The air was thick with the scent of humiliation. Around Ivy, the soft groans of the other contestants filled the cavernous nursery-living room hybrid. The crinkle of diapers swelling to contain the contestant's messes, the rustle of onesies shifting against bloated bottoms—every sound reinforcing Ivy’s humiliation of being in the nursery. Five bodies lay out across the carpeted floor, each one now bearing the uncomfortable fullness of a freshly soiled diaper, some whimpering quietly, some merely panting through clenched teeth. Ivy stayed still among them for a moment longer, letting the warmth of her shame settle beneath her, warm and sticky between her cheeks, squishing with each movement.

Ivy rolled to her side first, taking her time, letting her motions lag with feigned sluggishness. The milk sloshed faintly in her stomach, and while it may not have contained any laxatives, Ivy still felt discomfort at the feeling. She moved with feigned labor, her joints acting as if they were stiff, her muscles weak, all part of the act. Her mittened hands slid beneath her, pressing into the carpet as she pushed herself upright onto her hands and knees. She allowed her arms to tremble visibly, a shaky rise that made it seem like she could collapse again at any moment. The bulk of her filled diaper swayed beneath her as she adjusted her weight, her breath coming in short, panting bursts. Not too fast, she told herself, enough to blend in.

Mason had managed to roll onto his front, dragging himself forward with sluggish motions. Maria whimpering but crawling. Sarah crawled behind her with her head down and her face flushed, while Finn grunted softly with each shift of his limbs. Ivy glanced at them, studying their movements, pacing, and coordination—or lack thereof—and matched it with careful, deliberate imperfection. Every crawl was a struggle, and every inch gained looked hard-won.

Before them, nestled into a plastic platform framed with bright, childish colors, was a set of oversized letter blocks. Each block was thick and foam-like, with a single letter printed on each face in bold primary colors. Next to the blocks were wooden boards, upright like activity stations, each one with cutouts shaped for the blocks. The challenge seemed obvious enough: a word puzzle. And, perhaps more importantly, a test of who could function—and who was pretending not to.

Ivy crawled toward them, her diaper squishing beneath her with every movement, the warmth shifting in uncomfortable waves. Her breath caught in her throat as she approached, and she let it out in a staggered pant, her tongue brushing her lips as if they were dry from the effort. Once she reached the blocks, she made a show of collapsing down onto her backside with a dramatic plop, wincing as her mess mushed about her bottom before reaching for the first block.

Her fingers, clumsy in their mittens, pawed at the block’s edge. She could feel its foam texture through the padded cloth. The letter was A—bright red, with a cartoon apple drawn beneath it. She frowned, eyes narrowing slightly, and looked at the slots on the nearby board. 

Ivy turned her head slightly, watching the others.

They were doing their best—some moving slower than others, some fumbling the blocks repeatedly, as if their limbs refused to cooperate. But none of them were entirely useless. They moved, if poorly, which meant Ivy had to to as well. 

She lifted the A with both hands, arms wobbling for effect, and shifted toward the board. Her body leaned heavily to the side as she reached for the second slot, lips parted with faux concentration.

Play dumb, she told herself. But not too dumb.

Ivy stared at the block in her hands—yellow Y, and then at the slots on the board before her. B, A, B… it didn’t take a genius. She wasn’t sure if the other contestants were truly slowed, dulled by the effects of the medicine, or just acting like she was, but one thing was obvious: this challenge wasn’t designed to test intellect. It was a demonstration of helplessness.

She hesitated, blinking slowly, then reached forward. Her mitten slipped on the block, sending it tumbling to the side with a muffled thump. She let out a high-pitched whine, something between a sigh and a babble, drawing on the same feigned frustration she’d used during bottle time. Slowly, she scooped it back up and brought it to the board again, taking exaggerated effort to align it with the slot. When it clicked into place, she let herself flop slightly, panting like it had taken everything she had.

As the final block was inserted, a soft green light lit up beside her board. BABY. The word glowed with cheerful finality, mocking her. She could almost hear Mistress’s voice in the back of her mind, cooing praise for her good little effort, but Ivy forced herself not to react.

She turned toward the next part of the trial and froze.

At the far end of the living room, a door had opened, and through it stepped something wrong. It moved with grace, but its size immediately struck her—taller than any person she’d ever seen, the shape of a woman exaggerated to unsettling degrees. The robotic figure strode across the carpeted floor with mechanical precision, her joints whirring softly with each step. Her face was porcelain-smooth, carved into an impossibly serene smile that never wavered. Uncanny eyes blinked once, then fixed on Finn, who had just finished the block challenge ahead of Ivy.

She knelt, her large metal arms extending outward in an eerie parody of maternal welcome. “Come on, baby,” she said, her voice sing-song and syrup-thick. “Crawl to Mommy!”

Finn looked back, caught Ivy’s gaze—and for a moment, neither of them moved. There was an understanding there, a shared flicker of dread, but also resignation. Finn turned away, bracing himself, and began to crawl forward.

His progress was labored. Each movement was a struggle; his arms slipped once, then twice, his body swaying with the effort of staying upright. The thick diaper between his legs crinkled and squished with every shift, the onesie clinging to him. But he didn’t stop, nor did he speak; he only breathed heavily, panting through the exertion. 

He reached her at last.

She scooped him up in one effortless motion, lifting his entire body like he weighed nothing. Her arms cradled him with fluid smoothness, her fingers brushing over his ribs with a feather-light touch. Then came the tickling. It started gently—just a flutter against his sides—but Finn twitched in her grasp. His head tossed back a moment later, and a squeal of laughter escaped his lips. 

Ivy flinched as he laughed, a choked, helpless sound that turned into gasping laughter as he squirmed and writhed in her arms. The robot woman cooed affectionately, bouncing him slightly before turning and carrying him toward the doorway. Finn tried—weakly—to push her hands away, but the woman held him firmly. Involuntary giggles swallowed his protests as she disappeared through the door with him.

Ivy sat there watching the space he had just occupied.

So the medicine makes you more ticklish, she thought bitterly. Of course it does.

Her gut churned—not just at what had happened to Finn, but at what was coming next.

The robotic woman returned moments later, her porcelain smile unchanged, her arms empty. She crossed the living room with the same gliding grace and came to a stop directly in front of Ivy. Sarah had just finished her puzzle and was panting softly beside her. But the figure knelt once more and opened her arms wide for Ivy.

Her voice chirped: “Come on, baby. Crawl to Mommy.”

Showtime.

Ivy whimpered softly and let her arms shake as she pushed herself forward.

She reached the towering robotic woman in only a few crawling paces, though every inch was filled with calculated imperfection—her arms trembling, her knees slipping on the soft floor, her breath coming out in huffs and weak whimpers. She kept her eyes low, limbs awkward, trying her best to mimic the drugged, sluggish movements of the others. Then the woman's long, mechanical arms closed around her, lifting her off the ground in a single fluid motion, and Ivy braced herself for what came next.

Cool, segmented fingers brushed against her sides, dancing with unnerving gentleness. Ivy jerked in the android's grip, legs twitching, and forced a peal of giggles from her lips. It wasn’t easy. The laughter felt unnatural, like she was pushing it through her teeth rather than letting it bubble up. But she squealed and squirmed, twisting in the woman’s hold just as she’d seen Finn do. Her arms wiggled helplessly in her mittens, her back arching, breath hitching in staged, breathless laughter. 

“That’s my happy girl,” the android woman cooed, cradling Ivy closer. Ivy pressed her face against the synthetic fabric of the woman’s shoulder and let out one final giggle, then went limp, panting dramatically.

The woman turned, carrying Ivy from the bright living room through another sliding door. The hum of machines gave way to soft music—nursery rhymes played at a low volume, looping gently beneath the faint whir of fans. The air smelled faintly of baby powder, finger paint, and plastic toys. The lights dimmed to a soft pastel glow, and Ivy blinked as her eyes adjusted.

She was lowered to the floor with robotic grace and plopped down onto her thickly padded rear with a muffled thump, the diaper beneath her squishing from the impact and making her grimace. Her knees bent, booties splayed out to either side, and her arms bobbed in front of her as the weight of her onesie pulled at her shoulders. For a moment, she just sat there, taking it all in.

The room was vast. Larger than any playroom she’d ever seen. A surreal, oversized daycare.

To her left was a wall of wooden cribs, each big enough to hold a full-grown adult. Blankets and plush toys spilled from them. Above the cribs, a painted mural showed animals napping under a cartoon sun—giraffes in footed pajamas, smiling elephants curled up with pacifiers.

Across the far side stood an array of changing tables complete with restraints and shelves of wipes, powders, and folded diapers. Between them stood open cubbies labeled with cartoonish names: “Snugglebug,” “Button,” “Princess,” “Bunny.” Not a single real name in sight.

The center of the room was carpeted in bright foam tiles, forming a sprawling play area. Toys were scattered in every direction—stacking rings, dolls, blocks, puzzles, all grotesquely sized. A short bookshelf hugged one wall, its books thick and brightly colored, oversized and soft like they were meant for toddlers with poor motor control. A reading corner was tucked into a plush nook with beanbags and a hanging mobile that spun slowly overhead. There was even a small climbing structure—padded ramps and slides no more than a few feet high, with soft netting all around.

And just beside her, sitting on his knees at a low plastic table, was Finn.

He didn’t look up. His tongue poked out slightly in concentration, his oversized mittened hand struggling to grip a crayon, nearly the size of a hairbrush—and he was scribbling across a coloring sheet in wide, aimless loops. The page was a cartoon baby lion, grinning and drooling, and Finn was trying to color its mane in orange. Trying, and failing.

Ivy let her eyes fall to the empty coloring sheet in front of her. Another cartoon animal. 

She reached for a crayon with both mittens, letting her fingers fumble. The moment the soft rubber touched her palm, she exhaled through her nose and hunched forward, as if grasping it took all her strength.

Finn looked up from his coloring page, meeting Ivy’s eyes with a long, quiet glance that held far more than words. Frustration, uncertainty, and the deep ache of being trapped in a body no longer entirely your own. He opened his mouth as if to speak—just a word, maybe her name—but the moment sound emerged, it dissolved into soft, helpless babble. “Muh… buh… guh…”

His mouth shut slowly. His expression sagged with a quiet sigh, his gaze dropping to the crayon gripped in his mittens. He didn’t try again, and Ivy didn’t blame him. She offered no nod of comfort, no returned look of sympathy, just bent her head in mirrored silence and started her coloring, the thick crayon pressing against the page in uneven, dragging strokes.

Set in a plastic tray at the center of the table were a series of pacifiers, each one cradled in a protective bubble of molded casing, glossy and pastel like candies behind glass. Ivy hadn’t noticed them at first. Not until her eyes wandered between crayon strokes, taking in the room with the sharpened focus of someone desperate to stay one step ahead. And as her gaze landed on the pacifiers, an idea bloomed in her mind.

What if the pacifiers weren’t just props?

What if they were part of the conditioning?

It would make sense, wouldn’t it? Mistress had said the “medicine” would make movement, speech, and control difficult. But perhaps that wasn’t all, maybe it did something more insidious—something emotional. A need to nurse. If that were true, and if Ivy really was the only one spared from the drug’s effects…

Then she had to play the part.

Before doubt could root itself too deeply, Ivy made her move. She let the crayon tumble from her mittened fingers with an exaggerated clack. She leaned forward, grabbed the edge of one pacifier case with both hands, and fumbled it open. The pacifier within was oversized, soft pink with a rounded mouth guard and a bulbous teat. She plucked it up, turned it once in her fingers like she was unsure, and then popped it into her mouth.

She closed her lips around it, hesitating just long enough to seem unsure, then began to suck.

The motion was awkward at first. She had to fight her instincts, and her mind screamed against it. But she let her jaw move slowly, rhythmically, just enough to show that she was nursing. Her brows relaxed, and she forced a soft exhale from her nose, letting her shoulders drop, and prayed she wasn’t wrong.

From the corner of her eye, she caught Finn watching her. Not overtly, but his eyes flicked from her face to the pacifier, then back. She didn’t look at him; she just kept nursing—gently, rhythmically—and returned to coloring, with crayons clutched weakly between both hands.

Finn reached toward the tray, his mitten skimming the plastic casing until he found one. He popped it open with uncoordinated fingers and lifted the pacifier free. For a heartbeat, he held it there, staring down at the silicone bulb as though it were something foreign. Then, with a deep breath and a soft grunt, he slid it into his mouth.

His shoulders instantly slumped, his brow smoothed. His entire body, tense and jittery just seconds ago, settled like a string finally loosened. He suckled once, twice, then began to nurse in earnest. Ivy felt a small breath escape her lips, quiet and full of relief.

It had worked; she had been right.

Then came the soft whir of hydraulics, the faint footfalls of a towering presence, and Sarah was plopped down beside Ivy with all the grace of a sack of flour. She landed with a squeak, her diaper squishing beneath her, her onesie creasing at the knees. Her breath was short, her cheeks flushed, her eyes wide and scanning. She looked at Finn, Ivy, the table, and the crayons.

Then at the pacifiers.

She watched them nurse, then studied the coloring pages, their uneven strokes, and slowly, almost cautiously, Sarah reached for a pacifier of her own.

She didn’t hesitate long. She popped it into her mouth and began to nurse. Her eyes closed for just a second as her body visibly relaxed.

Ivy’s coloring was, by any standard, a disaster. The lines might as well have been suggestions. The baby lion’s mane was a garish swirl of red and orange, its body an uneven patchwork of yellows, greens, and, inexplicably, a bold streak of blue that had no place there. The crayon in her mittened grip had slipped half a dozen times, smudging thick wax across the table and even the sleeve of her onesie. It was a mess. Exactly the kind of mess a drugged, clumsy little baby might make. Which was the point. When the page was finally filled in—if not correctly, then at least completely—Ivy let the crayon fall from her mitten and slumped back slightly, nursing the pacifier as though drained.

The towering robotic woman stepped over the padded threshold of the playmat and loomed above her. Her eyes—if they could be called that—scanned the table, then focused on Ivy’s finished page. The robot cooed, a chime of digital joy layered with an unsettling sweetness, and Ivy barely had time to brace herself before she was scooped up in a practiced motion. Her diaper squished beneath her as she was lifted, cradled against the android’s synthetic hip like a well-behaved toddler showing off her macaroni art.

“Awww, look at this!” the woman chirped, holding up the paper. “You did such a good job, baby girl! Such pretty colors!” The praise was syrupy, thick with forced excitement, each word hitting Ivy like a pat on the head from someone who didn’t think she could spell her name.

The robot carried her toward one of the walls, where children’s drawings had been tacked up with pastel tape and adhesive stars. She fixed Ivy’s scribbled masterpiece right in the center with theatrical care, placing it under a heading that read “Our Bestest Artwork!” in foam bubble letters. Then, reaching up with her free hand, she turned to the oversized class calendar just to the right. A laminated list of names had been scrawled across it—each contestant’s name written in bright marker. Beside Ivy, the android added a glittering gold star.

Ivy’s jaw clenched behind the pacifier. She had never wanted to roll her eyes more in her life. She didn’t. Instead, she forced her eyes wide, lifted her mittened hands to her chest, and let out a stream of excited giggles—each one carefully pitched, airy, and innocent, as though the star truly meant something to her. She wriggled in the woman’s grasp as if overcome with delight, her cheeks flushed, not from joy but from the exhausting pretense of pretending joy.

The robot spun slightly, turning them away from the calendar wall and toward the reading corner.

Ivy’s eyes dropped, and she saw them. No. Please, no.

A row of bouncers.

Five, spaced evenly, each one decorated in bright pastel colors. The kind designed for toddlers just learning to sit upright, their elastic cords promising both containment and humiliating bounces with every movement. The sight alone made her stomach churn. She tried to shift subtly in the robot’s arms, to resist, but the android was already kneeling, already threading her legs through the wide holes.

“Time for cartoons, baby girl!” the robotic voice trilled, fastening Ivy into place with efficient clicks of shoulder and waist straps. Ivy winced as her already messy diaper was squished and compressed against her, spreading with a thick, clammy heat that made her want to scream.

Then the robot gestured toward a panel set into the bookshelf, disguised as part of the structure but unmistakably technological. A screen blinked to life. Cheerful, high-pitched, and cloying music played, the kind of tune meant to hypnotize the very young or very drugged. Bright shapes spun on the screen, and then came the characters.

Naomi and Oliver.