Work Text:
The long, gentle rays of dawn have long since travelled through the windows and across the matted floor when Satoru finishes his training regimen. As he’d fought imaginary opponents, he watched the world wake up around him, its collective energy bursting from the gentle rhythm of sleep to action. All of this, except for the rancid gap now emanating from the city center, he was used to.
Contrary to popular belief, Gojo Satoru is not an optimist. He has, in his opinion, exactly the right attitude. He’s a realist- primarily because he can create whatever reality he wants (except for with things like climate change)- and he takes matters as seriously as he needs to, which is usually not very. There’s a certain calmness that comes along with being the strongest existence on the planet, that’s as indescribable as it is irreplicable.
Still, Satoru finds himself feeling pissed from time to time.
He didn’t really understand people when he was young. They had so many worries, so many bursts of intense emotion betrayed by their flaring cursed energy if not their voice. It’s not that Satoru couldn’t understand the logic behind these emotions. He just couldn’t empathize. Nothing could spark that in him except for a decent fight against a powerful curse. Suguru was different. Exciting, emotional, and probably a little too empathetic. It’s good news, really, that Satoru is the way he is. Anyway!
The last time he felt angry in recent memory was when he realized someone had stolen Suguru’s body and walked in his skin. Before that, it was when Yuuji died. Right now, sitting on the cold mat floor of one of Jujutsu tech’s many training rooms, Satoru feels a little irate. He’s feeling a lot of things, honestly.
About halfway across the campus, he can see his last first year student running around. Yuuji's vibrant and wickedly sharp cursed energy has grown quite a bit from the little flame it was when Satoru and Megumi first found him. It makes him easy to track. Yuuta, too, with his big fluttering ball of unstable cursed energy. Satoru likes how easy it is to keep an eye on both of them. Hiding farther away in the ever-flowing tangle of energy that wraps neatly around each inch of the world as far as the six eyes can see, somewhere, is Nobara’s dim little soul.
Farther still, he knows, is Megumi.
Satoru stands with a quiet pop from his knees and stretches. There's really nothing to worry about. His cute little students have long since turned into cute little capable sorcerers, and they'll wake up when it's time. He starts walking in long, even strides out of the training room. Hovering over his thin layer of infinity is air in the hallway that's a touch more frosty.
Based on the smell, he thinks it might snow soon, although weather forecasts for Tokyo have been vague since the incident. Satoru glances at the barren courtyard. The thin grass is dusted with frost, still and undisturbed.
He'd built up a fortress of snow there with Suguru a few long years ago, to throw snowballs at Yaga and upperclassmen from- Shoko had declined to participate, but he'd seen her watching them through the window over the top of her phone. Suguru had managed to deflect most of the blame onto him, somehow, with his silver tongue. At times like those, Satoru was overcome with the newness of living outside of the Gojo family compound. Every prank, every reprimand was so exhilarating. Satoru frowns- pouts, as Utahime would say with disdain- and twists his fingers around in his pockets, nails not quite snagging on skin. He's past grieving. He's past the past, or at least, he will be once he buries Suguru.
It's still a shame to see the courtyard empty. Between the night parade and the mess they're in now, Satoru supposes none of his first or second years have had a decent winter at the school. He can imagine Yuuji building a snowman while Megumi hangs around, bundled up in a puffy coat because he's never been good with the cold. Maybe he'd summon his remaining demon dog, and Nobara would play with it.
Of course, Yuuji wasn't allowed anywhere near the school’s campus until Satoru returned, and Megumi and Nobara were still out of commission. Next year, then, Satoru thinks. Next year, his students will be safe to play like children- and only face enemies that they can handle, for that matter. There will be no more dying twice due to the negligence or hostility of the older generation. Satoru wrinkles his nose.
He's trained his technique to its limit, he's choreographed every bit of his attacks, and he's sealed his letters, but there's still one problem left to deal with. An itch. A longing, maybe.
Satoru has done his job, and done it well. The new generation of jujutsu sorcerers is more capable than any since the Heian era; of this he is confident. Maybe one day his name will even be lost to time in the shadow of his brightly shining students. However, with the grand total of Sukuna, Kenjaku, and the higher ups against them, they're too vulnerable right now. Satoru has one option.
The higher ups need to die.
Satoru snorts. He'll always be trying to catch up to Suguru, won't he?
After Riko, it should've been clear that those old farts couldn't be trusted with the lives of children. There was no purpose in killing them at the time, though, as they'd be replaced with equally crotchety old sorcerers. Satoru reaches his old office and flings himself down onto his chair, limbs sprawling out. Purpose, purpose, purpose. It's a shame that ideology grew such firm roots in his head, especially considering its champion took a swift dive off the deep end. Satoru sighs and sinks into the soft leather.
For quite a few years now, he had expected to long outlive all of his colleagues and friends. He thought it was a little funny that the first special grade who'd grow grays was already all white. A shame, too- he'd rather go out young, in the blazing heat of battle.
Now, though, he has a real challenger that could make it happen. Satoru isn't feeling very anxious about his potentially impending death. Damn Fushiguro Toji spoiled that for him, on top of everything else. But, he’s sure that whatever may happen this time won't come close to the crashing together of everything and nothing he based Infinite Void on. There's no discovering reversed curse technique a second time, after all.
In any case, if he dies, the higher ups would almost certainly crawl out of their hidey holes and announce a few more death sentences for his students, and then Megumi, Yuuta and Yuuji’s blossoming little bundles of cursed energy would be snuffed out like an evening candle by mercenaries. Satoru can't have that!
He gave up his heart last year just before the first snowfall. What's the use of keeping his soul, then? Though Satoru never met patchface, he knows a thing or two about transformation. He's spent enough time watching the people around him become someone changed, battered or stronger, for better or worse. It's about time he did the same.
Satoru isn’t certain that this is the right call, but he’s used to making snap decisions that hold weight. At least he thought this one through.
Satoru tucks his chin against his chest and crosses his arms, settling down for a nap. At times like these, he really wishes he hadn't shredded his jacket coming out of the prison realm.
Ah, his students really aren't going to like this…
Early evening finds him striding down a spookily lit hallway on his way to the higher ups. As far as they know, he's here for a meeting regarding the banishment he ignored. They plan to affirm that he'll be okay with killing Megumi if it means killing Sukuna, too, he's sure.
All of his second years are crowding after him like ducklings. Satoru was, it seems, being too generous when he estimated their morality- only Yuuta doesn't like his plan. They grow up so fast.
“Go on, get outta here,” Satoru repeats, shooing them away. This really won't be a sight for children. He can admit that, maybe, he also doesn't want his students to see him like this.
“No, we're staying right here,” Yuuta replies stubbornly and immediately.
The nerve of this kid! That's Gojo blood in his veins, for sure. He lets out a quiet huff of frustration. What could he have said to himself as a teenage boy to stop him from watching a loved one go on a killing spree? Probably nothing.
He hopes Yuuta never has to see the battlefield after killing Kenjaku. He hopes the rest of his second years and Yuuji never have to see it at all.
“Please… don't bear the burden of being a monster alone anymore,” Yuuta adds in a low voice. Satoru doesn't have to look back to know he's making puppy dog eyes.
Alone. Ah.
In that moment, Satoru reaches an uncomfortable level of awareness of his self that can only be reached with the six eyes. He feels the viscous blood rushing through his veins, picking up speed as his heart beats fast, faster, not in fear but in anticipation of violence- ready for the high. He feels the gentle light and warmth emanating from the candles in the walls dancing across his skin, warring with the frigid air and cold stone. His breath, crawling down his lungs and into his veins, and out in a sheer puff. He sees the energy in it, whizzing around.
He sees Yuuta’s erratic aura of cursed energy behind him, and the curse clinging tightly like a scared child to the ring dangling from his neck. He sees the hole where Maki must be, the lonely core at the center of Panda, and the steady stream of cursed energy that Inumaki keeps close to his chest. Satoru sees everything, he feels everything. He's been alone in this since the moment he was born, but-
He sees Suguru up ahead of him. Wearing a calm face and baggy clothes on a busy street. There was a boy who knew they couldn't live the way they had been, who had watched Riko be ripped apart by sorcerer politics and then a bullet, who had greeted Satoru as he carried her limp body. Suguru, who was always thinking ahead and looking back, intent on executing life perfectly.
Suguru, who the higher ups condemned. He'll never think or look again, because Satoru killed him. A monster, indeed.
Haha, how scary! There Satoru goes, reminiscing again. Sorry, Yuuta, he'll always be alone, and he'll do whatever it takes to keep his kids from feeling like monsters.
He walks forward, shoulders loose, the absence of his footsteps on the stone as eerie as an echo. Just ahead is a heavy door to the den of people who sentenced his best friend, his mentor, his spunkiest kid, and an exhaustive list of others to death. Here is a man who has finally realized they can't live the way they have been.
Oh, now he's definitely angry.
Satoru pulls the metal door open. Under his touch, it’s weightless.
As usual, the council has no eyes. Just dimly lit paper panels in front of their weak veins of cursed energy.
Nine points.
“Gojo Satoru, you are late,” a voice croaks. Not me, not yet, Satoru thinks.
Polarized light.
He feels the impulse to crack a joke before killing them, but brushes it away. He has no humanity left to give these people.
Crow and Shomyo chant.
“Such disrespect will not be tolerated, especially considering your actions in Shibuya,” the voice warbled on. Always grating to the ears.
The gap between with and without.
Suddenly, Satoru doesn't feel like showing these geezers the technique they admire so much in their last moments. This seems like a hands-on job.
There's meaning in that, right, Suguru?