Sai and the Anbu

The office nestled deep within Konoha’s administrative core was a shadowed sanctum, its walls lined with scrolls and maps, the faint scent of ink, tobacco, and burning incense curling through the air. Baby, cloaked in Shikamaru’s lean frame, lounged behind the desk, his red eyes glinting beneath the dim glow of a single lantern as Sai stepped inside. The pale-skinned shinobi, clad in his usual black, tilted his head at the summons, his expression a calm mask of curiosity. “You called for me, Shikamaru?” he asked, his voice even, betraying no suspicion.

Baby smirked, Shikamaru’s lazy drawl rolling out with a darker edge. “Sai, I appreciate you coming on such short notice. Sit. There’s been a change of leadership in Konoha—big changes.” Sai moved to comply, but froze mid-step, his limbs locking as an unseen **** seized him. His breath hitched, a rare flicker of shock breaking his composure as he realized he couldn’t move. His eyes darted to the floor, where thick, inky tendrils of shadow slithered from beneath the desk, coiling around his body like a living trap.

“Shadow Possession Jutsu,” Baby purred, Shikamaru’s fingers twitching as the darkness tightened its grip, binding Sai in place. “You’re not going anywhere.” Sai’s jaw clenched, his muscles tensing as he tried to resist, but the jutsu held him fast, a prisoner in his own skin. The door behind him clicked shut with a soft, ominous thud, sealing his fate.

From the shadows, Temari and Shizune emerged, their presence a stark departure from the norm. Their usual attire had been transformed into something blatantly erotic—Temari’s Suna garb now a skimpy mockery of silk and leather, sheer fabric clinging to her curves, her breasts barely contained as the wind-swept design teased every movement; Shizune’s medic coat replaced by a tight, latex number, unbuttoned to reveal her spilling cleavage, her hips swaying as she gripped a syringe filled with shimmering viral agent. Their red eyes glowed with wicked amusement, predator and prey locked in a twisted dance as they flanked Sai.

“You’ve always been so composed, haven’t you?” Temari purred, her voice thick with seductive mockery as she trailed a finger along his jaw, then dipped lower, grazing his chest through his shirt. “Let’s see how long that lasts.” Shizune smirked, pressing herself closer, her latex-clad body brushing against him as she tilted the syringe, the needle glinting in the lantern light. “Relax, pretty boy,” she cooed, her lips hovering near his ear, “this’ll feel good.”

With a swift motion, she plunged the needle into his exposed neck, the silver fluid surging into his veins. The effect was instantaneous—Sai’s body seized, a strangled gasp escaping as the Tuffle DNA invaded his system, burrowing into his bloodstream, his cells, his very essence. He convulsed violently, his frame arching against the shadow’s hold, every nerve ablaze with agonizing transformation. His vision blurred, his consciousness fracturing under the relentless surge of something foreign, invasive, undeniable. Then—silence. His body stilled, head slumping forward before slowly lifting, his once-empty dark eyes now glowing a piercing, malevolent red.

The shadows receded as Temari and Shizune stepped back, watching with anticipation. Sai straightened mechanically, turning toward Shikamaru—toward Baby—and dropped to one knee with a reverence that belied his former self. “My Lord,” he murmured, his voice laced with fervent devotion. “I serve you.”

Baby leaned back in Shikamaru’s chair, his crimson gaze gleaming as a slow, triumphant grin stretched across his borrowed face. “Good boy,” he purred, the words a velvet blade. “Now, the four of us have work to do—the ANBU’s next.”

They gathered around the desk, the air thick with shared malice and the faint musk of their charged presence. Baby’s voice dropped to a low, commanding murmur, Shikamaru’s mind spinning through strategies. “The ANBU’s tight-knit, but Sai, you’re our in—trusted, quiet, perfect to slip the virus into their ranks.” Sai nodded, his red gaze steady and unblinking. “I can get close to the captains—small doses, one by one, no suspicion.”

Temari leaned against the desk, her silk barely concealing her curves as she smirked. “I’ll distract them—wind and a little skin go a long way. They won’t see the needle coming.” She shifted, letting the sheer fabric slip slightly, a calculated tease that promised chaos. Shizune tapped the syringe in her hand, her voice soft but eager as she adjusted her latex top, her cleavage a deliberate lure. “I’ve got enough agent ready—silent infections, no trace. They’ll be ours before they know it.”

Baby’s laugh rumbled low, Shikamaru’s drawl twisting into something rich with triumph. “We’ll hollow them out from within—by the time Kakashi notices, the ANBU’ll be mine. Then we climb higher.” The four of them grinned, a circle of red-eyed predators, their plot tightening around Konoha’s throat like a noose, each step a calculated descent into domination.

The fall of the ANBU began in shadows, a silent plague creeping through Konoha’s elite ranks, orchestrated by Baby’s will. It started with Sai, dispatched on a mission to the borderlands with two seasoned operatives: Torune, the insect master, and Yūgao, the swordswoman. The forest night was thick with the rustle of leaves and the distant cry of a hawk, their objective a rogue encampment threatening Konoha’s edges. Sai moved ahead, his steps deliberate, his black-clad form blending into the darkness. Torune trailed behind, his gloved hands twitching with readiness, while Yūgao’s purple hair glinted faintly under her Falcon mask.

“Sai, report,” Torune called, his voice low as they reached a clearing.

Sai paused, turning slowly, his red eyes flashing beneath his hood. “You should be honored,” he murmured, his tone soft but chilling. “Lord Baby has chosen you.”

Before Torune could summon his beetles, Sai’s ink tendrils lashed out, coiling around his wrists and throat. Yūgao’s blade cleared its sheath, but Sai was faster—his syringe sank into Torune’s neck, the shimmering viral agent surging in. Torune convulsed, beetles spilling from his sleeves in a chaotic swarm before he stilled, his mask tilting up to reveal red eyes glowing with submission. “Master,” he rasped, dropping to one knee. Yūgao lunged, but Sai’s ink pinned her arms, the second needle piercing her shoulder. She thrashed, her purple hair whipping free as she gasped, then slumped, her red gaze rising to swear, “For the Tuffles.” The trio turned back, their mission discarded, their loyalty rewritten.

The infection spread like wildfire through the ANBU’s trust. On a scouting run near the border, Torune struck Fu amidst whispering pines. Fu’s Yamanaka senses flared—“Something’s wrong,” he muttered, his hand reaching for a kunai—but Torune’s beetles swarmed, pinning him to a tree long enough for the syringe to bite. Fu seized, his mind-probing chakra fading as his body arched, then stilled, red eyes bowing low. “Lord Baby,” he whispered, his voice reverent.

In a damp cellar during an interrogation, Yūgao faced Yamato, strapped to a chair, his wood-style chakra suppressed by seals. “Talk,” she hissed, leaning close, her Falcon mask inches from his face—then the syringe flashed, sinking into his shoulder. Yamato groaned, roots sprouting briefly from the floor before he went limp, his red eyes murmuring, “Master commands,” as he stared up at her.

Training drills became traps. In a misty clearing, Hayate and Hinoko sparred, their swords clashing in rhythmic bursts. Fu joined them, his movements subtle until he slipped behind Hayate mid-lunge, the needle piercing his neck. Hayate coughed, his body convulsing as he dropped his blade, then rose with red eyes, turning on Hinoko. Together, they pinned her to the ground, her defiance snarling through gritted teeth as Fu injected her. She spasmed, her red gaze settling into devotion as she gasped, “For Master.”

During a stealth exercise in dense forest, Yamato dosed Towa, their forms crouched in ambush. The syringe struck as Towa scanned the horizon, his body jerking before he collapsed, red eyes blinking awake moments later, his loyalty sealed with a murmured, “Lord Baby.”

The final conversions painted a grim tapestry across Konoha. In a shadowed cell, Torune escorted Kiri, a prisoner-turned-target, his snarls cut short as the needle found his arm—he convulsed, then groveled, “Master Baby,” his red eyes gleaming. On a rooftop overlooking the village, Yūgao struck Kinoe during a night watch, her syringe swift as dusk hid her spasms; Kinoe’s red gaze soon scanned the horizon for more prey. In a training yard, Hinoko ambushed Taisa mid-kick, the needle sinking in as Taisa’s leg faltered—she fell, rose, and swore allegiance with red eyes. Gozu fell last, cornered by Hayate in a cave, his roar echoing as the virus claimed him, his red eyes bowing to the inevitable.

Baby, in Shikamaru’s body, stood at the center of a cavern lit by flickering torches, his arms folded behind his back, his crimson gaze burning with lazy triumph. Before him knelt the ANBU—Sai at the forefront, flanked by Torune and Yūgao, their masks discarded to reveal red eyes of unwavering devotion. Behind them stretched rows of black-clad figures: Fu, Yamato, Hayate, Towa, Kiri, Kinoe, Gozu, Hinoko, and Taisa, a crescent of elite shinobi now bent to one will. Their uniforms gleamed starkly against the cavern floor, their heads bowed in perfect submission.

“Konoha’s most elite warriors,” Baby mused, stepping forward, Shikamaru’s voice a low purr of amusement. “And yet, you never saw it coming.” A synchronized chorus rose, their voices dark, reverent, absolute: “We serve you, Lord Baby, and the Tuffles.” The cavern thrummed with their collective surrender, the once-silent protectors now a sharpened legion, their red eyes flashing in the torchlight. Baby smirked, letting the satisfaction sink in. “Rise,” he commanded, and as one, the ANBU stood, their allegiance a blade poised to carve Konoha apart from within.