Faced with that, it was hard to see his friend as anything other than dead. But breath still lifted Genma's ribcage, a pulse still threaded beneath the soft damaged skin of his throat, and Raidou didn't have time to panic.

"Okay," he muttered. "Okay."

Hand. Ribcage. Neck. Shoulder and hip. Ankle. Move, Namaishi.

Distantly, metal shuddered under the impact of metal. Raidou shoved the sound out of his mind and gathered his legs under him, staggering to his feet. Genma slipped sideways, crumpling towards the floor. Raidou lunged and grabbed him.

"Pain even when you're unconscious," he hissed through teeth he was fighting not to grit, and hauled the limp weight up onto the cot, laying Genma out on his back. The medi-kit they'd ravaged was still splayed open on blood-soaked sheets; Raidou scrabbled through it and pulled out a length of bandage, knotting it tightly just below Genma's left elbow. The steady pulse of blood slowly drenching flesh and cloth withered to a trickle, giving him time to work. But Genma was already horribly pale.

Blood pills first. Raidou pulled the bottle out, tipped three into the glass of water Genma had discarded, and sent up a silent thank you when they dissolved instantly, turning the water muddy red. He managed to get most of the contents between Genma's lips, lifting his friend up and bracing him as best he could to ease the make-shift remedy down his throat. Blood pills weren't perfect, but they'd keep Genma from blanching dry before Raidou could get him home.

That hand was next. He laid Genma down and steeled himself, locking down eight months worth of well-ingrained instinct as he took Genma's shattered wrist gently and tried to work out how much damage there was; what he could fix. The index, pinky, and thumb were all snapped out of place, bent at violent angles. The thumbnail was missing. The small bones of his actual hand were mangled, but no slivers of white could be seen through tattered flesh. Genma's wrist grated beneath Raidou's touch.

"Goddamn," he whispered, and tried not to think about what Genma's chances of ever regaining full use of his hand were. Whether he'd still be a ninja. They had to get home first.

He swallowed his gag reflex, forced himself to see nothing but flesh that wasn't his friend, and wrenched everything back into place. Then, ignoring the way his own hands trembled, he dug the antiseptic out of their kit--the one every shinobi loved and feared in equal measure--and drenched Genma from fingertips to wrist before binding his whole hand tightly with bandages, swathing bruised flesh up to mid-forearm. There were no splints he could use, but he did his best and stripped the torniquette away. Genma never flinched.

Raidou allowed himself ten seconds to sit and shake, listening to Sago thundering at the door of his prison, before he could focus on the next thing.

Genma's ribcage was bruised, the lower right side shifting in a way that felt completely unnatural when Raidou put his hand on it. There was nothing he could do but wind another length of bandage around Genma's torso and hope broken ribs was the worst of it. Then he stripped the bandages the Mist-nin had applied away from Genma's shoulder and hip, untrusting that they hadn't somehow messed the job up, and rebound the wounds, along with that sprained ankle. There was nothing to do for Genma's badly scabbed throat but paint it with more antiseptic and slap a dressing over blackened flesh.

Then came clothes. Raidou manhandled Genma as gently as he could into the skintight ANBU blacks, pulling them back onto heavy limbs, followed by the lightweight chest armour and sandals. He even strapped Genma's gauntlets back on, hoping the left would act like something like a splint, and the right would do its normal job of protection.