“Now who’s bossy?” Ibiki asked, cracking another yawn and eying Asuma. He didn’t get an answer, but he didn’t expect one. He stepped past the other agent to get a better look at the two men they’d come to retrieve.

Hatake was snow-pale, but there was a hint of color over his cheekbones that wasn’t blood stain. He looked young, almost delicate, with his face unmasked and his pale, chapped lips parted. He breathed slowly and evenly, not stirring. It would be a loss to Konoha if the brain inside that bruised skull was damaged, or the psyche “broken in half” as Asuma had so quaintly put it.

Sakamoto looked a good deal better than he had, too, with the gore washed away and fresh bandages hiding much of the damage to his face. Pale beard stubble was tinted faintly crimson where blood still clung, but his lips were pink, not tinged blue as they had been.

Saiyuri-san nodded at the two of them as Asuma crouched at Sakamoto’s head and Ibiki picked up his legs. “Careful with that right leg,” she said. “Don’t twist anything.” She took the IV setup and the foil blanket Sakamoto had been lying on, and the three of them carried Sakamoto to Imahara’s waiting sled. When they settled him into the nest of furs and blankets, he whimpered and turned his head, but if he woke, it wasn’t for long. Saiyuri muttered something under her breath and pressed green-glowing palms to either side of Sakamoto’s skull, and he quieted.

Despite Saiyuri’s assessment, Hatake was no harder to move than Sakamoto had been. He was heavier and longer-limbed, but his breathing didn’t even hitch when they lifted him. There was no sign that there was any living consciousness in his body at all.

Imahara put Pakkun into the sled next to Hatake, all in silence. It felt funereal. Asuma’s face was grim as he checked the lashings holding the injured shinobi in their respective sleds. He made no comment when Ibiki created a pair of clones to help load Saiyuri’s medical supplies.

“We’ll finish here,” Ibiki offered, when everything but his and Asuma’s gear was stowed away. “And catch up to you.”

Kawai and Imahara nodded, but didn’t move to their sleds, waiting on the go-ahead from Saiyuri. After a moment, she nodded as well. “We’ll take them to my clinic. But I expect you’ll catch up to us before we get there.”

“Hup, dogs!” Imahara called. He stood on the trailing runners of the sled holding Sakamoto. Eight sharp-eared faces turned to look at him, as tails wagged and leather traces creaked.

“Pups!” Kawai echoed in his gruffer voice, and his own team snapped to attention.

Asuma stood next to him, watching the sleds depart, then lit a cigarette, face a little wan in the dawn light. “Well,” he said, blowing a stream of smoke into the frosty air, “that’s one job down.”

“We don’t have them home yet,” Ibiki said. He cracked his shoulders and spine while his clone set to work on repacking his tent and equipment. After a moment he pulled out a small metal case and flicked it open, offering it to Asuma. “Soldier pill? I don’t imagine we’re sleeping any time soon.”

“Cheery thought,” Asuma observed. He took a soldier pill and crunched it between his molars, presumably unbothered by the flavor due to smoke-deadened taste buds. He offered his cigarettes to Ibiki.

Was he softening a little, or just so tired he’d forgotten to be rude?

“Thanks, but I don’t smoke,” Ibiki said. “Although there are times like this when I occasionally wish I did.”

Asuma snorted and put the pack away. “Your loss.”

The remains of the bunker were still exposed for anyone to find. “You think there are any active traps left in there?” Ibiki asked. “We should probably bury it with an earth jutsu if we can.”