Chapter Text
Eleven years ago, Toji Fushiguro went missing.
In the stark absence of the Zen’in clan’s worthless heir, not much changed. The man they hoped would disappear from the face of the earth finally did, and with him, their problems. They finally had what they needed; nothing standing between them and the bearer of Ten Shadows. Toji’s non-sorcerer wife and stepdaughter weren’t hard to shirk off, nor was it difficult to assume legal custody of the true heir of the clan. The would-be future head of Zen’in, their golden child, bathed in a clinging darkness and untapped power so raw, so poignant, it was almost perfect. Megumi Fushiguro, Megumi Zen’in, the beholder of something too valuable to waste under a worthless name.
Eleven years passed. The boy enrolled himself in Jujutsu High, against the clan’s wishes. He should have been sent to Kyoto, somewhere more esteemed, but it couldn’t be undone. This was all Gojo’s doing, that insufferable, six-eyed prick.
Naobito Zen’in’s hands are always full. Balancing the prosperity of one of the most powerful families in the Jujutsu world is taxing. Despite the boy going against his wishes time and time again, stepping his foot into the door of rebellious delinquency, Naobito is… unexpectedly pleased with how things have turned out. Even with the arrival of Ryomen Sukuna’s vessel, his mood was undeterred. The kid won’t be able to evade execution for long, regardless of Gojo’s meddling.
Life was remarkably quiet. Naobito should have known something awful, something irreversible, the very thing that would upturn his carefully calculated plans, was just around the corner.
During the annual Tokyo and Kyoto Sister-School Goodwill Event, special-grade cursed spirits aligned with sorcerers infiltrated Jujutsu High, masked by an attack against the participating students. In the chaos, multiple sorcerers and students were injured, and some killed. During the invasion, Cursed Womb: Death Paintings numbers one through three were stolen.
A month and a half later, those same enemies staged a massacre on October 31, 2018, what later became known as the Shibuya Incident. Hundreds of non-sorcerers were killed, and many powerful Jujutsu sorcerers were severely injured or murdered. Too much happened in too short a time, but something happened that the cursed-spirits did not intend. Something that Naobito never saw coming. Something that no one could have dreamed up in a thousand nightmares
On the verge of absolute defeat, when Kenjaku’s vessel, masquerading in the body of Riko Amanai, was a hairbreadth away from sealing Satoru Gojo within the Prison Realm, something went wrong.
It wasn’t empty.
No one could have known. Not even Gojo and his divine amalgamation of Six Eyes and Limitless saw it coming, when the bastardized reanimation of the Star Plasma Vessel’s corpse uttered ‘kaimon’.
Eleven years later, Toji Fushiguro stepped out of the Prison Realm, clutching the Inverted Spear of Heaven, half-blind and disoriented from a decade of being trapped in the clutches of inescapable darkness. That didn’t make him waver— no, nothing ever did. His Heavenly Restriction made that clear. He cut through Amanai’s body and dozens more, ruthlessly slaughtering curse after curse after curse that he couldn’t see. All he had was instinct and pent-up rage that drove his body into a rampage only able to be quenched by blood and the gore of cursed spirits.
He didn’t intervene before Jogo’s flames swallowed Naobito alive. The bastard. The last thing the twenty-sixth head of the Zen’in clan saw before he was consumed was Fushiguro’s sick, twisted smile.
Megumi stares down at the unconscious body of the man before him. His limbs are awkwardly splayed out on the cold concrete. He’s in a puddle that, at first, looked like blood, but it’s only water. The only one bleeding is Megumi, from a gash opened up on his scalp. He can feel warmth carve a crimson river down the side of his dirt-streaked face. Swiping his chin with the back of his hand, Megumi glances passively at the smear of red on his skin with a distant, muffled inclination that it must be worse than he has the cognizance to feel.
Ino is off somewhere with Itadori. In this mess of cursed spirits and criminal sorcerers trying to kill them, they got separated, and Megumi has continued to prowl the abandoned streets of Shibuya, intending to regroup along the way. Somehow, Megumi ended up… here. In a dingy alleyway.
How did he get here? His memory is hazy. Right, that demented old hag and her grandson. This is all their fault. She used her cursed technique, some sort of channeling, resurrecting, soul-stealing seance that backfired poorly. It all happened too fast to make sense. The woman got herself killed. Her psycho grandson is clearly gone for good, after a few moments of glory in a new body that obviously was too much to handle. Megumi was confident that he could hold his ground against the two sorcerers, at least until Ino and Itadori could find him again. He may be a second-grade sorcerer now, but at the end of the day, Megumi’s only fifteen. He doesn’t get paid. Especially not for this. His confidence that he could hold his own was horribly short-lived. Ogami, that was her name, right? The old woman grossly miscalculated what could happen when she resurrected Suguru Getou.
Gojo’s going to be pissed, Megumi thinks.
Getou, who mercilessly slaughtered the woman who summoned him turned to him with a morbid curiosity. His eyes were black. Not anything like they used to be, before he was killed a year ago.
Nothing’s been the same since. Gojo hasn’t been the same.
Megumi ran. Naturally, as soon as he caught his wits. Right, he ran. As soon as he saw Getou… all… wrong, he ran. He flung himself down the stairwell, six flights whizzing past him, with his shikigami buffeting the fall.
Getou tore through the onslaughts of Megumi’s cursed technique like it was nothing more than swatting away an annoying insect. It makes Megumi mad. Or, it should. He’s too tired to do anything but suck in haggard, shaky breaths, and attempt to blink away his blurred vision. It’s not working. In a just a few lazy maneuvers, Megumi got the crap beat out of him. It was almost as if the task of their fight was nothing more than a boring obstacle, one that only became interesting to his formerly dead teacher once they got close enough for Getou to see the tears streaked down Megumi’s face. He was desperate to escape, at least hold off long enough that he could get to Shoko before he died. He ran as fast as his lungs could handle, pushing himself to defend against Getou’s unrelenting attacks with everything he had.
It was hopeless to begin with. Part of Megumi knew he couldn’t win, but here they both are, and Megumi is the one left standing.
Gojo’s going to…
They gazed at each other, for half of a second that felt like eternity, when Megumi plunged his hand into the shadows to retrieve his cursed sword. Getou’s bloodied, balled fist faltered in the air for a fraction of a moment, and the blackness of his sclera waned as if buffering under Megumi’s terrified scrutiny. Megumi thought he imagined it. Getou leapt back, thrusting several meters between them in the dark alleyway they found themselves in, as Megumi gasped for air. Sweat dripped down his neck. Megumi’s opponent didn’t seem fazed at all, only stared with an unreadable, steely expression.
“Megumi-kun, what happened?”
The innocent question took Megumi aback. “You… you died,” he replied, rasping out a response. He couldn't think of anything better to say.
“Of course, I remember now,” Getou sighed. “Sorry for… everything.”.
What? Megumi gaped as the black in the Getou’s black eyes faded completely to white. His body language changed. Something about his demeanour became so profoundly different that it felt as if something grabbed a hold of Megumi’s throat and squeezed. The demented reanimation he was fighting before is gone, as if something was forcefully yanked out kicking and screaming, and something else, something merciful, crawled its way in.
“Maybe... don’t tell Satoru I tried to kill you, okay?” Getou added, with a rueful smile and a ring of clear laughter. Without another word, he dropped face-forward into a heap on the ground.
Megumi continues to stare, after standing and waiting for far too long, for something to happen. Waits for Getou to suddenly appear in front of him again, and plunge his fist through Megumi’s ribcage with another thin-lipped, cocky smile. Tear into him like a ravenous animal. If not for the subtle rise and fall of his chest, Megumi might assume that he’s dead. But, he’s not. It makes no sense.
Tentative, he steps over to the man. He nudges his shoulder with the tip of his sword. Nothing. He should run. Get out of here before he wakes up, call Itadori, get to Shoko. Yet, despite himself, Megumi can’t make his feet move. He crouches, examining Getou’s face turned to the side and pressed into the pavement.
Timidly, Megumi lifts his eyelid, expecting to see black, but the white sclera remains. He shirks his sword unceremoniously back into the shadow pooling beside him and pushes, bracing one knee on the ground. Getou is heavy. He’s far heavier than Itadori, and Megumi realizes with the strain of rolling the man onto his back, that somewhere between scampering through the street, getting thrown through a wall, and fighting hand-to-hand in a cramped alleyway, he managed to crack a rib. Clutching his side, he now stares at Getou who lays on his back, unmoving. He is breathing. There doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with him. Anymore.
Megumi met Getou the same time he met Gojo. Eleven years ago, when he was just a little kid. By the time Megumi finally started at Jujutsu High, Getou was dead. He’d been killed in a freak accident, protecting Yuuta Okkotsu from a sorcerer who tried to seal Rika. His body was burned in a traditional funeral, to prevent his corpse from being tampered with after death.
Now, he’s alive. Very alive. Very not burnt, either. Megumi doesn’t know what to do.
“Fushiguro!” Itadori exclaims, rounding the corner. Megumi jolts, looking up to see his classmate skid to a halt at the end of the alley, staring wide-eyed at the man laying between them. Behind him, Ino comes into view, pushing his ski mask further up onto his forehead. His eyes are wide.
“Is that…” Ino gasps incredulously, stepping closer.
Megumi’s shoulders fall. He didn’t expect either of them to find him so quickly. Or has it been quick? He wants to ask how long it’s been since they got separated, but that doesn’t really matter. Megumi’s never been so happy to see anyone in his life, save for when he finally decided to stop being angry at Itadori for faking his death.
“I don’t… really know what happened,” Megumi mutters, before either Itadori or Ino can say anything else. He’s still on his knees, entirely too exhausted to stand. There’s a dull throb penetrating the back of his skull. He doesn’t know how to make himself move. The blood trickling down his face hasn’t stopped, and a new, stinging pain has began to register. Ino wanders closer, stopping at Getou's feet. Megumi’s uniform is covered in blood. Probably his own, but mostly the spray from the old woman’s brains spewing toward him when Getou killed her. Megumi attempts to swallow the lump in his throat, but it doesn’t budge. He might throw up.
“Fushiguro, we should get you to Shoko,” Ino speaks softly, seeing through the stupor Megumi has found himself in. The hand that falls on his shoulder is heavy, but surprisingly gentle.
Surprising even himself, Megumi shakes his head. “He’s not dead, Ino-san.”
“He’s not?” Itadori asks incredulously. He’s crouching beside Megumi now, and the concern on his face is a little unnerving. Itadori looks closer, making an interested noise upon finally noticing the slow rise and fall of the man’s chest. Had Megumi hit his head in the fight, too? He isn’t sure how to respond, just like he isn’t sure why Getou fell in a heap on the ground before he could kill Megumi.
“He’ll die out here, if we leave him,” Megumi responds. His own voice sounds quiet to his ears.
“We won’t. We’ll take him back with us. Shoko will… she’ll know what to do,” Ino reiterates. His voice is clipped. Choked, maybe, but Megumi’s ears are ringing now.
Silently, Itadori stands and steps over Getou’s torso. He’s picking up one of his arms, ready to carry him to the medical station. Megumi instinctively moves to help, but the searing pain in his side says otherwise, and he hisses in pain. With a tsk, Ino whisks him out of the way and takes Getou’s other arm. Together, he and Itadori drag him out onto the street.
They make it to Shoko. The boot of her car is open, filled with medical supplies, and around her on field stretchers are sorcerers in varied states of injury. Ino calls out to her, and she turns, exhaustion waring on her expression.
The syringe in her hand falls to the ground, as her half-lidded, tired eyes widen in shock.
“Shoko,” Ino repeats, urging her into a response. Fumbling, she points to an empty stretcher, horror overtaking her expression. As Itadori and Ino move, Megumi is revealed, slouched and breathing shallowly.
“I don’t even want to fucking know,” Shoko hisses, holding up her palm in Getou’s direction, as if he had attempted to speak to her and she’s now shutting him out. She is, Megumi realizes. There isn’t any time to process any of what’s happened so far. Shoko steps forward, taking hold of Megumi’s head between her cold fingers. She tilts his neck gingerly, peering at the abrasion on his skull. Her dark circles are deeper. Purple with exhaustion. She smells like rubbing alcohol and cigarette smoke, an intoxicating, acrid aroma, and coupled between her ice-cold, slender hands, Megumi buckles.
Tears slip from his eyes. He knows he’s crying, but his jaw is still clenched, and he can’t bear to tear his eyes from Getou. Getou was supposed to be dead. Megumi hardly knew him, but he knew him enough to know his kindness, and to know that Getou and Gojo were the only reasons that Megumi could escape his life in the Zen’in clan to begin with.
Then he died. He fucking died, and left them both.
“I know, kid,” Shoko whispers. The warmth of her reversed-curse technique spreads through his upper body, and the stinging of his injuries subsides. It’s only enough to stop the bleeding, as she can’t spend all her energy healing everyone completely. She’d wear herself out. Really, she could have just sprayed a topical analgesic on his head, but she didn’t. Bitter tears slip into Megumi’s open mouth as he exhales shakily. He squeezes his eyes shut. “You can… tell me how this happened later,” Shoko mutters. She’s slotting another cigarette between her teeth. If she isn’t careful, she’ll run out before the battle is over. Of cigarettes and cursed energy.
“Oi,” Itadori starts, turning to look over his shoulder at Shoko and Megumi. He’s standing over Getou, peering down at the unconscious man whose large frame barely fits on the stretcher. Ino’s arms are crossed tightly over his chest, but one hand is covering his mouth. He’s pale, and looks as sick as Megumi feels. “Who is this guy, anyway?”
Ino shoots him a look that clearly reads shut the fuck up, dude!
“Suguru,” Shoko responds, and the dart between her teeth bobs with the words. She’s still looking at Megumi, like she can’t make herself look behind her. She rests her cold hands on Megumi’s shoulders with a hollow look in her dark eyes. “Suguru Getou. We grew up together,” she adds, letting one hand drop from Megumi’s shoulder to pull the cigarette away between her forefinger and thumb. “Come, Fushiguro. You look like shit.”
Shoko was never one for bedside manner. Her familiar gruffness is as comforting as any, despite the circumstances. Megumi meets Itadori and Ino’s faces, managing a weak nod as he lets Shoko guide him toward her car.