Ryouma had never heard that wailing edge of utter helplessness in Tsume's voice, and he'd gladly die before hearing it again. But Kakashi answered, a silver flicker in the cold morning sunlight. The clone behind Ryouma tightened its new grip on his right shoulder and left hip, as if it expected him to struggle off and follow in Kuromaru's tracks. Baiji rumbled unhappily.

"Not a fool," Ryouma hissed. He hadn't tried to fall off, and he didn't plan to run. More pain had begun to awaken, needles of agony jabbing up his fingers to his wrists, dull heat building in side and thigh and palm. Infection, probably. The antiobiotic cream couldn't have got everything, anymore than Ryouma's poor attempt at cauterization had.

He couldn't watch Kakashi carry Kuromaru's limp body back to Tsume, or the awkward mechanics as they tried to sling the small man over other mastiff's back. There was too much of death in the boneless way Kuromaru's head bobbed, too much of grief in Tsume's shoulders as she took him. Ryouma fastened his gaze on the mountain-ripped horizon instead, and tried to calculate how far they had left to run. How fast their chances of survival were sinking.

When he saw the tiny black-and-bone figure streaking down the foothills, he was certain he'd slipped into fever-dreams. "No fi'ld hos'ital unit?" he rasped at the clone. "'f I'm dreamin' back-up, I wan' som'in better."

"That is our field unit," the clone assured him. Its hand closed comfortingly on his shoulder as it raised its voice. "Hyuuga Haruichi's coming in!"