Ivy barely had time to flinch before a pair of arms slid beneath her knees and shoulders, lifting her from the bouncer with the impersonal tenderness of an assembly line. Her legs hung limply, her soaked and messy diaper drooping between them, as the arms turned and deposited her onto a padded changing table with all the ceremony of shelving a toy.

The others followed, each of them hoisted like dolls from their seats and moved with similar efficiency. Their eyes darted about, but no one struggled. What would be the point? The arms didn’t care how clever you were. They didn’t react to sarcasm or scowls. They just did their job.

Gloved fingers, too gentle to be kind, unsnapped Ivy’s onesie and peeled it away, exposing the swollen diaper beneath. It crinkled as it was undone, the tapes peeling away. Cold air met her damp skin, and she fought the urge to wince, instead letting her gaze fix on the ceiling—a mural of smiling cartoon clouds and pastel balloons. The table adjusted beneath her, shifting slightly to elevate her hips, and a warm wipe passed over her bare sex, between her cheeks, front to back.

Her face flushed as the fresh diaper was slid beneath her. A cloud of powder followed. The tapes were fastened snug enough to remind her that she was, without question, still in the game.

The soft cotton sleeper came next. It had a zipper up the front and was thick at the bottom, where it ballooned around the diaper. The arms threaded her limbs through it, zipped her up, and lifted her again, over the edge of the changing table, down the corridor, and into a walker.

The seat caught her under her thighs. The straps clicked shut, tightening over her chest. Her toes brushed the floor, and the padded tray locked around her. The walker bobbed slightly as it settled into place.

She was parked in a hallway of brushed steel and muted lighting. The air was clean, humming faintly with machinery and the sound of distant vents, and then the soft shuffle of another walker being clicked into place beside her.

Finn arrived next, and he didn’t speak. Maria followed, rubbing at her face with her mittened hand as if trying to wipe away whatever humiliation still clung there. A scowling Sarah arrived last.

Ivy’s walker creaked as she shifted, plastic wheels twitching with every nervous adjustment of her feet. Around her, the others did the same.

There were no instructions, no commands from Mistress, no overhead voice. No mechanical arms bearing down on them with bibs or bottles or the next humiliation waiting on gloved fingers.

Just… nothing.

They shared uncertain glances. Because if you’re told to crawl, to drink, to mess, to obey… at least you know where the lines are.

“Why are we out here?” Maria finally said, her voice edged with confusion. Her walker shifted slightly as she leaned forward, rubber soles squeaking faintly. “Are we all babies again? Or… caregivers?” She looked up at the wall across from them, frowning. “Where’s the display?”

Ivy followed her gaze and immediately noticed what she hadn’t until now. The screen that displayed their caregiver's or baby's status was blank. There were no shifting boxes or status assignment, just a dull grey panel, humming softly as though asleep.

Maria turned back, eyes darting between the group. “What the hell is going on?”

“Good question,” Finn muttered, voice low but firm. “I’d really love an answer that isn’t a riddle or a lullaby.”

Sarah shrugged as she leaned into her walker and pushed off down the hallway like she had somewhere better to be. “Honestly?” she said over her shoulder, “after everything they’ve put us through, I’m not about to question a little silence. If they wanna give me five minutes without a mechanical tickle monster or a bowl of mush, I’ll take it.”

The rest of them hesitated for just a moment longer.

“C’mon,” Ivy said finally, pushing her walker forward, the diaper between her legs crinkling. “Let’s see what’s waiting for us.”

The other two followed behind her.

The wheels of Ivy’s walker squeaked against the smooth tile as she rolled into the living room. The room had been altered yet again.

Gone were the soft pastel colors, the plush rugs shaped like cartoon animals, the foam furniture that had invited them to sit. In their place stretched a room that looked clinical. The walls had been stripped of murals, now smooth and clean with a faint satin sheen, a muted lavender color that dulled the edges of the space.

The furniture had changed, too. Real couches now sat arranged around a sunken carpet pit in the center of the room, not babyish foam things, but adult-sized, high-backed, upholstered in gray fabric with stiff edges. Chairs with rigid arms. Tables that didn’t have rounded corners or safety bumpers. Ivy had no idea how they were expected to use any of this furniture, not while they were strapped into the walkers.

Where toys once lay scattered in chaotic patterns, there were now small stations. Four of them. One had a stack of books—actual books, hardcovers with proper bindings—lined up neatly next to a small tablet with a glowing screen. Another had a game board with stylized pieces arranged mid-play, and a digital timer resting beside it. The third was a long table with plain white trays of building blocks and rods, not brightly colored, but cool metallic tones, geometric. The fourth, most curious, was simply a full-length mirror.

In the center of the room, arranged where the toy pit once sprawled, was a round table surrounded by four highchairs. These were not baby highchairs—those had tray tables and footrests and colorful cushions. These were tall, almost throne-like, molded plastic with harness buckles and a solid base. Everyone of them faced inward, as though designed for a council of toddlers trying to govern themselves.

Finn’s walker clunked softly as he reached Ivy’s side. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again, as if the words he wanted didn’t quite fit the scene.

“What... is this?” Maria said quietly, her voice brittle around the edges. She didn’t sound scared. Just confused in a way that settled too deep.

Sarah snorted. “Looks like a daycare for CEOs.”

Ivy’s walker creaked as she nudged it toward the nearest station. The wheels caught slightly on the edge of the carpet before bouncing over it, the soft crinkle of her diaper underscoring every inch of progress. She didn’t know why she was drawn to the books. Maybe it was instinct. She stopped beside the low shelf and bent awkwardly, mittens fumbling at the spine of the topmost book.

The gloves dulled her grip and turned every motion into a negotiation, but she managed to drag the cover forward enough for it to fall into view. The title was stamped in embossed black ink on a slate-gray background.

The Psychological Reformation of Mental and Physical Regression

Her eyebrows lifted, just slightly. She adjusted the pacifier hanging from its ribbon at her chest and tilted the book to read more of the subtitle: A Comprehensive Framework for Sustainable Infantile Conditioning.

“What the—” she muttered under her breath.

She flipped it open, thumbing through pages as best as the mittens allowed. It was dense. Small type, long paragraphs, footnotes. This wasn’t some nursery prop or themed picture book. This was a manual, written like a psychology textbook, the kind you’d find on the back shelf of a research library—or in the office of someone whose job required justifying the systematic dismantling of adult autonomy.

Every other book on the shelf bore similar titles: Developmental Regression and Obedience Pathways, Language Erosion in Early-Stage Behavioral Therapy, and The Role of Diaper Reliance in Emotional Resetting. None of them even tried to hide what they were. There were no metaphors, no softened terminology.

Finn rolled up beside her, his walker bumping gently against hers with a soft click. He didn’t say anything right away, just leaned forward to get a better look. His eyes scanned the titles, his brow furrowed.

“I was hoping for a novel,” he said after a moment, voice flat.

Ivy gave a humorless huff, her hands still resting awkwardly on the book in her lap. “Yeah, well. I was hoping for a fire alarm and a crowbar.”

He picked up a book and squinted at the spine. Pre-Linguistic Conditioning through Visual Stimuli. He didn’t even bother opening it. “What are these supposed to be? Lessons? Warnings?”

“They’re guides,” Ivy said, voice barely above a whisper. “Like… training manuals.”

“For whom?” Finn asked, eyes flicking to hers

Ivy shrugged, just as confused as he was.

These weren’t items intended to entertain or comfort. They were about control, about reshaping identity, about breaking down and building up again.

“Uh, guys?” Sarah’s voice cut through the quiet like a ripple through still water—sharp, edged with something caught between curiosity and alarm. “You might wanna come look at this.”

Ivy turned, her walker’s front wheels jerking slightly as she pivoted, the tray bumping her hips. Finn glanced up from the book in his lap, Maria pausing beside the mirror wall with a vaguely suspicious expression. The three of them rolled toward the far corner of the room, where Sarah was hunched beside one of the previously overlooked consoles, her fingers tapping the edge of a flat touchscreen embedded into a desk-like surface. A digital glow illuminated her face from below, casting odd shadows under her eyes.

Her mittened fingers moved in short, purposeful swipes, navigating through what looked like a menu, clean, white font over a pink and gray interface.

“What is it?” Finn asked, reaching her side. The rest crowded in behind him, the tight circle of walkers pressing uncomfortably close.

Sarah pointed at the top of the screen.

The words read: Adoption Readiness Metrics – Group 9A-Red.

Below that, a series of charts, graphs, and profile tabs bloomed to life with every flick of Sarah’s finger. Each one bore a name, not numbers, actual names, their names.

Each profile was loaded with data. Tabs marked Compliance, Cognitive Reduction Progress, Physical Comfort with Regression, Attachment Response Scores. A window pulsed softly in the corner labeled Public Display Viability Rating.

“What… the hell,” Maria breathed, leaning in, her voice small in a way Ivy hadn’t heard before. Her eyes scanned her profile—rows of sliders, a progress bar labeled Regression Index, glowing softly at 68%. “Is this a joke?”

Sarah’s finger tapped the screen again, pulling up another tab labeled Interested Parties.

Ivy’s breath caught. Four blocks, side by side, like digital folders in a filing cabinet. Each had a set of initials and a cryptic ID code, followed by descriptive preferences.

Seeks quiet, docile match. Favorable to early-stage regression. Responsive to tactile play.

Prefers high-performance Littles with strong attachment imprinting. Must be bottle-acclimated.

Requires mute or near-mute behaviors. No verbal autonomy desired. Required total diaper dependency.

The cold clarity of the adoption screen hadn’t faded when Ivy turned away from it, her heart still pounding in uneven bursts that made it hard to breathe. She needed space. Her walker squeaked slightly as she rolled toward the far wall, back to the mirror. The others continued poring over the screen, voices lowered, sentences sharp and clipped. But Ivy felt herself detach from it, like her name on the adoption profile had torn something loose inside her and let it drift.

She came to a stop in front of the mirror. It reflected her exactly as she was: dressed in a pale lavender sleeper zipped to the chin, mittened hands resting on the tray of her walker, legs dangling, thick diaper beneath the puffy fabric. Her hair was messy, and her face was pale. The pacifier clipped to her collar bobbed with her breath. She looked like a baby.

The mirror shimmered just once, as if a screen behind glass had hesitated between frames. Ivy blinked and leaned forward. Her nose nearly touched the surface. There it was again—a brief ripple, like water disturbed from beneath.

Then something appeared. A line of text, soft and pale, faint enough she could’ve missed it if she hadn’t been watching.

Please, come back to us, baby girl.

Ivy’s breath stopped. She stared, eyes wide. The words lingered for half a heartbeat longer before vanishing, swallowed back into the silver sheen of the mirror as if they’d never been there.

She backed away, her heart thudding. Her hands clenched against the foam of her mittens. Her first thought was, Mistress, this was a game, a planted illusion—something to confuse her, destabilize her, and fray her edges further. But the message… it hadn’t felt like her voice.

Her walker creaked again as she turned, scanning the walls. Everything still looked the same. Sarah, Finn, and Maria were still bent over the screen, too focused on their findings to notice anything else. But Ivy’s eyes caught a sliver of light tucked into the seam between two floor panels nearby—barely more than a crack. She rolled closer, heart thudding. There, nestled in the seam, something had been slipped beneath the flooring.

A scrap of paper.

She reached for it, fumbling with her mittened hands, gritting her teeth in frustration until she managed to pinch it just enough to pull it free. Then, with jerky, imprecise motions, she unfolded it.

Childish handwriting in crayon. The kind that pretended to be playful but couldn't hide the urgency in its shakiness.

We see you. We’re trying. Stay strong. Mommy & Daddy love you.