Saiyuri brought one of the lanterns over. Distantly, Asuma heard her take a sharp breath.

Down below, cut out in the soft gold circle of light, was the hunched shoulder of a dog the size of a horse, and two bodies covered in blood. Pakkun was a soggy little shape pressed between them, his nose jammed against Kakashi’s throat.

At least, Asuma thought that was Kakashi.

Hair colour couldn’t give him the clue: there was no visible silver under the messy tangle of rough bandages and dried red-black. It looked like someone had thrown a bucket over Sakumo’s son. He was lying on his side, one hand curled loosely over his eyes, mask pulled down to his throat.

Tucked against his chest, a smaller, blonder man was mostly concealed, face hidden by the shadow of Kakashi’s shoulder. A torn silver emergency-blanket barely covered them both.

Neither one of them was moving. Any skin Asuma could see was blanched white, like winter frost.

Pakkun looked up at him and whined softly.

“Kannon,” Asuma whispered, like a reflex. He jerked his gaze up, looking at Ibiki’s set face. “I can’t feel any seals. You?”

Ibiki shut his eyes, chakra brushing Asuma’s as he extended his senses. He opened his eyes again. “No.” He hesitated, uncertain for the first time since the beginning of their mission. “Are they breathing?”

“Can’t tell.” Pakkun had said yes, but... “Get ready to yank me out if this goes wrong.”

He grabbed the concrete edge of the hole and swung himself down, trying not to step on the big dog. Baiji. There was almost no room. He crouched carefully, scooped Pakkun out of the way and tossed him up to Ibiki, and unzipped one glove at the wrist to yank it off. Kakashi’s throat was icy. Asuma’s fingers were too cold to feel a pulse.

“Dammit,” he muttered, and forced an edge of heat into his hand, pulling on the fire affinity in his blood.

The bunker failed to crash down on his head.

“Seals are burned out,” he called up. “I’m gonna try and pass Ginta up to you.”

Saiyuri’s voice came back sharply. “Be careful of his neck! Check for broken bones first.”

“Necks are fine,” Pakkun growled, muffled and raw-sounding. “Get them out.”

Ibiki knelt at the edge of the hole and passed down a length of rope. “Put this around his shoulders and pass me the end up first. Saiyuri can take it to counterbalance while you and I lift.”

“He’s not that heavy,” Asuma said, but he took the rope, and pressed his fingers under the shadow of Kakashi’s naked jaw again. This time, faintly, he could feel the beat of something living. Ginta’s skin was just as cold, but a slow, unsteady pulse flickered in his throat too. “They’re both alive, at least.”

A hoarse, broken sound hissed between Ginta’s lips as Asuma pulled him away from Kakashi.

“Definitely alive—” Asuma stopped dead.

Sakamoto’s face is smashed in, Pakkun had said. He hadn’t mentioned the broken nose, the mask of bruises, the patch of bloody gauze covering one distorted cheekbone, or the wrecked crush of a mouth that was normally animated and smiling.

Asuma swallowed and knotted the rope firmly under Ginta’s arms, then tossed the end back up to Ibiki. Ginta’s eyebrows twitched together, but he didn’t wake. A spent syringe glittered on the ground by his hand.

Very carefully, Asuma slid his arms under that deadweight, and pulled Ginta off the bed of fractured stone and tile shards.

“Coming up.”

The rope tightened. Ibiki’s hands came down through the ceiling, steadying Ginta’s head, then grasping his slim shoulders firmly as Asuma passed him up. Through the whole thing, Kakashi never moved.