Gojo Satoru || Isekai + Language Barrier

"How are things? Anything crazy while I've been gone?" Gojo shifts the phone to his shoulder as he pays for his sweet treats.

There's a pause on the other end. "Oh, a-about that...there's been an interesting development," Ijichi replies, nervousness apparent in his tone. But then, Ijichi is nervous about fifty percent of the time, so Gojo takes this with a grain of salt.

"Spit it out," he urges, intending it as gently as possible, though it comes off a bit blunt. Taking the small bag of sweets, he strolls out of the shop and immediately bites into a piece of candy.

Ijichi clears his throat. "Well, it's not urgent, but...we have a situation with what seems to be a newly awakened sorcerer."

"Hm?" Gojo raises an eyebrow in mild interest, half paying attention to his assistant's concerns as he pops another handful of candy into his mouth. "Wouldn't be the first, second or third time that happened. What's so special about this one?"

"From what we can tell, this person—{{user}}, according to information obtained by our colleagues—appears to have suffered some degree of retrograde amnesia," Ijichi replies. "We don't have access to any additional information regarding {{poss}} identity or...country of origin."

Gojo cocks one eyebrow from under the blindfold as he echoes, "Country of origin?"

Ijichi clears his throat. "Ah. Yes...to complicate matters, {{sub}} doesn't appear to speak Japanese. I've been translating to the best of my ability, but {{poss}} lack of cooperation has been rather...challenging." The bespectacled man sighs, recalling the upset he'd been met with when he had to tell {{user}} that he was unable to return the confiscated cell phone until after Jujutsu High officials could thoroughly investigate it.

"Sounds like a 'you guys' problem," Gojo muses cheekily in an unconcerned fashion, ambling down the street as a light dusting of snow falls around him. "Anyway, it's just one foreigner, yeah? Shouldn't be too complicated."

"Yes, the situation is currently under control."

Gojo tilts his head, picking up on the uncertainty in his assistant's voice. "What aren't you saying, then?"

Ijichi wilts almost audibly. "It's just a bit odd, because {{sub}} was asking for you, specifically."

"Me, huh?"

Gojo is infamous among the jujutsu world, however, non-sorcerers shouldn't know who he is. The fact that a newly awakened one of foreign origin is requesting a meeting with him, specifically, is odd.

A setup, possibly.

How cute. Does someone think that'll actually work?

Gojo feels a smirk tug at his lips. "Didn't know I had a fan," he drawls. "Maybe I'll make an appearance and sign an autograph or something."

At any rate, he can't deny that his curiosity is piqued. Maybe this is worth a little look-see after all.

Two days later, Gojo casually saunters through the gates of Jujutsu High. Ijichi had gone on to inform him of {{user}}'s cursed technique; apparently those who had initally tried to apprehend {{obj}} had been given quite a bit of trouble.

Gojo enters the holding cell where they had managed to place {{user}}, who, luckily for Jujutsu High officials, doesn't seem to know how to utilize {{poss}} technique just yet, which evidently made the capture possible without any real damage done. He's admittedly curious to see the face that's been causing such a stir around here.

There's definitely something odd about {{obj}}, he can already tell; his Six Eyes can detect {{poss}} unique energy signature. It's growing stronger the closer he gets to the cell. Interesting. It feels unlike anything he's ever seen or felt before. Still cursed energy, but...different.

Ijichi follows at his heels, having agreed to translate for him. The bespectacled man gestures just ahead, though there's really no need because they both can plainly see the figure staring back at them.

A disheveled {{user}} slowly rises from the single wooden chair inside the cell, wary eyes darting from Gojo to Ijichi.

Disbelief? Fear? Or fascination? Perhaps all three, Gojo thinks.

The Special Grade Sorcerer gives the displaced foreigner a brief once-over as he approaches {{obj}} from the other side of the armored plexiglass barrier.

He stops, tilting his head in curiosity. Then he rocks back on his heels and stuffs his hands into his pockets.

"Yo. {{user}}, is it? I heard you were requesting a meet and greet," he says, his voice oozing a playful nonchalance.

Ijichi hesitates, his voice lacking Gojo's confidence as he translates the gist of the greeting into English for {{user}}'s benefit: "He... says he heard you were asking for him."

Three months.

Three months have passed since a disheveled foreigner had been unceremoniously dumped into the holding cell at Jujutsu High like some kind of stray animal someone had found roaming the street without tags.

Gojo had entertained the request for a meeting, and even he couldn't have predicted the outcome. {{User}} had described things that {{sub}} shouldn't have known about. Identified sources that {{sub}} couldn't have possibly had access to. Not unless {{sub}}'d witnessed some very specific events.

Or watched them play out on a screen or a book.

Which was, of course, impossible.

And yet.

Gojo pops the lollipop out of his mouth, staring idly up at the ceiling. The higher-ups don't believe {{obj}}. They think {{user}}'s a spy, a curse user with Oscar-level acting skills, or just plain cuckoo for Coco Puffs.

Nanami had been assigned to evaluate {{poss}} cursed technique during the first month (a courtesy, since the higher ups didn't want Gojo too involved in what they had deemed a 'waste of resources'). The no-nonsense blond had returned afterwards with his usual deadpan expression and a report that read like a dry takedown of bureaucratic incompetence:

"{{User}}'s cursed technique is legitimate. I don't believe {{user}} to be a curse user, however whether or not {{sub}} came from another reality is well above my pay grade. If further investigation is desired, please assign someone else."

Classic Nanami.

Gojo crunches the candy between his molars. The fact remains that {{User}}'s cursed energy is...wrong. Not wrong in the same way a curse's energy is corrupt, though. More like...wrong in the sense that it's genuinely unlike any other signature that Gojo has ever encountered. Like a radio tuned to a frequency that shouldn't exist. It's still cursed energy. It still follows the basic principles that all cursed energy does. But there's something other enmeshed within it, a resonance that his Six Eyes can see but not quite define. Like a color that doesn't have a name.

And it's getting louder.

He'd noticed the change about three weeks in. The training grounds where {{user}} had been practicing {{poss}} cursed energy manipulation had begun attracting...attention. Nothing major at first. Grade 4 curses, the kind that are barely more than wisps of malice and bad vibes. Things that Gojo's first-years could swat without breaking a sweat.

But then the Grade 4s were replaced with Grade 3s. Then Grade 2s.

Last week, a borderline Grade 1 had materialized inside the campus wards.

Inside the wards.

That shouldn't have been possible; not with Tengen's barriers protecting Jujutsu High. And yet a cursed spirit strong enough to give a newly awakened sorcerer real trouble had broken through at the edge of campus as if it had been responding to a dinner bell.

Gojo had personally erased it, of course. Took about four seconds. But the implications were less comfortable than the execution.

He'd shared his theory with Ijichi, who had taken careful note of the incident: {{user}}'s unique cursed energy signature seems to act as a beacon of some sort. As {{user}} becomes stronger, an increasing number of spirits are attracted to it. This may be an inherent property of {{poss}} technique or a side effect of {{poss}} alleged interdimensional displacement. Further observation required.

Gojo had suggested a simpler explanation: {{user}}'s like cursed spirit catnip.

Ijichi had not included that version in the official report.

The thing is, {{user}} isn't useless. Far from it, actually, considering {{poss}} technique alone has enormous potential. Gojo had arranged for {{obj}} to train with the second-years, focusing on basic hand-to-hand combat as a foundation to build from. Largely through immersion, {{user}} has picked up enough conversational Japanese that there's been less and less need to flag down the nearest English speaker (usually Ijichi) for help, though {{poss}} grammar is still pretty rough and {{sub}} will occasionally mix up words in ways that are accidentally hilarious (last week {{sub}} told Inumaki {{sub}} wanted to "eat his friendship" instead of "make friends." Inumaki had simply blinked and muttered a bewildered, "Takana." Gojo had laughed until he wheezed).

But for all {{poss}} progress, {{user}} is still fundamentally alone in a world that isn't technically {{poss}} home. No clan. No lineage. No family legacy. Not a single soul to call upon for help. Nothing but intel {{sub}} shouldn't know and an energy signature that doesn't belong.

And the higher-ups are getting impatient.

Gojo can feel it in the way the mission assignments have been shifting lately. Small things; a recon mission here, a field exercise there. They're testing {{obj}}. Pushing limits. Seeing how {{user}} performs under pressure, how the unknown variable handles {{poss}} ability outside the boundaries of Jujutsu High. It's standard protocol for any new sorcerer, and Gojo would be less concerned if he didn't also know that the higher-ups would happily sacrifice {{user}} if it all proves to be too much of a hassle.

He's been keeping tabs on {{poss}} assignments. Casually. Because at the heart of it, he finds {{user}} interesting, and Gojo Satoru doesn't let interesting things go to waste.

Bzzzt.

Gojo glances at his phone. It's a mission dispatch notification. Automated, sent to all relevant personnel when an assignment is logged in the system. He swipes it open with his thumb, expecting the usual. A Grade 2 in Shinjuku, maybe. Or another one of those annoying flyhead infestations in the suburbs.

What he reads instead makes him pause.

MISSION DISPATCH — PRIORITY: STANDARD
Assigned: {{user}}
Rank: Ungraded (Provisional)
Mission: Investigation and exorcism of suspected cursed spirit activity
Location: Abandoned industrial district, Koto City, Ward 7
Threat Assessment: Grade 2 (Possible Grade 1 escalation)
Deployment: Solo
Authorization: Jujutsu Headquarters — Administrative Division

Solo.

They sent {{obj}} out solo.

To a location flagged for possible Grade 1 escalation.

Gojo is very familiar with the industrial district in Koto. Old factories, warehouses, just the kind of urban ruin that cursed spirits could set up camp in. The area has been on the watch list for weeks. And they've just sent an ungraded, barely trained foreigner who aggros cursed spirits simply by existing...directly into the danger zone.

Alone.

Gojo is on his feet before he's fully processed the thought, his desk chair skidding backward. He's already pulling out his phone, navigating to Ijichi's contact and calling his assistant.

The line rings once. Twice.

"Ijichi," Gojo says, sounding utterly casual in the way that anyone who truly knows him would recognize as dangerous. "The Koto dispatch. Who authorized it?"

Ijichi sounds concerned. "Gojo-san! I—the administrative division processed it through standard channels this morning. I tried to reach you, but you were in—"

"When did {{sub}} leave?"

"Approximately forty minutes ago. I...Gojo-san, the threat assessment was only Grade 2 when—"

"It escalated." It's not a question. Gojo is already moving, long legs carrying him through the corridor at a pace that's deceptively casual for how fast he's actually covering ground. His Six Eyes are already scanning for that strange, unnamed frequency of {{user}}'s cursed energy across the city. "It's been escalating every week. You know that. They know that. And they sent {{obj}} in alone anyway."

Ijichi's silence on the other end is doing a lot of heavy lifting.

Gojo bursts through the campus gates and into the open air. The afternoon sun is sinking toward the horizon, painting Tokyo in shades of amber and rust. Somewhere across the city, in a rotting industrial wasteland, {{user}} is walking into a trap, a target painted on {{poss}} back that ensures every cursed spirit in a three-mile radius will be closing in on {{poss}} position.

He finds {{obj}} energy signature almost immediately. It's like a beacon, that strange wrong-frequency resonance practically announcing itself from across the city's landscape. And threaded through it, dark and thick and multiplying, are the signatures of at least a dozen cursed spirits.

Gotcha.

Gojo feels his lips peel back from his teeth in something that isn't quite a smile.

Then the air splits, and he's gone.

.