The hawks were large, exquisitely trained, and strangely comfortable riding on the shoulders of two galloping hounds. Hoshika and Shouma were less thrilled with the arrangement, but Kakashi wasn't in the mood to take complaints. He translocated the bizarre group as far out of Konoha as the jutsu could reach, and took point, leading the tiny pack into the stormy forest darkness.

They ran.

In many ways, it was the same as any other rescue flight. Distance, destination, target. The wound-wire tension that came from not knowing if you were running towards a breathing teammate or a meat puppet with its chakra strings cut. He pushed himself hard, because every second made a difference when you were already far too late. Pushed the dogs harder, because the training was good and Shouma was still green.

Forest blurred to field. Without the protection of sheltering trees, rain lashed down like a fist.

Barely a month ago, he'd cut a hundred and eighty miles down in six hours. Arrowed straight to the north-east, almost to the border of Lightning, to kill a ninja, rescue a kunoichi, and save a man who'd become a partner who'd become something else entirely. Now...

Now he tore north, aiming straight for the border of Waterfall, and called to mind another man. Shorter, blonder, smarter, in a way that was all shining intellect and zero common sense. They'd shared a mission, a hospital room, a rapist, and far too much alcohol; jutsu, stories, a double-sided insult that was almost an endearment. Anchovy pizza. And Kakashi had driven him away to stop something like this from happening.

Too little, too late. Or Ginta was a lightning rod for bad fortune.

Fields became a network of hills and valleys, nestled with villages and sliced through by a branching web of interconnected rivers. Kakashi translocated, losing miles and saving minutes, and avoided ever seeing another person. Hours slid by, measured out in steady breath and carefully rationed chakra pills. Water streamed from feathers and fur, slicked down silver hair and glued cloth to a body that was working too hard to feel the chill.

Broken land soared up into high mountains, lifting them above the rain.

The ninth hour brought their one and only break, seeking shelter in a cave where the dogs panted and the birds shook themselves out and Kakashi read through the brief until he had every detail memorized. Infiltration, organization, a checkpoint that had been long missed. At least this one didn't feel like a set up.

When they reached plains, he started to flicker, pulling on Minato's signature jutsu to carve out the difference between fast and faster. The dogs lagged, but not by much; they caught up whenever he slowed enough to keep his bones inside his skin. He rested by jogging, never losing pace enough to stop, and dried out long before the sun reached its zenith. Wished for more rain when the afternoon heat rolled sweat down his spine and drew a flush over doubly-masked cheekbones.

Plains broke into streets before evening cast a shadow. Kakashi translocated again before he saw the first house and ended up in the middle of a village. People shrieked and scattered, lunging away from the dust-streaked shinobi too focused to be startled. He grabbed an apple from a cart--it was better than ration bars--and vanished in a swift blur of chakra and dancing leaves before someone thought to attack.

It wasn't long before villages became towns become suburbs became a city. Komatsuyama, in all its steel-mill and ravaged-land glory.

The sun was a long distant memory by the time Kakashi vaulted over the city walls, followed by heavily-panting dogs, but the moon barely cast a light through the smoke-thick sky. There wasn't even a glimmer of stars. He landed on a rooftop lit by neon and floodlights, caught his breath on soot, and scanned over the broken-tooth silhouette of the cityscape.

Warehouses. Factories. Heaving nightclubs to mark out the heartland. Slums everywhere else.

Shouma sneezed and dragged a heavy paw down his muzzle, trying to claw the scent away. Kakashi laid a hand between his ears.

"Almost there," he rasped, and leapt for the next rooftop.

They were one hawk less by the time they reached the final warehouse.