Sukuna's Isekai Adventure 4

"Hush, little baby, don’t say a word, ’cause Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird."

A rare ray of sunlight slipped past the snowstorm that had fallen for days, past the ridiculously high buildings that dotted the landscape and covered their alleyways on all corners.  

"And if that mockingbird don’t sing, Mama’s gonna buy you a diamond ring."

Which made the warm yellow beam a very curious occurrence, especially since it struck him directly in the face.  

"And if that diamond ring turns brass, Mama’s gonna buy you a looking glass."

Sukuna roused slowly. There was a humming in his ears as a hand softly caressed his hair.  

"And if that looking glass gets broke, Mama’s gonna buy you a winter coat."

The song continued, a chilling thing that somehow managed to worm it's way past his still-stolen heavy fur coat.  

"And if that winter’s coat’s too cold, Mama’s gonna buy you a pile of gold." 

He shifted, and the hand that cradled him moved alongside his furtive movements.  

"And if that pile of gold was stolen too, Mama’s gonna go to jail for you." 

There was a shift in the pitch of the music, a darkness in the voice, and this time Sukuna found clarity coming to him faster and faster with each passing breath until he opened bleary eyes and looked up into the face of his mother.  

Her eyes were wide-open black orbs of madness that stared into him, her smile a jagged wound of joy and obsession, marked into her face with the courtesy of a scalpel. As he woke, he heard the finale to the rhyme she had sung him.  

"So hush, little baby, don’t say a word. Mama’s gonna kill for you the whole damn world."

Sukuna smiled up in response. “Good morning, Mother.”  

…  

Sukuna's body was tinged with nervousness—an electric sensation under his skin that he found hard to put a stop to. His body shook with a nervous energy.  

Instincts, more than the fragile brain that housed his corpus, spoke of movement. A soul that was too large, too old for the animus that housed it. Yet he was growing. Faster than any mundane child should. This, he knew from the glances he got from the others. Furtive glances that had to do with more than his unusual physique.

Their whispers were not quite enough to escape ears attuned to catch the scramblings and chittering of rat paws against cobblestones.  

He found it hard to care, for their whispers and words. Not when he knew innately, something deep inside him told him, that their opinions were irrelevant. Their thoughts useless. The very breath they drew, the very air that allowed them to speak, was subject to his every whim.  

He sat still. His inhuman form perched on a giant crate, its contents empty and having been empty for decades—longer than his current incarnation drew breath.  

He blinked his four eyes at the thought. The strange thought that had wiggled its way from somewhere dark and unmentionable yet surprisingly found itself comfortably resting in his mind.  

There was a stumble and a fall as one of the older residents of their dark alleyway collapsed to the ground. A gust of icy cold air had proved too much for the fragile form.  

These people were weak on a level that innately disgusted him. Chains that he knew would not bind him in another life. Chains he knew did not bind him in this one, he realized, as the first thought that came to mind the moment the old woman had fallen was to kill her.  

Thin the herd. Remove the chaff. Cull the weak and sever the unfit. When he was done, perhaps something would be left, or nothing would be. It didn’t matter, for it was all at his whim. Nothing else mattered but his pleasure and displeasure.  

Dainty feet tapped against the floor. A slim figure slipped and twisted past more burly figures as it found its way to the older woman’s collapsed form.  

Sukuna peered at the slim figure—hair so long it reached her lower back, yet despite the living conditions they dwelled in, it maintained a luscious look. A silky and beautiful black curtain, and its owner was Sukuna’s own personal chain.  

A time was coming. This was something he knew in his bones. Something he knew was as certain as the sun rising, the seasons changing, and the sun dipping. A time was coming when he would be irrevocably changed.  

A metamorphosis whereby something would emerge from this corpus of his. He hoped that when it did, it didn’t break the chain he held to so dearly.  

His mother helped the figure stand up. With a kindness that could not be put into words, she led the older woman deeper into the alleyway, away from the other figures. The ones that slept, huddled under blankets.  

The ones that lit fires to ward off the chill of the cold, both at the entrance of what led into their territory, the homeless the deprived and others that lay deeper. This winter was a rough one, and Sukuna doubted the old woman would live past the day, regardless of his mother’s help.  

Instead, he allowed his mind to go back to the memory. The image of his mother helping the woman up. While he grew fast, strong and muscled, sinew and bones lengthened and strengthened, she still resembled a fragile thing.  

Yet somehow, a woman that should have died years ago was proving to be tougher than she looked. Unfortunately, she was human in the end. She was not like him. Not truly. He had four eyes, four times the perception and clarity of anyone else he knew.  

He had seen her tremble under the nonexistent weight of the older woman. Seen her limbs shaking at the cold. The tips of her fingers darkening as she forced herself to move about.  

She could have easily ordered any of the many useless weaklings that littered their alleyway to help. A simple glance at them would’ve sent them rushing away from the comfort of their covers and blankets, yet she had refused.  

Unlike them, his mother was strong.  

Yet she was not strong enough.  

He dropped from the crate. His feet displaced the snow that filled the ground beneath him, and a shake of his shoulders sent flying the snow that had gathered around his shoulders.  

The moment his feet touched the ground, he could feel the way the very atmosphere changed. More furtive glances were sent his way, yet no one was so bold as to stare at him head-on. He moved to the closest open flame set in a metal cylindrical tube, and its previous occupants drifted away like it was the natural state of their being.  

He put his four arms over the heat, fingers splayed out and palms facing the fire. The cold didn’t disturb him the same way it did the others. His inhuman physique weathered the slowly falling snow, and his fur coat blocked off the rest.  

Even without all of that, the electric thrill that ran inside him was enough to ward off what was left of the cold. No, Sukuna stood before the fire because he could feel something about it. Something that drew at him. His fingers ached to hold it, to caress it. To draw and mold it.  

He blinked as he felt an arm tug at his coat. His fugue broken from the flames, he looked back, it was his mother. She stared at him with a smile, a plate of food in her hands. Steaming hot soup with big chunks of meat floating in it.  

“My little baby needs to eat and grow strong,” she said with a smile. He wondered for only a moment where she had sourced meat in these dark alleyways, in this city covered with snow.

Then his eyes picked up the few splatters of blood at the hem and corner of her sleeve, and his questions were answered.  

He didn’t say anything more other than to take it from her hands and give her forehead a peck—a feat he did without having to go on the tip of his toes.  

His mother was hardly the tallest resident in their little alley. That privilege was reserved for Boris, a taciturn man who hardly wore more than a simple shirt and jacket despite the cold. A quiet man who preferred to stay on his lonesome.  

No, he had done this so simply because he was growing. Fast. Like a jar that was rapidly expanding to better encompass the water it held.  Already he was taller than her, and he knew he was nowhere near his peak... yet.

His mother smiled at him and patted his cheek before stepping away as she walked back toward their tent. Sukuna sat at the base of the fire and watched the rest of the residents.  

The ones who stayed closest to their giant tent seemed to have a plate of the same soup in their hands, its portion depending on their proximity to the tent. Yet somehow, even the ones farther off found themselves getting a plate nonetheless—but without the pieces of protein to go with it.  

Sukuna stirred the broth for a bit, inhaled the sweet and savory aroma, and finally dug in. His first spoonful was of the soup alone. For the next, he took a piece of the meat and shoved it into his mouth.  

There was an explosion of flavors as he chewed, his teeth squeezing the meat of its nutrients with every bite and flex of his jaw. The taste of the meat brought back memories—of a woman with white hair, of cold and laughter and death. Of another path he had wondered if he would take, if given the chance again.  

Then he swallowed, and the memories were gone, leaving him with a hint of longing. Of memories and wishes unfulfilled. He stirred the soup once more, and as he took another bite, his eyes wandered to his mother once more, Sukuna’s gaze lingered on her as she moved about the alleyway, her fragile form a stark contrast to the strength of her spirit. The way she cared for the others, despite her own suffering, was both admirable and infuriating to him. She was a paradox—a woman who should have been broken by the harshness of their world, yet she persisted, her will unyielding. But Sukuna knew better than anyone that will alone wasn’t enough. Not in this world. Not in any world.

He finished the last of his soup, the warmth of the meal settling in his chest, but it did little to quell the restless energy coursing through him. The lightening that sang of potential in his veins. His four eyes scanned the alleyway, taking in the huddled forms of the weak, the dying, and the desperate. They were all so small, so insignificant. And yet, they were his mother’s burden to bear. For now.

The snow continued to fall, blanketing the ground in a pristine white that did little to mask the filth and decay beneath. Sukuna stood, his towering frame casting a long shadow over the fire. His thoughts were already elsewhere, on the plan forming in his mind as  he slowly came to a decision while he watched her limbs tremble under the weather.  

He had waited and endured this wretched existence long enough. She needed better housing, better bedding, better living in general. And he would give it all to her before he lost himself completely. That his plan required bloodshed on a scale that would set his heart pounding only made the mouth on his stomach widen into a wicked grin. He was going to eat his cake and have it.  

The nearby residents flinched, their eyes darting away, shoulders curling inward as if looking at him too long would be enough to earn his wrath. Maybe it would. He paid them no mind. He already had a target in mind. The Burnley Slashers.  

"Boris," he called. His voice was low, but in the silence of the Narrows, it cut through like a knife.  

The man stood. Weathered face, thinning blond hair, hands calloused from work or violence. He stared at Sukuna for a beat before making his way over.   

He dropped into place beside him, soup in hand. With a big gulp, he swallowed what was left before dragging the back of his hand over his mouth, wiping away the remnants. Then he spoke.  

"You called?" His words were thick with an accent Sukuna didn’t care to place. Instead, he got to the point.  

"The men the other day mentioned the Narrows and Burnley Street."  

The older man peered back at him with pale blue eyes from beneath hooded brows. Those eyes roved over his form, but not with the fear and worry the others had when they looked at his physique. Instead, there was a clarity in those eyes, a calculative motive that filled the way he looked at his four limbs before finally trailing back to his face. There was an understanding.

With a nod, Boris picked up a piece of discarded wood and began to scratch lines into the dirt. A wide circle first, then jagged lines intersecting and tapering off.   

"The Narrows are some of the worst part of Gotham," he said. "Barely held-up buildings, the lowest of the low stacked on top of each other, people crammed into corners like rats. The alleyways twist and tangle, enough to keep the wind out, but not much else." He flashed a yellow grin and tapped a point on the map. "This is where we live. The bottom of the barrel."  

Sukuna studied the rough lines. "And the Burnley Slashers?"  

"A gang that comes around to collect tribute." Boris let out a dry chuckle. "Not that there's much to take. It’s more about reminding us who's in charge than anything else. I figured they’d come down hard after you... handled their enforcers. But maybe those guys were acting on their own. Or maybe the Slashers have bigger problems than three missing gangbangers."  

Sukuna stared at the map a moment longer, then lifted his eyes to Boris.  

"Where can I find them?"  

The man grinned, jabbed his stick into a specific spot on the map, and gave his answer.  

Sukuna smiled back, slow and sharp.  

A/N: To anyone interested, the poem in the beginning was made by Mariachan on Youtube (Hush little baby cover, creepy version) Give it a listen. I'd add a link, but I'm pretty sure that's wrong or something. CE tomorrow, and AOMR on the next.