Exorcisms are never clean.
Roxanne thinks this as she looks at the splatter and burns on the wall where the cursed spirit once stood. She thinks this as she leaves the apartment building, listening to the quiet weeping of the bereaved when they realize the danger has passed, but their loved ones are still dead. She knows this is simply how it is, has known it since the ominous shadows she saw as a child became real monsters; since the first time she had to defend herself against one, scared and frightened on a balmy summer night.
And yet, knowing does little to placate the agitation in her spirit that she was once again unable to save everyone in the thick of danger. The Vatican cares little enough for whether or not there are survivors, only that the exorcism is performed; nor do her contractors ask how she performs them. The priest they send to babysit her on these assignments reads the Last Rites, but she sees how he looks askance at her, knows he can feel the leashed power within her. He tries to convince himself it is a gift from God, but he knows better.
Still, the Vatican will not move against her as a heretic. They need her sorcery, and if they must lie and tell their people her gifts come from God, then so be it. It's not as if they have not veiled the truth with falsehood in the past. Roxanne chuckles to herself as the priest, Father DeCosta, joins her outside. She smirks when she sees his disapproval as she fishes a cigarette carton from her jacket pocket and withdraws a tightly-rolled joint instead.
"Might I remind you that cannabis is as yet still illegal in our country, Miss Abaza," he says sternly, his sharp-featured face, aquiline nose, and flinty gray eyes reminding her of a bird of prey. Stern disapproval aside, Roxanne can tolerate him for the most part.
"I think they can let me off the hook just this once after the job I just pulled," she responds, flicking her lighter and taking a drag. "You gonna tell the Pope?"
Father DeCosta scoffs, but says nothing, waving his hand with a little bit too much enthusiasm as a cloud of pungent smoke blooms between them. For a moment there is only the silence as they leave the scene to the police. The work they do is not for the civilian eye, and Roxanne has no interest in speaking to the police. The cursed energy radiating from the apartment complex has been cleansed.
Two children are dead.
Later, they ride back to headquarters. Father DeCosta is pensive, as is his way, and Roxanne snorts.
"Alright, Father, spit it out." She says with slight contempt. "Your thoughts get any louder, your head's gonna pop like a cork." She smirks at his nonplussed expression, looks at the gleaming gold acrylic nails that make her fingers look like a witch's claws. Everything about Roxanne's aesthetics flouts in the face of the Church, with her piercings, her tattoos, the wild look of her, and she knows Father DeCosta was initially opposed to the Vatican calling upon her.
"How can you do it?" DeCosta demands. "Use that foul magic and call it God's gift?"
Roxanne laughs. "I never once pitched that these gifts came from God. That was your people, Father. These 'gifts' are just the universe attempting to redress the imbalance that makes those curses manifest." She spreads her hands in a gesture of feigned helplessness, but it is no less than the truth. The simplest explanations usually are.
"It is an affront to the Church, Miss Abaza. Using the devil's magic to fight the devil's evil cannot possibly have an outcome that could be called righteous." He adjusts his glasses, satisfied in his righteous indignation. Roxanne watches him with a gaze most would be right to call unfriendly. Her dark eyes glitter like chipped obsidian in the smattering watercolor of the streetlights and traffic lights passing across her face. Father DeCosta feels it, the pressure of her presence seems magnified somehow– heavier . He cannot explain the sudden chill that prickles every nerve in his spine, the way his breath fogs in his face as the car becomes chillier. In his periphery, he sees the driver fiddling with the thermostat in confusion.
Roxanne's gaze never wavers.
"Father DeCosta," her voice is dangerously quiet, but pitched just so that he can feel the pressure of her presence like hands gripping his shoulders, yet she is in an easy lounge across from him, her face a dark effigy of someone within whose veins power swam the rich currents of her blood. She lets his name leash him before she continues.
"Your boss called me here because he knows real power when he sees it, as did his predecessors before him," there is something going on with her voice, Father DeCosta realizes, like there's two speaking as one. "Had I not been here tonight, how many more bodies do you think would have turned up, torn to bits? Two children are dead because of your pride, Father DeCosta, and you want to know what? This is a good night if that's the worst of it. But it can always be better. Do not look that gift horse in the mouth again, Father, and thank your God for sending people like me to deal with the problems born of humanity's alley-ridden heart."
Father DeCosta gasped as the pressure around him was suddenly gone, the prickle along his spine withdrawing like unseen claws. Suddenly, Roxanne seems ordinary under the passing lights, but he does not deign to speak for the rest of the ride.
Roxanne returns to her hotel room shortly before dawn. She enjoys one last smoke on the balcony of her room, scrolling through her phone as she listens to the sound of the city below. She considers the rash display in the car ride from earlier, mentally chastising herself for letting DeCosta get under her skin. It is beneath her to use her power to make a point, especially to a non-sorcerer. Still, she needs him to understand that this is her world he walks in, and there is no room for Catholic proselytizing and shaming when lives are on the line. She counts herself lucky it was only a grade one cursed spirit.
And she'd meant every word she said to him.
Roxanne's phone buzzes on the table and she plucks it up to look at the name.
Satoru Gojo .
She counts how many months it's been since she last saw him. Three? Maybe four. She answers.
"Satoru," she says, her voice a rich contralto, amused and curious, "to what do I owe the honor to gain your attention?" She can hear Gojo's amusement without him having to speak. His nature is infectious like that, even though the weight of the world seems to weigh on his shoulders. That much she remembers about him.
"Roxy," the easy familiarity of her name makes her smile despite everything. It is easy enough to smile out in the open but she feels foolish for realizing she has missed him. "How's Italy?"
"Catholic, as always," Roxanne responds dryly. "Had to do a job with their most dour priest. But I'm fairly certain you didn't call to hear about that."
"Now why would you think I had an ulterior motive? Can I not just call because I miss you?" She knows he's blinking those gorgeous blue eyes, fluttering his pale lashes, and giving his best pout. She's suddenly glad this isn't a FaceTime call.
"Satoru, when's the last time we spoke?" She asks, ashing her joint. She hears the audible manifestation of the hamster she is certain powers the man's brain. "Uh huh. Thought so. So what's up? Talk to me."
She can hear the consideration of Gojo's silence, and she sits up a little straighter, placing both feet on the floor.
"There's been an interesting development here in Tokyo," Gojo prefaces, "and I'm hedging bets on the outcome. I need your expertise, but I won't elaborate further unless I can secure your help."
Roxanne swears. "Satoru, if this is a serious matter you don't have to twist my arm about it."
Gojo pauses. "Eh? So if it wasn't a serious matter, I would?" He sounds petulant and she swears again.
"Get to the point. You know I'll help if you ask." She says tersely.
Gojo's next words make her put the joint out, but not before going into a coughing fit as the smoke goes down the wrong pipe, burning her throat. She swears with a sailor's eloquence, in English for good measure. Gojo's English is near-fluent and she can feel him waiting for her response.
"You're telling me the strongest and scariest sorcerer in jujutsu history is walking around trapped inside a teenage boy?" Roxanne demands. "Whose idea was it to hide that thing at a fucking high school?"
"Higher ups." Gojo says flatly and Roxanne resists the urge to spit. She tries not to question the higher ups too much, but in this she cannot deny that something is not all the way intelligent upstairs with those people. She sighs, taking a swig of her beer which has unfortunately gone warm. Still, it soothes her dry mouth and throat.
"Well, not much to be done about it now," she says, and then stands up, beginning to pace. "Can he really control Sukuna?"
"I fed him a finger and watched him wrestle and gain control with my own eyes. The kid has potential, we just have to get him there. Finding the Fingers will be enough to push him. And you know how good my eyes are, Roxy." She rolls her own in response. Still, he is right: it is an interesting development. Most special grades only incarnated when a cursed spirit devoured them. For a human to not only survive but maintain autonomy is rare, and rarer still is one strong enough to become a vessel for a curse as powerful as Sukuna.
She can't help it: she smiles. It is the scholar and student in her that drives this grin. Sukuna in the flesh . The wealth of knowledge he holds could shift the very foundations of the jujutsu world if they can get him to speak.
"So," she says, "what do you need from me?" She yelps when her phone chirps in her ear.
"Check your email," Gojo says, "I've already booked your flight. I'll explain when you touch down."
