Chapter Text
You think you know who you are
You didn't fool me at all
I can still feel in the dark
November 2018
Satoru Gojo had been killed more than once in his short life.
The first time had happened before he’d turned three years old, when an assassin infiltrated his nursery and quietly crushed his windpipe and stopped his heart. He’d been dead for at least four minutes before the nanny - hired more for her sorcery prowess than her maternal skills - had found his tiny lifeless body and quickly brought him back with the reverse cursed technique she was renowned for. The assassin was thought to have been commissioned by the Zenin clan, but the only response the Gojo clan ever got from the Zenin was a polite letter asking them to ‘speak only to our lawyers’.
He’d been killed again on his eighth birthday by his elder sister. It was the one death he refused to talk about and there were not many still alive to tell that story.
His next death had occurred when he was seventeen, when a man named Toji Fushiguro managed to breach his nigh limitless defences to plant a knife four inches deep in his throat and partially severed his brain stem. The lights had blinked off for a moment, as Gojo told it. Then he'd gotten better. Much better. All things considered, it had been one of the least upsetting things to happen to him on that particular day.
Satoru wouldn’t die again for many years, though it wasn’t for lack of attempts by his growing number of enemies (and in some cases, his own ‘allies’). As his power grew and the bounties on his head were quietly withdrawn, it seemed like there might be no power on the earth that could bring his life to an unnatural end. But at the age of twenty-nine, his death at the hands of Sukuna was widely considered to be the most permanent one yet.
As the dust settled from the fallout of the Shinjuku incident and word of his death spread, a new kind frenzy began. It reminded Utahime unpleasantly of a nature documentary she’d once seen, when the carcass of a great whale sank to the depths of the ocean, attracting wave upon wave of scavengers for whom such a feast was a once in a lifetime event.
Naturally, Satoru Gojo had managed to prove just as troublesome in death as in life.
It had begun with the reading of the will. Utahime had not expected to be invited along, but a letter from Gojo’s lawyer (a surprise in itself that he had one) indicated she was a named beneficiary. At once she could only assume this was one final prank. The last insult. She almost threw the letter in the trash, suspecting it would be a waste of time to turn up to a will reading only to receive Gojo’s collection of single unpaired socks. But when Mei Mei and Shoko had said they were also named beneficiaries and would be attending, she’d felt she had no choice.
The reading was to take place in a hired venue - a conference suite in a tired leisure centre, one floor down from a gymnasium. It was odd for Utahime to take her place among Gojo’s nearest and dearest along a long table while the ceiling thudded and jumped at intervals with the excessive activity above them. The surreal nature of this occasion was only cemented as she began to realise that Gojo’s nearest and dearest were anything but.
The lawyer, Mr Daichi Watanabe, had barely begun to thank everyone for attending when the newest head of the Gojo clan rose from his seat.
“There is only one asset we are interested in,” he asserted, leaning his knuckles on the table. “You will return Satoru Gojo’s body to us immediately. The directors of the Jujutsu Schools have no right to retain it.”
And so the tone of the meeting was set.
Around the table, people shifted in their seats as if in attendance of a spectator sport where the opening move had just been played. Shoko sat back to watch the show, pen perched between her lips as if she was missing her cigarette. Mei Mei withdrew her attention to begin staring out the window; and she was not likely to return until the topic of monetary assets was brought up. Utahime examined Yoshiro Gojo. She’d met a few members of the extended Gojo clan before, but never the main branch, and she'd long been curious to see if they were as insane as Gojo. From what she’d heard already, this was Satoru Gojo’s elder brother, but there was little family resemblance. Yoshiro was not particularly tall and his colouring was dark, the same as the other Gojo men and women sitting around him, and it was easy to tell who was a Gojo here. Like many of the oldest and most powerful clans, they hewed closely to tradition, eschewing western suits in favour of stately kimonos.
They were so different from the man she knew that she wondered if the rumours were true; that Satoru Gojo had been adopted into the main family rather than born into it.
“With regard to ownership of his remains,” the lawyer began uneasily, shuffling his papers to find his place. “I believe Satoru Gojo made provision for this in his will… ah, yes, here. Section five. ‘ In the event that my death does not entirely destroy my physical body, my remains should be cremated as soon as convenient and must in no circumstances be released to my relatives in the Gojo clan’.”
Utahime blinked and returned her gaze to Yoshiro Gojo to see his reaction. It was interesting to see a man go from white to red and then back again in just a few seconds. “That body contains multiple secrets of the Gojo clan’s hereditary techniques. Those secrets belong to this family alone! We will not allow it to fall into the hands of others.”
For a brief moment there, Utahime had been wondering if the Gojo clan’s desire for Satoru’s body had been born of the usual family desire to see a loved one’s body return home to rest. Now she folded her arms and pressed her lips together, once more reassured in her prejudice that the great clans were all as bad as each other. Gojo was not a loved one to them. He was just another asset to be divided.
“The will is quite clear on this matter. Unusually so,” said Mr. Watanabe. “As executor, I will be arranging a cremation in short order-”
A third player entered the game, with the slap of a manilla file onto the table. “I think you’ll find Satoru Gojo’s body is the property of the Japanese government, Mr. Watanabe,” interrupted Principal Gakuganji, gesturing to the file that had suddenly been produced by the female legal adviser seated beside him.
Utahime wasn’t alone is swinging her attention to her own boss. She had been wondering why he had come along - she was certain Satoru Gojo would never leave anything of value to a man he’d openly despised and had, during one memorable Christmas work party, compared his face to that of a dog’s scrotum. Now she understood. The manilla file was shuffled dutifully up the table by many hands - Mei Mei's, Megumi Fushiguro's, Toge Inumaki's and even Panda's large paws, until it reached Mr. Watanabe.
Principal Gakuganji tented his fingers. “That is a copy of Satoru Gojo's contract of appointment. I think you’ll find the terms of employment as a Jujutsu High teacher are inviolable. Death in service is covered in the terms and conditions, as you can see. You’ll note that the remains of employees who die while on payroll belong to their employer.”
Beside Utahime, a soft grunt of amusement escaped Shoko. It had been a while since Utahime had read her own employment contract, but she recalled some wording to that effect. Ostensibly, that clause was about ensuring that jujutsu sorcerers didn’t become curses after death, and she’d thought nothing of it. Now she could see how it could also be used to assert ownership of valuable bodies.
The lawyer read the contract carefully. “I will have to confirm this document takes precedence over the will,” he said, though it was clear he didn’t like his odds of fighting against contracts marked with government seals. “But if this case, will you be taking responsibility for the cremation of Satoru Gojo?”
Principal Gakuganji sat back from the table, folding his hands over his belly. “We will not be cremating Satoru Gojo.”
“Sir,” Utahime said, unable to stop herself. “Gojo’s will-”
“That is all I will say on the matter,” he said, silencing her with a single hard look.
Yoshiro Gojo sank back into his seat, stiff with fury. “You’ll be hearing from our lawyers.”
“I expect so,” said Gakuganji, unconcerned.
As Shoko eyed their boss with barely concealed disgust, Utahime sighed inwardly. I need a new job, she thought, and not for the first time. For all Gojo's power, he was still going to end up screwed by his employer in the end, and if that was true for him, what hope did Utahime have against this system? Well. Perhaps there was value in being weak and uninteresting. At least her own eventual death would not be treated as buffet like this. Her own body might one day be left to gently turn to dust and bone, while people in this room still fought over Gojo's flesh.
Mr. Watanabe appeared unsettled by the interruptions so far, but after trading a fortifying look with his paralegal, he rallied. “Now, with permission, I will read a statement from the deceased," he began.
“Skip it,” barked Yoshiro Gojo.
“It must be read,” pleaded the lawyer.
“Then read it at the end. We came here for a reason - get to the point.”
There were nods of agreement around the table, even from Mei Mei. Utahime might have objected, but it looked like she was resoundingly outnumbered.
“Very well.” Mr. Watanabe very pointedly set down one page and moved on to read the next. “I, Satoru Gojo, revoking all previous wills and testimony, declare this to be my last will. I appoint my solicitor, Daichi Watanabe, as my executor and trustee. If he is unable or unwilling, I appoint my colleague, Utahime Iori, as my substitute executor and trustee.”
Utahime's hand dropped from where it propped up her cheek to hit the table with a thud. She kept her gaze fixed on the thumping and bouncing ceiling, ignoring the curious gaze Shoko sent her way.
What had Gojo been thinking? It was just as well that Mr. Watanabe was fully willing and able, or it would have fallen to Utahime to be sorting out this tangled mess of his affairs. Was that the joke? The final ‘fuck you’?
Then it got worse.
“If I am the sole-surviving parent of any children I have produced before my death, I appoint Utahime Iori as guardian to all my surviving children. If Utahime Iori is unable or unwilling to care for my children, I grant them into the custody of the Japanese state to do with as they please.”
Shoko wasn’t the only one looking at Utahime now.
If he wasn’t already dead, I’d kill him, she inwardly seethed. Outwardly she only calmly adjusted the layers of her scarlet hakama. Mr. Watanabe glanced up from his reading. “Miss Iori, I assure you that I have checked most thoroughly and found no records that Satoru Gojo has ever had children.”
“How reassuring,” Mei Mei murmured.
“For funeral arrangements; in the event that my death does not entirely destroy my physical body, my remains should be cremated as soon as convenient-”
“You’ve read that part already,” cut in one of the female Gojo clan members beside Yoshiro. She was older. Perhaps a sister? An aunt? Whoever she was, she apparently didn’t want to hear again how Satoru desired for them to have no say in his custody.
“Indeed,” said Mr Watanabe, moving on. “It is my wish for my funeral to be held on the premises of the Tokyo Jujustsu High campus and should be observed as a celebration of life. For music, I would like: Koi by Gen Hoshino; ‘Despacito Remix’ by Luis Fonsi and Daddy Yankee, featuring Justin Bieber; and Chopin’s Marche Funebre. In whatever order pleases guests.”
Megumi's hand was now rubbing his face with even more frequency and a noise has escaped Panda's jaw that sounded like a strangled guffaw. Utahime looked at her boss's rigid mask of face and knew none that was going to happen.
“To my dearest friends and family, I make the following gifts,” the lawyer went on, which was also the point when Mei Mei and others began to sit up and pay attention. “To my once dear classmate and colleague, Shoko Ieiri, I leave my beloved game of Operation and the enclosed letter.”
The lawyer’s paralegal aide stepped up now, walking down the length of the table to deliver a box and an envelope to Shoko. Utahime watched her ignore the box containing the child’s game and pick up the envelope instead. Never one for sentimentality, Shoko opened the letter right then and there and began to read it silently. Over her shoulder, Utahime noticed the letter went on for several pages and Shoko had not yet noticed the thing that looked like a nicotine patch which had dropped out from between the sheets onto her lap.
“To my best student and fondest family relation, Yuta Okkotsu, I leave my best and fondest katana and the enclosed letter.”
Yuta had lucked out. The sword produced by the paralegal was a grand one with red silk threads wrapping the length of the curved sheath. The boy took both sword and letter with a look of astonishment, though he seemed to regard the letter with more interest. He did not open it.
“To my most attractive and degenerate colleague, Mei Mei, I bequeath the sum of two thousand yen to spend as she pleases, along with the enclosed letter.”
Mei Mei accepted the envelope handed to her with a faint smile fixed on her face. “He still owed me three thousand yen for travel expenses,” she whispered to herself.
The gifts went on. Though Yuji and Maki were not present (Utahime had heard Yuji was still not free to leave the Tokyo school campus and Maki had simply not wanted to come), they received gifts of a pair of sunglasses and a dog-eared copy of a Harry Potter book respectively. Panda had made an effort to attend and happily accepted the pot of lucky bamboo sent his way. Toge Inumaki muttered a polite ‘salmon’ upon being presented with an exceptional set of kitchen knives.
“To Megumi Fushiguru, I leave the sum of ten million yen and the attached letter.”
Utahime was only vaguely surprised - she had a good idea of how deep Gojo’s guilt ran for the Zenin boy. But Megumi, who may have been scowling ever since the pronouncement of Yuta Okkotsu as Gojo’s ‘best student’, looked faintly queasy now as he accepted his envelope. Panda was looking across the table at him, as if re-evaluating his pleasure with his potted bamboo. “Blatant favouritism,” the animal muttered.
Even the Gojo clan were looking unhappy. That had been a decent chunk of Satoru Gojo’s net worth.
Sometimes Mr. Watanabe seemed to come to a particular clause which gave him pause before he tactfully moved on, even turning the page to go to the next gift. Utahime was sure these were people no longer with them. Kento Nanami. The poor Nobara girl. Yuki. They would never know what Gojo had wanted them to have.
“To my weakest colleague…”
Utahime looked up.
“Utahime Iori, I bequeath this ring box and contents, and the attached letter.”
Utahime was frozen in her seat as the paralegal sidled up beside her and placed a blue velvet ring box on the table before her, along with the same kind of envelope everyone else had received. While Mei Mei and Shoko stared at the ring box with great interest, Utahime touched neither.
“With the exception of the previously mentioned gifts, the rest of my estate in full, which here entails all my properties of every kind and all money investments, I return to the Head of the Gojo clan, whoever that may be. If none of the Gojo clan remain, my estate in full will go to Megumi Fushiguro, or else liquidated and donated to the Sea View Donkey Sanctuary in Hiroshima.”
Yoshiro Gojo rose abruptly and walked out. Mr Watanabe was still reading on, describing the particulars of funds set aside for tax and administrative costs, but now that the assets had been declared and divided, it seemed like his family was done. Utahime rubbed her fingers pensively along her lips. She was amazed Gojo had left almost everything to his clan in the end. She was not sure they had deserved it… but perhaps he had cared for them more than she realised?
Or was it that he cared for no one else more?
“May I now read the deceased’s personal statement?” Mr. Watanabe asked the room.
No one objected, but Principal Gakuganji and his legal adviser chose that moment to also rise and walk out.
“Then I will proceed. Dear friends and family,” read Mr. Watanabe, addressing a room that was now half empty, “If you are hearing these words, the unthinkable has happened and you have outlived me. Do not grieve for me, as I’m sure we’ll see each other soon. Anything strong enough to kill me will probably be killing you soon too.”
The sound of a chair suddenly scraping back from the table cut into the reading, and Utahime's gaze jerked to Megumi. She hadn't been paying attention to him, so she was taken aback to see the boy stand and walk out with a closed expression. Yuta jerked upright too and shot out after him.
Oh, right, she thought. The kid was still blaming himself. Sukuna might have struck the killing blow, but he'd used Megumi's hands to do it. As well meaning as Yuta was, it was only right that a responsible adult go handle the situation. She was about to rise and follow him, but Shoko’s hand landed on her arm. “I got it,” she whispered, and left the room quietly.
Mr Watanabe continued valiantly. “I won’t drag on; I’ve written letters to those I need to. I apologise in advance for some of my meagre gifts. I dedicated my life to making change, not wealth, so I have little to share except one thing: make it better. That’s all.”
There were only four people left to hear these words. Panda and Toge looked at each and then at Mei Mei and Utahime. In the extended silence, all Utahime could think about was how the chaotic banging on the ceiling sounded like a herd of elephants playing a game of basketball.
“So we can go?” asked Mei Mei.
“Yes,” sighed Mr Watanabe, closing up his brief case. “We’re done here.”
The day ended in Mei Mei's penthouse, with three women slumped around a square coffee table in the den, drinking from the two bottles of cheap red wine that Mei Mei had bought with the entirety of her inheritance from Satoru Gojo, playing a terrible game of Operation.
"I hope Megumi will be ok," Utahime sighed into her glass.
“That kid already inherited the whole wealth of the Zenin clan and Gojo just gave him enough to buy a brand new BMW on top of that,” said Mei, wrinkling her nose at the unfairness of it all. “I think he’ll get over it. Shoko, half these pieces are missing.”
“And your surgical skills are extremely worrying!” declared Utahime, as Shoko’s tweezers set off the loud red buzzer for the third time.
“I don’t normally do surgery while drinking merlot,” Shoko reassured them.
Mei Mei snorted and lifted her glass of wine. “To Satoru Gojo, I guess.”
Shoko and Utahime clinked their drinks obediently, but Utahime’s cheer felt rather muted. The day had left a bad taste in her mouth that had nothing to do with the cheap wine. A tidy man with tidy papers had tidily meted out all that was left of Satoru Gojo; his money, his property, his accessories and kitchenware. But he would have no say in what happened to his own body. Utahime already suspected what the higher-ups would do with those remains, and all she would be able to do was try to forget it and put it out of mind. It was well out of her hands now.
Make it better, he’d asked.
Like it was easy.
“Cheer up, Utahime,” said Shoko, nudging her. “You didn’t take all that guardianship stuff seriously, did you? He obviously wrote that in to try and rile you up. Don't let him succeed!”
"I would think it's only respectful to let him succeed at least one last time," said Utahime, taking a long glum sip of her wine.
"Are we assuming he was joking?" asked Mei Mei lightly, curling a hand coquettishly below her chin. "He name dropped you rather a lot. By the end I was surprised he gave his estate back to his family instead of you. Is there something you're not telling us, Uta?"
Utahime blinked at her slowly.
“What’s in the ring box, Uta,” Mei Mei asked.
“Probably nothing at all,” said Utahime. That would be precisely the kind of joke he would love.
“You haven’t even checked yet? Get it out!” Shoko was already reaching to pat her down, looking for the lump in her pockets.
Utahime hardly wanted to get anything out, but she knew being cagey now would only stoke their suspicions. “Fine!” She fished the ring box out of her hakama, opened it, and slapped it atop the game, once more setting off the red buzzer.
The three women went quiet.
“Well, I didn’t expect that,” said Shoko.
Utahime swallowed. “That looks real.”
Mei Mei snatched up the presentation box. “It is real.”
Trust Mei Mei to know a valuable when she saw one. She plucked the gold ring from its cushion and held it up to the light. Even across the table, Utahime could see the sparkle of light slanting across a setting full of diamonds and shining green stone.
“Emerald?” Shoko whispered.
“Imperial jade,” Mei Mei whispered back.
The two women looked at Utahime anew, regarding her with as much awe and confusion as they had given the ring. “What?” she asked.
“Was something going on between you two?” Shoko asked, frowning faintly.
Utahime gasped her irritation. “Of course not. This is just his idea of a joke.”
“A joke?” Shoko stared at her. “I worked with him every day for the last ten years and got a fucking boardgame and you got an engagement ring. What’s going on, Utahime?”
“Nothing!” she cried defensively.
“We should sell this,” said Mei. Her eyes had never left the ring. “We could get maybe 2 million… 3 million, easy.”
Utahime snatched the ring back and stuffed it into the box clumsily. “No.”
Mei shrugged at her. “What’s the problem, if it’s all just a joke-”
“Why is everyone so mercenary? Fighting over the scraps of what’s left of him like vultures?” Utahime burst out. “That man drove us crazy, but he threw his life away for a chance to save his students - save all of us - and all he means to you all now is what money you can make off him!”
Shoko stood from the table. “Don’t lump me in with them ,” she all but snarled. “Like I don’t know what a shitshow this is! You know we’re had three attempted break-ins since word got out about his death? People trying to snatch his body parts from the morgue? Gojo’s body is the most valuable asset he ever had, and that’s all there is to it. We can’t change that.”
“He should be put to rest properly,” Utahime said, her throat tight with unspent emotion.
“It’s not going to happen,” Shoko said, more gently. "I'm sorry."
Utahime squeezed her eyes shut, but all she saw behind her lids was that broken, cut up body. Pale, dead eyes. She opened them again and saw her friends looking back at her seriously. For long seconds, none of them said anything.
“I think I’ll go,” said Utahime evenly, recovering her calm once more. “I don’t want to miss the train back to Kyoto.”
“Of course,” said Mei.
“Let me call you a taxi,” offered Shoko.
Utahime knew that they would be gossiping about her the moment she was gone. She was already aware of the rumours that had been swirling about her intense antipathy toward Gojo for years, and she dreaded to think what the cracks in her behaviour tonight would do to fuel such speculation. But what did it matter? He was dead and gone. Today was his last prank, the last time he would ever mock her or make a fool of her. After today there would be nothing... no random messages containing gifs of cats, no midnight phone calls to ask her her thoughts on a baseball game currently being played in the United States. He would never again look up excitedly when she told him to mind his manners towards his elders, because he loved nothing more than to turn that into a joke about her age. He would never again call her weak. She would never again see the eternal blue sky in his eyes when he took the karaoke microphone off her and sang an overwrought rendition of 'I Touch Myself' by Divinyls at the afterwork parties, because he knew how it embarrassed her.
Right then, Utahime knew she needed to be alone. To reflect. She refused the taxi, preferring the walk through the mild autumn evening. It helped settle her thoughts and numb her feelings, as she focused on navigating to the train station and finding the right platform.
The train was quiet at that time of evening, and Utahime sat by the window, staring out at the darkness that only reflected her own image back at her. Her hand was wedged in the pocket of her hakama, fingers clutched around the velvet ring box. The letter was there too. She hadn’t dared take it out around the others… but here on the train she seemed to be as alone as she would ever get.
Her hands shook when she tore open the flap of the envelope, or was that just the shuddering of the train? Utahime took a deep breath and smoothed the letter out before her.
It was not a long one, but handwritten in Gojo’s surprisingly beautiful characters.
Dear Utahime Iori,
You know I’m only messing with you. Sorry, you’re just too fun to tease. Please accept the ring as a token of my apology. It belonged to my mother.
Love and kisses,
Satoru Gojo
ps. I’m kidding.
pps. I have no idea who my mother was.
Utahime folded the letter back into her pocket and inhaled deeply. Two hot tears streaked down her cheeks. From under her breath she murmured one word.
“Prick.”
December 2019
The year after the Shinjuku incident was deceptively peaceful, at least compared to the year that had come before it. With the Zenin clan all but gone, the death of Satoru Gojo hadn’t been the only seismic shift in power in the jujutsu sorcery world, and there was no end to the gallery of rogues jockeying for status and influence after the decline of two of the three big clans. The remaining Kamo clan was moving quickly into almost unopposed ascendancy, and curses that had once shied away from Tokyo and Gojo's sphere of influence were slowly creeping back in.
But that hardly mattered to Utahime. She had classes to teach and sorcerers to raise. Curses didn’t stop just because good (and bad) people had died.
Each morning she rose with her alarm, fed her cats, washed and dressed for work, then headed out. Her commute was a short one - walking the distance from her apartment at the edge of the Kyoto campus, to the teaching block at the heart - but it was just long enough to clear the cobwebs, especially on a crisp winter morning like this one. Her path took her over iced canals and through wooded paths of slumbering skeletal trees. She told herself that no one else had such a beautiful walk to work. Few other places offered subsidised accommodation. And her dear, sweet students made each day worth it.
“For you, Sensei.” Kasumi Miwa blushed prettily as she handed a carefully wrapped box to Utahime the moment she entered the small classroom that morning.
“Oh, you shouldn’t have, Miwa,” said Utahime, unravelling the scarf from her neck. A gentle shake of the present hinted there were probably chocolates within.
“It’s nothing! I just wanted to thank you, Sensei,” said Miwa quietly. “For all your help this year.”
A small smile tilted the corner of Utahime’s lips. They both knew what she meant. It had been a rough year and a half; Miwa had lost two classmates and had barely escaped a brutal fight with her own life at the cost of losing the use of a weapon she had spent years training to use. Utahime had done more than coach her in the use of new weapons, they’d talked too; about the friends Miwa had lost, about the nightmares she kept having, and her uncertainty over whether becoming a sorcerer was in her future or not
Utahime reached out to clasp her shoulder. “Think nothing of it, Miwa. Now. Come along and help me with those unruly first years,” she said. “I’m afraid it’s your duty as the most responsible third year I’ve ever taught.”
“Of course, Sensei!”
The first year students were far from unruly, but perhaps if she could steer Miwa’s path towards teaching instead of curse-breaking, there would be a brighter and much longer future for the young woman. The moment they entered the classroom, the first years stopped their conversations and welcomed them, and when she began her lecture they listened attentively. They were a joy to teach, as all her students were, and this was her biggest class yet (an astonishingly impressive number of six students).
She had never understood Gojo’s complaints about undisciplined teenagers who never listened. Perhaps it was the difference between Tokyo kids and Kyoto kids, or perhaps students merely reflected what their teachers taught them. If Gojo’s kids had been wild and disrespectful… well, wasn’t that because they had been under the wing of the wildest and most disrespectful man of her acquaintance?
Almost none of those kids had stayed after his death. Only Panda and Toge Inumaki had wanted to continue their education, and without any teaching staff left in Tokyo, they had come to join Miwa’s year in Kyoto.
As the gong sounded for the mid-morning break, Utahime dismissed her students with a reminder that they should reconvene later in the indoor gym. “It’s too cold to sit around on a day like this,” she told them. “Rounders and reverse techniques in half an hour.”
This announcement was met with hisses of delight. Learning in a classroom was all well and good, but if she could turn it into a game, they seemed to retain even more without even realising it.
While they raced off with Miwa to set up the rounds equipment in the gym, Utahime slowly moved around the classroom, tidying it up and wiping away the chalkboard notes she'd been making all morning. In her pocket, her phone buzzed against her thigh. It had been doing that throughout the morning session, but she’d ignored it. It was important to set a good example to the young students… unlike Gojo, who she’d often observed interrupting lessons to take phone calls.
She sighed. Even after all this time, there were too many ways to be reminded of him.
Utahime drew her battered iphone from her pocket, and beneath the spidery web of cracked glass she saw an astonishing number of messages from Shoko.
It wasn’t like Shoko to text her unprompted. These had all been sent through Signal too… the app Shoko only ever used when she was feeling paranoid. Utahime quickly opened her messages.
9:06: You need to come to Tokyo.
9:06: Right now.
9:18: Where are u right now?
10:02: I’m going to call you.
10:03: (Missed call)
10:15: What the FUCK is the point in you having a phone if you don’t answer it UTA
Perplexed, Utahime tapped her phlegmatic response:
What’s up? 10:32
Shoko was online instantly and an ellipsis flashed as she typed her response.
10:32: Are you alone?
As usual. 10:32
10:33: I’m calling you. Don’t forget the passcode.
Utahime swore under her breath. She hated talking on the phone at the best of times, and when Shoko insisted on calling her through the encrypted app, that added an extra layer of complication. She knew there was some kind of codeword on the app that she needed to say to Shoko to confirm her identity, but she never could seem to get it right, and before she could figure it out, the phone was vibrating insistently with an incoming call.
“Pears,” said Shoko, offering up her own codeword immediately
“Um,” Utahime couldn’t decide between holding the phone to her ear and running the risk of accidentally ending the call by looking up her own code word. “Hello?”
“Utahime,” Shoko sighed impatiently. “In ten days, we will be living in 2020. You need to figure out your tech.”
“If I did that, you might not really believe it’s me,” she retorted.
“True. Now listen. Are you free? Are you alone?”
“Sure, but I can’t talk long. I’m teaching at the moment and they’re expecting me back in a few minutes.”
“Forget that,” said Shoko. “Call in sick and get yourself to the train station. You need to come to Tokyo.”
Utahime dreaded her tone. She was so tired of hearing that low urgency of unspoken bad news. “What’s happened, Shoko?”
“I can’t say over the phone. You should be here.”
Her heart sank. “Who died?” she asked tightly. She could think of no other news important enough to demand her presence that couldn’t be delivered over the phone.
“No - it’s not that,” said Shoko, sounding strained. “It’s… it’s about Gojo.”
Despite the cold day, Utahime felt a faint flush of heat crash through her veins at the sound of that name. It was slow at first, and then quickly unravelled her stomach as she realised there could be only one reason why Shoko would be calling about Gojo now, this long after his death.
There was no chair near enough to fall into, so Utahime found herself leaning against the blackboard, slowly sinking to the floor. “Someone took him,” she guessed.
It was bound to happen eventually. The higher-ups had refused to dispose of his remains, preferring to preserve them for posterity. Who knew what secrets his corpse would give up in time? Utahime had been trying hard not to think about it, or think about those pieces of him which had been wrapped in o-fuda wards, catalogued, labelled, held in storage alongside dusty curiosities and cursed objects too dangerous to be safely destroyed.
The Tokyo school’s cursed warehouse was difficult to break into, but not impossible. Things had gone missing before, and she’d seen the bounties put up online, offering more money for just one of Gojo’s fingers than Utahime had made in her entire career.
Shoko’s voice was gentle in her ear. “No one took him, Utahime,” she said. “I need you here though. I don’t trust anyone else with this.”
“I can’t sit on a train for two hours wondering what you have to tell me. Don’t do that to me, Shoko. Just spit it out.”
She heard Shoko sigh. “Ok. But don’t freak.”
Utahime refused to make promises.
“I think Gojo is alive.”