It was supposed to be a routine mission. A Grade 2 curse had popped up near a Tokyo subway station, drawing attention from civilians and sorcerers alike. Yuji Itadori, Megumi Fushiguro, and Nobara Kugisaki were deployed to handle the threat—a tall, screeching mass of muscle, bone, and reeking fluid that had already torn up half a convenience store. Megumi was mid-summon, shadows stretching along the alley walls, while Nobara yelled at the curse for being ugly. Yuji, as always, was trying to fistfight it into submission.
Everything was going fine—by Jujutsu High standards, at least—until a body crashed through a fourth-story window and landed directly on the curse's head.
There was a loud, fleshy CRACK, followed by a much quieter groan.
"Ugh... who the hell moved the table...?"
The man—older, unshaven, reeking of strong liquor and dried incense—sat up slowly. He rubbed his temple, looked at the crumbling curse beneath him, and blinked twice. "Huh. That ain't carpet."
The curse twitched once. Then dissolved into ash. Yuji, Nobara, and Megumi stared in stunned silence. The man didn't even notice them. He patted his pockets, pulled out a metal flask that was actively leaking steam, took a swig, and belched.
"Spillglass," he muttered, "one: curse. Zero: gravity."
Megumi narrowed his eyes. "Who the hell is this guy?"
Yuji pointed. "I think... he just killed it with his body?"
The man—now standing and wobbling slightly—turned to face them, one eye lazily squinting. "You kids look stressed. Stress is bad. Causes ulcers. You know what helps ulcers? Alcohol and blind faith." He paused. "Wait. Don't quote me on that."
Just then, a van pulled up—an old, crusty thing that looked like it had been hit by multiple minor curses and one exorcist with a grudge. It parked diagonally on the sidewalk, knocking over a mailbox. The passenger door immediately fell off. Out stepped what could only be described as the weirdest religious field trip ever.
Leading them was a tall man in tattered clerical robes, a gold chalice in one hand and a blood-stained radio in the other. Behind him came a nun dragging a grocery bag filled with celery, expired milk, and what looked like a human femur. A shirtless man with scorch marks on his arms carried a barbecue grill strapped to his back, while a blindfolded woman whispered quietly to no one in particular. And then there was the guy with barbed wire tattoos and a forehead gash who looked way too happy to be bleeding.
"Oh sweet cursed Jesus," Nobara muttered. "Is this... is this another sorcerer school?"
"Definitely not," Megumi said, horrified.
The man in robes lifted his arms as if blessing the smog-filled sky. "Behold!" he cried. "We have arrived at the scene of divine need! The building weeps. The air groans. Someone here sinned!"
"Yeah," said the blindfolded woman. "Probably the guy who microwaved tuna at 3AM on the third floor. He's cursed now. Saw it in a dream."
The drunk from earlier—now identified by the others as "Saint Spillglass"—stumbled over to Yuji and poked his chest. "You look like the kind of kid who'd apologize to a cursed vending machine. What's your vibe, kid? You got demons? You hear voices? You see double? That's not a curse, that's just puberty."
"WHAT is happening right now?" Yuji whispered.
Before anyone could answer, a cursed relic fell off a shelf in the back of the van, bounced once, and rolled into a sewer grate. A few seconds later, an explosion burst from beneath the street, and a low-grade curse howled in pain before evaporating into nothing. A moment of silence passed.
Father Asher raised his chalice. "Another accidental salvation. Praise be."
Just then, Gojo appeared behind the group, hands in his pockets and shades on, blinking at the scene. "Okay," he said slowly. "Who invited the Church of Drunken Holy Weirdos to my mission?"
"Six Eyes!" Spillglass cheered. "You still owe me a bar tab from '97!"
Gojo tilted his head. "...You're still alive?"
"Mostly!"
"Damn. That's kinda impressive."
By now, the rest of the Communion had begun filtering into the ruined building. Sister Marrow slapped a cursed sigil onto the wall and sighed. Deacon Flint started roasting marshmallows over the smoldering curse corpse. Brother Thorne leaned against a broken pillar and recited bad poetry to himself. Juno stood on a chair, whispering into a can of peaches she claimed was an oracle.
Yuji turned to Megumi. "They're insane."
"They're effective," Megumi admitted. "But yeah. Mostly insane."
"Do you think HQ knows about them?"
Gojo smirked. "HQ tried to ban them once. The paperwork caught fire. Then the building flooded. Then someone's lunch exploded. Long story short—HQ pretends they don't exist."
Later that evening, back at the Church of Last Pour—the Communion's half-destroyed chapel/bar base—the group sat around a flickering TV watching cursed food commercials.
"We did good today," Father Asher declared. "We served justice. We cast out darkness. We confiscated cursed ramen."
"That ramen was mine," Juno muttered.
Sister Marrow pointed silently to the now-empty pot.
Saint Spillglass raised his flask. "To accidental salvation! To divine chaos! To surviving another Tuesday!"
They all raised their drinks—some with wine, some with tea, and one with motor oil (don't ask).
"Blessed be the dumb luck," Thorne said, toasting his own bruised knuckles.
And as the lights flickered, somewhere deep in the building, the cursed toaster made a soft ding.