FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Ceylon caught his wrist before he crossed the threshold. "Is this serious?"

The cheetah grinned. "Maybe for them. They'll be fine, just ... educated."

"And me?"

"Nothing we haven't tried or thought about trying in the bedroom."

"I'd rather try it in our bedroom."

Now the cheetah got a queer grin. "What, are you chickening out? Little chicken, cheep-cheep-cheep-cheep!"

Ceylon got the joke, but patiently, bemusedly, took the route of common sense. "Would this be a drain on our time and/or money, were we to get caught?"

Kioga opened his collared shirt, itself having quick-release magnets instead of buttons, revealing a onesie with a kangaroo chest pocket. He pulled out a small sticker booklet, flipped through the pages, and peeled off a crayon-printed rectangle sticker that read "Best Friend!" and slapped it on Ceylon's chest.

"Guest Pass!" the cheetah cheered, then they interlocked fingers and walked through the door as very best friends.

"Is there fine print?" the gryphon asked, pulling his shirt out so he could look at it.

"Fifty thousand words of it," said Kioga, tracing the crayon border with his claw.

"And what am I agreeing to?"

"Eh, standard legalese. Original Creation, plsdonotsteal, some Willy Wonka liability waiver stuff, and a few asides such as 'No one will believe you' and 'only keskin/Keter/supra-terrestrial' beings could finagle the fine points.'"

"How weird is it going to get in there?" Ceylon asked, stopping just in front of the door.

"Fortunately!" Kioga said with an excited finger thrust into the air, "and disappointingly, it's all beyond our understanding and perception. All the eldritch spacetime shenanigans--everything that's ever happened on Earth being twenty minutes on a VHS in Pendrael's boudoir that's steadily losing fidelity with the stretching of its cassette ribbon--will fly way over our heads and we're not gonna see squat. And because it's still a terrestrial building, we should be fine. At least I haven't heard of anyone being more insane after coming in here than before, unlike the Closet on the executive floor."

"I'm not really convinced; I'm sorry. Also, what closet?"

"Closet with a capital 'C'," Kioga said, and Ceylon blinked.

"'Closet,'" the gryphon repeated. "The executive floor's ... 'Closet.' Is ... it weird that I can hear the capital 'C?'"

"Magic, isn't it?" said Kioga. "And also fortunately! There's a child safety lock over the knob."

"And by 'child,' you mean terrestrial being."

"Now you're getting it."

"Do I want to hear anything more about it, given that simply being curious about it might already be threatening in itself?"

"He's got his baby-gates in place, as much as I can trust someone like that. But his parties are nice!"

"Yes," the gryphon said, feeling a rise in his cage, of growing flesh meeting static steel, "Especially at casinos."

The cheetah grinned, blushing himself and feeling his own anatomy push against his moist diaper. "Indeed," he agreed, then they entered the restricted area all pawsy-squeezy and bumping shoulders at the threshold.

"Hopefully your 'best friend' pass will work here."

"Rumors have it that there's a certain picture of a black hole on the internet that, when people 'view' it--and of course the file is keskesey.jpg, French for 'What is this?' in an endless loop of Keskic facts creating rumors--they spend hours staring at it, only moving when they realize they're dehydrated and they've relieved themselves in their chair. The rumors continue that this is actually a picture of Pendrael's anu--"

"Stop."

Kioga giggled and they continued down the hall.

It turned out that Mort was, indeed, a consumer of video games, as he was walking in a half-stoop with his hands clasped around an invisible pistol. Beatrice sighed and muttered, "Should we get you a cardboard box? Or," she said, waving a paw in front of her snout. "A litter box? How can you shit already?"

"I needed to," said Mort, and Kioga and Ceylon started walking on the other side of the hall.

The hallway was a modern, sleek corridor of non-shiny metal that felt warm to the touch. The walls were white, which was not a familiar color for metal, and transitioned to toon pictures as clear and ingrained as tattoos of the expected, relaxing faire of baby cartoon animals; drawing implements like crayons; and pastoral settings of trees, grassy hills, rivers, and quaint cottages of nondescript European lineage.

"German-ish, quite rustic," commented Ceylon.

There were multiple doors hidden in the left wall while viewing windows slowly approached on the right. The word "Supplies" kept repeating above each door, with a sticky note on one that read, "Contact K. Davis for 27 pallets, multiple brnd/abscy," to which the cheetah snapped up the note and said, "Jackpot!"

Then he squared it on the door and smooshed the adhesive strip until he was sure it was stuck. "Beatrice, gimme a pen!" he said, and of course the rat had one in her purse.

He autographed the note, then the pen tip hovered over the number.

"...no," the Senior Account Manager said, "they'd do the math. Or, rather, their accountants would at the end of the year and my ass would be grass. Cey, dear, you wanna year's stay at the CC? They also have locations in Bali, the Maldives, and Warsaw!"

"Warsaw?"

"Though their Stupid Laws are stricter than ours," Kioga said, then capped the pen and handed it back to Bea.

At the viewing windows, the Carcer Contempla did, indeed, become a Disney ride. All they needed was an automated chariot on a track and a narrator over a P.A. and it'd be a "Diapered World After All."

The first one was sedate in nature but ornate in its orchestrations. It was a large nursery room with padded walls, the material being remarkably transparent from the outside, and its dimensions and furniture were scaled to 1.5 times that of a normal room, giving that "small" feeling to the occupants. It was full of various anthroids in traditional ABDL gear and had a couple of supervising nurses carrying clipboards. The walls were painted as a sunshiney spring day, the floor was extra-thick interlocking foam tiles, and nearest the window sat a female anthroid tarantula, which as far as biological departures went, as compared to their animal counterpart, was noted as one of the most radical, alongside aquatic and insect species. She had four useful arms and the common anthroid bipedal shape, and her tail was merely a tube thirty inches long with spinneret glands on the end. Two vestigial "stick limbs" pointed out from each side of her abdomen, protruding as if they were moderately short chitin tails. Her face possessed a blunted muzzle and a regular mouth, though two pointed chelicerae framed her lips. She had six unmoving black orbs for eyes, which concerned them, but at least she was smiling. When she turned her head around, they spotted two more.

The gang had seen anthroid spiders before, but unlike their animal counterparts, they just weren't terribly common.

The Praetorians had her in a custom onesie printed with boat patterns, and mittens on each of her hands. She was playing with large blocks, and was making quite studious progress with double the amount of hands anyone else had.

"Good job!" said one nurse in a soothing tone, patting her on the head.

"Funny this'd be a prison?" asked Mort.

"I think the Guard said that it was holistic rehabilitation," said Ceylon, "more of a therapeutic holding cell. Logically they would do it based on people's actual interests; something efficient to get to the core of the matter."

They continued down the corridor, with Kioga remarking, "Wonder what she did."

"Something in public," said Mort with a shrug.

"Why is it always public..." Ceylon asked.

"Ehm, it's not necessarily because it is public--" Kioga said, then was cut off by the salt-of-the-earth.

"Yeh, nah, it's not like I want Debbie McRando staring at my diaper butt and sniffing my doodies," said Mort, "It's more like I want a carefree world--you never know how much you're thinking until you stop thinking, and then it's real easy to think about one thought in particular--and like, yeah. We just live in a shared space, when I want a selfish space where I'm a big baby and it's okay to make doodies."

"Yeah, what he said," said Kioga.

"Ah. You don't want to inconvenience others, or get a perverse thrill by executing some execrable act in sight of citizenry you see as either 'oppressive' or 'respectable'--I really don't mean to go on a long tangent--"

"You turned the steering wheel, baby."

"Well fork me, then," said Ceylon, "But I can see it; I can see it. The people who do the act with the public in mind are doing it either as 'revenge against oppressive societal norms' or as some sort of 'self-humiliation' because there can be a thrill in debasing yourself down to the bedrock of your person: now you're nothing and you're horny. But as you said, Mortimer--"

"I'd be thrilled with dropping loud in my trou, and no one notices. Just 'cause I gotta live with myself 24/7, and sometimes I gotta make diaper-gravy in my pampies. Thass'all. Bada-bing, bada-boom-boom."

Kioga patted him on the shoulder. "We all need a space in which we dump out the LEGO blocks of our being."

"I ain't dumping no LEGO blocks; that shit hurt on the way out."

The next cell had a male pudu deer in a straitjacket onesie seated in an adult-sized bouncer with his feet barely touching the floor. There hung a pacifier from the ceiling at head-level, the cord of which was a tube containing a white liquid. That seemed to connect to a cabinet in the wall on their side, which contained a canister labeled "M.I.L.K."--a few spares were stockpiled underneath, the package unwrapped--with the unknown white fluid originating from there.

The pudu's eyes were glazed, but his jaw wasn't limp. Instead, he dutifully suckled at the pacifier and stared at a blank padded wall, seeming immensely relaxed. Kioga pressed his ear to the glass and heard quiet, classical music, then leaned back and picked up one of the bottles from the cabinet. "Should we get some for home?"

"In the gift shop where we're authorized to be?" asked the gryphon.

Kioga's muzzle smooshed, a mix of a smile and frown. "There's the door, love; I can pick you up on the way out."

Ceylon raised a finger, then took an instruction sheet from the open pack of M.I.L.K. canisters. "Well yes, but this place is pretty interesting," he said, nodding along to the directions and warnings. "'Natural ingredients only, drug-free relaxant, polyuria may occur, discontinue use of the product in case of nausea or disorientation, do not operate heavy machinery or go out in public without a chaperone, blah blah blah ... anal leakage is a result of relaxation and not chemical duress.' And there's a coupon with a link to Pendrael, Davis & Co's website. And the link ... leads to a 'bulk' discount for large company purchases of diapers. Wah," he exclaimed, "the smallest unit is a half-pallet, which is... four to six hundred diapers, depending on brand. Which is less than a year's supply for you," he finished.

"Yep! Can't stop soiling; I was born into the fetish!" Kioga proclaimed, ignoring the fact that it was abdominal trauma and bad surgery in high school. His boyfriend also knew this, but there wasn't a need to insist on it. However, he did have a question.

"Do you mind being incontinent?" asked Ceylon.

"I take it in stride," Kioga quickly answered, then remembered his high school days with a crooked smile. Of his collectible card game, and not necessarily the day the fight broke out.

"It's not that life necessarily deals you a bad hand, but sometimes you get weird draws. From there, you enjoy the plays you can make."

"No shame in, shall we say, being alternatively-functional as compared to the norm?"

"Everything works just fine if you can work with it," said Kioga. "Only thing that pains me is trying to mitigate people's pity."

"No grief in having to compensate for your irregular bathroom schedule?"

"I mean, if you zoom out far enough, we all have to compensate as part of existing. Food, shelter, and good health don't come automatically. Everyone has to work for something."

"And you do not feel your perspective is ... I don't mean this in a negative way ... delusional? Compensating for objective reality?"

Kioga shrugged. "Just a fact of my individual life, same way you have to cap your toe-talons and avoid hitting things with your wings."

"Very good," the gryphon said with a nod. "I just didn't want you to be carrying an unnecessary burden."

Kioga bumped Ceylon's shoulder and winked. "That's what changing rooms are for."

They started to move to the next room when Ceylon stopped and looked back at the box. "Do you think they have the same stuff in the gift shop? Because that stuff looks like it's doing a great job on that deer. You sure it's not drugged?"

"It makes the world soft like a pillow, but it doesn't remove the world. We reduced the chamomile for commercial release."

"Let me know when the Premium grade comes out," Ceylon said with a wink. "I do love a good pillow."

The next room was more tame. A kodkod cat, female, was dressed only in an apron and diaper, and was in the middle of a small kitchen setup where she was preparing a lasagna. Her chest moved somewhat independently of the apron, but the half-nudity seemed more natural than it did bawdy. In the back, a Praetorian with a lab coat thrown over his armored onesie was instructing her, though they could not hear. The rest of the room looked like a classic psychotherapy office, with a desk, divan, and a small library.

"They got cooking classes here?" asked Beatrice.

"We could all use them," commented Mort, catching his own scent as warm dung shifted between his buttocks. "All this frozen, processed food does a number on us inside and, cough, outside."

"Perhaps they're just trying to improve people's life-hygiene," suggested Beatrice.

"Life what?" asked Kioga.

"Lifestyle instruction, maybe," Ceylon continued, "Giving people more tools to satisfy themselves without resorting to, let's just say, and no offense Mortimer, more exhibitionist and/or chemical outlets. Adherence to objective reality, as I've mentioned, which actually goes well with their advertised purpose of public utility."

"Shit; I'll commit what she committed!" said Mort, then Ceylon sighed and pulled a few pamphlets attached to the wall.

"They have voluntary classes as well," he said, handing him one. "Though perhaps time your, cough, excuse me, movements for afterwards so you can smell ingredients you haven't already digested."

"Yeah, we should find a changing table," Kioga observed, noticing the outward curve under Mort's tail.

"We're not supposed to be here!" hissed Beatrice.

"Let's keep going or leave," said Kioga, already moving to the next room. He gasped, and this made the others quickly follow.

The room was a bit more direct, resembling a back room at the Beady Hell Night-Night Club than a good therapy room. A skinny, slightly malnourished male sable was bound spread-eagle on a pleasure-rack, completely naked with a folded diaper set to the side. His penis was encased in a gold chastity cage--one that Ceylon and Kioga made quick note of, for the gift shop--which clung resolutely to his stretched scrotum as his erection struggled to escape. It was a nice design, too: slim metal bars like a curved birdcage held it in place and let it breathe.

On the other side of his pelvis was a therapeutic massage, of sorts, from the inside out. Here, a Praetorian Acolyte wearing a purple bondage harness shaped in the outline of a onesie, framing his purple diaper handsomely, operated a ceiling-mounted wand--not unlike the hoses at the self-serve car wash--and alternated a rather long, knobbed, and lubricant-soaked silicone prod affixed in and out of the sable's rectum. The sable's buttocks and the inside of his thighs positively poured with lube, and the gang couldn't help but get a little hot under the collars of their onesies and the waistbands of their briefs. Finally, with the whole group blushing under their fur, the Acolyte slowly inserted the sexual colonoscope up, up, and up into the male until they could hear a deep, guttural groan through the glass. His poor cage dribbled with frustrated precum.

Then the Acolyte pushed a button on the wand, and a tube running along the length of it ran white. Apparently, the silicone bayonet was hollow.

"Oh. The M.I.L.K. is multi-use," commented Ceylon, whose own caged anatomy was in an equally constrained state.

They watched the sable's abdomen push out, and they gulped when the Acolyte continued to hold the button, looking at his watch. Or ...

Kioga and Ceylon, being seventy-five percent feline between the two of them, were able to smoosh their blunt muzzles better against the glass, and they saw that the Acolyte wasn't wearing a watch at all...

"That's a pressure gauge."

The male with the purple onesie harness clicked the wand off, then leaned to the front of the sable and quietly whispered something to him, and the sable nodded. He then gave the wand a quarter-turn to the left and it detached from the inordinately deep plug, then quickly put two fingers against the end as it pulsed, threatening to escape the sable's bowels. He checked with the sable again, whose abdomen was quite swollen at this point, much like any high-school male pretending to be pregnant, who took a few deep breaths, then nodded. The Acolyte stood, then grabbed the diaper and unfolded it with a snap.

"Oh! That's one of the thick ones!" Ceylon exclaimed, jumping in place.

"That's the diaper arms race in a nutshell, at least for hobbyists," said Kioga. "Bit too thick for me, if you'd believe, but I'll wear that beanbag chair if I'm working from home. Given, it's not that big, but you will go up two pant sizes when it's full."

"That would certainly be pleasant..." The gryphon's claws tickled the glass, leaving fine lines.

Kioga tickled the inside of his cheek with his raspy tongue. "I probably have a few cases at the warehouse. Turning into a bit of a supply hub; pretty great. The workers are happy, too. Not that I give them any bathroom breaks."

The gang threw a few glances at him.

"Nor do they want them."

More glances.

"We have a mobile changing station," he clarified. "There are two, three wandering mobile carts with long polyethylene tables and air quality sensors."

"Wouldn't it be more efficient to call it on your smartphone?"

"I liked the idea of diaper-hunter robots."

The gryphon blinked, imagining a warehouse after-hours, of a last worker trying to leave, his diaper full, intent on changing at home. The lights are dark, but three pitiless, remorseless, fearless sharks are trolling the waters.

"They're in beta right now, but F-C is working on a contract," said Kioga. "I've had to make sure all the doorways are wide enough, because if you're carrying a big load, they get a bit ... determined."

"Oh dear," said Ceylon, suddenly wanting to tour the warehouse.

"Working on a bipedal model."

"No!" shouted the gang in unison.

"Yeah, it's pretty bad at detecting thin barriers."

"Do you have a sign that counts the last days since an accident?" asked Mort, smirking.

Kioga grinned. "It measures in seconds."

The iguana and the cheetah slapped paws.

The sable was given a pacifier with a large bulb, likely to bite down upon more than suckle, because while the Acolyte was impressively efficient at strapping up the male's loins with the vast, enveloping purple swaddling, his abdomen pulsed as soon as the tapes were on. The Acolyte became much more sympathetic at this point, and began petting his lush, though haggard black coat.

Kioga found a pamphlet box and saw there was a magnetic tack over one of its cubbies. "There aren't just knots in your muscles, but in your mind," read the literature. "A lack of self-fulfillment can lead to more intense lashing out. Sex is okay. Fetish is okay. Do not let it build up like spiritual scat, because the evacuation may not be easily controlled. Find the balance between reason and satisfaction. Feel comfortable with what you enjoy, but do not impose it upon others without consent. Take care of yourself in private so you can control yourself in public."

Poor guy could have been lonely and aimless, or seeking some naughty thrill by being caught.

What occurred next, of course, was not a controlled evacuation as much as it was an evacuation in a controlled environment. The male's arms and legs tensed up, and he audibly groaned into the pacifier as his abdomen compressed and the back of his diaper flapped like a ship's sail catching a breeze.

Air, however, was not the first thing that hit the seat of the diaper, but rather a pronounced and constant flow of liquid M.I.L.K. and mess, like pouring a gallon of oatmeal into a plastic freezer bag. Once the diaper expanded, it remained out and gradually sagged and lost consistency as the contents of his bowels gushed, glorped, and filled his seat. Then came a rather solid, forceful thrust, and the bottom of the brief stuck out like a second tail as the silicone prod attempted to flee his body.

The Acolyte, however, put a finger on this distinct diaper bulge and waggled his other index finger at the detainee. The sable whined, the Acolyte shook his head, and with the push of two fingers against the under-tail tent he reinserted the prod into the desperately soiling sable.

"Oof," said Ceylon, wanting to soil in solidarity. He was a bit empty at present. "I'm supposing he did something really bad."

"People in that condition usually got there for something really Stupid," commented Mort. "I think that guy was wanting to cut his cough syrup with boner pills and vodka. I met him once; talked like a worn-out VHS tape. Long snippets of conversation, then gobbledy-gook. Might keep him for a few days."

"Looks like a sexual exorcism," said Kioga.

"Sure, get it all out," said Beatrice, watching him push a second load into his brief. Her arms tightly folded under her chest, though her eyes grew as the borders of the diaper expanded as a second seat, swelling like a balloon. "I'm not changing that one."

"I would," said Mort, a dark look in his eyes. "Buddy like that needs a bro in times of strife."

The three of them turned to Mort, whose crossed arms looked more like he was cradling himself. Kioga smiled and lightly punched him in the shoulder. "There's that Mort the Helpful." The iguana smiled.

The struggle inside the room continued, with the diaper progressively expanding until the sides rested against the back of the sable's thighs. The Acolyte continued to encourage him with soothing, inaudible praise, and with a final tensing of his arms and legs, the male pushed so hard he stretched the waistband and seat with a solid foot of his tentacle contents.

He got a smile and nod, then was allowed to evacuate the rest. His sodden brief hung under his tail like a regulation-size football, then the front began to yellow.

"I hope he finds the calm he needs," said Mort optimistically, then they moved on.

They arrived into a common cafeteria area with several detainees all wearing purple onesie jumpsuits with numbers and/or ... aliases ... on cutesy stickers pasted to the chest. A number of high chairs were set at intervals alongside adult-sized colored plastic picnic tables, with a kiddie buffet set out in the corner that was manned by a lunch lady with an exceedingly kindergarten-style dress.

Ceylon held the door open behind him, noting that it had a number pad laid out in bright block format and another "Employees and Acolytes only" sign on the other side. "Guys, I think it's one-way. Should we get back to the museum?"

"I mean, we could ask Melinda over there," said Kioga. "Oh hai Mark!"

"What?!" gasped Mort.

The officer in the armored onesie was waiting for Mark to finish his dinner, insofar as he was in a high chair and the rabbit, still in the regular striped onesie, was being fed bite-sized chunks of steak and asparagus.

"Hey guys!" said the rabbit, waving a mittened paw, and then the weasel scolded him by saying, "Now don't speak with food in your mouth; oh it's all over your chin!" she said, pulling a hankie from a tactical chest pocket and dabbing his messy muzzle. There were a few inmates crowding around her, pawing at her for bites off of Mark's plate. "Now all of you can wait your turn. See? Ricky's being a good boy."

The mongoose was indeed being a good boy, having been treated to his own plastic sectioned plate of steak, potatoes, garlic bread bites, and asparagus.

"Who are you talking to anyw-" she said, turning her head towards the door and the current set of the gang, including Kioga and Ceylon, then recognized them.

"Mister and Mister Davis, what a strange surprise!" she said with a suspicious eyebrow, then sighed bemusedly at the rat and the iguana. "And you two."

There rose a series of "ooooohs" and "oh no" from the rest of her nursery, and Melinda was already tapping her badge while approaching them. "We got a couple of bad boys and girls," she said into the badge. "Everyone, time out!" she called, and the inmates all rushed to a marked corner of the room, with a few helping the high chair detainees out of their perch before running to the corner.

In increments of ten, thirty, and sixty seconds, three Acolytes, two Praetorians, a Meter Maid (Lucio) rushed into the room with various squirt-rifles loaded with chemicals of SootheBlurt+, PassThru Premium (also known as PassThru~WU! or P.U. for its potency and effect), and other Praetorian staples. They sported rebreathers fashioned as, of course, pacifiers, and had the entire cafeteria locked down before Ceylon could finish flooding his padding.

"VIP, VIP!" said Melinda, and Kioga was seized and dragged out of the room. "And Mr. VIP! No, the other one!" she shouted, then Ceylon was stolen as well. The last thing the gryphon saw was an upside-down playpen slapped down over both Beatrice and Mort.

"It's not their fault!" he shouted, but by that point they were back in the hallway, with the sable, pudu, kodkod, tarantula, as well as her nursery class being quickly led back to their rooms through the employee hallways.

"Heck's going on in there?" asked the sable, changed and cleaned from his generous evacuation.

"Sounds like another breakout," said the tarantula.

"Ah, you've been here before?" asked the pudu.

"I just get excited by freedom, but then bored by my own life."

"I can help you find some fun outlets!" offered the kitchen kodkod.

"Boys and girls, we have to keep moving," said a couple Acolytes and nurses.

"Hey, aren't you Kogari Darvish?" asked the tarantula, but was gently pushed along by her nurse once she stopped. About three-quarters of the detainees also turned to look at their city's magic international celebrity, after which the employees had to redouble their efforts in soothingly, but firmly, herding their adult-children.

"Why are people referring to me by my old name? Am I a vinyl record now, a vintage classic?" Kioga asked.

"Yup, collector's item," he heard, and then felt the light pricks of gryphon talons on his stomach and back. He smiled and hugged back, then shared a nuzzle. Kioga moved forward to look at the cafeteria through its meshed glass window.

The Praetorians had surrounded the two, with Lucio on rollerskates orbiting like a particularly flamboyant electron. There were raised voices and nervous chatter from the suspects, and the cheetah sighed and opened the door.

"Sir?" asked the Praetorian that dragged him, but he was already through the portal.

Squirt-rifles pointed at him, then lowered.

"Sir, this is a contained area," said Melinda. "We have to ensure the safety of all civilians, convicts, tantrumites, and staff."

"I want to observe the process," said Kioga. "I was with them the whole time."

"But no Best Friend pass?"

"You can only have one Best Friend."

"Ah, that's right," said Melinda. "Take 'em to booking," she said with a snap.

"Can I excuse them?" asked Kioga.

"Not without your name on the building, and especially without booking your visit," said the weasel, and they moved Beatrice and Mort to a more office-like room with a sedate desk and chair. The walls, however, were covered in crayon and finger paint drawings from the inmates.

They sat down Beatrice and Mort, then Kioga right beside them as if he were a parent. Melinda flopped open a large binder and then flipped to the newest page. She took out a pen that had the same aesthetic as their Virga Pacifer stun-sticks--completely black with a purple glow--then interrupting herself, looked up.

"Mister Davis, as I said earlier with your colleague Ricky out there," she started, pointing the illuminated end at the door, "this is a mind-body-soul therapy center and we must conform to certain standards. You must be an appointed guardian, a caregiver, if you're not a Praetorian Deputy. And unless you're serving the role of guardian, then you're expected to appear as a ward."

A Praetorian tapped Kioga on the shoulder and the cheetah rose. Then with a whoosh, he found his pants on the floor, exposing the bottom half of his onesie. It was already decently round in the front and back, the whole-underside bulge exaggerated as he removed his shoes and stepped out of the garment. He folded his pants and then sat back down, the backs of his thighs flinching as the cool leather touched it.

Beatrice and Mort hurriedly dropped their bottomwear as well, showing off one purple and one blue diaper. Beatrice was decently wet, whereas Mort was more than a bit of both.

"Thank you," she said, resuming her clerical duties. Mort and Bea gave their full names begrudgingly when she asked for them, and Melinda went about reading their Rights of Padding, again, then was interrupted by a chuckle.

The officer looked up with a veteran aggrieved stare. "Is there something strange, Mister Tesson?"

Kioga snorted. "Were your parents comedians?"

The iguana shrugged. "My dad was a coroner's apprentice."

"But that's not what you found funny, was it?" the weasel reiterated to Mort.

"Nah, it's like, you're reading my rights," the iguana said, crossing one leg over the other, creating an attractive blue dome between his thighs, "And your name's Melinda."

Her eyes rolled into her head slowly, steadily, like two rising suns. "You know, I'm almost happy when an offender makes that pun. Means their brain is working on something. It's gotten to the point where everyone around the station calls our arresting spiel the 'Diaper Rights' or 'Melinda Rights.' I suppose I'll schedule a few spankings for you. Safe word is 'stawwwp~.'"

"Kinky."

"You're welcome," she said, then continued jotting notes in the Change-Log, as it was titled at the top of each page. Mort and Beatrice's dates were written down, and the time she put down as well, leaning over the desk to look at the condition of their briefs. "Two, phew. One hour for Mister Tesson, and about three hours for Miss Gary."

"Shouldn't you do that after they're changed?" Kioga asked.

Prae Barnyardt shrugged. "Do you change your oil exactly at ten thousand miles?"

Kioga nodded. "I don't think about it until after ten thousand."

Barnyardt grunted in satisfaction. "That follows. I could ask Geneva for your two binders of civil disruption. Seems you don't change anything until it's too late."

"That's why he has me," commented Ceylon, grinning while Kioga frowned.

Melinda then stamped the entries and turned back to the desk behind her to grab a USB cord. This she plugged directly into the spine of the book, which woke up her computer. As it booted and began downloading, her eyes wandered back to the book, where the stamps remained, but the names disappeared.

"Oh, come on," she said, then tapped her finger against the page. Its many ink scrawls blotched out for a second, then one line returned.

She groaned. "The book's really old; our bean counters can split pennies like a Japanese steak knife. What the..." The weasel leaned forward, then stood from her chair.

Kioga's trained ear heard the trademark hiss. Prae Barnyardt was peeing herself as she scrutinized the ledger, which lent a soft aura to her hard, official bearing. The bottom of her onesie grew out a couple centimeters, and the rounding out of its soft, warm lump brought a quiet smile to the two partners. Hers flushed with one liquid; their cheeks with another.

"How old?" he asked, which got a half-shrug while the other half continued to study and wet. The elastic bands around her legs stretched as the sack between them grew.

"Dunno; came with the building. I don't think anyone asked the boss about those. Though they keep behaving."

Kioga thought to add it to the pile of questions he might ask Pendrael the next time they went to the USDABDL Steakhouse, but his boss would merely lean forward, have his lips dabbed by the server, and then say something ambiguously prophetic until the next bite was delivered to his mouth by way of high chair service. The first time, Kioga thought it would be a confusing, belittling sight to see his god-alien-boss in traditional adult-baby faire, but the man still conducted himself as the Emperor of Business even when suckling on a pacifier. He elevated the diaper, instead of a dirty nappy dragging him down: even when he was wheeled into the Private VIP section of the restaurant in a large stroller, it seemed he was being carried in on a royal sedan.

"Who the heck is Lxyxz Effarverys?" she frowned, rubbing her thumb over the name. The weasel sat back down with a markedly larger lump between her legs, and effectively disguised her expression of gratification as warm, wet padding surrounded and pressed the whole of her undercarriage from genital to no-no hole. It enveloped her lap as a beautiful, bulging triangle, its heft great and coy enough to peek out in its wrinkled, swollen plastic beneath the cloth onesie strap. "Oh. Lucio."

Both detainees and their "guardian," leaned forward in their chairs with a chorus of plastic rustles. "The valet?" Beatrice and Kioga exclaimed.

"Yeah, I got questions," she said, standing back up and disconnecting the cable. She slipped her fingers under the front cover to close it, then tapped the name again.

"How did you get into the restricted area?"

"Well, the door was open."

Melinda bemusedly sneered. "Ah, and you just walked right in?"

"Yeah," said Mort, arms folded. He sat pretty still, as that was the best way not to agitate his soiled brief. The fairly significant mound of dirt not only molded up into the cleft of his buttocks, but had kissed each cheek with a smear of mess.

The weasel's muzzle crumpled, probably from his answer. "Just like you'd walk right into Fort Knox?"

"Yeah, if the door was open," Mort fired back.

Melinda looked at the rest of the trio. "This true?"

The weasel nodded and Kioga held up his paws in a shrug, looking like he was holding an invisible fish. He wished he could give her something better. "Yeah, that's the scope of it. Could even ask Mrs. Davis right here."

Melinda wanted to smirk, but this was a fairly serious leak, and the Praetorians had the tolerance of a homeowner with completely white carpet, even in the kitchen and bathrooms. "I'm going to have to investigate this further. You guys stay here." She tapped a couple buttons on her desk phone and it rang only once. An effete squeal was the first thing they heard over the speaker.

"Oooh! Hiiiii, Mel-Barn! How ya doing, girl?"

The glare she gave her audience was like two loaded PassThru-cannons aimed at them. Don't. Laugh.

"Lucy, I need you to clarify a couple things. Was the squeak really necessary?"

"It's a bluetooth dongle that um, vibrates, when your phone rings!"

"God's sake," she groaned, then muted the phone as the trio was holding back snorts. "Also available in the gift shop, by the way. Goes right where you think it does. Lucy," she said after unmuting, "We caught two unauthorized civilians in Hall 4-Charlie. The one that leads out to the Museum, if I remember right."

"Yeah, uh-huh?"

Melinda looked down at the Change-Log. "See, my friends here say that door was left wide open, and your name's appearing in the old C-L. Do you think there was a reason, this morning..."

"Yeah, what?"

"A reason, perhaps, that door might be open? It's mostly Rehab Cells and supply closets the whole way down, and our Babysitters and Acolytes haven't reported any bad kids. None besides these."

"That's so funny; I don't know how that could happen. You know those number pads don't always press all the way in; the buttons are so big."

"Yeah-huh, sure," Melinda said, staring at Lucio's name in the book. "I guess I'm just as puzzled as you are. Maybe one of our custodians noticed we're buying PDC now." The weasel winked at Kioga and the cheetah gave her a thumbs up. Kioga then picked his pants off the floor, rifled through his wallet, and gave her a PDC coupon.

For a split-second, the weasel's face lit up like a little girl's, the same way it had when he earlier autographed a folded diaper. She gave a thumbs up back. "I'd just really hate for someone like our janitors to be nicking our stash."

"Understandable; they can clean any building so why bother forming allegiances. Though to be fair," said Kioga, "in many businesses, it's the mid-level drones that can also get a little pawsy. They're not new enough to be scared of job security, but not quite high enough to be confident in their earnings and stability. Little smooshed and burnt out because upward mobility is quite a grind."

"Gotcha; people who are in the club but not the grand poobahs," said Melinda. "I'll keep one eye open. Lucio, any comment on the staff? Any peers, any janitors?"

"Oh, pff!" said Lucio over the phone, the sound of his skates grating over what sounded like concrete. "Most of those guys wouldn't know good taste if I put chocolate sauce over my dick. We just grab 'em from Leakguard and promise them a better life! Which is true, but have you ever seen such brutes handle a bin full of used diapers? They're precious; they're symbols of good boys and girls being safe and secure! Nope! They just throw them out like trash, the plebians!"

"Used diapers are trash," said Melinda, openly sharing her sardonic surprise with her prisoners. Are you fucking hearing this guy?

"Well, yes, but those wipes. Oh! How dare they throw them out after only two passes. I use every corner, because they're meant to be savored! Geez, just this morning, my little phone dongle got a little poopy, so I just ducked into the closet, popped it out and cleaned it up, and--"

"Ya left the door open."

"Yeah! I ... oh. Oh fuck--" he said and the phone went dead.

Melinda tapped her badge, then made a semi-circle with her finger. "Prae Barnyardt calling in, calling one unit to handle a Code Purple Skid One-Zero ... let's say Seven. One-Oh-Seven. Valet Lucio Effarverys left the kiddie gate open. No leaks or escapes. Just a very bad boy. Last heard skating over concrete, so he may be off the premises by now."

"Roger that. Leaving the parking lot now--" said a female voice, then interrupted herself with, "Oh, hold on."

"Stawwwp, get off of me!" shouted a suddenly regular, less high-pitched voice. "Ow, those are pointy! No-no-no-no, not the gas, I'm gonna get my dongle all poopy, I'm--oh no, it's coming; no, no, aah..." he groaned, with a few muffled, squishy sounds of obvious self-defecation. Semi-impressive; he'd definitely be feeling that across his cheeks.

"Barnyardt, unit and his mess are contained," said a voice, then more sounds of protest and struggle as they dragged him to the nearest mobile unit with a changing table. "He was still in the parking lot. I think he was searching for his car keys in... I'll tell you later."

"Neat," she said, filling out the rest of his Change-Log entry. For her own shameless gratification, Melinda then slapped the book closed.

"Hehe, dongle all poopy," echoed Kioga. Mort snickered and Beatrice sighed.

"You boys."

"It's a poop joke and a penis joke," explained Kioga. "That's double the humor."

"So, what about us?" asked Mort, pointing his thumb between himself and Beatrice. The rat raised her paw to slap him, but realized it was a fair question.

Melinda had already closed the book, and was moderately irritated she'd have to reopen it. Instead, the weasel shrugged. "Honestly, you caused no damage, aside from some slight thematic disturbance by wearing pants in the Play Area. You were also accompanied by someone who was authorized, but himself skirted the rules a bit by having three Best Friends and an unplanned visit. While the door was marked 'No Access,' it wasn't the most sensitive of areas. These have better security, unless Lucio leaves the door open and then he's on permanent diaper duty for the rest of his career."

"Which area is more secure?" blurted Mort.

"Don't," both Kioga and Melinda said.

"So in the interest of saving our resources and your own, and that I've seen worse criminals in the break room, I'm fining you ... two hundred dollars in the gift shop."

"Bismillah," Kioga groaned, leaning back in his chair with a grin.

"I was gonna spend that anyway," said Mort, then clapped a paw over his mouth.

Melinda smirked. "Don't make me arrest one of you a third time. Get outta my sight."

They were escorted back to the reception area with two guards muttering under their breath, though most of their complaints were about Lucio, who seemed to be a very passionate worker, but terrible with details.

"We'll see how fast he is on those roller skates after a couple rounds of PassThru," said one, then the other snickered.

"It could be a good counterweight," Ceylon offered, "a lower center of mass."

"Oh, but the chafing," Kioga remembered. "And in athletic shorts, it's not the most attractive lump down there."

"One man's pail..." countered the gryphon.

The guards stopped to ponder this, then shook their heads and gently shoved the group forward with their heavy-yield Vesicae rifles. At least that's what it said on the side: Ceylon and Kioga could only guess what yield would be heavy, and how bladders came into play. Suffice to say, their double-armored onesies implied a very heavy yield indeed.

Mark was already at reception, chit-chatting away with Geneva while showing off his own brand-new footed pajamas with a snap-away crotch and a (relatively) dry diaper so smooth, it almost looked like oversized brief underwear.

"Oh hey guys!" he said, running over to the gang and giving them an uncharacteristically warm hug. "I should have called you earlier, but the phones they got in the holding playpen are giant plastic rotaries, and I forgot all your numbers."

"Another reason we're not a real gang," commented Ricky. "We'd blow our one phone call ordering a pizza."

"Gift shop's to the right," the lioness said, pointing with an oversized red pen. "Now that we're done with our pagefinder, here."

"The what?" asked the rabbit.

Geneva held up her own change-log. Mark's entry was scribbled in as "Booked: Mark."

"Ah."

"Ever thought about putting in an application at Ferris-Chalmpers?" asked Kioga.

Geneva smiled. "I'd be a damn fine receptionist, but they don't let you wear the fun stuff until the thirtieth floor," she said, and accented her point by standing up. She wore a plaid, punkish skirt in the colors of the Praetorian Guard, and of course it was a bit too short, and she was a bit too wet, for it to completely disguise her diaper contained within a lace bloomer.

"Is Lucio going to be okay?" asked Ceylon.

The lioness nodded. "If we didn't believe in our own product, we wouldn't use it. At least I hope Lucio believes in it. As you saw back there, there's gonna be a phase of significant discomfort, as penance, followed by a phase of massive release and relief. While it's not always a M.I.L.K. enema, we've found often that the combination of purging, along with an awkward open neediness, can reset people's mindsets. But you can always ask the Acolytes for the details. Combination of the carrot and the stick. Sometimes the carrot is the stick," she added with a smirk.

"Is there, ahem, a way to be voluntarily admitted?" Ceylon asked, and Kioga turned to him with a grin.

Geneva pointed to a rack of pamphlets behind them. "Get your reservation in now, because we're booked up for the next six weeks."

"What?!" Kioga gasped, then remembered, in passing through Accounting, that the PG's books were as thick as a good gaming diaper after a raid. "When are you gonna expand?"

"You'd have to ask Director Tacore," she said, "We're still working out our next U.S. location--"

"Leakguard!" exclaimed Mark, who had just been processed by the system.

"Just behind your apartment complex, Mister Target?"

"Pronounced Tar-jay," Mark corrected.

"That reminds me; I have to pick up new pants," said Geneva, returning to her book. "Anyway, it's not off the table to have a more affordable franchise option, effectively a Chuck E. Cheese for adult-children."

"Why are we not funding this?!" exclaimed Kioga.

Geneva gave him the same glare she usually gave Lucio.

"Ah, we obviously are."

"We're currently working on what economic demographic we want to target, or, tar-jay, at the home location," added the lioness. "Right now we're at three-point-five stars in fanciness."

"Here?" asked Kioga.

"Next door," said Geneva, not looking up from her computer. Another gaggle of Praetorians, and another bouquet of bowel smells, entered the room and she processed them faster than a professional Starcraft player. The lioness took a tiny spritz bottle from her desk and sprayed her nose. "We share cells with the company that runs the Nursery Spa; currently running a mixture of European refinement and a little bit of American excess. It's nice; I get one free day a month working here. But yes, all in development," she said off-handedly. "Do you know a Wendaygo Doremi, or Sahasrahla Jal-Mandir? They're the ones running it."

"Hmmh," said Kioga. "No comment. Love Sassie; wonder if she's leaving Ferris."

"And Wendaygo?"

"No comment whatsoever," the cheetah said, his fur prickling. "But!" he followed, snapping the pamphlets, "Still quite interested in going. How's it compare to Baby-Lawn?"

The lower half of Geneva's face smiled; she'd obviously gotten that question more than baristas got "what size is Venti?" at Starbucks. "More efficient with your dollar because you're not paying for resort fees or the view. And it's open 365, even has a Family Christmas Special."

"Um," Kioga said.

"Pretend family," said the lioness, "and you can even buy prepackaged 'loot boxes'--Christmas presents--for a cutesy, cozy, baby Christmas morning."

"That's fucking adorable," said Mort, who then dragged Beatrice and Mark over to the rack. "We could have a Gangster Christmas!"

"I hate it," laughed Ricky, but then rushed to Geneva's desk. "Put me down for two."

"Two Christmases?"

"I mean the deluxe package."

"That's the next building over, sir. Through the gift shop, which you all still need to go through."

"Fuck. Let's get there before they run out!"

"Of Christmas?" asked Mort.

Geneva was a great girl, but Kioga learned from Lugo that every front-facing, "customer service" employee had their limits. "It gets real expensive on your patience when you've told them what to do four times. Hell, even at GameStawp you can tell when the employee switches from being glad to help you, to merely tolerating your presence. Their answers get shorter and shorter. Watch out for the minefield of 'Sure,' 'Yeah,' 'Uh-huh,' and, 'Yeah I really liked that one.'"

"Isn't that just called verbal listening?" asked Kioga. The two were in an upper-floor F-C break room and Lugo was getting changed by an NJ, a Nanny Janitor or "Nan-Tor," which everyone from P. Pendrael and F. McKraken on down hated, but it was annoyingly catchy.

Kioga merely leaned back and sipped his cup of Joey while an NJ cleaned a prodigious fecal and uric load on the wolf's prodigiously large and stone-carved body. Their break was natural at this point; Kioga watching Lugo's nether's be manipulated and washed was like Ebenezer Scrooge observing his teenage years after he'd come clean of his curmudgeonly behavior.

It was merely a ghost of the past.

"Verbal listening, sure," Lugo said as he picked his trunk-like legs up for the nurse, "but it's the rhythm that differs. Think of speedily skipping all the dialogue in a game you're not quite invested in."

"Gotcha," he said, then offered to carry Lugo's leaden diaper to the trash. It hit the bottom of the pail with a boom that shook the floor.

"Uh-huh," said Lugo.

"I really liked that one," said Kioga.

"Sure."

"Guys, we should go," Kioga said as Mort scanned the pamphlet for yet another question to ask their steadily disinterested acquaintance.

"But--" the iguana attempted, his thumbclaw on a bulletpoint.

"We can ask at the gift shop!" the cheetah hissed, pushing the gangbangers by as many shoulders as his arms could reach.

"But one more question," asked Ceylon, which made Geneva sit up with a start and force an amiable smile on her face.

"I'm not sure if that's my department," she said automatically.

"Erhm," said the gryphon, blushing, "pants or no pants in the gift shop?"

"Oh!" the lioness said, suddenly perking up. "Yes! That is a fantastic and relevant question. You get a five percent discount if you shop in AB apparel, seven if it's Praetorian! Adds to the atmosphere."

"I see, positive reinforcement or something. What about outside?"

"You get another visit to the gift shop!"

"Oof. I'm assuming there are changing booths by the exit."

"How else would you try the products?"

"And very big pails, then. Hey guys, no pants!" the gryphon called to the group, taking flight for a brief moment so he could shuck his own trousers and fold them over his arm.