#which his only authority in the mundane realm is as a single man

[kirbyddd]

one thing that's just one of my weird little personal wishes, i really wish gandalf used more of his Hobbit style alchemical "magic" in LoTR, he really only uses it for fireworks at the very beginning then he mainly just uses his ring and divine authority

[itsclydebitches]

YYH Recaps: Koenma Appears

Welcome to episode two, everyone! Before we get to the recap proper, I want to continue down Nostalgia Lane for a moment. Remember how last time I mentioned a Hiei bookmark I used daily back in middle school? Well, I tore through an old "treasure box" I created as a kid (a collection containing everything from a shark tooth to a small book on witchcraft. You know, the important things every child needs) hoping to find it... but I didn't. It's a hard life we lead.

However, I did find some other YYH relics that I thought you all might enjoy seeing. Behold — and, if you'd like, laugh at — my collection:

First up is a picture of young Toguro and Genkai that I wanted to use as my bookmark, but found that it was too wide. For the record, I didn't (and still don't) care about Toguro much, he was just the byproduct of finding a cool Genkai picture. Not shown is the back of the image with the names of my classmates because I made them all sign this along with our yearbook.

God bless my friends for putting up with me.

Second is a collection of very pretty trading cards that I ordered from god only knows where. I have vague memories of not finding any at my local comics shop and convincing my mom to let me order on The Olde Internet. Did I want the trading cards to trade them? Absolutely not. They exist to sparkle and make my heart happy.

Finally, I've saved what is perhaps the best for last. Now, you have to understand that grade to middle school age Clyde did not have the education that she would receive later on, which includes a knowledge of the ephemeral nature of fanworks and the importance of accurate record keeping. What this means is that I have absolutely no context for this. No author, no explanation... just the image itself.

Was this a standalone fanart? A part of a fic? Some specific request or just the will of the artist? I cannot answer these questions. I tried a reverse image search (which is, admittedly, the extent of my tech skills) and you know what the single hit I got was? "Fiction." Thanks, google. So yeah, I can only assume that my child self considered Kurama giving a de-aged Hiei a bubble bath adorable enough to save, but the artist wasn't important enough to jot down for future viewing. Sorry about that, mystery artist. And, as should go without saying, if anyone does know where this came from please let me know! Though I suspect that this is a case of a YYH-specific site closing down and the fanworks getting lost along with it. That happened a great deal before the age of AO3 when volunteers decided to put their time and talent towards saving fanworks of all sorts... 

But enough of all that. Let's get to recapping!

As we established last episode, Yusuke and Botan are on their way to the spirit world to kickstart Yusuke's ordeal. Watching this after over a decade of consuming other media, I really appreciate that Yusuke acts like a human person and asks lots of questions about this. When Botan is cryptic for the sake of the audience — we're going to see "the person" who can explain everything — Yusuke is justifiably like, and what person would that be?? I mean, this is also a way to establish basic facts for the viewer and it simultaneously feeds into Yusuke being someone who is difficult for the sake of being difficult — "If someone wants to say something, they should come to me!" — but it's just nice to see a character who doesn't accept cryptic BS because the story needs them to. If Botan gives an unclear, but ~dramatic~ explanation, Yusuke is going to call her out on that.

So she explains that they're going to see King Yama and Yusuke is all whoa whoa whoa, there's royalty involved? Suddenly, he's not so adamant that they come to him. 

Botan tries to reinforce this rare spark of humility and demands that Yusuke be on his best behavior from here on out.

Pff. Yeah right.

But “he can send you to oblivion forever if he wants to!” is a suitable enough threat to cow Yusuke for now. Which is interesting considering that a few hours ago he was happy to accept hell as his rightful ending. Granted, we could argue that there's a big difference between hell and oblivion — a character may not be afraid of punishment in the same way they are a lack of existence — but I'd say this ties more into Yusuke's development at the wake. Now that he's accepted that people care for him and that he should strive to return to them, the threat of having it snatched away actually means something. Even if that line is otherwise positioned as a comedic moment.

Botan flies them through a portal where we see the River Styx below and Yusuke comments on how big everything is. At first I was like, "What are you talking about? You were just flying over some major city in fictional Japan, wasn't that big too?" but this line makes more sense when they reach the palace and you realize that yeah, it's big. As in, the camera blurs while tilting down its length to show how insanely tall it is. Yusuke and Botan are tiny gnats at the gate's entrance.

"Oh man, what a pad!" Yusuke says and sure, that's one way to look at it lol.

Botan announces that she has a "new arrival" and the gates open for them, but so far there's no one else around. One part of me wants to question the time and budget put into this scene because shouldn't there be, like, thousands of people? Even just waiting outside? The idea that this is the hub of the underworld and that Botan is responsible for ferrying all the souls, yet she is guiding just this one (1) dude for a solid day is, from a world building perspective, kind of nuts. But beyond the need to develop Botan as a character (she can't be a part of the story if her job is treated realistically, with all the endless work that entails), I think this choice functions rather well from an atmospheric perspective too. Meaning, this moment is supposed to be rather tense for Yusuke. He just died, just found out the afterlife exists, just discovered a desire to get his life back, and is now about to meet a King who can toss him into oblivion if he's rude — which Yusuke always is. So this is a Very Dangerous Moment and their relative isolation feeds into that. As does the setting. Yusuke flinches back from the hallway, saying that it looks like a giant throat, so he is now literally walking into the belly of the beast. 

Suddenly, the size of the palace isn't an indicator of awesome wealth, just general intimidation. Also, check out the spikey purple mountains in the background and the harsh reds of the scene, especially compared to the soft yellow of the river. All of it is designed to create an, "Oh shit" reaction in both Yusuke and the audience.

Yusuke's image of King Yama matches these surroundings:

Oh wait! Wrong character ;)

He's massive, red, shadowed, and poses a formidable threat. And how does Yusuke deal with threats? By fighting them! Even those he can't hope to beat. Remember, this isn't a situation where Yusuke has any power here, but he still desperately holds onto the possibility that he might. What if he gets off a punch on King Yama's nose? Then goes for his eyes? Yeah, that'll work! 

Overlooking the fact that it absolutely would not — Yusuke's fantasy conveniently skips how he escapes Yama's clutches — what exactly is Yusuke hoping to accomplish here? Somehow take over the entire underworld? Escape as a ghost and live out his afterlife in hiding? We don't know and that's because Yusuke doesn't know. He doesn't think ahead, he just obeys this instinct to fight. An instinct that, crucially, overrides everything else. Botan has already told him that all Yusuke needs to do is be polite and everything will be fine, but it's not even that Yusuke believes that he can't achieve that; that he knows himself too well and, fearing a slip, starts planning for a potentially inevitable confrontation. There are simply no plans outside of battle plans. Yusuke just hears about someone vaguely intimidating and his brain jumps straight to, "How do I beat him in a fight?" no matter the odds, or that other options are readily available to him. Again, much of YYH's characterization occurs though its comedy, so outside of the general humor of witnessing this fantasy, it actually does a stellar job of reinforcing precisely who Yusuke is. In life the only thing he had going for him was his ability to fight. It was his one joy, his one skill, arguably the one good thing he did if we frame those reflexes as "saving" the kid... so is it any wonder that fighting dominates his every thought? It's all he knows.

And, as we'll see down the line, that single-minded obsession is very useful to the spirit world.

For now though, Yusuke finishes his absurd plans to take down King Yama and Botan asks what in the world he's muttering about back there. Which is an unintentionally hilarious line because by the end Yusuke is not muttering, but full on shouting. Botan. How did you not hear him?

Not important. They reach the next door and we get our first inkling that all is not as Yusuke (and we) expect when Botan leans into an intercom to say that they've arrived. Tech in a fantasy spirit world? This feels not only out of place, but rather... mundane? That's the point. When the doors open Yusuke expects his super scary monster, but gets... a whole lot of monsters that aren't scary at all!

The underworld is run by various demons (or ogres), though their looks are contrasted with the harried office worker personalities they've got going on. Someone is running by with a comically tall stack of papers. Someone else is shouting into a cell phone. The first two demons we see cross paths, looking like they're about to punch one another, just as Yusuke expects... except they're just dramatically getting out of the other's way, worried not about the hierarchy of this realm, but the fact that someone is behind schedule. The nerve!

"This place is a madhouse!" we hear somehow shout and yeah, that's the joke. The afterlife is just as chaotic, overworked, and — ultimately — boring as any human office. For all the strangeness of seeing hundreds of demons, this is familiar.

Which, alongside Botan's bubbly nature contrasting assumptions about the Grim Reaper, is one of the first instances of YYH undercutting the viewer's expectations in terms of looks. No one entirely looks the part they play in this tale and if you're trying to teach people to look past surface characteristics... there are worse ways to do it. Horrifying creatures with horns and sharp teeth? Nah, they're just chill dudes trying to do their job. Cutesy girl who looks like she belongs in a mall reading magazines? Nah, she's the Grim Reaper. Terrifying delinquent with a spine-chilling reputation? Nah, he makes faces at kids and saves them from cars.

Of course, the "nah" isn't accurate either. These are monsters with horns, Botan is a cutesy girl, and Yusuke is a delinquent with that reputation. The message isn't so much that people look like Thing A, but get to know them and you'll discover they're actually Thing B, it's the idea that you can be A and B (and C, D, E...) simultaneously. People — or rather, seemingly simple archetypes — can, in fact, embody multiple characteristics at once.

We'll get our third example in just a second.

Yusuke makes a comment about this being the "dead people stock exchange" — accurate — and Botan leads him to a more ornate door past all the desks. It's clear they've arrived at King Yama's office, since she's bowing and formally presenting him to... someone. Yusuke looks around for the giant beast he's imagined, only for a tiny voice to hail him from the ground.

Looks are deceiving!

“This is Yusuke Urameshi and he’s honored to meet you." Botan knows what's up. She knows Yusuke isn't going to express anything of the sort without some prompting. Too bad he's busy cracking up at this apparent child running the show. Side note: Yusuke has a fantastic laugh.

He even goes so far as to accuse Botan of lying to him.

“Why would I lie about such a thing?!”

“Why would the spirit world be run by a toddler?”

It's true! That’s a legitimate question! I love that Yusuke asks questions. The "toddler" goes on to explain that he's actually the "mighty Koenma," son of King Yama, though he's lived fifty times as long as Yusuke, "so watch your mouth." Assuming Koenma knows and/or remembers how old Yusuke is — fourteen — and is good at math, that puts him at seven hundred years old. He looks good for his age!

"And in addition to knowing the secrets of the universe," he says, "I am quite potty trained."

You've gotta love Koenma.

Yusuke's attitude changes drastically once they get down to business. Koenma produces an egg, saying that Yusuke's ordeal is to hatch it and face what comes out. The hatching part isn't difficult, all he needs to do is keep it on his person. The challenge is in the fact that this egg will feed off his spirit energy and that energy in turn will change what kind of creature develops. If his spirit is wicked and cruel, so will be the beast and it will devour Yusuke upon hatching.

However, if his spirit is good and kind, the beast will become a sort of guardian, guiding him back to his living body.

Note though that throughout this conversation the egg is always a "beast." It's a "monster." It's not necessarily intentional, but there's a strong bend towards the negative here in the description that really emphasizes the whole "ordeal" aspect. Koenma briefly reassures Yusuke that he can remain a ghost if he prefers, but he's already made up his mind. Despite another threat of being lost to a void — this time through spiritual digestion — Yusuke takes the egg almost without hesitation.

He regrets it later though.

"I can't believe I did that."

Can we blame him? I'd be nervous about some egg feeding off the energy of my soul too and I'm a former, almost straight A student (damn you, math) with no life-altering regrets and a general desire to put as much good into this world as I'm able. I’m boring. But what if those occasional, mean little thoughts you have add up? What if the prejudices you're still unlearning stack against you? Does the egg care about what you do, or only how you feel about the act? This sort of test would eat me alive!

Maybe literally. 

Good thing Yusuke doesn't have time for an existential crisis!

Just as he's beginning to regret this decision, Botan points out that it won't matter if he passes if he doesn't have a body to return to. Now, why wouldn't he have a body? Maybe because his mom is set to cremate him tomorrow.

Whoopsie.

Yusuke is, understandably, distraught. We get another excellent exchange:

“Botan, is there any way for ghosts to communicate with living people?”

“Yes.”

“SO ARE YOU GONNA TELL ME?”

I swear, Yusuke is the only smart protagonist. I mean, he's dumb as a sack of bricks at times, but that's neither here nor there. Bless this fictional boy for reacting like an actual person. 

Botan explains that people are more attuned to the spirit world when they're asleep, so Yusuke can deliver a message to someone in their dreams. Seems easy enough. They first head to Atsuko, but find that she's raging drunk and nowhere near sleep. 

"You fool!" she yells. "No one gave you permission to die!" Atsuko continues to yell about how plenty of people survive car accidents, so why couldn't you? "Were you mad at me, Yusuke? Didn't I raise you right?"

Botan comments on how sad the display is. Yusuke's response?

“The only thing that’s sad is now she’s got one more excuse to act that way."

Y'all, that's some mature shit for a goofy shonen anime. Yeah, Yusuke recognizes that, while she's obviously heartbroken, his death has just given her another reason to do what she's been doing for years: drinking herself into a stupor. Toss in Atsuko putting the blame on Yusuke — "No one gave you permission to die!" — plus the belief that she did do a good job — "Didn't I raise you right?" — and it paints a rather bleak picture. This is by no means an uncommon theme. Negligent parents, whether they're framed that way or not, are pretty common in shonen series, but it's still rather jarring to re-watch this as an adult and go, "Oh. The situation’s like that." It's honestly a lot when you remove it from YYH's otherwise humorous, casual context.

Yusuke heads to Keiko's next and finds her sound asleep, commenting on how her room looks more "girly" than when they were kids. Check out that smile!

He's about to try and deliver his message, but Keiko is in the midst of a nightmare. “She’s crying… what’s wrong?”

Oh my god. Remember how I just said Yusuke is also the densest protagonist around? Example A right here. You just died, you fool! You just saw Keiko collapse at your funeral. What do you think is wrong??

We get a peek at Keiko's dream where she is — shockingly! — thinking of Yusuke. He's far out of reach, walking away and unresponsive to her calls. Keiko soon trips and Yusuke disappears completely.

Luckily, she has the real thing at her bedside. Yusuke tries talking to her and at first it's unclear if this supernatural stuff is really working. That is, until Keiko murmurs about how heavy he is.

Reassured, Yusuke delivers his message that Keiko needs to help Atsuko pull herself together and, most importantly, call off burning his body. We get this very soft and pretty background to establish their yet unspoken feelings for one another, though Yusuke gets close with, “I’m coming back. I don’t want to see you cry anymore" as he brushes her tears away. Aww.

Keiko wakes, thinking at first it was just a dream, but no, "I'm sure I felt it."

The next morning she heads to Atsuko's to explain the dream, only to first hear that Atsuko had a dream too, this one about Yusuke "living in some other world full of ogres and he kept knocking them down until he became their leader." It sounds absurd, of course, but it brings Atsuko some comfort to think of her boy in a place like that and Keiko backs down. Right, she'd only had a comforting dream too.

Now, there are two important parts to this exchange. The first is that this is an excellent example of how you let the characters drive the story, rather than forcing the characters adhere to the plot you've come up with. Meaning, in the latter situation, our cast would have needed to have their personalities twisted and the viewer's suspicion of disbelief tested to give Yusuke what he needs: a sleeping family member willing to believe his message. But it absolutely makes sense for Atsuko to be drunk rather than sound asleep, so Yusuke can't rely on her. Likewise, it absolutely makes sense for Keiko to be asleep, but not believe the dream once she's woken up. After all, how many times have we been persuaded by something in the dead of night only for things to look more logical and less likely in the morning? The characters act both like themselves and like people who do normal, people-ish things, which means that Yusuke runs into more conflicts. That's good! It not only raises the tension and stakes — now he has less than a day to convince someone — but makes his inevitable success feel that much sweeter. A less well written show (cough-RWBY-cough) would have had the characters change their personalities, behave in unlikely ways, or just come up with a sudden, contradictory solution because Yusuke needs to keep his body. Instead, Yusuke actually has to work for that within the bounds of the rules established and the likeliness of each plan succeeding. The first one fails? Move onto plan #2.

Second, this dream of Atsuko's has some cool implications within YYH's world. Meaning, we're about to learn in just a moment that some people are naturally more aware of the supernatural than others, even when they're not asleep. We'll also see down the line that spiritual awareness tends to run in families... so perhaps Atsuko possesses more than the average mother? I'm not saying it's necessarily intentional on the author(s) part, but we can choose to read this dream as evidence of spiritual awareness — true insight into the world Yusuke was just in and the fantasies he'd had about conquering it — rather than just a coincidental joke for the viewer. After all, Yusuke gets his own spiritual awareness from somewhere...

(Okay, so there's totally another, canonical reason for that, but we can have both!)

So, as Yusuke puts it, “This dream business isn’t gonna cut it.”

“There’s always the final method," Botan says.

“You always this vague?”

I am literally living for these interactions.

Botan explains that the more extreme form of communication is possessing a living person, but there are two rules attached: it has to be someone you know and the vessel has to be someone who is quite spiritually aware, as discussed above. Atsuko isn't a contender because the story hasn't acknowledged that she might be sensitive, that's just my own headcanon now. Yusuke outright says, “In that case I’m screwed. There’s no one like that!"

Cut to good old Kuwabara.

At first it looks as if he's just oh so conveniently sensing a spirit right when the audience has learned he has this power, but in reality it's Yusuke and Botan flying behind him that sets it off. Again: this show is pretty good about keeping things internally consistent, rather than making choices because That's Just How Stories Work, I Guess. Kuwabara's friends note that he's acting strangely and I love this detail that apparently one of the guys is new to their group because the other two need to explain that this is the "tickle feeling." Ever since Kuwabara was a boy he's been able to sense the dead around him. Some nice, some... not so nice.

He looks directly at Yusuke — even though he's not able to see him — and declares that what's following them is “A puny low-level ghost, like a haunted racoon or something.”

I'd support Yusuke's anger more if he hadn't just exclaimed his surprise that Kuwabara serves a purpose 😂

Yusuke is pissed enough though to proclaim that he won't do it, nuh-uh, no way is he possessing this guy's body. Botan's response is one of my FAVORITES in the WHOLE SERIES:

"Here's my impression of Yusuke: look at me, I’m burning!”

Literally 75% of this series is just about a found family sassing one another and I love it.

Obviously this helps Yusuke remember his priorities and he grudgingly agrees to the plan. Botan prepares Kuwabara's body somehow — idk, spiritual magic or whatever — and warns Yusuke that he only has an hour to find someone and warn them because a human body can't handle possession any longer than that. Sure. I buy it.

So Yusuke takes control and please ignore the incredible ethical issues here. The show will never acknowledge them again. 

He blurts out, “Hey, check it out! I’m inside Kuwabara, feeling smooth!"

Istg I don't remember the series being this unintentionally gay. I don't even ship Yusuke/Kuwabara and I'm digging the possibilities here lol.

Back on track, his friends drag him with, “Looks like he’s back to normal” because again, 75%. What's not normal though is Kuwabara (Yusuke) suddenly charging down the street to leave them behind. He heads straight to the restaurant where Keiko's parents work, demanding to see her. They're rightly concerned about this stranger barging in and screaming for their daughter.

Upon asking who he is/why they should tell him, Yusuke makes his biggest mistake: “Because it’s me, you guys, I’m Yusuke!”

Obviously the time limit and raw emotion of knowing who he is has outweighed the knowledge that, you know, no one would believe that. Yusuke has spent the last two days bopping around as a ghost and familiarizing himself with some of the afterlife's insanity. The knowledge of what's normal for everyone else — AKA, not dead boys appearing in strangers' bodies — is not at the forefront of Yusuke's mind.

So, Keiko's parents react accordingly! The father in particular is disgusted by this claim, going so far as to threaten Yusuke with his knife and outright insult Kuwabara's looks: “Yusuke was never ugly like you… we were close family friends with that boy!" His wife chimes in that this kind of joke is particularly heinous on the day of his funeral. Between Atsuko drunkenly blaming Yusuke for his death and Mr. Takenaka grieving for what he might have been, this is one of the few times we see someone just sad for Yusuke's passing, exactly as he was and without regrets or criticism. "We were close family friends with that boy" paints a nice contrast to the delinquent persona Yusuke was cultivating.

As he's thrown out of the restaurant he says, “We should have special passwords for times like this!” Fun fact, my family does! Well, not this exact situation lol. I was given a password as a child to memorize in case my parents ever needed to send someone else to pick me up or interact with me in any way. If the stranger didn't know the password, I was to kick up a fuss. I rest easy with the knowledge that this password would not doubt assist me if I was ever in Yusuke's position!

With Keiko's parents a bust, Yusuke starts sprinting to everywhere she frequents with the hope of running into her. Or at least he tries. 

Yusuke is suddenly waylaid by a group of nameless teens with a bone to pick with Kuwabara. And you know what? I like it. I wonder how much of my praise stems from coming off of RWBY Volume 8, but it's just so nice to watch a story where the plot — simple as it is — hangs together. We've established that Kuwabara is a street fighter. Last episode we watched him start a fight with Yusuke. Yusuke is on a time limit. Now Kuwabara's tendencies have created a new hurdle for Yusuke!

Needless to say, Yusuke kicks butt, even in Kuwabara’s body. 

As one guy is passing out he says, “Man that hurt! I didn’t think anyone could throw punches that hardcore except Yusuke Urameshi."

Yusuke: “Darn, giving Kuwabara a good name." LOL

You think this challenge is finished though? Nah. Over the course of about half an hour Yusuke encounters a comical number of people trying to get even with Kuwabara. 

As always, I like the nods towards this writing decision to help justify it, with Yusuke wondering how Kuwabara has pissed this many people off. If you want to pull off something that has a low chance of happening, it can help to give the characters a "Seriously?" moment. If both they and the audience are on the same page over how ridiculous this situation is, the audience is more likely to accept it once the character does.

By the time Yusuke escapes his hour is nearly up. However, thanks to some coincidental plotting, he spots Keiko's friends just across the street! 

YYH does a decent job of making its characters feel like they have their own lives outside of what's immediately happening on screen and we get a good example of that here. We pick up the girls' conversation partway through, both of them worried about Keiko's state of mind and, given that we'll see in a second that Keiko was in the store with them, it implies that something happened to reignite this worry. They're off enjoying their day, doing their own thing, there was an event we're not privy to, and now we catch the response to that. It just helps make the characters feel more well-rounded even though they are, at their core, one-dimensional background characters who don’t even have names yet.

Case in point: the one girl is still concerned with their image. "People are starting to say things!"

Yeah, your friend's childhood friend just died. Hopefully they're saying, "Poor thing."

Anyway, Yusuke runs up to ask where Keiko is only for both girls to run away screaming. Turns out his face is messed up from the numerous fights and Keiko's friends are easily scared. 

Luckily, Keiko comes out just a second later and Yusuke is faced with the challenge of how to convince her in, oh, about five minutes. Remember, we've already established through Keiko's parents that just saying, "I'm Yusuke" doesn't work. That's why he hesitates. It's not just drama for the sake of drama, he's stuck.

“I’ve known her my whole life, there must be something between us that only I would do!”

Yeeeeaah. About that 😬

Suddenly inspired (I suppose that's one way to put it...) Yusuke runs up behind Keiko and grabs her breasts. “Keiko, nice uniform! They’re so squishy!”

It goes without saying that, like flipping her skirt up, this isn't okay. More specifically, the problem lies in the story framing this as a joke for the audience, something to laugh at despite Keiko's discomfort, rather than the concept of two childhood friends actually be that comfortable with one another. But, as already established, this is one of the more ehhhh aspects of Yusuke's characterization that, luckily, will mostly disappear as the story goes on.

Note though that the show clearly wants us to think highly of this. Not just as a "joke," but as a smart solution to his problem and more evidence of their inevitable relationship — the background becomes the same soft, bubbly background we saw during their dream conversation. And, admittedly, it does work. Keiko instinctively slaps Yusuke hard enough to knock him to the ground and he starts laughing, saying that he doesn't care what anyone on the street says, she hits the hardest.

What I do like about this is that the assault isn't the only thing Keiko bases her faith on. Not only has she already had the dream, we get to see Yusuke from her perspective, showing all the mannerisms she picks up on by superimposing Yusuke's real body over Kuwabara's. Indeed, she says as much: “I knew it was you from the first time you spoke…and it’s not just your stupid gags, or how you laugh. There are ways you move and speak that in a hundred years I wouldn’t forget."

Catch me crying in this club!

Knowing she believes him and that he's almost out of time, Yusuke reiterates his message: please don't burn my body and also keep Mom on track. Only, you know, it's phrased far better than that lol. As he speaks, both Yusuke's and Kuwabara's voices overlap until the latter grows fainter and only Yusuke's voice remains. His body too. It's a nice touch, avoiding the awkwardness of Keiko having this moment with a stranger, even if that is what's happening on some level.

“I know I’ve been a bum to you at times, but please wait for me."

His hour up, now we can get the awkwardness! Kuwabara comes out of his weird trance thing to find Keiko crying against his chest. Wow, he thinks, this girl must be really into me! 

God, to have the confidence of Kuwabara.

Of course, Keiko quickly realizes it's not Yusuke anymore and slaps him too for cuddling her closer. My favorite thing is that when she does this a crowd INSTANTLY appears. I mean they TELEPORT in. We needed an audience for Kuwabara's shame and YYH delivered, all logic be damned.

“Um, sorry about that!” Keiko yells as she runs away, because she's a good person who recognizes that weird spirit things just went on and Kuwabara isn't actually to blame.

“No, that’s okay. I probably deserved it," Kuwabara responds because he's also a good person and I didn't appreciate him nearly as much as I should have as a kid.

Keiko runs all the way to Atsuko's place where she finds her dressed for Yusuke's funeral. She blurts that Yusuke might still be coming back and Atsuko goes, "He already has." Turns out she opened his coffin to "smack him one more time for leaving me" — yikes — and found that his heart had started beating again, just as Koenma said it would. 

Being in a shonen anime, they apparently decide to just trust Keiko's message rather than, idk, taking him to a hospital or something.

The camera tilts up to show that Yusuke has been watching all this, including that both women break down again and comfort one another. Aww. How heartwarming.

What's less fuzzy though is this mysterious egg. Yusuke takes another look and finds that it has developed a heartbeat too, presumably in time with his body's. He theorizes that he did decent things today, right? But Botan (teasingly) points out that he did beat up a lot of other kids. Rather than getting angry, Yusuke remains uncharacteristically pensive, emphasizing the magnitude of what this means for him. He's got to get it right.

No pressure or anything! We'll have to see how Yusuke balances his karmic scales in the next episode. Until then, I'll try not to put all my TV time into Star Trek: Voyager :D 

See you then!  💜

[theheartsmistakes]

The Last Night Part XIV

(A/N at the end)

Parts I-XIII:

Here is Part I

Here is Part II

Here is Part III

Here is Part IV

Here is Part V

Here is Part VI

Here is Part VII

Here is Part VIII

Here is Part IX

Here is Part X

Here is Part XI

Here is Part XII

Part XIII Part XIV

James and Matthew were hovering outside the Devil’s Tavern, which presented an august Georgian facade to the mundane eyes and was the site of many a municipal meeting and festivity. Or rather, as Matthew acknowledged, James was the one hovering, conspicuous in his anxiety, while Matthew leaned against the inn’s front wall, smoking a cheroot and gazing upward in the annoying way he did when he was overcome with boredom.

The Devil’s Tavern was the only place left in London that none of their parents knew anything about. Not even Will Herondale knew about his son’s inauspicious lease in the tavern and would therefore be the safest, most logical place for them to conduct their research.

“What time did you tell them to be here?” asked Matthew, still musing at something in the sky. “I do wish you’d stop fidgeting.”

“I told them noon,” said James. “But Christopher is not the most reliable man we know.”

“He is the most reliable when something is in need of exploding or a new specimen needs to be collected,” said Matthew. “Perhaps next time tell him that you have an enchanted box that needs to be unlocked.”

“Does this feel wrong to you?” asked James. “We’re supposed to spend this hour patrolling and we’re hiding in The bloody Devil’s Tavern from our parents.”

“This is, in a sort, patrolling,” said Matthew. “We’re conducting research on how to locate your demon granddad and kill the bastard, but in order to do that, we need to find a way for you to access the shadow realm again or it’s all for not. So, we’re doing our job, just not in the way we’re expected to be doing our job.” Matthew slapped James’s hand away from his hair. “I said stop fidgeting.”

“If we’re caught…” James started but couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence. While the four of the Merry Thieves agreed that the risk was worth the reward of defying Charles Fairchild’s newly established rules, the risk still hung over James’s head like an anvil waiting to drop. He’d reassured himself time and time again that ordinary chivalry demanded action and that his indignation had more to do with Charles’s complete need for control than the punishment being fair or responsible.

“Oh for Raziel’s sake, we won’t be,” said Matthew. “We’re trained in being discreet, remember?” Just then the door to the Tavern burst open and a head attired with goggles, poked out.

“I don’t see them,” said Christopher before he turned his head to where James and Matthew were standing. He removed his goggles up into his hair, wiped his face with an emerald scarf, and shoved the door open with his shoulder. “What are you two standing out here for? We’ve been waiting for you in the Devil for nearly twenty minutes. Thought the parentals got a hold of you.”

“You’ve been here the whole time?” asked an exasperated James. “We’ve been waiting… never mind. Get inside, quickly, before someone notices us.”

“I must admit, I’m a bit tempted to see how red my brother’s face can get if he catches us deliberately disobeying him,” said Matthew as the sound of boots clambered up the wooden stairs.

“This coming from the one having a crisis over the thought of being strapped to his brother’s desk,” said James over his shoulder. Christopher laughed ahead of them.

“That was before I witnessed my mother make him cry after threatening to strip us of our marks,” said Matthew.

James paused. “She made him cry?”

“Weep,” said Matthew. “I believe the words ‘yes, Mummy’ were said at least twice.”

“You lie!” said Christopher ahead of them.

“I exaggerate, Kit,” said Matthew as they reached their door, “but I never lie.”

The door burst open like a tightly wound jack-in-the-box as the three boys burst into the room. James walked across the room and took a seat at a small table in the window nook while Matthew made himself comfortable on the long sofa. Christopher met James at the table and busied himself with turning over the pages of an old book.

“Where have you lot been?” asked Thomas from the couch. “We’ve been waiting for you for twenty minutes.”

“They were outside,” said Christopher, examining the pages of the book.

James stood, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt to expose his forearms, as he walked to the center of the room. “All right, we have only forty minutes left of our patrol to come up with a plan on how to access the shadow world without the use of my useless power.”

“How’s that coming along?” asked Thomas.

“Am I in the shadow realm?”

“No.”

“That’s how it’s coming along.” He pressed his back against the wall opposite Matthew, Thomas, and Christopher. “It’s never felt like this before. Everything that usually works, isn’t. Chaos. Danger. Pain. Isolation. Even when I feared Lucie and Cordelia were trapped there, I still couldn’t push past this invisible wall.”

“Invisible wall?” asked Christopher.

“Yes,” said James. “That’s what it feels like, an invisible wall blocking me.”

“Perhaps you need more fiber in your diet,” grinned Matthew.

James squinted at him, unsure if he was joking, and decided to carry on without acknowledging  the statement. “We need to start researching a way into the shadow realm that doesn’t involve my ability.”

The sound of chair legs scraping against the floor turned everyone’s attention towards Christopher as he shoved himself away from the table. “I’ve read about this,” he stated, excitedly. “Pockets. Uh… uh… portals they were called, but they’re like pockets in our realm to other realms. You experienced something like it at the cemetery which allowed Cordelia to access the realm after you and for Matthew and Lucie to draw you back.”

“Brilliant,” said Matthew. “Now that we have an access point, let’s come up with a plan to kill the bloody bastard.”

“Well,” said Christopher, sliding his glasses back up his nose. “We don't necessarily have an access point.”

“You just said—“

“Allow him to finish, Matthew,” said Thomas, looking like a giant inside the low ceiling room. “Go on, Kit.”

“They move.”

“The pockets?” asked James.

“Yes,” said Christopher, his almost sapphire eyes, enlarged by his lenses, glanced around at the faces staring back at him. “They appear in a spot but only remain for 12 to 24 hours.”

“Brilliant,” grumbled Matthew and slipped lower on the couch.

“Is there any way to track these pockets?” asked Thomas, while watching James stand and pace the floor.

“I cannot recall,” said Christopher. “I read about them in the forbidden section of the library at the academy. I was researching alternative methods of travel and found an extensive research that featured combinations of dimensional manipulation.”

“In English, if you would please,” said Matthew, lolling his head to look at Christopher.

“I am speaking English,” said Christopher. “If you are requesting for me to simplify it for you, then be plain about it.”

Matthew rolled his eyes as Thomas asked, “Do you remember what book it was?”

“Of course.”

“Can it be found in a public library?”

“No.” The boys released a communal exhale.

“Well,” said Matthew as he picked a piece of lint on his jade trousers. “It appears we’re left with piss but no pot.”

“Not necessarily,” said Christopher, stepping forward into the center of the room. His eyes locked on his feet the way they often were when deep in thought. “There is someone who might be in possession of a copy or at least has the authority to access one.”

James and Christopher met eyes as they both came to the same solution at exactly the same moment. A smile curved on James’s lips and he chided himself for not thinking of it sooner before allowing disappointment to consume him.

“Are you going to leave us in suspense?” asked Matthew.

“Magnus,” said James. “We’re going to see Magnus.”

                                                             . . .

The girl who came through Cordelia’s bedroom door the next morning did not seem strong enough to carry the tray on which rested a cup of tea in a florid porcelain cup and a heavy jug of hot water for the washstand. She was hollow in the cheeks and narrow shouldered, her hair pulled back mercilessly into a single braid. Her dress and apron hung loosely, and her boots looked comically laced to such scrawny ankles.

She hummed to herself as she set the tray on the floor, transferred the jug to the washstand and brought the tea, her lips clamped in concentration to keep the cup from wobbling on its gilded saucer.

“Hello,” said Cordelia, her voice rough from lack of use. “Can you please tell me where I am?”

The girl looked up, her eyes expanded as the tea fell from her hands and shattered on the floor.

Cordelia gasped, as the girl let out a scream so loud, she nearly had to cover her ears. “SHE’S AWAKE! OH BY THE ANGEL, MISS CARSTAIRS IS AWAKE! COME SEE…”

Cordelia grimaced as she braced herself on her elbows and lifted herself up. Every muscle felt as if she’d went to bed sore and hadn’t used them again for several days. The light in the room seemed aged, as if it were late afternoon or early evening. She was used to the pale dawn hours, the birds’ thin choir accompanying her waking thoughts. Curiously, she did not feel guilty for sleeping so late into the morning. The room felt familiar to her. Not the emerald green wallpaper with gold etchings or the leather winged armchair, nor the desk with the stack of books resting closest to the window. A smell in the air reminded her of something. Wherever she was, she felt safe and glad to be there.

“CARSTAIRS IS AWAKE… HURRY! QUICK!” the girl’s voice carried down the other direction of the hall along with the shuffling sound of her absurd boots.

Cordelia shifted to swing her legs out from under the heavy covers when a sharp pain in her side stole her breath.

“Best to stay put,” said a familiar voice by the door. “Until one of the Brothers gets here.”

“Alastair,” cried Cordelia. “Finally, a familiar face. Where am I?”

“The London Institute,” said Alastair, as he stepped into the room in white pin striped pajamas. A wooden crutch tucked under his left armpit as he hobbled on a bandaged foot towards her. “Where we’ve been for the last week or so.”

“Alastair,” said Cordelia, looking at his leg. “What’s happened to your leg?”

“Broke it in three different places after being thrown through the air by that demon.” The bed dipped as he sat down beside her. “Don’t fret, sister, it’s nearly healed. The Brothers want me off it while the bones properly set. I should be good as new by next week. How are you feeling?”

“Sore.” She placed her hand on her rib cage and found an extra layer of padding beneath her nightgown. “Week? You’ve said we’ve been here for the last week?”

His dark eyebrows curved in concern as his eyes looked over her face. “Cordelia, what’s the last thing you remember?”

Cordelia thought about the last memory her mind could conjure. The picture looked muddy and weak in her mind. She’s a young girl running through a patch of daisies on a cliff’s edge, but that couldn’t be right. She’s a woman grown now. Another image of London through a carriage window as the moist air off the Thames hit her face. Ice cream dripping down her hand. Dancing under seductive lights with Cortana. James’s hands on her face as he kissed her on a desk. James kissing Grace. Saying goodbye to James.

“I left,” said Cordelia, closing her eyes to stop the memory. “We left, together. We were going to Alicante.”

“Yes,” said Alastair. “Do you remember what happened after? Do you remember the attack?”

“Attack?” asked Cordelia. “No, I don’t remember any attack. What happened?”

Alastair placed his on top of hers. “Maybe we should wait for Uncle to arrive.”

Cordelia gripped his hand in her own. “Alastair, what happened? What attack? Is everyone all right?”

He opened his mouth to answer when footsteps filled the hall and a chorus of people filtered in through the doorway. A sobbing Sona pushed ahead of everyone and enveloped Cordelia in a hug. Her mother felt weak, frail underneath Cordelia’s hands, she could feel the bones protruding from her shoulders and the bumps of her spine through the thick fabric of her dress. Her shoulder bone bumped Cordelia’s chin as she peered over it to see her Uncle Jem, dressed in his robes and quiet as a statue against the wall. In front of him stood Tessa Gray beside her husband Will. She watched the doorway, hoping and dreading, for James to walk through.

When he did not, she closed her eyes to stop the burn behind them and the pit that grew ever wider inside of her stomach.

“My darling, are you all right?” Sona asked, caressing Cordelia’s cheeks and hair. Cordelia noted the hollowness in her mother’s cheeks.

“I think so,” said Cordelia. “Alastair was just telling me about an attack?”

“You don’t remember?”

“No,” said Cordelia and looked to her Uncle. “I don’t remember anything past leaving the Institute with Alastair for Alicante.”

“It’s not uncommon for some memory loss to occur after the sort of head injuries she endured,” said a quiet voice inside of her mind, but everyone else seemed to hear it too as they all turned to Brother Zachariah. “With some rest and recollection of events, the memories may return to her.”

Sona sat on the bed beside Cordelia, their hands still joined. “You were attacked by a demon. It poisoned you with a barb in your rib cage. When Lucie and James found you, you were nearly dead from your injuries.”

Cordelia pressed her hand harder against her ribs until she felt the sharp pain of a recent injury under the pressure. “Why did it attack our carriage? Demons don’t normally just attack a random carriage.”

“We were hoping that you could tell us,” said Will across the room. “We’ve tried to locate it, but it left no other traces of itself except for the attack against you and your brother. No other sightings. No suspicious activity. Alastair can only recall up to the point of being thrown by the thing, but you were still conscious at that point. We thought maybe you killed it before succumbing to your injuries, but the lack of demon blood at the scene suggests otherwise.”

Cordelia closed her eyes and attempted to stumble through her memories again. She recalled arriving with Alastair to the Herondale manor. Alastair walking her to the door with an umbrella to shield her from the pouring rain. She was trembling at the thought of what she was about to do, of what she was about to lose. Alastair offered to go in with her, but she declined.

She couldn’t recall who answered the door or how she got up the stairs to the library where James often hid away from the world in the comfort of his father’s collection of books. She couldn’t recall knocking, but she remembered him answering the door and the orange glow of the firelight that matched the color of his eyes. She remembered the relief those eyes when it was she he opened the door to.

She could vaguely remember the words that were said, or when she left him, or finding herself back in the carriage with Alastair, but the look in his eyes when she said goodbye would remain with her forever.

“No.” She cleared her throat. “No, I’m sorry. The last thing that I remember is leaving here after saying goodbye to James.”

“It’s all right,” whispered Sona as she stroked Cordelia’s hair. “You’ve only just woken up. Perhaps after you’ve had something to eat and talked with Lucie, or James, something will return to you.”

The feeling of something she needed to do sparked at the mention of her old friend. She needed to talk to Lucie.

“Lucie stepped out for the morning,” said Tessa, eyeing Cordelia sympathetically, “but she’s due to return any moment. She’ll be overjoyed to know that you’re awake.”

“And James?” Sona asked.

“On patrol,” answered Will, with a gentle hand on his wife’s shoulder. “He won’t be back until this evening.”

Cordelia looked away, at her brother’s bandaged leg, at the tear in the hem of her nightgown, at the rune etched into the top of her bare foot, as the memories of her last conversation with James crashed into her.

“I wanted so badly to marry you,” she said. “But a year with you, as your wife, is not possibly long enough.”

The thought of speaking to James after their last conversation left a stone in Cordelia’s stomach, but perhaps it was for the best if she were to be staying in London while they both mended. If any one in the room knew of what transpired between James and Cordelia that last night, they weren’t letting on. Rubbing at the wound on her ribs, she searched the faces around her and found only concern and sympathy looking on at her. A wood pigeon, always the cello in the orchestra of birdsong, gave out its low double coo from the open window, like a beat from a large drum, which began to vibrate in her chest, and she thought it would have been very pleasant just to have remained asleep. 

(Author’s Notes: Hello again everyone! I’m back. I hope you all are doing well. It’s been truly a strange couple of weeks dealing with the aftermath of the death of my beautiful niece (God, that will never get easier to say or write), but we are mending as a family and working towards moving forward through the grief. I’ve been able to spend a lot of time with my sister and my nephew, just trying to keep them busy, but the past few weeks have settled down a little bit allowing me a chance to write and get back into a few projects that I have in the works. Thank you all for the kind words, and well-wishes, and your patience. I’m really excited to be back writing and posting again. I hope you enjoyed this installment. If you did please reblog so others can enjoy it too, please give it a like, hit me with a lovely comment, and follow along with me. Next installment is coming Sunday 9/6.)

[on-the-brighter-side-au]

Suger Rose, mysterious friend

Authors note: sequel What's the weirdest situation you've been in? Again thank you @ace-spiritwell for the idea your the best

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Okay so Joan and Tylan didn't usually do this but this time it needed to be done

So Thomas had given them a key to the apartment in case they wanted to visit or if it was an emergency

And they never really used the key since neither of them really wanted to scare the life out of Thomas since he's forgetful and probably forgot he even gave them that key

After a bit of walking they finally made it to Thomas's apartment Joan carefully inserted the key and walked inside with Tylan

And neither of them believed what they were seeing

Standing there was Thomas being scolded by and talking to a man with a red leather coat

He looked like he had just returned from a fight and was currently cooking something on the Thomas's stove

Thomas was standing to the side with a rare serious expression "you need a nice bath and to relax"

But the man didn't turn away from the stove "First off this is relaxing. Second of all you need to eat more then just sugar! You will eat this burger and salad!"

Joan and Tylan entered a state of confusion he sounded just like Thomas expect less childish

Thomas shook his head and had a small pout "I will not go a single inch near that salad! And besides it'll help you Rose"

Joan and Tylan freezed

This was Rose? The friend from another universe? What?

"Not really I've told you I enjoy the mundane tasks around the house Tea" Rose spoke with a knowing tone like he's done this before

But Thomas never took no for an answer especially when it came to his friends well being so he just huffed "I know but you look like a mess"

They could hear the smirk in Rose's voice as he spoke "like my life"

This caused a reaction out of Thomas seeing as he huffed again and raised his voice just a bit higher than he usually would "No!"

And at that response Rose just chuckled "Dude, you've seen my sides, hell, my creativity made you cry by shapeshifting into Joan and bringing out his tentacles. My personality is a mess, like my creativity has PTSD, how does that even work?"

And as Rose spoke Thomas's expression went from serious to worried and a slight uneasy look and he just shrugged not really knowing what to say

Suddenly Rose stopped cooking and looked over at Thomas "Tea, it's OK. I might be unable to go home for long but I get to meet people like you and Blake. The twins are OK. The realm of Creativity is an amazing garden and while the old kingdom is in ruins and overgrown, it's still full of life. My sides work with what happened. So do I. I know you get worried about me but I'm OK you don't need to"

Thomas gave a nod but he still held a slight uneasy look and held his arms as he spoke in a quiet voice "I...I just care about you alot and want you to be alright" Thomas was never one to try and hide his care for his friends

Rose simply shook his head seemingly trying to figure something out "I will never understand why you and Blake care so much. I just....Appeared. The twins just appeared. Yet you try so hard to care for me. I'm only a blip in the universe. Shouldn't even be here, yet you care and leave your door open...Take the twins so they can hang out with the little ones..."

Thomas gave a tiny sigh "I care because your my friend throughout my life I've learned to care for people especially my friends I want to make sure my friends are happy and let them know that I care and will always be here for them"

Rose smiled at him "you're a great person Tea. I wish I was more like you. More caring" those words made Thomas have a small blush he always got easily flustered if something good about him was said "You're a great person too Rose"

Rose just snorted "hardly" then he suddenly turned around and froze upon seeing Joan and Tylan standing there

And they both weren't far behind either

Rose looked exactly like Thomas expect he was much more tall and looked more tired

It filled them with confusion

Thomas huffed and looked confused as to why Rose froze until he turned his head and suddenly he lit up "Hi guys!"

There were a few moments of silence before Rose gave a small chuckle

"Well, this is as helpful as fucking a cactus. Fan-fucking-tastic."

Upon hearing those words Joan immediately snapped out of their confused state and yelled "Hey! Don't say that infront of Thomas!"

And Rose gave a shit eating as he leaned on his arms "which one?"

This just sent Joan back into a state of confusion and Tylan was currently pointing at Rose and Thomas looking puzzled all the while Rose was laughing at them

Joan was really trying to get over this confusion and tried another attempt "Thomas Sanders"

But Rose just yelled out "Present!" Then he started laughing even harder almost falling over

Joan had somehow forgotten that Thomas- their Thomas was in the room until they heard a huff "don't be mean to them!"

And Rose who was still laughing threw his hands up and give a small smile "Sorry Sweet Tea, I forgot they're not my best friend.... "

"oh"

Meanwhile Joan was questioning why Thomas was being called Sweet Tea instead of his actual name "Sweet Tea?"

Rose chuckled and turned back to stove and started to cook again "It gets confusing with all the Thomas I run into, it's also hard with the sides so I come up with nicknames. I'm so use to being called Rose I sometimes forget about Thomas. Sweet Tea is because this guy is way to cute"

Joan just stared and was questioning so many things "other Thomas's?"

Tylan wasn't even focused on the conversation as they were too busy snickering at Thomas as he blushed and flapped his sweater sleeves around

Rose simply shrugged at Joan's question "hungry? I'm making burgers and salad and Tea! You will eat the salad because you can't live off of sugar!"

It wasn't a surprise that Thomas pouted and stomped his feet a little "No no no! I won't eat it!"

"Tea come on! Just eat the dang salad dude!" "Nu!"

This went on for a few minutes the two just going back and forth arguing and in the end Rose won

"hmpf" Thomas pouted he wasn't happy but that disappeared quickly as another conversation was started up

"Sooo Tea how are the Twins doing with their dragons parts?" "I'm sorry what?"

Rose looked back at Joan for a moment before looking at Thomas "They don't know?" "Know what?" "It's supposed to be a secret" "wait you've been hiding something from us?!"

Hearing that Rose turned around and faced Joan again with a grin "congratulations you have just found out that my Twins accidentally turned Tea's Twins into dragons"

Joan looked at Thomas with realization "wait is that why you own cat toys? And also those dragons that I saw were Roman and Remus?!"

Thomas nodded and even looked a little guilty "yeah...sorry for not telling you I was told to keep it a secret" and Joan sighed not bearing to look at Thomas be upset. Thomas always listened to things he was told they couldn't blame him even if they wanted to "it's fine Thomas just try not to hide something too big next time" "okie dokie!"

Rose was about to say something else when suddenly two Twins came up

One wore black and red with heeled boots and had a cape and the other had ruffles on his shoulders and wrist they were both tall

They were holding Ro and Re who in turn were hugging them and were giving them fond looks

"Uhh what?" "Roman Remus-"

The pair looked at Rose and held Ro and Re closer "OURS!" And as quickly as they came they sunk out and left

The was silence again before Rose spoke up "well....they where just kidnapped. I'll let you know when they're back"

Joan was expecting to see Thomas freak out or even seem a bit concerned but no Thomas just giggled and nodded as if this happened everyday

"Thomas aren't you even a little worried about Ro and Re?" Thomas just looked at Joan still smiling "nope! The Twins love to hangout with Rose's Twins they even call them their big brothers it's so cute!" "it still surprises me that they even got along in the first place"

Joan let out a sigh they had no idea about any of this stuff and they were one of Thomas's closes friends there was so much information that needed to be taken in

They must been loud since when they looked back up Thomas was looking at them with concern "Joan? Are-" "I'm fine Thomas just...this is alot to take in right now. The others think that what you were saying was just your imagination and not actually real" "I am very real thank you very much"

Joan was at a words loss due to all the confusion so they decided to not say anything

Nothing was said for a few minutes the only sounds that were heard was Thomas making sound effects and spinning around and having to sit down because he got dizzy and was almost scolded by Joan and Rose for wanting to get up and spin around again

"The foods done anyway" Rose spoke as he put two plates down in front of Thomas one had a burger and the other had a salad with vegetables (except for carrot's of course)

"so-" Rose paused the bitter look on Thomas's face while he stared at the salad was very noticeable and Rose was having none of that

"Tea your gonna eat that salad"

Thomas's response was to push the salad forward not pushing it off the table but pushing it away from him only for Rose to push it right back infront of him which made Thomas whine "I don't want to" "well your gonna have to now eat"

Thomas stared at Rose for a few moments before getting up from his chair and running "Tea! Get-" Rose didn't even finish his sentence before Joan had already caught caught Thomas and held him in the air "Really Thomas? Your almost the size of a midget you know you can't run" Thomas's only response was to whine and struggle against Joan in an attempt to get free and run away again and ultimately failed

He grumbled as he was put back in the chair and this time couldn't run away since both Rose and Joan were blocking his way he responded by crossing his arms and pouted

Rose sighed "Tea your my friend and all but it's like I'm talking to a child most of time" which only made Thomas pout even more

Minutes passed and still nothing no one moved knowing one wrong move would send Thomas running away again

He kept looking for a way to try and leave he even tried to crawl under the table only to pulled right back up

The silence was starting to become unbearable until finally Thomas caved in and grabbed the fork and started eating the salad with a bitter look

Joan patted his back and Rose grinned at him "see? told you it wasn't that bad" which only made Thomas huff in response

Rose just smiled and turned away "welp I think it's time I get going it was nice seeing ya Tea I'll come get the Twins in a few hours" Rose spoke as he opened up a portal and began to walk through and waved "bye Tea bye Tylan bye Joan"

Everyone waved as Rose walked through the portal

But quickly Rose poked his head through the portal again "Also Joan make sure Tea finishes the salad and burger okay thank you bye!" And went back through

Joan nodded and was about to turn back to Thomas when suddenly he made another run for it and this time Joan didn't catch him in time

"Thomas get back here!" "No!"

[dogbearinggifts]

Beauty in the Mundane, Chapter One: To the Wolves

Umbrella Academy

Author’s Note: This is chapter one of an AU answering this petition from @scotty-the-t-rex calling for Hazel and Agnes to go back in time and adopt the Hargreeves kids. If this is the first time you’re seeing it on your dash, you can read the prologue here. 

The whole fic is also available on AO3. 

Oh, and if you’re interested, the song I took the chapter title from is by Anberlin. I don’t know if I’ll use song titles and/or lyrics for every chapter, but I liked it for this one. 

**********

Day four of surveillance wore on toward a conclusion without a single broken law on Sir Reginald’s part. 

This was to be expected, Agnes had told him. Reginald wasn’t quite a hermit, but only an actual hermit would dare call him social. Hazel was still a bit fuzzy on which laws applied where and when and to what extent, but he figured any evidence gathered whilst spying through the windows of that mansion would come down on his head, rather than Reginald’s. An act witnessed in a public area, though—that was fair game. 

He only needed Reginald to cooperate. 

Hazel took a bite of coffeecake. It wasn’t near as good as Agnes’ donuts, but neither dared approach Griddy’s—Hazel because he had been a stranger to Agnes when they met, Agnes because crossing paths with your younger self had to create one hell of a paradox. “Think I’ve probably crossed my own timeline before,” he’d explained, “but the Commission always sent me someplace I wouldn’t run into myself.” 

He’d been on a few stakeouts, though with the Commission’s emphasis on finishing a job before most folks could finish tying their shoes, he was still a bit vague on proper procedures for operations that lasted more than a few hours. Moving their base from one side of the Academy to the other hadn’t been a bit of strategic brilliance so much as an act of necessity; when a building took up an entire city block, it was impossible to tell when your target might slip out through the back door. 

“I’ve got some beef jerky in the back, if you want that next.” 

Hazel smiled. He still wasn’t certain if bringing Agnes along was a good idea, tactically speaking, but her pleasant company kept his more unwelcome thoughts at bay. “I’m good, thanks.” 

She settled back in her seat, though she quickly sat forward again. “Oh!” 

He followed her gaze down an alley between the Academy and a neighboring business, caught the same flash of movement she did. His hand rested on the ignition. 

No adults lived in that household, not yet. According to what Agnes had read, a robot mother and a monkey butler resided on the premises; but given Sir Reginald’s fondness for privacy, the only grown man who could be stepping out of a side door was the billionaire himself. 

A balaclava covered his hair, and a grey overcoat covered him down to his knees. Dress slacks ended in polished loafers. He didn’t bow his head as he exited, didn’t glance over his shoulder or hesitate before sliding behind the wheel and pulling the door closed. The knot in Hazel’s stomach tightened. 

“Looks like he’s not expecting a tail,” Hazel said. “You remember the plan?” 

Agnes nodded, retrieving a small notepad and pen from the glove compartment. A quick glance showed him a few mock interview questions. Posing as reporters would likely earn more bluster than answers, but if they were caught, the lie would do. “Which one should I ask first—the one about the mustache-sclupting contest, or the one about Colonel Sanders?” 

Hazel watched as Sir Reginald’s car chugged to the end of the alleyway, paused, and turned right without signaling. This might not be their chance, but it was a big enough oddity to merit further investigation. 

“Whichever one you think’ll make him madder.” 

He eased the car down the alley and turned right. 

******** 

Following a target through city traffic was always easier than following one through the countryside, for obvious reasons, but that was no guarantee of secrecy. For every three targets who drove on entirely oblivious, there was one whose continual glances in the mirror revealed more than they were meant to see. 

Reginald kept to the speed limit, sometimes dipping a mile or two below. He took no side streets, made no U-turns and slowed the second a light turned yellow. Aside from an apparent allergy to using his blinker, his turns were neither sudden nor sharp. Were this an ordinary job, Hazel might have found the target’s obliviousness heartening, even amusing, but as Reginald turned off the main road and down a side street, Hazel only felt sick. 

He might not do anything worth calling the police over. Hazel knew that. He probably paid someone else to buy his groceries and it was too late in the day to try and renew his driver’s license, but there were other errands that could have lured him from his home. Reginald might be on his way to do any number of perfectly legal things, and then Hazel and Agnes could leave to plot their next move. 

City traffic thinned as high-rises and glass-walled office buildings gave way to townhouses and fourplexes scattered among the sort of crackerbox homes that had been popular six or seven decades prior.  Reginald slowed, and when he turned left at a stop sign, Hazel crept through the intersection at a speed that might have made Cha-Cha slap him upside the head and ask if he’d forgotten where to find the gas pedal. 

“He went past the last stop sign,” Agnes said, craning her neck to see out his window. Hazel had seen it happen, but still welcomed her confirmation. “And the—oh no, he’s going right.” 

“You know what’s up there?” 

She frowned in thought, a frown that deepened after a second or two. “I—I think it’s a cemetery.” 

“Can I get to it from here, or do I have to take the same street he did?” 

“Keep going straight until the next sign, then turn left. Should take you right to it.” 

He increased his speed. Inside of a minute, a green hill sprouting grey and black slabs of stone filled his vision, but he was more interested in Reginald’s car, parked along the curb mere feet from the entrance. A flash of movement signaled the man himself striding through the wrought-iron gates, quickly taken out of sight by the winding road. 

Hazel pulled into a spot on the opposite side of the cemetery, one shielded from view by hills and a few overgrown trees, stepped into the evening chill without a word. Agnes closed her door quietly, and they both noted the payphone outside a gas station catty-corner from where they stood.

Agnes caught his gaze, and he held it a moment. 

If all went according to plan, they were about to change the timeline. 

He’d known it from the beginning, been cognizant of that fact since he turned her heartbreak into a suggestion. But all those hours watching the Academy, all that time waiting for the man to show his face and charting a strategy—it all had kept the true scope of what he was planning to do at bay. Now there was nothing between it and him. Nothing to keep the thought from crashing down on him like an entire wall of crumbling brick. Only Agnes, slipping her hand in his, kept him from ducking back into the car and heading to the opposite side of town. 

Part of him said to pull away, leave both hands free for whatever confrontation might ensue if Reginald turned out to be more observant than he let on. Another part said it would add to the illusion. Just a couple strolling through a graveyard on a cold autumn evening, on their way to visit family or a friend, keeping to the grass because the grass was more pleasant. Nothing unusual, nothing to worry about. 

Reginald’s figure came into view, and Agnes dropped his hand. She might as well have dropped the rope tethering his life preserver to the boat. 

A monument stood by, one of those melodramatic statues depicting an angel in grief with names and dates and a host of other information engraved below. It wasn’t the best concealment Hazel had ever used, and it was less than he would have liked, but he didn’t see anything better. 

Reginald’s footsteps fell silent as he stepped off the path and brushed through the grass, stopping at the sort of mausoleum Hazel imagined a guy like him might insist upon as the site of his own burial. A key opened the door, but he didn’t step inside, choosing instead to speak inaudibly into the darkness. Hazel watched a second, then cocked a brow. 

“He usually yell at dead guys like that?” 

“No.” Her voice carried the same confusion he felt. “I mean, not that I know of—he could. He does have a son who—” 

Her words ended in a gasp, cut short by a hand to her mouth. 

“Oh my god. I—he—oh my god.” 

Hazel remained standing as she sank to the grass. He’d known the guy was twisted; Agnes had relayed a few accounts from Vanya’s book, stressing that the girl was excluded from much of what went on and likely didn’t know the half of what her siblings had gone through. What she had seen, what she had known, was more than enough to convince him getting those kids out from under his thumb might be enough to avert the apocalypse after all. Locking a kid who could see ghosts in a mausoleum seemed right up his alley. 

It still didn’t explain why. 

Klaus—the older Klaus, the junkie—he wasn’t the only one to break in the dark. Not everyone could hold it together through beatings and stranglings, but leave them alone with their thoughts, alone to wonder what was next, alone to recall the pain and terror and families they might never see again? There wasn’t a kink in the world that could save you from that. 

But that was the realm of torture, and torture was a tool. Find somebody with information locked up in their head, attack their defenses long enough, and those defenses would crumble. An eight-year-old boy couldn’t possibly hold secrets so valuable his own parent would lock him away. 

Whatever speech Reginald had planned was not a long one. He turned away, locked the door, and retraced his steps. Hazel watched, waiting for him to look his way, waiting for some signal that he ought to duck further out of sight, but Reginald didn’t so much as slow his pace. 

Hazel pushed questions aside. The why wasn’t near as important as the what. 

He fished a quarter from one pocket and crouched in the grass beside Agnes. “Go to the payphone and call the police. I’ll wait here and make sure Reggie doesn’t come back.” 

Her fingers wrapped around the quarter, but she didn’t pluck it from his grasp. “You’re not going to let him out?” 

Her tone and the look in her eyes were enough to give him pause. “The police’ll do that.” 

“And what’ll he do? Just wait in there with the ghosts?” 

He’s lasted this long sprang to mind, but Hazel didn’t dare voice that thought. “Look, if I mess with their crime scene—” 

“It’s not a crime scene, Hazel, they know who did it. Or they will.” 

“I didn’t bring my tools with me.” 

“It’s a mausoleum, not a bank.” 

There were more counterpoints, more arguments, but the guilt coiling in his middle was nowhere near welcome. He sighed. “I’ll pick the lock.” 

She took the quarter and got to her feet. He stood with her, watching as she retreated toward the gas station. After a few yards, she halted, saw him still beside the monument, and pressed her lips together, waving her hand in a shooing motion. 

The lock was nothing fancy, nothing too complex. A simple pick and a little finesse would get him through in a matter of seconds. Hazel could see the process laid out in his mind as though in a how-to guide, or that handbook he hadn’t touched since training. Everything else, everything that came after, was as clear as a mud puddle subjected to a thousand splashing feet. 

Hazel reached into his pocket, brushed aside the coins he’d collected on his travels, and found the lock picks. They weren’t anything fancy, just a set of picks gathered in a case similar to a Swiss Army knife, but they did the job when the job didn’t have to look too professional. 

Light faded from the sky as twilight became evening, but Hazel could have found the necessary pick even in the dark. Once he had it, he set to work. 

The lock clicked open. Once it did, once Hazel’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, he couldn’t have spoken had he wanted to. 

Klaus Hargreeves was a far cry from the junkie who’d stolen his briefcase. He was small at this age, with a slight build and curly hair. A blazer covered a starched white shirt and argyle sweater vest, but knee-legnth shorts, similar to those Five had worn, were his only shield against the cold floor. 

He should have been the one to call the police. Agnes. Agnes would’ve been better suited to this, would’ve had the kid calm inside of a minute and ushered him out with no trace of tears. One of those police officers allegedly on their way would have known what to do. Grab any bystander off the street and chances were ten to one that they would know what to do better than he could ever guess. Chances were ninety-nine to one that they would improve the situation, rather than making it ten times worse. 

But Agnes was gone, the police weren’t yet en route, and Hazel was alone. 

“Hi.” That seemed as good a place to start as any. “Whatcha doing in here?” 

Klaus drew a shaking breath, but only a few choked sounds came out. He’d folded himself up against the wall, as if making himself smaller might fool whatever terrors lurked, and he made no attempt to move—though he did shrink back as Hazel took a few steps forward. 

It should’ve been a paramedic walking toward this kid. A paramedic or some minimum-wage employee manning the gas station across the street. Someone who didn’t have a small army of ghosts trailing behind and no idea how to fix a person instead of breaking them. 

He couldn’t do anything about the ghosts, but perhaps he could make himself a little less intimidating. Hazel knelt, suppressing a wince as pain shot through his knees. A name. Maybe a name would help. “I’m Hazel. What’s your name?” 

There was another long gasp that shuddered like a dying engine before Klaus spoke. “Klaus.” 

“All right, Klaus.” Hazel shifted, and the scant light illuminated fresh tears on Klaus’ cheeks. “What do you say we get you outta here?” 

Klaus didn’t move. His gaze flitted from Hazel to the air beyond. As far as Hazel knew, ghosts couldn’t open doors; and he’d never seen one, but surely there had to be some indicator separating them from the living. But as Hazel watched, Klaus’ eyes didn’t flit back and forth the way they might have from one ghost to another. His gaze remained steady on the door, as if trying to determine whether it had opened at all or if that hint of rescue was simply a figment of imagination. 

Jesus, how long had he been in there? 

Hazel bent his fingers slightly, as if inviting him to move closer. “C’mon. Let’s get you out of here.” 

Klaus shifted. Both arms remained wrapped around his knees, but one loosened. 

“S’okay. We’re gonna get you out.” 

One arm let go and then the other. He shifted onto hands and knees, reached out to meet Hazel’s outstretched hand. 

Klaus’ cold hand brushed Hazel’s for only a second before clinging to it and, before Hazel could fully process what was happening, Klaus had his arms wrapped around Hazel’s neck, so all he could do was pull himself upright as Klaus buried his face in Hazel’s shoulder. 

Hazel got to his feet, balancing Klaus’ weight as best he could. His wrist screamed in protest, but he couldn’t set the kid down. Not now, and it was only a few steps to the door. 

Those few steps weren’t over quick enough. Hazel’s vision of setting Klaus down gently and sinking onto the grass died when Klaus kept hanging on, so he sank awkwardly to his knees. Once Klaus’ feet touched the ground, he slackened his grip. Cold air chilled the tears on his suit jacket almost instantly. 

Hazel expected the relief, but not the mingling guilt that came with it. 

“You okay?” 

It was a stupid question, but Klaus nodded despite another shuddering breath heralding more tears. Not knowing what else to do, Hazel put a hand on his shoulder. 

Maybe he shouldn’t have been surprised that Klaus leaned in, or when he threw his arms around Hazel’s shoulders. The torment he’d escaped hadn’t been the most brutal in the world, but given what he could see, it wasn’t something Hazel would’ve wished on anybody, either. Of course he’d be a little fragile after. Of course he’d cling to whoever was near. 

It still took a few seconds to return the embrace as Klaus sobbed into his shoulder. 

********

By the time red and blue lights split the darkening sky, Klaus had polished off most of the sandwich Agnes had purchased and was working on emptying the water bottle. In defiance of Hazel’s prediction, he sat closer to him than to Agnes. Unsure of what else to do, Hazel wrapped an arm around his shoulders. 

“Sorry if I messed up your crime scene,” Hazel told the first officer to come within earshot. “Wasn’t sure how long the kid had been in there.” 

“I would’ve done the same thing.” The officer crouched down, and a tag bearing the name S. GUTIERREZ came into view. He gave Klaus a gentle smile. “Glad you made it outta there.” 

Klaus looked down at the water bottle in his hands.  

“What were you doing in that mausoleum, anyway?” The officer’s tone wasn’t quite jocular, but it was lighter than Hazel expected. “Those things aren’t safe for kids.” 

Klaus swallowed. 

“It’s okay,” Gutierrez said. “You’re not in trouble.” 

It was a minute before Klaus spoke, and when he did, his voice was only a decibel or two above a whisper. “My dad.” 

“Your dad put you there?” 

Klaus nodded. 

“Why’d he do that?” 

Seconds turned to minutes, and Klaus did not answer. He swiped at his eyes with his sleeve. 

“It’s okay,” Gutierrez said again. Another few seconds passed. “What’s your name?” 

“Klaus.” 

“What’s your last name?” 

“Ha—Hargreeves.” 

“Who’s your dad?” 

Agnes put an arm around Klaus and pulled him close, letting the tears come. It was a few minutes before they ebbed. 

Gutierrez’s smile faltered. It had never been joyful, never been full of true mirth, but it was a good deal sadder now. “We’ll save the other questions for later. How ‘bout we get you over to the paramedics, make sure you’re not hurt?” 

Klaus should have looked up at Agnes, or even Gutierrez; but when he raised his head, his silent plea was turned only on Hazel. “Can…can they come with me?” 

“I don’t see why not.” 

Hazel tried to catch Agnes’ eye long enough to give a tilt of the head back toward the car, but she’d already gotten to her feet, giving Klaus a hand up. Great. 

He cast a glance toward the flashing lights, squinted past in search of any people armed with cameras, tape recorders, and questions ready to fire, but saw no one. Just squad cars and an ambulance. No sign of Reginald’s car, either. No reason he could see to leave in a hurry, but that could change at any moment. The number of corrections agents exposed by reporters wasn’t high, and those stories had never gone anywhere of note, but it had happened to them. It could happen to him. The chances of it happening went up exponentially with each minute he stayed at Klaus’ side. 

Cold fingers wrapped around his. Hazel knew, before he even looked down, that Klaus had taken his hand. He looked anyway. 

Fear was still all over his face, but not the sort Hazel had seen again and again. Not the desperation of a target with no more options, confronted with an end that had come too soon. There was some relief in that look, Hazel could tell, but something else, something he’d killed all too often. 

Hope. 

There were reasons for it, reasons Hazel couldn’t yet name. Not through the guilt and trepidation choking off thought or the unknowns peering at him from behind that mausoleum door. There was a plan—there had to be a plan—but it refused to surface through the questions crowding his mind, and the sheer scope of what he didn’t know left him breathless. He didn’t know what he’d do if a flock of reporters descended on the cemetery or the police asked for a fingerprint or Reginald’s car came around the corner. 

He only knew he couldn’t leave. 

************

Author’s Note: I do suspect Reginald locked Klaus in the mausoleum a) more than once and b) when he was a lot younger than 13. I will explain my theory as to why Klaus specified that he was 13 when it happened for one corn chip. 

Prologue

Chapter Two

[han-nm]

AM I “SOUTH AFRICAN”?

AM I “SOUTH AFRICAN”?

The People vs. the Rainbow Nation Documentary

Do South Africans Exist? By Ivor Chipkin

Something I ponder and experience every single day as a person of colour living in South Africa is the colossal question of “how much am I influenced by whiteness?” it terrifies me to answer it to myself, as I am almost one hundred percent under its umbrella; I’d like to consider myself a subject to it, a worker for it, tirelessly bound to it, gripped and thrown around. I am just another one like myself – unwillingly born into a world where the ideology is decided: to be white. Born into a strong Indian culture and raised Muslim, I constantly struggled to grapple with my own culture and whiteness; and only now am I realising how there is something so inherently wrong with this. I feel fortunate. I feel grateful: I am finally free of the shackles of whiteness. I feel like I can say that openly now, but am I really free? Deep down I know this is not true, and I sadden... there is too much depravity: history, politics, power, privilege, ideology, oppression and whiteness.

 The question tugs at me: “what do white people know about people of colour?” it is mentioned in The People vs. The Rainbow Nation that our society comprises of soft forms of exclusion. The condition of whiteness is the very evident disengagement with the surroundings which existed before the white world. The profound sense of financial power is evident in the realm of South African universities due to the structures of privilege and therefore the unequal scale of power - historical privilege. The colossal influence from the western world makes it viable for this to be: when you are white and born into whiteness, you are born into power immediately and automatically and the mindless choice to ignore everything “other” around you, is a part of being white - and the privileges that come with it - as you are vehicle of power and form part of the hegemonic superstructure which rules the land: why should you care about anything else? White bodies hold immense power and that power is in play, every day I wake up and live about in the world.  

 I have been attending institutions run by predominantly white people and therefore white authority has auto-tuned my mind. The years 2005 and 2013, I attended Madrasah (religious school), every day after school. Madrasah was run by Indian Muslims like me – my usual day growing up consisted of these two extreme environments. My identity was a struggle in this country, particularly in my hometown of Durban where I have experienced extreme forms of being amongst whiteness. My identity in South Africa as Indian amongst masses of white people and masses of Indian people is a perpetual question for me: who am I? When the dominant group is white, surely that is who I am, there is a reason why I hear my parents change the way they speak when they speak to white people, surely white is better. When all the magazines I read as a young girl were filled with photographs of white girls, surely beauty is white. In Do South Africans Exist? Chipkin brings about the notion of “the authentic national subject” and citizens. I believe the people of colour in this country are the true, authentic national subject. Victims of years of oppression and today still grappling and struggling through its aftermath; I believe that WE are the history of this country as we are victims of the hegemonic superstructure that governed this land: white supremacy.

 Shying away from my culture and skin colour was a common occurrence for me. The literal denial of my authentic existence because of whiteness: I was often grateful that I was fair-skinned like my mom, that way I was one step closer to being white. The reality of South Africa is that whiteness still permeates throughout society. It is something that has been relentlessly embedded within every individual. Looking back at Steve Biko and the Black Consciousness Movement, another question which emerges for me is “what forms does Black Consciousness take today?” the basic psychological effects of whiteness and the metaphysics around not being white – how is this evident today? After 181 years of slavery, 200 years of British colonialism and 46 more brutal years of Apartheid? The dense historical baggage of privilege through structural and intricate systems becomes more apparent to me and moreover the manner in which my life has been shaped by this. I ask myself, “How do you see yourself now, as a person of colour/Indian?” I can comfortably say that I am now very aware of the notion of whiteness and racism and hence am gradually liberating myself from whiteness via a multiple of trajectories. I now think of my fellow friends of colour, my own family, are they still psychologically oppressed? I can comfortably say yes. It is mind-blowing to now witness, hear and talk to people of colour and experience their psychological oppression. More often than not, I find that it is so evidently subconscious and entrenched within their entire being, that they have no sense of individualism - this is heart-wrenching to deal with. I feel like I have been robbed of myself, that my family has been robbed, that we have been born into a society where the bar is already set: to achieve whiteness. The philosophy of the BCM (Black Consciousness Movement) is significant in the manner in which people of colour exist today in this country and globally – it is almost unfathomable to comprehend the idea of dismantling the overbearing superstructure of whiteness and moreover the desire to achieve it. Or rather what should be speculated is the notion of the rejection of the superstructure of traditional white values; and the awareness of oneself and all the authenticity as a person of colour and the culture within. However, this brings me to the thought of whether one would desire this rejection? Would my Indian friend rather be comfortable as they are, living under whiteness and conforming to it? I know I conform to it, but I am aware that I am and the extent to which I am and moreover, the choice to not allow for myself to hold beliefs about my mere existence as a person of colour DUE to whiteness. To reject the imposed ideas thrown at me every day and invoke, embrace and love my being as a person of colour.

��Ivor Chipkin mentions the “modernity in Africa” – “modernity” is of course a construct imposed by Western ideology and therefore is almost imperious when situated in the context of Africa. This alludes to the idea of the historical construction of colonies: in particular, South Africa, with both Dutch and British heavy influence, it is with no doubt to say that this country, let alone the entire continent, has been denied every ounce of authenticity. So much so, that the thought of this country without colonialism is beyond comprehension. The notion of the clash of civilisation comes to my mind when I think of the history of colonialism and the effects on the psyche of the colonised – the almost robust need to literally separate humanity into us, them, ours and theirs.

 The next question which arises is the rhetoric of “decolonialisation” – is it possible to be fully “decolonialised”? I believe that the answer to that question is the question of whether “decolonisation” exists in the contemporary world, or rather, what forms it takes. Frantz Fanon explains the notion of “decolonising the mind”: the idea of the creation of a “new man” by reconstructing humanity. “In his pioneering 1952 study of the relationship between racism and the colonialism, Black Skin, White Masks (Peau noire, masques blancs), Frantz Fanon relied heavily on the psychoanalytic theory to understand the traumatic sense of inferiority that overtakes those dominating their homelands. Fanon conducted his study during the French occupation of Algeria, in the twilight of European colonialism; his principal objective was to see through the desubjection that colonised people experienced – the process by which normatively divided, self-alienated black subjects internalised their anger and redirected it against them. The colonial apparatus, Fanon believed, successfully manufactures a profound sense of inferiority in the colonised subjects that leads them – actively or passively, consciously or subconsciously – to identify with and seek to serve the colonial agency” (Dabashi 2011: 19). For starters, it is pivotal to remember that white people are responsible for white consciousness in this country. Ignorance itself is white privilege: the mere act of choosing to ignore and evading the realities of being white and the metaphysics and politics around it is a part of the privileges of being white when you are safe from depravity in the context of being a person of colour. There is dire need for perpetual and vehement process of educating, reading and knowledge presently and henceforth toward the future. It is about looking at your life as a white individual and taking responsibility for it and beginning to change it.

 ZANDER BLOM’S PAINTINGS AND POSTERS – STEVENSON GALLERY

 There has never been an exhibition I’ve attended in my nineteen years that has been as white. Don’t get me wrong, I love me some Zander Blom. I find his work incredibly inspiring and it visually captivated me and engulfed me one hundred percent. I enjoyed the obsessive use of line and shape and the beautiful choice of colour. There were primed and unprimed canvases which I found interesting; the way they both effectively worked in the space.

The space itself as a whole was a bit uncomfortable for me: I liked the manner in which the posters were curated; as if looking and observing at lots of posters stuck on a wall. However, the bigger space created a mundane narrative for me. I suppose that is how it was perhaps meant to be, a simple setup of the works hung around the room. Another thing was that I hadn’t seen Stevenson Gallery painted fully white in a while so being immersed in the white cube space was something I felt I needed to adjust to.

The reason why this exhibition was so “white” to me is because there was a blatant and immediate sense of it; extending perhaps to white masculinity. Zander Blom, being a white South African male, overtly references famous white male artists throughout this body of work. He references particularly Paul Klee, Henri Matisse and Pablo Picasso. All in their own senses and realms, pioneering icons of their times. What was Blom attempting to say here? Was it just a subconscious or unconscious thing or was there consideration as to what his work connoted? Moreover, the specific reference to these artists alludes to the notion of primitivism and the politics around culture. This begs the viewer to ponder this exhibition and its possible intentions or perhaps the manner in which the viewer perceives the work with its various elements.

 Dabashi, H. 2011. Brown Skin, White Masks. Pluto Press, London.