Author's Note: Fearless Master (aka Tomisaburo Arashikage/Insane Master) and Ayame are Storm Shadow's parents, used here with permission from Karama9. They are her characters, so check out her stories for more on them. Thanks to Kusari-Gama 61602 for editing, read her stories too!
The man known as the Fearless Master of the Arashikage crouched on a support beam above the ceiling and admired the convenience of ventilation grates. For all the rattles, echoes, and whoosh of the vents, they were perfect for reconnaissance. He was watching a busy hallway, listening to the shuffling footsteps of bored salary workers and the electronic whirl of a security camera. Even had he not been born into a ninja clan, he was sure he'd have found his way into the business somehow. What a pity, he thought to himself as he watched a yawning worker. Offices drained his already-limited reserves of sanity like nothing else.
He lifted himself from the vent and slithered along another beam. Two heartbeats, loud and slow, marked the guards outside the door he was aiming for. He was about to duck past the structural beam above the door when light footsteps danced down the hallway. He swung down to peek out and watch a particularly alluring secretary approach the guards.
They obligingly moved to either side as she ran a hand through her hair. She bowed her head politely, with a demure smile. She was almost directly beneath him now. As much as he appreciated the view, he was itching to get in, snatch the file, and be gone. Instead of opening the door, however, she was inspecting a hairpin. The folder slipped from her arms. Before it fluttered once, her hands shot out toward the guards' necks. He heard the gentle 'flump' of paper against the floor as both guards pitched forward into her arms. She lowered the hulking bodies to the floor, retrieved the two bloody pins, tucked them into a pocket, and picked up the folder.
Tomisaburo withdrew from the vent to watch her enter the room. He'd confront her if she went for the files he needed, but he wasn't about to provoke a clan conflict without reason. Inside, the two remaining guards by the door shifted their weight, unaware.
The 'secretary' (which clan, he wondered?) was leaning rather unnecessarily low over the boss's desk, one arm draped over his shoulders. From the middle-aged man's heart rate, he clearly didn't mind the impropriety one bit. And then there was the sound of steel on yielding skin and muscle, and blood splattered across the paper stacked high on the desk.
He held back a frustrated groan; if the files were sitting on that desk, well, he'd learned the hard way that bloodstains didn't come out of paper. Gurgling, the boss clutched at a clean slice through his throat and slumped forward. Across the room, both guards were suffering from a similar affliction, struggling with the sudden introduction of expertly-thrown shuriken to their windpipes. Before they could so much as wheeze, the kunoichi was out from behind the desk and heading toward them. Bone cracked, and Tomisaburo nearly fell through the ceiling. She'd snapped the guard's neck with a kick that was pure poetry. In a pencil skirt.
The second guard fell when a deceptively dainty hand met his rib cage and kept on going. Was that four, or five ribs he'd heard crack? The woman bent over the bodies, retrieving her shuriken. Six pointed, his personal favorite. In a split second, he'd made his decision; the Fearless Master levered up a ceiling tile and dropped to the floor behind her.
The first syllable of "Arashikage" hadn't left his mouth when he saw the flash of steel and dodged, purely out of reflex but a bit too slow. The knife sank into his shoulder, just below the collarbone. He ignored it - it wasn't a fatal stab.
"I'm going to marry you," he proclaimed, grinning widely.
Her hand paused, and he took a moment to appreciate the annoyed and highly suspicious face in front of him before glancing at the design on the hilt of the knife.
"Ah, Mizu clan." He smiled and bared his tattoo. "Arashikage. Do you normally greet people knife-first, or have I caught you on a good day?"
Her fingers carefully uncurled from the knife's grip; it stayed put. "Who are you and what are you doing here?"
"I'm just after some files." He nodded toward the cabinets lining one wall. "No conflict of missions. You really should consider my offer. I could use someone as... professional as you." He grinned.
"Give me one good reason I shouldn't reposition that knife a few inches lower."
He made an offended noise. "Do you know who you're talking to?"
"An idiot." She crossed her arms and stuck one hip out like a very combat-ready model. "If you want to see me again, you'd better have that knife cleaned and re-sharpened properly. It's one of my favorites."
Before he could answer, she turned on one impractically high heel and stalked calmly out the door, file folder in hand.
When he heard the ding of the elevator down the hall, he finally remembered to breathe. A warm rivulet of blood rolled down his chest and soaked into his dark shirt. Best to leave the knife in. As he shifted his shoulder ever so slightly, he felt the edge meet bone. The accompanying agony barely served to dampen his wide grin. She was right, the knife would need some care.
Heavy footsteps in the hall brought his mind back to the mission. Just outside the door, he heard at least a dozen men, both guards and unlucky office onlookers in various states of horror and shock.
Two locked file cabinets were hastily ransacked, with no success, by the time the witnesses had built up the courage to try the door. Just a little more time... his contact had promised the files would be easy to find, no safecracking necessary. And had he said something about a green cabinet? Tomisaburo tossed another beige drawer across the room, ignoring the loud crash. The only man who would bother to check for the missing file was now staining a perfectly good hardwood desk.
A hand on the door handle. He needed to leave, NOW. One leap took him to the top of the cabinets, the next to a pipe on the ceiling, where he found himself one arm short of the amount needed to reach the safety of the vent. The door clicked.
And clicked again. His future wife had locked it. He knew there was a reason he'd chosen her. Silently thanking the woman, he dropped back down onto the cabinets. A fine layer of dust made his footsteps a bit too apparent, but that couldn't be helped now. Just before he resumed his search, a plain Manila folder caught his eye. It looked to have been tossed onto the top of the cabinet recently. He snatched it up. Jackpot.
The men outside the door were shouting now, yelling something about the key that, with any luck, was in the pocket of a long-gone secretary. Holding the file between his teeth, he launched himself up to the ceiling with a bit more care than before and managed to worm his way back into the vent.
Just as the ceiling tile clicked back into place, the door creaked open and the first of the investigators gasped at the gory sight within.