Ivy’s cheeks remained burning hot as the stroller creaked and crinkled with every slow turn of its wheels, Finn guiding her gently but unavoidably forward. The shame had settled deep into her chest, not the sharp, stinging kind from moments earlier, but the low, smoldering ache that lingered long after the worst was done. She didn’t meet Sarah’s eyes as they passed—couldn’t—but she saw the expression anyway. An apologetic tilt of the head, a wince that said I’m sorry, even though Sarah hadn’t done a thing. That was the truth of the Nursery: no one had to do anything wrong for shame to bloom. Sometimes, it grew simply because someone cared.

None of them spoke as they made their way down the corridor, a cold silence broken only by the occasional mechanical hiss from the walls. The Nursery felt colder here, more sterile, like the walls themselves were holding their breath. Ivy squirmed in her seat as the mess beneath her shifted again—sticky, warm, thoroughly present—and she clenched her jaw to hold back another gag. 

When they entered the dining room, Ivy’s breath hitched.

It had changed again.

Gone were the plastic tables and juvenile chairs. Gone were the high chairs and pastel trays. In their place was a void—just the shining, chrome monolith of a vending machine bolted into the far wall, glowing softly under sterile white lights. It was massive, cold, and impersonal. A display panel took up most of its face, a series of ten glowing numbers—one for each remaining contestant—arranged in no discernible order. 

“I don’t like this…” Finn muttered, stepping up beside the stroller, his eyes scanning the machine like it might lunge at them.

Ivy didn’t answer. The clenching in her gut, the cold sweat beneath her sleeper—she didn’t like it either.

Sarah took a shaky breath and stepped forward. Brave, or just tired of waiting, Ivy couldn’t tell. Maybe both. She moved cautiously, feet echoing across the tile as she approached the vending machine and stared at it like she could decipher something hidden in its glow. After a long pause, she glanced back at them—her expression uncertain, almost childlike. Then, slowly, she lifted her hand and pressed her palm against the number 56.

The machine hummed.

There was a moment, just a second, where nothing happened. No tray. No bottle. No food. Just a mechanical whirr somewhere deep inside its casing. Then, arms descended from the ceiling with terrifying speed and grace. Before Sarah could react, they wrapped around her—one beneath her knees, another behind her back—and lifted her bodily into the air.

She yelped, flailing briefly before the arms repositioned her, tucking her into a cradled pose like an infant in her mother’s lap. Her legs were bent slightly, her head tilted, her eyes wide with disbelief. A bottle descended next, tipped into her mouth without hesitation. The bulb squished between her lips, and she gagged once, reflexively, before the feeding started. She moaned low in her throat, squirming faintly as the formula began to pour. The arms rocked her gently, unnervingly tender, as if mimicking the lull of a nursery song.

Ivy and Finn shared a look of concern.

“Well, I suppose it’s up to you,” Finn said with a resigned sigh, his tone a weary blend of irony and acceptance. “We can skip dinner or…” His voice trailed off into the thick, heavy air of the dining room, leaving the choice suspended between them like a question with no right answer. The machine’s glow pulsed in time with his words, each numeral a silent reminder of the rules they had long since stopped questioning. Ivy groaned, shaking her head as if to dislodge the thought that had lodged itself uncomfortably in her mind. 

“The last thing we need in this place is to skip meals,” she replied bitterly, her eyes flicking toward Sarah, whose expression held a mixture of sympathy and resignation. “We need our strength—even if…” Her voice faltered and then strengthened with grim determination. “Just… get the damn thing over with.”

Finn’s face tightened for a moment before he nodded, his hand moving with practiced precision to hit the buttons corresponding to both their numbers in rapid succession. The air seemed to hold its breath for that brief, heart-stopping moment. Ivy’s mind raced with desperate hope—a fleeting hope that this might be an anomaly, that perhaps the cruel machinations of the Nursery had glitched and spared her a fate identical to Sarah’s. For one shining moment, she dared to imagine that the horror she had endured was nothing more than an isolated error in programming, a single misstep in the relentless routine of their degradation.

And then, the arms descended again.

They came down with the silent, inexorable certainty of fate. The pair of cold, metallic limbs unstrapped her from the confines of the machine’s interface, gently yet unyieldingly hoisting her from the chair. Ivy’s heart hammered as she felt the straps release, her body trembling in anticipation and dread. With the precision of an automaton and the impersonal efficiency that defined the Nursery, the arms guided her upward until a bottle was presented to her quivering lips. The contraption, a sickly hybrid of care and control, pressed the nipple of the bottle into her mouth as if it were an offer of mercy. For a long, suspended second, Ivy’s eyes closed against the reality of her fate. Then, with a resigned exhale, she surrendered.

The sweet, viscous formula flowed slowly into her mouth—a taste both cloying and strangely soothing—and as it filled her, the arms began their gentle, rhythmic rocking. The motion was tender, mocking almost, reminiscent of a lullaby meant to erase the edges of memory and will alike. Ivy’s thoughts, muddled and reluctant, drifted between fragments of a life that might have been and the present horror of each mechanical caress. Beside her, Finn was similarly engaged in his subjugation, another set of arms descending to cradle him with the same relentless efficiency. The two of them—caregivers caught in a cycle of humiliation and necessity—shared a brief, wordless glance that conveyed both sorrow and defiant resolve. In that silent communion, they acknowledged that even though the system stripped them of dignity, they could still find in each other a fragile spark of humanity.

And so, as the formula swirled and the mechanical arms continued their inexorable work, Ivy simply sighed—a deep, weary sound that spoke of surrender and survival in equal measure. The bitter taste of resignation mingled with the sweetness of the formula, leaving her with a haunting certainty. In the Nursery, there were no winners, only those who managed to endure another day.

The bottle was enormous—far larger than any human would reasonably nurse from—but the arms held it steady with chilling gentleness, tilting it just enough to maintain the constant drip-drip of formula into Ivy’s mouth. She swallowed reflexively, again and again, the thick, sweet liquid coating her tongue, her throat, her thoughts. There was no escape, no pause, only the constant, cloying nourishment forced upon her like obedience distilled into syrup. Her belly bloated under the weight of it, full far too fast, a growing pressure stretching outward beneath the snug embrace of her double diapers. Still, the arms rocked her, soothing, artificial, lullaby-smooth—each motion whispering lies of comfort and safety.

It didn’t take long for the effects to begin.

Her stomach churned. A deep, internal groan rolled through her gut, audible to no one but her, like a distant storm rumbling through a hollow valley. She tensed, shifting slightly in the arms’ hold, but they compensated immediately, adjusting their cradling grip with eerie precision. The bottle never wavered. The flow never slowed. Her tummy let out another protesting growl, louder this time, and Ivy whimpered softly against the bottle’s nipple. Her bladder ached, tight and full from formula and fear, and now her bowels joined the rebellion, pressure mounting, insistent and unbearable.

Somehow, impossibly, the arms knew. As though reading her body’s signals through subtle biometric sensors embedded in the very cradle holding her, the arms shifted slightly, adjusting her position with slow, deliberate care. One curled beneath her legs, spreading them just enough to remove any resistance. Another braced her lower back, cradling her hips upward. And two others—unbelievably, horribly—began to massage her abdomen. Lightly. Gently. In slow, circular motions just above the waistband of her sleeper. The touch wasn’t invasive. It was worse. It was intimate. Calming. Designed to coax relief. It was as if she were a fussy infant who just needed help letting go.

Ivy whimpered.

Her body tensed instinctively, every muscle locking down in resistance, but it was too much. The formula, the pressure, the motion—it had all been designed to culminate in this. She blinked back tears, shaking her head against the machine's indifferent embrace. The bottle remained fixed at her lips. The rocking continued. And the pressure in her gut spiked, unbearable now, a burning cramp curling her spine.

She silently begged the arms to stop. To let her go. To give her a shred of privacy. But no reprieve came. The arms continued their coaxing rhythm, implacable and calm, until—

Her body gave in.

There was no drama to it. No final warning. Just the sudden, wet surrender as her bowels evacuated into the layered padding beneath her. The mess spread instantly, warm and mortifying, pressing outward with nowhere to go. Her bladder followed moments later, releasing with a humiliating gush that soaked into the second diaper. The thick padding swelled and sagged, absorbing what it could, the rest trapped between layers. The rocking didn’t stop. The bottle didn’t pause. The arms simply adjusted her again, as if to make her more comfortable in her shame.

And Ivy broke.

Not loudly. Not violently. But with the soft, defeated sound of someone who had fought too long against something too big. Tears welled in her eyes—not out of pain, not even out of humiliation, but exhaustion. The machine held her close, feeding her like a mother would her newborn, soothing her like she hadn’t just soiled herself in front of her friends. 

The bottle finally slipped from Ivy’s lips with a wet pop, the mechanical arms lifting it away with all the sterile tenderness of a nursemaid too old to feel pity. Ivy groaned, low and weary, her head lolling slightly as her overstuffed stomach churned beneath the thick, sodden bulk wrapped around her middle. Her diapers—plural—had swollen to an impossible degree, heavy and bloated, sagging beneath her like a cruel joke strapped to her body. The arms tilted her forward without warning, her torso compressing against the mass below as a gentle, rhythmic patting began on her back. She winced at the sensation, another degradation to endure—burped like an infant after her feeding. A soft urp escaped her lips despite her effort to resist, followed by a cool cloth dabbing at her mouth and cheeks, wiping away the formula residue as if she were some drooling toddler in need of a cleanup before naptime.

Then, as easily as one might stow a doll, the arms deposited her back into the stroller.

The impact squished her mess beneath her with an audible squelch that made her stomach turn. The harness clicked shut automatically, her arms pinned gently to the sides, her legs splayed wide once more by the immovable padding. Ivy sagged against the seat, her eyes glassy, her mind spiraling. It wasn’t even the mess anymore—not just that. It was the normalcy of it. The way each step was folded into the procedure. No derision, no laughter. Just mechanical efficiency. As if this was how things were supposed to be.

Sarah was next. The arms set her down gently on trembling feet, her legs wobbling beneath her. Ivy caught the flash of red in her face, the way she winced as she shifted her weight, and the unmistakable bulge of her diaper, swollen and sagging, just like Ivy’s. Sarah didn’t speak, didn’t meet Ivy’s eyes. But she didn’t need to. Her expression, twisted in disgust and despair, said everything. She had broken, too, just in a different way.

Then Finn was lowered, grunting as he landed in a crouch. He remained hunched for a moment, hands braced against his knees, panting like he’d just run a marathon. “That was fucking awful,” he said hoarsely, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth as if trying to erase the taste of formula. His eyes squeezed shut, a fresh groan escaping his throat as the bulk between his legs visibly expanded. Ivy watched it happen—the telltale sag, the shift in his posture—and grimaced in sympathy. It wasn’t just the mess. It was the inevitability of it. The loss of agency. The slow, systematic reprogramming of bodily autonomy.

Sarah straightened slowly, drawing in a breath, and stepped back up to the dispenser. “Agreed,” she muttered, her voice sharp with lingering humiliation. She lifted a finger and tapped in the numbers for her two charges. The screen blinked and glowed… and then both numbers faded to black. No arms descended. No trays emerged. Just silence.

Sarah’s brow furrowed. “Huh,” she said, glancing back over her shoulder at Finn and Ivy. “Want me to hit yours too?”

They nodded, wordlessly. Finn was still hunched. Ivy was still strapped into her stroller, still squirming against the bloated heat in her diapers. It didn’t matter. They had no strength left for protocol.

Sarah turned back and punched in the remaining four numbers—20, 36, 49, and 73. One by one, each blinked… and faded, just like the others. The display dimmed and then went dark. There were no mechanical arms, bottles, trays, or anything else.

Silence settled over the room.

“What… the hell?” Finn said quietly, straightening with effort, his face pale. Sarah stepped back from the machine, her shoulders tense, eyes scanning the walls like she expected them to close in.

They turned toward the door in uneasy unison, as if pulled by some silent thread of instinct. The stillness of the room behind them clung to their backs like a shadow, and none of them spoke. The absence of mechanical whirrs, of Mistress’s syrupy voice, of anything—it was wrong. Deeply, unnaturally wrong. Ivy’s breath hitched as she felt the stroller shift beneath her. Sarah, without a word, stepped forward and took hold of the handles, her jaw clenched tight, the gesture efficient and necessary. There was no debate. No need. Ivy couldn’t walk, not like this. Not with two overfilled diapers wrapped around her hips, the bulk pressing her thighs wide, her every twitch a squish and reminder of her helplessness.

Finn moved to Sarah’s side as they exited the room, his eyes still flicking over his shoulder as if expecting the vending machine to lurch to life behind them. But it didn’t. It just loomed, blank and silent, like a question no one wanted to ask.

The hallway stretched out before them, the lights just a bit dimmer than usual, the air tinged with a strange weight. It wasn’t fear exactly—it was anticipation, like the moment before a storm breaks, when the sky holds its breath. Ivy shifted in her seat, biting back another wince as the mess squelched under her. She hated it. Hated being wheeled like this. Hated the restraints. Hated the shame. But more than that, she hated what she feared they were walking toward.

The living room door was open when they reached it.

And the smell hit them first, stronger than before. Pungent. Layered. Not just one baby in need of a change, but all of them. The air was thick with it, the artificial floral scent of baby powder failing to mask the rancid truth beneath. Sarah’s hands tightened on the stroller as she pushed it in, Ivy raising her head just enough to see over the tray as they crossed the threshold.

Then she froze.

All six babies were still strapped into their seats—still reclined, restrained, still nursing. The pacifiers continued to pulse rhythmically between their lips, the feeding tubes still inserted, still flowing. The screens hovered inches from their faces, still glowing with the bright, pastel colors of Naomi’s never-ending indoctrination. But now… their eyes.

Their eyes were wide. Glazed and desperate.

Clara looked like she was in the middle of a panic attack, her entire body trembling, face streaked with tears as she struggled against the straps. Mason’s fingers twitched uselessly in his mittens, his legs kicking slightly, his entire body arching. Maria had gone limp—too limp. Not in relief. In surrender. Jamie whimpered beneath the gag of the pacifier, face flushed with what could only be shame or pain. Eli’s jaw was clenched, even as he suckled, his eyes staring straight ahead with a feverish intensity. And Eric… he wasn’t even reacting anymore. His chest rose and fell, his gaze distant, vacant.

“They’re still feeding,” Finn whispered, his voice brittle with horror.

Sarah stumbled to a halt.

The arms hadn’t come to change them. Hadn’t come to release them. They were trapped, still being pumped full of formula, still being forced to nurse, their bodies beyond capacity, their minds unraveling beneath the relentless onslaught of sensory and psychological violation. The screens continued their lullabies. Naomi’s voice purred: “That’s it, little ones… almost there. Let it all go…”

“They’re going to break,” Ivy whispered, throat tightening as she looked from one baby to the next. “They’re… they’re trying to break them.”

Finn’s voice broke the silence, strained but edged with purpose, like someone clinging to the illusion of control in a world that had stripped it bare. “Isn’t it… about time the babies were changed and put to bed?” he asked, his tone more hopeful than confident, pitched to the ever-watching ceiling as if daring Mistress to respond. Ivy’s breath caught. The air thickened around them. Sarah stiffened behind the stroller.

For a moment, the room held its breath.

Then the voice came, silken and mocking, oozing from the speakers like warm molasses poured over broken glass. “Why yes… yes it is,” Mistress purred, each word dragging like a blade dulled by use. “Don’t think I forgot, little ones,” she added with a sweet hiss. “There’s still the matter of your punishment for earlier. Naughty little caregivers, trying to test my limits…”

A mechanical click echoed above, followed by the gentle hiss of suction releasing. The feeding tubes detached from the pacifiers in a single, synchronized motion. Each baby flinched or sagged as the pressure ceased, mouths still reflexively suckling even as the flow stopped. The screens, too, retracted smoothly, folding into the walls with sterile finality, as if the indoctrination had run its course—for now.

Then the arms descended.

Six sets of limbs, gleaming chrome and slick with antiseptic sheen, moved like dancers rehearsed to perfection. They swept in, cooing in motion if not sound, and began their work. One by one, the babies were lifted from their seats with a precision that bordered on reverence. The sleepers were unzipped, the diapers removed, and Ivy, still strapped in her stroller, watched helplessly as the mess was cleaned away with soft cloths and powdered into forgettable shame. Fresh diapers were unfolded and pinned in place, snug and high, the kind meant not for function but for statement. They were meant to remind.

Maria whimpered softly as she was laid flat, tears running freely, but she no longer resisted. Clara sobbed in quiet relief. Eli didn’t speak at all, but the way his shoulders sagged said everything. They weren’t being rescued. They were being processed. Reset for another day.

And then, just as quickly as it began, it was over.

One by one, the babies were hoisted back into the air—not rocked this time, not cradled. They were carried like dolls. Their arms dangled, their legs bowed by fresh padding, their pacifiers still bobbing as they were ferried from the room by unseen commands. The silence left in their wake was deafening, a void where breathing, crying, and pleading had once filled the air.

Ivy’s heart pounded, her hands trembling against the sides of the stroller. She knew what was coming next. The anticipation was worse than the certainty. She tensed, body twitching at every mechanical sound, waiting for the arms to descend on her.

They didn’t.

Not at first.

“And now…” Mistress crooned, drawing out the words like a predator savoring the last step of the hunt. “You three…”

There was no warning. No pause.

The arms came all at once.

Finn shouted, or tried to, but his voice was cut off in an instant as a pacifier was shoved between his lips. Sarah’s scream never finished either, choked into silence by her gag. And Ivy, helpless in the stroller, saw the arms lunge for her last. She tried to squirm and brace herself, but it was useless. The pacifier hit her mouth like a muzzle, locking in place with a soft, sinister click. She couldn’t breathe through her nose fast enough to keep up with the sudden panic flooding her chest. Her wrists flailed, useless against the padded restraints as she was lifted into the air, drawn forward toward the chairs.