diaper dimension Shadow of Liberty - Chapter 17: Homeward Bound - final (25/03/05)

[Ericc]

Summertime is over and it’s time to dive into the next part of Diminished horizons

enjoy, you beautiful people.

 

————

Book 2 : Shadow Of Liberty

 

Prologue

Dean Norris leaned back in her oversized leather chair, a manic grin spreading across her face. The morning sun streamed through the large window behind her, illuminating the chaos of her office. Papers were strewn everywhere, and the air hummed with her frenetic energy. Her assistants, Jane and Mark, stood rigid, trying to mask their discomfort as she erupted into one of her erratic tirades.

"Can you believe the gall of those Littles?" Dean Norris's voice dripped with venomous delight. "They thought they could pull off a heist in my library! Bixente, Adrian, those pathetic little rodents believed they could outsmart me! It's almost adorable, really."

Jane exchanged an uneasy glance with Mark, a spark of concern flaring in her eyes. She knew too well the depths of Dean Norris's delusions of grandeur.

"Of course, it was a trap from the start!" Dean Norris continued, her fingers drumming frantically on the polished wood of her desk. "They walked right into our clutches! Just like mice caught in a snare! And who swoops in to save the day? Me! Thanks to my brilliant mind, we thwarted their little escapade." She cackled to herself, her laughter echoing off the office walls.

Mark shifted, unease settling heavily in his chest. He remembered the chaos and desperation wrought by the attempted heist. But here was Dean Norris, reveling in her own twisted narrative, painting herself as the ultimate hero.

"They'll face full regression into toddlerhood for this," Dean Norris declared, her eyes gleaming with a feverish delight. "Etiquette school, tantrum training, the whole nine yards! They need a harsh reminder that Littles belong in their rightful places."

Jane felt compelled to speak. "Dean Norris, are you really sure this is the best course of action? They were just trying to reclaim—"

"Reclaim!?" Dean ripped her gaze towards Jane, the manic glee flashing into fury. "Oh, how naïve! Do you actually believe they deserve autonomy? They're nothing but infants wrapped in adult bodies! They must learn their lessons the hard way!"

Jane swallowed hard as Dean leaned in closer, her eyes narrowing dangerously. "You dare question my judgment? Whose side are you on, anyway? The Littles? They’re the problem, Jane. They’re the chaos in my perfectly ordered universe!"

Mark finally found his voice amid the storm. "But, Dean Norris, the media could—"

"The media!" Dean scoffed, waving her hands dismissively. "The media only spins what we feed them! And we will tell them that Emerson University is a fortress of stability! A shining beacon among the chaos! Those Littles? They’ll be treated as the villains they are—misguided, foolish, and deserving of every consequence that falls on them."

Jane felt her pulse race. "But what about the families of those Littles? The communities? They’ll demand answers, Dean!"

Dean Norris leaned back, her grin widening to an unnerving extent. "Parents? Communities? They can be smothered with pretty words and empty promises. A few scholarships here, some flashy statements there—easy peasy! We can make them believe whatever we want. This is the narrative now."

Mark pushed back, his frustration boiling over. "This isn’t just about controlling the narrative! It’s about actual people! About doing the right thing!"

Dean Norris's laughter rang out, dark and chaotic. "Right? Right is what I say it is! Their choices led them astray, and now they will pay. This conversation is over!" she bellowed, her voice echoing with manic authority.

Jane and Mark exchanged pained glances, concern deepening as they turned to leave her office. The air felt thick with the looming storm of consequences, and they both knew Dean Norris was spiraling further into her delusion of control and righteousness.

——

 

Captain Smith reclined in his chair, eyes locked onto the flickering screen displaying grainy CCTV footage. Shadows danced across the muted glow, illuminating a startling scene: a figure in a nurse's uniform deftly wheeling a sedated Bixente out of the hospital. The man’s unsettling smile—wide and too bright—gleamed like a clown’s in the dark.

"Who the hell is this guy?" Captain John asked, leaning closer, squinting at the screen with a mix of curiosity and wariness. "He’s moving like he owns the place."

Smith tapped his fingers against the cool table, a habit born from years of wild anticipation. "Definitely not one of ours," he replied, his voice low but firm.

John shook his head vigorously. "Impossible. None of our agents would take such reckless risks. Look at him—he's too clean, too... showy."

Smith’s voice took on a chilling finality. "Agreed. He's not one of ours. And his audacity suggests he's laying the groundwork for something bigger."

A smirk crept onto John's face. "Think he’s part of the Littles’ resistance? Sounds like something they’d dream up."

Smith let out a dry laugh that echoed in the dim room. "Doubtful. Littles lack the resources for this kind of operation. And look at him—he's enjoying this way too much."

"Could he be a Mid?" John pondered, but the suggestion hung in the air without conviction.

"Possible, but highly unlikely," Smith replied, his furrowed brow revealing his deep thought. "Mids typically won’t risk this level of exposure unless there’s a payoff."

John crossed his arms, frustration simmering beneath his composed exterior. "So, what’s our move? We can’t just sit back and watch."

Smith’s eyes gleamed with cold calculation. "We wait. This wildcard could spark unforeseen chaos, creating the perfect opportunity for us to dismantle the Littles trafficking ring once and for all."

John arched an eyebrow, intrigued yet cautious. "Using him as a pawn, huh? Clever. But that’s a risky play."

"All great plans invite risk," Smith countered with a knowing smile. "Especially this one."

Silence enveloped the room as they scrutinized the footage, the mysterious figure moving into the unknown—a stark contrast to the lifeless Bixente slumped in the wheelchair.

Suddenly, the screen flickered, diverting their attention. It revealed a restroom. A young man, tall and lean, stepped out of a stall, his casual attire jarring against the clinical surroundings. A smirk tugged at his lips as he turned towards the hidden camera, his gaze locking onto theirs with an unsettling confidence.

"Who's this joker?" Smith’s voice dripped with contempt as he leaned in closer.

John's expression darkened, reading the challenge written on the man’s face. "Looks like he knows he’s being watched."

Before they could delve deeper, Argos’s calm, unfeeling voice cut through the tension. "Gentlemen, the individual you are observing is identified as Aiden Ricoh."

"Wait, Aiden Ricoh?" Smith felt a flicker of recognition igniting his memory. "That name rings a bell."

Argos continued, "He was a PhD student notorious for his cunning and charming deceit. However, there is a complication."

Smith exchanged a charged glance with John. "What complication?"

Argos’s tone remained matter-of-fact, as if delivering a grim report. "Aiden Ricoh died one hundred years ago."

John’s jaw dropped in disbelief. "What the hell? He’s clearly alive!"

Argos persisted, unwavering. "The records are unequivocal. His death was confirmed a century ago."

Smith’s mind raced, attempting to fit the pieces together. "So, what are we looking at? A ghost? A doppelgänger?"

"Or perhaps someone is pulling our strings in an elaborate game," John suggested, his frustration boiling over.

The screen displayed Aiden again, this time pushing Bixente’s wheelchair. His grin widened, teasing confidence washing over him as he relished their confusion.

"This isn’t just about Bixente anymore," Smith said, determination sharpening his voice. "This guy—whoever he is—knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s putting us to the test."

John nodded slowly, his expression darkening. "A twisted game of cat and mouse."

Smith’s lips curled into a determined smile. "And we’ll be the cats in this hunt."

"Proceed with caution," Argos interjected. "The individual demonstrates an awareness of our surveillance systems."

Smith rose, a newfound resolve anchoring him. "Then we step up our game. Argos, track every move he makes. John, alert our teams. We need to uncover the truth behind Aiden Ricoh and his intentions."

John's eyes shone with competitive energy. "And when we do, we’ll ensure he pays dearly for crossing us."

As Aiden’s mocking smile loomed on the screen, a wave of focus swept through Smith and John. The stakes were climbing, and for them, the game was just beginning.

"Wait for the perfect moment," Smith advised, his fingers poised over the keyboard. Argos’s voice chimed in, pulling their focus again.

"Gentlemen, there’s another pressing matter that requires your attention."

John shot a questioning look at Smith, his curiosity piqued. "What now?"

The screen shifted from Aiden to footage from the final assault on the underground facility. Bixente and Adrian, both Littles, pinned down behind a stack of crates, the echoes of gunfire painting a grim picture.

"What’s happening here?" Smith asked, his attention peaked as he analyzed every detail.

"This is footage from the final confrontation," Argos explained, the tension climbing as they watched the chaos unfold.

Suddenly, a figure emerged from the shadows—Aiden, fluid and predatory in motion. Without hesitation, he raised his weapon and fired at Bixente and Adrian, who collapsed instantly, lifeless.

John’s jaw tightened, disbelief washing over him. "Why would he shoot them?"

Smith’s mind was a whirlwind of thoughts. "This doesn’t add up. He later rescued Bixente. Why would he act so deliberately?"

"Perhaps he had a change of heart?” John suggested, his voice laced with confusion.

Smith shook his head, frustration bubbling to the surface. "Too calculated. He was in control of his actions."

The footage shifted again, showing Aiden dragging Bixente away, his demeanor ghostly calm, devoid of remorse.

John ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident. "This guy’s a puzzle, but what’s his ultimate goal?"

Argos chimed in, "The motives behind Aiden's actions remain obscure. However, his movements suggest a comprehensive strategy at play."

Letting out a weary sigh, John replied, "So, what’s our next step? We can’t afford to sit idly by."

Smith leaned back, deep in thought. "We wait. We watch. Aiden is a calculated player, and he’s bound to make a move soon. When he does, we’ll be ready to act."

John’s brow furrowed in defiance. "Patience isn’t my strong suit."

Smith’s smile was sharp, resolute. "Sometimes, waiting is the most strategic move. We’ll see how our wildcard plays his hand."

As the surveillance loop continued, Aiden’s enigmatic grin lingered, fueling the tension in the room. For Smith and John, the hunt was on. And in this high-stakes game, they couldn’t afford to lose.

——

I woke to the soft notes of a lullaby, the melody yanking me out of the darkness. As my eyes opened, my heart raced. I saw a pastel-colored baby mobile spinning above me, and panic hit me like a truck. I was in a Little's nursery. Everything around me felt like a sick joke.

The blue walls with their stupid murals seemed to laugh at me. The rocking chair in the corner looked more like a torture device than a place to find any comfort. And that changing table, piled high with diapers and wipes, was a relentless reminder of how far I’d fallen.

As I shifted, an awful realization hit me. The wet diaper was already degrading enough, but now it was fully loaded, pressing against me in the most disgusting way. The humiliation was like a wave crashing over me, drowning me in shame and anger. How could this have happened? I'm not a baby!

The smell started to hit me, making my stomach turn even more than it already was. My face burned with humiliation. I wanted to scream, to lash out, to do anything to get out of this degrading situation.

"Seriously?" I muttered to myself, my voice thick with frustration and disgust. "This just keeps getting better and better."

I couldn’t let them see me like this. The thought of someone seeing me in a soiled diaper was unbearable. I felt a sob clawing its way up my throat, but I swallowed it down. No. I couldn't afford to break down now.

I grabbed the bars of the crib, gripping them so hard my knuckles turned white. It was like being in a jail cell, trapped and helpless. My stomach churned.

"Where the hell am I?" I whispered, my voice trembling with fear.

Bits and pieces of memory assaulted me. The heist gone wrong. The Hellcats trying to save me. Getting caught. How did everything spiral into this nightmare? My fingers brushed against the bandage on my forehead, the wound a gaping hole in my memory.

I scanned the room, my eyes landing on a small bookshelf filled with children’s books and plush toys—a grotesque parody of innocence. Nausea twisted in my gut, and it felt like the room was spinning. I wanted to scream. I wasn’t a child. This place was a twisted version of everything I held dear.

"Think, Bix," I urged myself, forcing air into my lungs. "You’re still you. They can’t take that away."

Every time I moved, the diaper crinkled, each sound a serrated edge slicing away at my dignity. Heat rushed to my face, a mix of shame and seething anger. I was Bixente Echavoyen, damn it. I wasn’t going to let this place break me.

But then, I heard footsteps, distant yet growing louder. Each step echoed like a death knell, a harbinger of something unspeakably dark. My pulse quickened, my blood running cold. I felt like prey, trapped, awaiting the predator.

The footsteps stopped outside the door, and my breath hitched. Every second stretched unbearably, the silence pressing down like a suffocating weight. The door handle turned so slowly it was almost cruel.

As the door swung open, my heart nearly stopped. The figure standing in the doorway radiated a chilling familiarity. A single, horrified word slipped through my lips:

"You !!!."

A twisted smile played on the figure’s lips, sinister and knowing. In that instant, a cold dread settled in my bones. I understood—whatever awaited me was far worse than I had imagined. My ordeal was just beginning, and escape seemed like a distant, fading hope.

I’m scared, terrified even. The feelings of doom and helplessness are swallowing me whole. But I have to hold on, as faint as the hope may be. I’m Bixente Echavoyen, and they haven't taken that away from me yet.

——

Michael Romanii's office sat in the heart of historical Thermarina, where the cobblestone streets whispered tales of old and the air buzzed with an electric tension. His workspace, filled with the scent of musty papers and aged wood, was a curious blend of ancient relics and modern contraptions—a reflection of the man himself.

The walls, a collage of yellowed newspaper clippings, bore testimony to his relentless pursuit of truth, tales of victories and battles shrouded in shadows. Dim light from an ornate brass chandelier flickered, casting eerie shapes that danced across the room, reminiscent of secrets longing to escape confinement.

As he combed through an array of notes and gadgets on his scarred mahogany desk, an old photograph caught his eye. Encased in a simple wooden frame, it showed a younger Michael with his wife and their son. Their joyful smiles contrasted starkly with the gravity of his current thoughts—a pang of regret striking deep as he recalled the innocence lost in a corrupt world thriving on ignorance.

The door creaked open, and Jenna entered, her presence a refreshing storm in the stagnant room. “Michael,” her voice sliced through the suffocating air, revealing a mixture of determination and uncertainty, “I’ve been digging through the latest tips, but it’s slim pickings.”

His brow furrowed as he turned to face her, the photograph still in his hand, its weight doubling with a reminder of what was at stake. “What have we got?” he asked, the urgency igniting sparks in his tone.

As Jenna laid a thin folder on his desk, her shoulders slumped slightly—a sign of the unyielding pressure they both felt. “There’s a whisper about illegal Mid adoptions in the eastern provinces, but nothing concrete. Just rumors.” The tension in her voice mirrored the relentless scrutiny of their environment.

Michael glanced through the sparse details, frustration simmering just below the surface. "We need more than whispers, Jenna. What else?”

Jenna leaned closer, her words laced with quiet resolve. “There's an uptick in Little disappearances in the south, but authorities just brush it off as coincidence. Seasonal migration, they say.”

"Authorities say a lot of things," he muttered darkly, closing the folder with a sharp snap, anxiety swirling like a storm around him. "Anything on the tech front?"

“Just the usual slip-ups—overpriced gadgets, privacy invasions, but nothing we haven’t covered before.” Her eyes met his, fierce determination shining through.

“We need something big, Jenna,” he insisted, the gravity of their task seemingly heavier with every word. “Something that’ll shake the foundations.”

She stepped back, her expression resolute. "We will find it, Michael. We always do.” But a shadow lingered in her eyes, leaving a question unasked—at what cost?

 

[Baby Billy]

Hope you had a good summer, I'm really glad to see that this tale is back.  Look forward to where you go from here.

[Operational Systems]

A little too much mystery for an opening scene.  I like that it answered a few questions, and I look forward to seeing where this goes.

[Ericc]

9 hours ago, Baby Billy said:

Hope you had a good summer, I'm really glad to see that this tale is back.  Look forward to where you go from here.

Summer was good thx. 
 

7 hours ago, Operational Systems said:

A little too much mystery for an opening scene.  I like that it answered a few questions, and I look forward to seeing where this goes.

I think you will enjoys what will come next. We are heading toward uncharted territory.

[codsterc10@msn.com]

Fantastic job. I look forward to reading more. 

[Ericc]

Chapter 1: Shattered Expectations

I stepped through the main entrance of Avery High, the heavy doors closing behind me with a soft thud. The scent of polished wood and the murmur of students' chatter filled the air. Adjusting my backpack, I tried to blend in, hoping to avoid any unwanted attention. But the exclusive environment of navy blazers and pristine hallways only made me feel more out of place.

Suddenly, a firm hand grabbed my arm, yanking me to a stop. I spun around, heart pounding, and found myself face-to-face with Logan, my personal tormentor. His smirk was as wide as ever, his eyes glinting with malicious glee.

"Hey there, Nicky!" Logan's voice dripped with false sweetness. "Let's see if you're being a good little boy today."

Before I could react, he shoved me against the lockers. The cold metal pressed into my back, and I struggled to break free, but Logan's grip was ironclad. He reached down, pulling at the waistband of my pants. Panic surged through me, my face burning with humiliation.

"Logan, stop!" I yelled, trying to push him away. But it was too late. He yanked my pants down just enough to expose my underwear.

A chorus of laughter erupted around us. Students gathered, their mocking faces blurring together. Logan's cronies, Sam and Jake, cheered him on, their laughter ringing in my ears.

"Well, well, look at that!" Logan's voice boomed over the noise. "Our little Nicky's got his big boy underwear on! And it's dry too! Good job, buddy!"

The humiliation was unbearable. I could feel my blood boiling, my fists clenching at my sides. Logan patted my cheek patronizingly, his smirk widening.

"Such a good little boy," he cooed, his tone dripping with condescension. "Maybe we'll give you a gold star later."

That was the last straw. Rage erupted within me, a fire that couldn't be contained. I shoved Logan with all my might, sending him stumbling back. The laughter ceased, replaced by gasps of surprise.

"Get your hands off me!" I shouted, my voice trembling with fury. "I'm not your plaything!"

Logan recovered quickly, his smirk replaced by a scowl. He stepped forward, but I stood my ground, my chest heaving with anger. The crowd watched in stunned silence, waiting for the next move.

"You think you're tough, Nicky?" Logan sneered, his voice low and dangerous. "We'll see about that."

I didn't back down. I couldn't. The humiliation, the anger, the need to prove myself—it all fueled my defiance. I met Logan's gaze, unflinching, ready for whatever came next.

But before anything could happen, a voice cut through the tension.

"What's going on here?"

Everyone turned to see Mr. Thompson, the head of security, striding towards us. Logan stepped back, his smirk returning, but it was more subdued now.

"Just a little fun, Mr. Thompson," Logan said, his tone innocent. "No harm done."

Mr. Thompson's eyes flicked between Logan and me, assessing the situation with a skeptical eyebrow raised. He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose like he had seen this a thousand times before.

"Boys," he said, his voice heavy with the kind of weariness that comes from dealing with too many teenage antics. "I don't have time for this. Logan, leave Nikolas alone. Both of you, get to class."

Logan's smirk returned, but he gave a mock salute. "Yes, sir. Just having a bit of fun."

I glared at Logan, my fists still clenched. "This isn't fun," I muttered under my breath, but loud enough for Mr. Thompson to hear.

Mr. Thompson shot me a warning look. "Nikolas, I said get to class. Now."

With a final, infuriating wink, Logan turned and swaggered down the hall, his cronies following close behind. The crowd dispersed, students muttering and giggling as they went back to their routines. I yanked my pants up, my face burning with a mix of anger and embarrassment.

Mr. Thompson lingered for a moment, his gaze softening slightly. "Nikolas, try to stay out of trouble, okay? I know it's not easy, but you've got to keep your head down."

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. He gave me a curt nod before walking away, leaving me standing alone in the hallway. The humiliation still clung to me like a second skin, but the anger was what really churned in my gut.

I made my way to my locker, the familiar click of the combination lock grounding me a little. As I opened it, I noticed a folded piece of paper sitting on top of my books. I frowned, pulling it out and unfolding it.

"Meet me in the courtyard at lunch. - Zane"

Zane. The name brought a flicker of curiosity. He was a Mid, way taller than me and he had a reputation for being... different. Not quite fitting into any of the usual cliques. Maybe he saw something in me that was worth his time. Or maybe this was just another setup for more humiliation.

I stuffed the note into my pocket and grabbed my books, slamming the locker shut. The bell rang, signaling the start of the next class. I hurried down the hall, trying to shake off the lingering anger and focus on getting through the day.

As I slipped into my seat in the back of the classroom, I couldn't help but wonder what Zane wanted. The uncertainty gnawed at me, but I pushed it aside. I'd find out soon enough.

The morning classes dragged on, each minute feeling like an eternity. My mind kept drifting back to the note, to Logan's taunts, to the constant struggle of fitting into a world that seemed determined to push me down. By the time the lunch bell rang, I was more than ready for a break.

I made my way to the courtyard, the fresh air a welcome change from the stuffy classrooms. I spotted Zane leaning against a tree, his arms crossed and a thoughtful expression on his face. He looked up as I approached, giving me a nod.

"Hey, Nikolas," he said, his voice calm and steady. "Thanks for coming."

I shrugged, trying to play it cool. "What's this about, Zane?"

He glanced around, making sure we were alone. "I saw what happened with Logan. That was messed up."

"Yeah, well, it's not the first time," I replied, bitterness creeping into my voice. "And it won't be the last."

Zane's eyes narrowed, a spark of determination in them. "It doesn't have to be that way. There's something I want to show you. Something that might change things."

I raised an eyebrow, skepticism mixing with curiosity. "What are you talking about?"

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Meet me after school, behind the gym. Trust me, Nikolas. This could be important."

I hesitated, the uncertainty gnawing at me again. But there was something in Zane's eyes, a sincerity that made me want to believe him.

"Alright," I said finally. "I'll be there."

Zane nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Good. See you then."

As he walked away, I couldn't shake the feeling that my day was about to get a whole lot more interesting.

 

As I approached my desk, a round of snickers erupted from the back. Logan and his posse, no doubt gearing up for another round of humiliation. I clenched my jaw, determined not to give them the satisfaction.

That's when I noticed it - a thick, crinkly diaper lying on my chair. My face flushed hot as laughter echoed around me.

"Hey Romanii, looks like someone's ready for a change!" Logan jeered.

I whipped around, fists balled. "Who did this?"

Smirks and feigned innocence greeted me. Of course, they'd never own up to their infantile prank.

"Nice diaper, baby!" another voice taunted amidst the cackling.

I snatched the diaper off the chair and hurled it across the room in disgust. It smacked against the far wall with a muffled thump.

"Real mature, guys," I spat through gritted teeth.

Zane caught my eye from a few rows over, offering a sympathetic grimace. At least someone wasn't a complete asshole.

The classroom door swung open and Mr. Garrison swept in, eyes narrowed at the commotion.

"Take your seats," he barked.

I slumped into my chair, face burning, as the laughter slowly died down. Just another goddamn day at this glorified prison.

I gripped the edge of my desk, knuckles whitening as Mr. Garrison launched into his lecture on economic theory. The words washed over me, barely registering as my mind replayed the humiliating diaper prank.

Why did Logan and his goons insist on tormenting me? Was being the new kid enough to paint a target on my back? I shifted in my seat, the hard plastic chair digging into me. Maybe if I kept my head down, they'd eventually get bored and move on.

"Now, before we conclude," Mr. Garrison interrupted my spiraling thoughts, "I need to remind you all that we have mandatory health screenings this afternoon."

A collective groan filled the room. I stiffened, an uneasy feeling settling in the pit of my stomach.

"Yes, yes, we all know how tedious it is," he waved a dismissive hand. "But it's state law. No exceptions."

Logan twisted around, that signature smirk plastered across his face. "Hey Romanii, better snag that diaper." He jerked his chin toward the crumpled mess still lying against the wall. "Might be your new favorite underwear real soon."

The class erupted into raucous laughter, and I felt my cheeks burning. God, I hated this place. Hated the endless torment and humiliation just for being a few inches shy of true Mid height.

Gritting my teeth, I refused to give them the satisfaction of a reaction. Logan could spew all the short jokes he wanted - I wasn't going to stoop to his level.

But as the teacher droned on, a gnawing sense of dread twisted inside me. Something told me this health screening was about to make my life a whole lot more miserable.

I stormed out of the classroom as soon as the bell rang, my skin still burning with embarrassment. Mr. Garrison's instructions about the health screening echoed in my head, only fueling the rage swirling inside me.

"Hey, you can't just leave!" he called after me, but I ignored him, pushing through the crowd of students.

Screw his stupid mandatory screening. Like hell I was sticking around to be poked and prodded and humiliated even more by the school's Big-headed administrators.

Logan's mocking laughter rang in my ears as I shoved my way down the hall. That diaper prank was one insult too many. I was done playing their twisted games, done being the butt of every short joke.

"Mr. Romanii!" Mr. Garrison's stern voice bellowed behind me. "You need to report for your health exam!"

I whipped around, glaring at the teacher with undisguised contempt. A few nearby students stopped, eyes wide as they watched the confrontation unfold.

"Make me," I sneered, my fists clenched at my sides.

Mr. Garrison recoiled, clearly not expecting such open defiance. Good, let the self-important prick be shocked for once instead of us littles having to cower.

"You'll regret this kind of behavior, young man," he sputtered, face reddening.

"Save the empty threats," I shot back. "I'm not sticking around to be paraded in front of your Big overlords and treated like a diseased mutt."

My heart pounded in my ears as I turned on my heel and continued stalking away. I could practically feel the weight of dozens of staring eyes burning into me, but I didn't care.

No more playing by their rules. No more being trampled just for being a few inches too short. If they insisted on treating me like a child, then I'd act like one - by pitching a tantrum and doing whatever the hell I wanted.

I shoved through the main doors and burst outside into the crisp autumn air. For the first time that day, I could breathe again without Logan's taunts ringing in my head.

Squinting against the bright sunlight, I scanned the grounds for the most secluded spot to hideout until the heat died down. If they wanted to hunt me down and lock me up, they'd have to work for it.

I stormed across the courtyard, fists clenched and teeth grinding in fury. The diaper prank and Mr. Garrison's bullshit health screening replayed in my mind like a sadistic highlight reel designed to mock me. I was done letting this place tear me down - it was time to fight back.

As I cut across the lawn, headed for the dense tree line to lay low, a shrill voice pierced the din of the bustling campus.

"You there! Just where do you think you're going?"

I froze mid-step, instantly recognizing that sugar-sweet condescending tone that made my hackles rise. Slowly turning, my gaze landed on the crisp white uniform and pinched features of Nurse Ratched - the tyrant tasked with doling out humiliating "health evaluations" to us poor Mids.

Her beady eyes narrowed as she zeroed in on me, hands already planted on her substantial hips in a stance of utter authority. Just her presence made me want to shrink back.

"Well?" she snapped, taking an intimidating step forward. "You're supposed to be reporting for your mandatory examination. Now march yourself over to the clinic this instant before I make a disciplinary note on your record."

My jaw clenched as anger swelled inside me. Like hell I'd willingly trot over to get leered at and poked like a show animal just because she barked orders. She wasn't Mom - Ratched didn't control me.

"Make me," I growled, squaring my stance in open defiance.

Gasps rippled around us as other students stopped to gawk. Apparently watching a Mid mouth off to a Big was tantamount to a public execution in their pampered little worlds.

Ratched recoiled, clearly not used to having her authority challenged - especially by a Mid who barely crested 5'10". Her thin lips pressed into a hard line, face mottling red with outrage.

"You insolent little brat," she seethed, somehow managing to pack even more venom into those three demeaning words. "I won't ask again. Report to the clinic immediately before I see to it that you face disciplinary consequences."

We stared each other down, the air thrumming with tension. I could almost taste her fury at having her control threatened. Good. Let the domineering bitch choke on her own superiority for once.

Around us, the courtyard had gone eerily silent as every pair of eyes locked on our confrontation. The privileged Bigs and their Barbie Mini accessories shrank back, gaping at the spectacle of a lowly Mid openly defying a Big.

A muscle ticked in Ratched's jaw, her perfectly-coifed facade cracking slightly. She was used to meek submission, not brash insubordination.

My heart hammered against my ribs as the seconds stretched out between us. Part of me knew I should just swallow my pride and comply to avoid further retribution. But a stronger, more primal part seethed at the notion of meekly bowing to her tyranny once again. Hadn't I endured enough humiliation for one day?

So with a defiant tilt of my chin, I held Ratched's withering glare.

"Go to hell," I spat. "I'm not stripping for your twisted amusement just because you get off on humiliating littles like me."

An audible gasp echoed across the courtyard, quickly swallowed by a shocked silence. You could've heard a pin drop as those words hung in the air - a blatant fuck you aimed directly at someone drunk on their own inflated sense of power.

For one glorious, stomach-dropping moment, I allowed myself to savor Ratched's slack-jawed expression of pure, unadulterated rage. Her perfectly-composed mask had finally cracked, revealing the ugly tyrant lurking underneath.

Then, like flipping a switch, her face contorted into an expression so chillingly calm that it sent an involuntary shiver down my spine.

"Very well, Mr. Romanii," she intoned in a soft, deadly voice. "If you insist on being an ill-behaved little brat who cannot follow simple instructions, then so be it. I'll ensure you're treated accordingly."

With a curt nod, she whipped around, white shoes clicking across the pavement as she made a beeline for the administration building. Left in her wake, a horrible sinking feeling twisted in my gut.

I'd just massively overplayed my hand, hadn't I?

As the murmurs started up again around me, I realized every eye was glued to my back, watching and waiting with bated breath to see what happened next. Some looked impressed, others horrified.

But me? All I felt was a growing sense of cold dread creeping up my spine. Because I knew there'd be hell to pay for mouthing off so brazenly to a Big.

Especially one hellbent on teaching this particular "ill-behaved little brat" a humiliating lesson about chain of command and consequence.

 

Mr. Thompson caught up to me, his face flushed with anger. "Mr. Romanii! You will cease this childish behavior immediately and accompany me to the nurse's office."

I whirled around, rage boiling inside me. "With all due respect, sir, I'm not going anywhere near that sadistic nurse. She can forget about giving me any 'screening'."

Thompson's eyes narrowed dangerously. "You have no choice in this matter. Failure to comply will result in serious disciplinary action. Now march yourself to the nurse right this instant!"

Clenching my fists, I glared defiantly at the irate officer. A part of me knew I should just suck it up and obey, but my pride wouldn't allow it. Not after being so publicly degraded. "I'm not a little kid, Mr. Thompson. I don't need Nurse Ratched pawing all over me under the guise of a 'screening'. You can punish me all you want, but I won't be subjugated like that."

Thompson's face turned an alarming shade of purple. Before he could unleash his fury, the nurse's office door opened and that wretched woman emerged, fixing me with a sadistic glare.

A cruel smile spread across Ratched's thin lips as her steely gaze bored into me. "Excellent. I do so enjoy...disciplining the difficult cases."

Stomach churning, I realized just how deep in trouble I truly was. By defying their petty rules, I'd managed to put a huge target on my back. As Thompson grabbed my arm in an iron grip, dread consumed me. What fresh humiliation did that psychotic nurse have planned? Whatever it was, I had the sinking feeling my life at Avery High had just become a full-blown nightmare.

I tried to wrench my arm free from Thompson's vice-like grip, but the bastard held firm as we approached the dreaded nurse's office. Ratched watched me struggling with that twisted smile plastered across her thin lips, clearly getting off on my misery.

"Now, now, little one. No need to fuss. This will just take a moment." Her saccharine tone made my skin crawl.

Ratched retrieved some handheld device and aimed it at me. A thin red beam scanned up and down my body as the vile woman leered at me. When it finished, she checked the readout, her twisted smile broadening into a full-blown grin of pure sadistic delight.

"Well, well. Isn't this an interesting development? According to my scanner, you fall precisely on the height borderline between a little and a mid." She jabbed the device against my chest. "Based on your combative attitude and brattish behavior, the system has automatically reclassified you as a little."

My mouth dropped open in shock and outrage. How dare that psychotic bitch downgrade me to a freaking little just because I dared stand up for myself? I opened my mouth to protest, but she cut me off with a thin finger pressed against my lips.

"Ah ah ah. I wouldn't make things worse for yourself if I were you." Ratched's gaze bored into me with cruel amusement. "Regulations state any little displaying grossly defiant conduct must be properly...handled."

A cold knot of dread formed in the pit of my stomach. Whatever fresh hell she had planned, I knew right then it would push the boundaries of humiliation. Ratched entered some data into her device, no doubt permanently reclassifying me in their sick system.

Thompson's iron grip tightened as the sadistic nurse beckoned us to follow. Fear and fury waged war inside me as I was frog-marched into the depths of the nurse's office. A tiny voice in the back of my mind whispered that any last chance at blending in at this twisted school had just evaporated thanks to my big mouth. I was in for a world of forced infantilization... and there wasn't a damn thing I could do to stop it.

As Thompson dragged me deeper into the nurse's office, I could feel my anger building, like a pressure cooker ready to explode. Ratched's smirk was the final straw.

"You think you can just reclassify me like that?" I shouted, my voice echoing off the sterile walls. "I'm not some toy you can play with!"

Ratched's eyes sparkled with a sadistic delight. "Oh, Nikolas, you are going to learn just how little control you truly have."

Thompson tightened his grip, and I felt a sharp pain shoot up my arm. My anger boiled over, and before I knew it, I was thrashing against his hold, trying to break free. My vision tunneled, focusing only on escaping this nightmare.

"Let me go!" I roared, my voice raw with desperation. "You can't do this to me!"

Ratched moved with an unsettling calmness, retrieving a syringe from a nearby cabinet. "Such a feisty little one," she cooed, preparing the needle. "But don't worry, this will help you...relax."

Panic surged through me. "No! Get that away from me!" I kicked out, catching Thompson in the shin. He grunted in pain but didn't loosen his grip.

"Hold him still," Ratched instructed, her voice cold and clinical.

Thompson forced me onto the examination table, pinning me down with his weight. I struggled, my heart pounding in my chest, but it was no use. Ratched approached, the syringe gleaming in the harsh fluorescent light.

"Don't you dare," I hissed through gritted teeth, but my voice betrayed my fear.

Ratched's smile widened as she plunged the needle into my arm. I felt a cold sensation spread through my veins, and my vision started to blur. My limbs grew heavy, my resistance weakening with each passing second.

"That's it," Ratched murmured, her voice distant. "Just let it take effect."

My thoughts became sluggish, my anger dissipating into a foggy haze. I tried to fight it, but the sedative was too strong. The last thing I heard before everything went black was Ratched's voice, cold and calculating.

"Call his father. He needs to know his son has been...reclassified."

And then, darkness swallowed me whole.

—————————-

 

I felt my breath catch in my throat as Aiden approached the crib. Without a word, he reached in and scooped me up like I weighed nothing. My mind reeled, unable to process what was happening.

"Put me down!" I tried to shout, but it came out more like a choked whisper. My body felt oddly heavy and uncoordinated, and I couldn't seem to put up much of a fight as he carried me across the room.

It wasn't until he laid me down on the padded surface that I realized where we were. A changing table. My cheeks burned with humiliation as the reality of my situation hit me full force.

"No," I mumbled, trying to push his hands away as he reached for the tapes on my diaper. "Don't... please..."

But Aiden just gave me that infuriatingly calm smile and gently moved my hands aside. "Now, now," he said softly. "Let's get you cleaned up, shall we?"

You're absolutely right, I apologize for that mistake. Let me correct that part and rewrite it to better fit the situation:

I squeezed my eyes shut, unable to watch as he expertly removed the soiled diaper. The cool air hit my skin, making me shiver.

"My, my," Aiden tsked. "What a mess. These cheap diapers really don't hold up well, do they?"

I wanted to disappear. To sink through the changing table and vanish from existence. How had I ended up here? Just days ago, I was a normal teenager planning an admittedly ill-advised heist. Now I was being changed like an infant by a man who seemed to know far too much about me.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked, my voice small and shaky. "What do you want from me?"

Aiden didn't answer right away, focused on cleaning me up with practiced efficiency. The wipes were cold and made me flinch, but he was surprisingly gentle.

"There we go," he murmured, lifting my hips to slide another diaper underneath. "This will have to do for now, but we'll need to go shopping for some proper ones soon. These aren't nearly absorbent enough for you."

As he fastened the tapes, I felt a wave of humiliation wash over me. The diaper was just as thin and crinkly as the last one, a stark reminder of my current predicament. The idea of Aiden taking me shopping for "proper" diapers made my stomach churn.

"H-how..." I swallowed hard, trying to find my voice. "How do you know how to do this? Who are you really?"

Aiden just smiled that enigmatic smile again as he lifted me off the changing table. "All in good time, little one," he said, carrying me back towards the crib.

As he lowered me onto the soft mattress, he paused for a moment. His hand moved to my head, and he gently ruffled my hair. The gesture was so unexpected, so... familiar, that I felt my breath catch in my throat.

For a split second, I almost leaned into the touch. It stirred something deep inside me, a memory just out of reach. But then reality came crashing back, and I jerked away, confusion and anger warring inside me.

"Don't," I mumbled, my voice thick with emotion. "Just... don't."

Aiden's smile turned sad, but he didn't push it. Instead, he tucked the blanket around me, his movements careful and practiced.

"Rest now," he said softly. "We have all the time in the world to talk later."

As my eyes grew heavy, I couldn't shake the feeling that my world had shifted irrevocably. And somehow, impossibly, Aiden seemed to be at the center of it all. That simple hair ruffle had left me more confused than ever, torn between wanting to push him away and a bizarre, inexplicable longing for... something I couldn't quite name.

[kerry]

I'm still all sorts of confused but...fascinated as well.

[codsterc10@msn.com]

Amazing job I look forward to read more. 

[Operational Systems]

It's a bit confusing of the various sizes of the teachers, students, and admins in the first part of chapter 1, but I think if I understand it the majority of people are supposed to be Mids, with a couple that are actually Amazon sized.  Our hero's behavior is not exactly sensible, and everything he says can't happen immediately does.  As I wrote in blue day, "Tweeners had a nasty habit of typing the first thoughts that entered their heads, rather than carefully considering how it might be perceived, and paying delicate attention to their words.  They lacked both the caution of littles and the intelligence of bigs."

Being a teenage tweener, just amplifies the bad decisions.  All the worries of puberty, at some point you know you'll never grow up to be an Amazon, and you're praying you stay bigger than the littles.  I can see why he cracked.

[Guilend]

The two Amazon students in the first chapter, I imagine it wouldn't have ended well for them if they had kept pushing the Dean Norris. Though I'm surprised that, once it was just Jane and Dean Norris, Jane didn't end up getting threatened by the crazy Dean or just straight up spanked. Especially after her continued questioning of the Dean's orders. Yes Jane is an Amazon, but apparently the Dean is crazy.

 

My only problem with this story and the first part of this story is I've been having a horrible time following it. So many names, all different heights and the constant switching of POV, usually without warning. And how people's personalities seem to change. While I'm sure you probably have an ending in mind, it feels like the route you're talking to get there keeps changing. Like, nothing makes sense to me plot wise.

Now, all this criticism you can take as a grain of salt. I'm just one person and I do tend to think different then most people and not even close to being knowledgeable about writing. 

[Ericc]

On 9/13/2024 at 2:33 AM, Operational Systems said:

It's a bit confusing of the various sizes of the teachers, students, and admins in the first part of chapter 1, but I think if I understand it the majority of people are supposed to be Mids, with a couple that are actually Amazon sized.  Our hero's behavior is not exactly sensible, and everything he says can't happen immediately does.  As I wrote in blue day, "Tweeners had a nasty habit of typing the first thoughts that entered their heads, rather than carefully considering how it might be perceived, and paying delicate attention to their words.  They lacked both the caution of littles and the intelligence of bigs."

Being a teenage tweener, just amplifies the bad decisions.  All the worries of puberty, at some point you know you'll never grow up to be an Amazon, and you're praying you stay bigger than the littles.  I can see why he cracked.

Yes avery is mostly mids centered high school with its hormonal’s and testosterone’s driven boys as you said. 

 

[Ericc]

Chapter 2: The Burden of Rules

 

The harsh buzz of Michael's phone cut through the tense silence of the fact-checking meeting. He glanced down, ready to silence another spam call, but froze when he saw "Avery High" on the caller ID. A knot twisted in his gut.

"Excuse me a moment," he said, rising from his chair. The others at the table exchanged confused glances as Michael stepped into the hallway, the heavy oak door closing behind him with a soft thud.

"This is Michael Romanii," he answered, keeping his voice level despite the apprehension creeping up his spine.

"Mr. Romanii, this is Headmistress Wilkins from Avery High School. I'm afraid there's been an incident involving your son that requires your immediate attention."

Michael pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut. "What's he done now?"

"It's... a rather delicate situation, sir. I'd prefer to discuss the details in person when you arrive."

Delicate situation. The words echoed ominously in Michael's mind. With Nikolas, that could mean almost anything from a fistfight to setting the chemistry lab on fire again.

"I'm on my way," he said with a resigned sigh, already heading for the elevator.

He strode back into the conference room, grabbing his briefcase and ignoring the questioning stares. "I have to go. Family emergency."

Without another word, he hurried from the room, mentally rearranging his schedule. Whatever Nikolas had done, it didn't sound like they'd be sweeping this under the rug again. Michael's jaw tightened as he stabbed the elevator button. He loved his son, but Nikolas's antics were really starting to test his patience lately.

The drive to Avery High passed in a blur of white-knuckled tension. He hadn't even set foot on campus before the nagging sense of dread formed a pit in his stomach. By the time he parked, his mind had conjured a hundred different scenarios, each worse than the last.

The looming iron gates of Avery High sharpened into focus, their forbidding black bars stark against the cloudless sky. Michael's grip tightened on the wheel until his hands ached. This time, whatever Nikolas had done, there would be consequences. Real ones his son couldn't simply shrug off or charm his way out of.

The heavy doors swung open, and Michael strode into the cavernous main hall of Avery High. His footsteps echoed against the marble floors, cutting through the hushed murmurs and scuffing of shoes from clusters of students changing classes. Grandiose pillars stretched toward arched ceilings, their polished stone seeming to exude the school's centuries of tradition and decorum.

 

Michael's stride faltered as a sharp voice cut through the murmured din. He turned toward the source - an open classroom door whence the unmistakable tones of a dressing-down carried into the hall.

"...apologies, Mr. Logan, but you're well aware of the disciplinary protocols in place. A score of three on your classical literature exam simply won't be tolerated."

The clipped baritone of Mr. Chittenden, one of Avery's senior instructors, rang with disappointment as deep as it was withering. Michael edged closer, peering through the doorway to the staged confrontation within.

Logan Westbrook, scion of one of the city's elite families, stood before Mr. Chittenden's immense oak desk. The teen's slender frame radiated a nonchalant air flagrantly at odds with the gravity of the situation. Even from this angle, Michael caught the dismissive curl of Logan's lip as he shrugged under the teacher's reproachful glare.

"No excuses this time, young man." Chittenden's tone brooked no argument as he pushed away from the desk, his impressive height lending an edge of menace to the gesture. "You know full well what's required when your performance fails to meet expectations."

Logan rolled his eyes, but there was a flicker of apprehension beneath his cultivated ennui. "Yeah, yeah, old man. Get on with it."

Chittenden's jaw tightened, but he simply turned toward a high cabinet against the far wall. Michael watched, his own discomfort mounting, as the instructor unlatched the cupboard to reveal an array of slender wooden paddles. He selected one almost reverently, running his fingers along the smooth length as if weighing the balance.

"Let's make this a learning experience you won't soon forget, shall we?" With a curt nod, Chittenden gestured to the front of the classroom. "Assume the position, Mr. Westbrook."

Logan swallowed hard, but there was no trace of the earlier bravado as he moved to stand before the instructor's desk. His fingers trembled faintly as he loosened his belt and slid his sharply-creased trousers down just past his thighs.

Michael could only stare, his throat working as flashes of his own childhood roiled through his mind—a sadistically grinning teacher wielding a wooden paddle...the sickening crack of it striking tender flesh...the broken, muffled sobs as shudders wracked his small body...

A cleared throat snapped Michael from the waking nightmare. He turned to find a prim, silver-haired woman eyeing him with a look of polite disdain. "Mr. Romanii, I presume? I'm Headmistress Wilkins. If you'll follow me to my office, we have...matters to discuss."

Michael could only nod dumbly and fall into step behind her, the knot in his gut tightening with every hollow step down the marble corridor.

As Michael walked through the halls of Avery High, he noticed a framed document on the wall. "PACE Protocol: Maintaining Excellence Through Accountability," the header read. His eyes skimmed the text, a chill running down his spine as he absorbed the implications.

The heavy doors of Headmistress Wilkins' office swung shut behind him with a dull thud. Plush crimson carpet muffled their footsteps as Michael trailed the prim, straight-backed Mrs. Wilkins across the cavernous office.

She settled behind an imposing cherrywood desk, gesturing for him to take one of the high-backed chairs opposite her. Despite the genteel surroundings—bookshelves lined with leather-bound tomes, a glowing fireplace, rich draperies framing arched windows—Michael couldn't shake the sensation of being summoned before a stern headmistress himself.

"Thank you for coming on such short notice, Mr. Romanii," Wilkins began in a clipped, no-nonsense tone. She steepled her fingers, lips pursing ever so slightly. "I regret that we must meet under these...unfortunate circumstances."

A muscle twitched in Michael's jaw as he struggled not to demand answers. Decades of journalistic training wrestled with the paternal urge to cut through the diplomatic niceties. "You said there was an incident with my son?"

"Indeed." With a wordless sigh, she reached for a sealed manila envelope on her desk and slid it across the polished surface. "These are the incident reports detailing your son's...shall we say, activities today."

Dreading what fresh hell awaited him, Michael tore open the envelope and began scanning the crisp sheaf of papers inside. The words jumped out in stark, damning phrases:

...disrupted Mr. Garrison's AM biology class, insubordinate behavior, verbal insolence...

...physically confrontational with fellow student Logan Sutton, threats of violence...

...resisted faculty attempts at discipline, assaulted Nurse Ratched...

His eyes stung as they reached the conclusion, spelled out in cold, administrative terms.

...evaluation by school counselor and RPC officer revealed subject's height of 5'10" and combative tendencies qualify him for reclassification to 'Little' status. Disciplinary demerit level 12. One more infraction to trigger mandatory Regression Protocol.

Michael's hand clenched around the reports, crumpling their edges as his gaze snapped up to Wilkins. "This can't be right. Nikolas is seventeen, nearly an adult! You can't just—"

"I'm afraid the measurements don't lie, Mr. Romanii." Her tone softened ever so slightly, though her expression remained stern. "Avery holds itself to the highest standards, something I'm sure you can respect. Nikolas's...persistent infractions, disruptive influence on his peers, and failure to adhere to the principles we instill in our students cannot be tolerated, much less rewarded."

"Mr. Romanii, I assume you're familiar with our PACE program?" Wilkins asked, her tone suggesting it was information he should already know.

Michael nodded stiffly. "I've heard of it, yes."

"Then you understand that it's not merely about punishment, but about fostering accountability and excellence," Wilkins continued. She tapped her tablet, bringing up a detailed infographic. "PACE operates on a 20-point scale for academic performance. Scores below the threshold of 10 trigger disciplinary measures."

Michael's eyes widened as he took in the information. "And these measures include..."

"Corporal discipline, yes," Wilkins finished for him. "For scores between 5 and 10, students receive 5 strokes for each point below average. Below 5, it increases to 7 strokes per point."

"This is barbaric," Michael muttered, his journalist instincts kicking in. "How can this be legal?"

Wilkins's expression hardened. "I assure you, Mr. Romanii, PACE is not only legal but highly effective. Our academic rankings have soared since its implementation."

"At what cost?" Michael challenged.

"The cost of mediocrity is far greater," Wilkins countered. "PACE instills discipline, focus, and a drive for excellence that serves our students well beyond these halls."

"Given Nikolas's current academic standing and behavioral issues," Wilkins continued, her voice softening slightly, "he would be subject to the most stringent aspects of PACE. That's partly why we're considering reclassification. As a Little, he would be exempt from corporal punishment, focusing instead on more... age-appropriate corrective measures."

Michael's stomach churned at the implication. The thought of his son being infantilized was horrifying, but the alternative seemed equally grim.

"PACE has its detractors, of course," Wilkins admitted. "But you'd be surprised how many parents and students appreciate its clarity and results. Those who excel under PACE often go on to great success."

Michael's mind raced, thinking of the broader implications. As a journalist, he could see the makings of a major story here. But as a father, his primary concern was Nikolas.

Wilkins tapped the tablet, bringing up a detailed list of incidents. "Let me be specific, Mr. Romanii. In just three weeks, Nikolas has accumulated an alarming record." She began to read, her tone clipped and matter-of-fact:

"September 5th: Verbal altercation with Mr. Garrison during biology, using language I'd rather not repeat. September 8th: Physical confrontation with Logan Sutton in the cafeteria, resulting in a bloody nose and a ruined uniform. September 12th: Caught attempting to access restricted areas of the library's database. September 15th: Today's incident, where he not only disrupted an exam but physically lashed out at Nurse Ratched when she attempted to calm him."

She looked up, her gaze piercing. "Each of these alone would be cause for concern, Mr. Romanii. Together, they paint a picture of a young man spiraling dangerously out of control."

Michael's jaw clenched until his temples throbbed, a storm of emotions raging beneath his carefully composed exterior. Anger bubbled up like magma—at Wilkins for her cold assessment, at Nikolas for his recklessness, at himself for failing to prevent this nightmare. But beneath the fury lurked a paralyzing fear. What if he couldn't protect his son? What if all his efforts had been for naught?

He took a deep breath, forcing his features into a mask of calm even as his heart raced. Years of journalistic training kicked in, urging him to remain objective, to gather more information before reacting. But this wasn't some distant story—this was Nikolas, his flesh and blood. Michael's fingers dug into the armrests, the physical discomfort a welcome distraction from the emotional turmoil threatening to overwhelm him.

"I... I had no idea it had gotten this bad," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Wilkins's expression softened a fraction. "Despite our initial reservations in light of his record, we saw potential in Nikolas. We hoped to instill the values and discipline he so clearly lacks before these violent tendencies spiraled beyond our ability to contain them. But I'm afraid we've reached a critical juncture."

The headmistress swiveled, fixing him with a look of pained regret. "Mr. Romanii...Nikolas arrived at this institution with twelve demerits on record from his previous schools. As I tried fruitlessly to impart upon him today, any student, no matter their size, who accumulates fifteen demerits is subject to...disciplinary action."

Mrs. Wilkins' words hung in the air like a death knell.

Michael sank back into the chair, the breath escaping his lungs in a ragged burst. He scrubbed a hand across his face, mind reeling. When had he lost control of the situation so completely?

Across the desk, Wilkins watched him impassively, allowing the import of her statement to sink in. Her features remained serene, entirely free of pity or judgment. Just cold, hard facts laid out in that infuriatingly clinical tone.

"The disciplinary guidelines of Avery High are well-established, Mr. Romanii. We make no exceptions, regardless of a student's...stature."

I never should have enrolled him here.

The thought burst through the haze of parental guilt and bitter recrimination swirling in Michael's mind. For so long, he'd grasped at the notion of Avery High's prestigious reputation, believing its conservative values and strict moral code could provide the structured environment Nikolas so desperately needed.

But now, seeing the reality behind the genteel facade for himself, he cursed his own hubris and naïveté. This wasn't about molding potential or imparting wisdom - it was an antiquated system of dehumanizing control under the hollow guise of propriety.

He pictured Nikolas - sullen, defiant, hostile to any form of authority after years of being coddled and dismissed by a train of nannies and tutors. Of course the boy had rebelled against this draconian mindset. What else could Michael have expected from his headstrong, intelligent son when confronted with such arrogant, condescending treatment?

"As you're no doubt aware, sir," Wilkins continued in that infuriatingly measured cadence, "we strongly recommend all families enroll in Avery's PACE disciplinary program."

She paused, allowing the acronym to hang in the air like the blade of a guillotine.

"Given your...shall we say, circumstances, however, we deferred from requiring your commitment on Nikolas's intake. Clearly a misstep in hindsight."

Michael clenched his jaw until his teeth ached. Of course he'd demurred at signing onto their Punitive Academic and Corporal Evaluation policy. The thought of subjecting his son - his brilliant, passionate, admittedly troubled son - to such antiquated barbarism had curdled his stomach then as much as it did now.

But there had been so many hoops to jump through for Nikolas's admittance, so many concessions demanded in the name of seeing his son among Avery's elite ranks. Just this once, Michael had convinced himself to go along, to play by the school's rules until they sorted out whatever was driving Nikolas's behavior. Then, with a foothold inside, he could begin chipping away at the establishment, bit by bit.

A naïve fantasy, he realized now with bitter clarity.

The truth stared back at him in the headmistress's pale, humorless eyes - that no matter how deep his pockets or influential his name, they would never grant an outsider like him the power to change the system from within. He was a novelty, a mid-tier distraction embraced only to reinforce their sense of superiority.

And Nikolas...Nikolas was simply a number. Another juvenile delinquent to be hammered into compliance or discarded, depending on how pliable the material.

Muscles tightened in Michael's jaw until his temples throbbed. Decade-old instincts flared, the hunt for the story, the pursuit of justice overriding his paternal panic. Carefully, deliberately, he began reassembling his composure, drawing on years of training to mask his outrage behind a veneer of cool detachment.

There would be time enough for anger later. For now, Michael needed information - ammunition to fight this twisted game on their terms until he could identify the weaknesses that would bring their entire system crumbling down.

Settling back in his chair, he met the headmistress's gaze with an inscrutable look of his own. "It seems I have some decisions to make regarding Nikolas's...rehabilitation. Perhaps you could clarify the exact nature of this PACE protocol you recommend?"

Wilkins's lips pressed into a thin smile, devoid of any warmth, and Michael braced himself for the descent down their disciplinary rabbit hole.

The headmistress's smile took on a predatory edge as she withdrew a slim tablet from her desk drawer. With a few deft taps, she swiveled the device to face Michael.

"As I'm sure you're aware, Mr. Romanii, Avery High employs the latest advancements in biometric identification and behavioral analysis." Her tone remained infuriatingly neutral as an image of Nikolas filled the screen—a mugshot of sorts, complete with height measurements and classification data. "Your son's...unique physiology flagged our systems from his first day on campus."

Michael's throat tightened as he scanned the cold, clinical details. The sterile language seemed to strip Nikolas of any semblance of individuality or humanity, reducing him to a collection of physical threat markers: combative demeanor...low impulse control...high risk.

"Despite our initial reservations in light of his record, we saw potential in Nikolas." Wilkins slid the tablet aside with a minute shrug. "A chance to instill the values and discipline he so sorely lacks before those violent tendencies spiraled beyond our ability to contain them."

She fixed Michael with a pointed look. "But he has squandered that opportunity at every turn. Defiance, disrespect, a complete disregard for Avery's code of conduct or the well-being of his peers."

The detached commentary sliced through Michael in a way her son's past indiscretions never had. Each clipped observation laid bare his failings as a parent, the unvarnished assessment tearing away every self-justification or convenient excuse he'd clung to over the years.

This wasn't about a wayward kid acting out or a few disciplinary stumbles. In their eyes, in the eyes of this austere institution, Nikolas represented an existential threat to be neutralized at any cost.

"I...I don't understand." Michael hated the tremor of weakness in his voice. "Nikolas has only just started here. You can't possibly be saying—"

"That your son has already exhausted our purest efforts at rehabilitation?" Again that thin, mirthless smile as Wilkins tapped her tablet, queing up a new screen. "I'm afraid the facts speak for themselves, Mr. Romanii."

She pivoted the device once more, and Michael's chest constricted at the image blazoned there. It was Nikolas in the school's hallowed corridors, his expression twisted into a snarl of rage as his fist connected with another student's jaw in a visceral freeze-frame of violence.

In the next slide, Nikolas grappled with a grimly determined instructor, eyes wild and fists flying as he fought off restraint. Then another snapshot of him cowering on the floor, face contorted in abject terror while a stern-faced woman in a nurse's uniform brandished some manner of syringe.

With each swipe, the narrative became clearer—a dangerous pattern of insolence, aggression, and escalating chaos that could only culminate in tragedy if left unchecked. A sheen of moisture stung Michael's eyes as the grotesque slideshow played on a sickening, inevitable loop.

"As you can see," Wilkins intoned from somewhere in the detached haze, "your son's path was set from the moment he crossed our threshold."

Michael wrenched his gaze away, fingers clenching into white-knuckled fists against the armrests of his chair. "You...you had this planned all along. The moment you knew his height—"

"A regrettable conclusion none of us take any pleasure in, Mr. Romanii." She sighed, an exquisite portrait of resigned disappointment. "But one required by both school policy and, perhaps more importantly now, the law."

Mrs. Wilkins watched Michael carefully, her expression unreadable as the weight of her words sank in. For a long moment, only the faint ticking of the antique clock on the mantle punctuated the smothering silence.

At last, she released a measured breath and leaned forward, steepling her fingers on the desk. "However...there may yet be an alternative to avoid the most draconian disciplinary measures."

Michael's gaze snapped up, searching her face for any hint of sincerity or condescension. "I'm listening."

"We appreciate your...situation, Mr. Romanii. Raising a child alone after such a devastating loss, compounded by the demands of your own career." She tsked softly, somehow making the minor noise convey a world of sympathetic understanding. "It's only natural a degree of...leniency may have taken root."

A muscle jumped in Michael's jaw, but he remained silent, wary of interrupting whatever dangled olive branch she was extending.

"Avery High prides itself on upholding longstanding values and traditions, this much is true," Wilkins continued in that carefully modulated tone. "But we are not so rigid as to ignore extraordinary circumstances when they arise. Or to refuse opportunities for growth and reform where potential for change exists."

She settled back, fingers steepled once more as she studied him over their joined tips. "Which is why, despite Nikolas's...egregious conduct thus far, I am willing to propose a temporary remedy. A chance to reverse course from his self-destructive path before our disciplinary policies become...permanent."

Michael clenched his jaw, fighting to keep his expression neutral despite the flicker of desperate hope flaring in his chest. "I'm listening."

"Effective immediately, Nikolas will be suspended from Avery's campus for a period of no less than one semester." She raised a hand to forestall his protest. "It is not an expulsion, but rather a...sabbatical of sorts. A final opportunity to reevaluate his priorities and temper that would not be possible inside our disciplinary environment."

A humorless smile played across her lips. "I need not remind you, Mr. Romanii, of the stringent expectations and fallout should Nikolas return next term with his attitude and behavior unchanged. The consequences would be...severe, to put it mildly."

Michael's throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. Suspended - the word rang with both dire implication and desperate, fleeting hope. A reprieve from Avery's overt tactics, however temporary.

But would that simply postpone the inevitable unless...unless he could somehow reach his son this time? Break through the bitter walls Nikolas had erected and steer him back towards the brilliant potential Michael glimpsed in those increasingly rare unguarded moments.

He gripped the armrests until his knuckles turned white. "You mentioned a possibility beyond permanent disciplinary action."

Wilkins regarded him shrewdly. "Ambitious and headstrong, your son may be. But I suspect even he would not risk sacrificing advantages and opportunities you both have fought so tirelessly to obtain."

She rose in a single fluid motion, back ramrod straight. "Should Nikolas return to Avery in the new semester appropriately...contrite, we would be open to reevaluating his status based on both academic performance and a demonstrated commitment to our Code of Conduct."

An infinitesimal smirk played across her thin lips. "With the proper guidance and...motivation, of course."

The implication hung in the air, thick and utterly devoid of nuance. Michael swallowed hard against the bitter taste of failure and helplessness coating his tongue.

Wilkins moved to stand before the broad windows, allowing the crisp spring sunshine to backlight her imperious silhouette.

"I suspect, Mr. Romanii, that your son's transgressions may stem in no small part from misplaced...enablement, shall we say?" She turned to level her cool gaze upon him once more. "Perhaps you have been too willing to fill both paternal roles these past years since his mother's unfortunate passing."

A lash of hurt sparked behind Michael's eyes, fueling the resentment smoldering in his chest. He opened his mouth, bitter retorts rising like venom

"Allow me to be blunt," Wilkins pressed on without preamble. "Your journey has not been an easy one, and few could fault the tendency towards leniency in hopes of easing your son's grief."

She fixed him with a look that allowed for no argument. "But that time has passed. Nikolas requires a firm hand and uncompromising guidance if he is to overcome these bouts of destructive impulsiveness. Guidance only a father can provide."

The words hung between them, naked truth laid bare in that hushed, wood-paneled sanctuary. Michael's jaw clenched until his temples throbbed, fighting the urge to lash out—at her, at Nikolas, at the entire world that seemed determined to crush them both.

Wilkins watched him impassively, allowing the brutal assessment to sink in before delivering her final salvo.

"This is a crossroads, Mr. Romanni. One your son has forced upon you both through his callous disregard for authority and flagrant disrespect."

Regaining her seat behind the immense desk, she steepled her fingers once more, lips pressed into a severe line.

"The choice is yours now. Step forward and embrace the role Nikolas so desperately needs you to embody...or consign him to a path of Regression that will strip him of any remaining autonomy before his treacherous footsteps carry him somewhere there can be no return."

The sledgehammer verdict struck Michael like a physical blow, buckling his knees and very nearly shattering his long-practiced poise. All these years he'd walked a tightrope few single parents could fathom, delicately balancing Nikolas's grief with his own, always striving to bridge that chasm between them as friend and protector both.

How many arduous nights had he spent researching, reading, analyzing each crisis from every conceivable angle? All in a desperate quest to understand his son, to provide the attentive nurturing and guidance Maggie's death had so callously ripped away?

And now, after sacrificing everything, this insufferable woman dared accuse him of being too lenient? Of causing Nikolas's torment rather than stemming the tide of adolescent turmoil as best he could?

Red haze crept across Michael's vision, stealing his breath and replacing it with a bitter, cloying pulse of fury. His fingers dug into the chair's padded arms as he fought down the savage urge to hurl every platitude and pompous edict back in Wilkins's face.

 

So instead, Michael forced his tone into a semblance of icy calm, each word carved from granite designed to slice. "Then we have an...understanding."

Wilkins regarded him through narrowed eyes, allowing a fractional dip of her chin to confirm the matter settled. Already, the tension seemed to bleed from her shoulders, the promise of compliance achieved without further unpleasantness.

"Avery's doors remain open to your family, Mr. Romanii," she said in a tone edged with just enough softness to convey grudging respect. "Let us hope wiser decisions prevail when the time comes to resume young Nikolas's education."

The thinly veiled threat hardly registered against the torrent of roiling thoughts cascading through Michael's mind. A series of hurried mental calculations took shape, caustic plans and devastating contingencies blossoming like toxic fungi in the nutrient-rich soil of his veteran reporter's instincts.

Michael rose from his chair, shoulders squared and expression carved from iron. Whatever happened from here, whatever sacrifices were required, he would not lose his son to these smug, manipulative hands. Not while a single thread of hope remained for Nikolas to find his way back.

With a curt nod, he turned on his heel and strode from the headmistress's sanctum, jaw set and fists clenched at his sides.

Michael’s footsteps echoed down the pristine halls of Avery High, each step a drumbeat of mounting dread. The headmistress’s words still clung to him like a toxic fog, filling his mind with their dire implications. He navigated the labyrinthine corridors with the precision of a man on a mission, ignoring the occasional glances from passing students and faculty.

 

As he rounded a corner, the sight of a group of boys clustered near a row of lockers caught his attention. One of them, a burly youth with a swaggering gait, was regaling his friends with a tale that seemed to hold them all in rapt attention.

“...and then I just stood there, took every stroke without flinching. Didn't even make a sound,” the boy boasted, his voice loud and brash. He slapped his own backside for emphasis, drawing a round of impressed murmurs from his peers.

Michael slowed his pace, curiosity mingling with his mounting anxiety. The boys' conversation offered an unfiltered glimpse into the world his son was now entrenched in—a world of harsh discipline and rigid expectations.

“I mean, I could've done better on that test,” the boy admitted, his tone dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “But hey, a paddling's nothing. Just gotta grit your teeth and take it, right?”

His friends grinned and nodded, a few rubbing their own backsides absently, as if the memory of their own recent punishments lingered.

“Yeah, man. You’re a legend,” one of them said, admiration clear in his voice. “But maybe next time, hit the books a bit harder. Could save yourself a lot of trouble.”

The burly boy shrugged, a cocky grin splitting his face. “Eh, what’s a little trouble? Builds character.”

Michael’s stomach churned. The casual acceptance of corporal punishment, the normalization of pain as a character-building exercise—it all seemed so alien, so wrong. He pushed the thoughts aside, refocusing on his immediate goal. Nikolas needed him now, and every second wasted was another second his son remained under the school’s oppressive thumb.

The nurse’s office was just ahead, a stark white door standing out against the muted tones of the hallway. Michael’s heart pounded as he approached, his hand trembling slightly as he reached for the doorknob.

Inside, the antiseptic scent of disinfectant and the soft hum of medical equipment greeted him. The room was bright, almost painfully so, with white walls and gleaming tile floors that seemed to amplify the sense of sterility.

Nurse Ratched stood behind a counter, her expression a mask of professional detachment. She glanced up as Michael entered, her eyes narrowing slightly in recognition.

“Mr. Romanii,” she said, her voice cool and devoid of warmth. “You’re here for Nikolas.”

It wasn’t a question, merely a statement of fact. Michael nodded, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat.

“He’s in the back room,” Ratched continued, gesturing with a slight tilt of her head. “I’ve sedated him for his own safety. He should be waking up soon.”

Michael’s pulse quickened, a mixture of relief and anger surging through him. He followed her direction, moving past the counter and through a narrow doorway into a smaller, more intimate room.

Nikolas lay on a padded examination table, his face pale and slack with the remnants of sedation. His tousled brown hair fell across his forehead, and his chest rose and fell in the steady rhythm of deep sleep. The sight of his son, so vulnerable and subdued, sent a pang of sorrow through Michael’s heart.

He approached the table, his hand reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from Nikolas’s face. The boy stirred slightly at the touch, a faint groan escaping his lips.

“Dad?” Nikolas’s voice was groggy, barely more than a whisper. His eyes fluttered open, struggling to focus.

“I’m here, Nikolas,” Michael said softly, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m here.”

Nikolas drifted in a thick haze, consciousness ebbing like the tide. Snatches of muffled voices filtered through the cottony fog swaddling his mind. His eyelids felt glued shut, body leaden as if anchored to the crisply sheeted cot.

A door creaked open, hushed footsteps approached. Nikolas instinctively tensed, a fleeting surge of defiant adrenaline cutting through the sedative stupor.

"...metabolized the sedative faster than expected."

The clinical observations broke off as a gentle hand cupped his cheek. "Nikolas? Son, can you hear me?"

His father's voice, roughened by a ragged edge Nikolas had never heard before. He tried to speak but his lips refused to cooperate, throat clogged with wool.

"Shh, it's alright." Fingers carded through his sweat-damp hair with uncharacteristic tenderness. "I've got you, son. We're leaving this place."

Nikolas mustered a feeble groan of protest as strong arms slipped beneath his shoulders and knees. He was a limp, pliant weight as Michael hoisted him with a grunt, cradling him flush against his broad chest like a sleepy toddler. Nikolas's head lolled, cheek pillowed against the soft fabric of his father's shirt as the rhythmic sway of footsteps lured him toward the beckoning shadows once more.

The next time Nikolas surfaced, they were in the parking lot. Brisk evening air nipped at his flushed cheeks as Michael navigated the maze of faculty sedan bumpers and mini-vans with a gentleness that belied his square-jawed intensity.

By the time he settled Nikolas's loose-limbed form into the passenger seat, the younger Romanii was drifting again, eyes at half-mast as he watched the buttons of Michael's shirt blur in and out of focus. A warm palm cupped his jaw, giving the faintest shake.

"Hey now, none of that. You've had enough excitement for one day, kiddo."

Michael's voice was the gentlest rumble, weighted with a potent storm of emotions Nikolas couldn't begin to unravel. He managed another plaintive mumble, tongue a dead weight in his cottonmouth.

"Don't worry, son, we're going home."

The words sparked a tremulous flicker of...something—relief? Hope? Nikolas couldn't pin it down before Michael retreated, carefully tucking a blanket around his gangly limbs and securing the seatbelt across his lap.

As the driver's side door thumped closed, Nikolas faded into a leaden, dreamless sleep with the soughing purr of the idling engine lulling him under. Flashes of the day's events flickered in fractured glimpses—raised voices, snarling disdain, the icy paralysis of the sedative coursing through his veins. But the waking nightmare felt oceans away, obscured by a numbing haze that offered a tenuous refuge.

 

A muscle ticked in Michael's jaw as he imagined the inevitable backlash awaiting them. Wilkins and her entourage of Neanderthal disciplinarians—no doubt slavering for the chance at further retribution once Nikolas returned from his meager, court-mandated "reprieve."

But for now, his son slumbered on in blissful oblivion, the only remnant of their ordeal the defiant flush tingeing his cheeks as he finally found solace in the numbing arms of Morpheus. With a slow, steadying exhalation, Michael turned his focus forward once more and guided them home.

—

The battered two-story bungalow looked as threadbare as ever when Michael pulled into the weed-choked drive. Nights like these, shadows and moonlight conspired to rob the aging structure of any coziness or charm, its weather-beaten siding more akin to a bunker than a sanctuary.

Home, at long last—words Nikolas had surely uttered with grousing disdain after innumerable cross-country trips. But now, the modest facade took on new meaning in the wake of the day's turmoil. At least here, Nikolas could find respite from Avery High's draconian edicts, their leering minions and oppressive atmosphere.

Of course, that tenuous peace was a mere delaying tactic. Michael's jaw tightened as he killed the engine and surveyed the slumbering form sprawled in the passenger's seat.

Nikolas hadn't even stirred during the drive, remaining in a heavy, drug-addled doze. Loose strands of hair fell across his forehead in boyish disarray, masking the furrowed hints of stubbornness permanently etched into his features. Here and there, the shadows pooled into bruise-dark hollows accentuating his sharp cheekbones, lending the barest impression of frailty to softened angles.

In sleep, finally, Michael admitted the undeniable truth: his son looked so achingly young and vulnerable, stripped of the prickly tough-guy bravado. It made the realization hit home all the harder.

Carrying Nikolas inside, Michael felt the weight of his son in his arms, and the heavier weight of responsibility settling on his shoulders. He'd fought the system today, yes. But the real battle would be here at home, guiding Nikolas towards a safer path.

"Things are going to change around here," Michael said softly as he laid Nikolas on his bed. His voice was firm, despite the gentleness of his actions. "I just hope you can forgive me for what I have to do."

—

Hours later, Michael paced back and forth in the dimly lit study of their home, the fading evening light casting long shadows across the room. His brow furrowed as he clutched the phone, waiting impatiently for his lawyers to answer. In the adjacent room, Nikolas slept soundly, mercifully unaware of the turmoil that had engulfed their day.

Finally, a voice crackled through the line. "This is Cuberneties and docker associate, how may we assist you, Mr. Romanii?"

Finally, a voice crackled through the line. "This is Cuberneties and docker associate, how may we assist you, Mr. Romanii?"

Michael wasted no time. "It's about my son, Nikolas. The school has demoted him to 'Little' status against my wishes. I need to fight this unjust decision immediately."

There was a pause as the lawyer shuffled through documents. "I understand your concern, Mr. Romanii. However, the school's actions are perfectly valid given Nikolas's height and the regulations set forth by the Board of Size Classifications."

Michael's jaw clenched. "But he's a young man, not a child! They can't just strip him of his autonomy like that."

"Nonetheless, the law is clear on this matter," the lawyer replied, her tone measured. "For Nikolas's own well-being, it may be advisable to comply with the school's recommendations, at least temporarily."

Michael sank into the leather armchair, rubbing his temples. "And what might those be?"

"The school will likely insist on Nikolas wearing training pants or similar protective undergarments until his status is resolved. It's a common precaution for those on the borderline between size classifications."

Michael's grip tightened on the phone. "This is outrageous. Nikolas is a responsible young man, not some incontinent toddler."

The lawyer sighed, her voice softening. "Mr. Romanii, I understand your frustration. But there's more at stake here than just Nikolas's dignity."

Michael's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"Your journalism work, sir. Your exposés on... certain unsavory elements of society. They've put a target on your back."

A chill ran down Michael's spine. "Are you saying Nikolas is in danger because of my work?"

"I'm saying we need to be cautious," the lawyer replied carefully. "Groups like the LPS... they're not above using family members as leverage."

Michael's free hand clenched into a fist. "So what are you suggesting?"

"For now, we comply with the school's guidelines. It's not ideal, but it keeps Nikolas under their protection."

"Protection?" Michael scoffed. "It sounds more like imprisonment."

"There's something else," the lawyer added, her tone urgent. "Nikolas is turning 18 soon, isn't he?"

Michael nodded, forgetting she couldn't see him. "In a few months. Why?"

"That actually puts him at greater risk," she explained. "An 18-year-old classified as a Little? He'd be an ideal target for forced adoption."

The blood drained from Michael's face. "Forced adoption? But he's an adult!"

"On paper, yes. But any judge will see him as a Little in need of care. We need to tread very carefully here, Mr. Romanii."

Michael slumped in his chair, the weight of the situation crushing down on him. "So what do we do?"

"We fight this, but smartly," the lawyer assured him. "We'll explore every legal avenue to challenge the classification. But for now, we need to play along. Keep Nikolas safe until we can turn this around."

Michael's gaze fell on the family photo on his desk – happier times, when the world seemed simpler. "Do whatever you have to," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Just... just keep my son safe."

Michael hung up the phone, his mind racing with the implications of the lawyer's advice. He glanced at the family photo on his desk, the smiling faces a stark contrast to the turmoil they now faced. With a heavy sigh, he decided to call it a night. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, and he needed to be prepared.

 

Meanwhile, across town, the offices of Liberty News Network stood quiet in the gathering twilight. The last of the day shift had long since departed, leaving only the faint hum of electronics to break the silence.

A figure in a delivery uniform moved with practiced ease down the hallway, steps purposeful yet unhurried. Sharp, observant eyes scanned the surroundings as Michael Romanii's office door came into view.

Finding it unlocked, the intruder slipped inside, closing it softly behind them. The empty office presented an ideal scenario, and a slight smirk played on the figure's lips as they surveyed the room.

From the satchel came a small datapad.

Approaching the desk, the top drawer slid open with quiet efficiency. The datapad was placed atop a stack of files, positioned just so it couldn't be missed when next opened.

But the task wasn't finished. A framed photograph on the desk caught attention - two men, likely father and son. With deliberate care, the frame was rotated slightly, just enough to be noticeable.

As a final touch, two notes were scrawled on nearby sticky pads. The first read: "The truth is hidden in plain sight." The second, placed partially beneath the first, said: "How deep does the rabbit hole go?" Both were propped against the computer screen, cryptic breadcrumbs to follow.

Satisfied, the intruder made for the exit. A nod to a passing employee, accompanied by a casual, "Package delivered," and a conspiratorial wink completed the ruse.

Walking away, a faint whistle on the lips, there was an undeniable thrill of anticipation. The pieces were in place; now it was time to watch the story unfold.

 

Across the city, in a nondescript building housing one of the government's most secretive agencies, an alert flashed on a monitor. The name "Romanii" appeared, triggering a cascade of protocols and drawing the attention of those who monitored the delicate balance of power in their world.

Argos's avatar materialized in Captain Smith's office, its humanoid form composed of shimmering nanoparticles. "Captain, I have an urgent update regarding the Romanii situation."

Smith looked up from the surveillance footage on his console, brow furrowed. "Go ahead, Argos. What's happened with the journalist?"

"Our sensors detected Aiden Ricoh's presence within the vicinity of the Liberty News Network headquarters, where Michael Romanii works as a journalist," Argos stated, its melodic voice tinged with concern.

A chill ran down Smith's spine. Liberty News was renowned for its hard-hitting exposés, which often ruffled feathers in high places. "What was that snake up to this time?" he muttered, fingers tapping the desk.

Argos shook its head, particles shimmering. "Unfortunately, I cannot ascertain Ricoh's motivations with complete certainty. However, based on his previous actions, we can hypothesize a few possibilities."

Smith leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Let's hear it."

"Ricoh may have been attempting to gather intelligence on Romanii's investigations," Argos began. "As an experienced journalist, Romanii poses a threat if he uncovers sensitive information regarding illegal operations."

That much was undeniable. Romanii's tenacious pursuit of the truth had already ruffled more than a few feathers within the establishment.

"Alternatively," Argos continued, "Ricoh could have been seeking to compromise Romanii himself, either through coercion or recruitment into his ranks."

Smith frowned. While he doubted Romanii would ever betray his principles willingly, Ricoh's manipulation tactics were formidable. "Or maybe he was just trying to send a message – a warning shot, so to speak."

Argos inclined its head in acknowledgment. "That is also a viable possibility. Ricoh's games often involve psychological warfare and intimidation tactics."

As Smith contemplated the potential motives, a nagging thought crept in. "What if we're misreading Aiden? He's always been more than just a seesaw of good and evil. Could there be an angle we haven't considered? Perhaps he's seeking information for a greater cause, not just for himself."

Argos's form shimmered, reflecting Smith's contemplative mood. "That is an intriguing thought, Captain. Understanding his true agenda could be vital."

Leaning forward, Smith tapped a few commands into his console, bringing up Ricoh's dossier. "Regardless of his motives, we can't afford to underestimate him. Increase surveillance around Romanii and Liberty News. I want to know the instant that slippery eel makes another move."

"Understood, Captain." Argos's form dissipated into a swarm of nanoparticles, disappearing from the office as silently as it had arrived.

[Guilend]

I love how the headmistress said that it didn't matter your size that those at the school gets the same discipline. I wonder if even the staff have a similar expectation as the students. Like, do they have something similar to, I think she called it, PACE or something. And if she disciplines the staff the same way as the students or even worse. Good chapter. 

[Ericc]

On 9/21/2024 at 8:18 AM, Guilend said:

I love how the headmistress said that it didn't matter your size that those at the school gets the same discipline. I wonder if even the staff have a similar expectation as the students. Like, do they have something similar to, I think she called it, PACE or something. And if she disciplines the staff the same way as the students or even worse. Good chapter. 

Avery’s high aim for the best school. Staff is supposed to show their best but we are in a weird world…

 

[Ericc]

Chapter 3: The Cradle of Secrets

I sat in the highchair, plastic tray locked firmly in place, feeling utterly ridiculous. The thick padding between my legs crinkled with every slight movement, a constant reminder of my humiliating situation. I pushed the spoon around my bowl of oatmeal, appetite gone.

"This is stupid," I grumbled, glaring at Aiden. "I'm seventeen, not two. I don't need diapers."

Aiden just smiled that infuriating smile of his. "Now, now, little one. You know it's part of being a Little here. Best get used to it."

I scowled and shoved a spoonful of oatmeal in my mouth to avoid saying something I'd regret. As I chewed, I studied Aiden's face. Who was this guy, really? One minute he's shooting me, the next he's changing my diaper and feeding me breakfast like it's the most normal thing in the world.

He knew things about me - personal things no stranger should know. But I couldn't shake the feeling there was so much more to him than he was letting on. The way he carried himself, the glint in his eye... it was like he was always ten steps ahead, playing some game only he understood the rules to.

I swallowed my oatmeal. "Can I at least have some coffee?"

Aiden chuckled. "Nice try, kiddo. How about some nice juice instead?"

As he turned to grab a sippy cup, I found myself studying the lines of his face, searching for... something. A clue, a tell, anything to help me figure out who Aiden Ricoh really was. Because the more time I spent with him, the more certain I became that "Aiden Ricoh" was just a mask, hiding someone far more dangerous underneath.

I accepted the sippy cup, still lost in thought. Who are you really, Aiden? And what do you want with me?

 

Aiden's voice broke through my reverie. "Alright, little one. Time to get you settled in your playpen."

I blinked, refocusing on the present. "What? No, I don't need a-"

But Aiden was already lifting me out of the highchair, his grip firm but not unkind. I squirmed in his arms, my face burning with embarrassment as he carried me across the room.

"Put me down!" I protested, my voice more childish than I'd like to admit. "I can walk, you know!"

Aiden chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest. "I know you can, but this is quicker. And safer."

I opened my mouth to argue further, but the words died in my throat as I saw where we were headed. In the corner of the room stood a large, colorful structure that could only be described as an oversized playpen. My stomach dropped.

"Oh no," I muttered. "You've got to be kidding me."

Aiden paused at the edge of the playpen, his eyes meeting mine. For a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of... something. Sympathy? Amusement? But it was gone before I could be sure.

"Now, Bixente," he said, his voice taking on that infuriatingly patient tone adults use with small children, "this is your special area. You'll be safe here, and there are plenty of fun things to keep you occupied."

With that, he lowered me into the playpen, my diaper crinkling loudly with each movement. The colorful plastic walls felt like a prison, mocking me with their cheerful designs.

"This is ridiculous," I spat, kicking at a stack of oversized foam blocks. "I'm not a baby, Aiden. You can't just stick me in here like some toddler!"

Aiden's eyes narrowed, his voice taking on a stern edge. "That's enough, young man. Keep up that attitude and you'll find yourself in time-out. Is that what you want?"

I clenched my fists, biting back a retort. The threat of further punishment hung in the air, making my cheeks burn with frustration and embarrassment.

"No," I muttered through gritted teeth.

"Good choice," Aiden replied, his tone softening slightly. "Now, why don't you explore your new play area? There are plenty of fun activities to keep you occupied."

As he walked away, I glared daggers at his back. Fun activities? Yeah, right. This was just another form of humiliation.

With an angry huff, I turned to survey my new "domain." The playpen was larger than I'd initially thought, taking up a good portion of the room. Scattered around were various toddler toys - soft blocks, picture books, and a small activity table complete with crayons and coloring pages.

I kicked at a nearby stuffed animal, sending it tumbling across the padded floor. This was insane. I was seventeen, for crying out loud! I should be working on cars or hanging out with friends, not trapped in some oversized playpen surrounded by baby toys.

I grabbed one of the coloring books, ready to deface it with some choice words and show Aiden just how much I appreciated his "fun activities." But as soon as my fingers touched the cover, it seemed to shimmer and change before my eyes.

Blinking in confusion, I stared down at what was now unmistakably a university-level mathematics textbook on gravitational equations. The colorful crayon drawings had been replaced by dense equations and complex diagrams.

"What the..." I muttered, flipping through the pages with a mix of bewilderment and cautious hope. This was no joke - the content was legit, covering first-year gravitational theory with a depth I'd never encountered before.

Could this be some kind of test? A way for Aiden to gauge my skills and knowledge? The thought made my heart race as possibilities began to take shape in my mind.

With a determined glint in my eye, I settled onto the soft floor and began devouring the textbook's contents, my mind already working through the preliminary equations. This was my chance, and I wasn't about to waste it scribbling in a stupid coloring book.*

I was so engrossed in the book that I didn't hear Aiden enter the room. His voice made me jump, nearly dropping the precious tome.

"How are you liking those books, Bixente?" Aiden asked casually, as if inquiring about a children's story rather than advanced physics.

My heart raced. He knew. Of course he knew - he must have put the book here himself. But why? What game was he playing?

"I... uh..." I stammered, trying to formulate a response. Should I play dumb? Admit I understood some of it?

Before I could decide, I felt a warm wetness spreading beneath me. To my horror, I realized I'd wet myself in surprise. The thick diaper quickly absorbed the accident, but there was no hiding what had happened. My face burned with humiliation.

Aiden's eyebrow quirked up, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Looks like someone got a little too excited about their reading material," he commented lightly.

I wanted to sink into the floor. Here I was, holding advanced scientific theories in my hands, and I couldn't even control my own bladder. The irony was almost too much to bear.

"It's... interesting," I finally managed to say, trying to regain some composure. "But I don't understand most of it."

Aiden nodded, seeming unsurprised by my admission. "Well, that's to be expected. It is rather advanced material." He paused, a mischievous glint in his eye. "But you know, there might be something even more interesting around here. If you're up for a little exploration, that is."

My curiosity piqued despite my embarrassment. What could be more interesting than this book? And why was Aiden suddenly encouraging me to explore?

"What do you mean?" I asked cautiously, shifting uncomfortably in my wet diaper.

Aiden just smiled enigmatically. "Oh, I think you'll know it when you see it. But first, let's get you cleaned up, shall we?"

I froze as Aiden's words sank in, my face flushing even hotter with humiliation. Before I could protest, he stepped forward and gripped my arm firmly, guiding me over to the changing table against my will.

"N-no, I can do it myself!" I stammered, trying in vain to pull away. But Aiden's grip was like iron, and I found myself helplessly lifted onto the padded surface.

"Now now, little one, let's not make this more difficult than it needs to be," Aiden chided, his voice mild but carrying an undercurrent of steel. He deftly secured the restraining straps over my arms and legs, rendering me completely immobile.

I squirmed fruitlessly against the bonds, panic rising in my chest. How had I let this happen? One minute I was poring over that incredible book, and the next I was trussed up like a helpless infant.

"Aiden, please, you don't have to do this," I pleaded, hating how small and childish my voice sounded. "I'm not a baby, I can take care of myself!"

He merely tsked, shaking his head as he gathered the changing supplies. "We'll see about that. For now, just relax and let me take care of this little...situation."

My cheeks burned as he emphasized the last word, clearly referring to my shameful accident. I clenched my jaw, determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry or beg. If he wanted to treat me like a baby, fine - I would grit my teeth and endure it with what little dignity I had left.

The crinkling sound of plastic made me wince as Aiden unfastened my soiled diaper. I squeezed my eyes shut, not wanting to watch the degrading process. This couldn't be happening...how had things gone so wrong?

 

I froze as Aiden began whistling a familiar tune, the soft notes carrying a flood of memories. It was the same lullaby my dad used to sing to Eric and me when we were little. The gentle melody he'd hum as he tucked us in at night, a constant through the chaos of our fractured family life.

My breath caught in my throat as a kaleidoscope of images flashed through my mind. Dad smiling down at us, his kind eyes crinkling at the corners. The way his deep voice would rumble with each note, soothing our childhood fears. The smell of his aftershave lingering on our pillows, making us feel safe.

And just like that, I was a scared little boy again, desperately wishing for the safe embrace of a father's arms.

"How... how do you know that song?" I rasped out, my voice thick with emotion.

Aiden paused in gently wiping me clean, meeting my bewildered gaze steadily. For a moment, I saw a glimmer of... was it sadness in his eyes? Regret? It was gone in an instant, that infuriatingly unreadable mask falling back into place.

"Just something I picked up over the years," he replied with a casual shrug, as if reading my deepest memories was no big deal. "Bonding technique. Helps make little ones feel... comfortable."

I opened my mouth to press further, a million questions burning in my throat. How could a stranger know that lullaby? What did he know about my family? My dad?

But in a blink, the moment passed. With deft motions, Aiden secured a fresh, crisp diaper around my waist. The crinkle of plastic seemed to cut through the tension, bringing me back to my humiliating present.

"There we are, all dry again," Aiden declared with a slight dimple, as if he hadn't just rocked my world. "Why don't you keep exploring those books? And remember..." His gaze flicked meaningfully to the corners of the room. "There's more interesting things here than meets the eye."

With that cryptic remark, he turned and left, whistling that haunting melody once more. I was left staring after him, adrift in a sea of confusion and memories, the books temporarily forgotten in my lap.

Why did he know that song? What else did he know about me, about my past? The questions swirled endlessly, fueled by the deep ache his whistling had awakened in my heart.

I curled my arms around my knees, the crinkle of my diaper loud in the stillness. For the first time in years, hot tears pricked my eyes as unresolved grief welled up, fresh as the day Dad had simply... vanished from our lives.

With a shuddering breath, I scrubbed roughly at my eyes. I couldn't afford to wallow in old wounds, not now. Not when the stakes were so high. Whatever game Aiden was playing, it was clear he held all the cards. And if I wanted any chance of getting answers, of finding my way through this twisted nightmare, I needed to focus.

Setting my jaw, I reached for the strange book once more, its weight solid and reassuring in my hands. I would unravel this mystery, one piece at a time. For Dad. For Eric. For me.

I glanced around the nursery with new eyes, searching for anything out of place. Hidden clues, no matter how small. After all, like Aiden had said - there was more here than met the eye.

And this time, I was going to see it all.

 

* * *

Michael paced the living room, his cell phone pressed tightly against his ear. The voices of his lawyer and Headmistress Wilkins buzzed through the speaker, their words a tangled mess of legal jargon and educational policies. He ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident in every movement.

"Mr. Romanii, I understand your concerns," Headmistress Wilkins said, her tone measured. "But given the circumstances, we believe a partial regression program might be the best course of action for Nikolas."

Michael's jaw clenched. "Partial regression? You want to turn my son into a toddler?"

His lawyer, Ms Cuberneties, chimed in. "It's not quite that extreme, Michael. Partial regression would allow Nikolas to retain some of his autonomy while addressing the behavioral issues that led to this situation."

"And how exactly would that work?" Michael demanded, his voice tight with barely contained anger.

Headmistress Wilkins cleared her throat. "We'd consult with specialists to tailor a program specifically for Nikolas. It would involve some physical and mental adjustments, but nothing permanent or too drastic."

Michael stopped his pacing, his free hand clenching into a fist. "You're talking about messing with my son's mind and body. How is that not drastic?"

"Mr. Romanii," ms cubernetes interjected, "I know this is difficult, but given the alternative of full regression or potential legal consequences, partial regression might be our best option."

Michael closed his eyes, feeling the weight of the decision pressing down on him. "And who would oversee this... process?"

"I'd recommend Dr. Sheila Harrow," Headmistress Wilkins replied. "She's an expert in the field and has a excellent track record with cases like Nikolas's."

"Dr. Harrow?" Michael repeated, the name striking a chord of recognition. "I've heard of her work."

"Yes, she's highly respected," Harrison added. "If we go this route, having her involved would be a significant advantage."

Michael sank onto the couch, his mind racing. The thought of subjecting Nikolas to any form of regression made his stomach churn, but the alternatives seemed even worse. He took a deep breath, trying to steady his voice.

"And you both think this is the best way forward?" he asked, already dreading the answer.

There was a moment of silence before Harrison spoke. "Given the circumstances, yes. It provides the best balance of addressing the school's concerns while protecting Nikolas's future."

Headmistress Wilkins added, "I believe it's in Nikolas's best interest, Mr. Romanii. We want to help him, not punish him."

Michael stared at the family photo on the wall, Nikolas's smiling face looking back at him. The weight of responsibility pressed down on his shoulders, threatening to crush him.

"Fine," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "Contact Dr. Harrow. But I want to be involved every step of the way. Nothing happens to my son without my approval. Is that clear?"

"Of course, Mr. Romanii," Headmistress Wilkins assured him. "We'll set up a meeting with Dr. Harrow as soon as possible."

As the call ended, Michael sat in the sudden silence of the room, the gravity of what he'd agreed to settling over him like a heavy blanket. He looked again at Nikolas's photo, hoping desperately that he'd made the right choice.

 

* * *

 

I stormed into Dad's office, my fists clenched so tight I could feel my nails digging into my palms. The sound of his voice on the phone still echoed in my ears, each word like a knife twisting in my gut. He looked up, surprised to see me there. I didn't give him a chance to speak.

"So that's it? You're just gonna let them do this to me?" I spat, my voice shaking with rage.

Dad's eyes widened. He fumbled with the phone, muttering a quick goodbye before setting it down. "Nikolas, I-"

"Don't." I cut him off. "I heard everything. You're gonna let them stick me in some bullshit 'partial regression program'? What the hell does that even mean?"

He stood up, reaching out towards me. "Son, please. Let me explain-"

I jerked away from his touch. "Explain what? How you're failing me? Just like you failed Mom?"

The words hung in the air between us, heavy and poisonous. Dad's face went pale, then flushed with anger. "That's not fair, Nikolas. You have no idea-"

"No, you have no idea!" I shouted, my voice cracking. "You have no clue what it's like to be me. To be treated like a fucking child everywhere I go. And now you're gonna make it official?"

Dad's jaw clenched. "I'm trying to protect you. The world out there-"

"Protect me?" I laughed bitterly. "Where was that protection when Mom died? Where was it every time I came home crying because some Big decided I was just a stupid little who needed to be put in his place?"

"I've always done my best for you," Dad said, his voice low and dangerous.

"Your best?" I scoffed. "Your best is letting them turn me into some drooling toddler because you can't be bothered to actually raise me? Because you're too busy chasing stories to be a real father?"

Dad's eyes flashed. "That's enough, Nikolas. You have no right-"

"I have every right!" I screamed, slamming my fist on his desk. "I'm the one who has to live this life! I'm the one who has to wear fucking diapers and be treated like I can't tie my own shoes! And now you're just gonna hand me over to them because it's easier than actually dealing with me?"

"You think this is easy for me?" Dad roared back, his face red with fury. "You think I want this? I'm trying to keep you safe, to give you a chance at a normal life!"

I laughed, the sound harsh and bitter. "Normal? There's nothing normal about this! You're throwing me to the wolves because you can't handle the fact that you've failed as a father. Just like you failed Mom."

Dad recoiled as if I'd slapped him. For a moment, I saw something flicker in his eyes - pain, guilt, maybe even fear. But then his expression hardened.

"You have no idea what you're talking about," he growled. "You're just a child-"

"I'm not a child!" I screamed, my voice raw with emotion. "I'm your son! And you're supposed to protect me, not hand me over to people who want to destroy everything I am!"

I glared at Dad, my chest heaving with anger. "You wanna know why I'm really in this mess? It's because you were too damn scared to enlist me in PACE like everyone else!"

Dad's brow furrowed. "What are you talking about? I thought you'd be grateful-"

"Grateful?" I spat. "Are you kidding me? Do you have any idea what it's like being the only kid not in PACE? I'm a walking target!"

I saw something flicker in Dad's eyes - confusion, maybe even a hint of guilt. Good. He needed to hear this.

"Every single day, I get shit from the other students," I continued, my voice raw. "They call me a wimp, a baby, say I can't handle real discipline. And you know what? Maybe they're right! Because at least they know where they stand. They screw up, they get punished, end of story. But me? I'm just drifting in this... this limbo!"

Dad opened his mouth to speak, but I wasn't done.

"You think you're protecting me, but all you've done is paint a giant target on my back. The teachers look at me like I'm some kind of freak, the students use me as their personal punching bag, and now? Now the school's decided I need to be 'partially regressed' because I don't fit into their neat little boxes!"

I could see the realization dawning on Dad's face, the hurt in his eyes as he finally understood. Part of me wanted to stop, to take it all back, but I couldn't. The dam had broken, and everything I'd been holding back for years came flooding out.

"You never asked me what I wanted," I said, my voice suddenly quiet. "You just decided that keeping me out of PACE was best. But did you ever stop to think about what that would mean for me? Did you ever consider that maybe, just maybe, I'd rather take a few strokes than be treated like a pariah every single day?"

Dad sank back into his chair, looking utterly defeated. "Nikolas, I... I had no idea. I thought-"

"You thought wrong," I cut him off. "And now I'm paying the price for your decision. Some protection that turned out to be, huh?"

The silence that followed was deafening. I stood there, trembling with emotion, watching as the full weight of my words sank in. Dad looked older suddenly, worn down by the realization of what he'd inadvertently put me through.

I wanted to say more, to keep pushing until he truly understood. But as I looked at him, slumped in his chair with his head in his hands, I felt my anger start to ebb. In its place came a hollow, aching emptiness that threatened to swallow me whole.

I stared at Dad, watching him slumped in his chair. The sight of him looking so defeated should've made me feel better, but it just left me feeling hollow inside. I opened my mouth, ready to let loose another barrage of accusations, when he suddenly straightened up.

"That's enough, Nikolas," Dad said, his voice firm but weary. "I understand you're upset, but if you can't calm down and discuss this rationally, I'm going to have to put you in time-out to cool off."

I blinked, then burst out laughing. It wasn't a happy sound - more like a harsh, mocking bark. "Time-out? Are you fucking kidding me?"

Dad's eyes narrowed. "Watch your language, young man."

"Or what?" I taunted, spreading my arms wide. "You'll spank me? Oh wait, you can't do that, can you? Because you're too scared to actually discipline me yourself!"

"Nikolas, I'm warning you-"

"Warning me?" I sneered. "What are you gonna do, Dad? Send me to my room? Take away my toys? Oh, I know - maybe you'll just hand me over to the school and let them deal with me. That's your solution to everything, isn't it?"

Dad stood up, his face flushed with anger. "That's it. Go to your room right now."

I laughed again, the sound bitter and hollow. "My room? You mean the nursery you're probably planning to set up for me? No thanks. I think I'll pass on the time-out, Daddy."

The last word dripped with sarcasm. I could see Dad's jaw clenching, his patience wearing thin. Part of me wanted to push him further, to see just how far I could go before he snapped. But another part, a small, scared part I didn't want to acknowledge, whispered that I was going too far.

I ignored it.

I watched Dad's face change as my words sank in. The anger faded, replaced by something I couldn't quite read. Confusion? Guilt? Maybe both.

"Nikolas," he said, his voice softer now. "I... I had no idea you felt this way about PACE. Why didn't you tell me?"

I snorted. "Would you have listened? You were so damn proud of keeping me out of it."

Dad ran a hand through his hair, looking lost. "I thought I was protecting you. I never meant to-"

"To what? Make my life hell?" I cut him off. "Well, congratulations. Mission accomplished."

He flinched at that, and for a second, I felt a twinge of guilt. But then I remembered the nursery they were planning for me, and my anger came roaring back.

"You know what?" Dad said suddenly, his voice hardening. "Maybe you're right. Maybe you do need some real discipline."

I raised an eyebrow. "Oh yeah? What are you gonna do, ground me?"

Dad's eyes narrowed. "No. I'm thinking something more... direct. If you're so eager for PACE-style discipline, maybe that's exactly what you need."

I blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

"You heard me," Dad said, taking a step towards me. "Keep pushing, and you'll find yourself over my knee for a good old-fashioned hiding."

For a moment, I just stared at him. Then I burst out laughing. "Are you serious? You wouldn't dare."

"Try me," Dad growled.

"Please," I scoffed. "You've never so much as spanked me. You really expect me to believe you're gonna start now?"

Dad's jaw clenched. "I'm warning you, Nikolas. One more word-"

"One more word what?" I taunted. "You'll chicken out again? Face it, Dad. You don't have the guts to actually follow through."

I watched as Dad took a deep breath, swiveling his chair to face me head-on. He motioned for me to come closer, his eyes never leaving mine. I felt a flicker of uncertainty, but I squashed it down. No way was he actually going to do anything.

"Come here, Nikolas," he said, his voice low and steady.

I crossed my arms, planting my feet. "Yeah, right. I'm not falling for this act."

Dad's eyes narrowed. "This isn't an act. It’s an order..."

I snorted, trying to ignore the way my heart was starting to race. "Sure, Dad. Whatever you say."

"I'm going to count to three," he said, his tone unnervingly calm. "If you're not over here by then, you're really not going to like what happens next."

I rolled my eyes, but I could feel a bead of sweat forming on my forehead. "Oh please. You think I'm scared of your little countdown?"

"One," Dad said, his voice firm.

I laughed, but it sounded hollow even to my own ears. "This is ridiculous. You're not actually-"

"Two."

I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly dry. Dad's face was set in stone, his eyes blazing with a determination I'd never seen before. For the first time, a tendril of real fear curled in my gut.

"You wouldn't," I said, but my voice cracked, betraying my uncertainty.

Dad's eyebrow raised slightly. "Last chance, Nikolas. Don't make me say three."

I stood there, frozen, my mind racing. He wouldn't really do it, would he? But as I looked at him, I realized with a sinking feeling that maybe, just maybe, I'd pushed too far this time.

"This is stupid," I muttered, but I could hear the tremor in my voice. "You're bluffing. You have to be."

Dad took a deep breath, and I knew what was coming next.

I couldn't believe this was happening. One second I was standing there, calling Dad's bluff, and the next... well, here I was, staring at the floor from an upside-down angle I hadn't experienced since I was a little kid. My brain was struggling to catch up with reality.

"Ow!" I yelped as Dad's hand came down hard on my backside. "What the hell?"

"Language," Dad growled, landing another smack that made me gasp. "I warned you, Nikolas. You pushed and pushed, and now here we are."

I squirmed, trying to get free, but Dad's arm was like an iron bar across my back. "Let me go! You can't do this!"

"I can and I am," Dad said, punctuating each word with a stinging swat. "You wanted discipline? Well, you've got it."

The spanking continued, and I felt my eyes start to water. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Dad was supposed to back down, to prove me right about him being too soft. Instead, here I was, getting my ass handed to me like some little kid.

Each smack sent a jolt through my body, a mix of pain and shock that left me breathless. I could feel the heat building in my backside, a constant reminder of my current predicament. Part of me wanted to keep fighting, to prove I was too old for this. But with each passing moment, I felt my resolve crumbling.

The worst part wasn't even the physical pain. It was the humiliation of it all. Here I was, a 17-year-old, draped over my dad's knee like a naughty toddler. I could feel my face burning with shame, matching the fire in my rear. This was the kind of thing that happened to actual little kids, not to me. Not to someone who was practically an adult.

But as much as I hated to admit it, there was a tiny part of me that felt... I don't know, almost relieved? Like maybe this was what I'd been asking for all along. Clear boundaries, real consequences. No more of that confusing limbo I'd been stuck in.

Still, that didn't make it any easier to bear. I bit my lip, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to spill over. I wouldn't cry. I wouldn't give Dad the satisfaction of seeing me break down.

"You need to understand something," Dad said, his voice stern as he continued the punishment. "You're a Little, Nikolas. That means you're under strict supervision from now on."

"I'm not-" I started to protest, but another hard smack cut me off.

"Yes, you are," Dad insisted. "And it's high time you accepted that fact. No more acting out, no more disrespect. From now on, you'll follow the rules, or you'll find yourself right back in this position. Do you understand?"

I gritted my teeth, refusing to answer. This couldn't be happening. Dad couldn't suddenly decide to start treating me like this. It wasn't fair!

"I asked you a question, young man," Dad said, landing a particularly sharp swat that made me yelp.

"Yes! Okay? Yes!" I finally cried out, hating the way my voice cracked.

"Yes, what?" Dad prompted, not letting up.

I swallowed hard, my pride warring with the growing sting in my backside. "Yes... I understand."

"Good," Dad said, but he didn't stop. "Because this is how it's going to be from now on. You step out of line, you'll be punished. You break the rules, you'll face consequences. No more skating by, no more special treatment."

Each word was punctuated by another smack, and I could feel tears starting to leak from my eyes despite my best efforts. This wasn't what I wanted. Yeah, I'd complained about not being in PACE, about not having clear boundaries, but this? This was too much.

"I'm sorry!" I finally blurted out, my voice thick with unshed tears. "I get it, okay? I'll be good!"

The words tumbled out before I could stop them, and I felt a wave of shame wash over me. I sounded like such a baby. But at that moment, I didn't care. I just wanted it to stop.

I stood there, sniffling and trying to catch my breath as Dad finally let me up. My backside felt like it was on fire, and I couldn't stop the tears from rolling down my cheeks. This was humiliating.

"Alright, Nikolas," Dad said, his voice stern. "Go stand in that corner. Now."

I opened my mouth to argue, but the look on his face made me think twice. Reluctantly, I shuffled over to the corner he'd pointed at.

"Nose to the wall," he ordered. "And listen carefully because I'm only going to say this once."

I pressed my nose against the wall, feeling like a little kid. Dad started listing off rules:

"No talking. No slouching. No rubbing. Hands behind your neck. No looking around. And absolutely no whining. Got it?"

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak without my voice cracking.

"I want to hear you say it," Dad insisted. "Repeat the rules back to me."

I swallowed hard, trying to keep my voice steady. "No talking. No slouching. No rubbing. Hands behind neck. No looking around. No whining."

"Good," Dad said. "Now, I want you to stand there and think about your behavior. When I come back, we're going to have a serious discussion about your attitude and your new status as a Little."

As I stood there, I couldn't help but think about Mom. What would she say if she could see me now? The thought made my chest tighten. I missed her so much, especially in moments like these. She always knew how to calm me down when I got worked up.

I bit my lip, trying to hold back a fresh wave of tears. It wasn't just about the spanking or being put in the corner. It was everything - the constant struggle to fit in, the fear of being treated like a baby, the anger at a world that seemed determined to keep me down. And now, with Dad suddenly laying down the law... it was all just too much.

Part of me wanted to turn around, to apologize to Dad for the things I'd said. But another part, the stubborn part that got me into this mess in the first place, refused to give in. So I stood there, caught between defiance and regret, wishing I could just disappear.

The worst part was, I knew deep down that I'd been asking for this. All those times I'd complained about not having clear boundaries, about feeling lost... well, here was my answer. Be careful what you wish for, right?

I shifted slightly, wincing at the sting in my backside. Maybe this was what I needed. Maybe not. But one thing was for sure - things were never going to be the same after this.

This sucked. But as much as I hated to admit it, a tiny part of me felt... I don't know, relieved? Like maybe, just maybe, this was what I'd been asking for all along. Clear rules, real consequences.

But that didn't mean I had to like it. I sniffled again, trying to ignore the wetness on my cheeks. I wasn't crying. I wasn't.

This was so humiliating.

Suddenly, the shrill ring of a phone cut through the tense silence. I flinched at the unexpected noise, my body tensing instinctively.

"Don't move," Dad said sternly. I heard his footsteps retreating, followed by the muffled sound of his voice answering the call.

I strained to listen, catching snippets of Dad's side of the conversation.

"What? Now?" A pause. "I understand, but... Yes, I know it's urgent." Another pause, longer this time. I could almost feel the tension radiating from him. "Fine. I'll be there as soon as I can."

The call ended, and I heard Dad's heavy sigh. His footsteps approached again, and I braced myself.

"Nikolas," he said, his voice tight with frustration. "Get in your room now. I need to go to the office. You're grounded until I get back."

I turned slowly, my eyes wide with confusion and apprehension. Dad's face was a mask of conflicting emotions - anger from our earlier confrontation, worry about whatever had come up at work, and something else... regret, maybe?

I opened my mouth to speak, but Dad cut me off.

"Not a word," he warned, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You've pushed your luck enough today."

With a defeated nod, I trudged towards my room, feeling Dad's stern gaze on my back. As I reached the doorway, I heard him speak again.

"We're not done discussing this," he said, his voice slightly softer. "We'll talk when I get back."

Before I could respond, I heard him grabbing his keys and jacket. The front door closed with a resounding finality, leaving me alone in my room.

* * *

I flopped onto my bed, immediately regretting the careless movement as pain flared across my backside. The bed creaked beneath me, a small reminder of my presence in this world. As I shifted, the plastic sheet under my regular bedding rustled loudly, its crinkle a constant, unwelcome reminder of my... issue.

"God, I hate that sound," I muttered, feeling my cheeks burn with embarrassment. The plastic sheet was just another reminder of how the world saw me - as someone who couldn't even be trusted to keep a bed dry.

I gingerly rolled onto my stomach, wincing at the dull ache. The plastic crinkled again with my movement, seeming to mock me. "Shut up," I hissed at the offending sheet, knowing full well how ridiculous I sounded talking to inanimate objects.

A morbid curiosity began to creep over me. I glanced at the door, making sure it was still closed. My heart pounding, I slowly rolled onto my stomach, wincing at the dull ache. With shaky hands, I reached back and gingerly pulled down the waistband of my pants and underwear.

Craning my neck, I tried to get a look. "Oh man," I whispered, a mix of awe and disbelief in my voice. "He really did a number on me."

The skin was an angry red, with hints of purple starting to form. I could make out the faint outline of Dad's hand. "God, that's humiliating," I mumbled, feeling my cheeks burn.

I traced the edge of the bruise with my fingertips, hissing at the sensitivity. "Ow, ow, ow. Okay, bad idea."

"This is insane," I said to myself, still staring at the damage. "I'm seventeen, for crying out loud. Seventeen-year-olds don't get... spanked." The word felt foreign on my tongue.

Part of me wanted to take a picture. "Should I? No, that's stupid. Right? Who'd want to remember this?" But I couldn't look away.

"Is this... is this how it's gonna be now?" I wondered aloud, my voice barely above a whisper. "Getting spanked like a little kid whenever I screw up?"

I let my clothes snap back into place and rolled onto my side, curling up. "I should be furious," I muttered. "So why do I feel so... I don't know. Confused? Maybe even a little... relieved?" I shook my head, disgusted with myself. "No, that's messed up. I'm not a baby. I'm not."

The image of the bruise was burned into my mind. "What the hell am I supposed to feel about this?" I asked the empty room, not expecting an answer.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand, jolting me from my thoughts. I reached for it, my fingers tracing the familiar shape before swiping it open. The gallery app opened with a tap, and I scrolled through the pictures. Each one was a snapshot of a moment I thought I understood, but now they took on a different light.

In one picture, Zane stood slightly behind me, his hand resting on my shoulder. At the time, I thought it was just a friendly gesture, but now it seemed more like a subtle way to keep me in check. Another photo showed Logan laughing as I attempted a daring dive off the pier. His laughter, once a sign of camaraderie, now felt like it masked a hidden vigilance.

I flipped through more pictures, each one reinforcing the same idea. My friends, the people I trusted, always seemed to have an eye on me. Not in a malicious way, but like they were ensuring I didn't stray too far, didn't get into too much trouble. They treated me like a little brother, someone who needed to be discreetly watched over, not as an equal.

A pang of realization hit me. It wasn't that they didn't care about me; they did. But their care came with an unspoken understanding that I was different, that I needed their protection. My height, my struggles, everything about me screamed vulnerability, and they responded in kind.

I tossed the phone aside, feeling a mix of anger and sadness. Anger at myself for not seeing it sooner, for being blind to the truth. Sadness because, deep down, I knew they meant well. They weren't trying to belittle me; they were just doing what they thought was best.

Was this what being treated like their 'baby brother' meant? Physical punishment when I stepped out of line? The thought made me shudder. But at the same time... there was a tiny part of me that almost felt... cared for?

No. No, that was messed up. I shouldn't feel that way. I'm not a little kid. I'm not.

...Am I?

[Operational Systems]

I like the use of irony here.  The Amazons insist that littles desire to be treated a certain way, and their acting out is because they have certain needs that aren't being met, and Nikolas offers some insight into the possibility they might be right.  The shift in behavior in his (presumptively amazon sized?) father, as his dad finally comes to terms with the fact his son is a little, is fascinating.  Is he regretting that he failed to take into account his son really is a little, and needs to treat him like society says to treat him, or that his son did not have it in him to be a bigger man, and he's finally coming to terms with that.  Was the regret because he believed littles and children should be treated better, and now he's forced to recognize society was right and he was wrong?  Or is it the regret that his son is going to be in for a lifetime of being a baby.

Then the reveal that all of his so called friends had already come to that conclusion, that maybe even the people treating him like crap at school already knew it.  Definitely a bigger change than with your prior story.

Would like to see more of the tension on this.  Does the father have the coddling urges that the other Amazons in his society do?  What does that mean in the context of his own son?  How will the two reconcile their goals and grow from this experience?

The plot with Bixente is advancing slowly, and it'll be interesting to see how these two stories converge.

[Ericc]

On 9/28/2024 at 7:43 PM, Operational Systems said:

I like the use of irony here.  The Amazons insist that littles desire to be treated a certain way, and their acting out is because they have certain needs that aren't being met, and Nikolas offers some insight into the possibility they might be right.  The shift in behavior in his (presumptively amazon sized?) father, as his dad finally comes to terms with the fact his son is a little, is fascinating.  Is he regretting that he failed to take into account his son really is a little, and needs to treat him like society says to treat him, or that his son did not have it in him to be a bigger man, and he's finally coming to terms with that.  Was the regret because he believed littles and children should be treated better, and now he's forced to recognize society was right and he was wrong?  Or is it the regret that his son is going to be in for a lifetime of being a baby.

 

On 9/28/2024 at 7:43 PM, Operational Systems said:

 

well, Niko’s behaviour put him in the little category but he can do great if he succeeds his trial. As for his father,Michael, things are more complex. He is famous for publishing the corruption in Amazonia and is really idealistic and really wants to make things better even if his son got neglected.

Then the reveal that all of his so called friends had already come to that conclusion, that maybe even the people treating him like crap at school already knew it.  Definitely a bigger change than with your prior story.

 

On 9/28/2024 at 7:43 PM, Operational Systems said:

thanks. I still have few surprises under my sleeve;)

Would like to see more of the tension on this.  Does the father have the coddling urges that the other Amazons in his society do?  What does that mean in the context of his own son?  How will the two reconcile their goals and grow from this experience?

he want his son to pass his ordeal whatever the cost is but he still wonders if his actual research might blow everything out.

On 9/28/2024 at 7:43 PM, Operational Systems said:

The plot with Bixente is advancing slowly, and it'll be interesting to see how these two stories converge.

Bixente’s arc is more a macguffin necessary to advance the story for now.

 

anyway, thanks for your comments:)

[Ericc]

 

Chapter 4: Shadows of Deception

Michael's heart raced as the security officer escorted him down the sterile hallways of Liberty News Network. Something ominous hung in the air, a palpable unease that rose with each step.

"Right this way, Mr. Romanii," the officer said gruffly, his boots echoing against the polished floors.

They reached Michael's office door, and the officer paused, eyes narrowing. "Cameras spotted an unauthorized individual entering earlier. We've secured the area, but you'll want to check for anything out of place."

Michael swallowed hard and nodded, his stomach knotting. With trembling fingers, he swiped his access card and stepped inside, the officer close behind.

At first glance, everything seemed undisturbed - his cluttered desk, the framed photos lining the shelves, the whiteboards scrawled with notes. But a nagging sense of wrongness gnawed at him.

His gaze settled on his desk, and he froze. The photograph of his family, usually centered, had been nudged askew, the frame slightly rotated.

"What the..." Michael murmured, his blood running cold.

The officer peered over his shoulder. "You see anything else?"

Michael scanned the room, his reporter's instincts sharpening. Two neon sticky notes on his computer monitor caught his eye, arrayed in a seemingly innocuous manner. Yet the words scrawled across them sent a chill down his spine.

"The truth is hidden in plain sight," he read aloud, furrowing his brow.

His gaze dropped to the second note, partially obscured. "How deep does the rabbit hole go?"

A lump formed in his throat as realization dawned. Someone had been here, invaded his sanctuary - a calculated move rife with hidden meaning.

"There." Michael pointed a shaky finger at his desk drawer, slightly ajar. With dread coiling in his gut, he crossed the room and gingerly eased it open.

A sleek, black datapad lay inside, innocuous yet brimming with dark potential. Michael hesitantly picked it up, feeling its weight in his hands. The device was thin and compact, with a smooth, glass-like surface that reflected the office lights. Its edges were slightly rounded, fitting comfortably in his grip. The screen was dark, but as he tilted it, he caught a glimpse of the manufacturer's emblem subtly engraved on the matte finish of the back.

"What is it?" the officer asked, reaching for his comlink.

Michael's mind raced, piecing together the puzzle. The moved photo, the cryptic notes, this mysterious datapad - it reeked of the unraveling truth he'd long sought.

He clenched his jaw, adrenaline coursing through his veins. "I think we just found the first thread to pull on."

The security officer's presence had become a distraction, one Michael could ill afford. With a curt nod, he dismissed the man. "That will be all. Please secure the outer doors on your way out."

As the officer departed, Michael reached for his comlink, signaling his assistant Jenna. Her voice crackled over the line moments later. "Michael? Everything okay?"

Michael exhaled slowly, sinking into his chair as he cradled the sleek datapad. "I need you here. Now. Something...significant has happened."

By the time Jenna arrived, Michael had regained his composure, the familiar weight of a brewing story anchoring him. He recounted the details rapidly - the subtle signs of intrusion, the taunting notes, and finally, the datapad itself.

Jenna's brow furrowed as she examined the device, turning it over in her hands. "But why leave this? It feels like a trap."

"Or a chess move," Michael mused, steepling his fingers. "Whoever did this wants to be found, but on their terms."

A sudden flicker of light drew their gazes back to the datapad's screen. Michael tensed as the words materialized, glowing with artificial menace.

"How deep does the rabbit hole go?"

The same haunting phrase, now illuminated before them, seemed to take on a taunting new weight. Michael felt a surge of determination mixed with equal parts dread.

Michael met Jenna's concerned gaze, his jaw set. "I think," he said, voice low, "we're about to find out."

Row after row of heavily diapered littles filled the frame, their young faces slack and expressions vacant - clearly drugged or sedated. The camera panned shakily across the disturbing scene, revealing an array of numbered stalls not unlike holding pens. The footage was grainy and poorly lit, suggesting it had been secretly recorded.

Jenna gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "My god..."

Michael leaned in, his eyes straining to make out the horrifying details through the low-quality video. These weren't children, but young adults - college-aged Littles ranging from 17 to 20 years old. Despite their actual ages, they were dressed and presented as toddlers, complete with onesies, pacifiers, and thick diapers visible beneath their infantile clothing.

"It's an auction..." Michael's voice was hoarse, revulsion and rage warring within him. "But these aren't children. They're young adults - students, maybe. Look at their faces."

The camera jerked suddenly, momentarily going out of focus before settling on a disturbing scene at the edge of the frame. A Little, seemingly deemed unfit for sale, was being roughly manhandled by a shadowy figure. The young man's eyes widened in terror as he was dragged away, his muffled cries barely audible through his pacifier gag.

"Dear God," Jenna whispered, her voice trembling. "What... what are they doing to him?"

Michael shook his head grimly, his knuckles white from gripping the datapad's edge. "I don't know, and I'm not sure I want to."

The camera swung back to the main auction floor, occasionally catching glimpses of ominous medical equipment and stacks of diapers in the background. Some Littles appeared to be freshly "processed," their hair still damp and their skin reddened as if from harsh scrubbing.

"To whoever runs this ring, that's exactly what they want them to be. Perpetual infants, never allowed to grow up," Michael said, his voice tight with anger.

The Littles were displayed like commodities, price tags flashing beneath their helpless forms. Numbers flickered and changed, bids escalating in a twisted competition Michael could scarcely fathom. Occasionally, the camera would shake violently, as if the person recording was dodging detection.

Michael stared at the sickening images, his heart pounding with a mixture of rage and despair. He glanced over at Jenna, seeing the same horrified disbelief mirrored in her pale features.

"This..." His voice cracked, thick with emotion. "This is bigger than anything we've uncovered before."

Jenna could only nod mutely, the datapad's glow casting harsh shadows across her face. For a moment, the weight of the situation threatened to overwhelm them both.

Then Michael's reporter instincts kicked in, that familiar drive to expose injustice steeling his resolve. He straightened, jaw clenched, and reached for his comlink.

"Liberty News Network, Evelyn Westmore's office," he said curtly when the line connected.

There was a pregnant pause before their editor-in-chief's voice crackled over the tiny speaker. "Michael? What's going on?"

"Evelyn, we need to speak in person. Immediately." Michael's tone brooked no argument. "I have something that could blow this entire case wide open."

Another pause, then a resigned sigh. "Very well. Come up to my office straight away. We'll discuss this in a secure environment."

By the time they reached Evelyn's office twenty minutes later, Michael had regained an outward sense of composure. He clutched the datapad tightly, shielding its damning contents from prying eyes.

Evelyn rose from behind her desk as they entered, eyeing the datapad with a mix of curiosity and trepidation. "All right, Michael, you have my undivided attention. What's this about?"

Rather than answering directly, Michael set the datapad down on her desk and tapped the screen, cuing up the horrific footage. Evelyn's eyes widened in shock as the haunting images of the Little auction began to play.

To her credit, she watched in grim silence until the footage looped back to the beginning. Then she fixed Michael with an inscrutable look. "Where did you get this?"

"It was left for me. In my office." Michael's tone made it clear that was all the explanation she would get for now. "Look at them, Evelyn. Those are adults - young adults being sold like livestock."

Evelyn leaned back in her chair, steepling her fingers as she digested this information. "I see. And you believe this is connected to the Mid adoption case you've been pursuing?"

Michael nodded grimly. "That's what my instincts are telling me. This..." He gestured at the footage, playing on a sickening loop. "This is just the tip of the iceberg. There's something rotten at the core - something we need to expose."

A heavy silence fell over the office as Evelyn considered his words. Finally, she exhaled slowly and fixed him with her trademark steely gaze.

"Very well, Michael. If what you've uncovered here is genuine, we could be sitting on something that blows this story wide open." Her mouth tightened into a grim line. "We'll need all the resources at our disposal."

"Like our new AI system," Jenna interjected, speaking up for the first time. "Hermes, wasn't it?"

Evelyn's eyebrows shot up, but after a beat she nodded curtly. "An...unorthodox suggestion, but you may be onto something. Hermes' analytical capabilities could prove invaluable in untangling whatever web we've stumbled into."

She turned her piercing gaze back to Michael. "Get your evidence prepped and your team ready to move. We're going headfirst down this rabbit hole, whatever lies at the bottom." Her expression hardened. "No holding back this time."

As Michael closed the door to Evelyn's office, the harsh realities of his professional life melted into the personal storm awaiting him at home. Meanwhile, across town, his teenage son Nikolas grappled with a different kind of struggle.

* * *

I flopped onto my bed with a grunt, immediately regretting it as a sharp sting shot through my sore backside. Squeezing my eyes shut, I mentally berated myself.

"Ugh, nice going idiot. Way to remind yourself of Dad's stupid punishment."

Glaring up at the ceiling, I let out a frustrated sigh and started an internal dialogue. "You just had to run your mouth off at school again, didn't you Niko? Couldn't keep that temper in check for once."

I rolled over gingerly, surveying the mess that was my bedroom with disdain. "Jesus, look at this pigsty. How does anyone expect you to act like a mature adult when you live like a freaking toddler?"

Grudgingly hauling myself up, I started gathering the clothes and trash strewn about, pausing to pick up a crinkly used Drynite with disgust. "Wonderful, leaving these lying around too. Nothing screams 'I'm a responsible young man' like dirty diapers all over the floor."

As I tossed the soiled garment in the pail, I caught a glimpse of the fading red marks across my thighs and let out a humorless chuckle. "There's a nice reminder of your childish behavior, Romanii. Dad really didn't hold back on that bare bottom spanking, did he?"

I continued cleaning, angrily scooping up books and notebooks with aggressive mutters. "Unbelievable...still doodling in the margins like a brat...no wonder you ended up over his knee again..."

Finally looking around the tidied room with a sigh, I sank onto the bed, wincing at the sting on my tender backside. "You're just asking for it at this point, aren't you? Keeping this shit up is bound to earn you another trip to Spankingville."

Running a hand through my hair, I stared at the ceiling again, feeling a mix of embarrassment and resignation. "Maybe Dad's right...if constantly acting out like a naughty kid is what it takes for someone to tan your hide, then that's what you need. Clearly you still haven't learned..."

* * *

The dimly lit war room buzzed with tension as Michael and Cynthia huddled around the central display. Hermes' holographic avatar flickered to life, its geometric form pulsing with energy.

"Alright, Hermes, what have you got for us?" Michael demanded, his voice edged with urgency.

The AI's response was immediate, its synthetic voice laced with a hint of dark humor. "Well, besides a collection of baby-faced models ready for their closeup, not a whole lot."

Cynthia frowned, shooting Michael a worried glance. "Be serious, Hermes. We're dealing with potential human trafficking here."

Hermes seemed unfazed. "Oh, I'm always serious, dear Cynthia. Deadly serious, in fact. But if you insist on having me spell it out..." The hologram flickered as data streams flashed across the display. "These images depict individuals ranging from 16 to 19 years of age, both male and female, in various states of undress and infantilization."

Michael clenched his jaw, fighting back the bile rising in his throat. "Can you identify any of them? Run facial recognition, cross-reference missing persons reports, anything?"

"Already on it, but I'm not holding my breath." Hermes' avatar pulsed with each word. "These sickos have done an impressive job scrubbing any identifying information. No names, no birthmarks, not even a stray freckle to go on."

Cynthia pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling slowly. "Keep digging. There has to be something we've missed, some breadcrumb trail we can follow."

Hermes seemed to hesitate, an uncharacteristic pause in its rapid-fire responses. "I'll do what I can, but you may want to brace yourselves. The deeper we go, the darker it gets. It's like diving into a pool of molasses at midnight."

Michael's fists tightened at his sides, his knuckles turning white. "We have to try, Hermes. For their sake and for every other kid out there being exploited like this."

The AI's avatar flickered once more, its tone shifting to one of grim determination. "Then let's get to work. I hope you're ready for a journey into the abyss of human depravity."

"Listen up, everyone. I have to step away for an important meeting regarding my son, Nikolas," Michael announced.

Cynthia furrowed her brow. "Is everything alright, Michael? This seems serious."

Michael pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's...complicated. Nikolas has found himself in a precarious situation at school. I need to be there to advocate for him."

Hermes chimed in, "Ah, the joys of parenthood in our twisted world. Good luck explaining the birds, the bees, and the diapers, Michael."

The team exchanged concerned glances, all too familiar with the challenges Littles faced in the education system.

"Of course, take all the time you need," Cynthia said, her voice laced with empathy. "We'll continue analyzing the data and keep you updated on any developments."

Michael nodded gratefully, choosing to ignore Hermes' quip. "Thank you. I trust you'll make progress, even without a clear lead yet. This investigation is crucial – we cannot let those responsible for exploiting Littles slip through the cracks."

The atmosphere in the room grew tense, a shared determination rippling through the team.

"We won't let you down, Michael," Jenna assured him, her eyes burning with resolve. "Go take care of Nikolas. We've got this covered."

As Michael turned to leave, Hermes couldn't resist one last jab: "Don't forget to pack some extra patience, Michael. You might need it more than Nikolas needs his teddy bear."

Michael rubbed his temples, the weight of the investigation bearing down on him. "Alright team, let's reconvene tomorrow. I need to deal with a family matter."

As he stepped out of the office, his thoughts drifted to Nikolas. What new challenges awaited him at home?

* * *

Meanwhile, in a place far removed from Michael's world of investigative journalism, another story was unfolding...

 

I heard the rumble of Dad's car pulling into the driveway and tensed up instinctively. Great, here we go again...

The bedroom door opened and Dad appeared, his expression stern. "Nikolas, get dressed properly right now. Put on your Avery uniform."

I opened my mouth to protest but Dad cut me off sharply. "Don't even start with me, young man. After the stunt you pulled at school today, you'll do as I say without argument unless you want another spanking. Is that clear?"

Scowling, I muttered under my breath but knew better than to openly defy him right now. "Yes sir..."

Dad fixed me with a hard look. "I didn't quite catch that, Nikolas. You want to try that again with a respectful tone?"

Heat rose to my face as I reluctantly met his gaze. "Yes sir, I understand. Putting on my uniform now."

Satisfied, Dad nodded curtly. "See that you do. I'll be waiting downstairs and we're going to have a long talk about your behavior."

He turned to leave, pausing in the doorway. "And Nikolas? Any more disrespect or backtalk from you today and you'll be taking that conversation over my knee. We clear?"

My face burned with humiliation but I muttered obediently. "Yes sir...crystal clear, Dad."

With one last pointed look, Dad shut the door behind him, leaving me to angrily start dressing as ordered.

I sat in the backseat of Dad's car, face burning with embarrassment after the thorough lecture he'd subjected me to. I scowled, feeling the weight of his disappointment.

"You just had to push things too far at school today, didn't you?" Dad's stern voice cut through the tense silence as he gripped the steering wheel tightly. "Blatant defiance, disrespecting authority, accumulating all those demerits..."

He shook his head, jaw tight with anger. "I bent over backwards trying to reason with that headmistress, but your actions left me no choice, Nikolas. This disciplinary program is for your own good."

I opened my mouth to protest, but Dad raised his hand in a sharp gesture, silencing me. "Not another word out of you until we get home, young man. I'm absolutely livid with your behavior lately."

Sinking back against the seat, I glared at the back of Dad's head, fury and humiliation swirling inside me. The strict uniform felt like a constant, demeaning reminder of how little control I had right now.

As Dad peeled out of the parking lot, I tugged self-consciously at the hem of my blazer. Gritting my teeth, I angrily blinked back tears of frustration. Being treated like a misbehaving child just piled on the humiliation. Sure, I'd screwed up majorly at school, but wasn't this going way too far?

Staring out the window, I seethed at the unfairness of the situation. I may have pushed some boundaries, but I was still a normal teenage guy. Yet here I was, being treated like I couldn't be trusted to make any decisions for myself.

Dad's knuckles turned white on the steering wheel, and I knew turbulent times were ahead. As horrible as the embarrassing lecture and public scolding felt, something told me this was just the beginning.

I sank back against the car seat, Dad's words ringing in my ears. The uniform felt like a straitjacket, a constant reminder of how little control I had left. Sure, I'd screwed up at school, but this? This felt like overkill.

My mind raced, replaying the events that led to this moment. The argument with Mr. Patterson, the satisfying crunch as my fist connected with Brad's smug face, the look of shock on everyone's faces... God, it had felt good in the moment. But now? Now I just felt small. Powerless.

What would Mom think if she could see me now? The thought sent a pang through my chest. She always knew how to calm Dad down, how to make things right. Without her...

I clenched my fists, fighting back the sting of tears. I wouldn't cry. I wouldn't give Dad the satisfaction. But deep down, a part of me wondered: how had things gone so wrong? And more importantly, how the hell was I going to fix this mess?

* * *

I flung the math textbook across the nursery, its pages fluttering as it slammed against the wall. The numbers and equations blurred before my eyes, taunting me with their complexity in this humiliating prison.

"Were we doomed from the start?" I demanded, glaring at Aiden. "This whole plan to expose Emerson—was it for nothing?"

Aiden's maddening calm only stoked my frustration as he nodded slowly. "I'm afraid so, Bixente. You were doomed the moment you stepped through that portal."

His words felt like a kick to the gut. The cheap diaper scratched my skin as I squirmed, the crinkly material constricting. "You mean we never had a chance? Everything was for nothing?"

Desperation crept into my voice as the weight of his words sank in. We had been set up to fail from the very beginning.

"Precisely." Aiden beckoned me closer. "Come here, Bix. You need to understand."

Biting back a retort, I crawled towards the mesh fence, gripping it tightly and glaring up at him. "What more could you possibly say? You've taken everything!"

Aiden raised a placating hand. "Shh, listen carefully." He met my gaze intently. "From the moment you arrived, did anything seem... off? Out of the ordinary?"

I thought back—my overwhelming fatigue, the night terrors, my plummeting grades. At the time, they had seemed like normal struggles, but now...

"No," I whispered, realization dawning. "Nothing was right from the start."

"Exactly." Aiden's voice took on a solemn tone. "You were being manipulated, conditioned for failure before you even knew you were playing a game. The deck was stacked against you all along."

My hands clenched the mesh fence as anger and despair welled up. We had been pawns, herded towards our downfall while thinking we were in control.

"A trap?" I choked out. "We never had a chance to expose Emerson's secrets? To go home?"

"I'm afraid not, little one." Aiden's words were laced with paternal condescension. "You were doomed from the moment you arrived. Every step since has been meticulously calculated."

Tears of humiliation and rage blurred my vision. All our efforts, all our risks—meaningless from the very start. We had been played for fools while they watched and waited.

"Why?" I cried out, slamming a tiny fist against the mesh. "Why go to all this trouble? What's the point?"

Aiden's expression hardened. "You'll learn soon enough. For now, accept your new reality—the sooner you do, the easier this will be for both of us."

A scream of frustration tore from my throat as I slumped against the mesh prison, utterly defeated. We had never had a chance.

Through blurred eyes, I looked up at my captor. "How?" I rasped. "How did you know so much about us?"

Aiden's thin smile only deepened the pit in my stomach. "I've had eyes on Emerson for longer than you know, Bixente. You and your friends were always just pieces on a much larger board..."

His ominous words hung in the air as the walls closed in around me. We had been outplayed, outwitted, doomed from the very start without ever realizing the game was rigged.

As despair crushed what little hope remained, I could only wait for the next shattering revelation.

I swallowed hard, glaring defiantly at Aiden through the mesh fence. "Go on then, enlighten me. What horrors await a forced adopted little?"

Aiden's thin smile didn't reach his eyes. "Are you certain you wish to know? Maintaining ignorance may be... preferable."

I snorted, "It can't be worse than what we endured at Emerson. I'm pretty sure I can handle it."

Aiden arched one dark brow. "As you wish." He settled onto a stool, steepling his fingers thoughtfully. "For a forced little, life becomes an unending cycle of humiliation and subjugation."

A shiver ran down my spine, but I refused to show weakness. "Yeah? Like getting demerit after demerit for breathing wrong?"

"Exponentially worse, I'm afraid." Aiden's voice took on a clinical detachment. "Imagine being stripped of your identity, given a new name and baby alias. Dressed in garish infantile outfits, diapered, and forced into perpetual dependency."

My stomach churned as flashes of the nursery's obscene decor flitted through my mind. Aiden pressed on, relentless.

"No bodily autonomy remains—you'll be changed, bathed, and spoon-fed at your owners' whim. Severe punishments for any defiance, like losing potty privileges for weeks on end."

I paled, feeling ill at the implications. Aiden watched me closely, his voice dropping to a sinister murmur.

"And that's just the beginning. Some owners take special delight in thoroughly breaking their wards, delving into depraved practices that would turn your stomach."

Bile burned my throat as Aiden's words coalesced into a nightmarish vision of total subjugation. I'd thought our trials at Emerson's hands were the depths of degradation.

I stared at the garish advertisement Aiden displayed, my heart plummeting into my gut. The brightly colored ad for "Little Haul" seemed innocent enough at first glance—cheerful fonts promising "The Best Care for Your Little!". But the images accompanying the slogans chilled me to the bone.

In one corner, a regressed Little sat slumped in an oversized high chair, a trail of drool escaping his slack jaw as dead eyes stared vacantly. His clothes were more akin to an obscene parody of a baby's outfit—a bright yellow onesie printed with humiliating duckies, the crotch area obscenely clear to expose the thick diaper beneath.

The opposite corner showed the sheer terror on the face of an unregressed young man, eyes wide and mouth twisted in a silent scream of horror. Thick leather restraints bound his wrists and ankles as two impassive Bigs loomed over him, one brandishing an ominous-looking sedative-filled syringe.

My gaze frantically danced between the two scenes of utter dehumanization. The vacant stare of the regressed Little hinted at what mentality awaited if I didn't escape. But the abject fear in the young man's expression mirrored the roiling dread clawing at my own gut.

"As you can see," Aiden's smooth voice cut through my revulsion, "Little Haul caters to a very...specialized clientele. Those unlucky enough to be forcibly adopted face a grim road ahead."

I tore my gaze away from the horrific images, fury and desperation warring within me. Meeting Aiden's cold eyes, I rasped, "That's...that's inhuman! How could anyone do that to another person?"

Aiden simply shrugged, his thin smile taking on a cruel edge. "I'm afraid the divide between Littles and Bigs has created a culture where such depravities are not only accepted, but encouraged in certain circles. Your spirit and autonomy are seen as flaws to be...corrected."

Nausea churned in my gut. If Aiden spoke true, then our daring attempt to uncover Emerson's secrets had merely scratched the surface of this world's sicknesses. I was a dead man walking—the only uncertainty was the depths of violation I'd face before they finally broke me.

I stared at Aiden, my hands clenched into fists as I fought against the panic threatening to overwhelm me. The images of that poor, vacant Little and the terrified young man burned in my mind, a horrific glimpse of the fate that potentially awaited me.

Aiden's question hung in the air, his expression inscrutable. "Are you a good actor, Bixente? Can you play the role required of you for the next six months?" His voice was deceptively youthful, almost conversational, as if he were merely inquiring about my theatrical talents rather than hinting at some deeper, sinister plan.

I swallowed hard, forcing down the bile that rose in my throat. Part of me wanted nothing more than to spit defiance in his face, to refuse to be a pawn in whatever twisted game he was playing. But a stronger instinct for self-preservation urged me to play along, at least for now.

If there was even a glimmer of hope that my situation might improve in six months' time, I had to seize it. The alternative—the vacant stare of that poor, broken Little or the utter terror of the young man being forcibly sedated—was too bleak to accept without a fight.

Drawing a shaky breath, I met Aiden's gaze, my jaw set in grim determination. "I'll do whatever it takes," I said, the words tasting like ash on my tongue. "Just tell me what you need from me."

A slow, predatory smile curved Aiden's lips, and a shiver of dread snaked down my spine. For a fleeting moment, I wondered if I'd just made a deal with the devil himself. But there was no going back now. I could only hope that my acting skills were up to the task—and that whatever future Aiden dangled before me wasn't an even crueler deception.

As if sensing my doubts, Aiden's expression softened slightly, his youthful features betraying nothing of the darkness lurking beneath. "Trust me, bihurri. I know this is...difficult to accept. But I truly do have your best interests at heart."

The childhood nickname, uttered so casually from one so young, was like a physical blow. Only one person had ever called me that—my father, before he'd disappeared from my life all those years ago. A rush of memories assailed me—a deep, rumbling laugh, the scent of pipe smoke and machine oil, a calloused hand ruffling my hair...

My breath caught in my throat as realization dawned. Could it be...? But no, that was impossible. Aiden couldn't be more than a few years older than me. And yet, as I studied his features, those mesmerizing deep blue eyes were achingly familiar—the same eyes that had gazed down at me with such warmth all those years ago.

"Dad?" I whispered, searching Aiden's face for any other resemblance, any hint of familiarity beyond that devastating nickname and those haunting eyes.

Aiden's lips quirked in an enigmatic half-smile, but he didn't confirm or deny my breathless question. Instead, he simply reached through the mesh barrier, his hand ruffling my hair in a gesture so achingly paternal, it made my heart ache with longing for the father I'd lost.

"Just trust me, son," he murmured, his voice thick with a weight of unspoken emotion that belied his youthful countenance. Those piercing blue eyes bored into mine with an intensity I couldn't look away from. "I'll keep you safe, I promise. No matter what happens, remember—I'm doing this for you."

A lump formed in my throat as I stared up at this enigmatic man who seemed to hold the answers to so many questions. Despite his apparent youth, despite the horrors he'd revealed, despite the bleak path that lay ahead, some deeper instinct told me to trust him, to believe in the sincerity shining through those achingly familiar eyes.

With a shaky nod, I leaned into his touch, letting myself indulge in the comfort of that simple, fatherly caress for just a moment. Whatever happened next, whatever fresh hells awaited, I could face them...as long as I didn't have to face them alone.

"Okay," I whispered, letting my eyes slip closed as confusion and desperate hope warred within me. "I trust you...Dad."

My heart pounded in my chest as I dared to give voice to the question that had been swirling in my mind. "Dad... am I already regressed?" I asked hesitantly, almost afraid of the answer.

Aiden's expression softened, and he reached through the crib bars to brush a stray lock of hair from my forehead. "Yes, bihurri," he said gently, using the pet name that stirred such bittersweet memories. "The process has already begun."

A lump formed in my throat as a wave of humiliation and anger threatened to overwhelm me. To be reduced to this state against my will, stripped of my autonomy and agency...it was almost too much to bear. I opened my mouth, ready to unleash a torrent of protest, but Aiden held up a calming hand.

"I know this is difficult, son," he said, his deep blue eyes filled with understanding. "Believe me, if there was any other way, I would have taken it. But you have to trust that I'm doing what's best for you."

I wanted to argue, to rage against the injustice of it all, but something in Aiden's gaze stilled the angry words on my tongue. This man—this enigmatic figure who seemed to know me better than I knew myself—radiated a sense of protectiveness that disarmed me.

Swallowing hard, I gave a reluctant nod. "Why?" I asked finally, my voice smaller than I would have liked. "Why are you doing this to me?"

Aiden's expression grew pained, as if warring with some internal struggle. Finally, he sighed heavily. "There are forces at work here that you can't begin to understand, bihurri. Forces that would see you harmed, or worse." His jaw tightened. "This...regression is the only way I can keep you safe until we can neutralize those threats."

I shook my head, trying to process his words even as a part of me rebelled against them. "But Aiden...you don't understand. I can't go through that again. Not after..." My voice cracked with the weight of old trauma.

Aiden's hand found mine, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "I know, son. I know what you've been through, what you've suffered. And I swear to you, I will never let anyone hurt you like that again." His eyes blazed with a fierce protectiveness. "You're my son, bihurri. And I'll burn this whole damn world to ashes before I let any harm come to you."

A shuddering breath escaped my lips as I clung to his words like a lifeline. Despite the madness of the situation, despite the indignity of my condition, I found myself wanting—needing—to believe him. To trust that this man, whoever he truly was, had my best interests at heart.

Returning his firm grip, I nodded shakily. "Okay...okay, I trust you...Dad." The word felt foreign on my tongue, but also oddly right. As if some deep part of me recognized the truth in that simple title.

Aiden's features softened into a warm smile, and he leaned down to press his forehead to mine in an oddly paternal gesture. "That's my good boy," he murmured. "Just hold on a little while longer, bihurri. I'll make everything right again, I promise."

I clung to those words as the world around me blurred and shifted, the pieces of a bewildering puzzle slowly beginning to take shape. Whatever lay ahead, whatever fresh indignities awaited, I would face them head-on.

Because for the first time in far too long, I didn't have to face them alone.

[codsterc10@msn.com]

Amazing job. I smell trouble for Michael. I don't think him and the team will like what happens. I look forward to chapter 5 

[Operational Systems]

Aiden being the father is a cool twist and builds on some of the themes you're layering in this story.  It's a contrast to the prior one, which was much more linear and one sided in presenting the characters.  I do wonder if it's just another trap, like maybe Aiden had the ability to pull memories from Bixente, through some technology or hypnosis, or maybe knew the original father through some other means.

I'm looking forward to seeing more.  Especially Nikolas coming to terms with what it means to be grown up, or what it means to be a little, and how to adjust and grow from the experience.

Not to be too critical, but I do feel the jump in scenes for Michael, leaving work, going to school, going home, going back to work, and then going back home again and then back to school.  When the book is done, consider re-editing the overall placement of these scenes.  Even if it's logical that a person might bounce between three locations over six times in a day, in a movie you would find a way to push these scenes together.

[Ericc]

On 10/11/2024 at 6:42 AM, Operational Systems said:

Aiden being the father is a cool twist and builds on some of the themes you're layering in this story.  It's a contrast to the prior one, which was much more linear and one sided in presenting the characters.  I do wonder if it's just another trap, like maybe Aiden had the ability to pull memories from Bixente, through some technology or hypnosis, or maybe knew the original father through some other means.
 

No spoiler here but their relationship is interesting so to speak.

 

Not to be too critical, but I do feel the jump in scenes for Michael, leaving work, going to school, going home, going back to work, and then going back home again and then back to school.  When the book is done, consider re-editing the overall placement of these scenes.  Even if it's logical that a person might bounce between three locations over six times in a day, in a movie you would find a way to push these scenes together.

 

That was not the final edit of the chapter. I lost the final edited chapters after a computer followed by human failure and I just wanted to move on with that one but I will publish the full version of the story once it’s over, with additional details as I try to keep each chapter below 7000 chars. per chapters.

 

[codsterc10@msn.com]

I look forward to reading more chapters to come sorry about the computer failures. 

[Ericc]

 

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[Ericc]

Chapter 5: Shadow of Choices

The drive to Dr. Harrow's clinic passed in tense silence. Michael gripped the steering wheel, his jaw set in determination, stealing occasional glances at Nikolas through the rearview mirror. Nikolas stared vacantly out the window, emotions swirling beneath his sullen exterior.

Thermania's coastal scenery whizzed by, the azure waters glinting under the midday sun. Nikolas had grown up in this picturesque town, yet its beauty now seemed hollow, a facade masking the upheaval brewing within him. He fidgeted with the hem of his school uniform skirt, the childish garment a constant reminder of his fractured identity.

As they neared the clinic's residential neighborhood, Nikolas noticed the towering figures of passersby, their strides purposeful and gaze indifferent to the single Mid and Little in their midst. A knot formed in his throat, the weight of his predicament crushing down upon him.

Michael pulled up to the modern yet classically-inspired building housing Dr. Harrow's practice. The sleek lines and bright accents clashed with the gravity of their purpose, seeming almost mocking in their cheerfulness.

Emerging from the car, Nikolas shuffled behind his father, head bowed and shoulders hunched. He dreaded what lay ahead, the prospect of further humiliation chipping away at his already fragile defiance.

Dr. Harrow stood in the entryway, her tall stature and crisp lab coat exuding an air of professionalism tempered by a gentle smile. "Michael, Nikolas, welcome. Please, come in."

Nikolas swallowed hard, mustering what little courage remained as he followed his father through the door, the unknown beckoning with equal parts fear and begrudging necessity.

Dr. Harrow welcomed them warmly, ushering them to a plush couch facing her desk. She settled into her high-backed chair, folding her hands on the desk.

"I know this is a difficult transition," she began, her voice gentle yet carrying a note of practiced authority. "But I want to explain what partial regression means, Nikolas."

Nikolas shifted, his gaze flickering between the doctor and his father. Michael offered an encouraging nod, prompting him to listen.

Dr. Harrow continued, "Partial regression isn't about erasing your mind or treating you like an infant. It's a structured program designed to address specific behavioral issues. You'll maintain your cognitive abilities and memories. We're focusing on providing a framework to help you develop better emotional and behavioral skills."

Nikolas's brow furrowed. "So... I'm not being turned into a baby? I'll still remember everything and... be me?"

"Exactly," Dr. Harrow nodded. "Your core self remains intact. We're just creating an environment where you can focus on personal growth without some of the pressures and responsibilities you're used to."

Nikolas still looked skeptical but less defensive. "And how long does this last?"

"That depends on your progress," Dr. Harrow explained. "We'll have regular evaluations to assess how you're doing. The goal is to help you, not keep you here indefinitely."

As Dr. Harrow outlined the general structure of his days, including supervised activities and a more regimented routine, Nikolas listened more attentively. While still uncertain, the explanation had somewhat eased his fears of complete infantilization.

The office door opened, and Susan, Nikolas's assigned caregiver, entered. As introductions were made, Nikolas regarded her warily but with a touch less hostility than before.

"Why don't you go with Susan and get settled?" Dr. Harrow suggested. "She'll give you a tour and help you understand how your daily routine will work."

Nikolas rose stiffly from the couch, still apprehensive but no longer feeling entirely in the dark about what lay ahead. As he followed Susan towards the door, he paused, casting one final, questioning look towards his father.

Michael's expression remained resolute yet tinged with sympathy. "Listen to Susan, Niko," he said, tone firm but not unkind. "This is a chance to grow and improve. Give it a fair try."

 

* * *

I followed Susan down the sterile hallway, my stomach tied in knots. This partial regression program already felt like a violation of my autonomy. How could Dad agree to something so demeaning? Part of me still hoped he'd burst through the doors, declare this all a mistake, and take me home. But the rational part of me knew that was just wishful thinking. The betrayal stung almost as much as my recently spanked backside.

Susan opened a door to a small cubicle with a hospital gown folded on the padded bench. "Go ahead and get changed, Nikolas. Put all your clothes in this bin," she gestured to a plastic container.

Humiliation burned my cheeks as I stared at the childish gown. Having to strip in front of a stranger was mortifying enough, but wearing that infantile thing? I clenched my fists, restraining the urge to argue or run out.

My backside still stung from the recent spanking, a cruel reminder of my lost autonomy and Dad's harsh discipline. The thought of exposing myself, and the evidence of my punishment, made my face burn with fresh shame.

With a resigned sigh, I started unbuttoning my shirt, trying to maintain a shred of dignity. Each article of clothing felt like surrendering another piece of myself as I placed them in the bin. Down to my boxers, I hesitated, hating how vulnerable this made me feel.

"Go on, dear, we haven't got all day," Susan prompted in that artificially sweet tone.

Jaw clenched, I slid off my boxers quickly, my skin prickling with embarrassment. I knew she could see the faint red marks left by the spanking, and my cheeks burned as I quickly pulled the scratchy gown over my head. It hung loosely, the cheap material doing nothing to preserve my modesty. I felt five years old again, utterly powerless.

The gown felt strange against my newly hairless skin, itchy and abrasive. Every movement reminded me of how exposed I was, how they'd stripped away even this basic aspect of my maturity. I shifted uncomfortably, trying to adjust to the alien sensation of smooth, bare skin under the rough fabric.

As I stood there, vulnerable and humiliated, a confusing mix of emotions swirled within me. Anger at Dad for allowing this, for not protecting me, bubbled up alongside a childish desire for his comfort and reassurance. How could he do this to me? Didn't he understand how much this hurt? Yet a small, traitorous part of me still longed for him to sweep in and make everything okay, like he used to when I was little.

I pushed those thoughts aside, trying to steel myself for whatever fresh humiliation awaited me. But the conflicting emotions left me feeling even more lost and alone in this sterile, intimidating place.

Just when I thought the humiliation couldn't get any worse, Susan cleared her throat.

"Now, there's one last unpleasant step before we can get you settled." She picked up a small device from a tray. "This is called a zapper. We'll use it to permanently remove any...excess hair."

My eyes widened in horror as I realized what she meant. "No way! You're not shaving me like some kind of baby!"

Susan's brow furrowed in that stern look all adults seem to master. "This is standard procedure, Nikolas. The hair removal is for hygiene purposes."

"That's bull! I can take care of myself just fine," I protested, my face burning. Having my body hair forcibly removed was a new level of dehumanizing treatment.

"I'm afraid you don't have a choice in this." She gestured for me to step closer to the zapping station. "Don't make me call for assistance. You know how quickly demerits can accumulate."

I clenched my fists, hating that she was right. If I refused, Dad would only add more punishments to this nightmare. Maybe going along with it, for now, was the only way to show I could still follow rules, messed up as they were.

Grinding my teeth, I stepped towards the zapper, every instinct screaming at me to run. As the first zapping pulse hit my legs, I flinched at the odd burning sensation.

This device seemed designed to strip away any last shred of dignity. As the zapping pulses continued down my legs, I braced myself for the inevitable violation I'd been dreading.

Susan's methodical approach was both clinical and dehumanizing. The zapper's searing pulses against my most private area made me want to vomit. I was just a slab of meat to be shaved, not a human with any dignity left.

When it was finally over, I stood there hairless and trembling. They'd taken everything - my clothes, my body hair, my privacy. I'd never felt so small and helpless in my life. What else were they going to strip away? My identity? My humanity? How much further could this nightmare go before there was simply nothing left of me?

I hesitated as Susan handed me the thick training pant, the humiliating garment crinkling loudly in her grasp. My cheeks burned with shame at the thought of putting it on. This was a new low, another degrading step to strip away my dignity and self-respect.

"Go on, dear, you know the rules," Susan prompted sternly when I didn't immediately take it. "We don't want any accidents during your evaluation, do we?"

My jaw clenched as I snatched the pull-up from her hand, the loud crinkle echoing the knot of dread and anger coiling in my stomach. This was all so demeaning, treating me like an incontinent toddler rather than the 17-year-old I was. 

With shaking hands, I unfurled the thick garment, grimacing at the babyish print staring back at me. Did they have to make these things so humiliating? As if being forced into diapers wasn't degrading enough.

I stepped into the leg holes, bile rising in my throat as the crinkly material enveloped my lower half. The padding felt alien and bulky between my legs, an inescapable reminder of how they viewed me - as a helpless infant, incapable of even the most basic bodily functions.

Pulling the pull-up up to my waist was one of the hardest things I've ever done. Every rustle and swish of the material was like a slap to my crumbling self-esteem and independence. This wasn't just a piece of underwear, it was a symbol of how little autonomy I had left, how thoroughly they had stripped me of control over my own body and identity.

As the thick waistband settled into place, the overwhelming bulk only reinforced how infantilized I had become. My shoulders slumped with the weight of the dehumanization, a constant, unyielding presence between my legs that I could neither ignore nor escape.

When Susan instructed me to check for a tight fit, I wanted to be sick. Having to stick my fingers underneath, feeling the crinkly expanse of padding, made me feel more like a object than a person. My hands shook with humiliation and repressed rage as I adjusted the pull-up, sealing my demotion to utter helplessness.

Looking down at the babyish garment tented across my lap, I thought I couldn't feel any smaller or more childlike. The thick padding was impossible to miss, advertising my supposed incontinence loud and clear. All I could think was how Dad had sanctioned this, had allowed them to reduce me to an overtly diapered state as if I was a newborn once more.

As degrading as it was, perhaps a small, deeply buried part of me did find some twisted comfort or sense of security in the snug, puppyish hug of the pull-up. It reminded me of simpler, more innocent days when someone else was in charge and I didn't have to face the harsh realities of the world alone.

But those fleeting sensations were quickly overwhelmed by waves of anger, shame and grief for the self-respect and identity I had lost. Trapped in this grotesquely babyish garment, I had never felt more helpless, childlike or humiliated in my life. All I could do was obey and accept this dehumanizing existence they had imposed, at least for now. The fire of rebellion still burned within me, but it was bare embers being rapidly smothered by the weight of my imposed dollhood.

"Alright Nikolas, time to get you dressed properly," she said in an artificially bright tone. 

My eyes widened as she began unpacking the stack of garments. It was like a nightmare preschool uniform.

"You can't be serious," I sputtered, rage and mortification warring within me. "I'm not wearing those!"

Susan fixed me with a warning look. "You know the rules, Nikolas. Failure to follow instructions will only lead to more demerits and consequences."

I opened my mouth to protest further, but the sharp sting in my backside was an visceral reminder of how swiftly "consequences" could escalate. Grinding my teeth, I clenched my fists and gave a tight nod.

"Good boy," Susan replied condescendingly. "Now hold out your arms."

With trembling hands, I did as instructed, my cheeks burning as she slid one of the tiny sweater vests over my bare torso. It fit snugly but still looked ridiculous on my larger frame. The embroidered kiddie graphic on the front only reinforced how they viewed me - a foolish child to be dressed up and coddled.

Next came the dress shirt, its bright white only highlighting how bare and pallid my newly depilated skin looked. Susan made no effort to hide her clinical inspection as she fastened the buttons over my chest.

"We'll use the onesie extension today," she stated matter-of-factly, unsnapping some buttons below the waist.

I flinched as she begin threading the absorbent fabric through my crotch and up my backside like an oversized bodysuit. Having the thirsty material surrounded my shame only magnified my humiliation.

As the onesie tails blended into the bulky training pant, effectively displaying my infantile state, my face burned anew. I felt so small, so diminished and degraded.

The rest of the tiny uniform went on piece by embarrassing piece. The sweet-patterned pull-ups were constantly, unavoidably on display beneath the snug waistbands and sheer shortness of the preschooler pants. The little clip-on tie may as well have been a radiant neon sign announcing my utter emasculation.

By the time Susan had me fully dressed in the humiliating psuedo-school garb, I could barely look at my own mortifying reflection. The obvious bulk of padding in the crotch, the too-short pants blatantly showing off the infantilizing underwear, the cutesy top reminding everyone of my supposed mental age - it was all strategically designed to strip me of any last vestige of dignity.

As Susan led me out to what fresh indignities awaited, I felt hopelessly infantilized, robbed of independence and self-respect. My cheeks burned but I had no choice but to shuffle awkwardly along, my thickly-diapered bottom on humiliating display, utterly meek and diminutive in the grotesquely shrunken uniform. 

No matter how much I raged internally, for now I was just another powerless "little" boy, paraded around in crinkly incontinence underwear for all to mock. I could only pray this nightmare had an end...and that I survived its dehumanizing torments with some shred of person left intact.

 

* * *

Susan wheeled in a large, almost comically oversized stroller. The giant Tot-Trotter loomed before me, mocking my shattered dignity with its bright colors and cartoonish design.

"Time to get buckled up, little Nikolas," Susan said in an infuriatingly sweet tone that made me want to scream.

I glared at her, jaw clenched, resisting the urge to lash out. But I knew better than to defy her in this twisted place. With trembling hands, I grabbed onto the side of the massive stroller and tried to hoist myself up.

"Need some help, sweetie?" Susan asked, her voice dripping with false concern.

"I can do it," I growled, struggling against the constricting outfit.

The idiotic uniform they'd forced me into felt unbearably tight. The thick, padded cloth accentuated every curve and bulge, the seams practically outlining where my stupid training pants met my torso. Raising my legs proved challenging with the snug, stretchy material hugging my thighs and crotch.

I gritted my teeth, grunting with effort as I finally managed to clamber up and plop down onto the overstuffed seat. The fabric squeaked beneath me, embarrassingly reminiscent of a plastic-covered mattress.

"There you go!" Susan exclaimed. "Now, let's get you all snug and secure."

The oversized crotch harness immediately drew my gaze, that sadistic diaper-themed monstrosity seeming to taunt me. It was a thick, padded strap adorned with childish cartoon characters, designed to fit snugly between my legs and grip my body firmly.

"Is this really necessary?" I muttered, hating how small my voice sounded.

Susan tsked. "Now, now. You know the rules. Safety first for little ones like you."

I swallowed hard, avoiding Susan's gaze as she started buckling me in. Each strap cinched tighter with a series of loud, mocking clicks that echoed in the room. The harness creaked and strained against the pullups, the sound of stretching fabric unmistakable.

"Not so tight," I protested weakly as she adjusted the crotch strap.

"Oh, hush," Susan admonished. "We can't have you wiggling out, can we? It needs to be snug."

I hated how it squeezed against the thickly padded training pants, advertising my humiliation. The pressure between my legs increased, and I felt my face burn with shame as the harness accentuated the bulk of the training pants. A faint crinkling noise from the harness's padding made my cheeks burn hotter with each subtle movement.

By the time Susan secured the last buckle with a final, definitive snap, I felt like a trapped animal, confined in this ridiculous, infantile contraption. The crotch harness pressed against me, a constant reminder of my powerlessness and lost dignity. Its presence between my legs felt alien and invasive, making any movement uncomfortable and restricted.

"There we go!" Susan exclaimed, stepping back to admire her handiwork. "All safe and secure. Doesn't that feel better?"

I scowled, refusing to meet her eyes. "Can we just get this over with?" I mumbled.

Susan patted my head condescendingly. "Aw, someone's a grumpy little boy. Don't worry, a nice stroller ride will cheer you right up."

As she took hold of the handles, I slumped back, utterly defeated. Every slight shift produced a symphony of embarrassing sounds—squeaks, rustles, and crinkles—that seemed designed to draw attention to my predicament.

The oversized stroller rolled smoothly down the clinical hallway, the wheels making rhythmic squeaks with every turn. Susan's grip on the handlebar was firm, and I quickly realized there was no escaping this. As we passed staff members, their indifferent glances barely registered; they were accustomed to seeing Littles paraded about like this, some even in worse states of infantilization. To them, I was just another teenager reduced to a mere child, a fixture of their everyday routine.

* * *

Entering a room filled with strange medical equipment, the ambient sounds of buzzing machines and the soft beeping of monitors enveloped me. It was eerie, the air heavy with the scent of antiseptic and a sense of normalcy about the bizarre scene unfolding.

"Up we go, little one," Susan chirped, her overly sweet tone dripping with condescension as she unbuckled the harness restraining me in the stroller. I clenched my teeth, stifling the desire to protest as she effortlessly lifted me onto the padded exam table, treating me like an oversized doll.

The technician approached, his white lab coat crisp and his demeanor indifferent. The tapping of his fingers against a tablet was almost rhythmic, like background music in this twisted performance. "We’ll be running some neurological baseline scans today," he announced without even making eye contact, as if I were just another object in the room.

Cold gel touched my forehead as sensors were attached with sticky pads. A shiver ran down my spine, and I flinched at the sensation. Susan's hand rested reassuringly on my shoulder, but I shrugged it off, my dignity slipping away with each passing moment.

"Try to stay still, Nikolas. This will just take a few minutes," the technician continued, his voice monotonous, blending into the clinical ambiance around us.

I focused on my breathing, desperately trying to find a sense of control amid this unwelcome chaos. The sounds of equipment beeping and the low hum of machinery enveloped me, mixing with distant conversations, all framed in a routine that felt dehumanizing.

Sitting on the oversized exam table, my legs swung nervously, the weight of the bright, childish fabric pressing down on me. The room buzzed with activity, but the adults moved around me with practiced efficiency, completely unfazed by my discomfort.

"Now, sweetie, we need you to be a big boy for us," Susan cooed, her voice saccharine and sickly. She patted my head as if I were a puppy—a mere child in her eyes.

"I'm not a baby!" I shot back, my voice laced with indignation. My heart raced in my chest, pounding dangerously loud in the sterile silence of the room.

Susan’s expression shifted to one of mock discipline. "Uh-oh, is someone asking for a sore bum-bum?" she crooned, her words cutting through me like a knife.

My eyes widened in shock. "W-what? You can't—"

"Oh, we can, young man," the technician chimed in, wagging his finger as if contextualizing a routine behavioral reprimand. "Naughty little boys who don’t cooperate get spanky-wankies."

My lower lip quivered in horror. “But... but...”

“No buts, unless you want yours to be red and sore,” Susan continued, an unsettling amusement glinting in her eyes. “Now, are you going to be a good little boy for your scan?”

Overwhelmed by the infantilizing threats, I found myself nodding meekly, feeling the heat of tears sting in my eyes.

“That’s better,” Susan beamed, rubbing my back like an obedient pet. “Good boys get treats, not spankies.”

As they attached the sensors to my head, my humiliation deepened. The technician suddenly paused, noticing the redness and sensitivity on my backside. "Hmm, looks like someone had a bit of a rough afternoon," he commented dryly.

"Just a little reminder to behave," Susan said, her voice dripping with false sympathy. Her hand brushing gently against the warm, red skin only fueled my embarrassment further.

Sniffing back my emotions, I hated how vulnerable I sounded but was too paralyzed to protest. “I’ll... I’ll be good,” I mumbled, my cheeks burning crimson.

“Aww, there’s our sweet little guy,” Susan praised, her voice ringing false yet bright. She handed me a lollipop, the crinkling wrapper assaulting my senses with both sweetness and irony. “Here’s a special treat for being so brave!”

Humiliated beyond words, I took the candy, its sugary taste clashing painfully with my overwhelming sense of powerlessness. As the scan began, the adults continued to fuss over me, treating me like a well-behaved toddler, while the reality of my regression crushed down like a heavy weight.

 

* * *

Susan wheeled me into a new room that immediately set my skin crawling. It was a playground—but not the kind meant for actual children.

Oversized stuffed animals and garish plastic toys littered the floor in a sickening display of infantilization. A full-length mirror dominated one wall, no doubt intended to mock my demeaned state. I gripped the stroller's restraints, knuckles whitening with rage and humiliation.

"Alright, little one," Susan cooed. "Daddy will be back to get you soon. Why don't you play with the fun toys until then?"

She unbuckled the restraints, patting my head in a condescending gesture sure to leave anger burning in its wake. I flinched away from her touch, glaring defiantly.

"I'm not playing with any of this baby crap," I spat out, unable to keep the venom from my voice. "And don't call me 'little one' like I'm some kind of toddler!"

Susan tsks. "Now, now, we don't use that kind of language here. You'll get a strike for that potty mouth."

My jaw clenched as she made a show of marking something down on her clipboard. As if the infantile punishments and rewards system mattered a damn to me. I'm shaking with a volatile mix of rage, embarrassment, and dejected resignation.

"Your daddy expects you to behave," Susan warns, pointing a stern finger at me. "If you know what's good for you, you'll follow the rules while you're here."

Spinning on her heel, she exits without another word, leaving me alone in this demoralizing prison of plushies and plastic. I half-consider flinging the wretched toys across the room in a fabulous tantrum, but the hollow thud of the door sealing shut kills that impulse.

With a frustrated growl, I climb out of the stroller, steadying myself on tiny feet now clad in childish sneakers. The mirror captures my pathetic reflection—a teenager drowning in an oversized preschool uniform, training pants peeking out beneath the elastic waistband. I look away quickly, sickened by the image.

Slumping to the floor, I draw my knees up and wrap my arms around them, resting my forehead against the soft fabric of my shorts. I can't let them break me...but God, it's tempting to just give in and accept this humiliating fate.

Unwanted tears sting the corners of my eyes as I wonder what fresh hell awaits when Dad returns. Part of me longs for his stern presence and guidance...but another part rages at his complicity in allowing this degrading "treatment" in the first place.

I'm so lost in my swirling vortex of emotions that I don't even register the door opening again. It isn’t until a gruff voice slices through my brooding that I finally look up.

That's when I saw Mr. Foxi on a shelf, slightly tilted as if he was glancing at me too. The russet plush fox with its curious eyes and invitingly soft fur seemed oddly out of place amidst the more babyish toys. Almost as if it was calling me, a reluctant curiosity pulled me towards it.

I clenched my fists, determined not to fall for this obvious ploy, but the longer I stared, the more intrigued I became. With hesitant steps, I approached, feeling a strange obligation gnawing at my insides.

Picking Mr. Foxi up, I couldn't help but notice how naturally his plush body fit in my arms, offering a bizarre and comforting weight. It took only a moment before the smallest of smiles crept across my face—something I hadn't felt in what seemed like forever.

“Feeling better now, aren’t we?”

* * *

Dr. Harrow tapped the display, and Nikolas's image vanished from the screen. Michael tensed, his fingers digging into the armrests as he braced himself for her assessment.

"Mr. Romanii," she began, her voice clinical yet tinged with empathy. "The neurological scans have revealed some concerning findings."

Michael leaned forward, his jaw set in rigid determination. "What is it, Doctor?"

Dr. Harrow took a deep breath, adjusting her glasses. "Nikolas's brainwave signatures match those typically exhibited by Littles."

A heavy silence hung in the air as Michael processed the information. His brow furrowed, and he shook his head slowly. "That can't be right. He's a Mid."

"I understand your skepticism," Dr. Harrow replied gently. "However, the data doesn't lie. His neural patterns align with those of individuals who require a more structured and nurturing environment."

Michael's throat tightened, and he swallowed hard. "So, what does this mean for Nikolas?"

Dr. Harrow clasped her hands together, her expression grave. "It means we need to consider implementing a more comprehensive regression program. One that addresses his specific developmental needs."

Michael's eyes widened, and he leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his graying hair. "You're talking about treating him like a toddler?"

"Not precisely," Dr. Harrow clarified. "But we may need to introduce elements of childhood care and structure to help him thrive."

Michael shook his head adamantly. "No, absolutely not. I won't have my son infantilized like that."

"Mr. Romanii, please understand," Dr. Harrow implored. "This isn't about infantilization; it's about providing Nikolas with the tools and environment he needs to reach his full potential."

She gestured toward the plushie that Nikolas had been clutching earlier. "Take, for instance, the stuffed fox he was holding. It's not just a toy; it's a therapeutic device designed to emit specific brainwave patterns."

Michael's brow creased in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"The fox," Dr. Harrow explained, "was emitting frequencies aimed at reinforcing behavior typical of an individual between the toddler and preschooler stages. It's a non-invasive way to provide guidance and support."

Michael's mouth set into a grim line as he considered her words. The idea of subjecting his son to such treatments seemed unthinkable, but he couldn't ignore the scientific evidence.

Dr. Harrow leaned forward, her gaze holding his. "Nikolas's mental regression is a temporary state, one that we can reverse once he has received the care and nurturing he requires."

Michael's eyes snapped up, a glimmer of hope flickering amidst the storm of emotions.

"What do you mean?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

Dr. Harrow continued, "Nikolas's regression will be a temporary state, not a complete erasure of who he is. Our goal is to guide him through this transitional period, providing the structure and support he needs to develop healthy coping mechanisms and emotional resilience. Once we've achieved that, we can begin the reintegration process, gradually restoring Nikolas's original mindset and cognitive abilities."

A glimmer of relief flickered across Michael's features, though it was tempered by lingering doubt. "How long will that take?"

"Based on our projections, the entire process—regression and reintegration—should take no more than six months," Dr. Harrow explained. "Nikolas's memories and sense of self will remain intact throughout the process."

Michael's shoulders sagged ever so slightly, as if a fraction of the weight he carried had been lifted. He managed a tight nod, his gaze filled with a fragile determination.

"Alright," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "If this is what Nikolas needs, then... then I'll support him through it."

Dr. Harrow offered him a gentle smile, her eyes brimming with understanding and empathy. "I know this isn't easy, but you're making the right choice."

Dr. Harrow shifted in her seat, her expression growing somber. The weight of the situation seemed to settle upon her shoulders as she prepared to broach a delicate topic.

"Mr. Romanii," she began, her voice laced with compassion. "I understand that this is a lot to process, and the path ahead won't be an easy one." She paused, studying his face for a moment before continuing. "Given the emotional and psychological toll this process will undoubtedly take on both you and Nikolas, I believe it would be beneficial to consider some form of counseling or therapy."

Michael stiffened, his jaw clenching involuntarily. The mere suggestion of seeking outside help stirred a flicker of resistance within him, a remnant of his fierce independence and unwavering determination to be the master of his own fate.

Dr. Harrow noted his reaction and pressed on gently. "Please, hear me out. The regression process is not only physically demanding but also emotionally taxing—for both the patient and their caregivers." She leaned forward, her gaze holding his with a mix of empathy and professionalism. "You and Nikolas will be navigating uncharted territory, experiencing shifts in your relationship dynamics, and facing challenges that could strain even the strongest of bonds."

Michael's shoulders tensed, his fingers curling into the armrests as he wrestled with the implications of her words. The idea of relinquishing control, of exposing his vulnerabilities to an outsider, clashed violently with his innate desire for self-reliance.

Yet, as he looked into Dr. Harrow's understanding eyes, a part of him acknowledged the wisdom in her suggestion. This was a journey he could not undertake alone, not without risking the emotional well-being of both himself and his son.

With a heavy exhalation, Michael's resistance began to crumble. He nodded, his movements stiff but resolute. "Alright," he conceded, his voice gruff. "If you believe counseling will help us navigate this... this process, then I'm willing to give it a try."

Dr. Harrow's features softened, a glimmer of relief flickering in her eyes. "I'm glad you're open to the idea, Mr. Romanii. Trust me, having a professional guide to lean on during this time can make all the difference."

Michael offered a curt nod, his jaw still set in a rigid line. 

The rap of knuckles against wood shattered the heavy silence that had enveloped the room. Dr. Harrow and Michael turned toward the door, startled by the interruption.

A young woman in pale blue scrubs stepped inside, her eyes flickering between the two of them. "Excuse me, Dr. Harrow, Mr. Romanii," she said, her voice hushed. "I didn't mean to intrude, but Nikolas has been situated in the playroom, as you requested."

Michael stiffened at the mention of his son's name, his heart lurching in his chest. A maelstrom of emotions swirled within him—apprehension, guilt, and a fierce determination to do right by his child.

Dr. Harrow nodded at her assistant, offering a tight smile. "Thank you, Susan. We'll be there shortly."

As Susan slipped back out, closing the door behind her, Dr. Harrow turned her attention to Michael once more. Her expression was one of mingled professionalism and empathy, as though she could sense the turmoil raging within him.

"Are you ready?" she asked, her voice gentle yet laced with an undercurrent of resolve.

Michael exhaled a shuddering breath, steeling himself for what lay ahead. He knew there was no turning back now, no escaping the path that fate had thrust upon him and his son. With a curt nod, he rose from his chair, his movements stiff and measured.

"Lead the way, Doctor," he said, his tone clipped yet tinged with a hint of vulnerability.

Dr. Harrow studied him for a moment, her gaze seeming to pierce through his outward façade and straight into the depths of his soul. Then, with a silent nod, she turned and strode toward the door, her footsteps echoing in the stillness of the room.

Michael followed, his steps heavy and deliberate, each one carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken fears and doubts. As they approached the playroom, a sense of trepidation coiled within him, his stomach twisting into knots.

He could only imagine the scene that awaited him beyond those doors—a world of vibrant colors, plush toys, and infantile trappings, all designed to strip away the vestiges of his son's maturity and enfold him in a cocoon of childlike innocence.

A part of Michael recoiled at the mere thought, his paternal instincts rebelling against the notion of subjecting his son to such indignities. Yet, another part of him—the rational, pragmatic side that had carried him through countless trials and tribulations—understood the necessity of this path.

As Dr. Harrow's hand grasped the doorknob, Michael braced himself, his jaw clenched and his muscles taut. 

With a twist of her wrist, Dr. Harrow pulled open the door…

 

* * *

Michael took a deep breath and steeled himself before entering the playroom. As he pushed open the door, the sight that greeted him tugged at his heartstrings. Nikolas sat cross-legged on the floor, his eyes transfixed on the flickering cartoon playing on the large screen. Clutched tightly to his chest was a plush fox, its matted fur evidence of the comfort it provided.

For a moment, Michael saw not the young man Nikolas was becoming, but the little boy he used to be—innocent, carefree, and finding joy in the simplest of things. A pang of remorse washed over him, realizing how much of that precious childhood he had missed, consumed by his work and ambitions.

Michael studied Nikolas's appearance, unable to ignore the glaring contrast between the childish outfit he wore and the young man his son was becoming. The preschool uniform, complete with printed animals and bright colors, seemed ill-fitting and almost comical on Nikolas's lean frame. However, the visible outline of pull-ups peeking beneath the shorts served as a sobering reminder of the imposed regression.

A heavy weight settled in Michael's chest as he observed his son's juvenile appearance. It was a stark juxtaposition to the maturity and independence Nikolas had been striving for, only to have it stripped away by circumstances beyond his control. Michael couldn't help but feel a sense of paternal failure, unable to shield his child from the humiliating realities they now faced.

Nikolas remained oblivious to his father's presence, his eyes glued to the vibrant cartoon playing on the screen. The innocent, childlike expression on his face only amplified the dissonance between his physical appearance and the forced regression. Michael clenched his jaw, steeling himself against the wave of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. 

Nikolas's head whipped around at the sound of the door, his eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and apprehension. In that instant, the vulnerability of his son's situation hit Michael like a ton of bricks. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his throat, a lump forming as he fought back the swell of emotions.

"Dad?" Nikolas's voice was small, almost childlike, as he clutched the stuffed fox tighter. "Can we go home now?" His eyes flickered between his father and the toy, as if seeking reassurance.

Michael managed a nod, swallowing hard. "Of course, son." He paused, taking in the way Nikolas clung to the plush animal. "And you can bring your friend too."

A flicker of relief passed across Nikolas's face, and he hugged the fox even closer, burying his face in its soft fur for a moment. When he looked up again, there was a glimmer of the old Nikolas in his eyes—a spark of defiance and determination that Michael recognized all too well.

"Thanks, Dad," Nikolas mumbled, his voice muffled by the plush toy. He scrambled to his feet, clutching the fox under one arm as he made his way toward his father.

* * *

I had been bracing myself for the humiliation of being strapped into my booster seat again, but when Dad opened the car door, I felt my stomach drop. Instead of the usual seat, there was one of those oversized "cozy cruisers" with the giant padded crotch strap and crinkly diaper designs.

"Dad, what the hell is that monstrosity?" I protested, backing away from the car.

Dad's expression hardened. "Watch your language, young man. And get in the seat, we're already late."

"But that's a baby seat! You can't be serious." I dug in my heels, shaking my head adamantly.

Dad grabbed my arm firmly and pulled me toward the car. "It's a reinforced seat to keep you safe and secure during car rides. And with your recent behavior, you've left me no choice."

I struggled against his grip. "This is humiliating! I'm not a little kid!"

SMACK! The stinging slap on my padded backside made me yelp in surprise.

"Enough with the tantrum," Dad growled, punctuating each word with another firm swat. SMACK! SMACK!

Tears stung my eyes as I squirmed, desperately trying to avoid the punishing spanks raining down on my well-diapered butt. "Okay, okay! I'll get in!"

With one final swat, Dad stopped and steered me into the oversized car seat. I plopped down heavily, eyeing the garish crotch strap with burning humiliation as he buckled me in snugly. The crinkly material dug tightly into my crotch, accentuating my thickly diapered form.

As Dad clicked the final buckle into place with an audible crinkling sound, I couldn't meet his gaze, slumping back while blinking back angry tears. This was so unfair and demeaning. But I knew fighting back more would only lead to worse.

I sank back into the padded coziness of the oversized car seat, my resistance slowly melting away despite my best efforts. As humiliating as it was to be strapped in so tightly, my little body couldn't deny the surprising comfort and security enveloping me.

The thick, crinkly padding cradled my diapered bottom with plush support. No hard, unforgiving plastic edges to dig into my thighs this time. Just soft, yielding cushions designed for maximum coziness.

I shifted slightly, feeling the snug cinching of the wide crotch strap between my legs. A twinge of shame colored my cheeks as the strap crinkled audibly with each subtle movement, proudly advertising my thickly padded condition. But I had to begrudgingly admit, it was far more comfortable than the rigid confinement of a regular vehicle seat.

Giving an experimental bounce, I was startled by how the entire seat lightly swayed and absorbed the impact rather than jarring my little body. A small, involuntary giggle escaped my lips at the gentle bouncing motion.

As that carefree sound left my lips, I suddenly felt a warm wetness spreading against the wide crotch strap cinched snugly between my legs. Oh no...in the comfort of the cozy seat, I had started wetting my training pants without even realizing it!

Instinctively, I tried to clench my thighs together to stem the flow, but the rigid crotch strap held my legs firmly apart. A shameful blush crept up my neck as I realized the strap's insidious purpose - the thick, crinkly padding constricted gently against my crotch with each subtle movement, almost massaging my tender areas and making little accidents more inevitable. Worse, it prevented me from being able to close my legs to regain control.

Despite my frantic squirming, the cozy confines and snug, stimulating pressure had overwhelmed my body's signals until the floodgates opened without warning. Now I was awash in crinkly embarrassment, marinating in the telltale scent of my own infantile urination while Dad remained oblivious in the driver's seat.

My face burned bright red with humiliation as I felt the telltale crinkly swell of the saturated padding expanding obscenely against my crotch. The absorbent material had swelled into a pronounced bulge that the cinching crotch strap only seemed to accentuate rather than conceal.

Gritting my teeth, I defiantly tugged at the harness straps in a show of token resistance as Dad climbed into the driver's seat. But it was no use - the more I squirmed, the more acutely aware I became of the soggy, babyish mess contained in my diaper. Tears of shame and anger pricked my eyes as the crinkly wetness mocked my feeble attempts at maturity.

Each squirm and shift in the padded depths only amplified my awareness of the saturated garment plastered between my legs. I couldn't meet Dad's eyes as we drove, consumed by humiliation and the unsettling realization of how easily this oversized contraption had stripped me of control, facilitating a total regression to babyhood despite my protests.

In that moment of enforced vulnerability, I couldn't shake the warmth and surety radiating from the secure embrace of the car seat's oversized design. It felt...safe. Protected. Like a parental hug made of safety foam and crinkly plastic. But that only made my accidental wetting feel even more shameful and infantile.

My body had already surrendered to the cozy confines, accepting the inevitable with shameful tingles of deepening arousal as we drove. Slumping back with a reluctant sigh, I defiantly crossed my arms and stared out the window, refusing to make eye contact with Dad as the crinkly evidence of my regression surrounded me as we drove home.

 

 

[Ericc]

Chapter 6: Burden of Infancy

 

The next morning at Michael's house, the visioconf screen flickered to life as Michael joined the call with his team. His expression was taut, a mixture of anticipation and apprehension etched across his features.

"Any progress on analyzing that datapad?" Michael asked, his voice carrying a sense of urgency.

The visioconf displayed the familiar faces of his colleagues, their expressions mirroring the gravity of the situation. Cynthia, her brow furrowed, shook her head slightly. "I'm afraid we haven't uncovered anything substantial yet, Michael."

Jenna chimed in, her fingers dancing across a holographic interface. "We're still sifting through layers of encryption and obfuscation protocols. Whoever compiled this data was extremely meticulous in concealing its contents."

Michael ran a hand through his graying hair, frustration evident in his movements. The mysterious datapad promised answers, but the lack of progress only deepened the sense of unease gnawing at him.

Hermes, the team's AI assistant, spoke up, its avatar appearing in the corner of the visioconf. "My apologies, Mr. Romanii. The encryption algorithms are highly sophisticated, far beyond anything I've encountered before. It's as if we're trying to decipher the menu of an alien fast-food restaurant without knowing their concept of cuisine or digestive systems."

A collective groan echoed through the visioconf, the team members rolling their eyes in exasperation. Michael pinched the bridge of his nose, struggling to maintain his composure in the face of Hermes's peculiar analogies.

"Must you always be so... colorful, Hermes?" Cynthia chided, her voice laced with equal parts annoyance and fondness for the AI's antics.

Jenna couldn't stifle a snort of laughter, shaking her head in disbelief. "Leave it to you to turn data encryption into an intergalactic culinary mystery."

Michael held up a hand, a bemused chuckle escaping his lips despite the tension. "Alright, let's rein in the space food metaphors for a moment, shall we? We need to focus on what we actually know - which isn't much."

Hermes's avatar seemed to deflate slightly, its synthetic voice taking on a more subdued tone. "My apologies. I merely wished to convey the complexity of our task. Perhaps I should have likened it to untangling a giant ball of yarn while wearing oven mitts?"

"Hermes," Michael warned, though a ghost of a smile lingered on his face.

The brief moment of levity faded as the team refocused on the challenge before them. Michael's expression grew serious once more. "What if we're chasing shadows here? This datapad could be a dead end, or worse, a trap."

His team exchanged uneasy glances, their earlier amusement giving way to doubt. Cynthia spoke up, her voice hesitant. "We can't rule out any possibilities at this point. We might be onto something big, or we could be wasting our time."

Jenna nodded in agreement. "And even if we do crack the encryption, there's no guarantee that what we find will be worth all this effort."

Hermes chimed in one last time, its avatar flickering dramatically. "Well, team, it seems we're embarking on a journey into the unknown. Shall I prepare some virtual snacks for our trek through the digital wilderness? Perhaps some binary cookies or quantum-entangled coffee?"

The call ended with more questions than answers, leaving Michael and his team grappling with the uncertainty of their next move. The datapad's secrets remained tantalizingly out of reach, its potential significance shrouded in a fog of doubt and speculation - with only Hermes' questionable humor to lighten the mood.

 

* * *

 

 

I had been drifting in that hazy state between sleep and wakefulness, faintly aware of my surroundings. The dream felt so real - I was back at Avery High, surrounded by my classmates. Logan and his buddies jeered and laughed as they shoved me against the lockers.

"What a baby! You gonna go cry to your daddy?" Logan taunted, holding up a dripping wet diaper.

The humiliation burned deep as they all pointed and laughed at the soggy garment. I wanted to lash out, to make them stop, but I was powerless, trapped in their ridicule. Suddenly, the scene shifted and I was tiny, a helpless infant looking up at the towering figures.

That's when I awoke with a start, my heart pounding. As my blurry vision focused, I realized with a sinking feeling that I wasn't just dreaming the embarrassment. The telltale dampness between my legs told me all I needed to know.

"No...not again," I muttered, raking my fingers through my tousled hair in frustration.

Throwing back the covers, I stared down at the soggy drynite in dismay. This had to stop happening...

My eyes drifted over to the plush fox sitting on my nightstand and I let out a rueful chuckle. I guess part of me can't help but wonder if Mr. Foxi had something to do with this latest...incident. I know, I know, it's just a silly stuffed animal. But ever since that bizarre experience at Dr. Harrow's clinic, I can't seem to shake the nagging feeling that the fox toy isn't as innocent as it appears.

When I first saw Mr. Foxi in that playroom, something about him just...called to me, you know? Like he was trying to get my attention. And the way he seemed to almost vibrate with energy when I picked him up - it was weird, but also kinda comforting in a strange way.

Ever since then, I've kept Mr. Foxi close by, telling myself it's just a childish coping mechanism to deal with everything going on. But what if there's more to it than that? What if this fuzzy little guy has some kind of...I dunno, metaphysical connection to me or something?

Maybe I'm just losing my mind and reading too much into a dumb toy. But the timing of these bedwetting episodes starting up again right after my forced regression...it can't just be a coincidence, right? Or am I grasping at straws, trying to find something - anything - to blame for my humiliating lack of control besides my own failings?

Get a grip, Romanii. It's a stuffed animal, not a mystical being controlling your bodily functions. You're the one who needs to get this under control before Dad really starts to worry. Or worse - decides I need an even more heavy-handed approach to straighten me out.

My eyes drifted back to Mr. Foxi, filled with a mixture of longing and apprehension.

...Right?

 

* * *

 

As I sat there, the sharp smell of my own accident burning my nostrils, reality seemed to blur at the edges. A childish giggle echoed through my skull, not from outside but somehow from within, like a forgotten memory clawing its way to the surface.

"Uh oh...Nikki made a oopsie!" The singsong words felt like ice water down my spine. The voice was mine, but wasn't - higher, younger, dripping with infantile glee.

"Stop it," I whispered, but my protest sounded weak even to my own ears. The giggling grew louder, bouncing off the walls of my mind like a demented playground rhyme.

My reflection in the mirror started to waver, and for a split second, I saw him - a cherubic version of my five-year-old self, but something was wrong. His eyes were too knowing, too aware for a child. He smiled with my face, but his expression held an unsettling wisdom that no toddler should possess.

"Nikki needs a change-change!" The voice was everywhere now, inside and outside my head at once. "Don't fight it, Nikki. You know this is what you need!"

I slammed my hands over my ears, but it was useless - how do you block out a voice that's coming from inside your own mind? The room seemed to pulse and shift, growing larger around me until I felt impossibly small.

"Nikki Nikki bo-bikki," the voice sang, and to my horror, I found my lips moving along with the words. "Banana-fana fo-fikki..."

When I opened my eyes again, he was there - Niki, my younger self, perched on the changing table. But he wasn't just a memory or hallucination. He moved with an unnatural fluidity, his movements too precise, too calculated for a child. His eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that made my skin crawl.

"We're going to have so much fun together," Niki cooed, his voice shifting between childish innocence and something older, darker. "Just like old times, remember?"

I wanted to scream, to run, to wake up from this nightmare. But beneath the terror, I felt something else stirring - a treacherous sense of longing, as if part of me recognized and welcomed this regression. The worst part wasn't Niki's presence - it was how right it felt, how natural.

"No," I tried to say, but what came out was closer to a whimper. Niki just smiled wider, showing too many teeth.

"Yes," he replied simply, and his certainty terrified me more than any threat could have. "We're going to be together forever now, Nikki. Just you and me and all our baby things."

The room spun, and I couldn't tell anymore which one of us was real and which was the reflection. Niki's laughter echoed in my head, and this time, I wasn't sure if I wanted it to stop.

* * *

 

I shook my head, forced myself to focus on the task at hand. Needed to clean up and get dressed. Could worry about the voices in my head later.

Stood in front of my dresser, stared at the choice before me. Boxer briefs or pull-ups - a seemingly innocuous decision that carried far more weight than it should for someone my age.

Part of me wanted to grab the boxer briefs without a second thought, to declare my maturity and independence. Was not a little kid anymore, did not need those childish training pants.

And yet...could not quite ignore the nagging voice - Niki's voice - in the back of my mind. The one that whispered how much easier life would be if I just gave in, embraced the coddling and protection offered by pull-ups.

Reached out, fingertips brushing the soft fabric of the childish underwear. They were printed with cartoon characters, a vibrant contrast to the plain boxers beside them.

"Niki wanted the fun undies!" the little voice chirped in my head.

Gritted my teeth, snatched up the red boxer briefs instead. "No," I muttered. "Was not a baby. Did not need pull-ups."

As I pulled on the boxer briefs, Niki's voice piped up again. "Uh oh, Nikolas! Red undies hid the owies after spankings!"

I froze, the words hitting me like a punch to the gut. My cheeks flushed hot as the memory came crashing back.

The stern set of Dad's jaw as he ordered me over his knee just yesterday. The humiliating position, bent over like an errant child as he lectured me on my misbehavior. Then the first burning slap of his palm against my upturned backside, the start of a punishing rhythm.

"See? Nikolas got a spanking just yesterday for being naughty!" Niki's voice held no judgment, no mockery. Just a simple statement of fact from the innocence of childhood.

"I...I knew," I mumbled, struggling to maintain my composure. "Dad was...was just disciplining me, that's all."

I shuddered at the recollection of the incident that earned me yesterday's punishing trip over Dad's knee. Had been sullen and defiant after a bad day at school, lashing out over something stupid. Raised my voice, threw things, acted completely unlike the mature young man I was supposed to be.

I glanced up at my reflection in the mirror, freezing as I took in my partially hairless state. A stark reminder of my recent humiliation at the clinic slammed into me.

While my facial hair remained untouched, I ran a shaky hand down my smooth chest and abdomen. All the hair below my neck had been stripped away by that horrible device, leaving me feeling exposed and violated.

The boy staring back at me from the mirror's surface looked artificially young, like a crude attempt to pass me off as a mere child. Only the faint wisps along my jaw and upper lip hinted at my true age.

Niki's childish giggles echoed in my mind. "Look how babyish and hairless, just like me!"

I flinched, hating how right that treacherous inner voice sounded. With my body forcibly denuded in such an intimate way, I looked no older than an early adolescent at best. Paired with the humiliating pull-up dangling from my fingers, the effect was undeniably infantilizing.

"Shut up," I growled at my reflection, despising the way my voice cracked with bottled anger and shame. "Just...shut up!"

"Hey, it's okay to be scared," Niki's voice softened, sounding oddly mature for a moment. "Remember when we were little and got scared of thunderstorms? Big brother Niki always knew what to do then!"

The shift in Niki's tone caught me off guard. For a brief moment, it felt like he was trying to comfort me, just like I used to comfort myself during those stormy nights.

"Not helping," I muttered, but felt a strange warmth at the memory. "And you're not my big brother. You're... you're just me."

"Sometimes little me knows better than big me!" Niki chirped, reverting to his childish tone. "Like now - those pull-ups would be super comfy and safe!"

I groaned, the moment of comfort shattered by his return to infantile suggestions. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying in vain to block out the taunting image. But it was seared into my brain - another piece of my maturity and identity stripped away against my will.

When I opened my eyes again, they burned with unshed tears of rage and helplessness. Hurling the pull-up aside, I gripped the edge of the dresser until my knuckles turned white.

"I'm not...I'm NOT a baby," I choked out through gritted teeth. "Not anymore. They can't keep doing this to me!"

But even as the defiant words burst forth, doubt and fear wrapped icy tendrils around my heart. If they could so callously violate me in such an intimate way, robbing me of something as natural as my body hair...what other lines wouldn't they cross to mold me into their idea of an obedient little boy?

The harsh truth glared at me from the mirror - a twisted hybrid of man and child.

* * *

 

As I finished getting dressed, my mind drifted to the conversation that had followed my punishment. Dad had called me into his office, his expression a mix of concern and determination.

"Nikolas, come in. Have a seat," he'd said, gesturing toward the chair beside him.

I'd plopped down onto the overstuffed chair, sinking into the cushions. My hands had fidgeted nervously in my lap as I braced myself for what was to come.

Dad cleared his throat, his eyes studying me intently. "Are you ready to go shopping?"

The words hung in the air, and I felt a wave of defiance rise within me. But then I remembered his words about the threat of forced adoption after I turned 18. A chill ran down my spine at the thought.

"Dad, I learned my lesson. I didn't want to go through with this regression thing, even for a short time. It was humiliating and unnecessary," I had said, though my voice lacked full conviction.

He leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. For a moment, silence had hung between us like a thick fog. Then he patted the seat next to him, a silent invitation.

As I settled in beside him, I couldn't help but feel a pang of vulnerability, like a child seeking reassurance from a towering parent.

Dad draped his arm around my shoulders, and I tensed involuntarily, bracing myself for a lecture or admonishment. But instead, his voice was gentle, almost paternal.

"Nikolas, I understand this is difficult for you. But trust me, this is for your own good. The regression program is designed to help you develop coping mechanisms and regain control over your impulses. It's temporary, and I would be here every step of the way."

His words had been meant to be reassuring, but they only served to heighten my unease at first. I fidgeted uncomfortably, unsure of how to respond.

"What if I couldn't handle it?" I had blurted out, my voice tinged with a hint of desperation. "What if it was too much for me?"

Dad had given my shoulder a gentle squeeze. "That's why we'll take it one step at a time. We'll start small, and if it becomes too overwhelming, we can adjust or pause the program. But you have to trust the process, son."

I swallowed hard, my mind whirling as the reality of the situation had sunk in. As humiliating as this regression might be, it could be my only chance to avoid the horrors of forced adoption. Dad was just trying to protect me.

With a resigned sigh, I had nodded slowly. "Okay, Dad. I get it now. As much as I hated the idea, I trusted that you were doing what was best for me. I would try the regression program."

Dad smiled, his expression a mix of pride and relief. "That's my boy. Now, let's go get you some supplies. It'll be an adventure, I promise."

 

* * *

 

As the memory faded, I found myself standing in the hallway, lost in thought. The weight of yesterday's conversation and the looming shopping trip hung heavy on my shoulders. With Niki's voice still echoing in my mind, I took a deep breath and started down the stairs, uncertain of what the day would bring.