Amegakure — 1:17 a.m.
The first thing Tukiko Ayatsumori learned about the Akatsuki was that they had an inconvenient understanding of privacy.
The second was that they apparently didn't believe in welcoming committees.
Rain hammered against the reinforced entrance of a decommissioned flood-control facility, drowning out the fading engine of the black car that had delivered her. Somewhere above, Amegakure's towers disappeared into a thick curtain of clouds, their crimson warning lights blinking through the downpour like distant, watchful eyes.
Her phone had lost its signal the moment the outer security gate closed.
How reassuring.
Tukiko slipped the useless device into her pocket and examined the building ahead.
From the outside, it resembled any number of neglected government facilities scattered throughout the city's industrial districts. Weather-stained concrete. Corroded steel. A faded municipal insignia. Nothing remotely interesting to the average passerby.
Which was precisely the point.
According to the intelligence she had gathered, the abandoned facility concealed a sprawling underground headquarters built into Amegakure's original flood-control infrastructure.
And somewhere beneath her feet lived nine of the most dangerous individuals in the shinobi world.
Well, she thought, this should be interesting.
The reinforced entrance opened before she could knock.
Inside, the temperature dropped several degrees. The air smelled faintly of metal and filtered water, and the relentless noise of the rain diminished to a distant rumble.
Konan stood behind a security counter, looking as though she had been waiting there for exactly twenty minutes—and resented every one of them.
Her blue hair was immaculate, a paper flower tucked neatly above one ear. The high collar of her dark coat framed an expression that revealed nothing.
An open dossier lay on the counter.
Tukiko recognized the photograph immediately.
Herself.
Taken from across a street in Konoha, judging by the architecture. The angle suggested an elevated surveillance position.
She couldn't remember noticing anyone watching her that day.
That was irritating.
"You're twenty minutes late," Konan observed.
Tukiko glanced between the photograph and the woman standing behind it.
So much for introductions.
Before she could respond, an elevator chimed behind Konan.
Two men emerged.
The first moved with such quiet precision that he might have been trying not to disturb the air around him. Long, dark hair framed an expression of almost supernatural composure. His black cloak concealed everything except the unmistakable silhouette of a shinobi who had spent his life learning how to kill without hesitation.
Itachi Uchiha.
Of course.
The second man was considerably harder to overlook.
Broad-shouldered, blue-skinned, and possessing an impressive collection of shark-like teeth, Kisame Hoshigaki stepped out with a massive bandaged sword balanced against his shoulder.
His attention settled on Tukiko almost immediately.
"Well, now." His grin widened. "What's this?"
"Our newest provisional recruit," Konan replied without looking up.
Kisame's eyes traveled from Tukiko's face to the equipment at her waist.
"Didn't realize we were hiring."
"We aren't."
"Ah." He chuckled. "Special treatment, then."
Konan closed the dossier.
The sound was surprisingly final.
"Your room is ready," she told Tukiko. "Your clearance is not." She placed a sealed black envelope on the counter. "Before we decide what you're allowed to know, we need to find out what you're willing to do."
For a moment, Tukiko simply regarded the envelope.
It was an unusually ordinary object to represent such a consequential decision.
A piece of paper. A folded seal.
A bargain that might get her killed.
She reached for it, her fingers brushing the heavy material.
"Whatever is necessary," she answered, meeting Konan's eyes. "I didn't come here expecting easy assignments." A pause. "My family is dead, my work, stolen. I don't have much left to lose."
The admission settled over the room.
Konan's expression barely changed, although something subtle shifted behind her violet eyes.
Kisame gave a low whistle. "Well, that's cheerful."
Tukiko glanced toward him.
"Sorry. Would you prefer I start with a joke?"
His grin became considerably more genuine. "Oh, I like her."
"That remains to be seen," Itachi said quietly.
Until now, he had shown little interest in participating.
His gaze rested on Tukiko, calm and unreadable. "Having nothing to lose doesn't necessarily make someone reliable," he continued. "Sometimes it makes them reckless."
Tukiko studied him for a moment.
There was no obvious hostility in his voice.
Only observation.
She wondered how many people had mistaken the absence of emotion in Itachi Uchiha's expression for the absence of thought.
Probably quite a few.
Konan interrupted before the conversation could develop further.
"The envelope contains your first assignment. You'll find the location, entry window, and authentication signature inside. Retrieve the intelligence cache and return it unopened." She folded her arms. "No improvisation beyond what the mission requires. No unnecessary engagement. And no attempts to access information outside your authorization."
"Sounds straightforward," Kisame remarked.
Konan gave him a look. "For someone competent, yes."
He laughed.
Tukiko almost smiled.
"Your quarters are on sub-level two," Konan continued. "Third door on the right. Your chakra signature has been registered for limited access. Read the briefing in private, memorize it, and destroy the documents as instructed."
"And if I have questions?"
"Ask them after you've read your orders."
Naturally.
Konan turned toward the corridor.
"Report your readiness by 0600." She paused, her gaze briefly returning to Tukiko. "And try to get some sleep." Outside, thunder rolled over the city. "The rain doesn't stop here."
With that, she disappeared into the corridor.
Tukiko watched her go.
So that was it.
No welcoming speech. No organizational orientation. No complimentary tote bag declaring I joined the Akatsuki and all I got was this criminal record.
Just a mission.
Somehow, that seemed appropriate.