IPS: Ch. 06

Warning: 6k words

----------

Trump gasped awake, his hands instinctively reaching for his back where the kunai had pierced his spine moments ago. Finding no wound, he stumbled to his feet in the familiar alcove.

He ran his hands through Kazemaru's short sandy hair, trying to organize his thoughts. His last attempt had almost worked, he'd nearly gotten through to Gaara before that ANBU had stabbed him.

Progress, but not enough.

"I need a better strategy," he muttered, straightening his headband. "The best strategy. Absolutely tremendous strategy."

He leaned against the wall, mentally reviewing what he knew.

"Okay, this time I'll be more direct," he decided.

He peered out of the alcove, checking that everything was clear. The distant cheering from the stadium indicated the exam matches were still in their early stages.

"I'll head straight to the stadium," he declared to himself. "Find Gaara before the transformation."

He moved through the village confidently, remembering the shortcuts he'd discovered in previous loops. He avoided the regular patrols and made good progress toward the large circular structure of the arena.

As he approached the stadium, security became more visible. Uniformed Konoha ninjas checked attendees' credentials at the entrances.

"This could be tricky," he muttered, observing from behind a market stall.

A group of Suna genin was approaching one of the entrances, showing their IDs to the guards. Trump recognized his opportunity.

He grinned, slipping into position to tail the group.

As they passed through the security checkpoint, he fell in behind them, adopting a casual stance and adjusting his Suna headband to be clearly visible.

"ID," the guard demanded as Trump reached him.

"Already showed you," Trump replied confidently.

The guard's eyes narrowed. "I don't remember checking your ID."

"You checked our whole team together," Trump insisted, gesturing toward the group ahead that was now disappearing into the stadium interior. "Those are my teammates."

The guard looked unconvinced. "Name and registration number?"

Trump's confidence wavered slightly. "Kazemaru, Team Four."

"Team Four already checked in," the guard said. "And you're not on the contestant list for today's matches."

"Must be an administrative error," Trump tried, backing up slightly.

"Detain him," the guard called to his colleagues. "Possible infiltrator."

Trump turned to run, only to find two more guards blocking his path. "This is a misunderstanding!" he protested, raising his hands.

One guard stepped forward, reaching for his arm. He panicked, instinctively sending a spray of sand from his pouch toward the man's eyes.

"Trump Sand Screen!"

The guard recoiled, hands going to his face. His companions immediately drew weapons.

"Hostile action!" one shouted. "Subdue the infiltrator!"

Trump turned to flee but felt a sharp impact at the base of his skull. A precise strike from a guard he hadn't seen behind him. His vision tunneled rapidly as consciousness fled.

"These are souvenirs, hehehe," was the last thing he heard as the guard removed his Suna headband while his world went dark.

---

Trump awoke with a groan, rubbing the back of his head where the blow had landed.

"Very frustrating pattern," he muttered bitterly. "The most repetitive death cycle imaginable."

He sat up, reconsidering his approach. "Direct entry was a mistake. Security's too tight."

Standing, he dusted off his clothes and adjusted his headband. "I'll try the rooftop route."

Once again, he made his way through the village, this time focusing on a different approach to the stadium. Rather than attempting to enter through the main gates, he planned to access the upper levels via the adjacent buildings.

He scaled a shop near the arena, using his improved chakra control to adhere to the vertical surface. From the rooftop, he could see the stadium's upper tiers and the curved roof covering the spectator areas.

"Perfect," he nodded, measuring the distance with his eyes. "Just have to cross those connecting buildings, then it's a short jump to the stadium roof."

He moved cautiously from rooftop to rooftop, avoiding the sight lines of patrolling guards. As he neared the final building before the stadium, he crouched low, surveying the gap he would need to jump.

"Bit wider than I'd like," he muttered, "but doable."

He backed up to get a running start, channeled chakra to his legs for the enhanced leap, and sprinted forward. As he reached the edge, he pushed off with all his strength, sailing through the air toward the stadium roof.

For a brief, glorious moment, he felt like he might make it. Then his trajectory began to fall short. Panic flashed through him as he realized he wouldn't reach the edge.

"No, no, no!" he gasped, desperately reaching out with his hands.

His fingers scraped the edge of the stadium roof, not quite able to get a grip. He began to fall, plummeting toward the ground five stories below.

"Not like this!" Trump shouted, frantically trying to summon sand to cushion his fall. But he was too panicked.

He impacted the ground with a sickening crunch, his borrowed body broken beyond repair. Through a haze of unbearable pain, he saw a guard approaching, looking down at his twisted form.

"These are souvenirs, hehehe," the ninja said, removing Trump's headband from his shattered skull.

---

Trump's eyes flew open, his phantom pain still echoing through a body now whole again.

"Eight!" he nearly screamed in frustration, punching the wall of the alcove. He took several deep breaths, forcing himself to calm down. Losing control wouldn't help. He needed to be methodical.

"Different approach," he decided. "I'll find my teammates. Very tactical cooperation. The most team-oriented strategy."

This time, he headed directly to the meeting point where he knew Takeshi and Mitsuri would be waiting, based on previous loops.

They were there as expected, Takeshi pacing impatiently while Mitsuri checked her equipment.

"Kazemaru, you're late," Takeshi snapped when Trump approached. "The briefing starts in ten minutes."

"Sorry," Trump replied, carefully moderating his speech. "Got held up. Was doing some recon."

Mitsuri raised an eyebrow. "Recon? That's not like you."

"Had some thoughts about the mission," Trump explained. "Wanted to be prepared."

Takeshi studied him suspiciously. "What's got into you? You've been practically useless during the preparation phase, and now suddenly you're taking initiative?"

Trump needed to gain their trust quickly if his plan was to work. "Had a dream last night," he said, repeating the explanation that had worked in a previous loop. "Made me think about things differently. About how important this mission is for Suna."

This seemed to satisfy them somewhat, though Takeshi still looked skeptical.

"Well, whatever the reason, keep it up," he said. "As long as you're ready to perform your part."

"About that," Trump began carefully, "I was thinking about Gaara's role in all this."

Both teammates tensed noticeably.

"What about it?" Mitsuri asked, her voice suddenly cautious.

"His transformation is key to the whole invasion," Trump continued. "But what if something goes wrong? What if he loses control too early?"

Takeshi grabbed Trump's arm, yanking him close. "Keep your voice down. We don't discuss that in public. You know the rules."

"I'm just concerned," Trump persisted. "Shouldn't we have a contingency plan?"

"The plan is set," Takeshi stated firmly. "Gaara's handler has the situation under control. Our job is to focus on the eastern watchtower, nothing else."

Trump saw he wouldn't get anywhere pushing this topic directly. "You're right," he conceded. "Just overthinking. Let's get to the briefing."

They headed toward the abandoned storage yard where Baki would address the teams. As they walked, Trump considered his options. His teammates wouldn't help him reach Gaara, that much was clear. He needed another angle.

During the briefing, he paid careful attention, looking for any details that might help him. When Baki mentioned the signal coming during the third match, he seized on this information.

"Baki-sama," he raised his hand, drawing surprised looks from those around him. "Which contestants are in the third match?"

Baki's visible eye narrowed slightly at the interruption. "Gaara versus the Uchiha boy. Why do you ask?"

"Just wanted to have clear timing for our mission," Trump explained smoothly.

Baki studied him for a moment, then continued with the briefing. Trump had what he needed, Gaara would be in the arena for the third match, just before the invasion signal. That was when he needed to make his move.

After the briefing, as teams dispersed to their positions, he turned to his teammates. "I need to use the restroom before we head out. Meet you at the checkpoint in five minutes?"

"Don't be late," Takeshi warned. "We need to be in position well before the signal."

Trump nodded and headed off, but as soon as his teammates were out of sight, he changed direction. This time, he'd try a different approach to entering the stadium.

---

Trump spotted a food vendor pushing a cart toward the stadium, likely to resupply the concession stands inside.

When the vendor stopped to rearrange some items that had shifted, he made his move. He approached from behind, using his sand to precisely target a pressure point on the man's neck. The vendor slumped unconscious, and Trump quickly dragged him into a nearby alley.

"Sorry about this," he said, removing the man's apron and hat. "Very temporary borrowing. The most respectful identity theft possible."

Donning the vendor's clothes, he adjusted the hat to partially shadow his face. He took control of the cart and pushed it toward the service entrance of the stadium where several other vendors were entering.

"Delivery for section C!" he called out confidently as he approached the guard. "Very important snacks. The most delicious dumplings in Konoha."

The guard barely glanced at him, waving him through after a cursory check of the cart's contents. Trump suppressed a triumphant smile as he wheeled the cart inside.

That was easy, he thought, navigating the service corridors.

Now inside, he abandoned the cart in a storage area and made his way toward the arena proper. He needed to locate Gaara before the third match began.

The corridors grew more crowded as he approached the contestant waiting area. Security was tighter here, with ANBU guards positioned at key points. He adjusted his vendor hat lower and kept his head down as he passed them.

He caught a glimpse of red hair down a side corridor, it was Gaara, standing alone, arms crossed, radiating menace.

Trump ducked into an alcove, considering his approach. Direct confrontation seemed risky given Gaara's volatile nature. Perhaps observation first, to gauge his state of mind.

He edged closer, keeping out of sight. Gaara seemed to be muttering to himself, his expression twisted in a grimace of pain or anger.

"Yes, Mother... blood... you'll have blood soon..." Gaara was saying.

Trump frowned. This didn't sound promising. The boy was clearly unstable, already communicating with whatever entity resided within him.

Just then, a Konoha official approached Gaara. "The second match is underway. Your match will begin in approximately fifteen minutes."

Gaara didn't respond beyond a slight narrowing of his eyes. The official, clearly unnerved, quickly retreated.

Trump saw his opportunity. Once the official was gone, he stepped out, approaching Gaara.

"Big match coming up," he remarked, keeping his voice low. "Very important fight. The most anticipated contest of the exams."

Gaara's head snapped toward him. "Who are you?"

"Kazemaru, Suna," Trump replied, touching his headband beneath the vendor hat. "Just wanted to wish you luck. Very impressive skills you have. The most fearsome abilities in the entire exam."

Gaara's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You speak strangely."

Trump silently cursed his habit of slipping into his characteristic speech patterns. "Just enthusiastic about the invasion plan," he said, lowering his voice further. "Your role is crucial."

This seemed to be the wrong thing to say. Sand began to swirl ominously around Gaara's feet.

"Who sent you?" he demanded. "Baki? My siblings?"

"Nobody sent me," Trump insisted, raising his hands. "Just a fellow Suna ninja. Just concerned about the mission."

"You're lying," Gaara stated flatly. "Mother can smell your deception."

The sand began to rise more rapidly now, coiling like snakes in the air around them.

"Wait, wait," Trump backed up, realizing he'd misjudged the situation terribly. "I'm trying to help!"

"I need no help," Gaara replied, his expression twisting into something inhuman. "Only blood. Mother wants blood."

Trump turned to run, but the sand shot forward faster than he could move, wrapping around his ankle and dragging him to the ground.

"Please!" Trump gasped as the sand began to crawl up his body. "This is a mistake! Very big misunderstanding! The worst case of mistaken intentions!"

Gaara approached slowly, extending a hand to control the sand more precisely. "You're afraid. Your fear... it smells good to Mother."

"Not afraid!" Trump lied desperately. "Very confident! The most courageous Suna ninja!"

The sand continued its inexorable progress, covering his legs and torso, compressing slightly.

"Please," he tried one last appeal. "I know what it's like to be used. Very familiar feeling. The most relatable experience between us. Orochimaru is using you, using all of us!"

This gave Gaara momentary pause. "Orochimaru?"

Trump seized on this opening. "He's manipulating Suna, manipulating you. He doesn't care if you live or die!"

For a moment, it seemed like he might be getting through. Gaara's expression flickered, the sand's pressure easing slightly.

Then footsteps sounded in the corridor. "Gaara, it's almost time," came Temari's voice as she rounded the corner. She stopped short at the scene before her. "What are you doing? Who is this?"

"Nobody," Gaara replied coldly. "Just someone Mother wants to taste."

"Gaara, no!" Temari exclaimed, rushing forward. "Not here—"

But it was too late. With a clenching of his fist, the sand imploded around Trump.

He felt unimaginable pressure from all sides as the sand crushed him, blood exploding from his mouth, eyes, and ears. Through rapidly darkening vision, he saw Temari's horrified face and Gaara's impassive one.

As consciousness fled, he heard Gaara mutter, "These are souvenirs, hehehe."

---

Trump jolted awake, phantom pain still radiating through every cell. He immediately doubled over, dry heaving as the memory of being crushed to death overwhelmed him.

"This is getting ridiculous," he gasped between retches. "Very traumatic experiences."

Shakily regaining his feet, he leaned against the alcove wall, forcing deep breaths until the panic subsided.

"Okay, new plan," he muttered. "Clearly, direct approaches aren't working. Very ineffective strategies. The most unsuccessful infiltration attempts possible."

He considered his options. Each time he'd tried to get to Gaara before the invasion, he'd failed spectacularly. Perhaps timing was the issue.

"What if I wait?" he wondered aloud.

This time, he decided he would hide and wait until the invasion was already underway. Perhaps in the chaos, he could find a better opportunity to approach Gaara.

He checked his pouches, confirming he had enough specialized sand for extended techniques. Then he set out, not toward the stadium, but toward the village outskirts.

"Need a good hiding spot," he murmured as he moved cautiously through back alleys.

After some searching, he found an abandoned shed near the eastern wall. It was partially concealed by overgrown vegetation and appeared to have been unused for some time.

"This will work," he decided, slipping inside and checking for any unwelcome occupants. Finding none, he settled in to wait, positioning himself to observe the village through a crack in the wooden walls.

Hours seemed to pass. He practiced his sand control techniques to pass the time.

Finally, distant cheers from the stadium indicated the matches were progressing. He tensed, knowing the signal would come soon.

Sure enough, not long after, an unnatural hush fell over the village, followed by the sounds of combat erupting from multiple directions.

"It's started," he peered through the crack. He could see white feathers drifting down in the distance. Quickly, he formed the Snake sign, then Rat, then placed his palm over his heart, activating his counter-seal.

He felt the warm sensation spread through his body as the seal activated, protecting him from the sleep-inducing technique. Outside, civilians were slumping to the ground wherever the feathers touched them.

"Now I wait for Gaara to transform," he decided, continuing to observe from his hiding place.

More explosions rocked the village as the invasion progressed. He saw Suna and Oto ninjas engaging Konoha forces in running battles across rooftops and through streets.

Eventually, a tremendous roar echoed across the village, so powerful it shook the timbers of his hiding place. He knew what it meant, Gaara's transformation had begun.

"That's my cue," he said, cautiously emerging from his hiding spot.

He moved toward the source of the roar, using the skills he'd developed across multiple loops to avoid detection by combatants from either side. As he drew closer, he could see a massive creature of sand rising above the buildings.

He spotted Temari and Kankurō nearby, trying desperately to communicate with their transformed brother. Baki was there too, issuing orders to retreating Suna forces.

"The operation is compromised," Baki was saying. "Orochimaru has betrayed us. The Kazekage is dead, has been dead for weeks!"

Trump nodded to himself. The situation was unfolding as he'd seen before. Now he needed to get close enough to Gaara to attempt communication before the transformation completed.

He approached cautiously, staying out of sight until he was relatively close.

"Gaara, you must control it!" Temari was shouting. "The mission is aborted! We need to withdraw!"

But Gaara, now half-transformed into a monstrous tanuki-like creature, seemed beyond reason. "Mother wants blood! She must have blood!"

Trump took a deep breath, then stepped out of hiding. "I can help!" he called to Temari and Kankurō.

They turned, startled by his sudden appearance.

"Kazemaru?" Kankurō asked in confusion. "What are you doing here? Your team was assigned to the eastern sector."

"No time to explain," Trump replied, moving closer to the transformed Gaara.

Before anyone could stop him, he approached Gaara directly, staying just outside the range of his thrashing sand limbs.

"Gaara!" he called out firmly. "The invasion has failed! Orochimaru betrayed us! There's no point continuing this destruction!"

Gaara's distorted face twisted toward him, eyes wild with rage and pain. "Mother wants blood! She needs to FEED!"

"That's not your mother," Trump replied confidently. "That's a beast trying to take control. Very manipulative entity. The worst kind of internal voice."

For a moment, Gaara's transformation seemed to pause.

"You're more than this," Trump continued, sensing he'd found the right approach. "You're Gaara of the Sand. A tremendous ninja with amazing abilities. The most powerful Suna genin in generations."

"Nobody... nobody recognizes me," Gaara growled, his voice distorted but distinctly more human than before. "They only fear..."

"I recognize you," Trump insisted, taking another step closer. "And so do your siblings. They're here, risking their lives, because they care about you. Very dedicated family. The most loyal siblings."

Temari and Kankurō exchanged shocked glances, clearly baffled by Trump's unexpected eloquence and approach.

The sand had begun to recede slightly, revealing more of Gaara's human form. Trump felt a surge of hope. This was working!

"When we return to Suna," he continued, "people will remember how you controlled the power when it mattered. Very impressive self-control. The most disciplined ninja in history."

But just as it seemed he might succeed, a new figure appeared on a nearby rooftop, a Konoha ninja with silver hair and a mask covering the lower half of his face. One eye was covered by his headband, while the other was exposed, revealing a strange red iris with black markings.

"Interesting," the newcomer remarked, studying the scene below. "A Suna genin trying to talk down the jinchūriki."

Gaara's attention immediately shifted to the new arrival, his partial transformation accelerating once again.

"You!" he snarled, sand exploding outward. "Your eyes... like his! Mother wants YOUR blood!"

"No, wait!" Trump cried, seeing his progress evaporating.

But Gaara was beyond reaching now, the transformation progressing rapidly as he launched himself toward the silver-haired ninja.

Trump turned to Temari and Kankurō. "Who is that? Very poor timing. The worst possible moment to appear!"

"Hatake Kakashi," Kankurō replied grimly. "Copy Ninja. One of Konoha's elite ninja."

Kakashi dodged Gaara's attack with remarkable speed, his hands already forming seals for a counter.

"We need to get out of here," Temari urged. "When those two clash at full power, the entire area will become a death zone."

Trump knew she was right, but he couldn't give up now. He'd been so close! "Give me one more chance," he pleaded.

But it was too late. Gaara's transformation had accelerated dramatically in response to Kakashi's presence. The massive tanuki form was nearly complete now, only a small portion of Gaara's face still visible at the creature's forehead.

Desperate, Trump used his sand to propel himself upward, landing on a protruding piece of the monster's shoulder. "Gaara! Listen to me! You're being used by forces beyond your control! Very manipulative entities! The most deceptive influences!"

The partially transformed Gaara turned his monstrous head, focusing one massive eye on the tiny figure perched on his shoulder.

"You again," he growled, his voice now deep and distorted. "Mother remembers you. She wants to finish what she started."

Sand erupted around Trump, enveloping him before he could react. Unlike the controlled sand coffin from before, this was wild, unrestrained power, tossing him into the air like a rag doll.

As he flew through the air, he saw the entire battlefield. It was his last sight before crashing into a building.

He lay broken among the rubble, coughing blood as he felt life ebbing away. A shadow fell across him, a Konoha ANBU surveying the battlefield.

"These are souvenirs, hehehe," the ninja chuckled, collecting Trump's headband from his shattered body.

---

Trump awoke with a strangled gasp, his hands grabbing desperately at phantom injuries.

"I was so close!" he exclaimed. "Had him calming down. Very effective psychological approach. The most successful communication strategy yet. Until that Kakashi showed up!"

He stopped suddenly. "The timing is wrong."

If he tried to reach Gaara during the invasion, there were too many variables, too many other ninjas who might interfere at critical moments. He needed to reach Gaara before the invasion, but not right before his match when he was already communing with his "mother."

He checked his equipment and left the alcove. This time, he wouldn't try to enter the stadium. Instead, he'd seek out the Suna contestants' lodgings.

Moving through the village with purpose, he headed toward the district where foreign teams were housed during the exams. From conversations in previous loops, he knew roughly where to look.

Security was present but not excessive, primarily focused on the Kazekage's quarters rather than the genin teams. He skirted the main entrances, using his improved sand techniques to scale a back wall.

Once inside the compound, he moved cautiously, using chakra sensing through his sand to detect nearby presences. He sensed several strong signatures in one building, likely the jonin leaders. In another, smaller building, he detected three distinct signatures, one of which radiated a particularly malevolent energy.

"That's him," he decided, moving toward the smaller building.

He approached carefully, peering through windows until he spotted a familiar figure. Gaara was sitting alone in a spartan room, arms crossed, eyes closed in what appeared to be meditation.

Trump considered his options. Knocking would alert others. Breaking in might trigger Gaara's automatic sand defense. He needed a more subtle approach.

Channeling chakra to his vocal cords, he whispered just loudly enough to carry through the window.

"Gaara."

The redhead's eyes snapped open, searching for the source of the voice.

"Outside your window," Trump continued softly. "Very important message."

Gaara rose silently, approaching the window. His eyes narrowed when he spotted Trump crouched on the sill.

"You," he said flatly. "The strange one from the preliminaries."

Trump blinked in surprise. He hadn't realized Kazemaru had interacted with Gaara during the earlier exam phases.

"May I come in?" he asked. "Very private information. The most classified invasion details."

Gaara studied him for a long moment, then stepped back, sand swirling briefly to unlock the window from the inside.

Trump slipped in quietly, keeping his movements slow and non-threatening. "Thank you. Very gracious accommodation. The most hospitable reception."

"Speak," Gaara commanded, arms crossed once more. "Why are you here?"

Trump took a steadying breath. This was his chance, possibly his last chance, to get through to Gaara before everything went wrong.

"I know about the invasion plan," he began carefully. "But there's something you don't know."

Gaara's expression didn't change, but the sand around his feet stirred slightly.

"Orochimaru is using you," Trump continued. "Using all of us. Very manipulative alliance."

"Orochimaru?" Gaara repeated.

"He's impersonating your father," Trump explained, watching carefully for reactions. "The real Kazekage is already dead."

"My father is dead?" Gaara asked, his tone unreadable.

Trump nodded solemnly. "Killed by Orochimaru."

For a long moment, Gaara said nothing. Then, unexpectedly, a small, cold smile curved his lips.

"Good," he said simply.

Trump blinked in surprise. "Good? Very unexpected reaction. The most unanticipated response possible."

"I hated him. He tried to have me killed. Multiple times."

Trump hadn't anticipated this angle but quickly adapted. "Then you understand betrayal. Very familiar concept. The most relatable emotional experience between us."

Gaara's eyes narrowed slightly. "Us? What do you know of betrayal?"

"More than you might think," Trump replied honestly. "Very personal experience. The most intimate knowledge of being used by others."

Something in his tone must have registered with Gaara.

"You're different," he observed. "Something inside you..."

Somehow, Gaara could sense that he wasn't Kazemaru, that he was something else inhabiting this body.

"We're not so different. Both used as weapons. Very unfortunate circumstances."

"Mother disagrees," Gaara replied, his hand going to his temple. "She says you're trying to trick me."

"That's not your mother," Trump stated firmly. "It's a beast sealed inside you, using your loneliness and pain to control you. It wants blood, destruction, chaos. Things that serve its purposes, not yours."

"And what are my purposes, according to you?"

"Recognition. Acknowledgment. Very basic human needs. The most fundamental psychological desires. Your siblings fear you, but they also care about you. Very complicated relationship. The most complex family dynamic. But they're here, supporting you, despite their fear."

"They fear me because they're weak," Gaara countered, but his tone lacked conviction.

"They fear you because they don't understand you," Trump corrected. "Very different reason. No one has tried to understand you, only use you."

He could see he was making progress, but Gaara was still battling the influence of the creature inside him.

"What do you want?" Gaara demanded. "Why tell me this? What do you gain?"

"To stop needless death," Trump replied honestly. "You're being set up to transform during the third match, to create chaos while Orochimaru attacks the Hokage. Many will die."

"And why should I care? Their deaths mean nothing to me."

"Because you're more than a weapon," Trump insisted, stepping closer. "Very unique individual. The most powerful Suna ninja of your generation. You deserve to be recognized for your strength, not feared for something sealed inside you against your will."

"Against my will?"

"You were an infant. Very innocent child. The most vulnerable possible vessel. They sealed this monster inside you before you could even speak. How is that your choice? Your responsibility? Your father feared you because he created you. He turned you into a weapon, then feared the weapon he created."

"Yes," Gaara whispered. "He made me this way."

"But you don't have to be what he made you," Trump urged. "You can choose differently."

"Choose what?" Gaara asked, and for a moment, he sounded like the child he actually was.

"To be recognized for your choices, not feared for what was forced upon you. During the invasion today, you're supposed to transform fully, and become a distraction while Orochimaru kills the Hokage. They don't care if you survive."

"My death would be nothing to them."

"Exactly," Trump nodded emphatically. "But what if you chose differently?"

"What are you suggesting?" Gaara asked.

"When the signal comes, don't transform," Trump proposed. "Show them you're more than a weapon to be pointed and fired."

Gaara was silent for a long moment, considering. The voice of the creature inside him was undoubtedly screaming for blood, fighting against Trump's persuasion.

"The Hokage is nothing to me," Gaara finally said. "Konoha is nothing to me. But my father... To learn he was already dead while Orochimaru wore his face, giving me orders..."

His fists clenched at his sides. "It would be... satisfying... to deny them both what they want."

He was getting through!

"Exactly," Trump agreed eagerly. "Very powerful statement. The most significant assertion of your own will."

Gaara stared at him intently. "You speak strangely. Who are you really? Mother says you're not who you appear to be."

Trump considered lying but decided against it. Gaara could clearly sense something unusual about him, and honesty might forge a stronger connection.

"I'm someone trapped, like you," he admitted. "Very unusual circumstance. I died in another world and woke up in this body, in a time loop that keeps resetting when I die."

He expected disbelief, but Gaara merely nodded slightly. "That explains what Mother senses. There are two chakra signatures in you."

"You can sense that?" Trump asked, genuinely surprised.

"Mother... the beast... is sensitive to such things," Gaara replied. "It recognized something familiar in your situation."

This was an unexpected development. "Then you understand I have no reason to lie to you."

Gaara studied him silently for another long moment, then gave a slight nod. "I will consider what you've said."

Trump knew this was as close to agreement as he was likely to get. "That's all I ask."

A subtle shift in Gaara's posture warned Trump that the conversation was concluding. He backed toward the window, maintaining eye contact.

"Just remember," he said as he prepared to leave. "You're Gaara of the Sand, not just a vessel for a monster."

As he slipped back through the window, he thought he saw the briefest flicker of something like gratitude in Gaara's normally cold eyes. It wasn't much, but it was something. Perhaps, this time might be different.

He spent the remaining hours before the invasion carefully avoiding his own team. He'd made his attempt with Gaara; now all he could do was wait and see if his words had any impact.

As the time for the third match approached, he found a secluded rooftop with a clear view of the stadium. From here, he would be able to see if Gaara transformed as planned or if his words had made a difference.

"This has to work," he muttered, pacing nervously. "Very critical intervention. The most persuasive diplomatic mission of my career."

The distant roar of the crowd indicated the second match had concluded. Soon, Gaara would face the Uchiha boy, and shortly after that, the invasion signal would be given.

He watched tensely, scanning the horizon for the first signs of combat. Minutes stretched into what felt like hours.

Then it came, white feathers beginning to drift down across the village. He quickly formed hand signs, and placed his palm over his heart, activating his counter-seal.

All around, civilians began slumping to the ground, overcome by the sleep-inducing technique. Explosions erupted at the village perimeter as the coordinated attack commenced.

His eyes fixed on the stadium.

Minutes passed.

The invasion progressed around him, battles erupting across Konoha as Suna and Oto forces engaged the defenders. But something was different this time, there was no tremendous roar echoing across the village.

"It worked?"

Had he actually changed the outcome?

Had Gaara chosen not to transform?

His elation was short-lived. A thunderous crash came from the forest beyond Konoha's walls, followed by the unmistakable roar he'd heard in previous loops.

"No," he groaned, squinting toward the distant treeline where a massive form was taking shape. "Very disappointing development."

Gaara had transformed after all, just not in the stadium as originally planned. Perhaps he'd tried to resist but failed, or perhaps he'd simply chosen to transform away from the village rather than within it.

Either way, Trump needed to see what was happening. He moved across the rooftops toward the village wall, avoiding the battles raging around him.

As he neared the wall, he spotted a distinctive figure in green jumpsuit racing toward the forest. Behind him,  Kakashi was calling out instructions.

"Lee, wait for backup! You can't face Gaara alone!"

The green-clad ninja didn't slow down. "Every moment we delay puts Naruto and Sasuke in greater danger!"

Trump felt a chill. Gaara wasn't alone out there. He was engaging other genin, potentially killing them.

Trump increased his pace.

He followed the green-clad ninja at a distance. Soon they had left the village behind, moving through the dense forest where signs of battle marked a clear trail.

The sounds of combat grew louder.

He approached more cautiously now, using trees for cover as he neared the battlefield.

What he saw made him freeze in shock. Gaara had indeed transformed, but not completely. He was in a half-state, one arm and part of his face monstrous and enlarged, covered in sand that seemed to have a life of its own. Facing him was a blonde boy in an orange jumpsuit and a dark-haired boy who appeared injured.

"Why do you fight so hard for others?" Gaara was screaming. "Fighting only for yourself is what makes you strong!"

"You're wrong!" the blonde boy shouted back, forming strange hand signs. "When you fight to protect people precious to you, that's when you become truly strong!"

The battle continued with incredible intensity, both boys demonstrating abilities far beyond what Trump would have expected from genin. The blonde boy, especially, seemed to draw on reserves of power that reminded him of Gaara's own monstrous transformation.

Trump inched closer, wanting to hear more clearly. As he moved from one tree to another, his foot snapped a twig.

The sound was tiny, but somehow, Gaara's head snapped in his direction.

"You!" he snarled, recognizing Trump instantly. "You tried to manipulate me! Mother remembers you!"

"Wait! Very big misunderstanding!"

Gaara was beyond reason now, enraged by what he perceived as another betrayal. With a roar, he sent a massive wave of sand shooting toward Trump's position, completely ignoring his other opponents.

"Run!" the blonde boy shouted, noticing Trump for the first time. "He's lost control!"

Trump didn't need to be told twice. He turned and sprinted through the forest, sand crashing through trees behind him.

"This is bad," he gasped as he ran. "Very aggressive pursuit! The most persistent sand attack!"

He channeled chakra to his legs, leaping from tree trunk to tree trunk to gain speed. For a moment, it seemed he might outpace the sand. Then his foot slipped on a moss-covered branch. He tumbled through the air, disoriented, unable to correct his fall. He crashed to the ground.

Before he could recover, the sand was upon him.

"You lied to me," Gaara's voice came from seemingly everywhere as he emerged from the trees. "You said I had a choice."

"You do have a choice," Trump gasped as the sand tightened around him.

"No," Gaara replied coldly. "Mother was right. There is only one path for monsters like us. To kill or be killed."

The sand began to compress slowly, agonizingly. Trump felt his bones creaking under the pressure.

"Wait," Trump managed through gritted teeth. "You don't have to do this. I was trying to help you."

But Gaara wasn't listening anymore. With a clenching of his distorted hand, the sand imploded.

As darkness closed in and pain consumed him, he heard those familiar words: "These are souvenirs, hehehe."

Something clicked in his fading consciousness. That phrase... he'd heard it so many times.

Wait. That wasn't Gaara's voice.

With his last surge of awareness, he focused his fading vision. What he saw wasn't Gaara at all. The figure before him wore Gaara's face, but wrong, stretched into an impossibly wide grin that no human mouth could form.

With dying strength, he grabbed the entity's wrist as it reached for his headband.

"Who...are...you?"

The world around them suddenly plunged into absolute darkness.

The thing wearing Gaara's face tilted its head at an impossible angle, the grin widening further until it split the face nearly in half. The headband in its hand wasn't solid metal and cloth anymore but seemed to be dissolving into wisps of glowing blue energy.

The entity raised the dissolving headband to its grotesque mouth and consumed the energy, swallowing the blue wisps as they flowed into the endless maw of its grin.

"You needed to die so many times to see me, huh?" it spoke, its voice layered with echoes as though multiple voices were speaking simultaneously.

As Trump's grip weakened and his consciousness finally slipped away completely, the last thing he saw was the entity's face shifting again, revealing countless other faces beneath Gaara's, equally distorted with that same impossible grin.