REARRANGED
Lucid Dream Arc - (2) Old Works
:.:
Before I'd seen Gojo—somebody universally recognizable from the world of Jujutsu Kaisen—I'd just assumed that I was in a normal nightmare with normal ghosts. But… I'm starting to believe this isn't just some hyper-vivid dream. I might be here. In their world. How else can I explain everything? Nothing else makes any sense. Or, at the very least, everything else makes way less sense than that. So, yeah. I might be here. Really here.
I might really, really in the world of a manga. And I might really, really be suspended over a fifteen-story drop, with only the grip of a capricious and mercurial man-god keeping me from turning into a red stain on the pavement below. My free hand tries to knit into the fabric of his black Jujutsu High uniform, but I hit an invisible wall: Infinity. Even if I could manage to grab him, it wouldn't save me. Not if he gets a wilder hair and decides to just let go.
And I'm suddenly really, really, really fucking scared.
"You're going to tell me exactly how you know about Sukuna," he demands icily. But there's an almost imperceptible upward quirk at the corners of his lips, like some vicious part of himself is enjoying this. I remember the manic, carnal look in his eyes when he'd fought cursed spirits and turned them into goop; he likes violence, luxuriates in it, even. If he even thinks I'm a threat, then it's lights out.
"I was telling the truth, earlier! I swear! I didn't think this could be real!" I panic when his grip on my wrist shifts. His fingers curl near where I'd shredded my forearm on the pavement the night before. "Do you really think I'd be stupid enough to pick a fight with you if I thought you were really the strongest Sorcerer alive?!"
"You said it yourself: maybe you are stupid. I don't know you."
Okay. That's on me for being rude to him in the café. And his mocking is completely warranted, in this case—I'm clearly a fucking idiot. I search my mind for a way to convince him that I'm telling the truth, but… honestly? If I didn't even believe that this wasn't a dream before now, how is he going to believe me? Universe hopping is so stupidly absurd! There's no way a sane person would hear me out and be like, 'yeah, that tracks'. Tears pool in my eyes, half from the icy wind so high up and half from the fear of the fall.
He's going to drop me. Or take me back to Jujutsu High and torture me for information.
I try to gather my wits. "You don't know me, but I know you. At least, I know a little about you from what I saw in the manga. You're one of the main characters early on. There's even a flashback arc dedicated to you. Just, please, let's go back to the ground and I'll tell you everything." The wind swallows my voice.
"Oh?" Gojo's head tilts, and I wonder what his eyes look like behind that blindfold. I wonder if they're as enigmatic and enchanting as they'd been in the drawings. He gives nothing away, though. His lips flatten together, expression inscrutable. "Still with that story, huh? Guess I'll have to convince you to tell the truth."
"No, please—"
And then he lets go.
And I'm falling. Spinning in the air, mouth open in a silent scream of terror
.
Faling.
.
.
Down.
.
.
.
Further.
Falling feels familiar, like I've recently plunged a great distance. But I don't remember what it reminds me of. There's only the all-consuming terror as the ground races up to meet me. Then the fall is halted as a hand grasps my ankle. The stop is abrupt enough that the action wrenches my hip out of place, I think. I cry out as a sharp pain lances up my leg. Oh, God! It hurts so bad! Worse than my scraped arm.
And now I'm upside down in midair, still at Gojo's mercy. I crane my neck to look up at him, only to see the smirk has evolved into that smug Cheshire grin. He's… he's having fun tormenting me? Sadistic bastard! I slam my eyes and jaw shut, stalwartly avoiding looking down at the ground. There's no telling how far he'd let me drop, but we're still so high up. There are people below, milling about the sidewalks. From here, up on high, they appear to be little more than ants. They're none the wiser of what's going on above them, of my predicament. Does anybody in the nearby buildings see what's going on? Does anybody care?!
I inhale rapidly. Blood rushes to my head, making it hard to think.
"Are you prepared to talk, now?" The bones in my ankle grind. How is he so strong? "How is it that a foreigner knows about a Forbidden Special Grade Curse? Tell me, and I'll finish you off before the Higher Ups play with you. Trust me; they're way scarier than I am." His tone implies that's a lie; he knows he's fucking terrifying.
He isn't going to believe me. That's the truth of the matter. I can't tell him anything that happens with Yuji Itadori, since the main manga takes place in 2018. And talking about Geto Suguru right now might just piss him off enough to finish me for good. So, what can I say? What can I do? His grip tightens further on my ankle, and I can feel the agony of my dislocated hip supporting all of my weight.
This is where I die.
And I look at him. Then it comes to me. What I have to say. "Throughout Heaven and Earth, I alone am The Honored One," I grit out through clenched teeth.
There's a moment—an insignificant and tiny amount of time in the grand scheme of things—where the godlike being known as Gojo Satoru freezes. And he regards me with something close to horror. "Where… where did you hear that from?"
"From you. Just before you defeated Fushiguro Toji in battle with Hollow Purple. That's what you said, right?" I heave as the weight on my chest gets worse. It's hard to breathe with all the blood flowing where it shouldn't. My temples throb in time with my frantic heart. Black dots dance at the edges of my vision. Am I going to pass out here? "I know because I saw it. The second season of… the… anime. You were dead and then… you… came… back."
I think I pass out, then, because it all goes dark.
From the darkness comes the discordant sounds of tires screeching on asphalt, bones crunching as they break, and a woman screaming. Did he drop me after all?
There isn't enough of my consciousness left to wonder why it's all so familiar.
:.:
In the darkness, I experience true dreams: flickers of light and vestiges of memories that play at half-speed behind my eyes. I dream that my mom is talking to me, just talking. She's sitting up in my bed, my old ratty quilt pooling at her hips. This must be before the stroke, I note. Before she'd had to go to the hospital. Before she really started dying. Mom looks… good. She's smiling and laughing at something I'm saying. I don't know what we're talking about, because the whole scene is muted.
It passes slowly, moving at less than ten frames a second. And I use that time to look at her. To really look. Because someday my memories of her might not be so clear. Someday, all I have left of her might be a fuzzy impression and the pictures on my phone. My sister looks more like her than I ever did, but there are similarities in the way our noses crinkle up when we laugh, in the way we poke our tongues between our teeth when we smile—like we're up to some unknown mischief. Mom had been pretty, more so than I'll ever be. She'd been radiant in a way that others notice immediately. It'd been some of her inner beauty pushing outward, I think.
I'd taken notice of it immediately. She'd been my first subject to draw… and my most frequent.
The scene shifts, then. It's not us in my apartment anymore.
The summer sun ripples through the air, bright light visible even through the sepia tone of the dreamscape I'm in. Our back yard. Before Dad died. I look around and find him kneeling at the back of the small yard, bent over garden beds full of greenery. He'd always been outside: weeding, fishing, hunting. The man had been anything but a homebody. Always moving on to life's next great adventure. He'd moved on to his final adventure without any of us. One night, he'd complained of a sore throat. And he'd gone to bed early while we stayed up and played a game of Trivial Pursuit. My sister had won of course, sponge of useless knowledge that she was. And by the time we found out that Dad had stopped breathing, it'd been too late for the doctors to do anything. Asthma attack, brought on by COVID. He'd suffocated in his sleep.
When the image of my father spins around to face me, his face is blurred at the edges. Fours years gone is all it's taken for him to start fading. I reach out into the dream, just to press a hand against his sun-weathered cheeks. My hand goes through him, and the bits of him that I touch swirl into smoke, slipping away. His image wavers for a moment, like the ripples of a reflection on water, then he's gone.
I wonder how long it'll take before I fade away, too.
The thought is there, then not. And I think it's weird that I'm worried about fading away. I'm still fine, right? I'm still here?
A shopping cart appears in front of me, and I watch as it wheels across my dreamscape; one wheel is clearly busted, and the thing squeals ominously before disappearing form view like all the images before it.
From the void, my sister calls my name. Again and again. Louder and louder. She's nowhere, though. So, I close my eyes and listen where her voice might be coming from, as it echoes around me. I turn to face her, or at least where I think she is.
When I open my eyes, it's not my sister above me. Instead, it's a familiar woman with long brown hair. I remember her, I think; the doctor from Jujutsu High, Ieiri Shoko. Gojo and Geto's old classmate. Her pretty caramel-colored eyes are bracketed by heavy eyelashes at the top and heavier bags at the bottom—a woman whose sleeping schedule is irregular, or perhaps, nonexistent. The clothes she's wearing are rumpled, speaking to a long day without a break and a distinct lack of vanity. Her neatly-trimmed nails tap on the back of a tiny white plastic square.
The look she regards me with is one of curiosity tinged with wariness. "So, this is your name, after all," she states clinically. "I tried calling it a few times to see if you'd respond."
She moves to pass me the square and I raise my hand to take it, only to be stopped by restraints. Thick chains tether my arms to the bed's sturdy metal frame. And I feel the telltale heavy eights at my ankles as well. The woman doesn't acknowledge the bindings. But I know that they're probably there for her safety. In case I'm a threat. Well, I certainly don't feel like a threat to anybody, not even myself. It feels like all of my limbs were used as the rope in a game of tug-o-war. I sit up as much as the chains will allow and hold out my hand.
What she hands me is an ID of some sort. The picture on it is definitely me, but this doesn't look like my license back home. Obviously, the language on it is Japanese, but it's also laid out differently than my old one. And the address is unfamiliar as well. I don't recognize the street name. And, honestly, I only recognize parts of it instinctively, like I had with the money. But the address system in Japan seems to be a nightmare. The curses might not be the scariest part of being here.
Ieiri's form sinks into the chair at the bedside. "Satoru found that in your purse. He's visiting the place listed right now." Her voice is calm, measured. Typical doctor monotone. "Apparently, you've got his interest," she states. "I can tell you this from experience: you don't want him to be interested in you."
"I gathered that when he dangled me above a busy intersection from half a mile up, thanks," I snipe. "Did he tell you what happened?"
The woman gazes at me with those eerily calm eyes, then reaches into her pants pocket to grab a crumpled carton of cigarettes. "Satoru rarely tells anybody anything. Not that it's any of my business, anyway. I just clean up his messes." The way she says that sends a cold chill down my spine.
"Am I another mess to be cleaned up?"
She smiles, but there's no warmth. It's unnerving. "We'll see, won't we?"
There's an uncomfortable silence between us as I look around. Wherever I am, it's not a doctor's office. If anything, it better resembles an upscale apartment. I'm in the loft, I think, because behind Ieiri's chair is a drop off that overlooks the rest of the home. I can't quite see anything else, tethered to the bed as I am, but it seems pretty spacious. The best way to describe it would be 'industrial' or maybe 'modern'. There's a large amalgamation of dark metal and exposed brickwork. Interspersed here and there are wooden accents, stained a deep walnut. The whole place is dark, broody. And probably hellaciously expensive if we're still in Tokyo. The curtains are drawn over the windows, so I have no way of telling where I am.
I lean back, sighing. My hip doesn't hurt anymore, at least. It doesn't feel like it was ripped from its place. And I note with muted happiness that the bandage around my forearm is gone. She must've used her Reverse Curse Technique on me.
"Um… Ieiri-san? Did you heal me?"
Her eyes widen a bit and she exhales through her nose with something like humor. "Well, he did say that you might know things about us." I frown. "I never offered you my name."
"Oh."
"Yeah, 'oh'." She lights her cigarette and puffs on it, letting the sweet-smelling tobacco smoke linger in her lungs before releasing it in a steady stream. Right into my air. Terrible bedside manner for a doctor to have. "Satoru mentioned that you were a special case. He thinks you might be a spy from oversees, but he's not sure. The only thing he's certain about you?" She points the ruby red tip of her cigarette at me. "You're insane."
"I don't think he has any room to talk about insanity. He dangled me. In the air. And let me go." I glower at her. "And I'm pretty sure he laughed when he did it."
"Yeah. He really did a number on you. Dislocated hip and knee, fractured ulna and radius, torn ligaments up and down both limbs. Not to mention your little scratch. He really didn't play nice with you, did he?"
I huff and look away just in time for another voice to break the silence.
"Oh, I was plenty nice to her." Gojo saunters into view, his lumbering form taking up almost the entirety of the loft. "We had a good time, didn't we?" He chuckles and pats my knee, like a close friend would. "Besides, no permanent harm done, right?"
I shake under his touch, shrinking away.
"Did you get anything from the address?" Ieiri's all business.
Gojo runs a hand through his white hair and sighs, telling her that it was a bust. Despite the address provided on my ID being a real apartment somewhere in Okudo, the suite wasn't much help at all. Completely empty. And covered in dust, like it hadn't been lent out in months. The building manager didn't have much information on the place, either; he could only say that it'd been sidelined for repairs with some of the other units, but the contractors hadn't gotten to it yet. Gojo had turned the place inside out, top to bottom. But still, nothing.
"Okudo," I test out, feeling that's familiar. "Katsu-whatever, right?"
"Katsushika City," Ieiri supplies. "You know about it?"
"That's the neighborhood I popped up in. Well, that's what the bus driver told me, anyway." I shift uncomfortably, chains jingling. "I got off the stop near a police station. Then I ran into that Curse. And some guy fighting it."
Gojo sits at the foot of the large bed, bounding me up in the process. "Hmmm... We got a report that a Second-Grade curse appeared in Okudo from one of our Windows. The Sorcerer on the scene confirmed that there was a young woman, quote, 'trying her damndest to get eaten by the thing'. He verified that you could see it, at the very least."
I blush when I think about how I'd tried to walk right into the chameleon-monster's mouth. I hadn't exactly been in the best mindframe, okay? That's back when I was convinced that I was trapped in a dream, for better or worse.
"Anyway," Gojo continues, "we need to figure out what bus she got off of, then get the surveillance tapes." He looks right at the doctor and talks about me like I'm not here. So I reach out to tap him with my foot. Alas, Infinity stops it before it makes contact. The man turns towards me and smiles mischievously. "Now, what to do with you?"
I blink in confusion and gulp. "Believe me? Team up with me and use my future knowledge to save everybody who dies?"
"Yeah... No. I still don't buy that garbage you were trying to sell earlier. Being from another dimension? That's complete bullcrap. Sorry, not sorry." He shrugs, but still sports a mean smile. "You know what I think?"
I gulp. "That I'm an idiot who just wants to go home?"
"I think that you're working towards a specific goal." Unconcerned with the way I jerk in terror, he reaches out with those long fingers of his to poke my forehead. The ol' Itachi maneuver. "I think you're a spy. Or worse, an assassin. It wouldn't be the first time I encountered one of your kind."
An... assassin? What the hell?! I jerk against my bonds, the chains rattling like a death knell. It's loud in the eerie silence of the apartment, the clattering song of my entrapment.
"I-I'm not anything like that! I just want to go home! If you let me go right now, I'll disappear. I promise!"
Gojo's grin never wavers, never loses its evil edge. "Nah. I think I'll keep you for a bit." Keep, like a pet. "Just until I can prove that you're not here to steal our secrets. Or hurt somebody. No, my sweet little Spy-chan; you're mine until I say otherwise."
Incredulous, I stare at him, eyes round and watering. This can't be happening, right?! This is another dream! Because there's no way that I've managed to wind up captured by one of the heroes of the manga, right?! This isn't real; it can't be. Isn't Gojo supposed to be one of the good guys?! I'm not a villain. I don't want to hurt anybody. I don't even want to be here!
So, why is this happening to me? I yank on my chains again.
"You can control the space between atoms and see bugs fart from ten miles away with your eyes; there's a Sorcerer that hops bodies to stay immortal, and has been doing so for a millennia; your school's principal sews cute dolls that come to life and have the insatiable urge to kill… but universe jumping is too much to handle?" I try to keep the disbelief and outrage tucked away, but it bleeds through just a bit. Oops.
"And there you go again, knowing too much about things you shouldn't."
I want to pull out my hair. Or cry. He's impossible!
So, I'm in the plot of an isekai fanfiction story, yeah? I'm here, in the alternate universe of a much-beloved manga. And not only that, but one of the more dangerous worlds, too, where anybody can die. And they do. In droves. So, in theory, I could totally use my knowledge of future events to rewrite everything from scratch, to save all of those people. All Gojo has to do is believe me! They always believe the heroine from another world in the stories. So why isn't it working now?!
One of the strongest characters in this universe is currently sitting right in front of me. Somebody who could alter the very fabric of the universe! And he thinks I'm lying. Or a spy. I look up at him and take a deep breath, trying to stay calm. Which might be next to impossible, seeing as how I'm chained to a bed. And not in my proper universe. On top of all the other shit that's happened to me in the last few days.
"Listen: I'm telling you the truth. Can't you see it? Aren't your eyes telling you that I'm not lying?"
He tilts his head in thought before untying the bandages that keep his vision hidden. And when the impossible blue of the Six Eyes is revealed to me for the first time, I think my heart skips a beat. I can see why they're so coveted now. They're… beautiful. Glowing with infinite knowledge, they affix themselves to me. And I can't look away. It seems like he's searching in my soul, like he's sifting through the murk and mire to dig out the truth. I realize that I haven't taken a breath since he first put those eyes on me, but I can't move now. If I look away, it feels like something bad is going to happen. That I'm going to lose something I can't get back. Something important.
"Tell me again. Tell me the truth," he commands softly. I feel it vibrate in my bones.
"I…" my mouth opens, but my words won't work. I let out a squeak that would be embarrassing, if my brain hadn't gelatinized between my ears. Use your poker face, idiot, I admonish myself. Finally, I manage to get it out. "This isn't my universe. I'm from another world where you're all characters in a manga. I promise," I add, even though he's shown that my words mean nothing to him.
He watches me for a moment longer, then blinks. The broken stare is all I need to wrench my head away and gasp in a shaky breath. I think I came closer to death meeting gazes with Gojo than I did when he tried to turn me into a road pancake. Death by eye contact. Humiliating, right? I look back and he's rewrapping his eyes. Ieiri, meanwhile, is watching from the sidelines, amused.
"Well?" She takes a drag off her death stick.
"That proved nothing," Gojo states simply to her. He has the balls to chuckle. "There are plenty of ways to counter the Six Eyes when you're aware of their existence. But it showed me that she's convicted to her story, if nothing else." The absolute nerve of this asshole! "Thank you for the house call, Shoko-chan. Please be sure to keep this just between us, eh? No need to get those pesky geezers involved."
"Of course, Satoru. Just make sure you know what you're getting into."
"When have I even bitten off more than I can chew?" he jokes genially.
I can think of a time involving a certain Sorcerer Killer, but I keep my yap shut. She waves the two of us off, giving me a chilly smile, before descending the stairs noisily. Huh. I hadn't heard Gojo come up earlier. He must've warped directly into the loft.
"What about me?" I ask, tugging on my bindings. "Am I just supposed to stay here?"
"You're staying right where you are." Gojo's head tilts while he thinks for a bit. "I can't set you free. Killing you now would be a waste, and we would never know your objective or who sent you. And handing you over to the rest of Jujutsu Society would only mean your swift execution." He chuckles in a way that's not particularly comforting. "So, you're a beloved guest. For the time being, anyway."
"Wow, I feel so welcome right now," I mutter under my breath. Then I notice him walking away. "Hey! Where are you going?!"
He presses his extended pointed finger to his smirk, as though shushing me. "It's a secret!"
"W-wait! What about earlier? About what I said? It must prove that I'm telling the truth. That can't information that most people have, right?"
'Throughout Heaven and Earth, I alone am the Honored One'. It's such a specific statement. And happened at such a pivotal moment in the man's tumultuous life. There's no way that he can mistake those words for anything other than a direct reference to his own past. That has to prove it, right?
There's a moment when the line of his body goes tense, rigid, like he's been electrocuted. And then he slowly unwinds. When he looks back to me, though, that smirk is strained. If anything, he looks... upset. "Those words are the exact reason that I know you're here on a mission." The softer, he murmurs, "after all, he's the only person I've ever told about what happened that day."
He? Geto, maybe? Somebody else?
I gulp.
"What does that mean?"
The dread swirls in my gut, only growing hotter.
Gojo doesn't so much as look back at me before literally jumping over the railing and down below like a crazy person. Stairs exist for a reason, show off, I think angrily to myself. He just ran off in the middle of a conversation. Who does that?! I hear the creaking of a door opening downstairs before the telltale sounds of a shower running. That reminds me: I must be disgusting after not having bathed for a day or so… and after the curses that'd drooled/slimed on me. I bet I stink. Good. I hope he can't ever wash the smell out of his sheet.
I stare up at the metal ceiling before kicking my feet huffily. The shower continues unimpeded below.
"That's okay," I announce loudly. "I'll just stay here and amuse myself!" I bang the chains on the metal frame of the bed, just to make my point. The apartment is eerily quiet now that there's nobody else here. I expect to hear city noise coming from the windows behind the bed, but no sound reaches my ears. We're either high up or the windows are thick enough to be somewhat soundproofed. This Is Gojo's apartment; that much I can guess. I doubt this is a building owned by Jujutsu Tech, with how expensive it must be. And I doubt he'd bring me to one of their buildings, anyway, given that he's trying to keep me a secret from the 'Old Geezers'. They must be the Higher Up's he's always bitching about in the manga.
Gojo returns, freshly bathed and wearing a grey pair of sweatpants and an overly-large white shirt. How he even managed to find a shirt that looks large on his beanstalk frame, I'll probably never know. He's traded his bandages in for a pair of shades with round lenses. Even inside this dim place, he's forced to hide his eyes. I wonder how sensitive they really are. The manga hadn't exactly gone into specifics with his abilities—just that they made him a force of nature.
"You'll have to excuse Shoko; her paranoia and protective instincts combine at the worst times," he states as he tugs on one of the heavy chains. So, she's the one who locked me up? "But, still, I promised her that I'd leave you in these until I was certain you weren't here to kill me."
"I'm not."
Gojo chuckles. "Oh, I know. If the Clergy were going to send an assassin after me, it'd be somebody competent." I… I don't even know why I get offended when he implies that I'm a shitty assassin. But it makes my eyebrow twitch. "Still, that doesn't mean that you're totally innocent." He tilts his head, looking oddly catlike with the motion. "Say, can you read minds, maybe?"
I sputter out indignantly. "No! What the hell even spawned that question?!"
He hums under his breath, seemingly thinking something over. "Well, I can't trust you at your word, so I'll have to test it for myself sometime."
Test? Oh, I don't like the sound of that...
He sidles right up to the bed and pops something onto the sheets: lotion. I wrinkle my nose at him. Is he going to moisturize in front of me now?
Instead, I'm surprised when long fingers wrap around my ankles. And I almost kick when my body remembers the last time he gripped me anywhere. I don't want to go for a dangle again, thank you! The coolness of the lotion—something sweet in scent, like vanilla or cookies and cream—soothes my skin where the metal manacles have rubbed them.
"Now you're being considerate?" I can't hide the tired anger in my voice.
Gojo peeks up at me, glasses impenetrable to my glare. "You're still under suspicion, but I can afford you creature comforts while we look into you. It's the least I could do, after I hurt you earlier."
I sniff, faking haughtiness. "What? Is this the part where you claim that you don't know your own strength?"
"Sometimes I don't," He admits surprisingly easy. I do a double take when I realize he's being serious. "That would've just been gentle teasing to another Sorcerer or Curse User. You're either weak, not suited for combat, or a regular person." He finishes up my ankles and moves up to my wrists. "I hadn't realized that you were genuinely hurt until Shoko examined you."
"Oh."
I notice then that there's no Infinity between us; there's only the warmth of his skin directly on mine. "Not being cautious anymore?"
"There's no need. You couldn't beat me even if you could touch me." There's no bragging, just hard facts.
He's right. Even in the Shibuya Arc, when he'd fought three Special-Grade opponents by himself, he'd been able to dominate using only hand-to-hand and his Cursed Energy. Even being able to get through his Techniques, if I could without him dropping them intentionally, victory would be an impossible dream. There's an ocean of power between the two of us, reflective in the way that he's casually touching somebody that he believes could be an enemy without a hint of fear. I'm a bug under his heel—easily squashed should I move too far out of line.
"How can I prove myself to you?"
He tilts his head, and I know his eyes are appraising me again. "You won't have to. If we investigate deep enough, dig enough holes in your story, the truth will come out.." Then his face shifts from stern to playful in a millisecond. Talk about mood swings. "Until then, you're going to keep me company. We're going to have a blast, just wait and see!" The way he says it, it sounds like a fun sleepover and not… well, a hostage situation.
He tosses the lotion on the bedside table and brings me up a glass of water, just within reach of my bound hands, before turning out all of the lights.
And I'm left alone.
In the dark.
I hate how commonplace this is becoming.
:.:
I must've fallen asleep sometime after the white-haired menace lubed up my shackles, because the next thing I know is that I'm literally being turned out of bed.
"Rise and shine, Spy-chan!" Comes the loud voice of my captor. As I fall face-first onto the floor. "We have a busy investigation ahead of us, so let's seize the day, huh?"
By 'seize the day', he means stripping the dirty bed sheets with thinly-veiled insults about how they stink and bulling me into a shower before the sun is even properly up. I have to bite my tongue, lest I tell him that they stink because I stink because I didn't get to shower the night before because I was manacled to his bed all night because he still thinks I'm some sort of operative sent to kill him. And no matter how much I try to logic bomb him that I'm not a spy, because 'why would I have told you about it in the first place?' he just implies that maybe I'm a stupid spy and laughs like an idiot.
I give up on using reason right around the time that he marches me down the stairs and into the bathroom, chains in hand like the leash of a dog prone to running. Like there's anywhere I can run in his apartment, anyway, I snipe to myself. He gestures at the shower with one of his plate-sized hands and commands me to 'shower', again, like one would tell a pet.
"One: I'm not showering with you in here, pervert." I hold up a second finger to accompany the first. "Second: I can't exactly wash up with my new set of bracelets, can I?" The chains are stupid heavy. The'll probably get caught on something and I'll slip and fall to my death before I can prove my innocence. Then I'll be forced to haunt him for all eternity, rattling my chains while he tries to sleep… or get laid. I don't even know if ghosts exist in this universe—then again, I don't honestly know if they even existed in my old one.
To my surprise, Gojo unlocks the chains, which drop to the floor with a loud clang. And then he just… turns around. Like he's not worried I'm going to kill him. Then again, he did say that I'm an incompetent assassin. Maybe I should consider it a blessing that he's written me off as weak and frail. At least he might be a little more gentle with his interrogation tactics.
Keeping an eye on his exposed back, I shower quickly. There's no curtain; it's just an open-air bit of tile with a showerhead and drain, but it's good enough for me in this moment. Oh, cleanliness, I missed you! I hum blissfully under the warm spray of the water. Then I cast another suspicious glance at Gojo's tall form, still politely turned away. And I covertly eye him. He's not quite as lanky as he'd been on paper or through a screen; in fact, I can see the muscles in his arms and shoulders, where his t-shirt leaves him exposed. He's strong. Not just powers-wise, but body-wise, too. He must still train rigorously. Honestly, I'd assumed that he just coasted on his Cursed Techniques.
He must sense my gaze because he chooses that moment to pipe up and ruin my nice shower. "I can still see you, you know. Turning my back towards you makes no difference."
Realizing the implications, I squeak and cover my nude form. He only laughs, the little shit, and tells me that he can't really see me like that, only my Cursed Energy. Still freaky, though. And when I try to pelt him with a shampoo bottle, only for it to stop a foot away from him, he rates my throw a 'zero'. Jerk!
Freshly dressed in clothes fifty times too big for my form, we convene in the kitchen, where slightly-burned buttered toast is our meal of choice. Ah, yes. The breakfast of champions. It's dry and bland, which makes it perfectly clear that combat prodigy he may be, but chef extraordinaire Gojo Satoru is not.
He pours me a coffee all while mocking my taste buds. "They must be dead, because no living human would want to drink coffee without sugar," he states, while dumping an inappropriate amount of sweetener in his own cup. Forget Sukuna; he's going to die of diabetes. And when he pulls the creamer out of his fridge, I notice a curious piece of art stuck to the front with a magnet—the only thing stuck to the front, actually.
"Is that… is that my drawing from the café?"
On a hotel's notepad is a cartoonized version of Gojo himself, complete with a thumbs up and a pointy hat that says 'BAKA' on it. And it's hung up on his fridge, like a proud parent displaying their kid's artwork. I don't know if I should feel flattered or what. And when he laughs and asks me to sign it, I settle for 'or what' and lob a decorative pinecone at his head. This throw gets rated a solid 'one point five'.
When we make it to the living room, I smugly notice that there's a pillow and blanket folded on one of the arms of the couch. He'd slept down here while I'd been chained to his nice, big comfy bed. And the seat looks a little small to accommodate his massive height, so it can't have been a restful night. Good, I think vindictively. We sit on opposite ends of the couch. Thankfully, he hasn't felt the need to shackle me again, but I'm not giving him a reason to. So I'm minding my manners—ish—and staying far enough away that he doesn't suspect nefarious intentions.
There are piles upon piles of documents resting on the table. What..? When I turn to ask him, the white-haired Sorcerer cheekily gestures at me to 'take a look'. I pick up one of the folders and peek inside. Gojo doesn't seem concerned that I read the contents, so it must be okay. Right? The folder contains what appear to be profiles of people of all different ethnicities, ages, and genders. I flip through, curious. What is this? I snap the folder closed and appraise the stacks in front of me. There must be thousands of papers here! Are they all profile sheets?
"Recognize any of your friends in there?" he asks lightly. "Those are the dossiers of all known Curse Users in the world. I've been trying to find you in there all night, but—alas—no luck."
"How many of these have you read?"
"Hmmm… probably ninety percent." I can only gaze at him in disbelief. He'd have to have been up all night long to have… oh. He probably was up all night. It must be difficult to sleep with a strange woman in your bed—who's not there for other purposes, anyway. "I started with the most likely candidates and worked my way down in probability. Either you're a ghost or you've recently undergone a rather in-depth facial reassignment surgery."
"I'm—"
He cuts me off. "Not a spy, right."
"Exactly."
"So then how did you get here, hmmm?"
I have to pause, then, because I genuinely can't remember. I'd been in the parking lot of my old workplace, talking on the phone, then I'd woken up on the bus. Everything in between is a void. It's like somebody has taken a cloth to a whiteboard and erased haphazardly. There are streaks of what used to be memories, but nothing solid or legible. And that's a little scary, to be honest. Whatever brought me here is a complete mystery.
"I wondered the same thing, so I had Ijichi work late hours last night to get us the camera footage from that bus you were on." In my head this translates to 'I had to browbeat a colleague that's terrified of me to work off the clock, probably under threat of bodily harm'. "I took a peek at it this morning, and I think you'll be interested in what you see." Gojo waggles his eyebrows at me, and I sigh. He's different from last night, less intense. But still an ass. "C'mon. Check it out!"
And he shows me a near-empty bus. There's a couple standing in the frame, towards the back. But nothing interesting is happening. And nothing interesting happens in real time while we watch the footage. Then I see it: a split second, where the man crosses in front of the camera. The back seat of the bus is empty, then after he blocks the view and moves aside again, it's not. I'm in the very back seat, unconscious with my head lolling to the side. I'd just... what? Teleported?
"Spooky, huh?" Gojo leans in close to me and I have to resist the urge to shove him away. Dude doesn't vibe with personal space, apparently. Weird for a guy with Infinity between him and most everything else.
"Okay, so what does this mean?"
"Who knows?" he answers in that overly-chipper tone. And I think I hear my teeth crack from how hard I grind them. "Just kidding! Of course I, the great Gojo Satoru, have a few theories!" He holds up his index finger, very nearly booping the end of my nose with it, and I nearly go cross-eyed trying to keep it in my vision. "This can be any number of things: you have an incredibly powerful Cursed Technique that allows to you warp space; something or somebody else displaced you in space; or the camera equipment is faulty due to civil budget cuts."
I resist the urge to facepalm. It's hard, but I do it. "Which one are you banking on?"
"Well, the first theory is unlikely. Those kinds of Techniques are very rare and very closely monitored, even for foreign entities. Especially for foreign entities. You aren't in any of the records, and I doubt an ability like that would go unnoticed for long. Plus, your Cursed Energy is super weak. The likelihood of you being able to teleport yourself is less than four percent. Maybe even lower." He holds up three fingers now. "Theory three. I happen to know that Japan's public transportation system has some of the best security in the world, so that eliminates that option."
I'm not quite sure I trust his reasoning for eliminating that, but okay. Then again, I'm still reeling at how casually he told me that I'm weak.
"So that just leaves option two. You might not have the power to teleport yourself, but there are plenty of Cursed Objects and Artefacts that can. And they're far less regulated than Techniques. The black market in any given country has loads of powerful goods at any time. So, it's possible that you managed to snag one of these and use it to warp yourself here, to Japan." He frowns and looks back to the footage, where the image of my sleeping form keeps running. I wonder how long I was on that bus, unawares and vulnerable. "There's a problem with this theory, too, though."
"Okay? Lay it on me, then."
"Cursed Objects have a presence that they leave behind even months after activating. And there's not a single whiff of whatever you used. No foreign Cursed Energy on you at all—at least, none that's not from a Cursed Object. Something strong enough to wrinkle the fabric of space and punch a hole in it would leave definite traces. But there's nothing." He stands up and stretches. "Still, that doesn't mean that this is the wrong line of thinking. The Artefact might be masked or partially sealed. I sent Ijichi to scope it out, maybe see if he can't find a physical remnant that we can trace. Here's hoping that there's something left after the nightly wash."
Translation: 'I sent the aforementioned poor colleague out into the wilds of the Japanese public transport system to locate a very specific bus and hope that there's a tiny bit of something we can use to prove you've magically teleported here from another country. Oh, and we also have to hope that said tiny bit of something hasn't been swept up or discarded in the meantime.'
"And if it's not one of these Artefact? If it's another person who sent me here?"
"That's what's so fascinating about this whole situation! You're absolutely covered in a foreign Cursed Energy. Drowning in it, even!" The look he affixes me is intense. "I can see it, covering your natural signature." he says pointedly. I squirm under his gaze, suddenly feeling a wee bit naked. "But it should've dissipated the moment you arrived at your destination. Which means there's more to this than I originally suspected."
I stare at him blankly, hardly understanding any of what he says. "So, it was another person's Technique?"
"No clue!" he announces. "But it's fascinating, either way!"
I groan in annoyance and frustration, pushing my fists against my eyes to keep the tears at bay.
"It's work-in-progress, I admit. In the meantime," he states, shoving a stack of blank paper towards me, "I want to humor your little dimension-hopping story." He gestures to the pile. "You said we're a manga where you're from? Write down everything you know. Draw it, if you can. And no protesting; I know you can do it!"
He leans backwards, sprawling out his long, long legs. On the laptop, the bus driver has made his way back into the back of the bus and is shaking me awake. I watch myself disembark on the CCTV footage, swallowing a lump in my throat. And I snatch a pen from the coffee table. I'm going to prove it to him, one way or another! The lines form easily on the page, one after another. At my side, Gojo watches through his bandages, face blank as a virgin canvas.
:.:
He leaves me unchained, which is a testament to just how much he's not worried about me injuring him or messing up his stuff.
In fact, Gojo does very little to impede my movements, letting me snoop around to my heart's content. Only the back room is off limits. But it's locked—not that I'd rattled the knob, or anything. When the menace leaves to go check in on Ijichi's progress, he just poofs away using his ability. He tells me that he's going to return sometime late in the evening, and to make my own food because he probably won't be back in time for dinner. He just… hopes that I'm not going to intentionally burn his apartment down, I guess.
While I'm cooking, I pull down the drawing on the fridge. Just to make a few—shall we say—adjustments. Now Doodle Gojo has a speech bubble next to his fat little head, which reads, "I have no brain, and I must speak". And I'd even signed the corner, just like he'd asked.
It's closer to seven than six p.m. by the time the front door unlocks. I sigh and clean up the last of my dishes. The water in the tap runs hot enough to steam, but the temperature barely registers as I scrub.
Gojo has very little in the way of food stores, and what he does have is primarily junk that would put a toddler into a sugar coma. Behind the rows and rows of snack cakes and candies, I'd managed to find some unopened pickled radishes in a jar. And a stray packet of kimchi ramen. The eggs in the fridge were past their expiration date, so I'd had to put them in water to test their freshness. In the end, I'd wound up with a halfway decent meal, though I can already feel the heartburn catching up to me.
"Welcome back! You need to invest in some fresh fruit or veggies; at this rate, a bad diet is more likely to finish you off than any Cursed Spirit," I call out without looking. "Oh, and pick up some antacid, too. I can feel my stomach trying to digest my throat."
"My, how domestic. It hasn't even been a day yet." Well… that's not the voice I'd been expecting to hear.
"Ieiri-san?!" I towel my hands off and kill the water. "What are you doing here? Where's the menace?"
The brown-haired woman waves casually at me before shucking off her bulky purse and chucking it onto the island countertop. "He got called away to a mission overseas; it happens often enough that you'll probably get used to him being gone."
"Oh." Right. Strongest Sorcerer of the modern era. Very busy. "Let me guess: he asked you to babysit?"
"Bingo." She lights a cigarette, pressing the filter against her chapped lips. "He sent me back here to check on you. Gave me permission to kill you if I found you doing something 'naughty'. Of course, he didn't exactly go into specifics of what that could mean before he warped away." A weary sigh. "Honestly, that man."
I swallow nervously. "Do you know when he'll be back?"
"Well, it's supposed to be a fairly sizeable colony of First-Grade spirits, somewhere in Hong Kong. Satoru usually plays with his prey before making the kill, so he might be gone until midday tomorrow. It just depends on how long he's willing to stretch it out. Knowing him, he'll get bored of the game quickly—he always does." The woman gestures for me to come closer, popping her cigarette between her lips. I can smell the cool menthol from my spot in front of the sink. "Now, it's time for your follow-up."
Compliantly, I walk over to her seat at the kitchen island and let her poke and prod at my person. She has me do a few exercises to show off my hip. Both feel fine, I think. They definitely don't feel like they'd been dislocated by a madman. Then she gets to my wrist. She rotates it with a hum, testing its mobility. It bends and flexes like it should. When her fingers brush against the angry raw skin on it, her eyes narrow.
"He'd mentioned something about the chains rubbing you raw," she states blandly. "They don't look too bad, though."
I blink. "Gojo rubbed lotion on them last night."
"Oh?" She sounds amused. I'm not sure if I like that.
"A-anyway, how goes the search for my magical teleporter?"
Ieiri takes a long drag and shuffles through her purse, pulling out a salve. "Well, Ijichi-san managed to locate the bus you appeared on, as well as the driver that found you. The man corroborated what the footage showed us: he didn't remember you getting on the bus in the first place—of course, he thinks you snuck on when he wasn't paying attention." She smirks and adds, "He's also certain that you were blackout drunk at the time."
"And he didn't think it was weird that he was being asked all these questions?"
"Not really. Tourists go missing all the time in Tokyo; it's a big city, so it it's not unusual for a party girl to get lost now and then. He probably just assumed that you'd gotten off at the wrong stop and got separated from your friends." She shrugs. "Anyway, the bus is a dead end. No residuals to speak of. Whatever put you in that seat, it wasn't something we can track."
The salve is cool when it goes onto the pink skin of my wrists and ankles. I'd forgotten about the little rub marks, to be honest. In the grand scheme of things, they really hadn't been that bad. Not as bad as joints wrenched from their sockets, anyhow. Not as bad as losing my mom. Not as bad as dealing with my sister. And not as bad as getting tossed into another dimension.
I wonder how I'm going to get home.
I wonder if I even can get home.
A sad sigh escapes me before I can hold it in.
Ieiri's cool gaze meets mine and I think I see a hint of sympathy behind the exhaustion and clinical professionalism. She's not entirely made of stone, huh? There's a heart in there somewhere past all the distrust. The sympathy flickers, then it's gone. And she's back to placing a safe emotional distance between us. The other woman gets up from her seat and appraises the apartment, likely checking to see if I've messed anything up. Or set any traps. When she notices the stack of files on the coffee table and recognizes the official stamp on the front of them, she all but facepalms.
"Honestly, Satoru, leaving confidential documents out while you have a houseguest," she snaps under her breath. Oops. I guess I wasn't supposed to look at those. "That idiot."
Then she picks up one of the few drawings I've managed to complete from the manga: Sukuna's true form in all its hideous glory. I wonder if she knows who he is—didn't Gojo say that Sukuna had been scrubbed from history? To anybody who isn't familiar with him, he must just look like some high-level Curse. The King of Curses, unknown to all but a few scared old men. Sukuna must be turning in his grave right now. Or, well, his fingers must be turning in their wrappings.
"He told me that you think we're manga characters. Crazy, but not the craziest thing I've ever heard. Is this somebody important?" She holds up Sukuna's portrait.
"It's one of the main villains. He's… something beyond Special-Grade. Something that kills Gojo towards the end if he's allowed to form." I look away from her intense stare. "Look, I get that it's far-fetched, and that you guys won't even consider it, but I'm not lying." Then I meet her gaze again. "With all of the craziness that exists your world, are you telling me that interdimensional travel isn't even remotely a possibility?!"
"It is, in a manner of speaking. In fact, a similar precedent has been set before and recorded in Jujutsu Sorcerer history." Well, that's a shock. So, people here have travelled to other universes before? Ieiri gives me a solemn look. "But if Satoru acknowledges that your story is true—that you're from another world, that we're fiction there, that all of this is made up—then he has to confront other, harsher truths as well."
"Like?"
"Death." She answers with a weariness in her voice that leaves me feeling tired for her. "If Satoru acknowledges that what you've said is true, then he dies at the end, right? He dies without ever having fulfilled his dreams, and that's simply not a world that he can believe exists."
I guess that make sense. He's probably had to worry very little about his own mortality since the Six Eyes fully manifested. It must be… scary to be told with certainty that he's going to meet his end sometime soon. If I'd been told the same thing, I wouldn't believe it, either. I'd think that the person telling me was crazy at best. And it must be doubly true for a man whose entire existence is being literally untouchable. A god brought down to mortality and cut in two.
An unfit ending.
Ieiri's attention shifts back to Sukuna, and I've noticed that the paper is wrinkled, like she's been gripping it in a stranglehold. "If you're just some innocent that's gotten wrapped up in all of this, then you might just be the unluckiest person I've ever met. You caught his eyes; not something I'd wish on any normal person."
"Gojo's?"
"There's nothing that man loves more than an enigma. And you're one hell of a mystery to solve."
"Is that a bad thing?"
"I said it before, didn't I? Satoru likes to play with his prey. If it turns out you're lying to us, that you're here to hurt one of us… Well, there'll be nothing left of you when he's done."
