Chapter 1
It’s like looking through a veil, a haze of sound and light that Steve barely processes. Steve cannot see anything, hear anything, beyond the shape of Thanos’ lips, the rasp of his voice from a distance impossible to parse for the average man.
“You should have gone for the head,” Thanos says to Thor, bringing his hand up. Steve wants to move, to sprint, to stop it, but his feet are rooted to the ground, his arms limp by his sides. For all his strength and experience, Thanos has once again reduced him to that frail young man, desperate for his dream and far too weak (always too weak) to grasp it. Thanos is another man with a vision too impossible and insane to consider the little people. He hates it—he hates Thanos.
Steve is unfamiliar with the raw, burning rage and pain he feels, watching Thor grappling in futility against Thanos. He’s supposed to be the quintessential hero; the one doing the world right, the beacon of reason and light amidst chaos. Somewhere along the line, what he was supposed to be became what he is, and even decades after that final mission, in a new world where very little of his ways hold true, he still cannot let himself hold those grudges. Yes, he and Tony have had their disagreements, but there was ultimately space for reconciliation and forgiveness, especially when the world is on the line. There are none of those sentiments with Thanos.
Steve hates, but there is nothing he can do as he watches as Thanos, nearly slow in his super soldier senses, brings his fingers together.
S n a p
There’s a bright, nearly blinding white light—a ripple of power so potent it rips him off his feet, slamming painfully into a nearby tree. His mind blurs and disconnects, and it’s like he hears everything and nothing at once, a wall of vast sensory information that collides with his mind, a galactical explosion of mass and emptiness that rings his soul in some cosmic bell.
And then—
Nothing.
Steve props himself up, squinting blurry eyes open. A low groan to his right tells him Bucky is alive (thank God), and there’s a familiar hum in the air that has to be Banner in Stark’s Hulkbuster suit approaching, followed by the pattering of claws and feet that must be Rocket Raccoon and the rest of the Avengers team. Thor is collapsed nearby in the blast radius, limp, but a closer look reveals the even rise and fall of his chest. Steve wants to breathe a sigh of relief, but he knows there’s no space for it when Thanos might be still around. He casts a glance across the clearing, taking it in without much hope.
Sure enough, Thanos is still standing, staring at his gauntleted hand with a look of stoic mystification. The arm carrying the Infinity Gauntlet is smoking, and the sound of sizzling flesh is stark against the void against the silence. Something has happened. Something must have changed.
Steve presses a hand against his bleeding flank and heaves himself up, readying himself for another fight despite the growing dread in his gut. From the corner of his eye, the rest of his allies are doing the same, spreading out in a loose circle around the Titan and ready for round two.
But it’s not just Thanos in the clearing anymore. In the split-second Steve had used to gather his wits, a man now stands a mere three feet away from Thanos.
His hair is a nearly blinding silver-white, fluttering gently in the windless clearing. He looks just as battered as all of the Avengers do, with his tight top and loose pants ripped, his arms and face smeared with dirt and blood. He can’t be older than his mid to late twenties, and that youth is nearly blinding against the rest of his battle-torn, lithe frame.
Thanos masks it well, but Steve can see his own shock mirrored in Thanos’ widened stance and his clenched fists.
“If my purpose has not been fulfilled…are you the one sent by the Infinity Stones to see it through?” Thanos finally asks, after several, long seconds. There’s a nearly imperceptible air of relief that settles over Steve’s gathered allies; at least their newcomer (summoned by the Infinity Stones or not, Steve will consider the implications of that later) isn’t an Outrider or ally of Thanos.
The man looks up from where he’s examining his arm. His eyes, even from this distance, are impossibly blue and piercing in their intensity. “You tell me,” he says with a smile, unconcerned by the scrutiny from both the Avengers and self-proclaimed god-titan. He rocks back on his heels, looking oddly energetic for a man who must’ve been in some kind of fight before…whatever Thanos did to magick him or bring him here. “What’s that purpose of yours?”
“To bring peace to all the universe,” Thanos answers, paying no heed to the utter lack of respect the visitor is showing when Steve’s seen him kill for far lesser offenses. “—by erasing half of those living in it. And you are going to help me.” he spreads his arms wide, smug and condescension personified. It makes Steve sick to the stomach, and Bucky, judging by his faint growl, seems to agree. Steve wants to look back and maybe reassure him, but there’s no looking away from this fever dream of a scene.
“Am I.” the man says. His tone is still pleasantly flippant, but something about it triggers the sixth sense that has been gifted to Steve by the Super Serum, screaming in the back of his mind. Unbidden, he notices that under all that blood and gore, their strange visitor’s skin is pristine, unmarred by wounds. It sends an unfamiliar nausea creeping up his throat.
The man leans forward, hands slipping into his pockets with feigned ease. “Is that an order?” he drawls, tilting his head so that pale hair falls into his eyes. He’s clearly not doing anything at all, but all of a sudden Steve finds it hard to breathe, as if the air itself has calcified into a crushing weight that Steve can feel beyond his flesh.
Steve has never used or touched an infinity stone directly, but he has been near some. It feels a little like what Steve imagines it would be like standing right next to the sun, an electrifying sensation of brushing against barely contained power. Being near this man feels like that, if it were six suns instead. It’s a threat, blatant and raw in its fury. It prickles against and beneath his skin like it’s alive, strangling Steve’s resolve and reason.
Steve has faced shells, screeching from the skies like heaven’s ordnance. He has watched flames of red and yellow create midnight suns amidst screams of the wounded; he has stood alone in a sea of corpses, alive only by the merit of the serum. He has not seen anything like this.
Steve bets Thanos likely hasn’t either. But instead of renewed wariness, Thanos only seems satisfied. He, in a move that confuses Steve and will continue to confuse him in the far future, nods. “You will obey me—"
Without warning, Thanos is smashed into the ground with enough force to crater the surrounding dirt and stone. Steve nearly winces; as much as he hates Thanos, the axe still embedded in Thanos’ shoulder must hurt like hell.
But.
It’s unsettling. There’s none of the red light that appears when Wanda uses her abilities, or the blue waves that show when the Wakandans use their technology. Nothing flashy, like Loki’s green wisps.
It’s simply as if gravity itself had turned on Thanos, a reversal of the laws of reality itself-- and that’s more terrifying than whatever any of them can conjure.
The man, still smiling, regards Thanos with a clinically detached interest. “Wrong answer,” he sing-songs, taking a step forward. His legs are long enough that it brings him directly next to Thanos’ prone form where he folds the length of himself into a squat, poking a slender finger into Thanos’ cheek. He looks even smaller like this next to the Titan, yet his weight of his presence is much, much heavier.
The utter irreverence of it is surreal, Steve thinks, staring down at the alien who had, singlehandedly, nearly driven half of the Earth to extinction.
So Steve sees it, the moment Thanos puts together this fried arm and lack of reinforcement and finally comes to the same conclusion he had, moments prior. “Stop him!” Steve roars, throwing himself forward, but it’s too late—there’s already the blue smoke of the space infinity stone appearing behind Thanos, reaching for him---
“Hey, leaving the party so soon?”
And then the smoke freezes, like what happens when someone clicks the “pause” button on one of those “you tube videos” Clint and Tony like to watch. In complete and utter silence, every soul in that clearing watches as time rewinds that blue cloud until it wisps away into nothing. “Impossible,” Steve hears someone whisper behind him—Rocket, maybe. “Nothing can affect an infinity stone. Nothing.”
Except this man just did.
“Let’s chat a little more,” the man says, hand still outstretched, and there is no humor in his smirk.
----
Gojo’s head hurts like hell and he has no idea where he is.
Both of these things are pretty unfamiliar to him, because he’s used to his reverse cursed technique keeping his brain fresh—though it had started throbbing a little after the x number of black flashes he’d thrown at Sukuna. Gojo also knows Japan very, very well, with the number of missions he’s taken over the years. He’s no stranger to the rest of the world either, on the rare days he gets called out of the country to exorcise a particularly tricky Special Grade or whatnot. As much as most sorcerors are concentrated in Japan, it doesn’t mean curses don’t show up everywhere else.
Given the liberal use of English and the general non-Japanese appearance of everyone here, it’s safe to say he’s not in Japan, despite having no recollection of teleporting elsewhere. This situation is unusual and should be alarming, but Gojo would be lying if he isn’t a little bit glad to be here and not there.
Of course, there’s no doubt that Gojo would’ve won against Sukuna even if it had been a trying fight—he is the strongest sorcerer alive, after all. But Sukuna is also the strongest curse alive, and that last attack had felt dangerous in a way he hadn’t known since he perfected Infinity.
(Hasn’t felt since the Prison Realm. Since Toji.)
Gojo’s not sure what would’ve happened if space hadn’t wrenched him away the way it did before that blow, but his Six Eyes could tell that it might have been fatal. Might have sluiced straight through his Infinity in mathematical impossibility. The mere thought of it—being dead, vulnerable, weak, antonyms to Gojo Satoru—leaves a bitter taste on his tongue.
Maybe he had known it was his end, somewhere in the back of his mind. But how could he admit this weakness, when he’s carrying the hopes of so many?
(has been carrying so much since the very first breath he took, from the moment his nursemaids saw his eyes, impossibly blue and so, so omniscient.)
Dodging that blow had, and he’ll never admit this to another soul, shaken him. Though as time goes on, that shock ebbs away to make space for a rage that Gojo lets fuel his foul mood.
The sight of the…purple thumb thing in front of him doesn’t help.
There’s no cursed energy in that thing, which is mildly disturbing, because that would at least explain how ugly he is.
In fact, there’s little to no curse energy in the three-kilometer radius around him. They’re close enough to some kind of civilization, he senses, so it’s not like they’re completely remote either—as such, there’s no excuse as to why the concentration is that sparse. Curses are literally everywhere (he would know, ugh), and there’s generally a baseline level of cursed energy that blankets reality, especially around people.
To have this little? It’s...wrong. Well, not wrong enough to mess up the operation of his cursed technique because of how efficient he’s made it, but wrong nonetheless. It makes the feedback through his Six Eyes unusually grainy, like a 1080p video instead of the usual 4k HD he’s used to. Talk about a downgrade.
Maybe it’s wherever he is, this new dimension or something, that’s just like that. Either way, he’s here now, surrounded by tense, terrified non-sorcerers, including what looks like a guy in a Mecha like Mechamaru’s usual except three times bigger (damn that’s cool), a raccoon that reminds Gojo of Panda, and a bunch of people carrying fancy weapons and wearing fancy suits Gojo hasn’t seen outside of sci-fi manga. He senses several dozen others further out, moving towards them with urgency.
They feel like baseline humans to his Six Eyes. Same heart rates, same breathing patterns, same energy for most of them, except for the obviously inhuman-yet-not curse ones, like the tree thing and raccoon thing.
Contrary to the surroundings, there is some cursed energy burning bright in a couple of them (a couple of humans, interestingly enough), but most-- including the purple thing Gojo’s holding in place with the lightest touch of Red—don’t have a lick of it.
That does make what Gojo’s doing (using cursed energy on a non-sorcerer, in front of other non-sorcerers) a pretty big no-no for a jujutsu sorcerer. Something something taking candy from a baby, Yaga had said in another lecture Gojo had spent tying knots into Suguru’s hair.
However.
Gojo casts a glance at the oversized gauntlet. It’s charred to hell and back, still smoking slightly in the mild weather, gauche cosplay in style. What really matters, though, are the six shiny stones that, radiating cursed energy more intensely than Sukuna’s unsealed fingers, have been burning a hole in Gojo’s metaphysical eyes since he arrived. They’re important and devastatingly powerful, obviously, and the hitches in breathing and heightened heart rates of his lovely spectators when he rips the gauntlet off the purple thing’s hand with Limitless only confirm it.
Their cursed energy signatures are familiar too, his Six Eyes tell him now that he’s focusing on them. Their combined signature, an omnisciently vast thing almost akin to his Domain Expansion, matches the tug that had ripped him from battle to bring him here. The blue one that shares the same cursed energy signature as the blue mist stuff that nearly spirited his prey away feels almost familiar, like another limb to his Limitless. Yikes.
Gojo does the logical thing and tucks it under his arm.
He’ll have to deal with them later, but Gojo thinks he can count these as cursed tools, making Mr. purple thumb a curse user—which, most importantly, will make Gojo’s next moves 100% objectively justifiable even if the odds point to few jujutsu sorcerers here. While he normally enjoys antagonizing the local sorcerers for fun and no particular profit, it gets annoying sometimes.
“You brought me all the way here. You have to take responsibility.” Gojo says, throwing in a swoon for good measure. “I’m a very busy man; My cute little students and kouhais are waiting for me, you see.” He stands up, shoving his hands carelessly into his pockets and lifting a lazy foot to place on the purple thumb’s head.
“So,” he continues, grinding down with his heel. “I think it’s justified that I’m in a pretty bad mood right now.” He puts more force into his leg and hears the purple thumb begin to choke in the mud, making muffled noises of humiliation or anger, he doesn’t know. Gojo doesn’t care. Erasing half of the world’s population for the better of it? That sounds uncomfortably close to Suguru’s means.
Man, that just makes Gojo feel worse. Something must show on his face, right then, because everyone surrounding the clearing flinches. Aw, he’s scared them. Too bad he’s not going to stop anytime soon.
When Gojo finally lets up, the thumb gasps for breath and begins to speak. “How dare y—” he manages to gurgle out before Gojo presses his face into the mud again.
“How rude!” Gojo laughs, releasing Red entirely so he can feel his resistance under his foot. Not that there's much resistance to begin with; Gojo doesn’t even need to reinforce his leg with cursed energy to subdue him. Gojo gives him an extra two seconds under this time (how generous he is) then lets him breathe again.
“Fuc—” That doesn’t sound very nice.
Gojo slams his face back down, letting exaggerated disappointment flit across his face. “Try again.”
The thumb still doesn’t get very far before Gojo fills his sinuses with dirt again. It’s nostalgic, actually. The situation reminds him fondly of ripping off Jogo’s head, back when things were simple and, well, happy. (back when most of his friends—his family—were okay.)
Welp, there goes his good mood, again. Clicking his tongue, he grinds his heel in with a renewed vengeance, allowing a couple of seconds for, and only for, grovelling in between. It becomes very satisfying when he pretends it’s the ugly ass mugs of the higher-ups under his feet and not some shitty sentient eggplant.
“Sto—hggjjdh,”
“Speak clearly.”
“I—!”
“I can’t hear you~!”
“perish—mmmph!”
Takes a surprisingly short time to reduce their resident oversized grape into a trembling mess. In hindsight, it’s to be expected. His victi—new friend here looks more like the torturer instead of the tortured type, and being on one end of calculated suffering doesn’t mean being able to resist the other.
He doesn’t even try to escape the way he did the first time, which is a smart call. The sudden space-time rip and the blue smoke had caught him off guard, but it had been a simple affair to reach out and twist the space away from the prune. The space folded around them had put up a fight, but its similarity to Gojo’s own favoured teleportation technique had helped him wrestle away control.
“Broken so easily, tsk. Curses are so much more fun to play with.” No reaction to the word ‘curse’ from the crowd as expected. They look a little disturbed though, especially the blond guy. Good to know Gojo still has it, even in another place (?).
Gojo takes another considering look at the thing he’s still pressing down. He’s not usually this erratic or emotional, but something about escaping the jaws of (possible, very unlikely) death to be whisked away into some strange dimension warrants a little stress relief, he thinks. That and the fact that this man had the gall to order around Gojo Satoru.
Gojo listens to the higher-ups only because he knows that alternative would cost those he cares about. Even then, his ‘listening’ has always been a monkey’s paw interpretation of their orders, completed just to the point where it would incur no loss of life and tailored to be as infuriating as possible. He has never been leashed and never will be. The hubris of it is almost refreshing because there are few humans or curses would dare even attempt to manipulate him.
And control him for what? Erasing half of all life on the planet? Yeah, not happening. The last person who tried to control him is dead, and he’s not about to break that track record.
But there are some things he has to address because he’s not alone in that clearing.
“Hey you.” He says, pointing to the man in the mecha suit watching from the peanut gallery. The man raises a hand, pointing to himself in a silent me? “Yeah, you. You think you’ll miss this guy?” Gojo nods to the limp body crushed under his sole.
“Um, no?” the man says, hesitant. He shares a look with a nearby comrade, then says, with more confidence, “No. definitely not. I mean, he’s trying to halve all living life on earth. And he’s killed a lot of my friends. So. No. I wouldn’t miss him.” His face is stiff, his eyes downcast, his lips pressed into a flat line. That expression is grief, Gojo knows, and it’s echoed in every face in that clearing.
Gojo points out someone else—a man in a black catsuit (?) who braves his attention with remarkable composure. “What about you?”
“Thanos has ravaged my country, my people, my warriors, my comrades,” the man growls, gaze fixed on Thanos’ (?) prone form. “I would not be a very good king to let this slide.” There’s a rumble of approval from the crowd, restrained but still there when he finishes.
“Literally fuck him,” a man with a metal arm says, pushing his way to the front of the group. He’s flagging a little and heavily favouring his left, but his gaze is resolute (and shit-eating) when he stumbles over to prop an arm on the shoulder of the blonde man, who glances at him with wide eyes. “He can go die in a ditch for all I care.”
Following him, the crowd begins to chime in.
“Facts, token white boy!”
“Yeah!”
“Kill him!”
“He’s a monster!”
“He wasn’t going to leave this place alive, is the plan.” The raccoon drawls (!), hefting an oversized gun onto its? His? Shoulder. “You’d be doing us a favor, erasing this piece of scum.”
“I am Groot,” the tree (!!) adds, helpfully.
If Gojo had any qualms before (he didn’t), they’d be gone now.
“What a coincidence! I feel the same.” Gojo cheers. Long live democracy. With the raise of his hand, he lifts Thanos pinning him mid-air by the throat. To his credit, Thanos makes a final struggle, his words slipping out between hacking wheezes as his fingers scrabble at nothing around his neck.
“I-I…Brought you here….only I..can send….y-you back,” he coughs out, voice barely audible. Gojo pauses.
He tilts his head and plants a hand on his hip, pretending to think just long enough for hope to rekindle in Thanos’ ugly purple face.
“Hmm…” he taps his lips. Stretches out the sound. “See, I don’t care.”
In the absence of his usual blindfold, he settles for the next best thing: finger guns.
Cursed Technique Lapse - Maximum Cursed Energy Output: Blue「蒼」.
“Pew.”
—
“Damn.” Gojo presses his eyes closed, fighting back the starbursts of pain pounding inside his skull. His eyes ache from overuse, and the bandages he’d acquired aren’t the same as his old curse technique-treated blindfold.
He’s low on cursed energy, gone faster than his reserves can replenish (what with the lack of ambient cursed energy and his own capabilities) and stretched further by that last Blue and subsequent warp. His reverse cursed technique is working on overdrive to stop his brain from overheating and it's working slower than he’d like. It’s a wholly discomfiting feeling to be, well, not weak, but weaker than normal.
Worth it to see everyone else’s look of disbelief though.
There’s an unfortunate bone-deep weariness that’s spreading now that he’s somewhere perceived as safe, or at least safer. It’s not a surprise that he’s running on fumes, when within the last 24 hours he’s fought one of the closest battles in his life, gotten himself summoned into another universe, and killed a megalomaniac dictator alien in said universe. Gojo’s gotten used to stretching himself thin, but this is a little excessive.
At least he has a space to breathe, now. He’s not actually sure where he is—somewhere in Africa, maybe? While he would have liked Japan (and the kikufuku there), he simply doesn’t have enough juice or patience for it. So he’s good where he is, in the comforting darkness of the locked storage warehouse he’s in, settled on the uppermost level of an industrial shelf. He’d abandoned his shredded excuse for clothing for some comfortable sweats he’d charmed out of a salesperson in exchange for taking his number.
As a last bit of housekeeping, he’s also put those weird cursed energy rocks somewhere…safe. They’re probably not going to worry him anytime soon…probably.
Gojo rolls his lollipop in his mouth (another gift from a “generous” passerby). The strawberry-flavoured sugar is energizing his brain with the unfortunate side effect of making him thoughtful. Ew, but there’s not much he can do other than think anyway.
This dimension is weird. And yes, it isn’t his, confirming the existence of multiple worlds and universes. This is easy enough to wrap his head around; quantum physics have always had the Many Worlds interpretation, where a new universe is created each time a decision is made, and the parallel dimensions in which schrodinger’s cat is both alive and dead.
Even so, it’s obvious enough.
If the strange cursed energy concentration wasn’t enough of a red flag, the fact that Megumi-chan didn’t answer his personal number, which he gives to no one, is a dead giveaway. Granted, Gojo had been calling from the cell of a random lady close to the road he’d warped to after his speedrun introduction to this place, and Gojo likes to think he’s at least taught Megumi stranger danger.
But the smartphone the lady used was, in fact, another massive red flag. Stark phone? What happened to Apple? That sends him down another spiraling rabbit hole of alternate history. For one, there seems to be no curses here at all—or at the minimum, curses worth mentioning. The numbers prove it. The radio silence from every Jujutsu community Gojo remembers confirms it. He can’t even log into the Window Curse Alert portal that he nearly lives on.
Tengen’s barriers are gone, and there is only forest where Tokyo Jujutsu high lies.
Humans don’t change; no matter the dimension, Gojo knows that they will still hate, rage, and fear, fodder for cursed energy to build. But where that cursed energy gathers and give birth to cursed wombs in his dimension, it just…dissipates here, like the air is being filtered of it.
There’s some kind of law, vow, principle that prevents curses from ever being born, and that makes it, ironically, Suguru’s perfect world.
And yet, this world is no more peaceful or safe. There are aliens (wtf haha) who seem to invade on a semi-regular basis, megalomaniacs who fancy themselves king of the world, and terrifyingly scarce infrastructure present to handle these kinds of threats.
The solution to this appears to be jujutsu sorcerers (or whatever cursed energy manipulators are called here) who work in the public eye to defend public safety, just as scarce as the Jujutsu sorcerer community of his world.
Most of these dimension-local sorcerers are weaker than special-grade sorcerers, which makes sense given the cursed energy concentration—after all, techniques are fed by cursed energy typically from both the environment and the sorcerer’s own stores.
There are exceptions though, like the Asgardians from Norse myth. Maybe these Asgardians are naturally stronger because Asgard contains more latent cursed energy than Earth? Are Asgardians in cursed spirits??? That conked-out guy (Thor, according to Google (!)) had certainly felt close to one, but without the usual insidiously dark tang to his energy signature.
What an absolutely fucked up dimension. Shoko would probably offer Gojo’s life to be here in his place.
Shoko. The sudden thought of her—of home, of his battle half complete, of his students—sobers him. He had said his cute little students were waiting for him, and it’s not entirely untrue.
But it’s only Yuuji, isn’t it, when Sukuna wears Megumi’s face and Nobara is buried six feet under?
Probably bought on by the exhaustion, Gojo feels himself veer into territory he rarely allows himself to travel.
Are you the strongest because you’re Gojo Satoru? Or are you Gojo Satoru because you’re the strongest?
What use, ultimately, is being the strongest when everyone he loves dies? Some people define strength as the ability to protect those they care about. Is it not ironic that it is only when the people Gojo loves dies does he truly become invincible?
Is he even needed anymore, when all he’s brought is failure after failure? The jujutsu world still has Yuta and Yuuji, Todo and Hakari. Together, they might be strong enough to take on Sukuna, idealistic enough to overthrow the callous rule of the higher-ups.
Gojo almost believes it.
“What a dilemma,” Gojo tells the air, pressing the back of his hand to his eyes. It doesn’t do much to block out his senses, but it does center him.
Still, he has to try to return.
He still has promises to keep, Suguru’s body to lay to rest. It’s not over quite yet, no matter how shitty he feels, physically, emotionally, spiritually.
Because he’s Gojo Satoru. Untouchable. Undefeatable. The strongest. Truer than ever here, without his students and allies to worry about (and, he’s painfully aware, to rely on).
But how is he going back? It’s obviously through Limitless or those disco rocks—but every set of calculations he’s learned from the texts of previous Six Eyes users, every instinct, is tailored to intradimensional travel. This situation is like adding a 5th axis to the typical three that governed the physical world. He’s going to have to create something entirely from scratch here, and while he’s sure that he can do it, he’s not sure how long it will take. Figuring out how to reverse-engineer whatever Thanos did to bring him here with those rocks is also possible, but…
It’s going to take time—time he doesn’t have, when his students and allies are fighting for their lives. He should probably be feeling some degree of remorse for potentially killing the only guy that could bring him home, but he’d be lying if he did.
What are his options then?
There aren’t many. The first option is to go to the Avengers. He’s read enough about them to know that they have connections beyond the planet in addition to their firm foothold here. On Earth, they’re the ones with the cutting-edge tech and network of this dimension’s sorcerers and curse users. Gojo has already helped them kill Thanos, so they likely won’t treat him with abject hostility at first blush. Enemy of thy enemy is a friend or whatever.
Interdimensional travellers seem right up their alley, and they might have an idea of how to leverage those weird rocks. It’s the logical choice.
But they’ll be wary of him. Gojo knows that the thing he’d killed—Thanos—was an enemy of catastrophic proportions. If killing Sukuna is saving the world, then killing Thanos is saving the galaxy. What he did was kind of insane, according to this weird Thanos fan page he’d found online.
Encountering Thanos that day also hadn’t been a one-off thing for this Earth. It was a culmination of several battles and skirmishes over the last several years, centered around the possession of the six stones Gojo has tucked away now.
That makes his second option, toughing it out, nearly impossible. The Avengers (and co) already know he has the stones, and it looks like the forces of this dimension will do anything to acquire them to prevent another Thanos, or to create another one. Gojo knows he’s not about to go on a world-conquering power trip anytime soon (unless it was on the higher up’s old asses), but they don’t.
It won’t be hard to dodge those looking for Gojo, but it is rather annoying. Like grade 3 curses; absolutely harmless but impossible to ignore. There’s only so many times he can tolerate being on the run. Gojo’s made for silk sheets and a twelve-step skincare routine, not the streets. He’s not going to suffer if he doesn’t have to.
Hmm, that uncomplicates things.
Turns out he will be visiting the Big Good here after all. What a drag.
Gojo sighs, turning onto his side and flicking the lollipop stick off the side of the edge.
Whatever. He’ll figure it out after his nap.