Chapter 8: The Eve of the Storm
The hours leading up to the assault were not spent in the familiar, cramped silence of the bar. Kurogiri's warp had transported the league's core members to a different kind of darkness, a place with the scale and ambition to house a burgeoning army. It was a cavernous, abandoned warehouse in the city's industrial docklands, a place that smelled of rust, stagnant water, and the ghosts of forgotten commerce.
A single, flickering halogen lamp high in the steel rafters cast long, distorted shadows across the vast concrete floor, where the seventy-odd villains Giran had recruited were now assembled. They were a restless sea of nervous energy. Some sharpened crude weapons, others boasted in low, guttural voices, while many simply paced, their faces a mixture of grim anticipation and feral excitement. The air was thick with the low hum of their collective bloodlust.
Gaara had found a place for himself away from the main throng, near a stack of rotting wooden pallets in the deepest shadows of the warehouse. The sand, a constant, silent companion, had pooled around him, creating a subtle, circular perimeter that discouraged any from approaching. He sat with his back against the cold concrete wall, a small island of profound stillness in an ocean of barely contained chaos. He watched them, these men and women who were to be his comrades in the coming battle. He saw their scarred faces, their mutated bodies, their hungry eyes. They were a collection of broken things, and they had gathered here to break the world in turn.
Giran moved among them like a cheerful shark, clapping shoulders, offering cigarettes, and stoking the flames of their discontent with practiced ease. When the appointed hour drew near, he climbed atop a stack of crates and clapped his hands for attention.
"Alright, settle down, settle down!" he called out, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. "I know you're all eager to get started, but our esteemed leader has a few words he'd like to share before the festivities begin."
A space cleared. Tomura Shigaraki stepped forward, his lanky frame hunched, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his black hoodie. He didn't look like a leader. He looked like a petulant teenager, annoyed at having to give a presentation. He began scratching at his neck, the dry, rasping sound carrying an unnerving clarity in the momentary silence.
He surveyed the crowd with his single visible eye, a look of bored contempt on his face.
"Look at all of you," he began, his voice a dry, grating rasp. "Society's garbage. The EXP fodder. The characters the game designers forgot to delete. They swept you under the rug and hoped you'd just disappear."
A low, angry murmur went through the crowd. Shigaraki had their attention.
"They sell you heroes," he continued, his voice rising with a childish, whining indignation. "Smiling dolls on television who promise to save you. But who do they save? They save the rich. They save the pretty. They save the ones with flashy, 'heroic' Quirks. They protect their perfect, orderly world, a world that has no place for people like us. They are a lie. A bright, shiny, smiling lie."
He started to pace, his movements jerky. "Tomorrow… no, today… we're not just committing a crime. We're breaking their game. We're introducing a virus into their perfect system. We are going to walk into the heart of their hero factory, the place where they mass-produce their little dolls, and we are going to smash their most valuable toy."
His voice dropped to a hiss, filled with a lifetime of venom. "We are going to kill the Symbol of Peace, All Might."
The name ignited the crowd. A roar of savage approval echoed off the steel rafters. The raw, primal hatred was a physical force in the room.
From his corner, Gaara listened. He heard the words, he understood their meaning, but he could not feel their power. Shigaraki's speech was a rallying cry for the rejected, a symphony of shared hatred. Gaara had been rejected his entire life, but the experience had not forged hatred in him. Hatred was a fire, an active, burning thing that required fuel. His rejection had been a vacuum, a cold, silent emptiness that had extinguished all feeling.
His mind worked with a detached, analytical clarity. Hatred… he thought, his teal eyes sweeping over the snarling, cheering faces. Is that truly enough motive for all of this? They cast me out, too, but all I wanted was silence. They want to scream. What am I truly searching for?
The question hung in the vast, empty space of his own mind. He had no answer. Was he looking for a purpose? For a place where his power was not a curse? Or was it simpler than that? Was he just looking for a place where he did not have to be alone?
The League had not offered him friendship or kindness. They had offered him proximity. A place to exist where his monstrousness was considered a feature, not a bug. It was the only offer he had ever received. And if the price of that proximity was to participate in the destruction of a world that had never wanted him, then it was a price he was willing to pay. He had no answers for his own questions. So he would simply go with the current, to see where this dark, churning river would finally lead him.
"This isn't just an attack!" Shigaraki shrieked, his voice cracking with manic glee. "This is a message! This is the start of a new game, a game with new rules. Our rules!"
The crowd's roar reached a crescendo. The time had come.
As the noise began to subside, Kurogiri stepped into the center of the floor. His calm, formal presence was a stark contrast to the feral energy of the mob. "The time has come," he announced, his deep voice cutting through the remaining chatter.
The mist of his body began to expand, swirling outwards. It was far larger than any gate he had created before. A vast, churning vortex of purple and black began to form, a silent, gaping maw that promised passage to another place. It did not hum or roar; its power was in its absolute, light-devouring silence. It was a wound torn in the fabric of the world.
Shigaraki stood before it, his thin frame silhouetted against the swirling darkness. He turned his head, his red eye gleaming with a terrible, childish joy.
"Time to crash their field trip," he said.
He turned and walked into the portal. The mob surged after him, a wave of violent intent, their battle cries echoing as they were swallowed by the darkness.
Gaara rose to his feet. The sand swirled around him, a silent, waiting guardian. He looked at the gaping portal, at the threshold between this dark warehouse and a battle that promised to scar the world. He felt no excitement, no fear, no hatred. There was only a profound and hollow curiosity.
He took a step forward, and then another, a lone, still figure walking calmly into the heart of the storm. The darkness took him, and he was gone.