The rain in Amegakure was not weather; it was a state of being. A perpetual, weeping greyness that saturated the air, the buildings, the very souls of its inhabitants. It fell in a steady, mournful drizzle, drumming a ceaseless, syncopated rhythm on rusted metal roofs and collecting in grimy rivulets that snaked through the streets like veins of quicksilver. The sky was a seamless dome of bruised cloud, offering no glimpse of sun or moon, only a diffuse, twilight gloom that seemed to leach the colour from the world. The air was thick with the smell of wet concrete, damp earth, and the faint, metallic tang of industrial runoff.
Through this aqueous curtain, a figure emerged. It moved with a deliberate, unhurried pace along the sodden path that led to the village's main gate—a massive, reinforced structure of blackened steel and riveted iron, scarred by old conflicts and stained dark by the endless rain. The figure was shrouded in a voluminous, hooded cloak of stark white, a colour so profoundly out of place in the monochrome gloom of Ame that it seemed to reject the very rain itself.
The water beaded on its strangely waxed surface and slid off without soaking in, a testament to meticulous preparation. This was not a traveler caught in a downpour; this was a man who had intended to come to this rain-lashed place and had dressed accordingly.
From the shelter of the gate's watchtower, two Ame shinobi observed the approach. Their uniforms were dark, practical, and slick with moisture. The younger of the two, a man with a face already lined by the stress of constant vigilance, squinted through the rain.
"Who is that?" he muttered to his partner, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of the kunai at his belt. "No merchant's caravan is due."
"Stay sharp," the older guard replied, his voice a low grumble. "Could be a trap. Could be anything out here."
As the white-cloaked figure came to a halt a dozen paces from the gate, the younger guard decided to take initiative. He stepped out from the relative dryness of the tower, the rain immediately plastering his hair to his scalp.
"Halt! State your name and business in Amegakure!" he called out, his voice competing with the hiss of the rain.
The figure did not respond. It simply stood, a silent, unnerving statue of white in the grey world.
Just as the guard took another step forward, ready to draw his weapon, the air shimmered.
With a soundless shunshin, another figure materialised between the guard and the stranger, kneeling in a puddle that didn't seem to bother it in the slightest. This new figure was clad in the distinctive gear of an Amegakure ANBU: a porcelain mask painted with a stylised, weeping eye, a dark grey flak jacket, and a broad-rimmed hat that shed water like a roof. The guard froze, his blood running cold. He hadn't sensed the ANBU's presence at all.
The ANBU didn't even glance at the guard. Its masked face was tilted up toward the cloaked figure. "Hanzo-sama is waiting for you," it said, its voice a hollow, emotionless monotone that was somehow more chilling than the rain.
The young guard's eyes widened. 'Hanzo-sama? Waiting? For him?'
He took an involuntary step back, his earlier bravado gone. He tried to get a better look at the mysterious visitor, but the hood was drawn too low, shadowing the face within. Who could command such an immediate, deferential response from one of Hanzo's personal guard?
There was a long pause, filled only by the patter of rain. Then, from within the hood, a voice emerged. It was low, calm, and carried an air of absolute authority that brooked no nonsense. "Lead the way."
The ANBU rose smoothly to its feet. It didn't need to give an order. The older guard, who had witnessed the entire exchange from the tower, was already moving. With a series of heavy, metallic clunks and the groan of protesting hinges, the great black steel gates of Amegakure began to swing inward.
The white-cloaked figure strode forward, following the ANBU into the heart of the Village Hidden in the Rain.
The interior of Amegakure was a revelation. The perpetual gloom was still there, the rain still fell, but it was not a place of despair. It was a place of defiant industry. The architecture was a breathtaking forest of towering, cylindrical pipes, gothic steel buttresses, and multi-levelled walkways that crisscrossed the sky like a metallic spiderweb.
Water cascaded from countless spouts and gutters, creating a thousand temporary waterfalls that fed into a complex network of canals below. The buildings were not drab; they were made of dark, treated metals and reinforced glass, and countless windows glowed with a warm, orange light from within, their reflections shimmering on the wet streets below.
Despite the weather, the streets were alive. Civilians, shielded by sturdy umbrellas or hooded oilskin coats, moved with purpose. The sound of the rain was undercut by the distant, rhythmic clang of metalworkers, the hum of machinery, and the lively chatter from crowded ramen stalls whose steaming vats fought valiantly against the damp chill. It was a city that had not just accepted the rain; it had built a vibrant, resilient civilisation within it.
A pang of something sharp and bitter lanced through the cloaked figure. 'The war isn't even affecting them,' he thought, the observation laced with a venomous envy.
Their path led them ever upward, via elevators that ascended the sides of the great pipes and across suspended walkways that offered dizzying views of the industrious city below. Finally, they arrived at the central, most fortified structure: Hanzo's palace. It was less a building and more a fortress grafted onto the side of the largest water tower in the village, a bastion of stark, imposing power.
The ANBU led him into a spacious, sparsely decorated antechamber. The walls were bare metal, the floor a polished black stone. "Wait here," the ANBU intoned, and then, with another silent shunshin, it disappeared.
The cloaked figure almost let out a derisive scoff. The movement, while skilled, was crude. It was a blunt application of speed, lacking the perfect, undetectable subtlety of a Konoha Root operative.
'Pathetic,' was the immediate, arrogant thought. But he quickly reined it in. 'They are not a major shinobi village. Their techniques are… basic. It is understandable.'
After a few moments of silence, a hidden door in the far wall slid open with a soft hiss.
Hanzo the Salamander filled the doorway. He was every bit the legend: a tall, powerfully built man whose very presence seemed to suck the air from the room.
He wore the standard Ame armour, but it was adorned with the iconic breathing apparatus that covered his lower face, its metal tubes connecting to a large tank on his back. His eyes, sharp and penetrating, scanned the room before landing on his guest. A booming, theatrical laugh echoed from behind the mask.
"My old friend!" Hanzo declared, his arms spreading wide in a gesture of welcome that didn't quite reach his eyes. "What a pleasant surprise! To what do I owe the honour? I assumed a man of your… responsibilities would be up to his neck in the unpleasantness gripping the continent. Surely you did not come all this way just to enjoy our famous climate?"
The cloaked figure didn't move. Then, slowly, deliberately, he reached up and pushed back the hood of his white cloak.
"That is precisely the reason I am here, Hanzo," Danzo Shimura said, his voice as cold and dry as a desert tomb.
"It is about the war."
Though he had undoubtedly expected it, Hanzo's jovial demeanour vanished. The false warmth drained from his face, replaced by the stern, impassive mask of a statesman. The air in the room grew heavy, the cheerful facade of the meeting crumbling away.
"You know where I stand, Danzo," Hanzo said, his voice now low and serious, all pretence gone.
Danzo's single eye remained fixed on Hanzo, unblinking. "I know," he said, his tone flat.
"I came prepared." He paused, letting the implication hang in the air between them, a silent threat and a promise. "I did not come to ask you to change your mind. I came to offer you a solution. What if I were to tell you I could help you with a certain… problem of yours?"