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I got this idea from the Story Ideas Adoption Thread. It will be a series of episodes examining aspects of the Littles Protection Service, a government authority run within the Diaper Dimension. Please comment, give love, criticism. If you have an idea for inclusion as an episode, please get in touch. (ala, maybe @BabySofia, an episode where the LPS visits Stacey Westerfield, perhaps?) ---- The Little Protection Service - Episode 1 - Case Number 149-250913 Main Character: Bella Mackenzie, Case Worker The LPS is a government authority with the mandate to enforce and promote the protection of Littles in the Amazon Dimension. Its' employees are mostly case workers and investigators, which deal with reports of harm to Littles day in and day out. When reports of cruelty to a Little are received, they're investigated. It may be required for the case worker to remove the Little from the situation, and either place them in a temporary emergency care arrangement, or pass them to a Littles Broker for adoption. But we all know that Littles caught in the system just end up in an Etiquette School. They're just babies, deserving of ridicule after all. Sometimes, rarely, they tug at the heart strings, and the case worker goes above and beyond to re-home them. Other times, the Little deserves whatever they get coming to them. These are their stories. [BONG BONG] The Judge adjusted his reading glasses carefully atop the bridge of his massive nose, and stared down into the quietish courtroom. He looked across at the stack of case files for the day, a stack that was slowly but inexorably being whittled down as the hours progressed. Picking up the top case file, he quickly scanned its contents, and sighed. "Case Number 149-250913 in the matter of ... State versus Janet May Feebly", he read off the case sheet, before looking up and surveying the LPS Court Room. I made a quick note of the case number within my beaten and weathered notebook. The prosecutor shuffled files across her desk, whilst standing behind it, picked out a file, and then looked around. There was no other movement. No-one from the gallery approached the gate leading to the empty Defendant's Table, the table that had just been vacated by the previous case. "Miss Jones, is the Defendant here?", the Judge queried, annoyance flecked within his otherwise quiet voice. "Umm...", the Prosecutor looked around the room for the Defendant, or their Counsel. Seeing neither, she looked back up towards the Judge, "No, Your Honour, it doesn't look like they have presented to the Court". "Fine. This looks to be the third time for this Defendant", the Judge noted as he shuffled through the case notes again. "Sheriff, please raise a warrant for the arrest of Janet Feebly, for failing to appear". The Sheriff approached the Bench, and retrieved the case file from the Judge. "Yes, Your Honour", before returning to his desk, and placing the case file on top of a slowly growing stack of case files. "I think we might take a 30 minute recess", the Judge formally announced, before bringing his gavel to the bench with a resounding bang, standing, and retiring through a side door. I sat in my position in the front row of the gallery for a few minutes, as the majority of people shuffled out through the main doors back into the court complex. Rather than scratching the case number out, I added a question mark to it, and filed the notebook into my handbag. Today was going to be a long day. There seemed to be a higher number of no-shows today for some reason, I noticed via the stack of files on the Sheriff's desk. I looked at the simple digital watch on my left wrist and decided that I'd better flitter back off to work, so I filed out of the LPS Court Room, through the main foyer of the Court complex, and plunged into the blinding sunlight outside. I stopped and retrieved my sunnies from my handbag, placing them on my nose just so, before looking across the road to my work place. The Littles Protection Service. What a misnomer of a title. We more often than not forcibly removed Littles from their families, and in the majority of cases, these poor creatures ended up in far worse situations than if we'd left them alone. Protection? Please! We were obligated to investigate all complaints according to the law. Where this broke down was the sheer volume of calls received every day, and cases, overwhelming our limited resources. We were simply unable to complete a quality investigation of every situation, and so, it was invariably the Little that copped the short straw. Sad really, when I take the time to sit and think. I had grand hopes and desires and dreams when I started with the LPS. I was genuinely concerned for the Littles welfare, and interested in making the lives of Littles safer, more caring, and have more hope and opportunity. Now, I'm just horrified at the reality of it all, the brutality of some of the kids so-called "families". Little lives at this time were fraught with danger, and uncertainty. A Little could be swept up off the street by an Amazon, and adopted, leading to a life of diapers, regression, and babification. They often never knew when were going to turn up on their doorstep, our in-quotes "investigation" complete, with only the final step to remove them to a in-quotes "safe place". I still cared for those Littles, but I too had to begrudgingly acknowledge there was a process to follow. This didn't mean I always followed it, like an automaton. Process rankled me, pushed my buttons. My bosses knew this. Outwardly, I'd be cautioned, but on the sly, they were often as jaded and frustrated as I was. Today, as I sat in that Court Room, I was curious of the circumstances of Case Number 149-250913. Every time I walked into the foyer of the Joseph P Meyers Building, home of the LPS, I looked down at the giant marbled logo on the floor - "Department of Justice - Littles Protection Service". It would not be hard to spit on that logo, and I'm sure others have done exactly that, but I'd think such an act would be an instant CLM, a career limiting move, to those of us who worked there. A swipey pass through the security gates, and into the elevator, I pressed #9, and waited for the doors to close. "Awesome, you have blessed us with your presence, once more, Princess Bella!", came a voice behind an outstretched hand, eager to catch the same lift. "Cut out the Princess bullshit, Marty, or I'll report you to HR", I responded back towards my immediate manager. All the same, my cheeks began to glow a deep pink. I loved being called a princess when I was young. Marty slid into the elevator just in the nick of time, the doors sliding closed a fraction of a second after he crossed the threshold from floor to lift car. He chuckled, as his deep blue eyes scanned me from my glossy black flat shoes to the tight bundle of deep brown hair within a cream ribbon bow perched precariously atop my head. I hated it when he did that, so demeaning. I would never seriously go to HR though. Marty was that kind of manager which gave me freedom and space to work on my own quirky cases. I too put my head down, and pushed through a sizable workload each month, like all the other case workers did in our section. He depended on me at times, to take some sensitive cases off the grid, on the down-low, and be discreet about them. So he compensated for that stress, by letting me do my own little pet projects. Maybe Case Number -913 would be one of those "pet projects". I treated my pet projects as a way to recharge my internal batteries, reset my emotions, readjust my reality meter. I get so drained by cases which end up being messy, or have a tragic outcome. It's way too easy to burn out emotionally and physically in this job, dealing with the shit families, the abuse, the lies, the heartache of a snatched loved Little. My coping mechanism is to just tune out, become that automaton the Establishment always wants us to become. So I must recharge from time to time. Otherwise I'd go crazy, have a meltdown, and quit. Get depressed, and harm myself. Spiral out of control. End up in a mental institution, or a hospital, or even worse. Sitting at my desk, I tapped the keyboard peeking out from under a few new case folders, and sat transfixed at the large screen perched in one far corner of the desk. It was asking me for my password. After typing about 30 characters, it finally granted me access to the content of my PC, and more importantly, the LPS Intranet. It was an easy task to navigate to the screen where I could specify a court Case Number. Retrieving the notebook from my handbag, I typed in the 9 digits, and smashed the return key. Janet May Feebly, aged in her late 50's, had one Little registered to her under adoption, name of Annie Feebly, aged 29. No known natural children. Not married. One sister, mid-60's, recently deceased, 4 months ago. Hmmm... The LPS Case Officer took the Little away from Ms Feebly's care a little over two months ago. In that time, the location of the Little should have been recorded in the Case, but as per usual practice, that field was blank. The Officer did note that the Little was slightly malnourished, and had bruises over her body. A classic case of neglect and abuse. We saw this kind of case all the time. I clicked onto the thumbnail photo of the Little. A cute girl otherwise, sad eyes, no smile. I could see a worn and tattered peter-pan type collar right at the bottom of the photo. I looked at Ms Feebly's street address, 20 minutes away. Hmmm... I've seen this kind of case before too. Looked to be straight-forward, open and shut, but my senses thought otherwise. "Marty, can I grab the squad car for an hour or so?", I inquired towards my chauvinistic manager after hitting "Print", and retrieving the case description off the printer next to my desk. He instantly reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a keyring, and threw it across the desk divider towards me. "Thanks boss-man", I threw back at him. "Lunch, Princess Bella!", he yelled back at departing me. "Whatever!", I yelled out as the elevator door closed up tight. ---- Twenty minutes turned into forty with an accident on the freeway leading out to Orchard Hills, a deceptive up-market name for a lower-class neighborhood. I came to a stop in the driveway of number 15 Smythwood Drive, and sat in the now-quiet car examining the scene in front of me. This lady was not married, so the lawns were weeds, and quite unkempt. The grass had not been mowed in some time. I could not see any garden beds, though a single red Rose bush poked out above the weeds and rubbish, tapping its thorns against the front window of a quaint run-down house in tune with the wafting breeze. "Ok, lets go", I steeled myself. These were the bittersweet moments, the initial jump into the unknown of a new case. My heart began to race as I locked the squad car up. No sooner had the car alarm's Beep-Beep emitted, I noticed a slight rustling of the front window curtains. Someone was home. "Hello, are you Ms Feebly?", I asked whilst peering through the flyscreen door at a lady shying away into the blackness of the house interior. "What do you want?", she responded quietly, nervously. "I'm Bella Mackenzie from the LPS, Maam. I noticed that you didn't appear in Court today. May I come in?" The thin lady behind the screen hesitated for a few seconds, her eyes thinking. I wondered whether she only just then realised she needed to be in Court. Pretty soon, she was going to be forced by the Sheriff, whenever he got off his ass and came out here to arrest her. "What do you want?", she repeated. "I want to talk to you about your case." It was hard to see very much, with the glare from the hot midday sun beating down on the concrete front porch. There was no shade. "It's really hot out here, so I really would appreciate it if I could step inside, please?" The lady relented, and opened the door for me. The interior was also unkempt, but not an absolute mess, as contrasted to outside. It was much cooler in here than out though. "Thank you, I really do appreciate not standing out there in that sun" The lady motioned me over to a seat at the dining room table. She looked frail, but in her frailty, I could see that she still had some pride in herself. She was, perhaps, just coping. "What do you want?", she repeated again. "I'm really sorry for your loss of your sister, Maam", I opened. Process. Be kind and gentle, non-threatening. "She died, what, six months ago?", I respectfully spoke. "No, four" "Oh, I'm very sorry". I knew that answer, but I had to get her to talk to me. I watched, as the lady started to disintegrate into quiet sobs. I reached into my handbag, and took out a few tissues, handing them to her. Process. Be respectful. "May I ask how she died?" "Stage 3 to 4 breast cancer". More sobs. "Oh". Unexpected. "We only twigged to it when Annie told her of a lump in her left breast, some nine months ago. But by then, it was too late for the doctors to do anything. They sent my sister back home, to live with Annie and I in her final days." "Was Annie breastfeeding off her at the time?", I inquired. "No. They were close, Annie and my sister were. Mardi adored the girl. So did I for that matter." "Oh. It says on our case notes that Annie had bruises on her body. Can you tell me how they got there?" "Is this what you're here for? To arrest me?" "No, I'm here to get an understanding of what happened to Annie, and the circumstances of her removal, that's all." The lady squirmed on her seat, obviously uncomfortable having to confront the loss of Annie. She looked incredibly sad, grieved by the loss of both sister ahd child, and defeated by the process. I sat, and waited. Process. Be patient, and let them talk. "Mardi lived here with Annie and I. In the later weeks of her illness, she became delirious, and lashed out at anything and every one, including Annie, and myself. Poor Annie copped a lot, and she couldn't understand what her Aunty Mardi was doing, why she was acting the way she was. Mardi was in so much pain towards the end." I had started taking notes. The story that Ms Feebly was telling gave me the shivers. If she was right, we'd fucked up. "It was reported that Annie was under-weight" "As Mardi was on her death bed, I became depressed at the despair of it all, and her suffering. I was losing my sister, my only living blood relative, so my focus was on her. Poor Annie, she found herself having to grow up because of my inattention, fend for herself. I should never have done that to her..". She stopped and sobbed. I sat, quiet as a mouse, and waited patiently for Ms Feebly to continue. "Annie ... umm... Annie took her Aunty's infirmity and death very hard, and withdrew into herself. Annie was all I had, and I tried to reconnect to her, to show her that even after the death of a loved one, life still went on, that life could still go on for Annie and I." I cracked up, a tear fell from my left eye, my weak eye. I reached for a tissue myself, and quickly dabbed away the wet drop. Stupid process. Don't show any emotion. The lady got up out of her seat, and shuffled off into an unseen part of the house, returning a few minutes later with some papers, placing them gently on the table with shaky hands. I reached across, and started reading them. Doctors notes, concluding that Annie was depressed, and withdrawn. Another note from Mardi Feebly's treating doctor to Ms Feebly to up the pain medications in an attempt to stop violent outbursts, effectively sedating the poor woman. Another random local doctor's certificate explaining a visit to the clinic by Annie for bruises, dated around the same time. A photo, taken by persons unknown, showing the state that Mardi was in, the dishevelled bedroom, marks on the walls. Mardi had gone mad. "Did the LPS not take copies of these?" "No" "May I take a photo of these?", I asked quietly. Process. Gather evidence. I quickly remembered back to what was on my computer screen. There were no notes regarding any evidence taken before, during, or after Annie was removed into LPS care. More fuckup. "Sure" As I began to take photos of the pages on the table with my mobile phone camera, I noticed another photo appear from within the stack. It was one taken in happier times, with Mardi, a very cute little Annie playing up for the camera, and Janet Feebly standing behind Annie, hands on Annie's shoulders, looking very proud and motherly. We'd fucked up. Mardi died, Annie withdrew, and Janet broke down, depressed. But I couldn't tell Ms Feebly that. I couldn't admit guilt on behalf of the Department. Process. I could almost fuck that process right the fuck off. I looked up and into Ms Feebly's bloodshot and teary eyes, and reached out to touch her chin. "I promise you this, Ms Feebly. I will find your child for you." I left her to her despair, her grief, her loss. I left her before my blood boiled over. Annie should never have been taken away from the woman. Only God knew how Annie was feeling about all this. And only God knew where the poor girl was. As I drove away from Ms Feebly's home, I felt my batteries recharging. They had to be fully energised before I walked into my manager's boss's office and dumped this pile of steaming incorrectness on his desk. Sometimes the LPS did good work. Most of the time though? We fucked up, or just didn't give a rats. I had to find that girl, and unfuck this part of the system.