Another one of the Waterfall ninja had freed himself from Ginta's genjutsu, and was talking into a radio. Summoning reinforcements. The screams of the ninja who had fallen into the chemicals echoed on the metal surfaces, sounding like a thousand tortured souls in some pit of hell. Ginta's leg poured blood down into the mix, and the clouds of fine powder rising from the vat stung and blistered in the raw wounds.

The other ninja chasing Ginta bellowed like an enraged beast, and lunged. His hand crackled with raw chakra in some perverse mirror of Kakashi's chidori. Some tiny part of Ginta's mind kept apart and observing--they must be getting desperate if they'd risk a ninjutsu with so many flammable chemicals around. Konoha were fools if they believed Kakashi was the only one in the world who could do a trick like that. And why now of all times, was Ginta thinking of Kakashi again? But there wasn't time to think. Not even time to plan the next move. He dodged behind the greasy arm of the giant mixer, felt the machine shudder as the other ninja's blow tore into the metal, and jumped.

His hands wrapped around a hanging cable, which swung slack for a moment, then caught. He spun himself around it, flipped himself into the rafters, and landed on his feet, upside down, channeling chakra through trembling limbs to stick himself to the ceiling. Cables and chains hung thick here, and pipes that shuddered as he brushed into them. There was just space above the pipes, just barely space... Blood dripped from his legs into his eyes, but he'd stopped feeling the injuries. He grabbed a pipe and shimmied into the gap.

The arrow shaft caught again.

Ginta's genjutsu sputtered and died: the lights brightened, the klaxons silenced. There were shouts from below, and a fresh round of arrows flew towards him. Ginta's upper body rested against parallel pipes; his legs hung limp. Easy targets. Some sixth sense, some grace, some unknown god taking pity perhaps, sparked Ginta's consciousness back. He swung his legs up just as the arrows whistled past to graze against the soles of his boots.

There was no time and he had no weapons. He reached down with his left hand, grabbed the protruding arrow, and twisted. The half-shattered shaft gave way, splintering under his fingers. The point remained embedded deep in his flesh. It was enough. He slithered into the tiny space above the pipes. More arrows pinged from the ceiling, but the pipes were an excellent shield.

Voices below cursed. Then someone started climbing. Ginta pulled his chakra in, cast a fresh jutsu, filling the air with a screeching cacophony--Kakashi's musical jutsu put to a defensive use--and cast a second, translocating blindly.

He fell heavily into the new space, stumbling against a steel barrel. It tipped, and an oily orange liquid sloshed out, drenching Ginta's clothes. He gagged and gasped, stumbling away from the syrupy stuff, retching.

Nothing here was safe. Nothing. He risked a water jutsu and sluiced off his face, washed the bitter taste from his mouth. Then he burrowed past the rows of barrels, deep into the storage space. There, a vent! He could hide in the ductwork. He pulled the grating free, climbed into the narrow pipe, replaced its cover, and tunneled in, losing himself in miles of airshafts.