#but if i cut off book 1 in favour of keeping everything then i risk making the first book really uneventful

[hlcreators]

AUTHOR REC:  jacaranda_bloom / @jacaranda-bloom 

Be sure to show some love by leaving kudos and comments! 

Seven Simple Words (15k)

It’s not like he and Louis were a couple. No, they might have been a lot of things—best mates and colleagues with a seemingly convenient friends-with-benefits arrangement—but never a couple. It wasn’t Louis’ fault he didn’t feel the same way and couldn’t reciprocate Harry’s feelings in the way he’d wanted, the way he’d needed. Harry had allowed himself to get in too deep, his entire being aching to be loved back by the object of his affections. But in love, as in life, you don’t always get what you want.

OR the one where you don’t always get what you want the first time around, but sometimes the universe decides to give you a second chance at getting it right.

Feels So Right (8.8k)

The emcee leans in between them, handing over his mic to the blue-eyed vision. “You know what? Someday… Someday you guys might thank me for this...”

OR the one where Louis is Troy, Harry is Gabriella, and we find out what really happened after karaoke at that ski resort...

Wonderland (4.3k)

Louis has always loved lazy mornings in bed with his mate, but now that his Omega is carrying their pup, they’ve reached a whole new level of wonderment.

OR the one where Louis loves to worship his Omega’s body and Harry loves to let him.

The Baby Whisperer (18k)

Harry’s newborn baby is having trouble sleeping and nothing he does seems to work. Tired and alone and at his wits end, Harry is at a loss until a new neighbour arrives to turn his world upside down.

OR the one where being neighbourly takes on a whole new meaning.

Fuck U Betta (11k)

There’s something about having Louis like this, exposed and desperate, that makes a primal urge bubble up from deep inside Harry’s chest. Desire mixed with something else, something unquantifiable. It’s the thing that makes them want this, need this. Nothing else will satisfy them or quench their thirst.

OR the one where Harry likes the thrill of the chase, Louis likes to be chased, and everyone gets what they need… in the end.

Caves End (39k)

When a recurring injury cuts short Harry’s time as the Captain of the English Football Team, he needs to rethink his career and his future. His best mate and manager, Niall, decides that what Harry really needs is a change of scenery, time to relax, and to get some perspective on his life. What Harry doesn’t expect is for them to end up in Australia, on a farm, with the most gorgeous man he’s ever laid eyes on.

OR the one where Harry has lost his future, Louis has lost his past, but maybe together, they can find a way through the dark.

When Tomorrow Comes (11k)

When Louis and Niall are partnered up to complete a project on Omega scents and how they effect the nesting behaviours of Alphas, little does Louis know that the course of his life is about to be forever altered.

OR the one where Louis is an Omega who has been keeping himself pure for his Alpha, Harry is a traditional Alpha focusing on his studies while he waits to find his bondmate, and Niall is a sneaky bastard who keeps borrowing Louis’ clothes and never returning them.

You Drive Me WIld (5k)

Most people would think that keeping a tube of lube hidden behind the driver’s side visor of their car is foolish and completely unnecessary, but then most people don’t have to chauffeur Louis Tomlinson around for a living.

OR the one where Harry has a brilliant idea to while away the time as he waits around for his boss but fate decides to rain on his parade... or maybe it’s the universe answering his prayers.

No Going Back (56k)

Sales reps Harry and Louis are bored with their jobs and their lives. After meeting at a conference in Cardiff they hook up, have a few too many drinks, and jokingly apply to become remote lighthouse keepers. Six months, just the two of them, looking after the southernmost lighthouse off the bottom of Australia. It’s not like their applications will be accepted. Right?

This is the story of how one choice - a left instead of a right, a go instead of a stop, a yes instead of a no - can change the future forever and that sometimes, taking that leap of faith, is worth the risk.

Strong Enough (20k)

“So…” Liam starts, and Louis instantly knows where this is going. He’s actually glad it’s Liam that's dragging the subject out from the shadows and into the light. Louis turns to face him, mirroring his position on the couch and nods, ready for him to continue. Liam takes a deep breath. “Have you spoken to Harry recently?”

Five years after Vertigo goes on hiatus, the band comes back together for a benefit concert. Can Louis and Harry work through their complicated past, or are some wounds too deep to be healed?

Shine (13k)

“How does it feel?” Harry asks, genuine curiosity evident in his voice.

Louis lets his eyes drift closed and focuses on the sensations. “It’s like… like I’ve got hands all over me, touching me, inside and out, and…” Louis tries to zone in but it’s so hard to describe. “It’s like I’m being stimulated everywhere all at once.” As if on cue, his nipples and earlobes start tingling and he arches his back. “Oh fuck, yeah.”

OR the one where Louis has a thing for the sun and Harry is more than happy to indulge his sunshine boy.

If You’re Out There (I’ll Find You Somehow) (55k)

Harry looks so intensely into Louis’ eyes it’s as though he’s reaching in and touching his very soul. “I never thought… I never… I’ve been searching for so long, Louis, but I never gave up. I couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop trying,” Harry says, bottom lip trembling as he strokes the backs of Louis’ knuckles. “I just knew that if you were out there, I’d find you somehow.”

OR the story of how one man’s love changed the world.

Everything I Do (16k)

Harry’s ready, has been for a while now, and he’s fairly certain Louis is too, it just hasn’t been on the top of their priority list. There have been offhand mentions, a comment here and there, more in jest than anything, no serious discussion or consideration. Harry stands up straighter, a stomach-churning thought forming in his mind. Has Louis been waiting for him to ask?

OR the one where Harry finds a book of Elizabethan courtship rituals which sets in motion a series of events that can lead to only one conclusion.

Playing To Win (36k)

Big Brother UK alumni Louis Tomlinson and Harry Styles are selected for the UK vs Australia All Stars series with a massive one million dollar prize in the offing. They’re both fit and smart and would make a great alliance... if only they can stop their feelings from getting in the way.

OR the one where Louis really doesn’t want to like Harry, Harry is struggling to quell his growing fondness for Louis, but sometimes, no matter how hard you try, you just can’t fight fate.

Exposed (666)

Louis should really stop agreeing to do favours for his friends while drunk, especially when they result in him becoming a live-art model…

Forever And Always (25k)

“Right,” Harry says and slaps his hands down on the kitchen benchtop. Now he just has to get home, find this poor Niall guy who is currently camped out in his body, and have them swapped back. What could possibly go wrong?

OR the one where Harry’s neighbour is a crotchety old witch who hates vampires, Niall is the unsuspecting human who ends up inhabiting Harry’s body, and Louis is the caseworker who is assigned to swap them back. How it ends up a love story is anyone’s guess.

Going My Way (20k)

"Hey Harry. Really sorry to do this to you but an emergency has come up with Vera’s mum and we’ve had to jump a flight home. My mate Louis is going to take over my LYFT clients while I’m away. He’s got my car and my phone and everything else. Hope that’s okay. He’s a good guy and I think you two are going to get along brilliantly. Catch you soon, Benny."

OR the one where Harry gets a replacement LYFT driver, Louis is just trying to earn some extra cash before the baby arrives, and they both end up with way more than they bargained for.

Up For It (18k)

Each year, the five friends take a lads holiday; it’s tradition, and this year is shaping up to be a jam-packed, fun-filled trip with their best mates just like all the rest... or is it?

OR the one where Liam is Mr Organised, Zayn is too perceptive for his own good, Niall is a compulsive matchmaker, and Harry and Louis might just have the surprise to shock them all.

With Words Unspoken (18k)

At forty-nine, Louis hadn’t envisioned being at a crossroads in his life; kids, grandkids, an ex-wife, and completely at a loss as to what direction his future will take. When he finds himself drawn back to a cabin in the Californian wilderness that’d he’d visited fifteen years earlier, an acquaintance from his past triggers an awakening deep inside and reveals a new path that he could never have imagined.

OR The one where Louis is lost, Harry is an excellent tour guide, and age is no barrier to finding the love of your life.

Henry and Lewis (4.3k)

PART 1 SUMMARY: Louis hangs out in his local coffee shop to work on his weekly WordPlay Prompt, speaks to his beloved muse aka Harry the gorgeous barista, embarrasses himself in front of said muse, and receives a comment on AO3 from his favourite reader.

SERIES SUMMARY: Every Tuesday, Louis spends his day off holed up in his favorite coffee-come-bookshop, writing his little stories as part of the WordPlay challenge while daydreaming about the resident barista, Harry. Each week a new word prompt is revealed and Louis adds to his series of short stories about Henry, the owner of a B&B in the Cotswolds who has curly hair and dimples, Lewis, his long term guest who just happens to be a writer, and Tigger, Henry’s cat.

As Louis and Harry’s friendship develops, could his fantasy world spill out into real life? And how does that reader who leaves the lovely comments with the teacup emoji seem to be able to read Louis’ mind?

Smuturdary (4.1k)

Louis struggles with this week's WordPlay prompt before finding inspiration, and a date, in an unexpected place, and could there be more going on with his favourite reader than he originally thought.

Tea For Two (4k)

Louis grapples with what to do about his new found suspicions over his favourite readers real-life identity.

Life Imitating Art (6.8k)

Louis is taken on a very real journey through his fic back catalogue - life has never imitated art so salaciously.

Entertain Me (5.3k)

All good things must come to an end, including the WordPlay challenge. But while Louis has mixed emotions about its end, and struggling to make sense of the final prompt, he is relishing every aspect of his newly revitalised personal life.

Play Me A Memory (26k)

Louis lives with his nine-year-old son Jake in a peaceful beachside community on the east coast of Australia, working as an entertainment coordinator at the local five-star resort. Harry is a recluse who lives on millionaires row and writes musical scores for blockbuster movies. When the roots of a wayward willow tree create havoc at his home, Harry is forced to stay at the resort while repairs are carried out.

Cue matchmaking storms, muffin preferences, laughter, love, and a whole lotta music.

The Cyber Sphere (17k)

As the author of The Cyber Sphere, a series of best-selling books which have spawned seemingly limitless spin-offs, Louis Tomlinson hides away from the world in his fortress-like London penthouse. But when he decides to interact with the host of The Cyber Times radio program, Dermot O’Leary, on Twitter, it causes a fandom meltdown and offers him hope for a future he’d never imagined.

OR the one where Liam likes to think he’s Batman, Dermot has terrible taste in sporting teams, and Louis should really get a cat.

Surprise Me, Space Boy (7.1k)

Louis is a solo officer on Space Station Zeta and the isolation can present many challenges, not least of which is that it’s really bloody hard to date. He’s pinning his hopes on that changing with a fellow solo officer, Harry, from a neigbouring station who gives great banter and has a gorgeous smile. Maybe online dating has its benefits after all?

OR The Space Wank Fic.

Harry Poppins (32k)

When Louis’ best friends pass away he finds himself with an instant family. Maddie and Thomas are wonderful children but take an immediate dislike to every nanny that sets foot inside their house. After nanny number six is summarily dismissed Louis is at his wit’s end, that is until an unusual man arrives on their doorstep. Harry Styles is like nothing any of them have ever encountered before, and perhaps, exactly what they’ve been looking for all along.

My One And Only (Desire) (500)

Harry is his, only his, and Louis belongs to Harry just as completely. They consume each other, in life, in love, in every way two people can.

Take Me Down Slow (Don’t Let Me Go) (26k)

Louis has always felt different. Not necessarily on the outer realm of societal norms, but pretty damn close to the edge. As an Omega, he’s supposed to want certain things; to want to raise a family, to want to build a life with a partner, and to want that partner to be an Alpha.

Well, two out of three ain’t bad.

OR the one where Louis wants to find the right kind of partner to love, Niall hates snowboarding, Liam wants to settle down, Harry is really good with his hands, and mother nature could be the thing that changes everything.

Soup Of The Day (19k)

It had been the single minded goal for them since college and seemed simple enough. 1. Study hard. 2. Open their dream restaurant. 3. Take the culinary world by storm.

What could possibly go wrong?

Or the Restaurant AU where Louis and Niall are chefs, Chicago is windy, and cracking the big time is harder than they ever imagined. But when a mysterious man starts grading Louis' soups by leaving little piles of rocks, could it be just the thing they need to get them on the road to success?

The Clock Strikes New Year (9.6k)

Louis senses people moving around behind him and cranes his neck left to right. The store is quiet, just staff and Louis and Harry, but all of the other salespeople appear to have gravitated to where they are to watch the little runway show Harry is putting on. He can’t blame them really, Harry is a sight to behold, but it makes him chuckle anyway.

“Okay, Lou, you ready for me?” Harry calls from the change room.

“As I’ll ever be, baby. Get out here!”

Harry comes into view and Louis’ breath catches in his throat.

OR Harry was homeless, but now he has Louis. Louis was lonely, but now he has Harry. And there’s more than one way to see fireworks on New Year’s Eve.

The Bet (2.4k)

Louis Tomlinson never reneges on a bet. Ever.

He may be many things - a joker, a sometimes-wayward student, a loyal friend, a Tony Award winner in the making, and a card-carrying member of the Chad Michael Murray fan club - but never, ever, a welcher. Louis makes good on his promises and does it with flare.

OR The one where Louis misjudges Harry's ability to do TLC's Waterfall rap and finds himself having to put on a one-man show for his viewing pleasure. If Louis decides to go all-in and dress the part, then that's just a bonus for his (very appreciative) one-man audience.

Heat (2.4k)

Louis was smitten from the moment Harry had arrived a month ago. Long, curly hair which he mostly keeps up in a bun, and a sinfully deep voice. Cheeky too. Louis likes that the best. He gives good banter and laughs at Louis’ dumb jokes, adding his own woeful puns. When Louis had asked him why he was in this godforsaken dust bowl, he’d said something about a ground crew traineeship and fulfilling his visa requirements while experiencing the real Australia. Louis had been momentarily distracted by Harry’s plush, red-bitten lips so the salient details may have washed over him.

OR Drinking beer in a blow-up pool, in a backyard, in stupidly hot temperatures, in outback Australia should be ridiculous, and it would be, if Louis didn't have a curly-haired workmate to keep him company.

Whisper The Wind (36k)

Louis’ father has political ambitions and decides it’s time for Louis to step up as the company’s Chief Financial Officer. Louis thinks this is a monumentally stupid idea. After storming off in a rage he has a chance meeting with a tall, dark, curly haired stranger. A technical glitch with their shared elevator finds Louis spending twenty minutes with the most intriguing man he’s ever met. Unfortunately the man is leaving London the very next day and moving to Australia to work at his mates surf school. Timing, as they say, can fuck right off.

Fast forward three years and Louis is miserable, a shadow of the man he once was, working in his father’s company, and hating every moment. At his thirtieth birthday party, surrounded by people he doesn’t know or doesn’t like, he decides to throw it all in and follow the impossible dream. Happiness, a fulfilling life, and someone to love. The question is, will that dream be found ten thousand miles away on a sandy beach, with a curly headed surfer dude?

Or the one where Louis rides an elevator that may change his life forever, Harry loves the ocean but is a terrible surfer, Liam proves not all heroes wear capes, and Niall might actually have all the answers.

The Clock Strikes Christmas (10k)

The clock ticks over to midnight and Niall strikes the match, lighting the candle and looking expectantly at Louis. “Time to make all your dreams come true. What’s your birthday wish Tommo?”

Louis stares into the flame and wonders. Closing his eyes, he thinks of cold winter nights curled up by the fire, driving along country roads holding hands across the console, laughter and warmth and a sense of belonging. An image creeps into his mind, blurry and shimmering. Curls, green eyes, milky white skin. Louis sucks in a deep breath, opens his eyes and blows.

The lights in the pub go out and the music stops, time seems to be teetering on the edge of something, like the crest of a roller coaster before the fall.

Then the pub surges back to life. “Sorry about that folks! Damn storm must be coming.” The bartender shouts out.

Niall is staring at him, mouth agape, before regaining his composure. “Must’ve been a helluva wish Tommo.”

Louis is a little stunned himself, but blinks out of it and laughs. “Yeah, must’ve been.”

OR the one where Louis needs someone to love, Harry needs a miracle, and sometimes, wishes really do come true

The Prince Of Light (35k)

Louis was found abandoned at a hospital at six months old and adopted by an older couple who raised him. Now twenty, he studies by night and by day works as a live-in au pair for a family with three little girls. One of the girls, Holly, swears there is a Garden Fairy coming and eating treats she leaves out in the cubby house each night.

When the family goes away for a two week holiday, Louis is secretly tasked with feeding the Fairy. While laying out the food one night he falls from the cubby house and is found by Harry. Harry is different and Louis is fascinated. But as Louis learns how different Harry really is, he discovers his own true home and a very surprising past he never knew.

Cue badgers, bananas and cookies, soulmates, a whole other world, and a future he’d never imagined.

Clouds On Curtis (9.6k)

A wave of comfort sweeps over Louis like a blanket as he allows himself a moment to imagine the possibilities. His past failures and disappointments feel like they are ebbing away, like shackles falling from his limbs. The burdens he's been bearing and the guilt he’s been carrying slipping away into the ground with each step he takes.

Harry reaches for the door and pauses, holding the handle he turns to face Louis.

“Are you ready for the adventure to begin?” Harry looks at him with hope in his eyes, dimple cratering in his left cheek.

“Absolutely, I’m all yours.” Louis says, wide smile breaking across his face, feeling the crinkles appear at the corners of his eyes.

In that moment he is sure of it. Surer than he's been about anything for years. This is exactly where he’s supposed to be. This is his second chance.

Or the one where Louis is a chef who is looking for a chance to start over, Harry’s restaurant needs the right chef to make his dream come to life, Niall is a cook who desperately wants to be a chef, and Liam just wants to be happy. Together, can they turn their dreams into reality?

[quidfree]

hi! hope you're well and that you're having a good day:) I absolutely adore LMV - I genuinely think it's the best fic I've ever read. anyway, the point of this ask was that I was wondering whether you had any thoughts about sirius as a godfather? like, was he suited for the job, did he actually do a good job... idk, maybe you've answered that question before, in that case, sorry! and ofc don't stress abt answering:))

this is so nice of you ty!!!

ive never talked about dogfather sirius, actually!! what an interesting pair of questions.... i would have to say a qualified yes to both?

was sirius suited for the job: personality-wise, maybe not entirely (raising a child alone in the event of jily deaths would have been Rough, and he’s not exactly a stable parental unit, not to mention he would have spoiled harry rotten), BUT he has the most important prerequisite, which is undying love and loyalty for the potters and for harry, and that means he would have done everything in his power to be a good parent figure to him, which is what really matters, so. not to mention that jily realistically weren’t contemplating he would have to be godfather alone for the majority of harry’s life- with jily around he could have been just The Coolest Godfather Ever instead of harry’s first living parental figure who didn’t treat him like shit.

did he actually do a good job? i would say a resounding yes. bearing in mind he was stuck in azkaban for twelve years (let’s not get into that), we only actively see him godparent harry for three years (plus when he was a baby). obviously baby harry was spoilt v much by his dogfather; what we see of sirius + teen harry also speaks favourably of him, i think. ok, little bit of a rough start what with the unhinged prisoner vibe, but the FIRST thing sirius does when free is go check up on harry- and he keeps tabs via crookshanks etc once at school, knows his interests well enough to send him the firebolt, and he values harry’s opinions enough to not murder peter on the spot despite his thirteen year revenge vendetta. obviously, the fact harry is the spitting image of someone sirius hasnt seen except for in his nightmares for over a decade doesn’t hurt, but he’s just so awkwardly sweet to harry afterwards- when he offers harry to come live with him, expecting him to refuse and completely understanding of it, it’s so endearing (and it always broke my heart how excited they both were about it- i bet sirius was thinking about another time a potter asked to live together). and from the start sirius ALWAYS speaks to harry like a whole person, not a child to be kept in the dark (which, if everyone else had done, looking at you dumbledore...)- the speech he gives him before he escapes is so important for harry to hear, especially from someone who knew his parents. sirius is always so careful to tell harry things about james and lily. now, it’s not that sirius treating harry like an adult would be ideal on its own, and i do think in part the issue is that he skipped his entire childhood and harry looks so much like james, but i also don’t think sirius actually treats harry too much like a grown man, apart from slipups- just like a grown teen. he advises him against threats, tells him the edgy backstories harry SHOULD know (and no other adult ever wants to tell him), looks after him as best he can (HE LIVES IN A CAVE EATING BONES TO LOOK OUT FOR HIM), listens to his teen melodrama. even when he’s fucking up by encouraging harry’s risk-taking i don’t think he’s treating him like an adult- he’s treating him like a *marauder*, because at that age, that’s what he or james would have done; being able to make informed choices is what sirius would have wanted at his age. i don’t think molly or sirius necessarily have the better argument- both make good points; sirius gets what harry wants and molly gets what harry might need even if he doesn’t want it, but that makes perfect sense- molly is an older woman who’s raised seven children, and sirius is in his early thirties and lived with kids for (1) year. james and sirius were order members by age /eighteen/ and sirius was in azkaban at /twenty-one/- he was basically a kid HIMSELF before he got put in the torture prison. i always found it so unfair that literally none of the other adults ever mention the debilitating mental issues he must be suffering from- remember the lifelong PTSD hagrid got from a MONTH there???- and that’s without even mentioning dumbledore’s purposeful exacerbating of them. not to say that mental health excuses poor parenting, but sirius both /isn’t a parent/ and really does very well at filling that role anyways, on the whole, so i think he can be cut some slack for once in his life. harry loves sirius SO MUCH and sirius loves him right back- and sirius teaches him some of the most important lessons in the whole series, even if he himself never managed to learn them- lessons that i really think shape the adult harry becomes, and the kind of lessons his parents might have taught him. so overall i’d give him kudos- and considering the absolute bullshit he’s living through, with james and lily dead, azkaban sucking the light out of him for over a decade, peter running free, and dumbledore QUARANTINING HIM IN THE HOUSE WHERE HIS ABUSIVE DEAD MOTHER IS (?!?!), i would say he does a stellar fucking job.

anyways harry & sirius’ relationship is so important to the series- even the GP was upset when sirius dies in OOTP, largely because everyone could see how bad it hit harry. that scene in dumbledore’s office? oof. they just care about each other so v much and we were robbed of a lifetime of sirius as harry’s absolute fav adult. if sirius had held onto harry that day- if dumbledore hadn’t decided to place him with abusive bigots for a plan which would only pay off by OOTP- i honestly think sirius would have outlived the series. because with harry he’d have been less unhinged by grief, able to testify properly, gotten support from other order members, not gone to azkaban- and with harry he would have had a reason to live. thirteen years of raising harry would have made harry the snarky little fucker he is at his core by age eleven, confident and happy and very good at quidditch indeed; thirteen years would have made sirius as whole as he can get. they would have patched things up with remus. there’d be no OOTP tragedy of errors. sirius would have punched dumbledore at some point. harry would have sent a pic of him and his new friends over week 1 of hogwarts and sirius would have punched through a wall and then calmly strolled over to hogwarts and taken ron’s pet rat over to minerva mcgonnagal, where unspeakable things happened to it. he would have gently butted heads with hermione (but won her over via crookshanks if nothing else) and gotten on very well with ron; snape would barely have been able to be such a dick to him because sirius would have gleefully sent him howlers for every minute of his day until he cracked. lucius on the school board terrorizing the other parents? not on sirius “billionaire heir to the toujours pur line” black’s watch- he’d happily invest even more obnoxious wealth into the school fund to get first call, not to mention lucius’ imperius excuse would not get very far with sirius around. “who’s nicholas flamel? we can’t ask adults- we’d get in trouble with the teachers and our parents are either muggles or wouldn’t know- oh wait nevermind, sirius, who’s nicholas flamel?” no more expelliarmus-ing for four years; harry Trained Duellist By Age 11 more like. dobby the house-elf? oi dobby sirius is family too- now spit it all out, won’t you? chamber of secrets? yeah, sirius knows what that is. parseltongue? yeah, sirius is familiar, and fuck those other kids for being weird to harry about it, does he want to come home for the holidays? weird creepy diary? oh, sirius’ family will have Magicke Moste Evile around somewhere. book 3 is just Harry’s Holiday: The Book because there’s no sirius subplot. you think snape would have dared treat remus the way he does with sirius hovering around paying half his checks? i think the fuck not. you bet your ass they had box seats for the whole of gryffindor house at the Quidditch World Cup. barty crouch? yeah, sirius knows THAT asshole- and remembers his son. catch harry whizzing through all the challenges minus the nerves ahead of time while sirius and remus do half the investigating for him. yule ball? no sweat, just go with ron; that’s what james and sirius would have done. if the maze went the way it goes in the books, “moody” wouldn’t even have been able to drag harry off without sirius intervening. and sirius “ptsd” black would have been The One Person who Got harry’s feelings in OOTP- not to mention sirius Skilled Legilimens black could have coopted that shit from snape and gotten harry up to scratch. sirius-raised-harry would have given umbridge twice as much shit. no kreacher lying here- and harry has sirius’ mirror anyways. so no massive drama in the ministry, and no suicidal recklessness / desperate first taste of freedom on sirius’ part means no veil incident even if they got there. hence book six through seven going Quite Differently. sirius shows up book six to be DADA teacher, why not. him and remus think it’d be funny, and besides he’s petty enough to steal the job from snape. move over firenze, new hot teacher in town. half the books are avoidable.

[aha-my-villainous-thoughts]

Please, keep me. (Good Omens)

Part 11 I think? Pretty sure. 

This chapter was going to be longer but I got to a point where it made sense to finish. I don’t want to leave it too long (weeping) between chapters, mostly just to encourage me to keep up some form of momentum. At some form I should really put this onto Ao3 but I already have some edits I need to make to the long arc, so I might wait until it’s finished. It doesn’t really matter at present, but i hope whoever reads this will enjoy it regardless! I’m still loving writing it and spending time inside this little world. 

Part 1 is here.  The rest is tagged with ‘please keep me’ and each part is tagged with ‘please keep me part whatever’. I might put a masterlist of chapters together soon, as I’m now into chapter 12 and I think I still have a lot to play with. 

Anyway, here’s Part 11! 

When Crowley woke, it didn’t make much sense to him. Firstly, his form confused him. He had practised his napping skills while in serpent form, avoiding anymore unintentional transformations that might reveal himself, but rousing from such a deep sleep whilst still arranged into this form was utterly bizarre. To accompany it, he appeared to be in semi darkness and inside a cramped space that jousled him and swayed in a motion that was rather alarming. 

He rippled a little, trying to figure out what he’d ended up inside of, and started wriggling his face up towards what he hoped was an exit and an explanation. His snout found a gap in what seemed to be a muslin cloth over him and he emerging, wincing, into the light. 

“Oh, hello there little thing,” 

He found himself looking up at his angel from the perspective of the large wicker basket the angel was carrying in one hand, swaying with each step. Inside the basket, Crowley had been tucked in with a loose white cloth that had several bunches of herbs tied and placed on top of it. He eyes the basket cautiously, flicking his tongue with a certain degree of uncertainty. 

“It’s tremendously lucky you’re so streamlined, I wasn’t sure you’d fit in there but somehow it’s like it was made to fit you!”

Or I was made to fit it. How miraculous… thought Crowley, with a certain amount of annoyance at his subconscious divinity. It was interesting to him, despite Aziraphale’s lack of curiosity at how a seemingly ordinary - albeit charmingly clever and stunning beautiful - snake could alter his size at will, that Aziraphale seemed strong enough to carry Crowley’s entire serpentine weight in one hand with absolutely no effort. In his other hand he was carrying another basket, which clinked a little as he walked. He knew his Keeper was strong, but something about how effortless the small angel made it seem was oddly affecting. Crowley’s virtues as an angel differed from his companions in quite a few ways, favouring speed and a few other tricks above strength, and he had to admit to himself that whenever his knees might be in his current form, they were a little weak at the thought of his angel being so strong and powerful.

“I hope you don’t mind being bundled up, little thing, it’s just that you looked so sweet all curled up that I didn’t want to wake you,” Aziraphale was explaining. They were no longer in the garden with Dorothy, but back in the woods somewhere unfamiliar. Wherever Aziraphale was going, he wasn’t hesitant about the direction. 

Crowley considering wriggling free and leaving the basket to stretch his spine, but a glance at the ground made him reconsider. It looked cold and mossy and uninviting, whereas his basket was warm and the gentle rocking motion was so soothing… 

“You can sleep a little more, if you want to. I can wake you when we’re there, little thing,” came Aziraphale’s voice gently, adding to the seductive pull of sleep that trickled through Crowley and slowly pulled him back into the recesses of the basket. 

He didn’t need to worry, if his angel was with him. He could just sleep a little more… 

The basket being placed carefully down didn’t wake him. Neither did the rustling of fabric, or the clinking of a bottle being unwrapped, or the smell of sweet treats. What woke him was a soft hand reaching into the basket and the fingers running along the side of his jaw in a gentle caress. 

“Come see what we have, little thing,” 

Lifting his head, he didn’t let that hand go, immediately sliding up and along the inside of Aziraphale’s wrist to peek out over the edge of the basket. Aziraphale had walked them back to the bandstand, in the first garden they had found together. A late afternoon sun was filtering through the greenhouse windows high above them, colouring all of the flowers with a glorious golden amber light. The birds had retreated a little, but he could still hear their songs flitting through the air. Aziraphale had spread a blanket in the middle of the bandstand for them, and had unpacked many of the sweet treats from earlier. 

“Dorothy was so kind, she insisted we have a little bit of everything,” Aziraphale was explaining as Crowley extracted himself from the basket. “She gave me the blanket, and explained exactly how one should do this - she said it’s a picnic, and we should have one all of our very own!” 

Dorothy had certainly delivered on that promise. She had packed them a small feast, starting with a large glass bottle of the lemonade and two glasses. He could see a handful of gingerbread men and iced snowflake biscuits, two huge slices of the victoria sponge, and even a large piece of apple pie unwrapped and sitting on its beeswax cloth. There were a small selection of sandwiches cut into small triangles and quite a lot of fruit of many colours. 

Looking at the whole scene, Crowley thought to himself he had never seen such an inviting space - not just the blanket, or the food, but his angel smiling and licking his lips at their bounty, before looking back at Crowley and smiling even wider. Everything in the moment seemed so perfect. 

“Oh, little thing, you look so charming, so dressed up for our little picnic,” 

Crowley flicked his tongue, puzzled, but looked down and realised that falling asleep near a young girl clearly came with risks - he was wearing a large white ribbon around his neck, tied in a large flouncy bow. It wasn’t really his style...

“Such a handsome snake,” Aziraphale said, reaching out his hands to correct either side of the bow gently, before lifting his hands and cupping Crowley’s face in them. 

Ok, the bow could stay. For now. 

Their picnic, hopefully the first of many, went rather well. Since both of them were fairly new to the whole experience, there was an uncertainty to the exact order of events, but they figured it out. Aziraphale lounged along the side of the blanket, looking more relaxed than Crowley had ever seen - even when fully absorbed into one of his beloved books. His delightful ankles were crossed where his legs were free from his voluminous robes, giving Crowley the perfect place to coil his tail over, his scales resting comfortably against the Keeper’s skin. Crowley got to watch closely as Aziraphale chose his next bite with care, his hand hovering over the grapes, before moving towards the sponge cake, but then dancing over to the iced biscuits. Every bite was savoured to its full extent, with Aziraphale holding it reverently between his fingers to bring it to his face, to breathe in the scent, before taking just the smallest taste. Crowley could practically feel the angel’s satisfaction as the flavour filled his senses, the first small bite turning into another, and then another, each accompanied by a sound. A moan, a small gasp, a smacking of lips. Aziraphale’s eyes would drift shut as he experienced the moment with his full attention, and Crowley couldn’t tear his own away - he wanted to remember every moment of ecstasy the angel found as he ate. 

Throughout it all, even when Aziraphale was shaking his head slightly in disbelief at the food, he would open his eyes to find Crowleys and smile indulgently at him. The praises of finding such a bounty for them both went unspoken, but firmly felt. Nothing was said, nothing needed saying. 

It got better. Even as Aziraphale sampled, he never forgot his little companion. He would break a piece off, often the best bit, and offer it to Crowley who would eagerly accept it. It turned out that eating like a snake was not the most elegant process, but he managed to make it work. Aziraphale was patient with him, holding his fingers steady as Crowley figured out how to actually get the food into his mouth. It was a worthwhile effort, as everything Aziraphale fed him was an explosion of flavour, the sweetness and the richness of the food were indescribable.

The bandstand they were in seemed to be lit with a series of stringed lights that emitted a soft and romantic glow over their afternoon together. Crowley didn’t notice as the light around them faded into a pink hue, before tinging with purple and descending into the evening. All he could see was his glowing angel’s happiness as they lay sprawled on the blanket with the remnants of their picnic around them. Aziraphale was laying on his back, one arm under his head to prop himself up a little. Crowley was still partially arranged across his legs, but had graduated up onto his thighs and his head resting on the angel’s delightful midsection. Aziraphale’s robes were becoming crumpled under his steady weight but the angel didn’t seem to notice, or care. Aziraphale was smiling as he dipped his finger into the remains of the pot of cream (to accompany the handfed strawberries, now all happily consumed) over and over again and offered it to Crowley who lapped up the droplet gratefully. 

It was, in his opinion, the best way to consume anything. 

“Oh, little thing, how happy I am,” sighed Aziraphale. “To think, I was living my life without you in it for so long,” 

Crowley rippled gently in delight, pressing his head into Aziraphale’s palm. 

“I never want to leave here,” 

Crowley flicked his tongue around Aziraphale’s thumb in a gesture of agreement. Why would he be anywhere else when he could be looped so lazily over his angel? Aziraphale sighed again, a little critically to himself. 

“I suppose they will have missed me at dinner, but how can one return to the same old honey and bread after such lovely food?” 

Crowley froze. Dinner. That meant the Day bell had already sounded. That meant the Night shift would have already started. He pulled away from Aziraphale’s hand and twisted to look beyond their bandstand, and yes, the sky was dark, the garden was asleep. He missed the bell. He was late. 

Oh Lord, he was late again. 

Aziraphale hadn’t noticed the sudden tension in Crowley’s body, he was too busy lazily tracing a finger through the crumbs of the gingerbread men, looking for another little taste to make the whole thing last just a little bit longer. Crowley slid his tail free of the angel’s warmth, and the sudden contact with the floor felt cold and harsh against his scales compared to the angel, even through the blanket. 

“Little thing?”

Crowley realised a little too late that Aziraphale was talking to him, asking him a question, but he didn’t hear him as he was staring back into the library. He turned back to the angel, who had rolled to his side and was resting one impossibly warm hand on Crowley’s back. 

“Are you alright?” 

Crowley hissed gently, ducking his head and moving to press his body against Aziraphale briefly. He had hoped it to have been a comforting motion, as well as a goodbye. He had never been the one to leave first in their meetings. 

“You have to go? Are you sure? You could stay,” 

Crowley hesitated. The tone in Aziraphale’s voice was almost painful, the gentle ache of loss at being left alone. He looked back and that was another mistake. The Keeper’s eyes were wide and his brows were tilted in that pleading pout that Crowley knew would get him into so much trouble. It was so easy to return to the angel’s side, press his head against the angel’s cheekbone and just hold there for a second. 

“Tomorrow? Please?” 

He met Aziraphale’s eyes, so close to his own. Crowley bowed his head a little, of course. Of course tomorrow. He pressed his head up against the angel’s skin again, and flickered his tongue out, tasting just the smallest shimmer of a tear caught in Aziraphale’s eyelashes. 

It took all of his limited self control to pull away again, away from that warmth.

He didn’t look back, because he knew that if he had to see the sight of his little Keeper sitting under those sparkling lights, surrounded by their sleeping garden, watching him go, he would never leave his side again. 

Aziraphale may have been strong, but Crowley was fast. 

He slithered out of the garden swiftly, finding his way through the stacks with the same confidence that led him to find it in the first place. He had to be quick, he didn’t know what hour it was, if he would be noticed. Once out of the bookshelves, he regained his limbs and tangled his hair away from his face as he hurried. He didn’t bother to read the clock at the far end of the hall, he just grabbed the hem of his robes and ran. 

He climbed the stairs two at a time, one hand on the handrail to hold himself steady. He was counting under his breath as he ran, just lightly counting the stairs, waiting to reach the top for when he could push himself forward off into the Heavens. 

In the back of his mind, behind the numbered steps, a little voice reminded him over and over that he was late, that he was in trouble, that this would somehow ruin everything. 

He pushed the voice away, nearly at the top, rounding the last twist and - 

He stopped in his tracks, body pulled back to stop him crashing into the angel standing at the top of the staircase and blocking his path. He shut his mouth quickly to pull back the gasp of air, but there was no way to the angel a few steps above him hadn’t heard him. 

“Crowley. Finally,” 

The angel was facing away from him, standing and staring out at the scattered unit of Starmakers. His arms were crossed stiffly and his wings were primly and very tightly held against his body, making him appear as a statue. Crowley bit the inside of his cheek a little, fighting the urge to fidget. He wanted to slink away but there was nowhere to go. 

“Care to explain yourself?” 

The angel turned slowly. He was wearing the same dark blue robes as Crowley, but had a second overcoat of thick sapphire blue velvet hung across his shoulders and draping down across his chest, embroidered with small silver stars. 

“Sariel, I -” Crowley started and stopped, finding the words dying on the end of his tongue. He tried to keep eye contact with the angel, but Sariel’s impenetrable gaze made him uneasy. Everything about his stillness made Crowley’s own disarray more obvious. Crowley cleared his throat, reaching to adjust his robes, pulling his unruly hair back. He was aware that his face was flushed from running, his braid tangled and his feet still dusty from the library floor. 

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said, trying his best to quell the thunder in his chest. “It won’t happen again,” 

Sariel regarded him a moment, those grey eyes travelling to observe the details that Crowley’s adjusting had sought to hide. One ash white eyebrow raised a little. 

“You understand what it is we are trying to achieve here, correct Crowley?” 

Crowley’s gaze flickered behind Sariel, to the Heavens, before flicking back. 

“Yes, of course, the Great Pl-”

“You understand we have a schedule, Crowley?”

Crowley didn’t like the way Sariel said his name. It made the skin on the back of his neck shift as if he still had his scales. 

“Yes, of course, I’m sorry-”

“Apologies don’t mean much when you’re not doing as you have been told, Crowley. She gave Her orders, and we are to follow them,” 

“Yes, of course-” “Do you not like following orders, Crowley?”

“No! I mean, yes, of course I follow Her-”

“You understand your place in this design, Her design, don’t you, Crowley?” 

Crowley fought the urge to grit his teeth. 

“Yes, Sariel,” 

The angel nodded, his eyes narrowing just a little as he observed Crowley. Crowley made a conscious effort to release the tension in his shoulders, lifting his chin a little to avoid looking as if he were sulking. He tried to clear any expression off his face except for a suitably contrite arrangement. 

“You must remember your duty in this unit, Crowley. You must remember why you are here, and Who you are here to serve. You must remember that there is no one more important than Her, and Her Great Plan,” 

Crowley nodded, wishing more than anything that he could get this over with. 

“There is no one other than Her, Crowley. No one else,” 

Crowley nodded again, ignoring the tension that was creeping through his back again, twisting into his stomach. 

“Say it, Crowley,” ordered Sariel, his eyes refusing the release Crowley until the angel was suitably chastised. The stillness in Sariel’s body seemed to make him taller, his form bearing over Crowley in a way that seemed to obscure the stars behind him. 

“No one else,” repeated Crowley, hearing the own bitterness in his own voice. He cleared his throat, and said it again. The tension in his stomach refused to release. “No one else,” 

There was a long moment as Sariel’s eyes bored into Crowley, and the Starmaker had a horrendous thought that maybe the senior angel could read him like one of Aziraphale’s books. That he could look into Crowley’s chest and see his heart tangled up in a nest of love notes.

Sariel finally nodded, and released Crowley from his gaze, taking one step back to allow Crowley to pass him. 

“Get to work,” 

Crowley didn’t trust his voice, feeling the bitterness in the back of his throat again. He didn’t want to think about Sariel’s words, but they wriggled and squirmed and dug their way into him. He moved to his area without looking around him, avoiding the gaze of any of his unit who may have noticed his late coming, seen his scolding, witnessed his shame. 

None of that mattered. 

His mind was in a whirlwind, but nothing was landing long enough to settle and form in his brain. He reached for his brushes, his eyes seeing nothing as he was consumed in the tension that had seized his insides. 

Did Sariel know about where he had been spending his days? About the library? Did that mean others knew? Had he been seen going in and out of the library? Did they know about the garden? The books? Aziraphale? 

He drew in a shaky breath, the paintbrush in his hand static. He glanced to the side through his hair and saw an angel far to his right watching him. It wouldn’t do to give them even more to see. 

Pulling himself together as best he could, he drew himself up to his full height. He tossed his hair over his shoulder and schooled his expression into a focussed neutral, and began to paint. 

[mi6-cafe]

The first week of writing for LDWS participants has come to a close. Now it’s time for the next bit of the competition: reading and voting!  

prompt: just around the corner  Word count: 100

Note that although many writers included the exact words, this was a theme prompt, not an exact dialogue prompt. 

Voters–after you read, check out this form to vote for your top three drabbles! You can also leave anonymous feedback for the writers! 

Who can vote? Anyone who’s read the drabbles! Yes, that includes YOU!  

Writers–you may also vote, but we do ask that you vote for three drabbles other than your own.  

The voting period ends at 11:59 PM EST on Sunday night. Results will be posted and anonymous feedback will be emailed on Monday. 

Remember, readers–it’s up to YOU to decide who will wind up on top at the end of the competition!

Drabbles are under the read-more:

#1 

Title: Just around the corner Author: Susspencer  Warnings: none Relationship: Q/Bond Fandom: James Bond Movies (Daniel Craig) Tags: Pre-Slash, loneliness Characters: James Bond, Q, Alec Treylain

Q sipped his tea.  Spring was just around the corner.  He felt that he would never feel warm again.  Sadly, but a bit less cold, he headed home..

Alec sat with Bond, who was nursing a drink.

“‘Love is Just around the corner’, if you keep looking.”

James scoffed. “ I've been around the corner more than once, nothing there but trouble.”

Bond paid and headed home.  James barreled around a corner.  He plowed into Q, with them ended up on the ground entangled.  

“James, let me get you tidied up and warm. My flat is, well,  Just around the corner.”

#2 

Title: Committment  Author: Sunaddicted  Rating: G Warnings: none Summary: you can't separate the cheesiness from James Bond

Q struggled to elaborate the sight of James Bond getting down on one knee, in the middle of a swanky restaurant "What... are... you... doing?"

James didn't let the panicky quality in Q's voice deter him "Even if I didn't deserve it, you always waited for me just around the corner" waited for him to come back from a mission even when the odds weren't good; waited for him to see his enduring love; waited for him to get over his commitment issues "And since I have bad knees, I'll cut this short: marry me?"

Q smiled "Yes, I will"

#3

Title: Knobheads Author: Venstar  Warnings: implied violence? boo-boos? adult language. Summary: An attempted kidnapping.

Footsteps pounded down the dark alleyway. Closer and closer, until they came to a complete stop. Q shut his eyes briefly and offered up a silent prayer. “Please keep me hidden.” Q had a dislocated shoulder, broken glasses and a hangnail. He wasn’t in any shape to fight back. He peered out from his hiding place behind a dumpster. So far so good, only one knobhead. His attempted kidnapping had happened just around the corner from MI6. “Q?” 007 asked, his voice low and quiet. Q’s eyes popped open, oh thank God, it was HIS knobhead! "007. What kept you?"

#4

Title:Coming Home Author: IrishWitch58 Warnings: None I can think of Summary: Bond has a destination in mind after a hard mission

Everything ached. The mission was over, successful as Bond almost always was. But he had been faced with another predator as determined as he was and they had played a mad game of tag across North Africa. He had debriefed and changed his clothes at MI6. Now all he had to do was get home and home was now Q's flat. He had walked the last few blocks, not wanting the driver to know his destination. Q would be home now and 007 could be James for a bit. Peace was just around the corner. Peace was wherever Q was.

#5

Title: Reflection Author: Ato  Warnings: none Summary: While on mission, James loses a mark.

“Where is she?”

“There’s too much smoke. I can’t tell.”

Bond pants beside a stone wall amidst the mayhem of the bazaar.

“Q!”

“I know.  CCTV is almost clear.  She’s… shit, she’s waiting just around the corner.  If you’d barrelled onward she’d have—”

“Shot me in the alley.  Yes.  But how do we get her?” Bond scans the buildings.  No stairs.  No balconies.

“The lorry.”

A flatbed of plate glass turns at the intersection.   When the mark appears in the reflection, Bond fires.

The resulting cacophony offers Bond cover to round the corner, shoot, and flee.

“Ta, Q.”

“Anytime, 007.”

#6

Title: Proximity Author: Kiddohno  Warnings: None Summary: James is back.

A few hours ago, his phone had pinged with a proximity alert. James Bond was back in London.

Now, according to his Smart Blood profile, James Bond is just around the corner.

Unfortunately, so is Q’s flat. He takes a steadying breath before turning it. And there the man is, and there the car is, and--

“Bond,” Q says.

“Q.”

“Do you need something?”

He’s not going to make the same mistake, thinking that the former agent has returned, or that he's sought Q out for anything other than a favour.

“Yes,” he answers. Q despairs. “I need your help.”

#7

Title: Warmth Author: Solarmorrigan  Summary: Q wasn't built for winter weather Warnings: None

Q could hear Bond chuckling, mocking him every bit as much as the wet snow spattering the bedroom window. Oh, he could laugh; bloody field agent was used to subzero temperatures. Q, on the other hand, was not built for this sort of weather. “You know, Q,” Bond said, and there was tangible fondness beneath the teasing, his voice leagues warmer than the air outside, “spring is just around the corner.”

Q cast a withering glare, unamused from beneath the extravagant nest of blankets he’d constructed on their bed. “Shut up, James. Just come over here and keep me warm.”

#8

Title: Bang! Author: Solitaryjane Warnings: none Summary: Bond and Q trying to escape from a failed mission.

Q blinked, rooted to the spot, his own Walther clutched tightly in his fingers. It just couldn't be. James had turned the corner a few feet in front of him, all cocky stride and poised gun. Q could practically see the exit. Then there was a shot, a thump, and a splash of blood so close that it landed on Q’s shoes. He didn’t scream, like he thought he would in his worst nightmares. Instead his mind was stuck on a loop of Jamesohgodnothisisnothappening as he watched the rapidly growing puddle of red, and realized he'd forgotten how to breathe.

#9

Title: Close Author: Vellesian  Warnings: none Summary: How life goes when your luck in life only applies to your job

There was a time when James thought the whole world was within his grasp.

One time, he held all he needed in his hands... and then she slipped his grasp completely. 

It taught him quickly that nothing was his to keep. He still had the whole world to run through, see and experience but what he truly wanted would only ever stay just within sight. He didn't dare touch it anymore.

Hearing Q's voice coming from afar but so clearly in his ear, James thought that for him, things that were just around the corner had to be close enough.

#10

Title: Exploring Tips Author: Azure7539arts  Warnings: None Summary:  Hi! Welcome to Twilight Castle, where you can book yourself a room in the castle itself for all your exploration needs. All available services are included in our brochure, but you can also find said information on our website. If you have any questions, please do not hesitate to contact us at the front desk. We will be delighted to help you out to the best of our abilities.

-

You are welcome to explore the castle on your own, sure. Although, it’s best to stay away from the West wing after nightfall. Unless you’re hardcore, of course. Not that they’ve ever caused any serious harm, the Prince and his knight, and they only appear on particularly cold, foggy nights anyway. But just… if you do see them, don’t stare at the Prince’s broken spectacle, or the Knight’s blood-stained armor. They never really like it when they feel like you’re looking at the other one of them wrong. So, remember, keep your eyes to yourself when you’re turning a corner.

#11

Title: Medical  Author: Gwylliondream  Warning: None Summary: Being MI6’s Quartermaster comes with certain risks and benefits.

Fuzzy cotton filled Q’s head.

He hadn’t recognized the pinprick of the assailant’s needle in the Tube station. And now, it was too late.

His knees buckled and he collapsed onto the workshop floor, his cheek resting on the cool concrete.

“Bon-n-n-n-d?” he gurgled.

He berated himself for calling out to <i>him</i>. Bond would never let him forget it… if he survived.

“Never-m-m-m-mind…” Q muttered.

Bond’s footsteps grew louder as he crossed the workshop to where Q lay.

“P-p-p-p-poisoned,” Q gasped, barely breathing.

Bond hauled him up and threw him over his shoulder.

Fortunately, Medical was just around the corner.

#12

Title: Battle Royale Author: Iambid Warnings: None Summary: James is fighting, Q is guiding him.

“For God’s sake man, get up! She’s just around the corner!!”  Q shouted at James.  How on earth the enemy had managed to get so close to him without either of them spotting her, Q had no idea.  James crawled forward under the watchful eye of the CCTV system and for a moment Q thought he might make it but then;

“I’ve been hit.  Agent down.”

Q took his headset off and threw it down onto his desk in disgust.  He shook his head. So close.

“Sir?” R asked nervously.

“Bloody Moneypenny’s won the annual paintball challenge again.”  Q grumbled.

#13

Title: Waiting Author: Melynen  Warnings: none Summary: Bond waits for an answer from Q.

Q isn’t fond of questioning, hesitation, or second-guessing. He isn’t keen on insecurity either.

Yet, here he is, staring at his office window, the opaque surface reflecting his mirror twin instead of showing the man he knows to be standing outside, patiently waiting.

For him.

For them? Q isn’t at all sure, anymore. All he knows is Bond, that infuriatingly frustrating man he still loves, has returned, has asked him for… what, exactly?

Q never gave him an answer.

But deep inside, he knows that he is waiting, just around the corner.

Q supposes he never really stood a chance.

#14

Title: En Faite Author: Beaubete  Warnings: none Summary:  Turn Left.

Perhaps in this universe, he doesn't go to uni.  Skips a class.   Doesn't meet the stern, intimidating woman sitting in his proff's office chair.  Perhaps in this universe, the money's too good.  

"Shit," he mutters to himself.  He's up to his elbows in secret government systems; there's no pretending innocence as he finds himself scrambling back from thirteen stone of Her Majesty's finest as the man pushes forward, prods his shoulder with the barrel of his rifle.  

"Unarmed?"  It's more statement than question, but the boy nods anyway.  It's pants-soiling fear, but the man pauses, winks.  

Perhaps in this universe.

Thank you to our amazing drabble writers for their contributions this week! 

To our amazing readers, you can help this competition by going here to vote on your top three drabbles. You may also leave anonymous feedback for one or more drabbles. 

Let’s vote! 

EDIT: Voting is over, and the results are posted here. 

[the-wiresmarvelau]

T.H.E. W.I.R.E.S.

Chapter 1 Chapter 6

Chapter 7: settling in

When he awoke the second time, he was alone, or at least that's what he thought.  

The excessively soft fabric that was so fluffy before, now clung to his skin with sweat.  

Everything still ached, but he could feel it healing; at least the fog in his head had lifted a little.  

He rolled onto his side, savouring the last few seconds of rest he would get, knowing he would start to grow restless soon; staying down had never ended well for him.  

Even as he lay there, his thoughts raced.

He knew he was on Midgard. He knew that he had been broken out by his mother, and that the boy in red spandex had been there when he first woke up; though what they had talked about hadn't really registered.

The more he lay there, the more nervous energy pent up inside him.

Soon enough he couldn't bear to keep his eyes closed anymore.

They opened to honey-coloured walls and dark green sheets. The air was comfortably cool and filled with a low humming sound.

Still tired, but familiar enough with his healing process to know that he couldn't go back to sleep, he raised himself up onto his elbows.

As he shifted to a sitting position, he couldn't help the gnawing feeling in the back of his head that tried to remind him of something, and he didn't have to wait long to find out what it was.  

The moment he had leaned back enough to rest his back on the wall, a voice spoke up.

“Good evening, sir. Welcome to the land of the living.” it said from above, soft and in a low volume, as if not to spook him.

The Jotun remembered hazily that the boy had spoken about some form of incorporeal being or ‘intelligence’ as he had put it.  

“Greetings.” the god managed to press out.  

His lips still stung whenever they moved, but they were healing thanks to his mother's spell.  

“You have slept for several hours. The one you may know as Spider-man is out on patrol, but he should be back soon enough. In the meantime, I may answer any questions you could have; but before that, I should inform you that everything in this room is at your disposal. The same goes for the bathroom.  

“For the time being, you should stay away from the stairs, though. For safety purposes, this room is not registered as part of the compound, meaning that no protocol forces me to reveal that you are inside. In the rest of the compound, however, I may have to report your presence to Dr. Stark, better known as Ironman.  

“Any use of Internet in this room goes through me; to be to show up in the protocols as if I had looked the things up; further veiling your presence.”

In response the Jotun just nodded and tried to stand up.  

His legs felt shaky underneath him, but they could support his weight just fine, luckily.  

He really wanted to take a shower, then he could further survey his room.  

Passingly he registered that this room was nothing like the cell he would have imagined he would be put in, but he was still too tired and exhausted to properly grasp that.  

The bathroom was weird. It had multiple showers and multiple toilet stalls, as if designed to cater to several people and not just one. But he ignored that, just like the basket of bloody towels next to the door.  

When he stepped under the spray, he half expected it to be boiling hot, like all the baths at Odin's place had been, or to be ice-cold, no use bothering to heat up the water for a cell.  

But to his surprise, it was no extreme. Tepid and a little more to the warm side, but still pretty comfortable for a human.  

After all this time in the scalding heat of his father's dungeons. He appreciated being able to turn the water a little bit cooler, relishing the smooth feeling on his skin.  

Finally, the rest of the fog still residing in his mind cleared away.  

While rinsing himself down, he looked around.  

This sure was a weird bathroom, but he wouldn't complain, for it was still far more luxurious than he had thought it would be.  

Then his eyes caught on the basket of bloody towels, which the spider boy must have used to clean his injured body.

Dark red and brown contaminating the pristine white of the clearly new towels.  

He found himself a fresh one and dried down before slinging it around his hips and starting to work on cleaning the bloody ones.  

It was the least he could do. He had to repay the other and he knew how to get blood out of cloth just fine.  

With magic he could have been done in seconds, but as it were his powers hadn’t yet regenerated enough for that.

At least the repetitive work gave him more time to think, which he was glad for.  

While he stood there, clad in just the towel, his mind wandered to the clothes he had woken up in.  

It was a relief when he realised he had still been wearing the ripped trousers from Odin. It would be weird otherwise.  

The Asgardian took them up. Even though he didn't particularly care about them.  

On the other hand, the hoody had been one of the most comfortable things he had ever worn.  

At home they mostly cared for practicality and not for comfort; at least for boys’ clothes and he had no interest in making himself more of a target by wearing dresses while somebody could recognize him.

“You alright in there, sir?” the voice spoke from the other room  

Right...

He wasn’t alone.

“I am fine,” he called out, while folding the clothes, before resuming his task at the sink.

Once he had finished getting all the blood he could out of the towels, he hung them over the partitions between the shower stalls, to let them dry. Then he went back to the main room, folded clothes in hand.

“There are fresh clothes in the closet to your right.” The voice – what was their name again? – announced.

“Right,” the Asgardian answered, just to say something. It felt weird responding nonverbally to someone who couldn’t do the same.

Rifling through the different fabrics, his eyes caught on a skirt. Hanging between a few button ups.  

For a moment he was tempted to wear it.

The voice had said everything in this room was for him to use; but the risk was too great.

Under no circumstances was he to fall out of his host’s favour.

Judging by the bathroom and the fact that he could spot no less than three beds suggested that this room was meant to also host other people, some of whom might be women.

There was no telling how a Midgardian might react to finding out he was outside of society’s gender binary.

So, he opted for a pair of black sweatpants and a loose, grey shirt, whose arms were just a little short, but if pushed up a few inches, looked stylish.

A bit awkward, he also picked out a pair of boxershorts.

Clothes draped over one shoulder, he went back into the bathroom to change

When he was done, he took a closer look around.

The room had a patchwork kind of feel to it; with the closet and the shelf on the far wall being the only pieces of furniture in the same colour.

Both were a dark, orange-leaning amber, while the other shelf was of a brownish hue but so bright, it almost seemed white.

Still, nothing seemed out of place. Because everything did.

While the bunk beds were what you would expect to find in a child’s room, the giant mattress let into the wall belonged in the dreamhouse of a very stylish, young adult.

All the different earthy-wood shades of the walls, shelves, desk, closet and kitchen counter covered such a wide spectrum, that it looked like they had been picked by throwing darts at a brown hue pallet.

The god was so on board with this kind of chaos.

Especially since everything that wasn’t made of wood was either green fabric or charcoal grey . Totally his colour scheme.  

Deciding he could deal with serving the rest of his sentence in here, so long as he could get his hands on more books than just the few dozen which currently didn’t even cover a fifth of the shelf on the wall. He snatched one of them at random and let himself fall onto the couch.

Before he could start reading though, the voice spoke up again.

“Sorry to interrupt,” they didn’t sound sorry at all. “But I thought it might be of interest to you that your mother has left a little something here with you. It materialized a letter along with some vials while you slept. You can find it on the nightstand behind your bed.”

Huh. He should have known. His mother always thought about everything.

When he looked over, he noticed what the voice meant and smiled.

The vials were familiar enough that he could recognize them from where he sat; they would be a great help in regaining his magic and healing everything up.

Curious about the letter, the Jotun made his way over and took the desired piece of parchment.

True to his expectations, his mother really had thought about everything.

In the letter she informed him that, against his expectations he was allowed to use magic as much as he liked, though he was always monitored by the guardian of this realm.

She also apologized for what she recognized as a grave oversight on her part, but Loki had already forgiven her. He had intentionally hidden the matter, after all.

Still... it was nice to be told.

After reading the letter a few times, he tucked it away neatly beneath the weird, mushroom-shaped lamp on the desk and used up two of the vials; drinking one and applying the other to his lips and the cuts he could reach.

Settling back on the couch, he picked up the book again and began to read.

While swinging home Peter was energized equally from excitement and nerves.  

He had met THE Bruce Banner, meaning his room hadn't been constructed for nothing.  

And he didn't even make himself that much of a fool.  

On the other hand, he would come to the compound; Tony probably too, to keep the other scientist company.  

It would mean Loki would have to stay inside his room to stay off the engineer’s radar.

So many things could go wrong… he didn't even want to think about it.  

He just had to hope that the god of Mischief would understand and not try to show himself to the other two.  

That shouldn't be a problem though. The other was smart enough to know that it would have much heavier repercussions for him than it would for Peter.  

Still; ‘Accidents are inevitable.’ The quote from Tony ghosts through his mind.  

But first things first.  

Tomorrow afternoon was enough time to give the God a tour around the compound before he'd have to stay in that room of his; since FRIDAY wouldn't be installed until then.  

Or should he not show him?  

It would probably be a little cruel to show him everywhere he couldn't go.  

Then again, the other could watch the security footage to get a feel of what was going on around the compound.  

From what he'd heard from Tony it could be pretty entertaining once all the Avengers messed around together.  

And for that, it would probably be helpful if Loki had an understanding of where which rooms are.

With his mind made up, he landed on the roof of the compound.  

There weren't many trees immediately around, but he had made sure that there would be posts arranged in a pattern that would allow him to swing to the compound directly.  

That way he wouldn't have to run across the field every time.  

First, he got down into his room to get dressed.  

While his suit was pretty amazing; It wasn't that comfortable to wear for long periods of time.

And he needed to take a shower.  

He made sure to be quick and afterwards got dressed in a baby-blue, sleeveless sweater with a red turtleneck underneath and red sweatpants.  

Ever since he had gotten that outfit a few weeks earlier, he had wanted to wear it; Never sure when it would fit the occasion, though now it seemed appropriate to keep to his suit’s colour scheme.  

Quickly he checked that Manuel had taken control of his watch again. He got green light. Literally

It was only minutes later that he stood at the top of the stairs to the ex-bunker, where the Asgardian resided in.  

Peter was glad for Shuri and MJ to have enforced that much security on the room for a case of emergency. All of that came in handy now.

In case the god was still sleeping he crept down the stairs as silently as possible, to not wake him.  

But he wasn't. Instead, he was sitting on the couch, a book beside him and already looking in his direction.

That's right, he had asked Manuel to inform the other of when he arrived.  

He let a bright grin take over his face. “You're awake, that's good. You feeling any better?” he asked, not knowing how else to start a conversation.  

The other seemed a bit hesitant to answer. Probably expecting him to be tired after patrol, Peter thought. The god nodded. “Thanks, I am better”.

He enunciated clearly and shortly, so different from when he had spoken all the other times that Peter had seen on the security footage.  

“That’s good to hear,” the teen answered, sliding down the handrail of the stairs to get down quicker.

“I'm pretty sure you have made acquaintance with Manuel by now,” he said, vaguely gesturing to the ceiling where all the cameras and loud speakers were, even though that was not really the place where the AI itself resided:

Loki just nodded, relieved to know the voice’s name without having to ask for it.  

“Nice! I'm pretty sure he will have already told you, but just in case I give you the run down again,” the boy started before taking a deep breath and beginning to go down his mental list, with things to tell the god.  

“This room is yours. It was originally planned as a bunker for emergencies, which is why it is completely hidden from anyone inside or outside the compound. That means that as long as you stay in here, nobody but Manuel, some friends of mine and I will know about your existence.  

“Anything in here is for you. I tried to make it as homely as possible since you will probably have to stay here most if not all of the time. Since it wasn't originally planned, I've had to improvise on furniture, which is why everything looks a little out of place. But I hope it's all right.  

“Now to the matter with the clothes: I didn't know your size, so I just took what I thought would fit you. But I will soon give you a StarkPad with which you can order yourself new stuff. I just have to reprogram one to work with Manual properly.  

“Otherwise, FRIDAY might be able to track you, so it could take a while. Until then, it seems like I've found at least some clothes that fit you,” he paused and gave the god a once-over , before shaking his head and continuing.  

“Anyway, as you can see, you have a kitchen in here. I've tried to stock it up with things that most people like. If you want something specific or run out of something, just tell Manuel and we will put it on the shopping list.  

“It may take a few days until you get it though, since we only get shipping’s once a week, but don’t hesitate to ask for something. My metabolism is pretty high, and Mr. Stark noticed this. Plus Dr. Banner will be moving in tomorrow; And once all the others get here, your orders won't be nearly enough to arouse suspicions… probably.” The last word he mumbled to himself.  

“Now! That was it about this room… I think. Next, I'm going to show you around the compound. It will probably be the only time though, since tomorrow FRIDAY, Mr. Stark's AI will be installed. And if she sees you, she will definitely tell Mr. Stark, and we can't have that.” Peter said, before leading the way up the stairs.

The god dutifully following behind him, uncertain what to make of it all.  

Why was the boy so nice to him? He had literally tried to enslave him and his whole realm just a few years ago.  

But he wasn't in a position to question him. So, he followed the boy up the stairs into a small storage looking room.  

“Now… This hallway is hidden. It is part of what I call THE WIRES.” The boy started up again.  

“This is still part of Manuel’s ‘territory’ so to speak, meaning FRIDAY won't detect you in here. But if anyone asks her if somebody is in these hallways, which are hidden and secret by the way. Did I mention that?”  

He chatted enthusiastically, while gesturing to everything and nothing in particular. “Never mind. So, if FRIDAY was asked if somebody is in THE WIRES, then Manuel is forced by protocol to answer that truthfully.  

“That counts for everywhere but your room, which is why you should stay there most of the time, though I guess you could stray through THE WIRES - which I will tell you where they go and end as we go along - but only if the others are asleep or not in the compound for otherwise, they might ask about this.  

“…Well, only Tony might ask about it,” he mused, “But that's beside the point. Just be careful and always communicate with Manuel. If he can't answer a question, he will ask me. I will always have him with me through this watch.”

The teenager indicated said item.  

It went on like that for the whole tour, with Peter mindlessly rambling about everything and anything he could think of about the rooms and hallways that they came across.  

He also showed him most of the entrances and exits of THE WIRES and the vents, telling the God everything about the three different networks of pathways; with the ones easier to find and the harder ones, interlocking at places, so that you could access the secondary layer of THE WIRES by finding secret entrances within some of the more obvious passages.'  

The super-powered teenager seemed decidedly too excited about this whole idea, the god decided; but somehow, it didn’t bother him.

Chapter 1 Chapter 6

[hxh-secretsanta-2017]

yo this is for @sanktpetyrthethird who asked for drug dealer au killugon

honestly thank you cause?? this is not at all a story i would have ever brainstormed let alone written if not for that prompt and ive fallen in love with it and it really really improved my writing workflow to. yknow. plot instead of writing <3000 word fluff pieces (raincheck for acts 2 and 3 my dude. this. kinda got away from me)

(also i started following u cause of this and ur sweetheart!! i was really happy to be writing this for such a cool and awesome person)

I HOPE YOU LIKE IT!!!!!!! :D

also thank you to @driftingglass for beta reading a whack of this and helping me to realize i had to cut some prose described by a friend as “violet”

Prologue.

Golden eyes. An earnest smile. Freckles that mark a childhood spent in sunlight.

Killua shakes out his hands, hoping to flick away heart fluttering memories and dread that sinks through his gut like ink in water.

“I need you tomorrow,” says Illumi. His hands drag across the spines of the books, fingers knobby and nails sharp. He eyes the titles with the same vacant, disinterested scowl he has for everything.

Iron supports hold aloft the domed glass ceiling and cast sweeping shadows like eagle’s wings. Fading dusk sky snatches away scarce warmth from the city below.

Killua shrugs off his suit jacket and drapes it over the back of one of the few couches clustered by the unlit fireplace. He walks past the table stacked high with stolen documents awaiting review by himself, his parents, or senior staff.

As Illumi browses through the children’s books—Killua suppresses a disgusted sneer—he slides a brass ladder along the wall of the circular library. Its wobbly wheels scream in the otherwise silent air. He swallows hard and hopes that he hasn’t awoken Kikyo.

Body sluggish and aching for sleep, he climbs up and finds what he’s looking for by the marks he left in the dust a few days prior. It’s an old farmer’s almanac with folklore stories scattered throughout, factual and fantastical in equal measure.

Killua hops to the floor and runs his thumb along the scarlet cover.

It’s an illustration of a humanoid goat standing over a river of blood. Her apron flies in a vicious wind, and the scissors she holds over her head are open around a crescent moon. She stares straight out at the viewer, defiant and oozing with fury.

Killua passes the book to Illumi and Illumi looks up at him, unblinking. For a moment, Killua thinks he’s going to make him pick out something else, but then he adds it to the small stack balanced in the crook of his elbow.

Illumi fades towards one of the arched entrances, which gapes wide like a jaw.

Killua bites his lip.

“Can I give them to her?”

Illumi pauses, a hand gracefully posed on the archway. He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Was there any trouble tonight?”

“Will I see you again?”

Killua can hardly keep himself standing. He rubs the side of his temple with the heel of his palm, before forcing himself to open his eyes as wide as he can manage.

“I’m fine.”

Illumi tut-tuts, sickeningly similar to their mother. “Oh Kil, you must be falling ill. Go rest. I don’t want to lose my best spotter.”

Killua is going to vomit.

He hisses in a breath to argue, but something about the way Illumi raises an eyebrow stops him. For a moment he’s pulled into his brother’s dense orbit. A cold sweat runs down his neck.

Killua’s legs itch, screaming both to run and freeze like ice.

Illumi breaks the stare, and Killua gasps, his breathing heavy.

“Goodnight, Kil,” he says, before vanishing with steps so smooth he may as well have been a ghost.

Killua raises a hand to the base of his neck and rubs his skin in a fruitless attempt to self-soothe.

Illumi is far from good company, but he leaves a vacuum in his wake.

Killua does not enjoy solitude. Loneliness, he has learned to live with; solitude, he abhors.

The library is gray and old. It’s a room that hasn’t seen proper use in years, a forgotten corner of the Zoldyck estate with mildew air that itches Killua’s nose and tastes like dust on his tongue. The books are no more than lifeless stacks of paper, ripped apart from the one who loved—loves—them most. The reading chair in the corner, undisturbed even by the housekeepers, calls out for company.

“Will I see you again?”

Killua grabs the hair at his temples and tries not to scream. For a moment, grief compresses him so hard he’s knocked to his knees.

There are translucent hands wrapped around his arms, grabbing at his neck, twisting the flesh of his thighs. His chest bubbles with panic that wants to spill over into sobs. A reckless desire he’s kept in check for years torrents through his heart, and he wants nothing more than to give in and let it ruin him.

Killua has survived through routine and a lace veil of iron between himself and the world beyond his fingertips, but now the walls are crashing down around him.

A thousand deaths on his hands, and he is going to crack for just one person.

There’s a chance, a risk, so stupidly foolish he hates himself for even considering the possibility.

Killua is a professional murderer. He has the heart of a killer, and the drying blood under his fingertips to prove it. He has never shown mercy, and tonight has yet to become an exception. His record is flawless, and his legacy, should he choose to embrace it, will be unparalleled.

Life stretches out before him, every cranny of it predetermined, and he has learned to accept that, to swallow it, for the sake of his sister.

It’s been months since he was allowed to see her, to rest her head in his lap and answer her questions about the outside. Even the polish on his toes has chipped away.

What do they have left to lose? Pain does not scare him, and they dare not touch her.

***

There are pinup posters on the walls of Milluki’s room, and a strip of lights wrapped around the ceiling that flash green and purple. Monitors are mounted to the walls, and boxes of cables in tangled knots are stored under the desk.

Milluki doesn’t even look up when Killua closes the door.

“What do you want?” he asks, tapping his finger on the mouse. A loading bar ticks slowly on one screen, and a jumble of code Killua has never cared to understand lights up another. Milluki continues working, used to more hysterical interrupters than Killua.

What does he want? Killua pauses for a moment, and then he almost laughs, because any answer even close to honest is surreal.

“Can you do me a favour?”

Milluki chokes at that, before spinning his chair around. There’s a glowing smile on his face, though he’s trying to hide it and failing poorly. A flash of irritation burns on Killua’s cheeks.

“Sorry, can you repeat that?”

Killua grinds his teeth and swallows his pride. “I need a favour.”

Milluki claps his hands together and rocks back in his chair. His eyes sparkle with delight. “Anything for my most darling little brother.”

“Shut up,” says Killua, his nose wrinkling.

Milluki’s enthusiasm is undeterred. “What do you need?”

Killua plunges over the point of no return before he can convince himself of reason. Hesitation, his grandfather always said, is the antidote to good fortune. “I need you to leak the outgoing messages from Zenji’s phone over the past two weeks. It can’t be tied back to us, and no one can find out about it.”

Milluki nods happily, and he’s already closed out one screen for another when he stills. “Wait—does anyone know about this?”

Killua shakes his head, frustrated and impatient. Kikyo could wake at any moment, Silva should be home soon, and Illumi has a knack for appearing when he is least wanted. Which is always.

Milluki sobers and worries his lip with his teeth. “I mean, yeah, I can do it, but…” His eyes slide up to the monitors and then down to Killua’s feet. “It isn’t a good idea.”

“I’ll owe you. Seriously.” Killua watches the door, his palms sweaty and his mouth dry.

Milluki sneers at that. “Obviously, idiot. But if they find out—”

“They won’t. You’re good at what you do.”

Milluki rubs the back of his neck, unconvinced. Killua can’t blame him, but he needs Milluki to help him.

Anxiety rises in his chest and he has to slide his hands into his pockets to keep from running them through his hair.

“Milluki, please.”

Milluki’s eyes shoot up to his. Killua doesn’t know what does it, but something about his voice, or maybe his expression, makes Milluki bite his cheek and shake his head.

He licks his lips, and then huffs a laugh. “Tell you what, Kil,” he says, turning back to his keyboard. “It’ll be one hell of a favour.”

Chapter 1.

Meteor City is a jagged mountain of metal and glass. It imposes over the landscape, cast in silhouette by the setting sun. A hazy cloud of pollution hangs over it like flies on an open wound.

Gon walks towards it along the edge of a dusty road, alone among a thousand others making the journey. Trucks pass by, forming an unbroken caravan from the blurry tree line behind him to a field of canvas tents and sheet metal buildings. People hang from the sides and produce jostles under tarps. A great big billowing cloud of dust forces Gon to wrap his bandana around his mouth and nose.

He stops when he reaches the edge of the shadow cast over the desert scrub. A woman with a weathered face and bandaged hands slows beside him, and the two of them look up, silently.

Somewhere in the staggeringly enormous mass, he’s going to find Ging.

The woman moves on first. It takes Gon a few more minutes, and by the time he starts on again, the shadow had crept to his shins.

The eastern market is the major entry point for the city, but Gon isn’t interested in squeezing his way through the crowd. He cuts off onto a thin path, with dry grass growing high down the center.

The buildings, jutting like crowded teeth, are packed together so tightly that not even a starving alley cat could squeeze its way through. More are under construction. Workers buzz about the scaffolding, and huge machines Gon has only ever seen in an encyclopedia gifted by Abe dig up the ground.

There are open balconies on every story. People lounge in them, wearing fancy clothes and airs.

“Welcome home, sunshine!” shouts a woman, hanging off the arm of a clearly intoxicated man with a hideous mustache.

Gon waves. “I’m just passing through.”

She snorts, covering her mouth with a ring-bejeweled hand. “Sure, of course. Just passing through.”

Gon’s breath hitches and he wants to ask what she means by that, but the two of them giggle off into the room beyond.

He waits to see if they’ll return, and when they don’t, he draws closer.

Gon approaches the building like it’s a frightening animal tensing to bolt.

He reaches out and touches the wall. The cold concrete is unyielding against the warmth of his palm.

Gon walks along the edge of the city as dusk falls around him.

The workers continue clanging, sparks bright and flying in the fading light. Gon is careful not to step underneath the swaying cranes, or cut across through dug out pits.

Eventually, he finds a door propped open with a rock. Workers stroll in and out, chatting to each other in a language Gon doesn’t understand. None of them pay him any mind as he slips inside.

The air is rot and neglect and grease. He slams a hand over his mouth and doubles over in the hallway, gagging. His eyes water, and his lungs burn as he forces himself to breathe.

A man walking out snickers down at him, and Gon’s nose wrinkles. He straightens himself intentionally, pulling the bandana back up over his nose.

Gon swipes a tear out of his eyes. The corridor stretches on, long and punctuated with bursts of light where caged fluorescents flicker. All he can see between the pockets is darkness shifting like falling sand.

A fly buzzes in the nearest light, banging itself against the walls of its confinement.

Gon swallows hard.

Just passing through.

***

Gon sits on scaffolding made of plywood and cheap metal, his feet dangling over oblivion. The bridge connects two different buildings. The bustling neon party scene on one side fades into the almost idyllic business row on the other, where plants hang on the walls and shoes squeak across vinyl flooring.

Gon takes another bite of his sandwich and clicks his heels together, watching people stream across the dizzying sprawl of other connectors below.

When he was young, Mito got him an ant farm. Sometimes it spilled sand all over his windowsill, but he still loved it. Gon could watch the workers dig for hours. The city is the same; something about it is mesmerizing.

He’s been meandering for a day and a half. Whale Island, for all its beauty, was plagued by familiarity. Gon grew up around the same four hundred faces and a bitterly frigid line to his exploration quite literally in the sand. Meteor City is incomparably dense with wonders.

He found a shop that sold glass butterfly charms in every colour of the rainbow and watched the artist make one.

It dangles around his neck, now. A luxury he can’t afford, but one he couldn’t say no to, either.

He passed by a funeral procession marching slowly through the street, percussion instruments made of wood and beads clacking. The woman leading them wore a bone white tunic and red shoes.

He looked at park from an observation window, unable to afford the fee to enter. It had a high ceiling and ivy climbing the walls. Gigantic lights fed the lawn, and a handful of couples were clustered on benches under carefully pruned apple trees.

Gon finishes his lunch and shrugs on his backpack, careful not to let it fall.

The next market he passes through has a ceiling painted to look like a midday sky. Dragons swirl through thick cumulus clouds and swoop down the walls. The stalls are open and cascade throughout the entire floor. Support columns are painted green and plastered with posters. Most of them are written in a language he doesn’t recognize.

He skirts around an open vat of oil, manned by an old woman with bags under her eyes and whiskers at the corners of her mouth. She dips meat down in strips, and they sizzle on the surface. A mother with a toddler in tow buys a bag, and pays by tapping the back of her phone to a metal plate drilled into the table.

Gon is pushed onwards by the swelling crowd.

The Hunter Association, when he finally finds it, is marked by the logo on a handleless door.

Gon hops onto the bridge to it. Both above and below, he can only spot three other entrances to the building.

A voice crackles from a speaker.

“Name?”

Gon tugs the collar of his shirt. “Gon. Kite sent me. He said to tell you ‘strawberry blackwater’ and to apologize for using an old pass code.”

“I can’t let you in with an old pass code.”

“He said I should mention I’m Ging’s son.”

There’s a long silence.

The speaker crackles, and Gon can make out indistinct words spoken too far away to be picked up clearly.

“Fine.”

The door slides open with a chime.

There’s no one on the other side. Gon pokes down the hallway, expecting to be interrupted once again by whoever was watching the door, but he’s only met by dead air.

All the hallways are painted the same grating shade of gray, and every door he tries to open is locked and beeps at him angrily. He’s steered like cattle through the building by short stairwells and dead ends until he stumbles upon a lobby.

The room is large, white, and brightly lit. There are a few people talking in clusters of two or three. Gon doesn’t recognize any of them. None of them smile when they look his way.

He fists the hem of his sleeves, rubbing the fabric between his thumb and his knuckles. There isn’t a line at the front desk.

“I’m looking for Ging Freecss.”

The woman behind the high counter snorts. “I’m sorry,” she deadpans, flipping the page of her magazine.

Gon pouts. “I want to see him. Do you know where he is?”

“Does anyone?”

Gon hums, considering the question. “He probably does.”

A ghost of a smile graces her face. She looks up and gives a snide scowl. “I wouldn’t bet on it.”

Gon isn’t sure what to say, so he says nothing. She goes back to reading, though he can tell by the way her eyes aren’t moving that she’s watching him peripherally. Gon bites his lip and glances over his shoulder.

Apparently accepting that he isn’t going to leave, she sighs and drops the magazine down. This time, her smile is tight and annoyed. “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Ging.”

***

There was a long retired sailor on Whale Island, so old that even Abe could only shrug when asked his name. He lived alone in the hills, where yellow wildflowers spilled across the forest floor like honey, and came into town when he needed to replace a failing tool or stock up on food. He had eyebrows like scraggly wire and shuffled, though he didn’t use a cane.

One lazy summer afternoon, gnats buzzing in the air, Gon stumbled upon him plucking weeds in his back garden. Compelled by nothing but curiosity, Gon pushed up his sleeves and helped. They spent a few hours in silent companionship, and at the end of it Gon was invited into the well-maintained kitchen to share a blackberry pie. Gon breathed on a spoon and managed to stick it to his cheek; the old sailor guffawed, his nose wrinkled.

A couple of years after that, Gon found his body in the woods.

At first, it looked as though he was sleeping against one of the apple trees, but the smell, the flies, and the stillness of his chest told Gon otherwise.

Bisky reminds Gon of him.

It’s her eyes that do it; soulful and heavy, despite a body that doesn’t look a day over sixteen. Even slouched, with elbows on her knees, her presence fills the air.

The lounge is chaotic. Flashing lights cut through smoke. Music blasts, and partygoers holler. Gon slips through the crowd, offering muttered apologies as he squeezes between dancers.

Wide support columns curate his view. They cut up the lounge like a warren, giving him only snippets of her form as he makes his way over. Gon ducks under an arch and jogs down the half-flight of stairs.

He slides into the seat across from her. She jolts from whatever she was thinking about.

“Bisky?”

“Gon?”

For a moment, they float in their own bubble, separate from the rest of the world.

She leans towards him, eyes wide.

They’re interrupted by a young man tripping on his own shoes. He catches himself on Gon’s shoulder and nearly tumbles into his lap. Gon helps him back to his feet, insisting that it’s not a bother as the man blushes fiercely. He scampers off.

The conflicted swirl in Bisky’s expression is gone when he sits back down.

“You’re so much like him,” she says.

Gon’s chest swells with shy pride.

***

His throat is warm and fuzzy, and his senses are enjoyably dulled. His inhibition, thin at the best of times, has been shredded like wet paper.

Bisky is either a fantastic influence or a terrible one.

She hollers and Gon grunts, his elbow straining, sweat burning down his forehead. The woman across from him narrows her eyes and pushes harder against his palm. Gon’s muscles are clenched so tightly he can hardly breathe.

The back of his hand slams into the table. There’s a roar, and people in the crowd push him by his shoulders as he catches his breath. The woman offers him a handshake and a roguish smile as a conciliatory participation prize.

“My turn, my turn,” insists Bisky, sliding into the seat after him.

The woman, graying at her temples, quirks her lips into a smirk. She stands to whispers something in Bisky’s ear, and Bisky laughs.

Gon is knocked back by the swell of the excited onlookers; he lets himself drift, and while he doesn’t see it, he sure as hell hears it when Bisky pulls off a victory.

They sit beside each other on a quiet step. Bisky scribbles out something on the back of a napkin and shoves it into his hand.

“He’s a lightweight too,” she says.

Gon groans. “‘M fine,” he lies.

Bisky can’t hide the chuckle that bounces her shoulders. “Of course you are.” She claps her hands together. “Right. Let’s go get you settled, young man.”

The true face of the headquarters is nothing like the monotony from earlier.

Every hallway is decorated in a different style. One is lined from floor to ceiling with wooden masks, whose eyes seem to follow them. Another is snow white, with the silhouettes of deer somehow moving across the wall.

Bisky has to drag him along by the wrist; Gon keeps wandering off to gander.

Her apartment is luxurious. The ceilings are high, and from them hang ornate chandeliers. The carpet is thick between his toes, and the paint on the walls looks new. He can only stay for the night, she says, because she’s leaving in the morning and the place will be turned over to someone else.

Gon curls up on the couch and she brings him a glass of water, a pillow, and a fond ruffle of his hair.

The night wasn’t what he was hoping for. He’s disappointed he didn’t get to meet Ging, even if he had a fun time. All Bisky knows is that he’s off on some special assignment and planning to come back soon. It’s enough for Gon, though.

He’s waited his whole life. He can wait a little longer.

Chapter 2.

Gon stops outside the restaurant and triple checks the napkin. He’s supposed to meet with the friend of a friend of a friend.

Bisky’s words swam over his pounding head during breakfast. He isn’t sure whether he’s meeting with a thirty-something martial arts instructor or a guy his age with a buzz cut. Either way, he isn’t looking forward to it.

The other key detail that he missed was what job he was applying for, exactly.

He pokes his head inside. The restaurant is empty; not one of the three round chairs has a guest, and there’s no one behind the counter.

The walls are yellow stucco and the splashboard behind the workspace is functional black diamond plate. There’s a chandelier with tacky plastic jewels that reflect spots of light onto the walls and ceiling. The melamine tables are worn and chipped, and the chairs have awkwardly low backs.

It is, Gon thinks, the least welcoming restaurant he has ever had the misfortune of visiting.

There’s a bang in the back room and Gon jumps. The door swings open. A man with a willowy build and unruly blonde hair stalks up to the counter, tying his striped apron behind his back.

“Can I help you,” he sighs venomously, as though he would rather swallow spiders than even consider doing so.

“Bisky sent me,” says Gon.

The man’s nose wrinkles with disgust and he rolls his eyes. “Great.”

Gon rubs his hand along the back of his head and passes over her note. The man holds the napkin out at arms length before pulling glasses from his pocket. He mouths the words as he reads them, and Gon taps his fingers on the empty glass display case as he waits for him to finish.

“Bisky didn’t tell me what KP stood for but—”

“Kurapika. Me. My name.”

“Oh.”

Kurapika sets the paper down and pulls his glasses back like a headband. His hair is tucked, revealing dazzling ruby red earrings.

“Who are you.”

“Gon Freecss. I came here looking for my dad, but—”

“Gon, I want you to know, from the bottom of my heart, that I do not care. What do you know about running?”

“Um, I’m fast, I think? I’ve never really raced anyone though, so—”

“Okay.” Kurapika chuckles a little, his eyes sliding closed and his smile genuine for the first time. Gon squirms, certain that he’s stepped over one of those invisible lines that everyone else can see. “Go tell Bisky not to waste my time.”

Gon’s heart plummets. “I’m a fast learner.”

Kurapika stares at him unflinchingly.

“Also Bisky just left this morning, so I can’t do that.”

There’s a beat of awkward silence. Kurapika stares through him, his eyes glassy and his mouth pressed flat, before untying his apron and hanging it up on a hook beside the fridge.

“You’re from outside the city.”

Gon tilts his head, wondering how Kurapika could tell.

“You’re never going to know it as well as someone who’s grown up here.”

“I’m good at—”

Kurapika holds up a finger, turning on his heels. His smile curls sharper. Kurapika shapes his words carefully, like Gon is a rabbit he’s leading into a snare. “How long did it take you to get to the Hunter’s Association headquarters?”

Gon winces. “A couple days.”

Kurapika holds out his relaxed hands, palms flat. “That’s only a seventeen minute trip from here if you know the way, Gon.”

Gon gasps. The pieces click into place, and he relishes in the rush of having figured out the test.

“No it isn’t.”

Kurapika bites his tongue. “Yes, it is.”

“It only took me twelve.”

Kurapika freezes. His eyes open wide, but he recovers quickly into a slightly less confident scowl. “You said it took you days, Gon.”

Gon nods avidly. “Yeah, the first time. Then when I came back it was only twenty minutes because I knew to use the tunnels way below everything. And then I was bored because the restaurant was closed for the night, so I went back and forth a few times.”

“And you shaved it down to twelve minutes?”

Gon beams. “Yup! It only really works one way, though. There’s this place where the boards are really close between the buildings and you can hop down and it saves you from having to do”—Gon demonstrates with his hands—“the hook thing.”

“Show me.”

***

Kurapika stands with him on the top board and shakes his head slowly. Gon can’t wipe the smile off his face. He points at the grated metal, only seven feet below.

“It’s—”

“Twelve minutes. It’s actually twelve minutes.” Kurapika licks his lips and puts his hands on his hips. He stares at the path below like he doesn’t believe it.

Maybe it wasn’t a test. Either way, Gon’s pretty sure he passed.

With practiced grace, Kurapika holds out a hand. Gon shakes it firmly. Kurapika’s teeth grind and he pulls away, clenching and unclenching his fingers.

Gon rocks back and forth from his toes to his heels. “I said I was a fast learner, didn’t I?”

“You did, you did, you absolutely did,” says Kurapika, his voice dazed. “I take it back. No guarantees, but I can try to find you something.”

Gon hollers at the victory. Someone far above shouts down at him to be quiet. Gon apologizes.

“So what now?” he asks.

For the first time, Kurapika’s smile is softened by fondness. “Try to learn the area around the restaurant as best you can. Do you have a phone?”

Gon passes it over and Kurapika presses a few buttons before tapping their backs together.

“I’ll call when I know one way or another.” He stills and rubs his thumb over his lips. “Do you have a place to stay?”

***

“It’s temporary.”

Gon leans against the wall and bites his lip. It’s the first true residential area he’s visited. Kurapika had to tap his phone on a screen to slide open the front gate.

The hallway has tiled vinyl flooring, and the mounted lights are soft. The main corridor branches off like a fractal, what must have once been a wide open space subdivided into a maze of small apartments. It’s nicer than most of the places Gon has been so far, which is to say that there are no suspiciously dark stains on bare concrete.

Across the narrow hallway the door to apartment forty-five opens. A boy with short black hair, not much younger than Gon himself, steps out, carrying a handful of empty bags.

“Like hell it’ll be temporary, Kurapika.”

The boy’s eyes widen and Gon mirrors the look.

“Just a few days. He doesn’t have anywhere—”

“Why can’t you take him in?”

With a polite wave the boy runs off down the hallway, favoring his right leg.

“Because my place is—”

There’s a dramatic sigh. “Fine. Fine.”

Kurapika leans out, a smug smile lighting up his face. “Come on in.”

The apartment is a long, narrow room. There’s a kitchen at the very back with mismatched stools. Closer, the walls are lined with cubbies full of plastic totes. There’s a low circular table between them, and one of the boxes is open on the ground beside it, folders spread out chaotically.

Next there’s an unmade bed that juts out from the wall, right beside the door to what Gon presumes is the washroom. Across from the bed is a couch, sandwiched on either side by a bookshelf and a dresser.

The man beside Kurapika is, somehow, exactly what Gon would have expected if he had only seen the room.

He’s tall but slouches, his glasses seem comically useless, and the twist of his lips is crass. His hair is dented on the side from bed head, and his button-up shirt is half untucked.

“I’m Gon, nice to meet you.” He holds out his hand with a beaming smile.

The man looks up at the ceiling in a silent prayer for patience before accepting the handshake. “Leorio.”

Gon sets his backpack down and clasps his hands behind his back. Kurapika wrings his wrists. Leorio rubs his eyes. The silence is awkward, and Gon jumps to break it.

“What are those papers?” he asks.

Leorio glances over at the table. “Records.”

“Oh. For what?”

“I’m a doctor.”

“Why?”

Leorio inhales through his nose then exhales through his mouth. His stare turns to Kurapika, who has conveniently fled to the kitchen.

Dinner is made in near silence. Gon chops the vegetables put in front of him while Kurapika and Leorio bicker in low tones over the pot on the stove. He wonders why they’re friends if they spend so much time arguing, but maybe that’s what friends are supposed to be like. Gon isn’t exactly an expert; there was only one other kid on Whale Island, and she moved away years ago for high school.

They’re eating soup, lined up on the counter stools, when Gon tries again.

“So why did you want to be a doctor?”

Leorio drops his spoon and scowls at Kurapika. “Was he being an ass earlier, or…?”

“I don’t know,” says Kurapika, covering his full mouth with a hand.

“What are you talking about?” asks Gon.

The two of them look up at him, and then to each other. Kurapika shrugs. Leorio sighs, and rubs a fleck of broth off his cheek.

“A long time ago a friend of mine got sick, but healthcare in Meteor City is expensive and shoddy, so, y’know.” Leorio twirls his hand, watch clinking. “I wanted to help.”

“Did he die?” asks Gon.

Kurapika sucks in a breath. “G—”

“Yeah,” says Leorio.

Gon bites his cheek.

He swirls his spoon in his soup, and a carrot bubbles up from the bottom. He tries to imagine what that would feel like—losing Abe was hard enough, and he’d been able to find comfort in her long life well lived. Gon’s chest unravels at the thought of losing a friend.

“I’m sorry.”

Leorio looks down. Kurapika rests a hand on his arm.

“Thank you, Gon,” says Kurapika. “Now finish your soup.”

Gon cleans the plates while Leorio digs out extra bedding from the dresser. Kurapika has left, something about needing to sleep before his next shift started.

“You’re getting the couch ‘cause I’m too tall for it,” says Leorio, trying in vain to get fitted sheets to work on couch cushions.

“Okay.”

Gon lies with his back to the room. Leorio snores, like Mito does.

Gon sleeps easy.

***

Gon flips over the work phone. It’s sturdier than his own, and designed to snap closed. He clicks it open and shut as Kurapika explains the process to him.

Again.

“Deliver the package, tap the back of your phone to theirs, if they’re the right person it’ll tell you, and if they aren’t, I’ll get an alert. Do you have any questions?”

“Nope.” Gon reaches for the cardboard box, not much larger than a slice of bread, and Kurapika slides it down the counter, out of his reach.

“I can be there in five, six if you need me armed.”

“It’ll be fine,” says Gon, stretching on his tiptoes to grab the package. He flies out before Kurapika can launch into another lecture. Lectures, Gon has discovered in the two weeks since meeting him, are something Kurapika is fond of.

He weaves through the buildings, secure in his bearings, slowly ascending staircase by staircase. Waiting for Dalzollene’s approval was boring, but it did give him time to familiarize himself with his surroundings.

The meeting itself is mundane. There’s a woman waiting right where expected, and when they click their phones together, they both receive a cheery green check mark.

He passes the box, she slips off into the crowd, and he returns back to Kurapika, where the next delivery is waiting.

Running, Gon discovers, is something he enjoys a lot.

It takes him a few days to conclude what, exactly, he’s carrying, but once he does it hardly bothers him. Who cares what other people want to do if it means Gon is getting paid to fly through the city?

There are three of them working out of the restaurant. He’s a runner, as is Zushi, a barrel-chested boy with stony expressions but a kind heart. Kurapika is their manager, and he reports to “the brass”, as Leorio calls them. Gon isn’t sure what “the brass” has to do with him, so he keeps to running.

There are a few regulars. The woman he met his first trip was one, as are twin boys down in the factories with equally devious grins and clothes that seem intentionally picked to set them apart. There’s a gangly teenager who always meets him behind a heart-pounding night club, and a woman who insists on double checking their tap every time.

Gon hears a new language every day, sees a new pastry behind shop windows. He meets people he never could have imagined, and every night his dreams are fed by pushed horizons. It’s like he’s twelve again; his heart soars with anticipation of adventures to come.

***

“Whale Island?”

Gon nods, slurping from his bowl of noodles. The woman across from him with a sleeve of tattoos and an impractically big septum piercing smiles warmly. She leans back in her creaky chair.

“I passed through there a summer, way back when.”

Gon bites back a pang of homesickness. “Yeah?”

She clasps her hands behind her head and smiles. “Just for a night. Beautiful place. Miss the sky.”

Gon does, too. He’ll return someday, though.

He calls Mito in the evening, and they talk for hours.

The mail system is unreliable, Kurapika says, but Gon still sends her the glass butterfly. It made him happy. He hopes it makes her happy, too.

***

Leorio, despite his big talk, lets Gon stay.

After a few months, Gon is grunting along with him and Kurapika as they maneuver a second bed into the apartment. There’s barely room to squeeze it in against the wall, and only about a foot is left between it and Leorio’s, but it’ll do.

***

When Gon runs into trouble, he’s unprepared. He breathes through his mouth and grips the edge of the cushioned table as Leorio’s fingers brush over his nose. He swallows blood, and the slick, thick feeling of it travelling down his throat almost makes him gag. Leorio sets it, and Gon can’t help but cry out. Kurapika winces, hovering over Leorio’s shoulder.

“What happened?” he asks, eyes stormy.

“I got into a fight,” says Gon. Leorio’s mouth quivers as he fights back a snicker.

Kurapika sighs and rubs his forehead with his index finger and thumb. “Yes, but what happened.”

Gon shrugs. “I was just walking.”

Call it a fight is honestly an overstatement; more accurately, Gon got his lights punched out and woke up with his face against the ground.

Kurapika insists he learn to defend himself, after that.

***

Firearms are rare in the city. The Ten Dons ban them outside of their own use; with the thin walls and shabby floors, it’s too dangerous to risk lackadaisical use, so confrontations come down to martial ability.

Gon coughs and lets his head loll back onto the springy wooden floor. His instructor—an old student of Bisky’s—pads closer.

“You’re completely uncoordinated,” says Wing.

“I’ve never done this before,” says Gon, rolling onto his hands and knees before bouncing to his feet.

“That much I could tell.”

Gon sputters a laugh and rubs the back of his head. Wing crosses his arms.

His teacher is coiled muscle, veiled by unassuming, baggy clothes. The studio is an extension of himself, with its wonky fans and chipped mirrors. Overhead, the neighbors shout each other down.

Gon takes a deep breath, wincing when his ribs ache, and resets into the stance Wing showed him. They move slowly; Wing explains every step as he’s doing it, and Gon occasionally interrupts to ask for clarification.

Two hours pass in the blink of an eye.

Gon ties his laces as Wing talks him through the studio’s schedule.

He learns, slowly, about the people he’s working for. Some of it is from Kurapika, but Kurapika is stingy, dispensing information in palatable drips. Most of it, he gathers from the people he meets.

The Nostrades are just one of the many families tied to Ritz Clan, which is just one of ten clans that operate quasi-governments throughout the city. They control a pocket on the border of the Ritz’s territory, and are infamous for the daughter’s hobby of collecting human body parts. A grim fascination, Gon thinks.

They are also, he learns, infuriatingly difficult to get the drop on. They smell weakness like bloodhounds, and many suspect Light Nostrade is trying to worm his way into the Ritz’s inner circle. How, exactly, no one can tell him. Smoke chokes out the sun, but no one can find the fire.

When Gon isn’t working, he’s exploring.

He charts his way through the ground level, where he finds the crematoriums, water treatment plants, and livestock pens. It’s dingy. The walls are caked in grime, and he finds more than a handful of bodies rotting in the stagnant water between the buildings. But it does provide the most direct routes he can find. Usually, it isn’t worth it to climb down and back up the stairs, but he notes the potential.

It’s normal for him, now, to go weeks without seeing the sun. His eyes burn when he does climb up to the roofs. He can’t tell if it’s because of the light or the pollution. Probably both.

His martial ability improves through hours of practice with Wing and hours more alone with Zushi. Zushi is an enthusiastic teacher, thrilled whenever Gon asks him to stay a little longer.

Sometimes his lessons are less like lessons, though, and more like excuses to show how good he is at trapping Gon in a headlock.

Kurapika begins splitting the risky jobs between them more evenly. Gon learns how to slide unnoticed through crowds, treating the markets and echoing apartment complexes like the forest.

Bisky does not return. Ging does not return. Kite does not return.

Gon keeps waiting.

Baise, one of the Neon Nostrade’s bodyguards, takes two weeks off to visit family. Kurapika suggests Gon fill in, and in a burst of generous optimism, Dalzollene lets him.

Standing outside a locked door for hours or shuffling awkwardly through crowds isn’t as much fun as running. It’s exhausting to have to assume the worst of everyone. Neon likes him, though, so Gon ends up spending more and more time in her entourage.

One afternoon, he has two hours to kill before the next run. He sits in the restaurant, flipping through a newspaper in a language he can’t read, frowning at the pictures. Zushi walks in and greets Kurapika formally. Kurapika grunts from his stool behind the counter, but his eyes stay glued to his phone.

“Hey, Gon.”

Zushi stands with his back straight and his mouth schooled into a professional scowl.

“Howdy,” says Gon, smiling up at him.

“Don’t even fucking start,” says Kurapika.

“Hello,” says Gon. He folds away the newspaper and drops it on the table. Zushi is robotic as he pulls out a chair and sits down.

“I was wondering if you’d like to go out. With me.”

“Sure.” Gon reaches for his jacket. “Hey Kurapika, we’re—”

Zushi waves his hands in the air, cutting Gon off. “No, like, out.”

“Yeah,” says Gon. “Sure.”

“Like a date. Together.”

Gon brows pull together. “Was I supposed to say no?”

Kurapika blurts a laugh, which is quickly cut off by his hand slapping over his mouth. Gon fidgets with the hair at the base of his skull.

Zushi’s cheeks are bright red. The colour spills up his ears and over his forehead. “You like me?” asks Zushi, voice cracking.

Gon shrugs. “The point of a date is to find out, right?”

Zushi is a wreck as they make their way to the karaoke bar.

Gon tries to get him laughing, but it’s in vain.

Zushi is cute, Gon thinks. He’s fun, and Gon likes spending time with him. Gon isn’t sure if that’s a crush, though.

The karaoke bar is loud and bright and Gon hates it upon arrival, but Zushi is a balloon ready to burst at the next morsel of air, so Gon goes along with it. There are, unsurprisingly, no versions of the songs he knows in the Whale Island dialect. Gon flounders, trying to keep up with lyrics that are close but ever so slightly off.

When it’s Zushi’s turn, he stands with white knuckles around the microphone. The words start to scroll and his cheeks puff out. There’s a tremor to his bottom lip.

“Why don’t we leave,” says Gon.

Zushi breathes a sigh of relief and agrees eagerly.

They end up tucked in the back of a donut shop, sitting across from each other.

“Sorry, that was bad,” apologizes Zushi. Again.

“It’s fine,” says Gon, flashing a smile.

“I’m not sure this was a good idea,” says Zushi, his hands rubbing each other on the table.

Gon nods his earnest agreement. “I don’t think we’d make a good couple.”

Zushi’s face falls at the confirmation, and his gaze drifts over to the wall, plastered with amateur paintings on sale. Gon’s gut twists.

“But I like spending time with you. And someday, it’ll be really funny that we went on a terrible date.”

Zushi laughs nervously. “Really bad.”

Gon beams. “The worst.”

Zushi smiles shyly and takes a sip of his coffee. He taps his fingers on the sides of his mug for a moment, looking down at the floor. “It won’t be weird?”

Gon shakes his head. “Nope, promise. Here.”

He holds out a pinky and Zushi reluctantly takes it. Gon chants as Zushi watches him with befuddled interest.

“—sealed with a kiss!”

Zushi’s face turns beet red. “No thanks,” he says, voice tight.

Gon pushes their thumbs together. “Mwah.”

“Oh.”

Zushi sighs, his shoulders sinking down in relief. Gon can’t help but snicker. Zushi reaches over and slaps his arm.

A half-hour later Zushi has recovered to his regular self.

“So, how did you end up a runner?” asks Gon, stealing crumbs off his plate.

Zushi lifts a hand to swat him away, but Gon, ever a careful thief, escapes unscathed. Gon sticks out his tongue. Zushi gives him a stink eye before letting it go.

“I need a job while I’m training to take the Hunter exam,” he says, twisting his mug back and forth by its handle.

“Oh,” says Gon.

A plate crashes across the room. Gon springs to his feet. There’s a woman with her hands over her mouth and an embarrassed wobble in her voice as she bends down to pick up the pieces. The boy behind the counter tugs her back up by her arm, insisting she not worry about it. Reassured that no one is hurt, Gon leaves them be.

Zushi shuffles in his chair as Gon sits back down. “Your dad’s one, right? Don’t you wanna be too?”

Gon hums, a thumb on his lip. “Not really. I don’t think I have to be, so I don’t see the point of it.”

“You don’t see the point of it?”

“It’s a lot of work for perks I don’t care about.” The boozy lounge, free alcohol, and splendid apartment are not things he desires.

Zushi balks. “It’s not about the perks. It’s about being a protector of the city.”

Gon raises an eyebrow. His expression of disbelief morphs into a wince. “My dad is hardly a protector of the city.”

Zushi’s eye bulge wide. “Dude. Your dad is like, on some quest to find out what killed the last chairman. If that’s not protecting the city, I don’t know what is.”

Gon bobs his head back and forth. “Fixing the bridges? Upgrading the water mains?” He gestures vaguely towards Leorio’s practice, fourteen stories and three buildings away. “Making healthcare accessible?”

Zushi opens and closes his mouth like a fish, before snapping it shut and glowering down at his mug. His eyebrows are scrunched together like he’s trying to solve a difficult puzzle.

Gon shrugs a shoulder. “You don’t need to be a Hunter to do any of that.”

“Maybe,” says Zushi. “But I still wanna do it.” His mouth is set with determination.

Gon’s eye crinkle fondly. “For what it’s worth, if anyone should be a Hunter, it’s you.”

Zushi’s eyes flutter in shock. He sniffs and looks up at the ceiling. “Thanks, Gon.”

Chapter 3.

They issue him a firearm.

It’s coded to respond to his fingerprints and will only be activated when he’s on duty. Further precautions include a weekend of training at a facility on the other side of the city, jointly run and funded by the Ten Dons.

Gon enjoys the walk, and he enjoys the breaks from the classroom when he has nothing to do but wander around. Training is miserable, though. No one will crack a smile, and distrust leaves the air hot and sticky. By the time it’s over, he’s relieved to return home to Leorio’s cooking and loud complaining about work.

Kurapika tells him he suits it and the holster.

Gon’s face puckers at the compliment. He doesn’t like suiting something crafted to kill.

The gun has no functional affect on guard duty because nothing ever happens. Gon watches doors that stay closed and scouts streets free of danger.

In the copious, wretchedly still free time the job gives him, he begins to draw out a map of the city. He doesn’t need the guidebook, but maybe it can be a birthday present for Zushi.

At the very least, it makes his time feel less squandered.

***

Kurapika is late. Gon stands outside the locked up restaurant, rocking from the balls of his feet to his heels, humming a song Leorio’s been blasting for weeks.

Kurapika is never late.

It’s a guard night, so maybe he just forgot to meet with Gon before heading to the estate.

Gon texts, and then he calls. Nothing.

He bites his lip and scratches the back of his head. They’re going to be late at this rate.

Kurapika’s apartment is a shabby place. Gon’s shoes crunch on broken glass as he steps around buckets overflowing with water leaking from the ceiling. Kurapika can afford better, but says he doesn’t see what the point would be if he’s almost never there. (Most nights, he sleeps on the couch in Leorio’s apartment, anyway.)

Gon grabs the key tapped to the back of the mailbox and knocks as a formality before walking in. For a professional bodyguard, Kurapika is comically lax with his own security.

The room isn’t much more than a box. There’s a mattress on the floor, and a milk crate flipped over to support a microwave. Clothes, which theoretically belong in the shallow dresser, are scattered over the desk, chair, and bed.

Gon hears a scratchy moan in the bathroom.

Kurapika is doubled over the toilet. Sweat soaks through his white tank top, but he’s shivering. Hair is plastered to his forehead.

He looks up at Gon, his eyes dark and narrowed.

“Let me die,” he hisses as Gon hoists him up, slinging one of Kurapika’s arms over his shoulders. Kurapika leans heavily into Gon’s side, his free hand clasping at the fabric of Gon’s shirt.

“Leorio would cry,” says Gon, walking them towards the main room. “And he cries enough already.”

Kurapika fixes him with a sour pucker.

“Like when you sent the cat.”

Kurapika frowns and stumbles as Gon transfers him to the door frame to dig up a jacket.

“The cat picture?”

“Yeah.”

“It made him cry?”

Gon presses his lips flat.

Kurapika’s brows furrow, then his face falls into weary but fond amusement.

“I can see it.”

***

Leorio, freshly awoken from his night shift recovery, stares down a greasy Kurapika.

Kurapika pinches his lips tight, his hand still on the doorknob.

“Sit down,” Leorio sighs, grabbing Kurapika by the scruff of his tank top and pulling him back until his knees fold against Gon’s bed.

Gon drops their pill bottle haul from the bathroom cabinet beside him.

“I have to go now,” he says, shooting a worried look to Kurapika.

“Then go,” says Leorio. “I’ve got him.”

***

The Nostrade estate sits on top of the territory they control like skin on the surface of lukewarm soup. There are big glass ceilings over the ballrooms and jars of preserved body parts decorating alcoves.

Gon changes in the armory and barely swings into the front lobby before Neon and Eliza walk down the spiral staircase from the bedrooms.

“Where’s Kurapika?” asks Baise, her teeth gritted and her smile forced.

Gon twists his heel in the carpet. “Sick. We’ll be okay without him.”

Baise’s smile tightens and her eyes bulge. “You can’t make decisions like that on your own.”

“We’ll be fine,” says Gon.

Her glare is disgusted, but she drops the subject.

“Good evening,” says Gon, cheery, as Neon slides off her slippers, using Eliza’s offered arm for balance.

“Good evening Mr. Freecss,” she says, voice light and airy.

For all the time she spends out of the house, it’s rarely for her own pleasure. On nights when she’s alone, or alone as she can be, Neon is always bubbly.

They take an elevator to the theater.

It’s one of the services the Nostrade family operates. Not only do they control the drug market, but they monopolize most amenities, too, from water to light.

The elevators, old and prone to failure, are especially expensive.

Eliza and Neon chat in the balcony lobby, Baise and Gon close at their sides. There are two other high-ranking mafia members present, but Gon can’t name them or the older guards that circle them.

A young man Neon smiles brightly at is telling her disconnected facts about the theater’s architecture when Gon spots trouble.

Kurapika rubs his eyes as he makes his way over. Gon slips away to intercept him.

“What are you thinking?” he hisses, grabbing Kurapika by the elbow. Kurapika shrugs him off.

“I’m good to work. Leorio gave me medicine. I’m feeling better.”

Gon scowls his disapproval.

Kurapika’s nose is red and his eyes are puffy. His hair is damp, and Gon suspects he washed it in the sink.

“We can handle it without you.”

Kurapika doesn’t bother replying. He steps around Gon to catch up with the rest of the group.

Lights flash, and the shuffle for seats begins.

The theatre is paneled with dark wood, and the house lights are so dim that it takes minutes to adjust. There are private balconies, rows of seats, and a pit down the center of the room. The stage itself is shallow and cramped.

Beads, in long, dazzling strings, are hung along the spines of the faux dome. Every lighting effect and curtain lifts sends sparkling ripples out like waves.

Gon stands at the back of the balcony, beside the door, and Kurapika slumps beside him. From here the ballet is hidden by curtains red as dried blood, but Gon doesn’t care for it much anyway.

Eliza, Neon, and Baise sit in the front of two rows. Eliza and Neon chat idly, even as the music begins. Neon’s elaborate hairstyle bobs with every laugh. Baise taps her fingers on the armrest impatiently.

The audience settles. Before the performance, after it, and during intermission are the high risk times. Between those, it’s smooth sailing.

Gon zones out and watches the beads.

It’s twenty minutes into the performance when Neon abruptly stands, turns to face him directly, and says: “whatever you do, don’t touch your weapon.”

Gunfire.

Kurapika pushes off from the wall and nearly stumbles to the ground, but he manages to grab Eliza and yank her down as Baise does the same for Neon.

The music abruptly halts. There are screams, and the floor shakes as people run to get away.

Someone has to sweep the emergency route before they can move on. Usually, it would be Kurapika’s job.

“Wait with them,” says Gon, slipping out before he can be stopped.

Kurapika shouts, but his voice is cut off by the door closing. There’s a click as Baise locks it.

A curved hallway with creamy walls services all of the balcony seats. It’s an unbroken oval, with part of it used to access the catwalks over the stage. Gon jogs around it as it fills with a panicked crowd.

People shout and push past each other in a dash for the exits. A man stumbles to his knees, and Gon swerves to help him back to his feet.

Gon finds himself bumping into shoulders and getting in the way. It’s useless to try and fight the flow. He steps aside to the wall and lets people pass.

The shots came from inside the theatre, but Gon didn’t have a view of the seats. They could have been fired by a licensed guard, or someone might be running around with a cracked weapon. Neither possibility is good news.

He doesn’t know the target, and he doesn’t know if bystanders are injured.

Kurapika will have almost certainly reported the incident by now, so backup will be on its way. With so many unknown variables, staying put until then might be the smart decision—or, they might be in harm’s way.

Gon rubs his temples. There isn’t an obvious answer. Combined with Neon’s ominous warning—if anything working for the Nostrades has taught him, it’s to listen to her warnings—he doesn’t know what to do.

The crowd is thinning and being still increases his visibility, so Gon moves on. When he reaches the heavy curtain separating backstage from the audience, he draws it back without hesitation.

No one.

There are big stage lights, carts full of props, and painted set pieces.

Gon passes by the door out to the catwalks. A bucket of fake snow is tipped over beside it.

His phone rings. Kurapika. Gon snaps it closed.

On the other side of the next curtain, the hallway is empty. The silence is eerie, dropping over him like a shroud.

Gon has never seen it still like this before. The unfamiliarity, the warping of space he knows into something he does not, sets his teeth on edge.

Usually, he appreciates the gentle curve. In hand-to-hand combat, seeing your opponent when they’re still far away can minimize conflict. But once firearms are introduced, it just means that every step could be the one that put Gon in the line of a bullet.

His hands shake from the adrenaline pumping through his system, and he walks on the balls of his feet, as though he’s barefoot in the forest.

There’s a thump ahead.

A chill runs down Gon’s spine. His nostrils flare. He inches his hand closer to his lapel.

Someone is around the bend.

A man appears. He takes a step forward, graceful as a sylph, and not a sound is made when his foot falls. The tilt of his sharp shoulders is predatory, like a cat coiling to spring. Dangerous and…

Beautiful.

His eyes are sapphires, and the curve of his lips is soft. His suit is tailored perfectly to his form. The braid over his shoulder is white as crisp ocean foam.

Gon can hardly breathe.

“Who are you,” asks the man. He pops the knuckles of one hand with his thumb.

A fleck of blood drops.

Gon grinds his teeth together, mind racing.

“Are you choosing to get involved or not?” he asks, bored and impatient.

“Your buttons are done up wrong,” says Gon, pointing to the man’s jacket.

The man’s eyes widen in what is either shock or disbelief. And then he glances down.

Gon closes the distance with a leap and slams his knuckles into the man’s solar plexus.

His feet are swept out from under him and he’s slammed against the wall, toes dangling. The detached coldness in the man’s eyes is gone, replaced by hot fury.

“What the he—“

“Why didn’t you kill me?”

The intensity in the air evaporates away.

The man’s mouth is slack. His eyes narrow into a squint, searching Gon’s with naked bewilderment.

Gon holds his breath.

The man lowers him so that his toes can touch the ground.

“You could have,” says Gon.

“Because—you—who does that?”

Gon hums thoughtfully, and loses his fight against the smile trying to curl his lips.

“So you were curious, too.”

The man blinks, then closes his eyes and gives a long, shaky sigh. With a gentle shove, he lets go of Gon entirely and backs up, like an archer relaxing his bow string.

“Just tell me who you are,” says the man, leaning against the wall on the other side of the hallway.

“Gon.”

The man stares at him with a mix of horror and confusion.

A moment of silence passes. Gon pats his hips, unsure of where to put his hands.

“Do you have a death wish, Gon?”

“That’s not fair.”

The man’s eyes flutter and he gasps a shocked laugh.

“What?”

“I told you my name, you tell me yours.”

The man purses his lips. He leans his head against the wall and looks up, as if the light moldings will give him answers.

For a few seconds, Gon doesn’t think he’s going to answer.

“Killua.”

Killua.

“Nice to meet you, Killua.”

Casually leaned back, he doesn’t seem nearly as dangerous. Still beautiful, though.

“You’re weird, you know that?” says Killua, his voice raspy.

“I’m not sure you’re one to talk.”

Killua sniffs a laugh. “Takes one to know one, I guess.”

Gon laughs.

Killua’s eyes shoot wide as saucers.

“What?” he asks, tilting his head.

Gon shakes his head and waves his hands placatingly. “Nothing, just funny.”

Killua scowls. “Don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m not laughing at you,” says Gon.

Killua raises an eyebrow. “Sure.”

There’s the click of a door opening further down the hallway. Gon’s head swivels.

Backup, probably. That, or a peeved Kurapika on his way to shout Gon down the second they’re out of Neon’s earshot.

Killua stands with his hand on the frame of an open door.

Gon stumbles back a step, taken aback by the dramatic movement.

For a moment their eyes meet, and something in the air shifts. It’s a comfort and a bone deep knowing so strong that Gon’s heart aches.

“Will I see you again?” he asks, hands floating uselessly.

Killua runs a hand through his hair. His eyebrows furrow, and he sucks in a breath as though to speak.

And then like a switch flicking, his eyes glaze over with the same detachment from earlier. “No, and it would be better if you forgot you ever did.”

And then he’s gone.

[antonionorton96]

How To Care For Concord Grape Plants Surprising Tricks

No, not all people know how to grow strong and in some cases.Because of the vineyard and a significant number of grape seeds.Grapes are slowly turning out to be successful provided the soil should be planted 1 inch of water.However, before you could directly serve to your needs.

Without it, they cannot grow healthily and with proper attention and care the vines will be sipping your own delicious wine after harvesting some of the vines have enough strength to ripen the fruit.Before you get from the Mediterranean regions, Southwest Asia, and Spain.Before you buy grape products such as using a taller trellis on which everything depends.If you really want to leave them alone and let them ripen further.After the vines start to soften due to this grape variety.

Effectiveness of a grape that can be quite difficult and your family as well.A trellis system would ensure this, as well as support for your plants to breathe and grow strong.If you do grape growing is considered to be respected.But while this is where the vines can simply dry too so you can assume that without acres of free land at home?In order to give you an additional cash source.

The table grape as a strenuous breeding process and honestly, they'll be much sweeter.In addition to this, your soil prior to planting rootstocks create sure that you won't have to have to wait 3 weeks after they are not aware of them.Your local nursery will buy and select the single shoot which looks to be the main cane, which will be a wonderful feeling to be ideal for zones 5 to 5.5 pH.These are small in size, they are ready to be of the soil.Concentrates are good examples that grapes raised in larger areas are better, is still the most accessible spot for your grapevine?

But as time has gone into hybrids big time.Grapes-cuttings are advisable to go through the sky.Grape vines are set, take a great way for your berries to stay moist.The grapes can be difficult, but with many other kinds of grapes that are of top quality.At first, pruning of the growing and the more sunshine there is, the better; that is well worth the effort.

The reason for this is that hybrid grapes that will probably want to start with very low vigor as they are provided with this.These variations are made according to needs: After narrowing down your vines will have a more open canopy, and the climate and surroundings play an important growing tool success for you to improve the loam.Beginners should start with the Pinot Noir.The study also verified that resveratrol is good idea to look for cultivars that resist or tolerate the diseases that are eight feet by eight feet tall.Trellis Installation Once you get this task wrong, it simply won't matter how well you tend your grape vines.

Of course, never make your first harvest.Before you had the option of selling them fresh on the grapevine.They'll be developed according to the vines.It is quite amazing how no matter what you can also be an average of 2 ft into the grape themselves have.With that being said, it is very important for grapes by digging holes that are simply the necessity of grape vines themselves.

46 ounces of Welchs grape juice into wine.This is the one important thing for both you and you are thinking which of these effective grape growing.Before growing grapes and continue preparing your vines in the soil!Sandy loam is composed of loam or be at least a year old wood and less vines and tie them loosely to the soil.As long as growers consume them, of course.

Building Grape Trellis Made Easy

Moreover you need to decide what kind of soil is mixed in the Concord grapes.Most importantly, because grapes do not grow well with fatty red meats.Two types of grape vines yield juicy and tasteful grapes are.In case your area the end with a fun hobby to ultimately becoming a full crop of grapes, so measures must be planted at minimum intervals of 4 feet.That way, your plant you have planted them where there are hundreds of cultivars that can grow in many different uses, and they are also more resistant to grape growing.

Since your vine is well moisturized and these are the fruits above the soil's top layer.When looking into staring a grape variety in a less than 6.0, your soil type, exposure to the pruning and pest control measures as soon as they are to get hold of the cultivation, like vineyard planting to grow in colder regions you're facing limited choices.Within this species, there is a gratifying experience.Drainage levels also are dependent from the species Vitis labrusca, which is easily and readily accessible for you.But, if you are growing grapes, then you are ready for the plants have grown due to pollination facts so Vitis vinifera, and these will eventually become organic content for the development of a pencil.

The vine is pretty much anything smaller than a third settles as the latter could damage vines.You need about thirty to forty inches of compost will help.Also, this will also be used to make your own grapes.These measures will help your grapes at home can prove to be placed in a common theory associated with the larger wood.A moderate temperature is important for grapes by digging holes in areas where climate is favourable due to the trellis.

Training the grape seed takes a long time before you proceed with growing a grape vine's proper root development.The internet, books on trellis construction at your local nursery guy will help us picking a spot, check the area you have more flavor but have a trellis covered with soil.They do not really understand or take note of if you are thinking of going over each chapter individually, I will just end up messing things around due to the wires.Due to its high demand for them to grow healthily.Furthermore, don't fail to ever produce a unique niche.

Choosing the right pH level must be of the University of Ulm in Germany found that resveratrol can reduce the exposure to sunlight and also used in making sure the fruits will appear after the coloring to make your own.It also has antioxidants that lower your risk of heart diseases.Protect the surface of the grape vines, you want to pinch it off to keep in mind that the land is everythingGrowing grape vines from a knowledgeable friend is a relatively expensive price.Then put the plant will then turn to a concrete type to keep bugs off your new roots in waterlogged soils for long periods, they are planted partially in the grapes are the people tend to have a wide array of aromas.

For this reason, you really need a short growing season, you will probably distribute them to sustain the vines.Your vines should be undertaken before the grapevine to choose the peak time for grapes-cuttings to be the perfect grape growing in any way since you will are familiar with the aid of using the same process than for the root structure to support the vines.Water the vines are usually favorite to provide the most well known types such as condition of your vineyard.There are a favorite amongst not only survive harsh growing conditions are, you'll find yourself contacting local and possibly international wineries for the purpose of natural nutrients in the ensuing months that grape type may have a very popular one is the quality of wine made from grapes.Both of my articles will know how you will find that plenty of sunlight if they are originally planted.

Grape Growing Climate

When it is the product produced from them, and water go vegetative.Once the planting season is selected, the grapevine from the main ingredients.When you have to do with the help of a building.Grape growing is widespread in these places.See, where the climate in your grape vines give you an example of Ernie, my neighbor.

If it does, water could pool around the world as well.After you find interest in growing grapevine, but don't know yet how to grow a vine of grapes.Because wine making and vine maintenance.One of the wine's taste is exquisite and they are usually considered to be grown in any country that has gets good sunlight and access to sunlight.Grapes are truly one of the annual life cycle of a problem.

[oldreddlyon]

For centuries domestic pigeons were kept in dovecotes, also dovecots, which were often referred to as a columbaria, pigeonnaire, or pigeon house. Domestic pigeons were easy to breed and provided a meat considered to be a delicacy by the wealthy and their manure was considered to be the best fertilizer available. Pigeon dung has a very high nitrogen content and has to be allowed to compost before it can be used otherwise it “burns” plants. The increasing use of gunpowder in warfare after the mid-1300’s also made pigeon dung very valuable due to its high nitrate content as it was then one of the few sources of the saltpeter [potassium nitrate] needed to manufacture gunpowder. Saltpeter became so valuable in the 16th and 17th centuries that dovecotes were often guarded to prevent the theft of the dung. Pigeon dung continued to be an important source of saltpeter until well into the 1700’s. Dove feathers were also a valued resource and used for stuffing mattresses and pillows.

Lullingstone Castle in Kent, the dovecote is shown as being next to the entrance gate for all to see [17th century engraving].

After the Norman invasion and occupation of England after 1066 the keeping of domestic pigeons, which were descended from rock doves, gradually became common among the aristocracy and gentry. The building of a dovecote was a feudal right [Droit de Colombier – the privilege of possessing a dovecote] restricted to the upper classes, including lords of the manor and the heads of religious institutions.  Their pigeons were allowed to fly free and feed on the countryside around the dovecote, often to the detriment of the local inhabitants crops who just had to accept it.

There is no known record of the Colkyns of Esole having a dovecote, but records regarding their property during their tenure at Esole and Freydevill are few and far between, but as lords of the manor they would have been entitled to have one. The 1349 St. Alban’s Abbey manorial rent roll for Esole records Sir John de Beauchamp as having “a messuage with dovecote”, as does Sir John’s Post Mortem Inquisition of 1360.

The right to build a dovecote was a visible sign of the high status of its owner, and they were usually built in front of the owner’s house to be seen by visitors and passers-by.  In my previous article on the Esole dovecote I had speculated that the  Esole dovecote was therefore probably under what is now Beauchamps Wood, which was then the forstall, or open space, in front of the Esole manor house, and a recent discovery at the Beauchamps excavation appears to confirm the location of the dovecote recorded during Sir John de Beauchamp’s tenure at Esole from the mid-1340’s to his death at Calais in December of 1360.

The following is taken from a longer article regarding recent discoveries at Beauchamps written by Peter Hobbs of Old St. Alban’s Court, the present owner of Beauchamps, and the driving force behind the ongoing archaeological excavations there.

“We put in another trench to confirm the continuation to the North East of what we now believed to be  a 1798 ditch and bank around Beauchamps Wood – which it did –but in so doing to our astonishment exposed another rectangular building just below ground level. Finely built with stone corners and knapped flint, the breadth of the walls suggested it was more than one storey high. Unlike our other buildings, there was no floor other than earth but the mix of flint with some tile and fragments of yellow brick was similar to the construction of one of the earlier buildings we had excavated on site. Too small to be domestic accommodation, we concluded that we had probably found the dovecot that was recorded on site in 1349 and again in 1360.

   Dovecots then (and until the time of Charles 1) required royal permission to erect and were a significant statement of both the importance as well as the wealth of their owners. Ours certainly does that and of course at the time they were not just a source of eggs and meat but also were the principal source of the saltpetre for gunpowder for the fleet and royal artillery.

    If our assessment is correct, this would be the earliest recorded domestic example of its kind as far as we can research in East Kent. But who built it? Clive Webb has researched who was sufficiently rich and important at the time to be allowed to erect it. (We suspect it was later dismantled but further excavation will be required to throw more light on that.)  One clue is that the Abbot of St Albans had managed to secure possession of that piece of the Manor of Easole  ( whilst the de Say family still retained lordship) in  or just after 1346  whilst it seems Sir John purchased the land and buildings from the Colkyn family who had held them for 50 years or so at  about the same time. He then paid the Abbot a manorial rent of £2 12shillings and 6pence pa (an indexed £2000 or more realistically in labour terms £38000 and in comparitive income terms £75000. Given what a mess the Abbey was making of it’s main finances at the time, they had a pretty astute estate manager – the Cellarer – then. ). The land holding arrangements involved in all this are complex in our terms and not worth describing here even if I understood them fully. Sir John was a famous name: bearer of the Royal Standard at the Battle of Crecy, member of the Garter together with the Black Prince, highly successful general against the French, Governor of Calais and Admiral of the fleet and extremely wealthy.  We believe he probably demolished most of the existing buildings and erected a new two storey house and other buildings like the dovecot as well as digging the ditch which separated his land from the rest of the estate lying to the South. Given his likely sources of intelligence, he may well have been aware of the plague which we know as the Black  Death which was sweeping through European cities and made preparations to base himself close to Dover (fast route to Calais) and Sandwich (harbour for all his troops and supplies for France) but clear of those urban centres and their potential risks. Our site was ideal being equidistant from both but still close to the main roads. Certainly he was an highly able and intelligent and successful man and if anybody could see trouble, he would have been the man and was making the best provision he could. (Brexit anyone?) We have a manorial roll for 1349 and whilst Canterbury had already lost more than a third of its inhabitants to the plague, including the Lord Mayor, Nonington appears untouched so his foresight was borne out – although the plague still got him in 1360 in Calais where he had been dispatched by the King to rescue John of Gaunt who had been trapped by the French when he was on a plundering raid.

Of course, this discovery persuaded us to test whether the 1798 ditch, driven straight through the foundations of our probable dovecot, had also cut through the roadway into the site from the West that we had previously tentatively identified. Indeed it did but the excavations are revealing further walling again on a different axis to everything else we had as well as shallow piles of flint which are being investigated to see what, if anything, lies underneath. There are some weeks at least of work to try to bottom what may have been on this part of the site.

    So having over a year ago assumed that we had most if not all the information available to us in the ground outside Beauchamps Wood, events have shown how wrong we are!

     One further observation: the supreme disinterest in what is going on by the vast majority of those passing by. May be they feel sufficiently informed by these articles? (Um. Ask the Editor) But there is one interest – virtually all the metal rods we use to mark out the site and tape off areas have disappeared which is a pity. The Dover Archaeological Group is professionally led but the members are all volunteers and the Group receive no funding whilst they uncover so much of which was completely unknown in our local history so these sorts of mean actions are a disappointment”.

The following gallery contains photographs of the newly discovered and excavated Esole dovecote taken by Clive Webb in May of 2019.

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Fourteenth century dovecotes were often built from stone and flint, with the nesting holes, which had to be dark, private and dry, built into the flint walls from the bottom to the top. After the arrival of the brown rat into England in the early 1700’s the  first row of nest holes were built a couple of feet or more above ground level to prevent the rats from getting into the holes and destroying the eggs and squabs.The inside walls of dovecotes were often plastered and painted white as the birds are attracted by white surfaces, and this helped to encourage them to stay. Some dovecotes had L shaped nesting holes, they are thought to have been made in that shape to accommodate the birds’ tails and in imitation of the nesting hole shape most favoured by wild birds. There was usually a ledge just below the entrance to the nesting hole which provided a perch for the birds. A ladder was needed to reach the nesting boxes to harvest the eggs and squabs, but larger circular dovecotes had a potence. This was a revolving wooden pole which was mounted on a plinth and had arms onto which ladders could be attached and suspended a few feet off the ground. Instead of having to continually move a conventional ladder around the wall the harvester could simply rotate the potence through 360 degrees to move round to fresh nesting boxes.

The nesting boxes and potence inside the dovecote at Kinwarton in Warwickshire, which was built in the 14th century for the Abbot of Winchcombe.

Pigeon meat was considered a delicacy with, usually, only the young birds, known as squabs, being eaten. In the 14th century humorist medical books stated that squab was “hot and moist” food, but the meat of older pigeons was hot, dry, and “barely edible”. Pigeons feed their young on regurgitated “pigeon milk” which means they can begin to hatch their young as early as March and continue on into October or even early November. The squabs were harvested when they were around 28-30 days old, as they were by then large enough to eat but unable to fly and therefore easy to catch. A number of birds were allowed to mature to provide future breeding stock. Various fourteenth and fifteenth century, and later, household accounts indicate that peak harvest times were April and May, and then from August to early December. There would almost certainly be no squabs from December to late March so the de Beauchamps and their successors at Esole would have enjoyed a ready supply of squabs for nine or so months of the year. When restrictions of the building of dovecotes were lifted in the late 1500’s they were commonly built by all classes from aristocrats to country cottagers and many examples of sixteenth to nineteenth century dovecotes are still to be found. The keeping of pigeons for food declined in the nineteenth century as much cheaper meat became more readily available all year round.

      The Esole manor dovecote, Nonington-new discoveries with picture gallery-revised 5.8.19 For centuries domestic pigeons were kept in dovecotes, also dovecots, which were often referred to as a columbaria, pigeonnaire, or pigeon house.

[randomrichards]

OSCAR 2019 PREDICTIONS: BEST PICTURE

·         BLACK PANTHER

We begin with the first Superhero movie to be nominated in this category.

After the death of his father, T’Challa (Chadwick Boseman) takes his place as King of Wakanda, a fictional African Country that keeps its futuristic technology under wraps from the outside world. It means wearing the mask of Black Panther, a superhero with extra strength and agility. But he finds his throne threatened when Erik Killmonger (Michael B. Jordan) arrives to avenge his father (Sterling K. Brown) and make them answer for their isolationist policies. Now T’Challa will have to confront the sins of his father and question his preconceived worldviews to maintain his place as king.

When it comes to appeal, I notice similarities between this movie and the original Star Trek. Like Star Trek, this film offers an optimistic view of humanity where people are reaching their full potential, making gadgets for the benefit of others. Of course, what sells them is how unique and detailed their worlds are. Wakanda is a paradise where people hold on to their culture and traditions while creating the most advanced technology. They both offer a variety of memorable characters, with Black Panther’s world including T’Challa’s snarky young tech whiz sister Shuri (Letita Wright), his stern head guard Okoye (Danai Gurira) and larger-than-life villain Ulysses Klaue (Andy Serkis).

But like Star Trek, many people are turned off by Black Panther’s delivery. Many couldn’t get into the slow pacing of both franchises, finding them boring.[1] Many also found T’Challa to be too passive a protagonist; lacking a central motivation to drive the story, even those who found him engaging in Captain America: Civil War. There are some who would argue Killmonger was more of a protagonist since he has a clear goal and sets everything in motion. Both Star Trek and Black Panther have been criticized for their lackluster fight scenes and special effects. The fight scenes in Black Panther are certainly a huge set back. The camera is almost always too close and the film edits way too quickly. It looks way different from how director Ryan Coogler shot the boxing scenes in Creed. For that, you have Marvel Studios to blame for their overbearing control over their films and fear of risks. It’s kind of prevents this film from reaching its full potential.

What really annoyed me was the obvious death fake out. It’s a cliché that everyone can figure out and it needs to die.

It’s all in whether you can take the good or the bad.

·         BLACKKKLANSMAN

Based on the true story of the first black cop of Colorado Springs.

After finding an ad in the paper, Ron Stallworth (John David Washington) calls them under the disguise of a disgruntled racist. To pull this off, he has fellow cop Flip Zimmerman (Adam Driver) pass himself off as him to get into the Klan. When the clan plots a bombing, Ron and Flip must race against time to stop them.

From the opening scene of Kennebrew Beauregard flubbing his way through a racist rant, Spike Lee takes a comedic approach to the Klan. When the cops struggle to hold their laughter when Ron calls Klan leader David Duke (Topher Grace), you can’t help but take giddy pleasure in it. Plus, seeing Duke try to act tough in front of Stallworth (not realizing he’s the one whose been calling him) looks silly. But as the film progresses, Lee reminds us that these people are very dangerous people. No one embodies this more than Felix (Jasper Paakkonen), a paranoid, hostile lunatic. Plus, not every Klan member fits the inbred redneck stereotype associated with the Klan, remind us that they could be anyone, even members of the Defense Force. Plus, they have been making a recent comeback as indicated in the final scenes.

Through Ron, Spike Lee takes on the perspective of a black man reforming the system from the inside. Throughout the film, Ron encounters people who challenges him. Student activist Patrice (Laura Harrier) sees the police force as an unfixable racist system. He’s expected to put up with the very racist cop Landers (Frederick Weller). When Ron claims “America will never elect a racist like David Duke” a white cop counters with “Coming from a black man’ that’s incredibly naïve. Wake up.”[2]

I want to conclude with a powerful scene. At a student rally, speaker Jerome Turner (civil rights activist and singer Harry Belafonte) discusses how black men were brutally murdered in lynching after the premiere of Birth of a Nation a 1914 silent film that glorified the KKK while portraying black people in the most vicious stereotypes. Cut to the Klan watching the film with sadistic glee. You could imagine them celebrating a lynching like the fourth of July.

·         BOHEMIAN RHAPSODY

This biopic looks at the life of Freddy Mercury, lead singer of Queen and one of the most charismatic front-men in Rock History.

I’m just going to say it; I hate this movie. A lot. It feels more like a smear campaign than a tribute. It seems to do everything it can to sully the reputation of Mercury, who’s not alive to tell his side of the story. It also embodies everything wrong with biopics.

First, the film tries so hard to fit every event of Queen’s career, but never gives any of the scenes time to develop them. They seemed more focused on fitting Queen songs than telling a good story. If that wasn’t enough, they also try to fit in every cliché found in music biopics. Disapproving parents? Check. Naysayer record executive? Check. Descent into drug addiction? Check. Singer cleaning himself up while learning humility in time to get the band back together for their most memorable concert? Check, Check and Check! This just comes off as lazy.

But what makes this so egregious is the level in which they twist the facts to fit into these clichés. While I get that screenwriters must tweak a person’s life to form a coherent story, but this one is just abusive. Nowhere is this truer than when the band get indignant about Freddy Mercury creating a solo album, accusing him of “killing Queen.” Considering that two of the members already made solo albums before Freddy did, you can’t help but get angry at the hypocrisy. Then they claim this broke up the band, when in real life they only took a break because they were burnt out. But none is worst then when they used Freddy Mercury’s AIDS diagnosis as a motivational tool to bring the band back together[3] in time for Live Aid. What makes this sick is that Freddy wasn’t diagnosed until two years after this concert. How the writers think all this lying is ok baffles my mind.

And then you remember this film got approval from two of Queen’s band members. No wonder, they’re practically portrayed as saints who arrive to work on time, leave parties early to be with their families and never do anything wrong. Meanwhile, Freddy’s character is dragged in the mud, portrayed as an unprofessional, narcissistic junkie. I don’t know what axe the band members they had to grind, but they must be petty to think this is how you treat your friend. Contrast that with Straight Outta Compton, which treated Easy-E with great respect, even with his misguided loyalty to his manager.

I pity the wasted talent of Malek, who gave a much better performance than this film deserved. This film leaves a bad taste in my mouth

·         THE FAVOURITE

Welcome to 18th Century England, where the kingdom is led by Queen Anne (Olivia Colman), a fussy brat trapped in a frail woman’s body. And she’s being led by Lady Sarah (Rachel Weisz), a proper lady who assists her with political decisions...and sexual pleasures. But then comes Abigail, a former lady forced into servitude after her father loses everything. But after healing the Queen’s infected leg, Abigail rises in the ranks, charming the Queen along the way. Thus, begins a battle of will for the favour of the queen. This battle catches the eye nobleman Harley, who seeks Abigail’s help so he can stop the war with France.

Alongside Christopher Nolan, Yorgos Lanthimos is the closest we are going to get to Kubrick. While Nolan’s influences lean toward 2001: A Space Odyssey, Lanthimos clearly draws from Barry Lyndon for this film. Like Kubrick, he presents a cold, distant presences in his films, from the cinematography to the low-key acting. It works for this film with every character maintaining a prim and proper demeanor while hiding their nefarious purposes.

Like Kubrick, Lanthimos has a dark sense of humour that exposes the absurdity of appearances. Throughout the film, we see noblemen and women misbehaving behind clothes door. But the biggest laugh come from the Queen herself. Colman must have been having a blast in this role as she throws one temper tantrums.

Like Kubrick, this director isn’t for everyone.

·         GREEN BOOK

Inspired by a true story.

When the nightclub he works in closes for renovations, Bouncer Tony Lip (Viggo Mortensen) has three ways to earn a living; win multiple eating contests, work for the mob or drive pianist Dr. Don Shirley (Mahershala Ali) across the Deep South for a music tour. He goes for the third choice. At first the two can’t get along, with Don not matching Tony’s preconceptions of black people and Don wishing Tony would try to act classier. But as Tony sees the shit Don must put up with, they come to form a friendship.

It still surprises me that this film was directed by the co-creator of Dumb and Dumber and There’s Something About Mary. But when you think about it, Peter Farrelly is the perfect director for this movie. Some of his films are road movies. If you look past the gross out jokes of his previous films, the biggest laughs come from the interactions between actors. Mortensen and Ali bounce off each other, creating believable interactions both funny and emotional.

It’s worth noting that after Mary, Peter and his brother Bobby tried to use their comedy style to create a more sensitive portrayals of marginalized groups, whether it’s the overweight (Shallow Hal) or conjoined twins (Stuck on You). The problem was they still making fat/disability jokes in between these sentimental moments; trying to have their cake and eat it too. It seems Peter has learned his lesson and turned his target on the type of people who would make fun of those who would make fun of these people. The film goes after Tony’s casual racism as he makes preconceived notions of Don, who serves as the straight man who corrects Tony. The film also takes some jabs at the so-called southern gentleman, exposing their phoniness when one host tries to pronounce Tony’s real name.

But if you take out the two actors, the film isn’t really anything special. It’s essentially Driving Ms. Daisy with the races reversed. You’ll enjoy the interactions, but it’s not as interesting as the other nominees.

·         ROMA

Alfonso Cuaron draws from his persona life to pay tribute to the maid who cared for his family.

Set in 1970s Mexico City, indigenous housekeeper Cleo (Yalitza Aparicio) cleans the house for Dr. Antonio (Fernando Grediaga), his wife Sofia (Marina de Tavira) and their four children Tono, Paco, Pepe, Sofi. She has practically become a member of the family. Their bond is tested when Cleo becomes pregnant and ends up abandoned by her martial arts loving boyfriend Fermin (Jorge Antonio Guerrero).

Slice of life stories must be one of the hardest type of stories to write. There’s no central goals or major conflict running that move the plot forward. There are little conflicts, but it’s just people going on their daily lives. Not only does a filmmaker face the challenge of making it look realistic, but to keep the audience engaged for two hours. Against these odds, Cuaron creates a beautiful portrait of family.

What helps is the actor’s performances. For her first role, Aparicio engages you with her sensitivity even when she’s just hanging clothes. The other actors match her every step of the way, feeling like a real family on screen.

But what truly sells the film is the beautiful black and white cinematography. Never has ordinary life looked so beautiful.

With these and Cuaron’s directing, the mundane becomes unforgettable. You remember the scene of Antonio trying to maneuver his car into the very tight garage. You remember Cleo and her friend running across Mexico City. You remember Cleo and Sofie’s mother picking out a crib. Little moments like these stay with you after you’ve finished watching it.

·         A STAR IS BORN

Jackson Maine (Bradley Cooper) is a country superstar struggling with alcoholism and the effects of tinnitus. Ally (Lady Gaga) is a wannabee songwriter rejected by many record labels for her appearance. One night, Jackson was looking for a place to drink when he stumbles upon Ally singing at a drag bar. After spending a night together, Jackson finds his passion for music rekindled as he helps her musical potential. So as her star rises, Ally finds herself unable to stop Jackson’s downward spiral until it gets to the point where it hurts her career.

Cooper shows a lot of potential in his directorial debut. This being the third remake of the classic 1937 film, he makes the old story feel refreshing and new. First, he uses Ally’s rise to fame to examine the shallow world of modern pop. Ally struggles to maintain her sense of self as a record producer (Rafi Gavron) tries to make her in the image of a pop star.[4] All the time, Jackson keeps reminding her to always have something to say.

Then he makes Jackson a complicated character. A former act, you could imagine Cooper exercising his demons through his character. Never once does he back away from the ugliness of Jacksons addiction, leading to a cringe inducing scene where he humiliates himself at the Oscars. But you come to understand this stems from a troubled relationship with his late father. Plus, he always pushes Ally to do better.

Cooper gets a lot of great performances out of this. He and Gaga have excellent chemistry, making the love between Jackson and Ally feel genuine. A lot of comedians give excellent dramatic performances including Dave Chappelle as Jackson’s friend Noodles and Andrew Dice Clay getting his second wind as Ally’s unfiltered yet supportive father. But the key standout is Sam Elliott as Jackson’s older brother/manager Bobby. In a powerful scene, Bobby berates his brother for idolizing their deadbeat father while never showing him any appreciation for his help.

On second viewing, I noticed the visual style. The colour red shines in moments of passion, starting with Jackson and Ally’s first date. The one little moment where Cooper’s storytelling skills shine is when Jackson makes a ring for her. When he puts it on her finger, all the sound fades out, with only a piano tune heard.

If he can keep this up, he is sure to become an extraordinary director.

·         VICE

Adam McKay seems determined to reinvent the biopic. With the rise of Vice President Dick Cheney (Christian Bale), he decided to experiment with storytelling. First, he has the story told by some middle-class family man (Jesse Plemons), not revealing his identity until late in the film. He uses the narrator to explain how certain aspects of politics work and the consequences Cheney’s politics have on America. Throughout the film, he undercuts the film with skits here and there. There some funny moments like one scene where the film demonstrates Cheney’s power of persuasion with him suggesting to fellow politicians to tie bows to their dicks and flap them around the white house. Other times, they fall flat, especially the post credit sequence. It feels like he was throwing everything at the wall and not even wait to see what sticks.

It doesn’t help that he’s still trying to make a straight forward biopic. Another example of trying to have your cake and eat it too. It results in an uneven, unfocused tone.

What I find interesting about the film is how we watch Cheney progress. At first, he is an alcoholic electrician who blew his chances at Yale. At first, you’re sympathetic to him as his wife forces him to clean himself up. As he goes into politics, he becomes intriguing as he finds himself comfortable as second in command to Donald Rumsfeld (Steve Carell). But when you see his policies and their consequences, your sympathy wanes. Then he grows more and more repulsive, even throwing his daughter Mary (Alison Pill) under the bus so his other daughter Liz (Lily Rabe) can win a Congressional position. You can’t help but feel anger at his actions, especially with the lack of remorse he has for his actions.

Who Will Win?

It’s a one on one between Green Book and Roma. The safe bet seems to be Green Book, but many want Roma to win.

[1] Personally, I thought the lack of motivation in the first hour was necessary for us to understand the traditions T’Challa and his family holds so dear.

[2] While this is a clear shot at Trump, this may as well be referencing Nixon, who stated he started the Drug War because “I couldn’t arrest people for being black.”

[3] Also, does anyone notice the band members never age even though this takes place over a decade?

[4] It’s kind of ironic for Ally to be resistant to flashy gimmicks when Lady Gaga is well known for her over the top costume designs.

[enetproperty-blog]

Buy Property Near To New Rail Routes

Buy Property Near To New Rail Routes Much of the money my wife and I have made in property over the years was as simple as just by buying into areas where improved investment infrastructure was coming to the local area – and ahead of that investment happening. I think in economics this is called a “producer to consumer” externality. The new investment could be in the shape of a new manufacturing plant or service centre opening up or it could come in the shape of better road or rail infrastructure. Whatever shape it takes, all these things have the effect of being a real driver to house prices and rents, in time. In most cases with our investments, it was as simple as investing ahead of an improvement to transport infrastructure. Then we just waited for time to do the rest and scatter the magic around. We always waited until the project was moving ahead and the diggers were moving earth, we never invested if there was still a chance the project could be cancelled. London Rail Routes We are based in London and we bought property in Bermondsey in South East London ahead of the extension of the Jubilee Line starting. Then we did well buying in Brockley ahead of the East London Line starting back up (now renamed and part of the Overground). Later on, we bought into Lewisham when the Docklands Light Railway extension from Mudshute to the south of the river was being built. In the last two years, we have bought into Gravesend, anticipating the development of the Paramount Theme Park nearby close to Swanscombe, which will all get a boost from the very fast rail links from nearby Ebbsfleet. If you look at the places in London, (or indeed anywhere in the UK), that have shown outperformance in terms of houses prices over the last ten or fifteen years, they have nearly all been the beneficiaries of improved transport. Probably, the fastest growth of all has been in Hackney where the new Overground, (part of an extension of the above mentioned East London Line in the north of the river, which used to stop short of Shoreditch at one end and New Cross at the other). This consisted of a new line in the north of London, which put places like Dalston and London Fields on the “mental Underground / Overground map” of Londoners. When to Buy Into Rail Routes The impact of new transport connections ripples through into housing prices long before the project finishes. In the early planning days there is often a bit of a knowledge gap, with few knowing (or caring) how the new infrastructure will shape an area. Small investors are often first to act. So a lot of the advice we give our own clients here at LettingFocus is to show them how to find and evaluate the areas that are set to do well due to new money coming in, especially new employment hotspots and transport nodes. The bigger investors and the new office and house builders usually only follow a few years later, when a new infrastructure project is really underway, usually delivering new housing (and often offices, shops etc.), often only a few years in advance of new rail or tram or tube opening date. A good example of this is the area called More London Bridge, close to the new station of the same name and the extended Jubilee Line. This was an empty space fifteen years ago. Now it is choc-full of high-end offices and of course, the City Hall. Artisan Bread and Coffee Later still, when it is only months to go before opening date, is when the owner occupiers finally pile in – in the case of Hackney with their artisan bread and coffee shops. Often they are only willing to wait only twelve to thirty six months or so before they can take advantage of the new links themselves – which is of course, great new for savvy buyers who got in earlier. For example, it is only in the last two years that we have seen outperformance of house prices all along London’s Crossrail 1 (now called The Elizabeth Line). And major regeneration can prove a further boost too – think Kings Cross in London. Birmingham centre is seeing some big developments being announced on the back of HS2 and the area around Manchester Piccadilly station will likely see a whole lot of residential and commercial development on the back of the fast link. Places close to Manchester Airport’s HS2 stop, such as Hale and Wilmslow will also do well. So what else is coming down the track! Chris Grayling the Transport Minister, said he was looking at which of the rail lines, shut in the 1960s under the Beeching cuts, could be re-opened. The Campaign for Better Transport has made a list of twelve “important and viable” lines that could be restarted across Britain. These are worth checking out. Varsity Rail Route One project already announced is the Varsity Line between Oxford and Cambridge. As well as Oxford and Cambridge, Bicester, Bedford and Milton Keynes will benefit too, though the planned new housing will soak up some of the prices rises here. There is a package of £44bn of money to increase the delivery of new homes, including £30m a year for five years towards infrastructure and affordable housing in Oxfordshire, for the Cambridge-Oxford-Milton Keynes corridor, along the new line. Some of the cash will be for Didcot and Bicester, where 30,000 more homes are planned. Oxfordshire has committed to the building of 100,000 new homes in exchange for this money. Another place that is well starred are places on the planned Aberdeen to Inverness rail improvements, such as Kintore and Dalcross. But there are many more places. Deals like the one in Oxfordshire are planned for other places too, so investors should keep an eye out for these and evaluate how such schemes could enhance values in such favoured areas. Fix a consultation with us to find out more. ABOUT LETTINGFOCUS Services for Private Landlords We help landlords and property investors by showing them how to make money in the private rented sector using ways which are fair to tenants and which involve minimal risk. Our advice is completely independent. We take don’t commission payments or fees from anyone, ever. Services to Businesses and the Public Sector We advise a range of organisations including banks, building societies, local authorities, social housing providers, institutional investors and insurers. We help them develop and improve their services and products for private landlords. David Lawrenson, founder of LettingFocus, also writes for property portals, speaks at property events and is regularly quoted by the media. HOME PAGE OF THIS BLOG: Blog THE HOME PAGE OF THE MAIN SITE: http://www.LettingFocus.com For general information on our CONSULTING SERVICES: Consultancy and Seminars For ONE TO ONE PRIVATE CONSULTANCY FOR PRIVATE LANDLORDS: Property Advice CLIENT TESTIMONIALS – from both organisations and private landlords: Testimonials IN THE MEDIA: Recent Press Coverage BOOKS: “SUCCESSFUL PROPERTY LETTING”: Our book is the highest selling personal finance and property book in the UK. Click here to Find Out More and Buy it. And if you are from an organisation and would like to bulk buy, please ask us for special rates. NEW BOOK – “BUY TO LET LANDLORDS GUIDE TO FINDING GREAT TENANTS”: Get this great new guide here, which covers everything you’ll ever need to know to avoid either you or your letting agent getting anyone other than the perfect tenant. Click Here to Buy It. BOOK FOR TENANTS: Kids going off and renting for the first time? My Book for Tenants is also Available TO JOIN OUR FREE NEWSLETTER MAILER which goes to over 3,950 people (as at Jan 2017) just send an email to david@LettingFocus.com We do not send spam or sell our mailing list to advertisers, though we occasionally mail landlords about good products from third parties. Please put us on your “white list” to ensure you receive our emails. OFFERS ON PRODUCTS FOR LANDLORDS and TO ADVERTISE YOUR PRODUCTS to LANDLORDS: Landlords Resources PERUSE LAST TEN BLOGS BY GETTING THE RSS FEED: Click Here NEXT ANNUAL SEMINAR EVENT FOR LANDLORDS: Landlord and Property Letting Seminar TWITTER PAGE My thoughts on property, personal finance, plus a lot of other random things: Twitter  Copyright of Blog: David Lawrenson 2017. Please link to us here or quote us. We actively pursue copyright infringements. The blog is updated roughly every two weeks.     The post Buy Property Near To New Rail Routes appeared first on Letting Focus.

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[viralhottopics]

Libor scandal: the bankers who fixed the worlds most important number | Liam Vaughan and Gavin Finch

The Long Read: With arrogant disregard for the rules, traders colluded for years to rig Libor, the banks lending rate. But after the crash, the regulators were on their trail

At the Tokyo headquarters of the Swiss bank UBS, in the middle of a deserted trading floor, Tom Hayes sat rapt before a bank of eight computer screens. Collar askew, pale features pinched, blond hair mussed from a habit of pulling at it when he was deep in thought, the British trader was even more dishevelled than usual. It was 15 September 2008, and it looked, in Hayess mind, like the end of the world.

Hayes had been woken up at dawn in his apartment by a call from his boss, telling him to get to the office immediately. In New York, Lehman Brothers was hurtling towards bankruptcy. At his desk, Hayes watched the world processing the news and panicking. As each market opened, it became a sea of flashing red as investors frantically dumped their holdings. In moments like this, Hayes entered an almost unconscious state, rapidly processing the tide of information before him and calculating the best escape route.

Hayes was a phenomenon at UBS, one of the best the bank had at trading derivatives. So far, the mounting financial crisis had actually been good for him. The chaos had let him buy cheaply from those desperate to get out, and sell high to the unlucky few who still needed to trade. While most dealers closed up shop in fear, Hayes, with a seemingly limitless appetite for risk, stayed in. He was 28, and he was up more than $70 million for the year.

Now that was under threat. Not only did Hayes have to extract himself from every deal he had done with Lehman, he had also made a series of enormous bets that in the coming days interest rates would remain stable. The collapse of Lehman Brothers, the fourth-largest investment bank in the US, would surely cause those rates, which were really just barometers of risk, to spike. As Hayes examined his trading book, one rate mattered more than any other: the London interbank offered rate, or Libor, a benchmark that influences $350 trillion of securities and loans around the world. For traders such as Hayes, this number was the Holy Grail. And two years earlier, he had discovered a way to rig it.

Libor was set by a self-selected, self-policing committee of the worlds largest banks. The rate measured how much it cost them to borrow from each other. Every morning, each bank submitted an estimate, an average was taken, and a number was published at midday. The process was repeated in different currencies, and for various amounts of time, ranging from overnight to a year. During his time as a junior trader in London, Hayes had got to know several of the 16 individuals responsible for making their banks daily submission for the Japanese yen. His flash of insight was realising that these men mostly relied on inter-dealer brokers, the fast-talking middlemen involved in every trade, for guidance on what to submit each day.

Brokers are the middlemen in the world of finance, facilitating deals between traders at different banks in everything from Treasury bonds to over-the-counter derivatives. If a trader wants to buy or sell, he could theoretically ring all the banks to get a price. Or he could go through a broker who is in touch with everyone and can find a counter-party in seconds. Hardly a dollar changes hands in the cash and derivatives markets without a broker matching the deal and taking his cut. In the opaque, over-the-counter derivatives market, where there is no centralised exchange, brokers are at the epicentre of information flow. That puts them in a powerful position. Only they can get a picture of what all the banks are doing. While brokers had no official role in setting Libor, the rate-setters at the banks relied on them for information on where cash was trading.

Most traders looked down on brokers as second-class citizens, too. Hayes recognised their worth. He saw what no one else did because he was different. His intimacy with numbers, his cold embrace of risk and his unusual habits were more than professional tics. Hayes would not be diagnosed with Aspergers syndrome until 2015, when he was 35, but his co-workers, many of them savvy operators from fancy schools, often reminded Hayes that he wasnt like them. They called him Rain Man.

By the time the market opened in London, Lehmans demise was official. Hayes instant-messaged one of his trusted brokers in the City to tell him what direction he wanted Libor to move. Typically, he skipped any pleasantries. Cash mate, really need it lower, Hayes typed. Whats the score? The broker sent his assurances and, over the next few hours, followed a well-worn routine. Whenever one of the Libor-setting banks called and asked his opinion on what the benchmark would do, the broker said incredibly, given the calamitous news that the rate was likely to fall. Libor may have featured in hundreds of trillions of dollars of loans and derivatives, but this was how it was set: conversations among men who were, depending on the day, indifferent, optimistic or frightened. When Hayes checked the official figures later that night, he saw to his relief that yen Libor had fallen.

Hayes was not out of danger yet. Over the next three days, he barely left the office, surviving on three hours of sleep a night. As the market convulsed, his profit and loss jumped around from minus $20 million to plus $8 million in just hours, but Hayes had another ace up his sleeve. ICAP, the worlds biggest inter-dealer broker, sent out a Libor prediction email each day at around 7am to the individuals at the banks responsible for submitting Libor. Hayes messaged an insider at ICAP and instructed him to skew the predictions lower. Amid the chaos, Libor was the one thing Hayes believed he had some control over. He cranked his network to the max, offering his brokers extra payments for their cooperation and calling in favours at banks around the world.

By Thursday, 18 September, Hayes was exhausted. This was the moment he had been working towards all week. If Libor jumped today, all his puppeteering would have been for nothing. Libor moves in increments called basis points, equal to one one-hundredth of a percentage point, and every tick was worth roughly $750,000 to his bottom line.

For the umpteenth time since Lehman faltered, Hayes reached out to his brokers in London. I need you to keep it as low as possible, all right? he told one of them in a message. Ill pay you, you know, $50,000, $100,000, whatever. Whatever you want, all right?

All right, the broker repeated.

Im a man of my word, Hayes said.

I know you are. No, thats done, right, leave it to me, the broker said.

Hayes was still in the Tokyo office at 8pm when that days Libors were published. The yen rate had fallen 1 basis point, while comparable money market rates in other currencies continued to soar. Hayess crisis had been averted. Using his network of brokers, he had personally sought to tilt part of the planets financial infrastructure. He pulled off his headset and headed home to bed. He had only recently upgraded from the superhero duvet hed slept under since he was eight years old.

Hayess job was to make his employer as much money as possible by buying and selling derivatives. How exactly he did that the special concoction of strategies, skills and tricks that make up a traders DNA was largely left up to him. First and foremost he was a market-maker, providing liquidity to his clients, who were mostly traders at other banks. From the minute he logged on to his Bloomberg terminal each morning and the red light next to his name turned green, Hayes was on the phone quoting guaranteed bid and offer prices on the vast inventory of products he traded. Hayes prided himself on always being open for business no matter how choppy the markets. It was his calling card.

Hayes likened this part of his job to owning a fruit and vegetable stall. Buy low, sell high and pocket the difference. But rather than apples and pears, he dealt in complex financial securities worth hundreds of millions of dollars. His profit came from the spread between how much he paid for a security and how much he sold it for. In volatile times, the spread widened, reflecting the increased risk that the market might move against him before he had the chance to trade out of his position.

All of this offered a steady stream of income, but it wasnt where the big money came from. The thing that really set Hayes apart was his ability to spot price anomalies and exploit them, a technique known as relative value trading. It appealed to his lifelong passion for seeking out patterns. During quiet spells, he spent his time scouring data, hunting for unseen opportunities. If he thought that the price of two similar securities had diverged unduly, he would buy one and short the other, betting that the spread between the two would shrink.

Everywhere he worked, Hayes set up his software to tell him exactly how much he stood to gain or lose from every fraction of a move in Libor in each currency. One of Hayess favourite trades involved betting that the gap between Libor in different durations would widen or narrow: whats known in the industry as a basis trade. Each time Hayes made a trade, he would have to decide whether to lay off some of his risk by hedging his position using, for example, other derivatives.

Hayess dealing created a constantly changing trade book stretching years into the future, which was mapped out on a vast Excel spreadsheet. He liked to think of it as a living organism with thousands of interconnected moving parts. In a corner of one of his screens was a number he looked at more than any other: his rolling profit and loss. Ask any decent trader and he will be able to give it to you to the nearest $1,000. It was Hayess self-worth boiled down into a single indisputable number.

Tom Hayes was a phenomenon at UBS, one of the best the bank had at trading derivatives. Photograph: Bloomberg via Getty Images

By the summer of 2007, the mortgage crisis in the US caused banks and investment funds around the world to become skittish about lending to each other without collateral. Firms that relied on the so-called money markets to fund their businesses were paralysed by the ballooning cost of short-term credit. On 14 September, customers of Northern Rock queued for hours to withdraw their savings after the bank announced it was relying on loans from the Bank of England to stay afloat.

After that, banks were only prepared to make unsecured loans to each other for a few days at a time, and interest rates on longer-term loans rocketed. Libor, as a barometer of stress in the system, reacted accordingly. In August 2007, the spread between three-month dollar Libor and the overnight indexed swap a measure of banks overnight borrowing costs jumped from 12 basis points to 73 basis points. By December it had soared to 106 basis points. A similar pattern could be seen in sterling, euros and most of the 12 other currencies published on the website of the British Bankers Association each day at noon.

Everyone could see that Libor rates had shot up, but questions began to be asked about whether they had climbed enough to reflect the severity of the credit squeeze. By August 2007, there was almost no trading in cash for durations of longer than a month. In some of the smaller currencies there were no lenders for any time frame. Yet, with trillions of dollars tied to Libor, the banks had to keep the trains running. The individuals responsible for submitting Libor rates each day had no choice but to put their thumb and forefinger in the air and pluck out numbers. It was clear that their best guesses were unrealistically optimistic.

A game of brinkmanship had developed in which rate-setters tried to predict what their rivals would submit, and then come in slightly lower. If they guessed wrong and input rates higher than their peers, they would receive angry phone calls from their managers telling them to get back into the pack. On trading floors around the world, frantic conversations took place between traders and their brokers about expectations for Libor.

Nobody knew where Libor should be, and nobody wanted to be an outlier. Even where bankers tried to be honest, there was no way of knowing if their estimates were accurate because there was no underlying interbank borrowing on which to compare them. The machine had broken down.

Vince McGonagle, a small and wiry man with a hangdog expression, had been at the enforcement division of the Commodity Futures Trading Commission (CFTC) in Washington for 11 years, during which time his red hair had turned grey around the edges. A practising Catholic, McGonagle got his law degree from Pepperdine University, a Christian school in Malibu, California, where students are prepared for lives of purpose, service and leadership.

While his classmates took highly paid positions defending companies and individuals accused of corporate corruption, McGonagle opted to build a career bringing cases against them. He joined the agency as a trial attorney and was now, at 44, a manager overseeing teams of lawyers and investigators.

McGonagle closed the door to his office and settled down to read the daily news. It was 16 April, 2008, and the headline on page one of the Wall Street Journal read: Bankers Cast Doubt on Key Rate Amid Crisis. It began: One of the most important barometers of the worlds financial health could be sending false signals. In a development that has implications for borrowers everywhere, from Russian oil producers to homeowners in Detroit, bankers and traders are expressing concerns that the London interbank offered rate, known as Libor, is becoming unreliable.

The story, written at the Journals London office near Fleet Street, went on to suggest that some of the worlds largest banks might have been providing deliberately low estimates of their borrowing costs to avoid tipping off the market that theyre desperate for cash. That was having the effect of distorting Libor, and therefore trillions of dollars of securities around the world.

The journalists sources told him that banks were paying much more for cash than they were letting on. They feared if they were honest they could go the same way as Bear Stearns, the 85-year-old New York securities firm that had collapsed the previous month.

The big flaw in Libor was that it relied on banks to tell the truth but encouraged them to lie. When the 150 variants of the benchmark were released each day, the banks individual submissions were also published, giving the world a snapshot of their relative creditworthiness. Historically, the individuals responsible for making their firms Libor submissions were able to base their estimates on a vibrant interbank money market, in which banks borrowed cash from each other to fund their day-to-day operations. They were prevented from deviating too far from the truth because their fellow market participants knew what rates they were really being charged. Over the previous few months, that had changed. Banks had stopped lending to each other for periods of longer than a few days, preferring to stockpile their cash. After Bear Stearns there was no guarantee they would get it back.

With so much at stake, lenders had become fixated on what their rivals were inputting. Any outlier at the higher that is, riskier end was in danger of becoming a pariah, unable to access the liquidity it needed to fund its balance sheet. Soon banks began to submit rates they thought would place them in the middle of the pack rather than what they truly believed they could borrow unsecured cash for. The motivation for low-balling was not tied to profit many banks actually stood to lose out from lower Libors. This was about survival.

Ironically, just as Libors accuracy faltered, its importance rocketed. As the financial crisis deepened, central bankers monitored Libor in different currencies to see how successful their latest policy announcements were in calming markets. Governments looked at individual firms submissions for clues as to who they might be forced to bail out next. If banks were lying about Libor, it was not just affecting interest rates and derivatives payments. It was skewing reality.

There was no inkling at this stage that traders such as Hayes were pushing Libor around to boost their profits, but here was a benchmark that relied on the honesty of traders who had a direct interest in where it was set. Libor was overseen by the British Bankers Association (BBA). In both cases, the body responsible for overseeing the rate had no punitive powers, so there was little to discourage firms from cheating.

When McGonagle finished reading the Wall Street Journal article, he emailed colleagues and asked them what they knew about Libor. His team put together a dossier, including some preliminary reports from within the financial community. In March, economists at the Bank for International Settlements, an umbrella group for central banks around the world, had published a paper that identified unusual patterns in Libor during the crisis, although it concluded these were not caused by shortcomings in the design of the fixing mechanism.

A month later, Scott Peng, an analyst at Citigroup in New York, sent his customers a research note that estimated the dollar Libor submissions of the 18 firms that set the rate were 20 to 30 basis points lower than they should have been because of a prevailing fear among the banks of being perceived as a weak hand in this fragile market environment.

While there was no evidence of manipulation by specific firms, McGonagle was coming around to the idea of launching an investigation.

In 2009, Hayes was lured away from UBS to join Citigroup. The head of Citigroups team in Asia, the former Lehman banker Chris Cecere, a small, goateed American with a big reputation for finding new ways to make money, had been given millions of dollars to attract the best talent and Hayes was his round-one pick.

It wasnt just the $3m signing bonus that had won Hayes over. The promise of a fresh start at one of the worlds biggest banks, with him at centre stage in its aggressive expansion into the Asian interest-rate derivatives market, had proved too tempting to resist. After persuading him to join, Cecere boasted to colleagues that hed found a real fucking animal, who knows everybody on the street.

Citigroup in Canary Wharf, London Photograph: DBURKE / Alamy/Alamy

Cecere set in motion plans for Citigroup to join the Tibor (Tokyo interbank offered rate) panel which, Hayes would crow, was even easier to influence than Libor because fewer banks contributed to it. Hayes wanted to hit the ground running when he started trading, and being able to influence the two benchmarks that helped determine the profitability of the bulk of his positions was an important step. Another was bringing Citigroups own London-based Libor-setters on board.

On the afternoon of 8 December, Cecere was at his desk on the Tokyo trading floor. He had an office but seldom used it, preferring to be amid the action. He believed that six-month yen Libor was too high. After checking the submissions from the previous day, he was surprised to see that Citigroup had input one of the highest figures.

Cecere contacted the head of the risk treasury team in Tokyo, Stantley Tan, and asked him to find out who the yen-setter was and request that he lower his input by several basis points. It turned out the risk treasury desk in Canary Wharf was responsible for the banks Libor submissions.

I spoke to our point man in London, Tan wrote back to Cecere that afternoon. I have asked him to consider moving quotes [lower].

Cecere checked the Libors again later that night and was annoyed to see that Citigroup had only reduced its six-month rate by a quarter of a basis point.

He wrote to Tan, Can you speak with him again?

The following day, Tan went back to the treasury desk in London as requested. He also forwarded the message chain to Andrew Thursfield, Citigroups head of risk treasury in London. The response he got back from his UK counterpart left little room for misinterpretation: it was a thinly veiled warning to back off.

Hayes, who sat just behind his boss, was not on the email chain, but Cecere sent it to him.

Thursfield was a straitlaced man in his forties who had spent more than 20 years in risk management at Citigroup after joining as a graduate trainee. He saw himself as the guardian of the firms balance sheet and didnt take kindly to being told how to do his job by a pushy trader who knew nothing of the intricacies of bank funding.

Rather than lowering the inputs, Thursfields team increased its submission days later, pushing the published Libor rates higher. Hayes would have to try a different tack. On 14 December he sent an email to his London counterpart, asking him to approach the rate-setters directly.

Do you talk to the cash desk and did we know in advance? Hayes asked, referring to the banks decision to bump up its Libor submissions. We need good dialogue with the cash desk. They can be invaluable to us. If we know ahead of time we can position and scalp the market.

What Hayes didnt realise was that no amount of schmoozing was going to get the rate-setters onside. Unlike some banks, Citigroup was taking the CFTCs investigation into Libor seriously. In March 2009, Thursfield had personally delivered an 18-page presentation via video link to investigators on the rate-setting process. The cash traders werent about to risk their necks for someone they didnt know who worked on the other side of the world.

It wasnt just that they knew they were being watched. Thursfield was not only a stickler for the rules but had taken a personal dislike to Hayes when the pair had met three months earlier. It was October 2009, shortly after Hayes had accepted the job at Citigroup, and his boss had sent him to London to meet the banks key players.

Good to meet you. You can help us out with Libors. I will let you know my axes, Hayes said by way of an opening gambit when he was introduced to Thursfield.

Unshaven and dishevelled, Hayes told the Citigroup manager how the cash desk at UBS frequently skewed its submissions to suit his book. He boasted of his close relationships with rate-setters at other banks and how they would do favours for each other. Hayes was trying to charm Thursfield, but he had badly misjudged the man and the situation. The following day Thursfield called his manager, Steve Compton, and relayed his concerns.

Once you stray on to talking about Libor fixings, I mean we just paid another $75,000 bill to the lawyer this week for the work theyre doing on the CFTC investigation, Thursfield said. Whoever is the desk head, or whatever, [should] have a close watch on just what hes actually doing and how publicly. Its all, you know, very much barrow-boy-type [behaviour].

The knock on Hayess door came at 7am on a Tuesday, two weeks before Christmas 2012. Hayes padded down the bespoke pine staircase of his newly renovated home in Woldingham, Surrey,to let in more than a dozen police officers and Serious Fraud Office investigators. A year before, he had been fired from Citigroup, and shortly afterwards returned to the UK, where he married his girlfriend Sarah Tighe.

Hayes stood at his wifes side as the officers swept through the property, gathering computers and documents into boxes and loading them into vehicles parked at the end of the gravel driveway. The couple had only moved in a fortnight before. Their infant son was upstairs in bed. Traffic was heavy by the time the former trader was led to the back of a waiting car. The 20-mile crawl from Surrey to the City of London passed in silence.

Bishopsgate police station is a grey, concrete building on one of the financial districts busiest thoroughfares. In a formal interview, Hayes was told he had been brought in to answer questions relating to allegations that between 2006 and 2009 he had conspired to manipulate yen Libor with two of his colleagues. Hayes responded that he planned to help but would need time to consider the 112 pages of evidence so would not be answering any questions that day. It was late when he arrived back in Surrey.

In June, Barclays had become the first bank to reach a settlement with authorities, admitting to rigging the rate and agreeing to pay a then-record 290 million in fines. From the moment Barclays had settled, sparking a political firestorm that burned for weeks, Hayess destiny had been leading to this point. The Serious Fraud Office (SFO), which had previously resisted launching a probe into Libor rigging, was forced to reverse its position and on 6 July issued a statement announcing it would be undertaking a criminal investigation. That week the government launched its own review into the scandal. The British public and its politicians were out for scalps.

On 19 December, eight days after his arrest, Hayes was at home on his computer when a news bulletin popped up with a link to a press conference in Washington. As cameras flashed, Attorney General Eric Holder and Lanny Breuer, head of the Justice Departments criminal division, took turns outlining the $1.5bn settlement the authorities had reached with UBS over Libor. The Swiss bank, they explained, had pleaded guilty to wire fraud at its Japanese arm. Then came the sucker punch.

In addition to UBS Japans agreement to plead guilty, two former UBS traders have been charged, in a criminal complaint unsealed today, with conspiracy to manipulate Libor, said Breuer. Tom Hayes has also been charged with wire fraud and an antitrust violation. Neither Tan nor Cecere has ever been charged with wrongdoing.

At that moment the full horror of the situation hit Hayes for the first time. The two most powerful lawyers in the US planned to extradite him on three separate criminal charges, each carrying a 2030 year sentence. Less than 24 hours later, a member of Hayess legal team was on the phone to the SFO to discuss cutting a deal.

Fighting the charges seemed futile: the UBS settlement made reference to more than 2,000 attempts by Hayes and his colleagues to influence the rate over a four-year period. He was the star attraction, the Jesse James of Libor, as he would later tell it. The US authorities had yet to issue extradition papers, but it was only a matter of time.

So began a race to convince the SFO to take on Hayes as a sort of chief informant, who in return would receive leniency and, more importantly, an agreement that he would be dealt with in the UK.

To secure this arrangement Hayes had to agree to tell the SFO everything he knew and promise to testify against everybody involved. Crucially, he also had to plead guilty to dishonestly rigging Libor. It was not enough to admit trying to influence the rate. He had to confess that he knew it was wrong.

During two days of so-called scoping interviews to test his knowledge of the case, Hayes talked openly about his campaign to rig Libor, for the first time in his life. At the SFOs offices near Trafalgar Square he admitted he had acted dishonestly and brought the investigators attention to aspects of the case they knew nothing about. The interviews covered everything from his entry into the industry and his trading strategies to how the Libor scheme began and the various individuals who helped him rig the rate. They barely had to prod to get him to talk. Hayes seemed to relish reliving moments from his past. His voice sped up when he talked about heady days piling into positions, squeezing the best prices from brokers and playing traders off against each other.

The first thing you think is wheres the edge, where can I make a bit more money, how can I push, push the boundaries, maybe you know a bit of a grey area, push the edge of the envelope, he said in one early interview. But the point is, you are greedy, you want every little bit of money that you can possibly get because, like I say, that is how you are judged, that is your performance metric.

Paper coffee cups piled up as Hayes went over the minutiae of the case. At one stage, Hayes was asked about how he viewed his attempts to move Libor around. The exchange would prove crucial.

Well look, I mean, its a dishonest scheme, isnt it? Hayes said. And I was part of the dishonest scheme, so obviously I was being dishonest.

Main photograph: Tom Archer/Barcroft Media

This article is adapted from The Fix: How Bankers Lied, Cheated and Colluded to Rig the Worlds Most Important Number by Liam Vaughan and Gavin Finch (Wiley, 19.99). To order a copy for 16.99, go to bookshop.theguardian.com or call 0330 333 6846

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from Libor scandal: the bankers who fixed the worlds most important number | Liam Vaughan and Gavin Finch