Chapter Text
She meets the Witcher in a back alley.
Though a sorceress, Nobara Kugisaki is young and oftentimes foolish. Hard-headed. Prideful, perhaps even narcissistic to a degree. Not at all the qualities that her mentor, the great sorceress Utahime Iori, tries to stress. Pretty things easily sway Nobara. She enjoys finery and luxuries. As a sorceress, she thinks she is due that at the very least, thank you very much!
The Church of the Eternal Fire disagrees, as do their mage-hunting extremists, which is how she finds herself cornered in some shit-stained alley with a wound on her head that bleeds into her eyes.
Sorceresses are a touchy subject in this day and age. Well, honestly, they always have been. The Lodge of Sorceresses has existed for thousands of years and has always had to deal with dissenting voices. Shortly before Nobara was born, however, the Church finally managed to come out on top with the slaying of their most powerful sorceress, and their leader, Yuki Tsukumo.
Gods and earth forbid that a group of unmarried women wields misunderstood power. A tale as old as the damn Church itself. Sorceresses are better off burned at the stake.
Well, burning at the stake is a little old school, even for the Church. Mage hunters these days just shoot to kill.
Nobara is as fresh a sorceress as they come. Not to say she doesn’t know her shit- she most certainly does- but she will begrudgingly admit that she runs out of juice far too quickly, and her portal abilities aren’t really refined yet, and her elementals could use some work, and-
Anyways! Back to the tragedy at hand. Her face!
She wipes the blood from her eyes with the back of her hand, glaring hotly at the approaching mage hunters as though she is the one with the advantage. Her body aches from overuse. Her magic is nothing more than pathetic pink sparks at her fingertips. Getting grazed by a Dimiterium bullet has her already limited supply completely depleted.
She’s just a woman now and the eager grins of the mage hunters are aware of this.
That damn herbalist! Nobara had helped the old bat, used a bit of magic to speed the process of a healing sore on her foot, and how does she repay her? By turning her over to the damn hunters!
Utahime always harped on her to never trust anyone other than their sisters. Nobara may be prideful but she knows when she’s fucked up. And now, staring down the barrel of a gun, she just hopes that her body isn’t strung up so that Utahime doesn’t have to see yet another of her proteges slaughtered-
“What, no more fancy tricks, witch?” One of the hunters snickers, a gun in one hand and a pair of Dimiterium handcuffs in the other.
She isn’t a damn witch. Witches and sorceresses are completely different. Not that the Church particularly cares. A bullet for a sorceress costs the same as a bullet for a witch.
Nobara spits at the ground, dark red splattering in the muck, “Why don’t you find out?”
The mage hunters may be bigots but they aren’t stupid. They’re not about to approach a sorceress without being damn sure that she’s powerless. Even the weakest of sorceresses pose a significant threat to normal humans.
Nobara isn’t stupid, either. She doesn’t rely solely on her magic. One of the first lessons Utahime taught her was to expect to be disconnected. She has two daggers, one in her boot and one strapped to her thigh, the steel slick with poisoned oils. For years she has trained in combat.
However, so have they, and they have the advantage of numbers and weight on her. If they dogpile her, get those handcuffs on her, it’s over. Not to mention they’re the ones with the guns , not her .
Her fingers are shaking. She forces a snarling grin to her lips, mocking them, and with the blood and grime she looks like a wraith. They’ll take her, nothing she can do to stop that, but she won’t make it easy. Everyone knows what they do to sorceresses before they execute them. She’ll have them take her corpse back to the Church.
“I have business with the sorceress. Move.”
Nobara blinks the blood away, her eyeballs stinging, as a figure steps out of the shadows themselves. Magic, she realizes, shadow magic. A complex and uncommon discipline.
A man comes forth- no, not a man, a boy, tall and lanky with the gangly awkwardness of a teenager. He has a head of unruly black hair that sticks up in all directions, the color of which drastically offsets his ghostly pale skin. His eyes catch the neon lights of the overhead city signs and her breath catches.
Gold eyes.
Witcher.
Rare and elusive, Witchers have been near myths for centuries, content to carry on along the Path in the shadows of a society marching into modernity. Sorceresses, of course, have done dealings with Witchers and are more likely to meet one than your average human. Historically, Witchers have aligned themselves with the Lodge of Sorceresses when they weren’t too busy being neutral ruthless monster-killing machines.
To further prove his occupation, the boy has a familiar medallion hanging in plain view around his neck. Nobara recognizes it instantly as the School of the Wolf. It shocks her. She’s only ever heard of one disciple of the School of the Wolf, and that asshole is probably off busy ruining her mentor’s day.
The mage hunters turn to face the boy-Witcher in surprise. The medallion is noticed immediately.
“A Witcher, here? ” One of them mutters.
A Witcher in Neo Metropolis is strange. One hasn’t been sighted here in years, considering the monsters have been thoroughly eradicated in the surrounding area. No money for them to follow, thus making the city useless on the Path.
The boy-Witcher almost seems bored, his impassive face entirely disinterested in the men before him. His golden eyes flicker up to Nobara and he begins walking forward and further into the alley.
“Now hold on a minute, Witcher,” a hunter steps in his way, one hand raised, “this is our prey. You’re gonna have to find another witch to sell.”
The boy-Witcher stops, looking at the men once again. “I will not repeat myself. Move.”
“Are you deaf? She’s ours- ”
Nobara watches on in amazement as the man suddenly drops like he took a step off a ledge of a building. He disappears into the very ground itself, an inky blackness sucking him into who knows where to be swallowed whole. He doesn’t even have time to scream before he’s gone.
The other hunters jump back, staring in abject horror at the shadow on the ground. The darkness creeps back, falling into the boy-Witcher’s own shadow, and he says again, “Move.”
Money may be a good motivator but so is fear. The hunters flee without another word, showing no sign of worry for their missing friend, and leave Nobara alone with the boy.
She watches him nervously. The School of the Wolf is not known for doing the Church’s dirty work, that’s more of the School of the Cat’s prerogative, but who’s to say times haven’t gotten tough? The head of a sorceress fetches a small fortune.
The boy-Witcher holds up a small screen. On it, an image of her pops up. “You’re Nobara Kugisaki.” He states resolutely.
She snorts, “Got the wrong gal.”
“No, I don’t.” He responds flatly.
With a sneer, she brings her sleeve up to staunch the bleeding in her forehead. “What’s it to you, Witcher?”
“I’m on a contract. I was paid to find you and deliver you safely to Clawanmoth.”
Nobara’s sneer drops at the mention of Clawanmoth City. “Who contracted you?”
“Your mentor. She could not come herself.”
Nobara inhales sharply and lurches forward. Her gaze swims and she feels light-headed as she demands, “Why not? What’s happened? Tell me now. ”
The boy-Witcher’s gaze jumps to her wound and he asks, “Why won’t you heal that?”
The question makes her burn with humiliation. “Assholes got me with Dimiterium.”
He nods and moves forward. She jerks back with wide eyes and he stops, his indifference falling to show a surprisingly apologetic expression. “Sorry- I can fix it. If you want.”
She stares at him until the blood makes her blink again. Now that her adrenaline is fading, her head hurts. Her eyes feel as though they are on fire. Her entire body feels as though it is being dragged to the earth with exhaustion. “What happened to her?!”
Seeing her stubbornness, his expression once again goes slack, “She’s in hiding. My-” he suddenly scowls, “- master is protecting her.”
“Master? You mean Gojo? You’re his protege?”
The boy-Witcher nods with an almost shameful look. She doesn’t blame him after the few times she’s met the older Witcher. The man is…interesting, to say the least. And terrifying. One cannot forget terrifying.
“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” She asks.
“Uta-” He coughs and corrects himself, and Nobara mentally makes note of the slip-up, “Master Iori expected you’d be wary of me. She said to give you this.” He reaches into a pocket that lines the inside of his leather coat and pulls out a folded piece of paper. He holds it out to her.
Nobara eyes it a moment, then figures he could hurt her from any distance so getting closer wouldn’t mean much in the long run, and moves forward to snatch it from him. His hand immediately falls to his side but still where she can see it.
She glares at him a second longer before looking down at the paper. She unfolds it and makes a small noise of surprise. It’s a familiar photograph, one of her mentor and her posing in front of a sign to some zoo in some city. Nobara is eight in the photo and has a gapped-tooth smile. Utahime doesn’t have her scar yet.
This would have come directly from Utahime. Nobara has the only other copy. As if to further assuage Nobara’s concerns, Utahime’s neat handwriting is etched into the back of the photo:
Trust him.
Nobara refolds the photograph and slips it into her own pocket, careful now of the blood on her hands and clothes.
The boy-Witcher watches her, “Is that enough?”
“Yeah. It’s enough. I have to grab some stuff before we can leave.”
“No time. Odds are those hunters will get reinforcements.”
“Look, either I get my stuff, or you fail your contract. What’s it gonna be?”
The boy-Witcher scowls at her, obviously irritated, and she glares right back. Like some newbie Witcher is going to intimidate her!
“Fine,” he huffs, “but let me patch your wound first.”
A small smile quirks on her lips and she rolls her eyes, “Aren’t you a gentleman?”
He doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he approaches her, drawing very close. She nearly backs up but realizes he’s trying to cast a spell. Going still, she scrutinizes him up and down.
Tall, lanky- a total beanpole. Nothing like how massive Gojo is. Even so, he still towers over her in a way that makes her stomach feel a little strange. She ignores it and focuses on his face. He’s muttering some incantation, a healing spell she recognizes, and his golden eyes flare briefly with a surge of magic. It’s...almost attractive.
She feels a blistering pain spread over her forehead and knows her skin is stitching itself back together. Through gritted teeth, she asks, “...did you learn this from her?”
He glances down at her in surprise, “...yeah. I did. How’d you know?”
“Recognized the feeling. Never had such painful healing before her. She’s a little terrible at it.”
The boy-Witcher smiles then, and even though it’s no more than a small twist of his lips, it makes him look his age. Her age.
“What’s your name?” She asks.
“Megumi Fushiguro,” he answers, taking a step back, “Witcher of the School of the Wolf.”
“And a disciple of Satoru Gojo, the most infamous of Witchers.”
Fushiguro’s eyes narrow, “Unfortunately.”
Nobara snickers, “You sound like Utahime.”
To her surprise, he looks strangely pleased by this. At her curious expression, his face falls flat again, “We need to get going.”
“But first, my stuff!” She walks past him towards the mouth of the alley, “I don’t live far, we….”
She staggers. The blood loss and fatigue hit her like a freight train out of nowhere. She trips over her own feet, head going light and cloudy, and in the next second her face is pressed against Fushiguro’s chest.
“Ugh…” she groans, attempting to push herself up.
Fushiguro only holds her tighter, “Hey, don’t move, you’ve lost a lot of blood. I’ll carry you.”
“Absolutely not…” she mutters, nausea building in her get.
“I don’t listen to invalids.” Without pomp or circumstance, he heaves her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
She squeaks indignantly, “H-hey…!”
“No complaints.”
She wiggles a bit but both the strength of his grip and her own weakness keeps her right where she is. She gives up and mutters, “You don’t even know where you’re going.”
“I know where you’re staying, I went there first. We’ll grab whatever it is you need, clean you up, and then we’re gone, got it?”
She simply moans in absolute misery in response.
He must feel a little guilty, for he follows up with, “...we can rest for a few minutes when we get there.”
Resigned to her fate and having no real counterargument, Nobara nods, her forehead brushing his back.