Ginta found a nexus of air shafts where he could rest. A bulky heating and air conditioning unit blocked entry from two directions, and lethally whirring fans shielded the three other access points. Between the fans and the compressors of the air conditioner, there was a gap just wide enough for a small man like Ginta to curl into. He couldn't stand up, but he could sit, stretch his legs out, and maneuver a little. And there was light coming in, filtered and flickering, from a rooftop air intake.

The first thing he did was set traps. They'd taken every tool, every weapon, his armour, and all his supplies when they'd had him and Tsuyako in captivity. But he had open wounds. Blood seals written crudely with a fingertip were one of the oldest tricks in a ninja's repertoire.

The second thing was to stop the bleeding. The broken-off arrow high on the outside of his left thigh was staunching its own wound. He left it there. The katana-cut arm was a clean slice, easy to bind together with a strip torn from the hem of his shirt. The ragged parallel gashes raked down his right shin were another matter entirely. His leg bindings were torn to shreds, with threads and grime deeply embedded in the wounds. The skin was blistered with chemical burns. He pulled at a strip of torn cloth that stuck to one gash, and nearly passed out. When his vision cleared, he stared at it numbly, feeling sick, then unwound the undamaged bandage from his left leg and wrapped it around the right.

There were sounds from the rooms below, but no one in the airshafts yet. He was low on chakra, beyond sleep deprived, hungry, injured... Curled into his dangerous hideout, Ginta slept.

He woke to the sounds of men below him. It was dark now, pitch black in his hideout. He slipped past one of the fans, and into the tunnels, listening closely to words he couldn't quite catch. Every now and again one of the speakers would raise his voice, angry and sharp. "ANBU" and "Konoha" came clear enough. And "Still alive, dammit!" There was more low muttering, and a different voice, possibly a woman, insisting something was too risky. Ginta inched through the ductwork, silent as the air whispering past him, and headed for what he hoped was an exterior wall.

There was no translocating in or out of the building, that much he and Tsuyako had ascertained on their way in. And they were obviously still looking for him. He wondered if Tsuyako was even alive. If they were both lucky, she'd died when she'd fallen during their escape attempt.

He found his way back to the room with the barrels, and from there to the now-deserted mixing room. It was lit with a few safety bulbs, dark and shadowed. Blood still stained the floor. From there it was a left, a steam tunnel, two doors... And yes, there was a cache of finished bombs. Ginta pocketed several with a grim smile, and made his way through the building, leaving explosive little gifts for his hosts to find.

Hours later, in the dark before dawn, he dragged himself back to his fortress inside the air conditioner. His right leg was so swollen he couldn't bend his knee, throbbing with every heartbeat. The left, with its buried arrow, was even worse. In his skulking trip through the darkened factory, he'd managed to acquire a kunai. He grit his teeth, set the point against the place where the arrow disappeared into flesh, and dug.

Luck was with him again. One of his bombs went off somewhere in the building, drowning out his scream.