Backwards, like a film on rewind, color and sound unspooling in disjointed snatches, frame-by-frame, slowing, then speeding up again…

The world went red.

The masked man’s hands moved toward his face.

Ryouma landed panting on the icy ledge above the river. He yanked his chakra through a kawarimi in midair. The long-haired woman threw an arm out, and senbon shot from her fingertips. A man toppled screaming into the churning water, left knee and half his ribcage already eaten black with rot. Ryouma lunged, struck at knee and chest, shoved chakra in. The man was a taijutsu user, overconfident, too close; he dodged one strike but tried to block the second.

“The ANBU Ram. Tousaki Ryouma of Konoha. What a delight.”

A bat overhead, wings blotting the sun.

Three dark figures on the path ahead, between cliff and sky.

A cold day, wind from the north, sun on the mountains, the easy burn of muscles working as they were meant to, snow melting on his skin…

And a blank white ceiling, blond hair in the edge of his vision, hands holding his head, his head splitting open, his gut turning itself inside out.

Ryouma turned on his side and threw up over the edge of the table. It went on long past the point of lunch and breakfast, until he was retching dry with Inoichi’s hands still holding his head steady. There was a bucket after all, he noticed, dimly. Perfectly placed. Inoichi had done this before.

There were more observers, too, vaguely sketched through the bright spots dancing in his vision. A balding, scar-faced man built like a bulldog whose mother had engaged in a dangerous fling with a brick outhouse; a black-haired young giant even bigger than Ryouma, taking notes with a disturbing intensity; a middle-aged, bland-looking fellow in a grey Intel uniform, leaning against the wall and chatting in a low voice with Arakaki.

Ryouma choked on a rasping breath. Rolled back from the bucket and let his head rest, very gently, against the padded plastic of the table. It didn’t make a difference to the explosion tags going off within his skull. His mouth was foul with slime, his skin slick with sweat, clothes sealed to his body.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered. No other words seemed adequate.

Inoichi chuckled. “Actually, my parents were married, but I understand the sentiment.” His deep voice was stripped raw and painful, but his hands were still gentle as he draped a cool wet cloth over Ryouma’s forehead. It didn’t exactly help, but Ryouma appreciated the thought.

The painkillers and the bottle of water that followed--and the steady, strong arm helping him sit up enough to drink--were far better. “It’s been about six hours,” Inoichi remarked. “You did well.”

Ryouma rinsed his mouth out, spat into the bucket, and swallowed the pills and half of the water. “I’d consider waking up sane doin’ well, yeah. Shit. That was bad enough the first time. Did you get anything useful?”