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Somewhere a Clock Is Ticking [Asuma, Ibiki, Kakashi, Ginta] [Dec. 9th, 2011|02:02 am]
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[User Picture]From: [info]fallen_ibiki
2011-12-08 08:53 am (UTC)

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There was plenty of fuel for a fire, though most of it was snow-damp and riddled with rot. The abandoned temple buildings were crumbling away, covered in moss, long-forgotten by any of the faithful. Ibiki wondered about the monks who had once painted the walls orange and white, polished the wooden floors, and chanted their sutras under the watchful eyes of carven buddhas. Had they been driven out by the first ninja to make this spot a secret watchpost, or had they been in collusion with their shadowy neighbors?

His senses were still on high alert, his throat aching where Hatake had undoubtedly left finger-width bruises. Shida-sensei would have told him he deserved it for letting his guard down like an unschooled genin. A head-injured shinobi — especially a jounin like Hatake Kakashi — was a dangerous shinobi. Far more dangerous than a ninja with all his faculties, in some ways.

Dangerous to himself, too. The medic could be excused for misreading the situation, but Asuma should have recognized the situation for what it was. Recognized Ibiki’s response to it. Not that it mattered what Asuma thought of him, and at least he’d intervened before Pakkun could try to add a scar or two to Ibiki’s collection.

He broke lumber down, splintering soft wood under his hands and casting a water jutsu to draw the dampness out of it. When he had enough timber and kindling to create a long-burning bonfire, he cleared a circle in the snow and piled it close to the tents, where he set it ablaze. It smoked and popped, and then the half-dried wood caught, sending orange sparks racing skyward, and a wall of heat radiating outward.

Inside the tent, Asuma appeared to be in a meditative trance, shedding heat and chakra into both injured men. The medic seemed to be finished with Sakamoto for the moment — he was lying just as bloodless-white as he had been before, but there was a faster, more discernable rise and fall to his chest under the thin foil blanket. Saiyuri had moved on to Hatake, kneeling next to him, cradling his skull between her hands. Healing chakra cast a green-yellow glow against his bruised temples.

He still looked beyond saving. They both did.

She looked up. “You. Go back to the village. Go to the inn and ask for Imahara Yusuke. Tell him I said we need two sleds with dog teams to get a pair of injured men down. Bring them back here.”

“It would be faster if we just made clones and carried—” Ibiki started.

“They’re not stable yet. By the time you get back here with dogs and men they will be, I hope. And sleds will be safer and warmer for transporting them.”

Asuma cracked one eye open, fixing it on the medic. “So you can fix ‘em?”

“I don’t make promises like that. Not in circumstances like this,” Saiyuri said, grim-faced. “I’ll do what I can, but your boys here are going to have to meet me halfway.” She looked sharply at Ibiki. “Go.”

Ibiki saluted her, turned, and translocated a full four kilometers, cutting through nothing and pushing himself to the limits of his speed. Men who’d lost lovers and didn’t think they had anything left to live for weren’t the ones who usually met the medics even a quarter of the way. The sooner they were off that mountain and away from whatever grim reminders that place held of Tousaki for both men, the better.