Chapter Text
December 13th, 2009
“Huh?” Gojo’s brows knit together. “A whole clan? Just wiped out like that?”
“There’ve been a few survivors that were off the compound at the time but largely… Yes,” Yaga breathes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We’ve dispatched several first grades to the scene to investigate.”
“Are there any leads? Anyone obvious that would do something like that?” Gojo already knows the answer, but it’s not like the higher-ups haven’t hidden anything from him before, so he can hope there’s just some easy big, bad villain to contend with.
“I… Satoru…” Yaga sighs. “The Inumakis are a unique situation. They hardly have- Had any sorcerers left. There’s been a standing policy to let them die of the lineage for decades. You know who wouldn’t be happy with that-”
“What’s the death toll?” Gojo asks flatly.
“The closest to the scene aren’t equipped to handle the degree of noxious residuals left behind, so we can’t be sure, but they estimate there were at least eighty victims on the estate when they were attacked, including family and staff.”
“This isn’t something he would do,” Gojo argues, volume rising. “You remember there was speculation of a cursed speech user being born years ago, right? He wouldn’t kill someone with that kind of power, but the Zenins sure as hell wouldn’t stand for it. You know what they’re capable of.”
“Zenins aren’t curse users-”
“Not on the record, duh-”
“No one but you is going to catch him, Satoru. You don’t need to argue like he doesn’t already have a sentence you won’t carry out,” Yaga shouts. “We hardly know anything yet, so neither of us should jump to conclusions, okay?”
“Okay.” He can’t help but ball his fingers into tight fists.
“You need to calm down,” Yaga sighs. He retreats behind his desk, sitting heavily behind it. The way it functions as a shield is subtle, but Gojo’s eyes are all-seeing.
“I am calm.” He grits his teeth.
“I don’t know the perpetrator’s motivations. There’s several courts this could fall into, but it was bound to happen eventually. The Inumaki clan has been functionally outlawed in Jujutsu society. They have a lot of enemies, for a lot of reasons,” Yaga grumbles.
“Oh yeah?” Gojo scoffs. “What ‘reasons’ justify mass murder?”
“I didn’t say that it was justified.” Yaga slams his palm down on the oak surface. “But many sorcerers are afraid of cursed speech. It’s a powerful mutation that was historically abused-”
“Abused because those who used it were put in a position where they were otherwise powerless,” Gojo snaps. “They were intentionally ostracized and suppressed by the major families-”
“That’s your theory-”
“It’s not a theory if you stop paying attention to the brass’ propaganda.”
“You’re just like him sometimes,” Yaga huffs.
“Yeah, I wonder why,” Gojo mutters bitterly. “I don’t know how I turned out this way when you were my teacher.”
“Me either.”
“Great, we’re on the same page. Now get your head out of your ass.”
“Satoru, stop-” Yaga yells.
“You said yourself that there’s hardly any sorcerers left in the clan. Why would they be attacked out of fear if there’s nothing to fear?” There’s more venom in Gojo’s tone than he intends, but he doesn’t care.
“Fear isn’t reality,” Yaga exhales slowly. “A lot of people view cursed speech users as one step removed from being curses.”
“So it’s fine to slaughter them because someone got a little nervous?”
“No,” Yaga digs the bases of his palms into his eyesockets like he’s getting a headache. “I’m just trying to tell you that this felt inevitable. They were known to carry an immensely feared power that’s been dying out.”
“So?”
“So they shouldn’t have been left to fend for themselves like any other clan. They were merely involved because of the knowledge they retained as it was passed down, but they didn’t have the actual power to protect themselves.”
“Who’s fault is that?” Gojo lets out a breath of humorless laughter. “The Zenins choked the technique out of the bloodline. They’ve been itching to get rid of anyone that could challenge the corrupt balance of the larger clans. There’s no way you don’t-”
“Watch yourself, Satoru,” Yaga warns. “I’m not the only one you’re talking to when you say those things.”
“They can’t lay a finger on me.” Gojo rolls his eyes. “I’m tired of shutting my mouth and letting them spout bullshit-”
“You never shut your mouth-”
“You need to grow a backbone.”
“I don’t think this is about current events.” Yaga shakes his head slowly. “I get that you have an issue with authority. I’m not a fan of the higher-ups' actions at times either, but there are things you have to put up with, for now at least.”
“I-”
“Let me finish.”
“Fine.”
“This report wasn’t sent to you so you could seethe over politics, Satoru. You’re on standby in case it turns out that it was a special-grade cursed spirit operating independently, or some other case we haven’t predicted, so please be ready to travel if they need you. What matters is dealing with what must be dealt with to prevent more casualties. I know you have goals, but show some respect for the victims and actually think about what happened to them outside of your personal ideology, please.”
“I…” Gojo swallows back rising frustration. Nothing else he says will help. “Okay.”
He flinches as an alarm blares suddenly. A grating piezoelectric noise assaults his ears as white light flashes from emergency LEDs embedded in the wall. Any regular person would think it’s a fire drill.
But not Jujutsu sorcerers.
Both Gojo and Yaga take off in a sprint toward the front gates, where unregistered cursed energy has weaseled its way through Tengen’s barrier. Gojo overtakes him on the stairs, using the ramp-like ledge as a slide, slick with ice. He’s probably a bit too old to be doing that now that he’s in his twenties, but it works.
They must have been closest in Yaga’s office because they’re the first ones there by a landslide.
Gojo expects either an oddly strong, dumb curse that wandered in by mistake or someone out to make a violent scene for whatever reason. Or maybe, just maybe it would be…
He certainly didn’t expect to see a child sitting on one of the benches, trembling slightly, staring at the ground.
It could be a trap, sure, but anyone with half a sense of reason would know that sorcerers would be suspicious of a toddler. The barrier focuses more on concealing than protecting, but it’s not like just anyone can make it through, especially with more recent increases in security. It would be pointless to go for the bait tactic once you’ve already made it through. Too much risk for too little payout.
The other possibility is just that it’s a very small, very cunning sorcerer playing tricks, but Gojo doubts it, even though the kid’s not emanating cursed energy like most normal humans. Its posture just doesn’t seem malicious, or something like that. Call it a hunch.
Gojo steps forward, but Yaga holds an arm out in front of him, blocking his path. He gives him a cautious look, brows furrowed. Gojo waves him off.
“Hey there.” He crouches in front of the kid. “How’d you end up here?”
The kid doesn’t say anything. His eyes flick up to Gojo for half a second, then back down. He’s wearing a sweatshirt far too large for him, the hood all but swallowing him. It’s long enough to go down to his knees and it’s zipped up all the way, covering his nose and mouth like he’s trying to hide in it.
“You hear me?” Gojo tilts his head.
The kid nods slowly, curling further in on himself.
“What’s going on?” Kusakabe shouts as he materializes on the stone front path, ready to draw his sword. Mei Mei’s close behind him.
Gojo flashes them a thumbs up, then waves them off. They just stand there warily though, which checks out.
“Do you talk?” He asks as he turns back to the kid, who shakes his head vehemently.
Yaga’s footsteps crunch snow as he approaches, standing tall at Gojo’s shoulder. He casts a shadow over the kid, whose breathing speeds up. He pulls his thighs to his chest, tightening himself into a ball.
“Don’t scare him,” Gojo chides.
“I’m not trying to,” Yaga says gruffly, which isn’t helping his case. “Do you have any idea what’s going on?”
“Not yet.”
The kid makes an almost silent, choked noise that the two of them nearly miss. He gasps softly, shuddering. His little shoulders hitch. The bumpy arch of his spine is visible through the hoodie’s fabric.
“Uh oh.” Gojo frowns. He’s not one to deal with crying.
The kid coughs pitifully. Tears soak into his sleeves as he tries to cover his face, forming round splotches in the grey material.
“What’s wrong?” Yaga tries. He places his hand on the kid’s back, but the boy jolts and scrambles away in a panic, pushing himself to the furthest edge of the bench, arms guarding himself protectively.
“Oookay.” Gojo stands. He claps Yaga on the shoulder and turns him around. “You’re not the one today, so shoo. I’ve got it.”
“Hm,” Yaga acquiesces reluctantly. He steps away, putting a decent distance between him and the boy, but he keeps watching.
“Alright.” Gojo takes a seat next to the kid, leaving about a foot of space between them. “You seem pretty freaked out and I’d like to get you back to who you belong with, so do you mind if we play a little game of 20 Questions?”
The kid seems nervous for a moment, but he nods, sniffling and wiping his face with the excess of his hood.
“You just witnessed something super messed up, didn’t you?” Gojo guesses.
The kid’s eyes go wide, which he takes as a yes.
“Then someone brought you here?”
He nods.
“Interesting, okay,” Gojo murmurs. “Do you have parents?”
He shrugs.
“Did you?”
A nod.
“Ah.”
There’s a palpable air of terrified anguish radiating off the poor kid. It’s something Gojo usually senses in young survivors of cursed spirit attacks, so it’s not unusual, but what is unusual is the cursed energy concentrated around his throat. Most sorcerers hold it in their gut, unless they’re intentionally channeling it.
“You can see things, right? Things other people can’t see?”
A shrug.
“Does no one believe you when you tell them about it?”
He shakes his head.
“Really?” Gojo raises an eyebrow. Most sorcerer kids get the schizo accusations young, unless they’re from a jujutsu family…
“Can you take that hood off for me?” He requests.
The kid considers it for a moment, then sheepishly complies. Although he’s very careful not to lower the part of the sweatshirt over the lower half of his face.
Gojo lowers his sunglasses a bit to get a good look at him. He’s got platinum blond hair, even though he’s almost definitely Japanese. Interesting.
“You got a name?” Gojo asks.
A nod.
“Could you write it down if I get you some paper?”
A shrug.
“How old are you?” It occurs to Gojo that he might be too young to know how to read or write, which would make things more complicated.
The kid wriggles his hands out of his overly long sleeves to hold up one with all five fingers spread wide and the other with only three.
“Eight?”
Nod.
“Cool,” Gojo hums. It’s older than he would’ve expected since he looks smaller than the Fushiguro kid. He must just be a runt, or underfed.
“Are you cold? It’s pretty cold out here,” Gojo asks, suddenly getting to his feet. He didn’t think to grab a jacket before he came out here and the kid’s only got slippers.
He nods again.
“You see that old guy over there?” Gojo points to Yaga. “He’s got plushies in his office you can play with so I think I’ll bring you in there to warm up. Sound good?”
“They’re not plushies, Satoru,” Yaga shouts grouchily. “You ought to learn some respect by now.”
Gojo ignores him. He rolls his eyes and holds his hand out with a smile. The kid looks him up and down apprehensively.
“I’m not gonna hurt you, I promise,” he adds. It feels like an appropriate assurance to offer. “My job is kinda to protect people anyway, so no one else will either, okay?”
The kid finally gives in and lets Gojo pull him off the bench. He’s definitely overly light and petite for his age. It’s even more obvious now that he's upright.
“I hope you don’t mind stairs,” Gojo mutters as he walks him toward Yaga’s office. He squeezes Gojo’s hand tightly.
“Toge,” he whispers.
“Hm?” Gojo halts in his tracks. “That’s your name?”
He nods.
“Toge Inumaki?”
The kid stiffens. He doesn’t move to stop it as Gojo reaches to unzip his sweatshirt, trapped in surprised stillness.
“Called it.” Gojo grins.
He’s got the Snake Eyes and Fangs across his lips. That’s not something you see every day.
“Cursed speech,” Gojo muses. He squints at the two fingers he used to tug on the zipper, rubbing them together. The residue on them is unmistakable. If he had to describe it, he’d say it had the texture of the color purple.
“That’s quite the technique you’ve got.”
Toge shakes his head. He hides his face beneath the hoodie again.
“It’s okay. I think it’s pretty cool, but you don’t have to show it off right now.” Gojo pats him on the back, nudging him to keep walking.