Chapter Text
The first thing Yuji thinks?
I’m going to kill that alien bastard if it’s the last thing I do.
The thing had taunted him with memories. It was a cruel thing, to experience a technique that could pick through your mind and use it against you, with good and bad moments alike
—going to the bakery in Sendai, those shitty old videogames, going to the movies, a pair of dark eyes framed by long lashes, blissful scenes of childhood, that fleeting expanse of peace as an adult, dark eyes again, oh, here were dark eyes like a forest, they dug deeper, they saw they didn’t need to lie, that the mistakes were all Yuji’s alone, that it was his fault, he lost the best part of himself and it was all his fault, and he was trying to forget but that was a selfish thing to do and Yuji needed to atone because someone was dead because of him and he was too weak to save them even after everything—
Yuji had shut his eyes to it, just for a second.
Just one.
And then he was sucked into a vacuum, a tear in the fabric of space that made his stomach drop. It was nothing like the spirit realm, which had been grounded and empty, and nothing like what the alien had been throwing at him either, a kaleidoscopic map of his mind. In the tear, he had felt everything and nothing at once: crisp air invading his nostrils and liquid forcing itself into his lungs, clouds brushing against his skin and needles worming their way out of him. He was barely conscious of the ground leaving him, but it was enough.
He cut through the domain — technique, whatever it was — and landed in a place he didn’t recognize. His opponent was gone, his fellow sorcerers were gone, and his memories were left mercifully untouched.
Now, Yuji stands and presses his palms to his burning eyes. He’s too old to be getting so emotional.
He takes a breath. Two. He allows the fear to seep out of his body, determined not to think of this moment again. His only problem is what he’ll say to his fellow sorcerers to explain this failure; and, he supposes, if he’ll have anyone to explain it to, because he can’t feel the alien at all anymore. He doesn’t understand what’s happened.
He looks at his surroundings and thinks, there are so many trees. It reminds him distinctly of his childhood, although Yuji can’t remember the last time he was in Sendai. There’s grass just beyond the sidewalk, towering pines — it’s the most nature he’s seen in months, he realizes — and the stars are twinkling above him in a way they simply don’t in Tokyo — which is odd, because it had just been noon — so he must be in a different time zone entirely. A different country. Yes, that’s what happened.
The thought makes him clench his jaw. If it teleported him this far in only a second, who knows what it might do to his fellow sorcerers.
He pulls his hood up all the way and tucks his cursed energy tightly within him (because there’s no telling who’s watching, even in this rural-looking place, even across the ocean) and thinks of what to do first. There’s no signal on his phone, which makes sense. He stopped paying for international service a long time ago—
That’s when he feels the presence. It sparks a sense of foreboding that he hasn’t felt in decades, that he couldn’t forget if he tried. It’s so strong that he’s sent back to seventy years ago, watching that part of him die. Instinct has Yuji heading towards the source.
As he runs, he catches sight of a sign: No Smoking, No Littering.
Yuji falters. He can read it. This is Japan. The darkness must mean he’s experienced some time dilation. How else does one go from noon to night in a second? If he knows anything, he knows this must have everything to do with Sukuna’s presence. Yuji can nearly taste it, and it makes his stomach twist. The alien bastard might’ve actually done Yuji a favor by giving him the chance to destroy him.
He’s about to summon his cursed energy and jump when—
“Yo! Who’re you?”
He freezes.
There’s no way he’s hearing that voice. He hasn’t heard it in sixty-eight years. He thought he’d never hear it again.
Yuji turns and finds Gojo Satoru, the strongest sorcerer of the age. He’s wearing his familiar blindfold, his jujutsu uniform, and he holds a white paper bag in his hand that he’s swinging side-to-side. He’s bubbly and confident despite the disaster that’s undoubtedly unfolding a few kilometers away, exactly like the real Gojo-sensei would be. And now Yuji thinks that he’s gotten this all wrong. Sukuna, Gojo-sensei, nighttime, lack of service — they’re variables all pointing to the same conclusion: he must still be in the alien’s technique. There’s no other explanation. Even though he feels nothing, sees nothing even when he draws cursed energy to his eyes, this has to be a technique or domain. It has to be.
“Wow.” Gojo-sensei smiles wide. “You smothered your presence fast. I was supposed to check on another situation, but it was so overpowering that I couldn’t help myself. It’s a good thing you didn’t go far, huh? Did you sense me?”
This must be a joke, Yuji thinks. A sick, twisted joke. He knows he should activate his domain, but he can’t bring himself to. The alien chose perhaps the second most effective person to conjure to destroy his will to fight.
“So,” the fake Gojo-sensei continues, tilting his head to the side, “who are you, exactly?”
Yuji doesn’t understand what he means, or how those words factor into the technique at all. All he knows is that he has to get away from this image before he can be caught off guard. Isn’t this how they caught Gojo-sensei himself in Shibuya? Pinning him down for an entire minute to unleash the Prison Realm? Where is it right now? Still at the school?
“You have amazing control of your cursed energy,” the mirage is saying, “but that little bit I felt was just so weird. Are you a curse or a human?”
Not Kalayan. It’s copied Gojo-sensei to an unfair degree. Except for one thing.
“If you really had the Six Eyes, you would know,” Yuji says.
The alien’s face turns shocked. Yuji doesn’t allow him the dignity of a response.
He brings his power so far into himself that he hopes even the real Gojo-sensei would’ve been hard-pressed to find it, and then he explodes, channeling cursed energy to his legs and leaping through the park with such speed that it’s nothing but a blur to his eyes. He allows himself that one great spurt before tucking it all away again and running without it.
Nothing makes sense here.
All he knows is that his name is Itadori Yuji, he’s eighty-three years old, the year is 2086, and he is stuck in an alien’s technique. There is no other option.
There can’t be.