Chapter Text
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
“Halt!”
A thunderous stomp signalled the end of the troops’ march. It was summer, evident through the humidity in the air, and the awkward way in which the soldiers shifted and shrugged beneath their uniforms, fused to their skin by days and days of respiration. It was almost heavenly, the way the gentle breeze washed over them with the soft rustle of the leaves.
Near the front of the march, Gojo Satoru stood: Major of Unit 417. Behind him, Nanami Kento: Sergeant, infamous for his ability to outdrink anyone and everyone. In front of him, Yaga Masamichi: Colonal, known to have made even Gojo cry once. Behind Nanami, Panda: Corporal, legally named Inoue Kiyoshirou, but earned the nickname after the deep purple eye bags which were a seemingly permanent decoration on his face. This joke developed, even to the point of new drafts not even knowing his real name. Behind them, 100 soldiers stood, vastly ranging in experience. Over the chaos of recruiting and drafting, a few individuals had come to Gojo’s attention. The first soldier was a 19 year old, of whom Gojo had recruited himself. Fushiguro Megumi. After his father died, Gojo had taken it upon himself to support the kid, training him to fill Zenin Toji’s footprints. The other soldier was Zenin Naoya: Officer, and Toji’s cousin. f*cking hell, Gojo hated Naoya.
Right now, they were standing in front of a cluster of dull buildings, constructed on the plains of rural Tokyo. A smaller unit, perhaps 70-80 soldiers, had exited upon their arrival, leaving the camp to the new unit. Truthfully, this camp was to become a hellhole, Gojo knew that. A few rebels were imprisoned there already, but this population was expected to blow up beyond proportion. This was to become an internment camp. A camp for prisoners of war. The first arrivals were expected the next day, leaving today to prepare.
After 25 minutes of Yaga hoarsely bellowing orders, Gojo found himself tirelessly working until dusk, paperwork piled on his office desk in towers. His room was nothing to complain about. It was almost the same old set-out he was used to: Nanami, next to Gojo, and Panda on the other side of the room… except Naoya now filled Toji’s space, his presence hanging in the room like a plague. It wasn’t like Toji was exactly a good person, because he certainly wasn’t, but Gojo could at least tolerate him. Somehow the war managed to cause some of the worst people he knew to get promoted.
“How many are coming on Tuesday?” Nanami asked from where he was tediously tucking in the corners of his bedsheets. Naoya and Panda were nowhere to be seen, presumably drinking before curfew rolled around.
Gojo furrowed his eyebrows in contemplation, “Fifty, I think.” Nanami muttered something under his breath and stretched, popping his neck.
“Already?” Nanami sighed, and Gojo groaned in barely-comprehensive agreement, flopping onto his bed. “How many do you think we’ll have by next year?”
Gojo turned over, “Maybe a couple hundred.”
Nanami tutted, uttering variations of ‘Too many’ to himself as he straightened his pillow. Gojo snorted.
“We’re probably the busiest camp, I can’t imagine they’re filling Kyoto to the brim yet.” He said.
Nanami lay down across from Gojo, his figure barely visible in the darkness of the dorm as he muttered, “I f*cking hope not.”
The changes that war had created in the military were imminent, and divided superiors in an awkward struggle of morality. While Naoya cheered and yearned for an international competition of brute strength, Nanami restlessly opposed it. Not unlike many, he had wandered into the military at 17, seeking a meaningful pastime. Truthfully, Nanami hated his job, and opposed the increasingly brutal practices. Gojo was from a military family, so joining was a no-brainer, he tried not to think too hard about the moral aspects.
The bed creaked as Gojo shuffled until he lay flat, arms firmly by his side and legs stretched out stiffly. He stared at the ceiling, chest rising and falling steadily.
Inhale… 1… 2… 3… 4…
Hold… 1… 2… 3… 4…
Exhale… 1… 2… 3… 4…
Rest… 1… 2… 3… 4…
Repeat.
Inhale… 1… 2… 3… 4…
It was the same breathing exercise he did every night. He knew that Nanami did it too because he could hear it: deep, rhythmic sighs coming from the adjacent bed. If Gojo really focused, he could count the seconds.
1… 2… 3… 4…
He wrapped his arms around his torso as his eyelids fluttered shut. Sleep was usually quick like a bullet, throwing him into the hypnotic tide of unconsciousness before he could register the fatigue washing over him. Minutes, perhaps hours later, Gojo vaguely registered the whining of the door hinge as Panda and Naoya snuck in, the stench of beer clinging to their uniform and wafting off their stale breath. After the rustling of the soldiers changing and climbing into bed, silence fell over the room again, and Gojo was finally able to wholeheartedly relax, his muscles untensing.
The four men's breathing eventually settled into the same rhythm as they slept, the moon glancing over their brawny figures through the bay windows.
1… 2… 3… 4…
The sun felt like a punch in the face as 4:30am rolled around. Nanami was first up, per usual. He was clad in a white t-shirt and black boxers, perched on the edge of his bed as he fixed his aged, bronze watch onto his wrist. Strands of straw hair tumbled from where it had been hastily brushed back, falling over his forehead as he flexed his wrist, admiring the crystal watch face as the morning light glinted off its surface. Gojo grunted as he sat up, swinging his legs around before stretching his arms above his head. When he spotted Nanami, he leaned forward nosily.
“That old thing?” Gojo teased, reaching over to nudge Nanami’s firm shoulder.
Nanami hummed shortly in acknowledgment. “She’s a beautiful thing.” He murmured, sparing Gojo a small smile. “She’ll last this blasted war, I’m sure of it.”
Gojo released an amused huff. “You think so?” Nanami nodded. “Longer than you?” He raised a pale eyebrow, a glint in his eye.
“I wouldn’t complain if she did.” He replied, cracking his knuckles. “I’m sure she’d do the next man some good too.”
“You talk about her more fondly than your wife.” Gojo snickered, poking the faint outline under Nanami’s shirt where a locket hung from his neck.
He scowled, “You know that’s not true.”
“Nanami! I won’t tell her!” Gojo drawled, “I’ll keep your secret, Nanamin.”
Nanami glared at him witheringly as he stood up. “…And you can leave that awful nickname exactly where you found it.” He muttered, reaching for his uniform which was set out, neatly folded on the floor next to his bedpost. Gojo grinned, moving to gather his own.
“…What are you talking about?” A deep, groggy voice asked from the other side of the room.
“Mornin’ Panda.” Gojo chirped, pulling his uniform shirt over his head. “Do you know of Nanami’s other lover?” He whispered loudly, earning a sharp ‘Stop that.’ from Nanami.
Panda sat up, large fists rubbing at the dark circles around his eyes. “No?” His eyes widened, “Nanami! I never imagined you to be so promiscuous!” Panda gasped. Gojo cackled, but was cut off by a yelp as Nanami’s boot collided with his head.
“Awful isn’t he?” Gojo laughed in a hushed voice.
Naoya woke shortly after, unsurprisingly due to the chatter, greeted by unenthusiastic grunts and an oblivious ‘Good morning!’ from Panda. By 5:30am, they were dressed and fed, standing stiffly in the bitter cold to address the current prisoners for roll call.
They stood in neat rows, tired stares fixed on those in front of them. Yaga stalked back-and-forth in front of the prisoners, his small eyes piercing behind the rectangular sunglasses he wore.
Per standard, the rituals played out, Yaga would lose count and the roll call would start again, it was nothing new. Gojo could probably recite Yaga’s old script by heart if he wanted to.
By 7am, the unit was put to work. Gojo watched idly from where he was sitting indoors, looking over towers of papers. Nanami stood against the doorway, a cigarette haphazardly dangling from his lips. The winter sun was glaring over the frost-crusted grass, flattened by muddy boots. Naoya was yelling something in the distance, his voice echoing throughout the clearing.
“If we all worked as slow as you do, we wouldn’t last a day!”
Gojo sighed as he watched the new recruits flinch. Fushiguro’s head bowed in shame as a strawberry-blonde boy hugged his own torso, presumably holding back tears. He could imagine Fushiguro apologising profusely, despite Gojo’s best efforts to convince him to ignore Naoya. As the recruits shouted a hearty ‘Yes sir!’, Nanami reached to take the cigarette from his mouth, slowly exhaling the smoke into the icy air. He tapped the ashes onto the ground, indolently grinding them into the hard soil with his heel. Alongside his watch and locket, his other prized possession was his silver cigarette case. On it was engraved a love poem about a fisherman- ‘Yosh*tada Sone’, Nanami had told Gojo as he turned the case fondly in his hands. It was a gift from his wife.
‘how can they reach
The port for which they long?
So runs the old love-song.’
Gojo had laughed as Nanami had refilled the case. ‘You wouldn’t get it.’ he had said, smiling softly to himself. Gojo shrugged. ‘I guess not.’
“Who have you grouped with Naoya?” Nanami asked before pressing the cigarette to his lips once more. Gojo hummed in thought, flicking through his pile of arrangements.
“Ah.” he muttered as he found the right paper. “Some of the older ones, I’m hoping they’ll discourage him.”
Nanami raised an eyebrow, “Panda?” Gojo shook his head, searching for another document.
“No, I…¦” He pulled out another paper, laying it out in front of him. “I put him with Okkotsu, Inumaki, and Todo.” He said. “I did put Megumi with Naoya though, I want him to toughen up a bit.”
Slowly, Nanami straightened his posture. “Really?” Gojo nodded.
“Isn’t fighting in a war enough? He’s practically a child, Gojo.”
“I want him to be ready. The more I shelter him, the less prepared he’ll be for the battlefield. I want him to live through this.” Irritably, he slouched in his seat. “He needs to be better than the rest.”
Nanami frowned, “He’s a boy.” He emphasised desperately, “The worst thing he should be living through is a beating from his mother.”
“Be realistic here, Nanami.” Gojo rolled his eyes, “The more he goes through now, the less he’ll suffer later.”
“You know that’s not true, Gojo.”
He shrugged, “Lend me some faith.”
With a sigh, Nanami nodded.
“Your job, not mine.” He murmured. “Who am I with, at least?”
“Me.”
Nanami snorted. “Stupid question. Who else?”
“Itadori.” Gojo said, eyebrows furrowed as he skimmed the document, “He’s a new kid.”
“What’s he like?”
“Physical strength is substantially above average.” Gojo read aloud, “Yaga said that he’s a puss* though.” He added with a groan as he read the notes, ignoring Nanami’s exasperated ‘I bet he’s just a kid too!’. “Though I’m sure it won’t take long for us to become a strong team.” Gojo grinned, looking up at the Sergeant. “Just be glad we’re not with that sook, Noritoshi.”
“Again, a kid!”
The afternoon brought rain, and by consequence, mud. Gojo hated mud. The way it clung to his uniform bugged him constantly and it always got everywhere when he tried to wash it off. He had always liked the cold, dry winters of Japan; when the season neared spring, suddenly everything was so much wetter. Nanami had disappeared to boss the prisoners around, leaving the soft bitterness of smoke clinging to the room in his wake. Still going through papers, Gojo irritably tapped his pen against the desk. Everything had to be organised to perfection. Everyone had to be doing something, and they had to be doing the right thing, and god forbid they don’t do enough. It was no secret that Gojo favoured Fushiguro, but that didn’t mean he was easy on him. Most soldiers were kept on the same job so they could get good at it; whether they were a guard, cleaner, or cook, they had a role. Fushiguro, on the other hand? His job was different every day. Dismissively, Gojo had waved his hand and told him that it was all training to make him stronger. It didn’t make all that much sense to Fushiguro, however.
“What good will knowing how to scrub a toilet be when I’m defending my life in the middle of nowhere?”
And to that Gojo always said, “Who knows, maybe you’ll find out!”
So today, Fushiguro was his secretary.
“You’ve met Itadori, right?” Gojo asked through a yawn.
“Yeah.” Fushiguro mumbled from where he stood stiffly next to the desk.
“Perfect.” said Gojo, “Describe him to me.”
Blankly, Fushiguro looked at him. “Why?”
Gojo tutted gleefully, “I’m your superior, Megumi, that’s why.” He looked up at the boy from his paperwork with a grin.
“He’s empathetic and loyal, sir.” Fushiguro answered, “He’s strong too.”
“Emotional?” Gojo implored absentmindedly as he scribbled down labour arrangements.
Fushiguro stiffened, “…Yes.”
“Huh...” he commented, pausing his writing, “What do you think of him?”
“I think he’s an asset.”
“Right now?” Gojo sounded doubtful.
“Well… maybe not yet, but-“
Gojo shook his head, twirling the pen between his fingers, “He needs to be an asset now,” he interrupted, “late bloomers are no good to us when we need men, ‘you understand me?”
Fushiguro nodded, slowly, “Yes sir.”
“I’ll trust you to push him along a bit then.” Gojo’s eyes glinted as he sent the younger boy a thin smile, “It’s for his own good. You understand, right?”
“Yes sir.” Fushiguro nodded again. He was long used to his superior’s ambitious nature.
To most, Gojo was flippant and unfair, only few understood or could at least recognise his true intentions.
That’s how it had always been.
The papers rustled as Gojo pulled out a pile of documents. Lazily, he flicked through the pages, a finger tracing each line.
“What’s that?” Fushiguro shifted in place as Gojo’s lips thinned, his finger pausing at one of the lines of the confidential paper.
Gojo shook his head and threw the paperwork on the desk in front of him for Fushiguro to see, “Our anticipated arrivals.” He answered, lowly. “There will be more than that, but those are the lucky, lucky men who got themselves a place booked.”
Curiosity getting the better of him, Fushiguro leaned over to read through the plethora of names, “How come they have a place reserved?”
With a hum, Gojo grasped his chin in thought, “I’d guess that they’ve been in detention for a while now, I assume lots are our own.”
“Our own?” Fushiguro raised an eyebrow.
Gojo waved his hand dismissively, “Criminals, escapees, traitors, the lot of them. We’ve had them sitting around for a while.”
Fushiguro grimaced, “I see.”
“Tough world, isn’t it?” Gojo grinned, ruffling his hair, “You’ll be fine as long as you behave.”
Fushiguro watched him carefully, “I thought you said that there are no rules in war.”
“I did!” Gojo chirped, “But our actions always have consequences, a bit of gunpowder and butthurt governments were never going to change that.” He fondly nudged the boy’s arm. “I didn’t realise you listened to me.”
Fushiguro sighed, quietly. “Unfortunately.”
