The world spun as Ivy was hoisted upward, her limbs straining against the restraints, the pacifier gag sealing her cries behind plastic and silence. Panic bloomed behind her eyes as the air shifted—cold and sterile and too quiet. She had expected to be carried to the infant seats, to be locked into the same cradles where their charges had writhed and suckled and soiled themselves for hours. That was the Nursery’s rhythm: humiliation through symmetry, degradation through imitation. But instead, she was tilted backward, her body rotating with mechanical grace until she found herself lying flat on something cool and padded. The ceiling above was the same antiseptic white, the hum of machinery constant, but the sense of wrongness intensified.

To her left, Sarah was already restrained, her hands splayed out beside her head, her body trembling. Finn, to her right, flinched violently as his legs were parted and locked in place by descending clamps. They weren’t just being moved—they were being presented, like dolls lined up for inspection.

Ivy tried to lift her head to see what came next, but the arm that held her shoulder pushed her back with gentle, remorseless pressure. Another arm unzipped her sleeper with a hiss, peeling it open with cold efficiency. The double diapers wrapped around her hips squished apart, the bulk unmistakable, the scent unbearable. Her cheeks burned with shame. Her body tried to writhe, but it was held fast, every movement met with mechanical restraint.

Then something new entered her peripheral vision.

A diaper.

But not just any diaper.

Her eyes widened as she recognized it—the pastel prints, the sagging bulge, the very pattern—it was one of the diapers used earlier. The very one Maria had been changed out of. Ivy wanted to scream, but the pacifier gag locked her protest inside her throat as the arms began their grotesque ballet. The diaper was unfolded with surgical precision and laid out over her already bloated padding. It squished when it touched her, pressing the mess deeper against her skin, sealing it in. And then, with calm, deliberate motion, the arms began pinning it in place.

It was Maria’s used diaper.

Still warm, followed by yet another used diaper, her second baby's diaper.

Ivy’s mind reeled in revulsion and helpless fury, but her body could do nothing but lie there as the arms worked. Pins clicked shut. Tapes sealed. The bulk tripled. Her legs were parted wide, locked into the same posture she’d helped the babies endure. She saw the same happening beside her—Sarah groaning, her eyes squeezed shut, tears leaking from the corners. Finn let out a muffled shout as the bulk of a second—and third—diaper was fastened around his hips, swelling his frame until he could barely move.

Their charges’ soiled garments wrapped around them like trophies. As if Mistress was painting the lesson across their bodies in thick, humiliating strokes—care has consequences. Empathy is weakness. Mercy will be turned back upon you.

Ivy whimpered as the sleeper was zipped closed again, now stretched tighter than ever, compressed against the triple-thick padding that refused to let her close her legs. She could feel every inch of the used diaper, every ridge, every residual wetness. It clung to her like memory, like guilt, like failure.

Around her, Ivy could hear them—Finn and Sarah—both reduced to muffled sobs behind their pacifier gags, their voices distorted by helplessness. It was like listening to echoes of her despair, bouncing back at her through the sterile halls of the Nursery. Their cries weren’t loud, weren’t frantic—they were tired. The kind of crying that came after too much for too long, when resistance became reflex instead of rebellion. The mechanical arms lifted her again, the pressure of the triple-layered padding pressing down on her hips, squishing and shifting with each motion. It clung to her like guilt, sagging low and heavy, broadcasting her shame with every automated jostle. And then Mistress’s voice coiled around them from unseen speakers, warm and thick and gleeful. “Consider your debt… settled,” she purred, the satisfaction in her tone unmistakable.

Ivy wanted to scream at her, to fight her, but she couldn’t move. The pacifier gag muted every sound, the swaddling sleeper constricted every motion, and her body—already sore, exhausted, and overfed—betrayed her at every turn. They glided down the corridor, suspended like offerings, like sacrifices, past the glowing murals of cartoon nursery scenes and into the crib room. It was colder here, the air thick with artificial lavender and powder, piped in to simulate calm. The other babies were already in their cribs—laid out like sleeping dolls, pacifiers still bobbing, fresh diapers bulging beneath thick blankets.

Then it was her turn.

She was lowered into a crib that dwarfed her in every direction, the mattress soft and low, like it was meant to keep her there. The padding beneath her squished outward as her weight settled in, the mess pressing back up into her, warm and shameful. Before she could shift, could even think of adjusting herself, the blanket rose on either side and wrapped tightly. It wasn’t a cover—it was a trap, a mechanized swaddle that constricted around her arms and torso with the expertise of someone who had done this a thousand times. Her limbs were pinned to her sides, her legs spread wide by the unrelenting bulk of her diapers. She thrashed for a moment, tried to twist free, but the blanket only tightened, locking her into helplessness.

Then came the tube.

It slithered down from above, finding its place with uncanny precision, clicking into the mouth of her pacifier gag with a faint hiss. A moment passed. Then a slow, teasing drip of formula began to slide across her tongue, thick and syrupy, engineered to calm, to quiet, to subdue. She gagged once, the taste overpowering, but the liquid kept coming—drop by drop, an endless lullaby of surrender. Her jaw moved without her willing it to, forced to nurse by the rhythm of the flow, and the flavor became her world.

Tears rolled down her cheeks.

Not fast. Not loudly. But they came. Ivy blinked at the ceiling, at the softly glowing mobile turning above her, at the projections of stars scattered across the ceiling in artificial constellations. She cried for Clara, for Maria, for herself. For what she had become. Her fingers twitched inside the swaddle. The formula kept dripping. And Mistress’s voice returned, softer now, falsely tender.

“Goodnight, little ones,” she cooed. “Sweet dreams.”

The lights dimmed to a warm twilight glow. Lullabies poured in through hidden speakers—slow, syrupy melodies in the same voice Ivy now associated with loss of control. Whatever was in the mixtureshe was being fed, began to take hold. Her thoughts grew sluggish. Her eyes fluttered. The ache in her gut dulled, replaced with the pull of sleep. She fought it for a moment—just a moment—but the fight was a candle in a storm. It flickered and faded.

And then Ivy drifted into a dreamless sleep, cradled in softness and bound in shame.

The darkness was soft at first, almost comforting. Ivy drifted in it like a leaf on still water, the weight of consciousness slipping away under the gentle lull of chemical calm. But the silence didn’t last. The dream bloomed slowly, unfurling like the petals of a cruel flower. It began with warmth—a blanket tucked too tightly, a pacifier too large for her mouth but impossible to spit out. Her arms moved sluggishly, twitching at her sides, but the strength just wasn’t there. Her fingers curled in on themselves, weak, clumsy like a baby’s. She tried to sit up and found the motion foreign, her body responding with lazy, disconnected effort. The muscles in her neck strained just to lift her head. Panic fluttered behind her eyes. 

A shadow fell across her.

Then another.

They loomed—figures far too large. A woman’s voice cooed from above, “There’s our little girl… did baby Ivy wake up from her nap?” A man’s laugh followed, warm and deep, terrifying in its gentleness. “She’s very soggy, sweetheart. Looks like someone made a big tinkle in her night-night diapee.”

Ivy tried to scream, to shout, to speak—but her mouth opened only for air. Her vocal cords offered nothing but a helpless gurgle, the sound warbling around the pacifier bulb stuffed between her lips. She drooled, involuntarily, the saliva trailing down her chin. A whine built in her throat, rising into a cry she couldn’t control. She hated the sound of it—so infantile, so pathetic. But she couldn’t stop it.

The woman leaned down, her arms impossibly large yet gentle as they scooped Ivy up like a swaddled infant. Her body flopped uselessly into the embrace, muscles unresponsive, every attempt to push away failing before it began. Her legs parted naturally around the thick, crinkling mass taped around her hips, swollen and damp, and she whimpered again as the man’s hands tickled her chin. “Aww, she’s fussy. Does baby need her ba-ba?”

Ivy couldn’t answer.

She couldn’t even shake her head.

Her body moved without her, limbs wobbling like jelly as the woman settled into a rocking chair and nestled Ivy into her arms. The bottle came next, oversized and warm, the nipple shoved into her mouth with practiced ease as the pacifier was plucked free. Her jaw ached from the pacifier, and yet somehow, her mouth began to suckle again, the motion automatic and infantile. She tried to spit it out, to gag, to resist—but her body obeyed, her throat swallowing each sugary mouthful as her captors cooed and praised.

“Good girl…”

“She’s going to forget all those big-girl thoughts in no time…”

The nightmare twisted again.

She was lying on a changing table, staring up at a spinning mobile. Her arms flailed at her sides, uncoordinated, like a newborn's. Her legs kicked weakly. She tried to sit up, but straps across her chest held her down, the padding between her legs so thick she could barely bend. She whimpered as her sleeper was unzipped, her legs lifted effortlessly, a cold wipe dragging across her most intimate places. Her diaper was wet, and her voice, when it came, was just a high-pitched wail, helpless and senseless, echoing in the nursery like any other baby.

They cooed at her again.

They clapped.

They told her how proud they were.

She wanted to curse at them. To scream, to fight.

But the only sound she made was a soft, trembling “ba… ba…” around her pacifier.

Time lost meaning. The cycles repeated. Sleep. Feed. Burp. Change. Repeat. Over and over. The world became a blur of mobiles, lullabies, and the feeling of being held. Not comforted—restrained. She was passed from arm to arm like a doll, praised for every wet diaper, every big poopy she made, coddled for every helpless babble. Her body refused to grow strong, her voice refused to sharpen. The world narrowed to plastic bottles, stuffed animals, and the scent of powder, warm pee, and squishy, stinky messess. She was baby Ivy. Over and over, they reminded her. “No more big girl words, sweetie.” “No need to walk, Mommy carries you now.” “You don’t need to think, Mommy knows best.”

She screamed in her mind, a silent roar that never reached her lips.

And as she was laid back into her crib, freshly changed and swaddled yet again, the lullaby played once more.

A high, sweet voice whispered: “Good girls don’t need to grow up…”

And Ivy sobbed, silently, as the dream looped again.

Time lost shape in the prison of Ivy’s dreams. What began as humiliation became monotony, and what started as resistance withered beneath the crushing weight of repetition. The feedings, the changings, the lullabies—all melted into one long, syrupy stretch of existence where her mind began to fray at the edges. She cried, of course. For a time. Until the tears no longer came, until even the desperate sobs felt pointless. Her body was no longer hers. Her voice belonged to them, reduced to babbles and hiccups and soft, helpless cries. Her world had narrowed to a crib, a bottle, and two faces that beamed down at her with a love so complete, so all-encompassing, it terrified her.

At first.

Eventually, even that fear dulled.

One feeding blended into the next, one change into another, and Ivy found herself not reacting as much—her muscles too weak, her thoughts too slow. Her legs dangled uselessly when she was hoisted into her highchair, arms wobbling as she tried and failed to grasp the colorful spoon Mommy offered with a sing-song hum. “That’s okay, sweet pea,” she said, voice warm as sunlight. “Mommy will do it for you. Mommy loves feeding her little baby.” And Ivy—once defiant, once strong—simply opened her mouth. She suckled when told. She drank when prompted. She let the spoon deposit pureed carrots on her tongue and smiled, messy and meek, as Mommy wiped her cheeks with a soft cloth and cooed, “What a good girl.”

Then came the mall.

The noise, the people—it should have rattled her. But Ivy’s arms lay curled around her favorite stuffed animal, her sleeper warm and snug, her bottom crinkling with every step Mommy took. The stroller rocked her gently as they moved past curious onlookers. She didn’t care. Her gums ached—not that she had teeth anymore—and the nipple of her bottle was pressed into her lips with practiced rhythm. She suckled. It soothed her. She could feel her diaper swelling beneath her, a faint warmth spreading as her bladder let go without permission or thought. Mommy didn’t mind. Mommy praised her. “That’s it, sweetie. My baby’s such a natural. Look at her go, drinking like a champ.”

Ivy blinked up at her.

And for the first time, she smiled.

The warmth that bloomed in her chest startled her, not because it came, but because it felt right. She didn’t remember when the dread had faded. Maybe it had been fed out of her, wiped away during changings, buried beneath layer after layer of soft words and gentle lullabies. Whatever remained of that strong, biting part of her—the part that used to scream—was now quiet. And as her mouth worked around the nipple of the bottle, she realized the only thing she wanted was to make Mommy smile again.

So she giggled.

She didn’t mean to. It bubbled up from somewhere deep and new, like the sound of a different person living in her mouth. Her arms flapped a little, useless but expressive, and Mommy clapped, thrilled. “Oh my goodness, someone’s turning into quite the little sunshine!” Ivy beamed at the praise, her gums glistening as she reached—reached!—toward Mommy’s necklace, giggling again when her hand batted it gently. The sound of her laugh wrapped around her like a blanket. It felt good. 

Daddy joined them then, lifting her easily into his arms, kissing her nose with exaggerated affection. “There’s my baby girl,” he said, bouncing her gently. “You’ve been such a good girl for Mommy, haven’t you?” Ivy squealed—actually squealed—and clapped her hands together, her diaper squishing with the motion. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but this. The love. The warmth. The safety.

She leaned into him, babbling nonsense, eyes wide and bright.

And in that moment, Ivy was not Ivy.

She was Baby Ivy. Their baby girl. Happy. Helpless, and most importantly, loved.

The dreams unraveled slowly, like silk threads being pulled from a warm blanket, one after another, until the comfort of them-of arms that cradled, of lullabies that soothed, of voices that praised—fell away. Ivy moaned softly as the warmth receded, her mind clawing at the edges of sleep, begging for just one more moment of that impossible peace. Her cries were wordless, sealed behind the bulb of a pacifier, but they were no less real, sharp, aching sobs of loss. She wanted to come back. Back to the crib, to the bottle, to Mommy’s smile. Anything but what returned in its place: the wet, swollen heat wrapped around her hips, clinging and bloated, oppressive with every breath.

The comforting swaddle was gone, in its place came a pressure. Her body dangled awkwardly, limbs pulled down by gravity as her legs kicked gently, impotently, beneath her. She groaned, eyes fluttering open, and saw straps across her shoulders, her arms looped through padded holes. Beneath her, her diaper—diapers—squished with every tiny movement. But there was something new. Something worse. Thick, rubbery elastic pressed against her thighs and waist, wrapped around the already-bloated bulk between her legs. As if to say, you're not getting changed any time soon.

She wasn’t in a crib.

She wasn’t on the ground.

She was suspended, held aloft by wide, flexing bands tethered high above to some unseen rafter, gently bouncing her with every twitch. It took a moment for her to understand the horror of it. A baby bouncer. They’d put her in a baby bouncer. Her pacifier remained locked in her mouth, fitted with a feeding tube that coiled down from somewhere above and into her pacifier, formula still trickling onto her tongue in maddeningly slow drips.

And she wasn’t alone.

Her eyes adjusted, blinking rapidly, and her stomach sank. They were arranged in a circle—nine of them, all suspended just like her. Every other remaining contestant dangled in place, bobbing gently in their harnesses. Sarah. Finn. Clara. Maria. Mason. Eli. Jamie. Eric. All of them padded beyond recognition, strapped and gagged. The same fear was soaked into their eyes as they slowly looked toward each other, blinking, confused, and humiliated. Ivy caught Finn’s eyes across from her, and the flash of recognition in his expression was met with equal horror.

Then she heard it.

Faint, at first—a vibration in the air. A murmuring. Like voices, hundreds of them. Growing louder. Ivy’s heartbeat doubled as she twisted weakly in her harness, looking beyond the circle. She saw nothing but shadows at first. Then—curtains. Velvet, thick, enclosing them in a full circle of fabric. She couldn’t see through it, but she could feel the space beyond. 

The murmur turned into a rumble.

And then, from above, calm, cruel, and joyous as ever, Mistress’s voice poured down like syrup.

“Ladies and gentlemen…”

The room seemed to pulse.

“It is with great pleasure… that I welcome you to trial number seven!”

The curtains pulled upward.

Ivy screamed behind her pacifier as white-hot light flooded the space, blinding her. The roar of the crowd hit her like a wave—cheering, clapping, howling in delight. Flashbulbs popped. Voices shouted. A sea of watching eyes, endless and hungry, consuming the contestants.

Ivy’s body was locked in place, frozen with fear, dangling in full view as thousands upon thousands of people cheered her on as her diaper continued to swell between her legs, completely and utterly helpless to stop it.