Chapter Text
𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈
2005
The mists rise over
The still pools at Asuka
Memory does not
Pass away so easily
Yamabe no Akahito
死
Today is day sixteen.
There is a sakura tree outside your dorm window. Since it’s early April, the tiny blush-hued buds are finally flaring out full blossoms on the snow-dusted branches, the earliest hints of imminent springtime—your very first season here, in this country, in this world, that you can’t work out, for the life of you, just how you got stuck in.
There is a heater in your room you can have on all night, without worry about the power bill, and enough space for a proper desk and chair. Textbooks and scrolls sit upon it, neatly stacked to the side, an open pencil case leaning rather skewiff against the desk lamp, pens and highlighters spilling out of it. These textbooks are a miscellany of average high school subjects and confidential manuals borrowed from the campus library that no average Japanese teenager would have even the faintest inkling of. Manuals regarding cursed energy, cursed techniques, and centuries-old cursed artefacts.
There are books and scrolls recounting the history of the various clans this society is puppeted by, too. The Big Three, in particular—each house’s past streaked with blood and rancid with corruption. Each in kanji. Hiragana. A writing system you do not recall learning in full. Yet, somehow, you can cast a skimmed glance across the pages, and each word registers, is recognised, and you know what it says.
Two weeks and two days ago, you opened your eyes and found yourself here, in this very dorm, the calendar reading March, 2005. The day circled was the twenty-third, then. It is the seventh of April today.
Apparently, you and three other teens had recently moved into the campus dorms one week prior to the beginning of the school year. Thus, though in a daze for the entirety of it, you had borne witness to the very first week three of the most principal characters to a certain manga series had at the school everything snowballs within in over a year’s time. Over a year’s time. What the hell is this?
In a way, it was as surreal as meeting one’s most beloved celebrity. Except, far, far weirder. It’s one thing to be noticed by the likes of Britney Spears, but a complete other to have a fifteen-year-old Gojo Satoru peer at you from over the rims of his opaque sunnies.
For a good three days, you had stared blankly at your dorm wall once campus tours were over. Ieiri Shoko’s hair was still cropped short, but she was far more petite than seen in her second and third years at Jujutsu Tech, and as an adult woman. And she’s the eldest of you all.
The girl won’t pick up a nicotine addiction until next year, though, it would seem—in place of it, however, appears to be constant chewing of gum, and her way of breaking the ice was pulling out a packet of spearmint ones, extending it out to the three of you, and saying, “Want some?”
Geto and Gojo had accepted, as did you, and Yaga had told you all to dispose of it in the bin upon laying eyes on your idly chewing selves. Gojo had mimed sticking his wad of gum in your sensei’s hair once the man’s back was turned; Geto had a difficult time suppressing his laughter.
You’d also borne witness to those two’s first meeting—the curiosity was mutual as the two hovered before one another with some semblance of indecision, before Gojo opened his mouth, and out came a rather abrasive remark about Geto’s peculiar bangs. His hair’s still tied back into a bun, but is shorter than how he keeps it next year and beyond.
Geto, visibly affronted, then made a comment in return about Gojo wearing pitch-black sunglasses even while indoors, and the freakish blue of his eyes and unnatural white of his hair. As expected, the young man was loudly offended by Geto’s presumed ignorance to just who he was currently speaking to, and, more or less, challenged him to a duel right then.
The raven-haired teen simply breezed over the threat and informed Gojo of his non-sorcerer origins—and was promptly ridiculed by the latter.
“You’re weak, then!” he laughed, and you’d privately wondered to yourself why he was choosing to overlook the immense volume of cursed energy Geto Suguru was housing despite his normie lineage. “Ha! How’d you even get accepted into this place, huh? Did those old coots pick you up off the curb like some stray and bring you here?”
“Yes,” was Geto’s serene response. “I was scouted.”
“Riiight.” Gojo snorted and jabbed a finger at him. “Because the faculty would totally permit some idiot greenhorn onto campus property!”
“Well, that’s what happened.” Geto shrugged. “Ask the principal and the board. I have a strong technique and a lot of cursed energy, so where else was I supposed to go?”
“Back to your little normie town and little normie school and little normie family, that’s where! Non-sorcerers have no place in this society.”
At those words, you’d felt a bit put on the spot, despite not being the one addressed. Were you not more deserving of such a speech? Would it not be a more apt description for the likes of you? You had the least cursed energy and weakest technique of them all—it was no wonder Gojo had paid you hardly any mind upon meeting. That, you were glad for; the boy had given you a scrutinising look, scrunched his nose, sniffed, and then moved on without a word. Not worth his time.
Shoko seemed pleased with the sight of another girl, however. You’d been unsure at her friendliness—well, what can be considered friendliness for such an insouciant person as her. But, would forming friendships with these three throw a wrench in your plan, though, in your efforts to keep your head down and go overlooked? Is it not the best course of action to remain distant, so when things fall through, it won’t hurt as bad?
“You’re really loud,” Geto’d commented, cringing at Gojo’s exclamation. “Do you have to yell? Are you ever quiet?”
“I’ll quiet down once I put your normie self in your place!”
“Can you guys shut up?” came Shoko’s tired voice. “You’re giving me a headache. Great way to start the year, y’know.”
Gojo folded his arms across his chest, and leaned his weight back on one leg arrogantly. “Go somewhere else, then! I need to teach this punk a lesson!”
“But she’s right? Maybe it would be better if we didn’t get off on the wrong foot.” Geto tilted his head and revealed one hand from a pocket, holding it out to Gojo in offering. “Yeah?”
There was a brief silence from Gojo, as he squinted at the hand before him, lips pursed, nose turned upward. “…Hmph! I’ll let you off this time.” Finally, he accepted Geto’s palm. “You’ve got a lot to prove, greenhorn.”
They shook hands, Geto grinned, and then, after a beat, Gojo grinned too.
“But your bangs are funny.” He fixed his companion with a devious look from over his specs. “Who in the world did you let near your hair with scissors?”
“You’re one to talk.” Geto looked far more amused than indignant now, as he nodded to Gojo’s own cropped locks. They distinctly lacked their signature shagginess as a second year, and before he sported an undercut. Even after, when he held his hair up into spikes with his (now future—you can’t wrap your head around that) blindfold. “You look like you’re balding.”
Due to your dazed self still processing the fact that you somehow ended up here, in this world, that is meant to be fictional, with zero explanation, you were by far the least talkative of the group, and you’d found yourself feeling inexplicably shy around them. It really was as if you’d been reverted back to that fifteen-year-old girl you’d long left behind, stature and all, from the adult woman you really are. No, this was much different to meeting a celebrity—at least something like that wouldn’t be so confusing and unreal an experience. This, however? Here, now? In the world of one of the most popular manga series in history? And you don’t even know how you ended up here?
You’re now peers with the finest wielder of RCT in the modern era; with a boy who will act as another’s moral compass until he loses sight of his own; with the young, promising pride of one of the Big Three clans, naïve and spirited as a teen—abandoned and alone as a man.
What will you be? Who will you be? If you have a role in this, just what is it? With what you have, what can you do?
You rise from your bed and shut off the screech of your alarm clock; you pull open the curtains so you can see those first blooms of spring beneath the assuaging snow; you shove your socked feet into your slippers and move to your wardrobe to retrieve your uniform. Routine. Simple. Mundane, nothing fancy, despite the circumstances. Perhaps you were expecting something a bit more dramatic to all of this. It’s almost laughable how easy it’s been so far. Nothing much to it at all.
Maybe that’s because nothing bad has happened yet, and won’t for a while. Is it a mercy you have over a year to prepare? A boon? A bane? A false sense of security? Where’s the catch, and when will the snare snap shut?
The mess hall isn’t big, but the food is good, and the hot chocolate warms you from the inside to the point where you’re almost running too hot. You remind yourself that today is the seventh of April. It has been sixteen days since you arrived here. The year is 2005. You’re fifteen again. The hands around the mug of this warm drink almost feel foreign, but they’re yours—same nailbeds, same knuckles, same everything, just a touch smaller than what you’re used to. Surreal.
Ieiri Shoko enters the hall next, around half an hour later, and finds a seat at your table; her room’s a couple doors down from yours. The girl’s sleep schedule is botched even now. She often sleeps through her alarm and arrives to the first class of the day late. Two times, so far, has she nearly let her head droop down into her tray of food in front of her as sleep draws her back under.
Yaga’s already told her to sharpen up her act. It’s Gojo who gets scolded the most, though; Geto less so, but he still follows close behind. You haven’t been reprimanded at all so far, because you do all as you are told, and you’re still working all of this out, and you want to lay low, and you don’t want to cause any trouble, and you need to remain in a favourable light. As favourable as you can without drawing attention. So you can navigate the next twelve-or-so years in relative peace and quiet, with as few hiccups as possible.
That should be achievable, in some way, you think. The chopsticks are steady in your hand as you eat. You should be okay so long as you stick to the plan. So long as you maintain your cool and keep your head screwed on tight. You know how it’ll all end if you don’t. Sixteen days in, and you’ve already seen how artless and starry-eyed these three are—why shouldn’t that gleam in their eyes remain even into, beyond, their late twenties?
“You’re away with the fairies again,” comes Shoko’s dozy mumble, and she covers her mouth with a hand in a wide yawn. It’s contagious; you find yourself yawning, too. Then she relaxes again and pushes her breakfast around on her plate with her own pair of chopsticks, cheek on a fist, eyes lidded and sleepy. “Barely even seven in the morning and you’re daydreaming.”
“Sorry,” you murmur, lowering your head, gaze on your own plate. It’s that inexplicable shyness again that you can’t shake—or maybe it’s just how overwhelming all this is, and it weighs down on your shoulders, and you can’t look them in the eyes properly. “I’m just, uh, thinking. About stuff.”
“Clearly.” Shoko has a sip of her drink and pops a bit of grilled salmon into her mouth. There’s a pause as she chews and swallows her food, and then, “Tell me.”
You blink. “…Sorry?”
“Tell me what you’re thinking so intensely about,” she elucidates, tilting her head at you. You can see, with the progression of this arbitrary morning conversation, the last of that drowsiness evanesce from her face. “Go on. Whatever it is, it’s been bothering you for a while, so spill.”
“Ah…” You hadn’t been entirely aware your incessant brooding was so visible and burdensome—and even noticeable enough to someone who has known you for only a fortnight. “Well…I’ve just been thinking about, erm, the school, and my technique, and how, uh…”
“How you’re gonna do?”
“…Yeah.” You settle with that. “Pretty much.”
“Eh. Don’t worry about it.” The girl gives a shrug and scoops up some rice. “I’m not super athletic either, and why should I be? All I do is heal. How exciting is that?”
“I think it’s important,” you softly reply, curling your fingers around the handle of your mug, lifting it to your lips. The liquid is rapidly cooling. “You know, because…this line of work is dangerous.”
“You don’t have to stay here after graduation.” Shoko brushes her fringe from her eyes. “You could always, I dunno, leave and go live life as a non-sorcerer.”
Oh, I wish. “…That’s a little tricky, though, isn’t it?”
“It’s been done before, and I’ve heard that when people do, they’re far happier and live much longer.”
You lean back in your seat a bit. “So that’s what you’re going to do once you graduate?” I know you will stay too.
“Nah. Higher-ups and family wouldn’t let me.” She places some rice atop a piece of tamagoyaki. “My technique’s too valuable.”
No inflections of pride or conceit resound in her voice—she only looks resigned. Fifteen years old, only in her first year of high school, and this is how she speaks of her future? With resignation? That she knows there’s no way out?
With what you know, you wish you could change this. But you can’t. You don’t really know what you can do here, except survive the next year as a sitting duck before it all goes to shit, as the narrative dictates.
To feel the hope bleeding from you so early in… What are you to do? Look her in the face and tell her it’ll all be okay, when it won’t, if you fail them? Once you fail them?
Even if you try, will anything work?
“Well…” you begin after a pause, returning your eyes to your plate, “maybe we’ll have more…agency later on, you know? Considering how, well, we have such strong classmates.”
“Isn’t your brother pretty renowned for his strength?” Shoko downs the rest of her matcha. “Don’t you have him to fall back on?”
Ah. Your brother. The sibling you have been afforded in this world, that you do not know, nor have you yet met. Only text messages have been exchanged between the two of you so far; a skim read of the chat history betokens a relatively amenable relationship between whoever you were before all of this, and him.
His name is Haruto. Your family is a minor clan within the realm of jujutsu. The house technique is one that is shared between siblings, as according to your research into it from the campus library, and the younger always receives the weaker version of it.
It’s a formidable technique, in spite of the lesser social standing of the lineage. One passage stood out to you, enough so for you to memorise it, and for it to resonate around your head for the past week subsequent you falling across it:
Cursed Technique: Implosion. Exclusively an inherited technique. Grants the wielder the ability to perceive the internal structure and overall composition of their opponent’s anatomy, ascertain their weakest link, and channel a burst of cursed energy into the area, which results in the target imploding in on themselves. This technique will thus completely eliminate their body, soul, and cursed energy. When applied to multiple targets at once, results are catastrophic.
You doubt it’s anything that simple. Perhaps, if you were the elder sibling, you’d be in a far more promising situation here. But, so far, you have not been able to channel and utilise your cursed energy reserves, let alone sense any—if you have them.
You’re fairly certain you do, though. Gojo would’ve long been up and arms about why an individual with no cursed energy is on school grounds and sharing classes with him; surely, his reaction would be far more heated than what his first meeting with Geto yielded.
Would you believe it if I told you you’ll be teaching someone just like that in twelve years’ time, Gojo?
Such thoughts draw you in deep—into the future, into the events to come, to the pupils yet to set foot here. Pupils that, at this moment, would only be babies—a pair of twin girls, in particular, who have only a childhood of misery awaiting them.
“…I suppose so,” you eventually reply, fidgeting with your chopsticks. “But…he’s in Takayama right now, enduring our patriarch’s nagging.”
“So why did you decide on this place?”
“Where else?” You give a shrug, as if you know—as if you know why you’re here, as if you don’t only have assumptions to work off of. “Kyoto’s too…traditional, I don’t know. Haruto went here, anyway, so it was sort of the obvious option.”
“Well,” Shoko starts, heaving a sigh, eyes shifting to the mess hall’s entrance behind you as a pair of raucous voices echo into the room, “it’s a relief you’re here, actually. I’d go mad if it was just me stuck with those two.”
You survived it in one life, you privately muse, somewhat mirthful. But you’re also rather flattered by her words; Shoko was always a rather reserved girl, and remained so as a grown woman, but you suppose she was the candid sort. You just didn’t expect her to be so candid this soon.
You’re not sure if it’s a good thing, either. Again, isn’t it the lesser of two evils if you were to maintain distance with these three? So, that way, if you manage to alter the narrative enough, you can take your leave with only a scarce few strings attached?
Who am I kidding? You glance over your shoulder to watch the two teenage boys make their way in with far too much energy for the current hour, and head towards the refectory’s self-serve station. How could I ever hope to prevent such a dire fate for the both of them, and not expect there to be ties involved?
Now that you’re here, you’ll never escape. Even if you do succeed in leaving, it’ll be just as Nanami Kento experienced: jujutsu and curses and the deaths of those you failed to protect will always haunt a sorcerer’s steps, no matter how far they go.
You’re now inside the story of the very manga series you treasured prior to somehow landing here. You’re surrounded by characters you adore. You have the means to rework the conclusion of the narrative you were never satisfied with. You just don’t know how to go about your care for them and the equal dread you hold for their inevitable ends—and thus, by extension, your own.
You see no future for yourself here, other than what must be done. And what is it that must be done? How must it be done?
“They’re just kids,” you mutter, half to yourself, half to Shoko. “They deserve to have fun.”
“Why are you talking like an old woman?” The girl across from you sniffs and fixes you with a squinty-eyed look. “‘They’re just kids’. Yeah, and they’re annoying as fuck. Geto stole my shampoo.”
Your brows lift in surprise. “He did?”
“Yes! He said he needs it more than I do.” Shoko cuts the boys’ oblivious selves a glare as she crosses her arms and leans them against the table. “Idiot. I bet Gojo dared him to do it.”
“Did they…sneak into the girls’ communal bathroom?”
“If they did, they’ll be hearing from me. The bastard probably used one of those freak curses he carries around with him.” She lifts a hand and rakes it through her cropped hair. “Whatever. I’ll get him back eventually. Maybe when he comes in injured from a mission one day, I won’t bother healing him.”
A small smile prods at your mouth. “You should swipe his phone in return.”
Her eyes brighten, despite you voicing the thought in jest. “Hey, that’s an idea! We can blackmail him with whatever we find on it.”
“Or, uh, you could steal his deodorant?” You also didn’t expect her to be so devious. “And Gojo’s too, so that way they’ll both be scolded by Yaga-sensei for the stench following them around?”
Shoko’s eyes are sparkling now, and she grins. “Both are good. When should we steal them?”
“Steal what?” The seats on either side of Shoko and you are pulled out, and down sits Geto to your right—but it’s Gojo who’s fixing you both with a narrow-eyed look over his glasses, a crafty glint in his eye. “Is it something to do with Yaga-sensei? Are we stealing his binder before he can assign us homework?”
“That binder you’re talking about is his mission planner, idiot,” corrects Geto, bringing a good heap of ramen to his mouth. “Did you not see? I thought you were supposed to have good eyes.”
“Shut up! I did see! That’s exactly what I was asking, dumbass!”
“Ooh, touchy as usual. Are you that sensitive when it comes to your little prestigious ability? Inferiority complex much?”
“If you two are just going to fight,” cuts in Shoko, pinning the bickering duo with a scathing look, “then you can go away and leave her and I in peace.”
“No. We want in on this little scheme you two have got brewing.” The white-haired brat harrumphs and nudges her with his elbow. “C’mon! Spill! You know that we’d be way better at swiping Yaga-sensei’s mission planner than the two of you.”
Her eyes narrow into slits. “Is it because we’re girls?”
Gojo blinks in offence. “Huh? Don’t put words in my mouth!”
“It’s totally because you’re girls.” Geto snickers into his cup of coffee. “Gojo thinks you’re weaklings.”
“And am I wrong?” he counters, falling into his friend’s ploys. “Neither of them are strong like us. Especially—” Gojo juts his chopsticks in your direction—“her.”
You blink. The table goes silent upon the ivory-haired idiot’s triumphant huff. You’re too stunned to gather words for an adequate reply; Geto looks just as taken aback, and Shoko is glaring murder into her companion’s side profile after a pause of her own. I know slights about her strength wouldn’t worry Shoko, you ponder, pressing your lips together awkwardly as you lower your eyes to your tray of food, but what is with that look?
“You have a shit personality,” the girl states, brow clinched low. “We haven’t even gone on a mission yet. You haven’t seen her in action. For all you know, she could kick your ass.”
“With those levels of cursed energy?” Gojo cocks a brow at her. He speaks as if I’m not even here. Weren’t you expecting this? “I doubt it! Barely even enough to hurt a fly.”
“Gojo,” comes Geto’s low voice, and the boy’s shaking his head at him again. They’re not on a first-name basis yet?“Quit it.”
“I will not! Her brother may be pretty strong, but can the same be said for her? Ha!”
“And that’s her fault?” To have known her for only so brief a time, but Shoko’s already coming to your defence? “Look, I knew you were a dick, but this just—”
“Maybe we should table this conversation,” Geto interrupts again, lips flattened. “It’s the beginning of the year. Don’t be so hasty with your judgements, Gojo.”
“I have great eyes.” You know he does—you all do. Which means he’s right. “Which means I’m right!”
Shoko elbows him back now, far more harshly than his initial nudge. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, so just shut up, you assho—”
“It doesn’t really matter,” you quietly say, cutting them off. All three heads turn to you, and you shrug. “It…isn’t as if he’s wrong, you know. It’s common knowledge in my, uh, clan that the older sibling usually gets the stronger version of the technique, so…”
“See!” Perhaps you unintentionally encouraged him; Gojo sits up straighter in his seat and now jabs a finger at you. “Even she agrees! She’s the weakest of us! So don’t you think all the heavy lifting should be left to those who actually have the strength?”
“You can bring up such matters in a far kinder way, Gojo,” Geto admonishes, placing his chopsticks down. “You hurt her. You should apologise.”
“Why should I apologise to the weak?” The kicker of it all, actually, is the way in which the boy tilts his head, furrows his brow, and parts his lips in such a befuddled manner. He really doesn’t see what he did wrong. Not that you disagree with him, per se—Gojo is only fifteen, after all, and he has a lot of growing to do, and he will always carry that deep-seated disdain for the weak even until his dying day—but he’s still right. You are weak and you shouldn’t be here—but what control, do you or does he, have over this? “Are you seriously saying that I’m the bad guy here? Just because I stated a fact?”
“Facts can be stated kindly.” And not even Geto is rejecting it—he is chastising Gojo on his coarse way of words, not the matter itself. Does that sting? Or are you too aware of your situation for it to grate? “There is no need to be mean.”
“Apologise to her,” orders Shoko, far sharper in her approach. “Now, you bastard.”
They’re just kids. You look at Gojo and all his present immaturity and all his protestations and you only find regret. All three of them. He’s just a fifteen-year-old child—and then he’ll be a sixteen-year-old child, and then he’ll be a seventeen-year-old child, and he’ll always have to while his days away with the weight of the world on his shoulders until he’s cut down in the most brutal, unfulfilling, and unworthy way possible. The man he will become is the honoured one. He will reach that plane next year; even now, he is the strongest. Right now, he is a child. And for the past fifteen years, he has endured a soulless childhood, the burden of duty and might, and the force of an existence long preordained, where he will only ever know loneliness.
So you can’t be mad at him. He’s just fifteen. What’s a little fun at your expense? So long as he has fun, right? So long as he’s happy? Even if only for a short while?
“It’s okay.” You raise your hands placatingly. “I’m really not bothered. Like I said, it isn’t as if he’s wrong. Not even I know why I’m here. Family’s orders, right? Nothing much the likes of us can do about that.”
“You’re basically a non-sorcerer,” Gojo persists, still apparently believing you’re encouraging him on this. “So you should go live as one.”
“Maybe I should.” Lifting one shoulder in another half-shrug, you return your eyes to your tray. “But I can’t right now, so I’m rather stuck here until I can.”
“He didn’t mean anything by it,” Geto tries to assure. “He’s just an idiot. Ignore him.”
“Don’t tell her to ignore me! Are you forgetting who I am?!”
Yes. He’s only fifteen. He certainly acts like it. Geto’s the disparity here—doubtlessly, he’s been raised well, upright and doted upon, but never spoiled and pampered. That’s why, even at his young age, Geto is already a gentleman of sorts—and it only further agonises you when you look at him. And it’s this child, with such kind eyes and so benevolent a demeanour, who will become such a monstrous man in two years’ time? It pains you deeply. Will I be able to stop it?
Or are you powerless before the preordained? The destined? The narrative, that may very well be more than set in stone? Will Gojo and his loud, inelegant views on your weakness be only further proven true when you’re incapable of saving anyone?
These two fifteen year old boys will have serious blood on their hands someday; one more so than the other, but the other will still have to put the one to death. An execution, a bloodletting, of immense selflessness, and of immense heartbreak.
Selflessness and heartbreak that is only befitting of the strongest, who is meant to stand alone.
“It’s really okay.” To truly soothe Shoko and Geto’s troubled expressions, you even manage a reassuring smile of your own. “I’m not offended. I am weak, and so it’s my job to try and get stronger.”
“Ha!” But it appears even that sounds ridiculous to Gojo. “I’d like to see you try. What’re you gonna do when you get left behind, huh?”
You hardly take any notice of the immediate scolding that ensues from the two others; you’re too stricken with the weight of his words. Left behind. Left behind. Left behind? Is that something you’re at risk of?
Doubtlessly. These three will each become the strongest in their own rights—one to be the finest RCT wielder, worked to the bone for every one of her days subsequent graduation; one to become the most formidable curse user of the modern day; and the other to become the strongest jujutsu sorcerer seen since the Heian Era, surpassing, or at least paralleling, the King of Curses himself.
He’ll die to that same King of Curses in thirteen years’ time. You’ve been going through this over and over again—how will I prevent it, if I get left behind?
“Seriously, what is your issue, Gojo? Why are you being so mean to her? Just because you’re some hot shot from a big, rich family doesn’t mean you get to shit on those less fortunate than you!”
“That is not the attitude we jujutsu sorcerers should have,” concurs Geto, frowning at his friend. “It is our duty to protect and aid those weaker than us. Instead of insulting her, you should be offering your help.”
So this is where it begins. You’d always wondered how the outset of Geto’s influence over Gojo began; where the boy started to realise and rely on his one and only for support and ethics, for a moral compass. It would make sense, though, for it to be now. Up until September 2007, Geto Suguru will keep his hands steady on Gojo Satoru’s shoulders, setting him right when he stumbles and slips, keeping him firmly set on a straight path. But, all that time, unbeknownst to either of them, Geto will be walking right along the very brink of a cliff, a cliff so easy to plummet from, a line between right and wrong so clearly drawn that he shall one day cross, one day plunge into shadow, and one day renounce the morals he so steadfastly instilled in Gojo, and leave this noble world of jujutsu behind.
Noble. Some of it may be, yes, but it is too decayed and hollow beneath the surface for it to ever maintain true constancy to its labourers. For it to never cave in. It won’t be himself or his friends or his teacher or his technique that fails him, that day, no—it will be the higher-ups, the conservatism, the corruption, the system, that fails him, Gojo, Shoko, Toji, Haibara, Riko, Nanami, Yaga, Yuji, Nobara, Megumi—the list ever goes on.
They are none the wiser right now. But you are. You are burdened with this knowledge and responsibility and you must do something about it. Just how?
I have just over a year to work something out. You quietly observe their bickering selves and smile a little bit. I must do all that I can to save these kids. And the ones to come.
It appears that either of them have said something that successfully shuts Gojo up because, once you blink and return to the conversation, pulled from your thoughts, the white-haired boy is sporting a very subdued look on his face, and is peevishly pushing the food around on his plate. And then you look up to the end of the table—and there stands Masamichi Yaga.
“You will all treat one another with respect,” he’s saying, and you can’t see his eyes from beneath his shades—but you feel them, landing on each of you one after another, arms crossed and huge shoulders set, lingering on Gojo in particular with great severity. “I won’t tolerate any more of such talk if I happen to hear it again, is that clear?”
“Yes, Yaga-sensei,” Geto murmurs, eyes on his tray of food, and you’re pretty sure he sends a shoe into Gojo’s shin beneath the table, because the latter jolts upright and yelps in pain, before, with a glare and great pursing of the mouth, he gives his teacher a quick, sullen glance, and returns to absently stabbing at his food again. “…Fine, whatever.”
Yaga stiffens, arms unfolding, and you immediately feel very intimidated on Gojo’s behalf. “What was that, Satoru?”
“I said yes, Yaga-sensei,” the boy rectifies, rather hurriedly. He realises his tone and begrudgingly softens it. “…Yes, Yaga-sensei.”
Shoko also mutters her chastened acquiescence, as do you, before the man gives a nod, and recrosses his arms. “Good. Keep in mind that you will be one another’s peers for the next four years, understand? Learn to get along. You are not young children anymore. You are all being trained in the greatest facility in Japan to protect the citizens of this very country with your individual techniques. In ten years’ time, you will all be working alongside each other as colleagues and friends, so get your acts together. Quarreling will not be tolerated.”
But will they? In ten years’ time, one of you won’t be here, if you fail. One of you will be an enemy—an enemy of the state, an enemy to the strongest, an enemy to the nation. An enemy who will one day have to be put to death by his best friend, have his corpse stolen and desecrated by an ancient curse—and that same best friend will perish also precisely one year later. Are you not at a loss here?
It all daunts you immensely, but there is no point in moping. Nothing will be done if no attempts are made. You must try.
“You should still apologise,” says Geto as soon as Yaga is out of earshot. Gojo’s got a cheek on a fist as he still pushes his food around on his plate. The boy looks up at him from over the rims of his glasses, and then narrows his eyes. Geto is unfazed at such a glower. “What you said was wrong.”
Weary of this back-and-forth, you heave a sigh, gather up your dishes and wads of napkins, and move to stand. All eyes turn to you, and you offer a sheepish smile. “I’ll, uh, head off first. You three finish off your meals, alright? I’ll see you in class.”
Shoko frowns up at you, tilting her head, and then jabs a thumb in Gojo’s direction. He looks indignant all over again, but remains silent as she speaks. “Won’t you stay to watch me beat him up?”
You elicit a laugh and shake your head, pushing your chair in with your knee. “No need. Like I said, it’s really okay. I’ll just focus on martial arts for now, considering how useless I am with cursed energy. I’m excited for our first mission, though!”
A certain someone lets out a soft snort at that, and is promptly shut up by yet another kick from beneath the table. Shoko’s glare is withering, and you chuckle fondly at the sight of the trio. The original three, huh? And I’m in the same class as them now? How crazy is that? Shouldn’t you make the most of it?
No. You should maintain your distance. You’ll be friendly, you’ll be kind, but you won’t draw close. Best kept that way, save everything goes down the drain despite your best efforts, and it’s all proven pointless. The very thought brings you dread. How could you allow such horrid events to afflict these innocent young kids? How could you allow the soul to be stripped of them, so they are a shell of the lively teens they once were as adults?
Geto’s expression is one of concern and compassion as he looks up at you. “Listen—please don’t take anything he said to heart. Really.”
With a quiet smile at his words, you shift your eyes to Gojo, and say, “You are the wielder of the Six Eyes.”
The boy looks up, and his brow furrows. “And? What about it?”
“So, can you tell me if there is anything I could have going for me here?”
What does my cursed energy look like, if there is any, Gojo? More than that, what does my soul look like? Is it foreign, or is it familiar? Does it belong here, or is it alien, just as I am?
He huffs. He remains ever nescient to your silent queries. “Nothing you should get too excited about. I hold to what I said before. You should get out of here. Jujutsu is no place for the likes of you.”
I know. One thing Gojo has, it’s integrity and tenacity. He’s undaunted. Yet, he will be. But then, he’ll bounce back, because he’s just that sort of person.
It’s a shame Geto could not. You will do your best to make sure he does, this time around.
“Well, I’ll be staying.” With a shrug, you begin to turn away, tray in hand, watching as he shifts and the stark blue of his eyes disappear behind his glasses. “I just hope you’ll help me out when I request it.”
“Don’t count on it.” Gojo’s arms cross as he leans back in his seat. “Normies aren’t anything but a bother.”
“That’s not true,” Geto rebukes, disapproving. “It’s our duty, Gojo, for the last time.”
Who would’ve thought their ideals would switch so wholly around this time in two years? Gojo opens his mouth to argue again, but you beat him to it.
“That may be,” you reply, eyes shifting to the plates and cup and napkins and utensils atop the tray in your hands, “but it isn’t their fault they don’t have any cursed energy. Just as it isn’t your fault you were born with it. Don’t you think this is all something we can’t really help…?” You break off, faltering, grip tightening on the tray. Is this a bit intellectual for a fifteen-year-old to comprehend? But you’re trying to make a point, trying to impart this on him when he’s young now, so he doesn’t have to find it out on his own in the hard, cold, cruel, bloody way. And it works both ways, too, because Geto’s right here, and maybe your words will make enough of an impression that, when the day comes—if the day comes, because I might be able to prevent it—he’ll stop to think about them, and about how, though thankless, yes, the non-sorcerers are not truly at fault here, and that the problem lies within the system, and in his own, eventual ideology.
They’re just kids. You must lay the foundations now. Try your best to set it, them, right now. Bit by bit, starting ever so miniscule and small.
But Gojo makes no reply to your words. Neither does Geto or Shoko; they all simply stare at you, blankly, and you find your worries are founded. Yes, they are a bit young to understand it just yet. That’s okay. You just have to trust that they will, even if it takes one of them two years, and takes the other ten.
You doubt it will. Gojo, in the original story, caught on pretty quick. Geto’s defection was a bucket of ice water to the face; a spear to the gut. A proper wake-up call. Just not one you wish he had to suffer.
Shoko will suffer, also. Because, was she not there, too? Did she not lose a friend on that day, too? Just because she didn’t outwardly display her hurt, and just because it seemed to be water off a duck’s back for her, doesn’t mean it was. She deserves a proper ending, too, and that ending means she should never have to bury either of her high school friends.
Once your job is done, you’ve decided, you’re going to peacefully take your leave. Hop on a plane and head back to your home country, or maybe somewhere tropical and nice, just to return to that normalcy you’ve now lost. It’s not something you can shake. Two weeks is not enough time for the longing for home to fade away.
You’re not sure even a decade will be. But, considering how you are now stuck here, with no hope or way or idea of how to get back, the dread can only be exacerbated. Your life back then may not have been the most ideal, but at least it didn’t involve risking your life to combat grotesque monsters of varying intelligence on a regular basis for the foreseeable future. Nor having to shoulder the burden of saving three particular kids’ asses for the next two years, and, if that doesn’t work, everyone else’s for the next ten until 2018.
Likely the strangest part about all of this, you muse, as you give their silent selves one final smile and finally walk away, is how I am now reliving twenty-one entire years. Beyond 2018. And if I can’t get out, and I fail, and I outlast those two and a whole lot of other people, what will I have to live for in this world?
A world that was once fictional, and should be fictional. You have too many questions. They whirl around your head all hours of the day, in the back of your mind and ever-nudging even as you occupy yourself with other matters, and you haven’t the slightest clue as to whether or not you’ll ever even get any answers. And with answers, you’ve found, come only even more questions. Will there ever be an explanation for this?
Perhaps not. Likely not. You’ll just have to live with that. You’ll just have to live with it and do what you can. That, right now, is all there is to this.
I should be able to find some way. You will have to. No point in going around in circles on this, trying to skirt around the truth. The truth is that you’re trapped, you’re largely helpless, you’ve got a year to sort things out, and you’ve got one hell of a decade-long shitshow to prevent.
So perhaps you should start with the foundations, the origins. Start with your “family”. Start with your brother. Start with the kids themselves. Familiarise yourself with the environment. Apply your knowledge of cursed energy and the history of jujutsu society best you can, and use it to maneouevre this place quietly and deftly. Keep your head screwed on tight and your cards close to your chest.
I just can’t die in the meantime. If you are killed by a curse, what happens after that? Nothing? You don’t go back? It just ends? You’re not eager to find that out. I must survive until the end.
Again, there are no guarantees here, with this. For all you know, on the very first mission you’re assigned, you could die. It’s far too likely to not consider and not proceed forward into with great caution. You cannot rely on your peers or your family or the staff, so who else is there, other than yourself?
So you will try. You will think deeply before you act. You will keep your mouth shut and your origins quiet. In truth, there is no room for slip ups here. You have only one shot. And it’s in the dark, but you either hit the bullseye, or you’ll find that bullet ricocheting itself right back to you—and, without exception, it’ll be a fatal wound.