Pakkun crawled out from under Baiji’s heavy bulk, wincing. In the nothing-light, the letters on the wall stood out like a scream in a morgue, glowing dried-blood red.

It was creepy as all hell and twice as ironic, and if they ever found Ryouma, Pakkun was going to chew both his ears off.

“Hell,” he said.

Ginta made a quiet rasping sound, like the edge of a dead laugh. Pakkun gave him an alarmed look. Ginta’s face was a sheet of blood; it poured from his obviously broken nose, gleaming wet across his teeth and chin and throat, all over the front of his armour. Like a waterfall in red.

Sprawled across his lap, Kakashi looked like a dead doll. The side of his head was matted sticky-black. When Ginta breathed out, misty droplets of blood spattered across Kakashi’s still, masked face.

“Aw, hell,” said Pakkun, as his eyes adjusted to the dark and the picture in front of him didn’t get any better. He pulled himself over to Ginta, feeling like every inch of his body had been pummelled with bricks. “Is he breathing?”

“Yeah. Breathing. Bleeding.” Ginta’s breath caught, like he’d jarred his mouth painfully. He reeled weirdly, shaky and off-balance, but caught himself and slid one hand beneath Kakashi’s neck. Steadying. Careful. The other hand pressed right against Kakashi’s head wound, all dirty fingers and fresh blood and serious infection risk, and Pakkun barked before he had words.

Ginta startled badly. Kakashi didn’t.

“Bandages, glitterbug!” Pakkun said. “Antiseptic! And -- and you should really do something about your face before you pass out.”

“My face?” Above the wreck of blood, Ginta’s eyes were blank. He looked down at Kakashi. “I... have bandages.” One hand fumbled for his belt.

He was in shock, Pakkun realized. Ginta was in shock, Kakashi was unconscious, the roof had fallen in, and the only conscious person with opposable thumbs wasn’t operating on all six cylinders.

“Ginta,” Pakkun said. “Look at me.”

Ginta’s eyes flicked up, black in the red seal-light, then back down to Kakashi. His hands were shaking. His chest hitching unevenly. Pakkun suddenly felt very old.

“Right here, Ginta,” he said again, making himself be calm. “Focus on me for a second.”

Reluctantly, Ginta glanced up. His hand was still yanking through his belt, but stalling at buckles and zippers. “What?” he demanded. “I need to find a bandage.”

“You’re bleeding,” Pakkun said. “Your nose is broken. Your cheek isn’t looking too great, either.”

“Yeah. So’s he.” Which didn’t make a great deal of sense, but Pakkun caught the gist. Ginta finally managed to unearth a white roll of bandage and clamped it against Kakashi’s head. “He’s gonna wake up, right?” Ginta asked, sounding tight-jawed and scared and about twelve years old. “Can you smell it?”

Mostly, Pakkun could smell blood and lightning. But he pressed his nose against the hinge of Kakashi’s jaw anyway, where the mask helped catch scent.

“He’ll wake up,” Pakkun said, ignoring the coil of copper and snuffed-out pain tangling in his sinuses, underlaid with the flat, leaden scent that always came with unconsciousness. Like peace. He looked up at Ginta’s frantic, shock-hazed eyes, and tried to be reassuring. “He always does.”