As soon as Sakamoto was fully out, Saiyuri had her hands on his limp body, double checking pulse and spinal integrity, feeling roughly over dangling limbs for hidden fractures. “Get him into the tent,” she ordered.

Ibiki laid him on a fresh emergency blanket that Saiyuri had already spread on the canvas floor. There was a lot of blood. It had frozen into the folds of Sakamoto’s clothes, crinkling and falling like so much rust-red snow when Ibiki moved him.

Head wounds bled. A man could bleed to death from a simple gash to the scalp, if it was deep enough. By the looks of the distortion to Sakamoto’s face, and the sheer volume of blood he was smeared in, it was a shock the man was alive. But someone — Hatake? — had made a good effort at cleaning and bandaging the worst of Sakamoto’s injuries.

“Go,” Saiyuri said, shoving in past Ibiki. “I’ll do what I can for this one. Go get the other one out of that hole before it becomes a grave.”

By the time he got there, Asuma was already trying to lift Hatake out. The second man was harder to maneuver, much taller than Sakamoto, though only a bit heavier. Ibiki got him up just as Saiyuri came back to do the same basic triage she’d done on Sakamoto.

“Tent,” she said. “I’ll stabilize them as much as I can. You and Scruffy build me more fire.”

When Ibiki laid Hatake next to Sakamoto, the smaller man made a sound.

“He’s waking up,” Ibiki said.

“Not likely. Not yet. Get my fire going, we’re going to need it.”

Pakkun crowded into the tent and planted himself next to his bandaged, broken summoner. That was when Ibiki realized what was so very, very wrong here: both injured men were corpse-white and blood-soaked, but worse, Hatake’s face was bare. He wore no mask to cover his blue-tinged lips.

Then everything happened at once. There was a muted flare of chakra from behind Ibiki, and the shuddering thump and rushing sound of the bunker collapsing the rest of the way. Asuma yelled in surprise, evidently already out of the hole. Before Ibiki could turn to look, Hatake’s eyes snapped open — one blood-shot grey, one vibrant Uchiha red. He arched up off the floor of the tent as if he were having a convulsion, cried out in a horrified, hoarse voice, and grabbed Ibiki by the throat.

His hands, still ice cold, were as strong and unyielding as iron claws.

Ibiki threw his weight against his attacker, knocking Hatake back to the ground. He got one forearm across Hatake’s throat and shoulders, and just managed to get his other hand behind Hatake’s head, to cushion the blow as they slammed down. Sakamoto was too close; Ibiki felt his knee strike the smaller man.

He pressed harder against Hatake’s windpipe, trying to crush the strength out of Hatake before Hatake succeeded in choking him. Someone dragged Sakamoto out of the way by the legs. Hatake gagged and groaned. And finally slacked his grip.

As soon as Ibiki could pull free, he did. He sat back on his knees, coughing and sucking in moist, snow-scented air.