Wind swirled in the wake of Genma's absence, hurling raindrops against Ryouma's eyes. He spun, searching the deck, but picking out one dark figure in the chaos of sailors and storm was impossible.

Raidou's voice lifted over the howl of the storm, a furious shout through a closed cabin door: "—on of a bitch—"

Kakashi touched Ryouma's arm, pointing at an open hatchway down in the maindeck. A swearing sailor hauled himself up and bent to pull the hatch-cover closed again.

"Sorry." Ryouma dropped off the quarterdeck and pushed past the startled man, thumping down narrow steps into the darkened hold. They'd stayed abovedeck on the journey out, in open air or the relative comfort of the passengers' cabins; belowdeck was sailors' territory, cargo-holds, darkness and damp and the stink of bilgewater. Ryouma swept out his chakra, searching, but Genma's was clamped down tight.

He was a better sensor than any of them. Of course he could hide better than any of them, too.

Assuming he hadn't—

Ryouma couldn't think it. He turned, almost knocking into Kakashi. "You've got better senses than me, you must've heard something! What did Kuroda say?"

"Blamed him for Fukuda's death," Kakashi said, in a colorless, strapped-down voice. He tipped his head up, inhaling deeply, chakra sweeping out. Then he pointed into the gloom. "That way."

They threaded their way past sailors' bedrolls, bales of cargo, through the close-fitting doors of watertight compartments. Kakashi took a glass-sheltered lantern from a hook and held it high, shedding a wan circle of light that only intensified shadows beyond. Ryouma still stumbled over a loose coil of rope and bruised his shoulder on the edge of a bulkhead. He couldn't sense Genma, even his ANBU spark.

Then Kakashi stopped, on the edge of a lashed-down mountain of salty-smelling casks. He held the lantern high, gazing down at something on the heavy boards of the decking, then turned back to look at Ryouma. The lantern light sank into his dark mask and turned his eye into a hollow pit under the fringe of his hair.

Ryouma edged past him and looked down.

Genma sat huddled in the lee of the salt casks, knees drawn up, face hidden. His hair gleamed wetly in the flickering light. He seemed to be trying to mutter something, mantra or prayer, but his breathing rasped and broke.

He didn't seem to have noticed them yet, and that was as terrifying as anything else.

Ryouma took one tentative step across the deck, then two. He eased down at Genma's side. They were both sodden from rain, but only Genma seemed chilled through, little shivers chasing over his skin.

He'd always been so warm.

Ryouma touched his shoulder.