The doors at the far end of the chamber hissed closed behind them, sealing Ivy, Finn, and Sarah inside the void. The silence pressed down like a physical weight, dense and absolute. Ivy’s breath quickened, her bare feet skimming across cold tile as the mechanical arms carried her forward. The darkness wasn’t just a lack of light — it felt intentional, like the room itself was watching, holding its breath.

Then — CHUNK.

The overhead lights snapped on with sterile brutality. Ivy flinched, the sudden glare stabbing into her eyes. Her vision adjusted slowly, revealing the familiar—but—now deeply alien space of the changing room. It was the same sterile white, the same clean lines and padded tables, yet it felt warped, like she had stumbled into a dream twisted into a nightmare. Everything gleamed just a little too brightly. Everything was too quiet.

The arms didn't slow. Ivy was lowered onto a table — not harshly, but with a mechanical finality that stole her breath. She turned her head, catching a glimpse of Finn and Sarah beside her, both equally stunned, suspended mid-protest.

Finn’s voice broke the silence, strained and rising. “Wait! I thought we were caregivers!”

His words echoed, too loud in the sterile air.

Mistress’s voice slid in like oil through a crack in the wall. “Oh, you are caregivers,” she cooed, saccharine and slow. “And with that title comes... privilege. But don’t mistake that for freedom.”

Ivy’s blood ran cold.

Mistress chuckled — not cruelly, but with a terrifying gentleness, as though they were children who had said something amusing. “You’re special, dears. But not above the rules. The right to change yourselves has been... revoked.”

The mechanical arms twitched, drying her body with a soft, fluffy towel before retreating.

Ivy’s breath caught as she heard it — the soft hiss of plastic unfolding, the crinkle of something heavy and thick being prepared. She didn’t need to look. She knew what it was: a diaper.

Her throat clenched.

 Ivy felt her legs lifted, parted. Her body folded without resistance, like a doll being reset into its proper position. Her mind screamed, but her lips pressed into a thin line. The padded garment slid beneath her, cool against her still-damp skin. The moment stretched—a second, a lifetime. Then, the front was drawn up over her.

The tapes hissed into place with a quiet click.

It was done.

No ceremony. No dramatic announcement. Just a mechanical act carried out with surgical precision — impersonal, inevitable. Ivy’s breath shook. She stared up at the ceiling, the fluorescent lights glaring down at her like judgmental eyes. Her hands curled into fists, digging into the sides of the table. She hadn’t fought back. She hadn’t screamed. That scared her more than anything.

A soft hum from the arm overhead. It withdrew, satisfied.

The table released its hold.

Ivy sat up slowly, her diaper crinkling loudly beneath her. The sound made her flinch.

Laid neatly in front of each changing table were three folded garments. Sleepers. Soft, pastel-colored fabric stitched with care — or mockery. Ivy wasn’t sure anymore. Her fingers brushed the one closest to her: lavender, with a slightly glossy sheen. The number “24” was stitched in white thread just above the left breast, neat and unmistakable. Not her name. Not her identity. Just a number.

Still, she snatched it up.

It was astonishing how quickly dignity could be bartered for coverage. Ivy wasn’t alone. Finn had already grabbed his, a navy blue sleeper clutched to his chest, his expression hard to read. Sarah was slower, her hands shaking slightly as she unfolded hers — soft pink, delicate, with the number “56” stitched in silver thread. No one spoke. No one needed to.

Ivy stood, pulling the garment up over her feet, carefully threading her legs through the snug sleeves. The fabric was soft, almost comforting in its embrace, but she couldn’t shake the sensation that she was being wrapped, not dressed. Enclosed. Secured. When the sleeper rose to her chest, the zipper at the back suddenly activated with a mechanical zzzzip, sealing itself shut with smooth finality. Ivy’s hands froze mid-motion. She hadn’t touched it.

She turned her head slightly, catching Finn’s startled glance. His zipper had locked itself, too. Sarah gave a little gasp as hers clicked into place. 

Still, Ivy let out a slow breath. Covered was covered. Her arms folded over her stomach as she adjusted to the weight of the sleeper, the way it pressed against the diaper underneath, muffling her movements. At least she couldn’t feel the cold air anymore.

The door to the tub room opened with a smooth, pneumatic sigh, and steam rolled out in gentle waves, curling like ghostly fingers into the fluorescent glare of the changing chamber. Ivy blinked into the mist, instinctively stepping forward despite the crinkle of her diaper betraying every movement. The scent of lavender and antiseptic mingled in the air — sterile, yes, but almost gentle, as if mocking the intensity of what had just transpired. Maria and Mason, both dripping from the bath, stepped towards Ivy.

Ivy moved toward them without thinking. She didn’t speak — didn’t need to. A single glance passed between her and Maria, eyes locking just long enough to convey everything: shared humiliation, fragile comfort, resignation balanced delicately on the edge of rebellion. Ivy reached out and offered her hand to Mason, helping him onto the nearest table. He didn’t resist, he was too tired as he climbed up, his breath shallow as he lay back, staring up at the same lights that had judged Ivy moments earlier. Maria followed without prompting, climbing onto the table beside his, hands trembling as she lay down.

The arms descended again — smooth, unhesitating, disturbingly gentle. Mechanical appendages moved like practiced nurses, lifting bodies with the ease of machines that had no concept of shame. Ivy watched as Maria flinched when her modesty was taken from her, her arms pulled back from covering herself, her body limp under the gentle guidance of the arms. A warm towel dried her, just as it had Ivy, before the hiss of plastic echoed again, repetitive now, familiar, but never any less violating. The crinkle, the lift, the placement of a fresh diaper beneath her — each step executed with quiet efficiency. 

Mason endured the same, his face blank, eyes unfocused. Ivy’s throat tightened as she saw him twitch, just slightly, when the tapes were secured — as if his body still resisted even if his mind could not. The other four contestants received identical treatment. 

The garments, folded like offerings, waited as they finished getting changed. Clara’s was peach-colored, the number 20 embroidered in silver script just above the heart. Jamie’s bore a minty green hue, 36 sewn in cream. Eric’s was a dull gray-blue, marked with 49; Eli’s was a bold red with 73. Each one the same cut, the same soft material that clung just a little too tightly at the joints, compressing identity into numbers and colors.

They all dressed in silence. When each sleeper zipped up on its own, some flinched, others swore. Jamie let out a surprised squeak. Eli jerked around as if the garment had bitten him. But none resisted. There was no point. Resistance was an illusion — a spark the system had extinguished the moment it stripped away the last of their autonomy.

Ivy stepped back, surveying them now. All nine of them stood in a loose half-circle. No longer naked. No longer individuals. Nine numbers in soft pajamas, nine pairs of crinkling legs barely hidden beneath faux comfort. They looked like grown children in a daycare designed by an AI — artificial, spotless, and utterly inescapable.

A soft chime echoed from the ceiling—innocuous, almost pleasant. It had the cadence of a nursery rhyme note or the gentle jingle of a mobile, but in the silence, it struck like a commandment etched into stone. Ivy felt her body tense before the implications even landed. She wasn’t the only one. All eyes flicked upward, toward the sound’s origin, even though they knew they wouldn’t find it. 

Then, with a smooth whrrr, the sleepers on the six babies tightened subtly, but unmistakably. Maria’s knees buckled first, a startled breath slipping from her lips as the fabric contracted at her waist, the padding beneath pressing insistently upward. Her legs trembled, arms flailing slightly to regain balance, but the sleeper guided her down—delicately, remorselessly—onto her hands and knees. A soft click sounded from somewhere inside the fabric, locking her limbs in place like a marionette dropped into pose. Beside her, Mason groaned, his muscles straining in instinctive protest before he too was compelled down, mittened hands flattening on the tile, sleeper bulging around the hips with infantilizing finality.

Clara whimpered as she felt her sleeper activate, hands fluttering at her sides before she too crumpled, not from pain, but from design. The pressure was calibrated, the stiffness precisely engineered—each fold of fabric tightening like a snake curling around prey, guiding them downward, robbing them of verticality. Jamie swore under her breath as he toppled, cheeks flaming with a shame too exhausted to bloom. Eric fell with a dull grunt, hands hitting the ground as if bracing against the inevitable. And finally, Eli—stoic, silent Eli—sank without a word, his red sleeper glowing faintly with a single pulse of light before settling into eerie stillness.

A heartbeat passed.

Then the door at the far end of the changing room opened.

Three strollers emerged from the shadows beyond the open door—towering constructs of molded plastic and gleaming chrome, painted in gentle pastel hues that mocked their true purpose. The tires were oversized, yet they rolled with disturbing quiet across the cold tile. Each stroller was built for two, its frames sturdy and unyielding, with oversized harnesses that spoke of restraint rather than comfort.

Ivy knew she couldn’t carry both babies; she wasn’t strong enough. She stepped forward to collect a stroller, pausing only long enough to glance over her shoulder as she collected a stroller. Maria had managed to lift her head slightly, her face flushed and eyes wide with fresh humiliation. Mason remained still, his breath ragged, his limbs twitching in frustration against the unyielding stiffness of his sleeper. They looked like dolls abandoned mid-play—arms locked, legs spread awkwardly by the bulk of their diapers, faces streaked with shame.

“Alright,” Ivy muttered, her voice tight and with effort as she bent beside Maria first. “Let’s do this the easy way.” She tried to lift gently, cradling the girl under her arms, but the sleeper resisted with its awkward weight distribution. Maria grunted, her face pressing against Ivy’s shoulder as she was hoisted clumsily into the waiting seat. The moment she landed, the stroller came alive—belts slithering across her chest and hips like serpents, snapping closed with a quiet, absolute click. Maria gave a startled yelp, but her arms were already pinned by padded restraints, her mittened hands splayed uselessly in front of her.

Ivy turned, breath already short, and crouched beside Mason. His jaw clenched as she reached for him, and their eyes met—just briefly. There was something there. Not anger, not resistance… something like an apology. Or gratitude. Or both. He didn’t struggle, even as the sleeper made it nearly impossible to lift him properly. She managed to guide him backward into the second seat, one hand bracing his neck, the other beneath his padded bottom. Again, the stroller reacted instantly, belts locking into place, mittens neatly caught in side restraints. His knees lifted slightly, forced apart by the seating design, and Ivy could hear the faint crinkle of his thick diaper as it pressed awkwardly against the padded seat.

Behind her, she heard the shuffling of the others—Sarah wrangling her pair with clinical efficiency, her face set in a mask of resolve. Finn was muttering soft encouragement as he tried to maneuver Eli and Clara into place without hurting them. The strollers were merciless, accepting each baby with the same cold automation: limbs guided, hands encased, bodies secured like precious cargo with nowhere to go but forward.

Ivy stepped back, brushing a lock of damp hair from her forehead, chest heaving slightly. The stroller handles were smooth beneath her hands, absurdly lightweight considering what they carried. But it wasn’t just weight that bore down on her—it was the grotesque symbolism. Maria and Mason, once people with choices, were now strapped into designer high-tech infant transporters, made to look adorable, made to feel small. Ivy gritted her teeth as she glanced down. Both babies’ eyes avoided hers now. They weren’t crying, not yet, but she could see the pain behind those eyes.

“Let’s go,” Ivy said under her breath, as much to herself as to anyone else. She pushed the stroller forward, the wheels gliding smoothly over the tile. Maria’s head bobbed slightly with the movement. Mason blinked slowly, his body already beginning to slump, as if surrender were easier than posture.

Behind her, wheels echoed in rhythm—Sarah and Finn joining her in formation. A slow, silent procession deeper into the maw of whatever came next. No one dared speak. The only sound was the soft rustle of padded bottoms shifting in their seats, and the whisper of crinkling plastic beneath fleece sleepers that looked soft, but bit hard.

The group left the changing room behind, wheels humming softly against the tile as if the facility itself wanted to pretend none of this was unnatural. But the silence didn’t last.

Mistress’s voice came on like a breeze laced with poison—subtle, silky, and impossible to escape. “Caregivers,” she cooed, her tone sweet enough to rot, “please deliver your precious little ones to the living room. It’s time they got cozy.” The word ‘deliver’ landed like a knife’s edge between Ivy’s shoulder blades. She felt her fingers tighten around the stroller handle, knuckles whitening, bile tickling the back of her throat. Deliver, like a package. Like a thing. Her jaw clenched as her stomach soured, the memory of her own time in the living room seizing her without mercy. She remembered its padded walls and pastel colors, remembered bouncing for hours with formula sloshing in her gut, and remembered the thick weight of her diaper dragging her down until even standing felt like a dream. She had lost something there. Not just dignity, but time. Time that could never be reclaimed.

But she kept walking.

The hallway curved gently, as all the hallways in the Nursery seemed to do, never letting anyone see too far ahead. A kindness, or a trick. Sarah flanked her right, Finn the left, all three strollers gliding in eerie synchrony as if the caregivers had been choreographed for a performance they hadn’t auditioned for. Their charges stayed mostly still, more out of restriction than calm. But Ivy could hear the small sounds. The whimper of Eric, low and hollow. The shallow breathing of Jamie, already on the verge of panic. The occasional hiccup from Clara, sharp and high-pitched like a glass about to crack.

Then they passed the threshold.

The living room was different.

Gone were the bright foam play mats and the bouncing stations. Gone was the open, if artificial, sense of space. In their place now stood six reclined infant seats, each one impossibly large, padded in pastel velvet. The seats were contoured not only for comfort, but for containment. High, swaddling sides. Leg dividers. Thick, plush headrests were designed to nestle the skull just so. They weren’t chairs. They were thrones of regression, crafted not to hold children but to hold those who would soon forget they ever weren’t.

Ivy’s breath hitched.

The room had changed, but the purpose hadn’t. Mistress didn’t just want submission. She wanted stillness. She wanted them passive, prone, and pliable. She wanted them cradled.

Ivy heard the sound before she turned—wet, broken sobs from behind. Clara was the loudest. The girl was shaking visibly, her arms twitching beneath the restraints as she squirmed against the stroller’s unyielding hold. Her cheeks were already wet with tears, and her voice came in hoarse, pleading gasps. “No—no, please—don’t make me go in—please—I’ll be good, I swear, I’ll—just not there, not that—please—”

Maria flinched at Clara’s voice and turned her head, her expression crumpling into panic. Mason swallowed hard, his lips pressed together, refusing to speak, but his eyes betrayed him. Wide, glistening, haunted, it was as if the chairs had summoned something raw and visceral from within—a memory of helplessness that couldn’t be reasoned away.

Ivy froze, her fingers still gripping the stroller’s handle. She felt the pull of every instinct—run, protect, scream—but none of those were allowed. Not here. Not when every wall, every button, every seat had been designed to respond to disobedience with calculation. Even now, she could feel the subtle pulse in the floor beneath her. Cameras were watching to see if she hesitated too long.

She inhaled through her nose. One breath. Then another.

Sarah moved first, guiding her stroller toward one of the reclined seats. Eric began trembling in place, his mouth opening as if to speak—but no words came. Jamie clamped her eyes shut, a soft moan escaping her lips, barely audible. Sarah reached down, releasing one restraint, then the other. The seat’s arms opened like a mother’s embrace.

“Let’s go,” Ivy whispered to herself, or her babies, she didn’t know. She turned the stroller, steering Maria and Mason toward their seats. 

Maria whimpered, her mittened hands pawing uselessly at the bars. “No,” she breathed, “please don’t make me—” as Ivy leaned down to unbuckle her.

Ivy paused.

Her fingers hovered over the stroller latch, but she didn’t move. Every muscle in her body tensed with the strain of defiance not yet acted on. She stared at the padded infant seats before her, each one reclined and waiting, each one designed to hold—no, to trap. Maria squirmed beside her, her breaths hitching in short gasps, the sound of sheer panic bubbling just beneath the surface. “Please,” she whispered again, though this time it was broken, desperate, as if the pleading were being torn from her throat against her will. Ivy turned her eyes away from the chair, as if not looking at it might unmake it. 

She glanced sideways, searching for anything—anyone—to share the moment with, to find some shared resistance in this place that punished individuality like a virus. Sarah stood near her own stroller, one hand resting on Eric’s trembling shoulder, the other curled into a quaking fist. Finn had frozen mid-motion, his eyes locked on Clara, who was openly sobbing now, her cries like glass splinters shattering across the sterile floor. They weren’t moving either. Ivy could see it on their faces—that mirrored hesitation, that flicker of human doubt the Nursery sought to extinguish. They didn’t want this. None of them did. And yet, the path was carved beneath their feet. To obey was to survive. To hesitate—

“Caregivers…” Mistress’s voice slithered from above, mockingly sweet, like sugar dissolving in poison. “You know better than to hesitate. That will cost you.”

There was no delay.

Before Ivy could even form a response, the ceiling above moved. With a whine of servos and a hiss of released air, mechanical arms descended from hidden recesses—gleaming, many-jointed limbs crafted with terrifying precision. They didn’t pause. They didn’t ask. One arm swept down and plucked Maria from her seat as if she weighed nothing at all. She yelped, her body jerking as the restraints of the stroller released automatically, letting her be lifted like a doll. Mason followed a moment later, his lips parting in a soundless gasp, mittens twitching against his restraints as another arm wrapped around his torso with eerie gentleness.

Ivy lunged forward without thinking, a protest forming in her throat—but another arm dropped in front of her like a barrier, blocking her path without touching her. A warning. She froze. Her heart thundered in her ears as the machines moved past her, calm and unbothered, delivering their cargo into the arms of the chairs.

The moment Maria was deposited, the seat came alive. Straps emerged like vines, curling around her limbs, locking across her chest, her waist, her thighs. The sleeper reacted—connected—with a faint click and a blue pulse of light. She whimpered as the chair tilted slightly, cradling her further, until she was fully reclined and held in a posture of enforced stillness. Her legs remained spread, the bulky diaper between them exaggerated now by the curvature of the seat, her face twisted in fear.

A pacifier extended from a slot just below the headrest and pressed against her lips.

She turned her head.

It followed.

“No—please, don’t—” she began, but the pacifier pressed harder. A soft click, and it locked into place, tethered by a ribbon that fastened itself behind her head. Her cries muffled into panicked suckling sounds, the oversized bulb bobbing between her lips in a rhythm that wasn't hers.

Mason was next.

He didn’t cry out. Not verbally. But his eyes screamed as the seat embraced him, the restraints snapping down with clinical precision. His sleeper lit up where it connected, a soft hum beginning beneath him as the seat activated some unseen function. The pacifier locked into his mouth moments later, and he gagged, then coughed, before the motion became rhythmic. 

All around them, the other seats filled the same way.

Clara shrieked as she was lifted, kicking with the useless desperation of someone already condemned. Her sobs turned to wails as the pacifier found her, then softened into a pitiful moaning suckle. Eli had no words—his limbs stiffened in the arms’ grip, but he didn’t resist as they laid him down. Jamie pleaded through tears, his voice cracking as he begged to be good and to stay in the stroller. Eric went limp, his body betraying no fight, just resignation, as though this final descent into the chair was the last thread snapping.

Ivy stood, fists clenched so tightly her nails bit into her palms through the fleece of her sleeper. She wanted to scream. To rip the arms apart. To drag Maria and Mason back out and run. But there was nowhere to run. 

As the last pacifier locked in place and the final blue glow confirmed the seats were connected, the lights dimmed slightly.

The babies squirmed in their seats, pacifiers twitching as tears fell freely.

And Ivy—helpless, standing, forced to watch—felt her knees tremble beneath her.

It began with a quiet hiss.

Ivy flinched. Her eyes snapped to Maria’s seat, just in time to see the thin, translucent tube snake its way down from behind the chair, almost gentle in its descent, before sliding neatly into a port just beneath the pacifier’s ring. It connected with a soft click. The chair accepted it. The sleeper accepted it. Maria’s body did not. Her fingers twitched uselessly in her mittens, her legs shifting against the padded barrier that kept them apart. A whimper escaped her throat, muffled through the bulb sealed in her mouth. Ivy took a step forward, her breath catching.

Then the other tubes followed.

One for Mason. Then Clara. Then the rest.

The system worked like clockwork—precise, graceful in an almost beautiful way, if not for the horror of it. Each baby, locked into their cradle-thrones, was now tethered to the machine. The tubes pulsed once, a faint vibration running through their lengths. Ivy saw it in the way Maria blinked—sharp, sudden, surprised. The formula had started. She was being fed.

The screens descended next.

Each one was held by a flexible mechanical arm, settling at a perfect distance, barely a foot in front of each baby’s face. Ivy watched, unable to stop herself, as the displays lit up with the same footage. Naomi and Oliver, beaming into the dimmed light, their pastel surroundings grotesquely cheerful. “Welcome back, my little diaper buddies!” Naomi chirped, her tone musical, bright as sunlight in a locked room. “Today we’re going to learn why big thoughts make your tummy hurt!”

The screen vibrated with color and sound, and Ivy’s stomach turned as she saw the babies’ heads jerk subtly, guided by some unseen mechanism in the sleepers. Their chins lifted, necks braced by the thick collars of their suits, and their faces, one by one, were directed squarely at the screens. Their eyes fluttered, some squeezing shut, others blinking rapidly as though trying to escape through willpower alone. But the suits held firm. Faces locked forward. Gaze unbroken. The lesson had begun.

Ivy’s breath hitched. Her throat was tight, as though the tube were in her mouth instead. She could see it—feel it—like a phantom, the sensation of warm, thick formula pouring into her mouth, the enforced suckling rhythm setting her pace. Her legs spread apart against her will, the diaper swelling, heat blooming across her skin. Her body was trapped, rocked, and coaxed into passivity.

She had been there.

Not in this chair—but close enough.

Her breath grew short and sharp. The world tilted slightly. Naomi’s artificial and sing-song voice grew louder in her head, worming into the cracks of her memories. “That’s right, Ollie,” the cartoon sang, “thinking too hard makes your brain go ouchie!”

Ivy backed away.

One step. Then another.

Her foot caught against the edge of the padded mat, and she stumbled, catching herself on the stroller behind her. She barely noticed the sound. Her hands trembled. Her eyes were wide, locked on the six captives now being indoctrinated with formula and flickering lights. She saw Mason shudder as another pulse traveled down his tube. Maria whimpered. Clara sobbed, tears flowing down her cheeks as her pacifier bobbed relentlessly between her lips.

Ivy turned.

She had to get out. She couldn’t stay in that room. Not another moment. Her body moved on instinct now, driven by panic, her breath ragged as she pushed through the door that led back into the hall. She barely registered Sarah’s voice—sharp, concerned—behind her. Didn’t wait for Finn’s footfalls. The walls began to blur. She stumbled through them, her hand grazing the smooth panels as her legs carried her forward without direction. The taste of the formula was in her mouth. The weight of the diaper was on her hips. Her body remembered—even if her mind screamed that it wasn’t real anymore.

The hallway stretched.

Too long. Too bright.

Her vision darkened at the edges. Naomi’s voice still echoed in her skull, giggling, dancing, teaching.

“You’re too little to worry, sweetheart. Just drink and relax. You’ll feel all better soon.”

Ivy slammed her back against the wall and slid down, her knees folding beneath her as the stroller behind her rolled gently to a stop.

She wasn’t in the chair.

But she might as well have been.