheading investments in low-carbon building practices. Federal initiatives, such as the Inflation Reduction Act, are reinforcing carbon reduction mandates, accelerating the shift toward carbon-negative materials in public infrastructure projects.

Europe

Europe remains at the forefront of regenerative cement innovation, bolstered by the European Green Deal and stringent EU Emissions Trading System (ETS) regulations. Countries like Germany, France, and the UK are fostering research in bio-cement and geopolymer technologies, setting ambitious sustainability benchmarks for the global industry.

Asia-Pacific

Rapid urbanization in China, India, Japan, and ASEAN countries is driving exponential demand for regenerative construction materials. The region is investing heavily in recycled content cement to mitigate waste, supported by government-led smart city projects and infrastructure modernization.

Middle East and Africa

Driven by megaprojects in the UAE, Saudi Arabia (e.g., NEOM), and African nations seeking resilient infrastructure, regenerative cement is gaining traction. The scarcity of natural resources is pushing the regenerative cement market toward alternative cementitious solutions.

South America

Brazil leads the adoption of low-carbon cement in Latin America, backed by national climate action plans and increasing alignment with UN Sustainable Development Goals.

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🔍 Product Segmentation and Innovation Insights

Recycled Content Cement

This category leverages industrial waste—fly ash, slag, and recycled aggregates—to create high-performance cement with reduced environmental burdens. Innovations in material sorting, treatment, and admixture integration are enhancing durability and structural integrity in civil and commercial applications.

Low-Carbon Cement

Low-carbon formulations prioritize alternative clinker materials, renewable fuels, and energy-efficient calcination methods. These cements emit significantly less CO₂ per ton compared to traditional Portland cement, making them pivotal for countries with net-zero emissions targets.

Bio-Cement

A frontier innovation, bio-cement employs microorganisms like Sporosarcina pasteurii to precipitate calcite, enabling self-healing, carbon-sequestering, and low-energy concrete systems. These solutions are particularly relevant for marine structures and low-impact development zones.

⚙️ Cutting-Edge Technologies Driving Market Disruption

Carbon Capture and Utilization (CCU) Cement

CCU cement integrates real-time carbon capture processes within manufacturing operations. By transforming captured CO₂ into stable mineral carbonates within the cement matrix, it both mitigates emissions and improves the compressive strength of the material. Companies are increasingly implementing direct air capture (DAC) and post-combustion capture techniques to scale this innovation.

Geopolymer Cement

Manufactured from alumino-silicate rich materials, such as fly ash and metakaolin, geopolymer cements require no limestone and operate at significantly lower temperatures, reducing energy consumption. Their chemical resistance, fireproofing qualities, and lifecycle performance make them ideal for industrial, military, and infrastructure applications.

🏗️ End-Use Sectors: Driving Adoption at Scale

Construction Companies

Construction firms are integrating regenerative cement into building foundations, structural walls, and precast elements to meet regulatory requirements and ESG goals. Collaborations with green certification bodies (e.g., LEED, BREEAM) are accelerating this shift.

Infrastructure Developers

Megaprojects in transportation, water systems, and energy grids are leveraging regenerative cement to increase lifespan, performance, and carbon neutrality of structures. Governments are issuing green procurement mandates to ensure compliance with international sustainability standards.

🏢 Applications Across Key Building Segments

Infrastructure

Highway bridges, tunnels, wastewater systems, and public transit hubs are increasingly constructed using low-carbon or geopolymer cements. These applications demand resilience, durability, and reduced lifecycle costs, aligning perfectly with regenerative solutions.

Residential Buildings

Builders are incorporating bio-cement and recycled content cement into homes to meet consumer demand for sustainable living spaces. Improved indoor air quality, thermal insulation, and structural longevity contribute to enhanced building performance.

Commercial Buildings

Office towers, retail complexes, and institutional facilities are adopting regenerative cement to achieve net-zero carbon architecture, reduce maintenance overheads, and ensure compliance with evolving zoning and environmental codes.

👨‍💼 Competitive Landscape: Global Leaders and Innovators

Major regenerative cement market players are shaping the future of regenerative cement through strategic R&D, partnerships, and acquisitions. Key companies include:

LafargeHolcim

HeidelbergCement AG

CEMEX

CRH plc

UltraTech Cement Ltd.

Buzzi Unicem

Taiheiyo Cement Corporation

Dalmia Cement (Bharat) Limited

Titan Cement Group

Holcim Philippines, Inc.

These entities are investing in carbon-neutral portfolios, leveraging AI-driven production optimization, and enhancing regional circular economy models.

📈 Regenerative Cement Market Forecast: Growth Outlook to 2031

The trajectory for regenerative cement remains robust through 2031, underpinned by escalating climate policy enforcement, investor focus on ESG, and technological maturation.

🌐 Strategic Imperatives for Stakeholders

Policy Makers: Mandate regenerative cement adoption through incentives and emissions regulations.

Developers: Integrate low-carbon materials early in design to unlock funding and regulatory benefits.

Investors: Prioritize companies with clear regenerative material roadmaps and third-party verifications.

Academia: Foster multidisciplinary R&D to accelerate bio-cement and geopolymer breakthroughs.

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Conclusion: Cementing a Carbon-Free Future

The regenerative cement market represents more than just a sustainable alternative—it is the foundation of tomorrow's infrastructure, resilient against climate risk and tailored for long-term environmental stewardship. As urban development and ecological accountability converge, regenerative cement will become the bedrock of global construction.

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Contact Us:

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Phone: +91 8530698844

Website: https://www.statsandresearch.com

[shijayprojects01]

Ground Penetrating Radar Survey in Delhi: A Reliable Solution for Subsurface Exploration

In today’s rapidly growing world, accurate subsurface investigation plays a crucial role in various industries. Whether it's for construction, infrastructure development, or environmental research, knowing what lies beneath the surface is vital for making informed decisions. A ground penetrating radar survey in Delhi offers a non-invasive, efficient, and reliable way to explore subsurface conditions. From detecting underground utilities to identifying structural issues, GPR provides real-time, detailed data for a range of applications.

What is Ground Penetrating Radar (GPR)?

Ground Penetrating Radar (GPR) is an advanced technology that uses electromagnetic waves to scan and map the subsurface. A ground penetrating radar survey in Delhi sends high-frequency radio waves into the ground. These waves bounce back when they hit an object or material with different properties, such as utilities, voids, or rocks. The reflected signals are recorded and processed to create a detailed image of the subsurface, allowing professionals to assess the underground structure without excavation.

This method is highly effective in detecting underground utilities, voids, and even structural abnormalities. It's a valuable tool for industries such as construction, archaeology, and environmental studies, providing precise data while minimizing disruption to the site.

Applications of Ground Penetrating Radar Survey

Utility Mapping and Detection: One of the most common uses of a ground penetrating radar survey in Delhi is utility mapping. Before beginning any construction or excavation project, it is essential to know where underground utilities are located to prevent accidental damage. GPR can accurately detect a variety of utilities such as water pipes, electrical cables, gas lines, and sewer systems. This ensures the safety and smooth progression of construction projects by preventing costly mistakes.

Cavity Detection: Another important application of a ground penetrating radar survey in Delhi is cavity detection. Underground voids or cavities can pose a serious risk to the stability of a structure or project site. These voids can form due to erosion, mining, or natural processes and may go unnoticed without proper detection. GPR is highly effective in locating these subsurface cavities, which allows engineers to take preventive measures before any damage occurs.

Structural Integrity Assessment: GPR is commonly used for structural assessments, particularly for concrete structures such as roads, bridges, and buildings. A ground penetrating radar survey in Delhi can be used to examine the condition of concrete, detect cracks, delamination, or corrosion, and assess the placement of rebar. By performing these inspections, engineers can ensure the safety and integrity of existing structures, preventing costly repairs and ensuring long-term durability.

Archaeological Investigations: In archaeology, a ground penetrating radar survey in Delhi is a non-invasive method used to locate buried structures, artifacts, and remains. This technique is highly beneficial for preserving historical sites, as it allows archaeologists to explore without the need for excavation. By using GPR, archaeologists can gather valuable data on the location of buried objects and determine where further digging may be needed.

Environmental Studies: GPR is also used in environmental studies to assess the condition of the land, identify contaminants, and locate buried waste or landfills. A ground penetrating radar survey in Delhi can help environmental engineers identify areas that require remediation and guide cleanup efforts without disturbing the environment. The ability to gather accurate subsurface data is crucial for environmental safety and monitoring.

Why Choose Ground Penetrating Radar Survey in Delhi?

There are several reasons why the ground penetrating radar survey in Delhi is becoming the preferred method for subsurface exploration:

Non-Invasive Technique: One of the key benefits of GPR is that it is non-invasive, meaning it doesn’t require excavation or disturbing the ground. This makes it an environmentally friendly and efficient method for obtaining subsurface data without disrupting the site.

Real-Time Data: The ground penetrating radar survey in Delhi provides real-time results, allowing professionals to interpret data immediately. This quick turnaround helps with faster decision-making and reduces project delays, which is especially important in industries like construction and infrastructure.

Accurate and Detailed Results: GPR offers highly accurate and detailed images of the subsurface, providing valuable insights into what lies beneath the surface. The data collected can be used to assess the presence of utilities, voids, or other underground structures, allowing professionals to plan projects more effectively.

Versatility: A ground penetrating radar survey in Delhi can be used in various environments, from urban areas to remote locations. It works on a range of surfaces including concrete, asphalt, soil, and rock, making it a versatile tool for many industries.

Cost-Effective: Since GPR eliminates the need for extensive excavation, it significantly reduces the cost and time associated with traditional survey methods. This makes it an affordable option for projects of all sizes.

How Does a Ground Penetrating Radar Survey Work?

The process of conducting a ground penetrating radar survey in Delhi is straightforward, though it requires trained professionals to ensure accurate results:

Site Preparation: The first step involves assessing the survey site. The ground conditions, such as soil type and surface materials, are evaluated to determine the best approach for the GPR survey.

Survey Setup: Once the site has been assessed, the GPR equipment is set up. This can involve either handheld devices or larger vehicle-mounted systems, depending on the size of the area to be surveyed.

Data Collection: The GPR unit sends electromagnetic pulses into the ground. These pulses travel through the subsurface and reflect back when they encounter materials with different densities, such as utilities or geological layers. The system records the reflected signals.

Data Analysis: The collected data is then processed to generate detailed images of the subsurface. This data is interpreted by professionals to identify any anomalies, such as utilities, voids, or other structures.

Report Creation: After analyzing the data, a detailed report is generated, including the findings and recommendations. This report can be used for further planning and decision-making.

Conclusion

A ground penetrating radar survey in Delhi is an invaluable tool for anyone involved in construction, archaeology, environmental studies, or any project that requires a detailed understanding of subsurface conditions. It offers an accurate, non-invasive, and cost-effective way to explore what lies beneath the surface. Whether you need to detect utilities, locate voids, assess structural integrity, or conduct archaeological investigations, GPR provides reliable and timely data that helps professionals make informed decisions.

With its ability to provide real-time data and its versatility across different applications, the ground penetrating radar survey in Delhi is the go-to solution for anyone needing a thorough, efficient, and safe subsurface investigation. If you are planning any project that involves underground exploration, a GPR survey is the best way to proceed with confidence.

[tranquilglobal]

Why Wooden Acoustic Panels Are Ideal for Sustainable Building Projects

In the quest for environmentally conscious construction and design, sustainability has become a key consideration in every aspect of building projects. Among the materials gaining popularity for their eco-friendly properties are wooden acoustic panels. These panels not only enhance the acoustics of a space but also contribute to the overall sustainability of a building. In this article, we’ll explore why wooden acoustic panels are an excellent choice for sustainable building projects.

1. Renewable Resource

Wood is one of the most renewable resources available. When sourced responsibly from sustainably managed forests, it becomes a highly eco-friendly material. Many wooden acoustic panels are made from wood that is certified by organizations like the Forest Stewardship Council (FSC), ensuring the wood used in these products comes from forests that are responsibly harvested and managed to minimize environmental impact.

Using wood in building materials like acoustic panels reduces the demand for less sustainable alternatives, such as synthetic or non-renewable materials. This helps promote a cycle of regeneration and reduces the carbon footprint of the overall project.

2. Carbon Sequestration

Wood naturally absorbs carbon dioxide (CO2) from the atmosphere as part of the growth process. When used in construction, wood retains this carbon, effectively acting as a carbon sink. This means that by choosing wooden acoustic panels, you’re utilizing a material that has already captured and stored carbon, contributing to a lower overall carbon footprint for the building.

In comparison to other building materials like concrete or steel, which release significant amounts of CO2 during production, wood offers a much more sustainable option for reducing the environmental impact of construction projects.

3. Natural Insulation Properties

Wood is an excellent natural insulator, both in terms of thermal and acoustic performance. Wooden acoustic panels help regulate the temperature within a space by preventing heat loss during colder months and reducing the need for artificial heating and cooling systems. This reduces the energy consumption of a building and makes it more energy-efficient, which is a key component of sustainable design.

In addition, wood’s natural ability to absorb sound reduces the need for additional energy-consuming systems, such as air conditioning units to combat the heat buildup caused by artificial soundproofing materials. This dual benefit of insulation further enhances the overall sustainability of a building.

4. Durability and Longevity

Wooden acoustic panels are not only beautiful but also durable and long-lasting. When treated and maintained properly, they can withstand years of use without degradation. This longevity reduces the need for replacements and repairs, which can contribute to long-term savings and waste reduction.

Durability is especially important in sustainable design, where the goal is often to create buildings that can stand the test of time, minimizing the need for resource-intensive renovations or replacements. Wooden panels' ability to retain their aesthetic and functional properties for decades makes them a smart investment in terms of both sustainability and performance.

5. Biodegradable and Low Environmental Impact

Unlike many synthetic materials, wood is biodegradable. If wooden acoustic panels ever need to be replaced, they can be recycled or repurposed, or they will break down naturally, reducing landfill waste. This makes wood a far more environmentally friendly option than alternatives made from plastics, metals, or other non-biodegradable materials.

Furthermore, the production processes for wooden panels generally have a lower environmental impact than many other construction materials. The energy required to process wood is less than that needed to manufacture materials like aluminum, steel, or plastics, making wooden acoustic panels an energy-efficient option for sustainable building projects.

6. Aesthetic and Biophilic Benefits

Wooden acoustic panels not only contribute to sustainability but also enhance the aesthetic value of a space. The warm, natural look of wood creates an inviting and comfortable atmosphere, which can improve occupant well-being. This is part of the biophilic design trend, which integrates natural elements into interior spaces to foster a connection with nature and improve mental health.

In sustainable design, the emphasis is on creating spaces that are not only eco-friendly but also conducive to the health and happiness of the occupants. Wooden panels help achieve both goals by enhancing the acoustics of a space and adding a natural, calming aesthetic that complements the broader design vision.

7. Reduced Manufacturing Waste

The production of wooden acoustic panels tends to generate less waste compared to synthetic materials. Wood is often sourced from sawmills or forestry byproducts, which are transformed into panels with minimal waste. This is a key advantage in sustainable construction, where reducing manufacturing waste is a priority.

Additionally, modern wood processing techniques have become increasingly efficient, allowing for greater material optimization. As a result, wooden acoustic panels are an environmentally responsible option that helps minimize waste in the manufacturing process.

8. Supports Local Economies

When wooden acoustic panels are sourced locally, they help support local forestry and manufacturing industries. This not only reduces the carbon footprint associated with transporting materials over long distances but also supports regional economies by promoting sustainable, local production.

Choosing locally sourced wood for acoustic panels also encourages responsible forest management practices, as local producers are often more invested in the long-term health of their natural resources.

Conclusion

Wooden acoustic panels are an excellent choice for sustainable building projects due to their renewable nature, carbon sequestration properties, energy efficiency, and minimal environmental impact. Their durability, aesthetic appeal, and biodegradability further enhance their attractiveness as an eco-friendly material for modern construction. By incorporating wooden acoustic panels into building designs, architects and builders can help reduce environmental impact while creating spaces that are acoustically optimized, beautiful, and comfortable for their occupants.