(THO) CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: NEW GOJO???

It should have been something Gojo did a while ago.

Be it a conversation or whatever you wanted to call it, it was one of those boring, sensible, and painfully bureaucratic things that involved official meetings and tedious protocol. The kind of thing old Gojo would have ignored entirely while doing exactly what he pleased.

But new Gojo? New Gojo was trying.

He had four—possibly five—students now, and while the temptation to toss them into the fire and call it a training exercise was strong (because pain built character, right?), it felt like the kind of thing old Gojo would do.

And old Gojo had gotten people killed because he mistook talent for readiness.

So, no, he wasn’t going to use them as bait. At least not yet. Not when the Empire Eighty-Eight and Coil were both still active threats. Contessa hadn’t given him the full picture, and he didn't ask, but even the little she told him expanded on what he already knew. The E88 were hateful, well-connected, and increasingly desperate. Coil, on the other hand, was a slow-moving poison: hidden, calculating, and more dangerous for the fact that he was a precognitive.

Even if his students had potential, and they did, he doubted they could take on both threats without an absurd amount of luck on their side. So Gojo would handle it himself, and in doing so, would prepare the stage for his students to shine.

But first, politics. Gojo’s least favorite thing.

He arrived at the PRT building just before noon, though not through the front entrance, of course. That would’ve been reasonable. Instead, he teleported directly into the administrative wing’s hallway just outside Director Piggot’s office. The overhead lights flickered slightly in protest of his arrival, and the two officers standing guard outside the door jumped, hands halfway to their weapons before recognition hit.

“Oh god,” one of them muttered.

Gojo grinned. “Morning, boys. Mind if I borrow the Director for a minute?”

Neither answered, but neither moved to stop him, so Gojo took that as permission. He pushed open the door without knocking, fingers already wiggling in a faux-summoning gesture.

“Emily,” he said brightly. “We need to talk.”

Emily Piggot didn’t look up right away. Her expression was a mask of professional irritation, half-obscured behind the mountain of reports on her desk, and her fingers continued typing for a few more seconds—intentionally, he noted—before she stopped and lifted her gaze.

“Satoru,” she said, in a tone that suggested his very existence was a burden. “Is there a reason you’re breaking one of the rules you agreed to?”

“I only said I would just to get what I want,” Gojo said cheerfully. “Besides, I didn’t do anything worse than spook your guards.”

Piggot sighed through her nose. “Why are you here?”

“I’m going to kill some people,” Gojo said simply, flopping lazily into the chair across from her desk. “Thought I’d give you the courtesy of a heads-up.”

Piggot blinked once. “I beg your pardon?”

“Empire Eighty-Eight, Coil, and maybe some stragglers, if they’re particularly unpleasant.” He leaned back. “I’d like to do it without upsetting you too much, so I figured I’d ask if you want me to leave the bodies in a specific place, or position, or if you’d prefer them… labeled, or wrapped with a bow.”

She stared at him. 

Gojo shrugged, though he looked genuinely offended. “I’m just trying to be considerate. The old me wouldn’t have even told you.”

“You’re not being considerate,” Piggot said slowly. “You’re trying to set precedent for vigilante action inside a federal jurisdiction.”

“Semantics,” Gojo replied, propping one ankle on his opposite knee. “Look, I’ve got kids now. And I’m no more sending them into a meat grinder until I'm sure they won’t be irreparably harmed.”

“Are you talking about your students?” Piggot asked flatly, tone edging into disbelief.

“Yep,” he said. “Bright, angry, and slightly traumatized, so perfect for a little constructive violence. But they aren't ready for this level of stupid. This one’s mine.”

Piggot steepled her fingers. “And you think I’ll approve this because…?”

Gojo’s grin widened. “Because you like Vista.”

Her face did not change. “I do.”

“And you like her alive.”

“…I do.”

“There we go. Progress.” He leaned forward. “Let me do what I do best. You don’t have to say yes. Just… don't stand in my way.”

She didn’t speak immediately, visibly ruminating on his words in her mind. Then: “You really believe this is necessary?”

“I didn’t bother asking Contessa for specifics because I didn't need to,” Gojo said, and this time, the cheer dropped slightly from his voice. “It doesn't take a genius to know the Undersiders didn't die by accident. He wanted to get information on me, and he was willing to risk everything to do so.”

Piggot’s eye twitched. “Do you have proof?”

Gojo cocked his head to the side slightly. “Do I need it?”

Piggot leaned back, and for the first time since he met her, she allowed herself to look tired. “If you go off-leash, they might escalate unpredictably.”

“They can try,” Gojo said, standing. “But I can assure you, they will fail.”

He turned toward the window but paused, glancing back with something almost like sincerity. “Do me a favor. Let Rebecca know everything’s moving along well, but I won’t really know where we stand until Brian wakes up.”

Piggot narrowed her eyes. “Is he important to your plan?”

Gojo’s smile thinned. “He’s the last student and the first test.”

She shook her head with another sigh. “God help us.”

Gojo smiled. “No need. You have me.”

He offered her a lazy salute, and then he was gone, the wind from his teleport rattling the blinds, and leaving only silence and Piggot’s mounting headache behind.