The pursuit had finally evaporated an hour ago, leaving the four Shinobi exhausted but safe, nestled in a hidden, high-elevation crevice overlooking the winding river they had followed. Jiraiya had managed a small, carefully shielded campfire, its light barely illuminating the immediate rocks.
Kushina was the first to break the tense silence, which she did, predictably, with a stomach rumble loud enough to shake the loose pebbles.
"It's not my fault!" she defended herself preemptively, looking at Minato who was trying not to laugh. "Chakra chains are hungry work! And I haven't had any decent ramen since we left the village!"
Minato, attempting to open a dry, field ration tin with a kunai, fumbled the action. The tin flew, skittered across the rock, and bounced off Makima's perfectly aligned boots.
Makima glanced down at the tin, then up at Minato. "Minato-kun. Given your speed and precision, I calculate the probability of that being an accidental release at 12%. I recommend you prioritize calorie consumption before your motor skills degrade entirely."
Minato flushed slightly, retrieving the tin. "Sorry, Makima-san. Just tired."
Jiraiya chuckled, tossing a bag of trail mix at Kushina, who devoured it instantly. He looked at Makima, who was now meticulously reviewing a small, singed section of Kushina's sleeve with a detached, clinical air. The firelight played across Makima's face, softening the sharp angles of her features, and Jiraiya felt a wave of protective nostalgia wash over him.
She was such a sweet kid, he thought, remembering the small, bright-eyed girl who had first called him 'Sensei.' She had an infectious, giggling warmth back then, always sharing her small, perfectly wrapped snacks and asking earnest questions about nature, not strategy. Then the Academy, the endless, brutal training, and the transition—it had happened so fast.
He recalled watching her dispatch the Suna commander, the expressionless golden eyes calculating the precise trajectory of the kill shot. It was cold, focused, and utterly devoid of the messy passion that defined himself and his two other students. He often worried he had trained a weapon, not a person.
Kushina, oblivious to Jiraiya's reflection, was still grumbling about the rationing. She reached for the small water flask Minato was holding and accidentally knocked it, reopening a nasty friction burn on Minato's forearm from a fast Shunshin maneuver.
Minato hissed, pulling his arm back. "Ah, shoot. That stings."
Makima moved instantly, but not in her usual commanding way. She knelt beside Minato, placing her hand gently on his arm. She didn't glare or criticize his carelessness. She simply pulled a specialized balm from a sealed pouch and, with surprising tenderness, began rubbing it into the burn.
"This requires a focused application of medical ninjutsu, but the balm will suppress inflammation until we reach the extraction point," she murmured, her voice lowered, devoid of any analytical tone. Her touch was feather-light and exceptionally careful.
She looked up at him, her eyes catching the firelight. For a flicker of a second, the commander was gone, replaced by the earnest girl from years ago.
"You performed exceptionally well, Minato-kun," Makima said, her voice soft, a hint of genuine pride in her tone. "Your ability to mark and transition under pressure saved us. You are a great asset."
The unexpected compliment, delivered so gently, took Minato completely by surprise. He simply nodded, slightly flustered. "Thank you, Makima-san."
Jiraiya watched the scene—the girl who ordered assassinations now meticulously tending a minor injury. It was the two sides of her: the brutal pragmatist and the deeply caring individual, constantly at war. He knew her coldness was a shield, but moments like this, when the sweet girl momentarily won, were what kept his faith in her humanity alive.
He sighed, standing up and stretching. "Alright, you three. Compliments and comfort session is over. We have one more push to the border. Get thirty minutes of sleep while I take watch. Then, we're home."