Something that felt a lot like a blade hooked beneath his armour and slid up, slicing through the shoulder strap. He shoved himself up, caught a blow that spun his shoved-aside mask away and made his blackened vision swim red, and hit the deck again. The blade danced back, slicing through the second shoulder strap. His chest- and backplate crumpled down, tangling around belted hip-pouches.

The bastards were playing with him.

His final clone died; Tsume was against the rail, limp body trapped between two dead crew-members. Asuma slapped his hands together, twisting the first seals he could think of, and ripped the deck apart. Wood splintered around him; he could feel the ship wallowing.

Liquid fire cracked between his shoulderblades.

He scrambled up, throat raw with a scream he couldn't hear, and took a second lash across his hipbone. A third across the backs of his thighs. He spun, trying to follow the trajectory of the hit, and stumbled over the deadweight of something too small to be a complete body. Warmth splashed his shins. His hands jerked for his trench-blades and met his tangled chest-plate. A fourth blow tore cloth and split skin wide open from the point of one shoulder to the middle of his lower back; he arched with an agonized, soundless hiss as flame licked the wound.

A blade kissed his throat.

Asuma thanked the world for small favours, grabbed it, and smashed his chakra through it. It wasn't as good as his trench-blades--the metal was different, and he was pretty damn sure he'd sliced his hands open--but he felt something shudder and spasm as his attack connected. One organized chakra pattern disintegrated into chaos. The blade came free in his grip.

He tossed it, caught the handle blind, and jerked around. His back shrieked a protest; warmth soaked through cloth all the way down to the backs of his knees. He absolutely didn't care.

The bastards had killed Tsume. He was going to murder them.

The lash swung back. A lucky side-step saved his eyes, won him a cheek split down to the bone, and brought him within striking range of a second energy signature. He charged for it, filling reluctant steel with chakra--

The bullwhip caught him by the throat.

He didn't see the fist aimed for his temple, couldn't hear the ugly crack it made, but he damn sure felt it. The broken deck lurched up; he drove the sword-point into water-slick wood, fought to catch himself, and failed.

Braided, blood-drenched leather tightened around his neck, lifting his head. He choked and tried to get a hand up. Chakra patterns shivered through with something that might have been laughter. Might have been anger. A boot came down on his wrist, grinding flesh against bone; one final solid blow dropped him into the kind of darkness where thought didn't exist.