The world blurred into sound and pressure, a kaleidoscope of colorless noise and unbearable weight. Ivy’s body was no longer hers—it had become something distant, something done to rather than lived in. Her muscles trembled in exhausted spasms. Her head lolled to one side, the straps of the bouncer now the only thing holding her upright. Her stomach was distended, bloated from relentless feeding, each pulse from the tube a fresh invasion of sickly-sweet formula and worse. She no longer tasted the flavors—her tongue was numb, her throat a raw tunnel forced to swallow.

Her diaper was a universe unto itself. Bloated beyond comprehension, grotesquely swollen and sagging low past her knees. The weight of it pressed down against her with unrelenting force, dragging at her hips, squishing noisily with every shallow bounce the harness inflicted. The plastic pants, reinforced and elasticized, somehow held, stretching grotesquely around the obscene mass. The smell was no longer something she reacted to—it was simply part of her. It was her. Ivy wasn’t a girl anymore, she had becomewas a machine symbol.

And still, she kept going.

Or rather, her body did.

Another wave of release came and went, without so much as a thought. There was no resistance left in her. No effort. Her muscles spasmed and gave way, and the diaper took it all. Ivy’s mind barely registered it, the action so normal now that it barely qualified as sensation. Just another moment in the long spiral downward.

And through it all, he was there.

Oliver.

His voice curled around her consciousness like silk soaked in sugar, wrapping the tatters of her sanity in soft, playful nonsense. “You’re doing so well, Tinker Tot,” he cooed, his cartoon face dancing across the screen, or maybe just behind her eyes. “So proud of you. Just let it all go now. Big girl thoughts are too heavy, aren’t they?”

She couldn’t answer. Her pacifier sealed her lips. But her eyes—dull, wet, unfocused—twitched toward the glowing red button floating just in front of her. It shimmered, promising relief. Not salvation, no, she was long past dreaming of that. But release. An end. An exit. She didn’t even know what waited on the other side of pressing it. She didn’t care. All that mattered was that it wouldn’t be this anymore.

Her fingers twitched and she reached for it.

And Oliver smiled, not cruelly or even mockingly.

“Shhh… shhh, no, sweetheart. Not yet,” he whispered, and his voice vibrated deep inside her skull, soothing and hollow. “You’re okay. You’re safe. You don’t have to think anymore, baby Ivy. I’ll do all the thinking for you.”

Her hand lowered.

The button receded from her view, not because it moved, but because she did. Her body sagged in the harness, the strain too great, the weight unbearable. She sobbed behind the pacifier, barely making a sound, just trembling air through her nose. Her mind had become foggy. And Oliver rocked her there, in that space between memory and submission, like a lullaby that never stopped.

She was still in the trial.

But Ivy no longer knew if she was playing …or if she had already lost.

Tears streamed down Ivy’s cheeks in trembling rivulets, sliding across the warm flush of her face and dripping down to her chest, where they vanished into the saturated fabric of her sleeper. Her limbs hung limp in the harness, the bouncer creaking with every minute shift of her bloated, overburdened frame. The smell—the weight—of her diapers had become something unreal, disconnected from any normal sense of self. She wasn’t Ivy the fighter, Ivy the strategist, Ivy the survivor anymore. She was just a vessel now. A body. A container for shame, formula, and mess. Her mind hovered on the edge of unconsciousness, dancing along the boundary where pain, exhaustion, and humiliation blurred into a single, heavy fog.

But then… her eyes found his.

Across the ring of suspended agony, Finn stared back at her.

His chest rose and fell quickly, his hair was damp with sweat, and his eyes were hollow with fatigue. He was suffering too. His bouncer rocked gently, diapers stretched and sagging like hers, his pacifier gag sealing his mouth shut. But his gaze—it was fierce. He met her eyes, and he held them, steady and defiant, even as his body betrayed him. He was screaming encouragement without making a sound. Stay with me, his eyes said. Don’t give them the satisfaction. You’re stronger than this.

But Ivy didn’t feel strong.

How could she?

How could anyone feel strong when their bowels gave out into their layer of diapers, when the mess crept up their back and pooled between their thighs, when they were bounced like toddlers for the entertainment of strangers? How could she feel strength when her muscles twitched involuntarily from exhaustion, when she’d stopped trying to hold anything in, when she barely noticed anymore?

Another wave pushed into the seat of her diaper, warm and slow and endless. The bloated padding gave way with a grotesque squelch, the plastic pants straining as they grew to contain it. Ivy whimpered softly, her mouth never stopping its rhythmic nursing from the feeding tube—she hadn’t even realized another cycle of formula had started. Her stomach was numb. Her throat was sore and her pride was gone.

And then the world around her began to slip away again.

She didn’t blackout—not quite. But her mind fled, retreating inward as the horrors of Trial Seven overwhelmed every rational boundary she had left. Her grip on reality frayed, and into that void, soft voices crept.

Naomi and Oliver.

They were there.

Not on screens. Not booming from speakers. Not tormenting her with sugary manipulation. They were beside her, suddenly—one on each side, arms warm and strong and impossibly kind. Naomi held her, brushing back Ivy’s sweat-soaked hair with perfectly manicured fingers, humming softly as if nothing had ever been wrong. “There, there,” she whispered, her voice soothing and maternal. “You’re doing so well, baby girl. We are so proud of you.”

And Oliver—cartoonish and absurd—had arms that were soft and real now, wrapping around Ivy’s trembling form from the other side. “It’s okay, Tinker Tot,” he said gently, pressing a plush toy into her mittened hands. “You don’t have to try anymore. We’ll take care of everything. Forever and ever.”

They cradled her there, between them, rocking her in time with the sway of the bouncer, warm and rhythmic. Ivy felt her body melt into their embrace. The crowd, the lights, the pain—they were all far away. Her mind folded into the daydream, not because she wanted to, but because it needed to. She couldn’t survive what was happening otherwise.

So she let herself go limp, lost in that impossible comfort.

Naomi kissed her forehead and Oliver giggled softly.

And Ivy drifted further into the fantasy.

Where no buttons existed, where no shame lived. Where she was simply… held.

The sky above was the softest shade of blue, painted with wisps of clouds that drifted lazily across the horizon, as if time itself had slowed to a gentle crawl. Ivy lay on her back, the warmth of the sun bathing her skin, a delicate breeze brushing the hair from her brow. Her head rested in Naomi’s lap, though it didn’t feel like Naomi, the tormentor, the Host, the smiling demon of the cartoons. No. Naomi was soft, maternal, and distant from the cruelty of the Trials. Her thighs, cushioned by thick cloth diapers, served as a strange but oddly comforting pillow, and her fingers danced absently through Ivy’s hair in soothing spirals. Oliver lounged nearby in the grass, chin propped in his hands, legs kicking lazily behind him like a contented child, eyes twinkling with mischief and warmth in equal measure.

“She’s adorable, isn’t she?” Oliver asked, glancing sidelong toward Naomi, his smile slow and knowing.

“She really is,” Naomi replied, her voice calm and melodic. Not condescending. Not scripted. Just real.

Ivy blinked slowly, the illusion so vivid it made her chest ache. “What’s going on?” she asked, her voice barely louder than the wind rustling the tall grass around them.

“You’re in a dream,” Naomi answered softly, her eyes still focused on Ivy’s hair. “Your mind is…” She trailed off and exchanged a glance with Oliver, a quiet understanding passing between them. “It was a bit too much for you to handle.”

Tears pricked the corners of Ivy’s eyes before she could stop them. They slid down her cheeks, silent, helpless. Oliver leaned over and wiped one away with the pad of his thumb, gentle and full of sorrow. “It’s okay, Ivy,” he murmured. “We understand. You don’t have to pretend with us.”

“I…” Her voice cracked. “I can’t. I can’t keep fighting…”

And in that moment, both of them moved—arms folding around her, holding her between them. Ivy collapsed into the embrace, her body curling, small and shaking. She didn’t resist. She couldn’t. She didn’t want to. The pressure of endurance had become too much. And now that she had stopped—now that she had let herself feel it—she realized just how close she had been to shattering.

“You have to realize where this is heading, right?” Naomi asked, her voice careful, almost clinical in its sympathy.

“You’re being conditioned, Ivy,” Oliver added. “All of you are. Bit by bit. Not to lose… but to surrender. You’re not expected to reach the end whole. You’re meant to come apart along the way.”

Ivy’s lip trembled. “Then why shouldn’t I quit?” she asked, her voice laced with desperation, pain, and exhaustion. “Why shouldn’t I just press the button? Get it over with?”

Naomi’s hand cupped her cheek, thumb stroking gently beneath her eyes. “Because, sweetpea,” she whispered, “you want this. You want the freedom. The love. The care that comes with victory.”

And the world shifted.

In an instant, the field, the sun, the breeze—all vanished. Ivy wasn’t lying in Naomi’s arms anymore. She was nestled in Mommy’s lap now, the warmth of the woman’s chest rising and falling softly beneath Ivy’s ear. Strong arms held her with an effortless confidence that said You’re safe now. Ivy whimpered, curling closer, and Mommy cooed softly, rocking her.

The dream bloomed around her—that dream. The one where she didn’t have to pretend anymore. Where she didn’t have to think, or struggle, or cry, her diaper swelled again, her muscles offering no resistance as a slow muck filled the seat, spreading outward with a heat that was more familiar than uncomfortable. Her bladder let go next, dribbling with steady, shameful inevitability. The diaper absorbed it all, and Mommy didn’t mind. She stroked Ivy’s hair and whispered praise, and Ivy didn’t fight it.

She wanted this, didn’t she?

As the weight of her diaper grew, Mommy shifted her gently and began to hum that lullaby Ivy could never forget; something inside her relaxed.

Something surrendered.

Their faces hovered above her like twin moons—warm, beaming, perfect. Her Mommy’s touch was soft as silk, fingers trailing gently through Ivy’s tangled hair, smoothing each strand with the kind of reverence that only existed in fairy tales. Her Daddy’s smile was broad and full of quiet strength, his hand resting on her shoulder before rising to tousle her hair in that comforting, familiar way. The weight of her swollen diaper pressed heavily against her, but here, in their presence, it didn’t matter. Nothing did. The mess, the shame, the pain of Trial Seven all seemed to dissolve beneath the golden warmth of their love. Ivy whimpered as the peace of it settled over her, rich and laced with honey, a lull in the storm. Somewhere, far away, she could still hear the crowd—distant, muffled, like a memory—but it couldn’t reach her here.

“We are incredibly proud of you, baby girl,” Mommy said, her voice like lullabies poured into honey. Her hand never stopped moving, always soothing, always there.

“We want nothing but the best for our baby,” Daddy added, his tone calm and absolute, a foundation beneath her trembling spirit.

Ivy reached for them, tears welling once more in her eyes—not of fear, not of despair, but of longing and need. Her arms lifted, mittened hands stretching toward their glowing forms. But as her fingers passed through them, they blurred—shimmering like mist beneath morning sunlight, reforming around her hands without substance. Her breath caught in her throat.

“But we’re not yours yet,” Mommy whispered sadly, her fingers retreating as if the very dream trembled on the edge of collapse.

“No…” Ivy whimpered, her lip trembling. “Please. I want you. I want to be free… I want it—please!”

Daddy’s smile didn’t fade. He leaned in, brushing his hand across her hair once more. “We know you do, sweetheart. And you will have us. But you need to finish first.”

“I… I can’t,” Ivy choked out, her voice cracking, head shaking violently as her body curled tighter into their ephemeral warmth. “I’m not strong enough…”

“Yes, you are,” Mommy said gently, pressing a kiss to her forehead that sent warmth rippling down her spine. “You’re stronger than all of them. We’ve seen it. You don’t have to be perfect, Ivy. You just have to endure. We will be here. Waiting. You will be ours.”

“Go, baby girl,” Daddy said, his voice wrapping around her like a protective blanket. “Go make Mommy and Daddy proud.”

“I don’t want to leave you!” Ivy sobbed, clutching for them again. But the dream was already unraveling—threads of golden grass fading to gray static, their faces melting into blurred silhouettes. Their voices, so sweet, now drifted like echoes across a collapsing cavern.

And then—reality. Crashing down around her like broken glass.

The lights returned and the crowd roared.

And the cartoon… the damned cartoon… was ending. Credits rolled across the screen before her, Naomi and Oliver’s animated avatars waving cheerfully to an audience of millions. The music chirped and sang, childish and saccharine, but Ivy barely heard it. Her eyes blinked rapidly, struggling to focus, and she saw it.

Jamie’s empty bouncer.

He was gone gone.

A trapdoor opened where he once hung. Another contestant had fallen.

And with a shock, Ivy realized—she’d survived. Only one more contestant needed to fall before the trial ended. She was this close. A breath away from keeping remaining in the game, from enduring the worst Trial yet.

And something lit inside her.

A new flame, small and fragile.

But real.

Her body still ached. Her diaper still sagged and squished. Her throat still tasted of formula and shame.

She would not lose, not now, not yet.

Not when her Mommy and Daddy were waiting for her.

The trial continued with a surreal, relentless rhythm, the kind that lulled the audience into gleeful delight and drove the contestants further into quiet, undignified ruin. The crowd's cheers rose and fell like the tide, roaring approval every time a new torment was triggered by some faceless hand at a control podium. Every humiliation, every bouncer adjustment, every drop of formula was engineered with mechanical precision to break them down not only physically but psychologically.

A horn sounded, playful and high-pitched, like the chime of a carnival game. A new effect launched across the ring. Sarah jerked upright in her bouncer as a rainbow of bubbles erupted from nozzles above her, descending in a sparkling cloud. For a moment, she looked confused—almost relieved—until the bubbles touched her skin. They popped not with air, but with a sticky, molasses-thick goo that clung to her sleeper, soaking into the fibers and amplifying the heat within her already bloated diaper. The smell was sweet—cloyingly so—and unmistakably infantile. It smelled like artificial strawberries and powder, like a newborn’s nursery. The crowd howled as the goo clung to her hair and face, dripping in long strands down her front and into her lap, where her diaper—already overinflated—gave another groaning squelch.

To Ivy’s left, Eric found himself surrounded by mechanical arms holding stuffed animals. Cute, fuzzy things with big eyes and stitched-on smiles. They hovered in, cooing animatronic phrases like “Who’s a cuddly wuddly baby?” and “Smile for the bear, little stinker!” before pressing themselves against his face, smearing it with soft kisses and plush fur. But as they rubbed against him, Ivy saw it—tiny prongs hidden in the fuzz, pressing slightly at key points on his bouncer, tickling him. The more he squirmed, the more the arms jiggled the seat. His diaper swelled visibly, fed by another wave of formula and nature’s inevitable betrayal. His body slackened, and his eyes shut tight. One of the toys announced, “Someone made a big boom-boom!” and the crowd erupted again.

The speakers above Maria shifted tone, piping in a singsong voice Ivy hadn’t heard before. “Maria’s Magic Milestone!” it declared, as a glimmering star descended above her head like a game show prop. A bell chimed, and confetti exploded outward—pink and purple and glowing. Maria’s diaper puffed outward in response, almost doubling in size in a heartbeat. The plastic pants strained, groaned, then—somehow—held. The audience gasped and then applauded as a sticker appeared on the screen behind her: “Graduated to Ultra Stinker!” The confetti didn’t stop. It kept falling in waves, clinging to the sweat on her face and the tears in her eyes.

Ivy could feel her diaper growing heavier again, another tide of formula swelling her belly, her body failing to contain its contents. It rushed into the already-sodden padding with a sickening slosh, pressing out to the sides and bottom in unnatural shapes. The plastic pants strained, the elastic warping around the mountain of filth swelling between her legs. She didn’t cry out. She didn’t gasp. There was no energy left for it. But her cheeks burned. Her fingers curled inward. Somewhere, in the recesses of her mind, she wanted to scream.

Her bloated diaper squelched beneath her like a water balloon slowly losing its integrity, the scent beyond masking, the shame so complete it was quiet. Not explosive. Not dramatic. Just… accepted.

And still the crowd cheered.