Chapter 44: Motivations Born in the Shadows
The first round of the tournament was over. A fragile, temporary calm had settled over the stadium as the staff prepared the ring for the quarter-finals. In the spectator stands, the students of Class 1-A were a mess of frayed nerves and analytical chatter, discussing the victories, the losses, and the shocking upsets.
Gaara sat alone at the end of a row, the noise of his classmates a distant, meaningless hum. The profound, shattering shock of Monoma's gambit had receded, leaving behind a cold, clear, and deeply unsettling understanding. He had seen his soul reflected, and now he was re-evaluating its very nature. Amidst the swirling, complex thoughts, a simple, physical need made itself known. He was thirsty.
He stood, his movements silent and deliberate. He would find a water fountain or a vending machine in the quiet, empty corridors beneath the stands, away from the eyes and the noise. It was a simple quest, born of a simple, human need.
At that same moment, in the quiet, sterile sanctuary of the infirmary, Toshinori Yagi entered. The air smelled of disinfectant and the clean scent of laundry. He found Izuku Midoriya sitting up in his bed, his face pale but his eyes bright and alert. His hands were completely wrapped in thick, white bandages, resting uselessly in his lap. Recovery Girl was at her desk, grumbling as she filled out a stack of paperwork.
"How are you feeling, my boy?" Toshinori asked, his voice a soft, gentle rumble as he pulled a chair to the bedside. "You gave your old teacher quite the scare today."
"I'm okay, All Might," Midoriya replied, a weary but genuine smile on his face. "Recovery Girl worked her magic… but she said she won't be able to heal any more major injuries like this for a while." He looked down at his bandaged hands. "But… Gaara-kun… is he…?"
Toshinori's smile deepened with a profound, paternal pride. "You are a wonder, young Midoriya. Lying here with your own body broken, and your first thought is for your opponent." He sighed, his expression turning more serious. "He is physically unharmed. As for his state of mind… you have lit a candle in a very long, very dark tunnel. But the flame is fragile. He will need more than just one battle to truly change his path."
"I know," Midoriya said, his gaze distant. "But I think… I think there's something good deep inside him. He listened to me in the end. He didn't want to hurt me anymore than he had to."
"A wonderful philosophy," Recovery Girl grumbled without looking up from her papers. "But next time, try not to shatter every bone in your hands to prove your point, you reckless boy!"
Gaara walked through a long, empty service corridor, the muffled sound of Present Mic's voice echoing from the distant PA system. "AND NOW, WHILE WE PREPARE FOR THE QUARTER-FINALS, LET'S GET READY FOR ANOTHER FIRST-ROUND BOUT! IT'S THE BATTLE OF THE STRATEGISTS! FROM CLASS 1-A, MOMO YAOYOROZU! VERSUS, THE BIG SISTER OF CLASS 1-B, ITSUKA KENDO!"
The announcement was just background noise to Gaara. He turned a corner and came to an abrupt halt. Blocking his path, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, was Katsuki Bakugo. His expression was a mask of simmering, contemptuous rage.
The world seemed to narrow to the space between them. The air grew thick and heavy.
"Don't think for a single second that I acknowledge you as one of us," Bakugo said, his voice a low, dangerous growl. He pushed himself off the wall and began to walk towards Gaara. "When I face you in this tournament, keep what's left of your dignity and leave this place quietly when you lose. Because I will wipe the floor with you."
He brushed past Gaara, their shoulders almost touching. As he took a step past, Gaara spoke, his voice a quiet, even rasp, directed at Bakugo's back.
"And what if I win?" he asked. It was not a challenge. It was a simple, logical question. "Will I have a seat among you then?"
Bakugo stopped, but did not turn around. His back was rigid with a silent fury. "You won't win," he spat. "Not over my dead body, you eyebrow-less nobody."
He stormed off down the corridor, leaving Gaara alone in the echoing silence. Gaara watched him go, his placid expression unchanging. He turned to continue his search for water. He reached a door to a small, unused preparation room, a place he knew would be quiet. He reached for the handle, but stopped.
He heard a sound from within. The soft, choked sound of a girl trying, and failing, to hold back her tears.
His first instinct was to turn and leave. The emotions of others were a foreign, messy language he had no desire to learn. But he hesitated. Something—the memory of Midoriya's earnest, pain-filled eyes; the strange, warm feeling of the crowd's cheers—held him in place. He pressed himself against the cool concrete wall beside the door, becoming one with the shadows, and listened.
He recognized the voice instantly. It was Uraraka. She was on the phone.
"No, no, I'm fine, Dad, I promise…" she was saying, her voice thick with unshed tears. "Yeah, I lost… I know, I was so close… I'm sorry. I really did my best to try and make you both proud…" Her voice broke on the last word, and a quiet, heartbreaking sob escaped her.
Gaara stood in the hallway, the girl's private pain washing over him. The dots connected in his mind with a cold, sudden clarity. This girl. The one with the kind eyes. The one who had spoken up for him, however hesitantly. Her tears, her feeling of having let her family down, were a direct result of her defeat. And her defeat had been delivered by Bakugo. The boy who had just threatened him. The boy who represented the same cruel, arrogant rejection he had faced his entire life.
He did not think of it as revenge. That was a concept too hot, too emotional. He thought of it in simpler, more profound terms. He felt a strange, new, and powerful desire to carry the weight of her tears on his shoulders. He wanted to take her pain and forge it into a purpose.
His own victory was no longer enough. Now, he wanted to deny Bakugo the pleasure of his.
He turned away from the door, his quest for water completely forgotten. The empty, analytical look in his eyes was gone, replaced by a new, cold, and deeply personal resolve. He no longer had just a need to survive.
He now had a reason to win.
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