Chapter Text
Handler liked to compare him to a supernova.
Statistically almost impossible to exist, outshining his compatriots at every turn. His every move, every target, every crimson drenched body caused rippling effects through society. An interplanetary being emitting gravitational waves. There were many a comparison to be made and Handler liked to find a new one after every completed mission, a cosmic praise hanging on the man’s tongue, ready to be delivered upon completion.
And all Satoru Gojo had to do to receive it, all he ever did in his life, was complete the mission.
He had four forgettable years of his life before he met Handler. The man had been tall then, looming over the white haired toddler cursed with those seemingly glowing blue eyes. Satoru had outgrown the man steadily through the years, but it never felt as if he could escape the man’s shadow. Handler would always loom over him. Training and education had arrived in his life hand-in-hand, filling his days with monotony of knowledge and the agony of learning fighting style after fighting style. He hadn’t been alone. Handler oversaw his progress, but he had classes with other instructors.
And the other recruits.
That’s what they called them back then. Recruits. As if children below then had made the decision themselves to trade their home for hell, warm kisses for harsh blows. In his first year, Satoru learnt the lesson quicker than others. Silence and obedience would ensure survival. Learning that lesson kept him alive the first year. It kept him going when the first recruit buckled under the pressure and was taken for reconditioning. It kept him going in his third year when he saw failed escape attempt after failed escape attempt. It kept him going when he completed his first official mission and returned to Handler with the head of a foreign attaché in his duffel bag and confidential files in his free hand.
Silence and obedience saw Satoru fly past the other recruits in little to no time. The instructors were pleased, Handler especially so. Satoru was his pet project, the one that he plucked from a family that was apparently important but not enough for Satoru to have any memories of. Rather, his memories were full of enemy weaknesses, contingency plans, ways to fashion any item into a weapon. He followed orders given, never letting himself think too much into what he was tasked with. You simply remain silent and obey.
Questions meant reconditioning.
Mission after mission had sent Satoru across the world, from a poisoning in the hustling raucous rooms of Wall Street to going into hiding for a week in the silent contemplative Himalayas. But now he was home, in Japan. It was one of the very few things he knew of his own past, something that couldn’t easily be wiped or doctored by Handler and his bosses. When he had arrived at the airport, it was somewhat disconcerting to see so many faces like his own, but also to stand out amongst them all. Bright blue eyes and even brighter white hair standing out like a lightning bolt amidst a sky of inky black strands.
But he powered through, making his way from the shipping dock to the hotel room arranged by the organisation. He had no expectations, having been sent to five star rooms and carved out holes in rancid alleys, so Satoru was pleasantly surprised to find a simple but cosy room. There was a single bed with blue bedding tucked into the right corner next to the door, and on the opposite wall was a mounted TV. Beside it was a door, presumably to the bathroom but Satoru paid it no mind.
He had to prepare.
Gently placing his duffel bag on the bed, he opened it up and pulled out his dossier. The pay for the mission had far exceeded his previous jobs, and Handler had mentioned that they only had two possible candidates who could be expected to complete the mission. Satoru had been one of them and the Handler had been the other. That was enough to surprise him, although Satoru knew his Handler was exceptionally talented despite retiring to oversee Satoru’s training. He was the man’s apprentice and protégé as much as the man was his instructor and keeper. But Handler had declined the mission, stating Satoru was performing better than Handler had in his prime. It was enough to convince Satoru to accept the mission. Not that he had the option to refuse.
Ripping open the binding, Satoru carefully laid out the sheets of the dossier onto the bed, his eyes skimming over the mess of symbols and glyphs in varying Cyrillic and Hanja. It was one of the organisations many codes they had in motion, each one relevant to varying levels of intelligence. It had been a while since Satoru had come across this particular code and cipher, the last time involving a dead baker, a poisoned batch of muffins and adverting a coup that would’ve led to nuclear war.
That’s how the organisation worked. Coded orders dispatched to the person with the most applicable skill set. Orders to take out simple, innocuous targets whose death would advert the most cataclysmic of events. Rarely ever did they work in a manner of public scrutiny and awareness. Even Satoru didn’t know the name of the organisation or Handler. If captured, there was little to nothing Satoru could divulge, even if they managed to wear him down enough. His tenth year had been very in depth on surviving torture and negotiation tactics.
Satoru sat himself cross legged on the bed, slowly decoding the pages as he read through them, the orders becoming more and more clear. And now he knew why this order was so sensitive. It was against the playbook. A prominent figure.
Satoru had heard of Uzumaki Inc., you would have to have been a hermit to not have heard of the notorious company. On paper, they were a multi-avenue production company, making anything from the newest satellite technology to irrigation systems that improved farming. Recently they had begun to buy up building space in many major metropolitan areas, hinting at a new branch of the company focused on the entertainment industry, with some news columns hinting at the company somehow opening up film studios despite it being a completely different business model to their previous avenues.
But in whispers and hushed conversations, Uzumaki Inc. had a very different reputation. Racketeering, bribery, arms dealing and numerous accounts of violent crimes, most recently was the casino fire in Las Vegas two months ago. Authorities had ruled it as arson, and Uzumaki Inc. had secured a seven figure settlement in insurance. Handler and the organisation was growing worried that Uzumaki Inc. was upsetting the balance of power. And they weren’t the only ones. Satoru had overheard conversations of lesser recruits having to eliminate splinter cells of the organisation as a means of testing the recruits abilities and taking down threats. Two birds with one stone.
Either way, Uzumaki Inc. were growing in prominence and if they cornered more of the market, it would be harder and harder for the organisation to operate in the shadows without the two somehow butting heads. So Satoru had been assigned the simple mission of taking out the new head of Uzumaki Inc., despite the man’s newfound fame.
And the man heading up the new suspicious but successful change, was the previous owners son.
Satoru wasn’t naïve enough to be unaware of his own body and interests. Many of his missions had strayed from the blade and bullet and fell into the realm of seduction and honeypots. He knew what he liked, and how to fake it when he was disgusted. It wasn’t hard for Satoru to become whatever his partner wanted. He knew his features were aesthetically pleasing, and when paired with Satoru’s analytical mind, he could become the dream of any target. But he never felt the same way for the target. Never had any of them stirred a single feeling in him.
But then he looked at the image of his target, at fox-like purple eyes and long inky black hair cascading down broad shoulders.
Suguru Getou, CEO of Uzumaki Inc., and the next target of Satoru Gojo.
This would be an… interesting mission.