[ No one has asked him, but Geto Suguru finds it easy to keep track of the curses he ingests, the glowing, putrid orbs sliding down his throat and deep into his body. He doesn't know where they reside, wouldn't be able to pinpoint it on an anatomy map of his body, but they're ever present. Close, intimate.
Sometimes, it feels like he's more them, those three thousand nine hundred seven and counting curse he's consumed, than he is the boy born as Geto Suguru.
(One day in the future, he will murder a hundred villagers, and rescue two little girls, and he will think, This was always my destiny, because what is the strength of one man to the worst of human nature? When he's four thousand six hundred and seventy-five curses and only a little Geto Suguru, can he even say he's a human? )
But that's the future.
For now, that night when he swallows his three thousand nine hundred eighth curse, washing down the taste of a dirty rag with an overly sweet soda, he doesn't much care for the future. Doesn't much care for anything, even the homework assignments still waiting for him to complete and the report he needs to write up about the mission. The curses talk at him, an agonized mess of susurration in the back of his head, and he can't focus enough to think, let alone write, or try to make out the details of the jujutsu society.
He doesn't know what to do with it. How to respond. How to quiet them. From everything he's found, there is nothing like his cursed technique— not unusual, it seems everyone is unique— and no information on how to deal with it. Sometimes, they're quiet, easy to ignore; the random word or image popping into his head from the mass of curses he has is nothing beyond some vague desire. Sometimes, they're louder, especially when he's swallowed a new one, or when the scent of violence lingers heavy on the air, crackling like ozone, and the curses whip into a frenzy, desperation leaking into his veins from wherever they reside. His stronger curses feel— if that's what they do at all— more intensely, and they linger beneath his skin, closer to his soul, ready for him.
His name a shout, with the ferocity of a three-thousand voices behind it, loud, too loud—
And then silence. The quietest whisper of his name, in a familiar voice, known and loved, an escape.
A door slams open. Suguru bolts upright, shifting from asleep to awake immediately, with a startled expression— he didn't realize he had been asleep were asleep. ]
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Sometimes, it feels like he's more them, those three thousand nine hundred seven and counting curse he's consumed, than he is the boy born as Geto Suguru.
(One day in the future, he will murder a hundred villagers, and rescue two little girls, and he will think, This was always my destiny, because what is the strength of one man to the worst of human nature? When he's four thousand six hundred and seventy-five curses and only a little Geto Suguru, can he even say he's a human? )
But that's the future.
For now, that night when he swallows his three thousand nine hundred eighth curse, washing down the taste of a dirty rag with an overly sweet soda, he doesn't much care for the future. Doesn't much care for anything, even the homework assignments still waiting for him to complete and the report he needs to write up about the mission. The curses talk at him, an agonized mess of susurration in the back of his head, and he can't focus enough to think, let alone write, or try to make out the details of the jujutsu society.
Ģ̧̧͉̹̮̯̞̰̲̹͉͎̬̱̰̹̤̖̼̗͕̆͂̂̿́̽̓̈́̑̂̋̉̂̅̃͆͘̕̚̕͠͠͝ͅḙ̡̛̛̱̣͎̩͕̖̦̤͈̟̖̺̟̻̬̩̮̲̫͆͂͆̽͒̈́͋̓̌͒̔̅͑̈́̊́̽̌̎͊͘͟͜ţ̡̖̯̘̻̝͖̦̦͎̯͇̞͉̗̣̯̬̱̼̃̿̉͌̌̍̅̒͗̿́̽̋̀̋̎̏͘̕̚̚͜͡͝ͅȏ̧̧̨̢̪̪̭̹̳̘͖̦̰̭͙̞̞̻͈̗̪̘̔̍̌̏̽̿̎̽̆̏̈́̓́̍̋̃̚͘̚͜͠͠͡ S̨̡̡̛̥͖̙͇̟͍̺͇̱͕̼̣̪͔̙͚͇̮̮̓͌́̏͐̌̔͛̎͋͗̔͂̊́̄̂̄̄̎̋̚͜u̧̗͓̮̤͉̜͈̦̻̠͉̜͔͙̜̤̻̬͈̪̥̇̊̄̆̾͌́͆̅̿͊̌͐͊͆͂͒̒͘͜͝͡͝͝g̨̢̨̛͔̤̩̝̩͖͓̙̰͓̪̰͔͚̬̠̱̝̯̾̾̈́͊̃͛͋͛̈̓̀͌͒͛͒͑̑͘͘͡͝͝ͅu̧̧̢̗̺̟̼̰̰̥̻̙̗̦̬̫̫͔̜̪̯͛̀͌͌̏͗͂͗̀̿̆̂͛̈́̂̽̽̀̕͘͘͡͠ͅͅr̡̰͓͍͍̙͚̬͕̯̦̳͉͚̖͍̥̗̰̜̦͓̽̓̊̉́̍̃̆̓̈͌͛͊́̒̐̚̚̚͝͝͝͝ͅư͉̱͖̯͕̥͍͙͇̭̩͖̜͔̯͓̣͍͍̰̆͋̐͐̔̍͊̊̊͂̿͛̈̒̈́̓͑̉́͘͘͜͟͝ͅ
He doesn't know what to do with it. How to respond. How to quiet them. From everything he's found, there is nothing like his cursed technique— not unusual, it seems everyone is unique— and no information on how to deal with it. Sometimes, they're quiet, easy to ignore; the random word or image popping into his head from the mass of curses he has is nothing beyond some vague desire. Sometimes, they're louder, especially when he's swallowed a new one, or when the scent of violence lingers heavy on the air, crackling like ozone, and the curses whip into a frenzy, desperation leaking into his veins from wherever they reside. His stronger curses feel— if that's what they do at all— more intensely, and they linger beneath his skin, closer to his soul, ready for him.
Ġ̡̧̢̡̧̡̛̛͕̱͔̱͍͕̦̰̟̰̪̦̼̙̝̬̪̖͕̮̝͍͕͉̯͖̹̥̭̫͚͙̗̖̣̲̞̮̼̞͎̟̘̞͔̩̗͓͆̐̄̀̋̌͊̔̉͑̿̋̌̿̄̋͗͊͊̾̓̌̈́̐͊̊̌͑̐̈́̈́̄͋̍͑̀̐̽̀̈́̑̒̈́͆̌͑̚̚̚̕͟͜͡͝͝͡ͅę̢̨̨̧̡̬̤̙̼̦̩̘̳̫͎̩̼̞̭͈̭͔͎̮͕̪͖̠̱̹͎̲̥̻̼̳̩͕̼̤͚̮̝̭̹̻͔͓͓͔̼͓͔͙͗͊͌͑͂̽͆̈́̈́̔̏͑͑̑̋̑́̐̃̾̐̓͋͐́̒͛̀̈́̍͂̈́͐̈́͋̎̋͂͗̑̈́̊̓̿̈́̀̇̚͘̚̚͘̚͟͡͝͝͡ͅẗ̢̨̡̢̢̢̨͔̺̯͈̝̻͈̲̻̻͎̟̼͈̲̘͇̺̗̥͍̠̰̪̥̺̥̼̖̥̳̪͈̮̥͙͎͍̤̞͍̳̜̩́̄̏̊͑̈́̈́̃̌́̓͒̊̽̀̈́̔͆̀̽́͂̂̅̂̈͒̿̉̄̈́͛̀̿́͒̓̂͐̃̽͌̾̔͋͊̿̿̆̃̎̚̚͜͜͟͜͝͝͠͝ͅͅǫ̧̢̢̢̧̢̢̨̢̛̗͕͓̩̼̞̪̝̜̗͈̪͇̬̗͔͔̯̦̘̥͓̥̼̥̟͚̩̱͖̱̝͚͙̠͕̱̠̤̖̦̜͓͑̐̏̅̑̊̊́̉͌͛̓͛͑́̀̈́̿͗̏̓̀͐̏͒̈́̔̈́̋̊̍̽̎̑͂̈́̎̇̎͋̔̓̔̍̌̋̽̃͘̚̚̚͟͜͟͜͝͠͝͝ S̨̢̢̨̨̯̝̞̥͉̳͍̼̲͍̳̭̖̻̤̳̪̱͈͇͈̲͚̗̟̗̳͉͚̻͇̳̲̯̞̯̺̞̰̥͔̜̖̟̟͙̤͙̅̈̇̇̀̅̃̓̐̄͑͂͐̍͋̇͐́̇͌̈́̍̃̈̆͋̀̔̊̅̍̅̆͑̓̿̓̽̌͋̔̆̊͗̌͋͌̾̈́͘̕̕͜͟͜͡͝͝͝͝ͅư̡̨̢̡̨̧̨̢̛͕̩̰͇̼̪̻͙̞̙̝͍̞̰̹̠̪͚̻̩̘͕̥̩̫̭̪̤͍̰̞͔̩̞̻̣̰͓̻̦̪̼̜͖̺͔̈́̎̈́̓͒̈́̌̾̀̍͛̈́̓̐̎̀̈̓̎̿̊̓͛͗̓̃̒͐̒̾͒͆̎̉̑͗̀͒͗̒͂̇̆̎̏̀̆͘͜͝͝͡͠͡͡ͅͅǵ̡̡̢̨̨̹̱͚̭̞̩͈̦̟͈̫̱̯͓͎̠̩̮̱̝̖̺͚̟͙͓̰̱̯͙̗̹̮̟̭͍̹͈̬̯̱͉̘̖̜̮͔̲̟̰͑͒̓̎̑̌͂͂̈̾̈́͒̎̒͌̿͒͊̿̿̃͆̈́̋͒́͐͛̾̀̏̒̾̈͊̍̌̈́̋̋̈̇̚̕͘͘̚͘͠͝͠͡͝͝͝͠ͅͅứ̢̡̡͈̬͕̝̺̙͚̳̭͉̖̭͕̟͚̲͔̦͎̖̳̝͕͉̥̼̺̣̱̯͔͎̲̞̥̱̪̯͕̠͖͙̱̘͍͖̪͓͚̝͓͗̀̓́̈́͐͑͊̎̊͒͆͊̆͛̊͗̐̿̓̇̽́̀̏͒͆̿̅͌̀̐͑͊̒̽̊͊̌̈͗̌̈́̊̐̒̆̑̍̕̚͘͘̕͟͟͝ͅr̨̨̧̢̨̩̭̠̦̬̟̟͖̭͙̭̪̘̼̮̹̙͖̩͙̞̭̬͎̠̮̗͚̥̳̝̟̰̼͖̦̭̺̬̤̰͉̜̪̖͎̹̥̜͛̇̿̓̂̐͑̈́̈́̍͌̿͆̈͋̋̈́̎̓̊̂̓͛̄̐̀̍͊̇̇̃̿̒̈̌́́͋̽̈́̓̽̍̏̕͘͘͘͘̚͘͜͝͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅu̧̢̢̢̢̙̺͖͔͇̱̗̫̻̯̳̥̹͈͉͕̦̩̳̙̝̫̗̙͍̖͙͈̙̯̱̬̝̱̳͔̦̤͕̱̤̤̘̭͙̳͋̓̽̿͌̈́̽͊̿̅̑̈́̓̌̈͑̄̀̋͂̐͑̈́͗͌̋͐̍̓̄̽̑̓̔̄́̑̄͊̐̾̈́͗̃͆̈́͐̀̽̿̕̕͘̕̚͟͟͜͜͡͠ͅͅ
His name a shout, with the ferocity of a three-thousand voices behind it, loud, too loud—
And then silence. The quietest whisper of his name, in a familiar voice, known and loved, an escape.
A door slams open. Suguru bolts upright, shifting from asleep to awake immediately, with a startled expression— he didn't realize he had been asleep were asleep. ]