Arc One: Convergence.
Chapter 8: A Matter of Logistics
The final, cheerfully offensive system message with its winking emoji faded from my vision, but the words were burned into our collective consciousness. [PADDED PSYCHE]. A power-up for your butt.
For a full ten seconds, the five of us were a singularity of pure, catatonic shock. The apartment, my former sanctuary of order, had now become the scene of multiple crimes against physics, biology, and basic human dignity. The floor was desecrated with buttered toast. My favorite hoodie suddenly fit. Also. My formerly reliable bladder function had been officially designated as a focus disruptor!
Then, the screaming began.
«EVELYN»: NO! I REFUSE! THIS IS BLACKMAIL! THE UNIVERSE IS BLACKMAILING US INTO… INTO PADDING! IT’S FORCING US TO BECOME TODDLERS TO ACCESS THE MAGIC! THEY’RE GOING TO MAKE US WATCH BLUEY NEXT! WHAT IS A BLUEY!?
«LILY»: I mean… if we’re a Princess now, maybe it’s like… royal pantaloons? Princesses have to wear lots of layers! They’re probably super soft and decorated with bunnies~!
«MIA»: She’s been rewired. To achieve stardom we must first embrace abject humiliation. A Faustian bargain where instead of your soul, you trade in your ability to use a public restroom. It has a certain grim poetry to it, I suppose. At least our rock bottom has a sub-basement. How exciting. Let’s see what’s down there.
I sank to the floor, my back hitting the kitchen cabinets with a dull thud. I wrapped my arms around myself, ignoring the cold dampness of the ruined towel. “It’s serious,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “The ‘Amazonia’ thing… It called it a primary objective. This isn’t a suggestion. It feels like… a command.”
The internal chaos subsided, replaced by a cold, shared dread. ‘Amazonia’. A meaningless word that felt like an endgame. And according to the Princess Protocol or whatever, if we ever wanted a chance to get there, or survive whatever it was, we had to become… compliant.
«ALINA»: Let us reframe the situation. The system has delineated the parameters for optimal performance. The mental stressors associated with autonomic biological functions inhibit ‘Imagination Resonance’. A state of arrested development, both mental and physical, is the required state for maximum power output. ‘Appropriate childcare apparatus’ is, therefore, not a punishment, but a mandatory piece of operational gear. Like a G-suit for an astronaut or a fire retardant suit for a firefighter.
Her clinical assessment was so devoid of emotion, so chillingly logical, that it actually managed to cut through the panic. This wasn’t about feelings anymore. This was about survival.
“Operational gear,” I repeated, the words tasting like ash. We needed a containment protocol. More than that, we needed equipment. And that meant facing the single most horrifying logistical challenge of our new life.
We had to go shopping.
«EVELYN»: OUTSIDE?! Are you insane?! We can’t go out like this! I’m… we’re… a fifteen-year-old child! My own credit card will probably set off a fraud alert. Our ID says we’re a nineteen-year-old woman named Elyse Aoki! We can’t prove who we are! And what do we use for money?!
Sigh… The all-important question.
I stood up, the towel clutched around me, and walked into what used to be my bedroom. I found my wallet on the nightstand and dumped its contents onto my unmade bed. The sum total of my physical currency consisted of one ten-thousand-yen note, two thousand-yen notes, a handful of coins, and a half-eaten stick of gum. About ¥12,500. Just over a hundred US dollars. Enough seed money for a revolution, perhaps, but it felt like a pittance for the daunting task ahead.
«LILY»: We could just wish for them! If we can make our royal robes fit, maybe we can princess-decree a super fluffy diaper to appear right now!
It was a desperate, childishly optimistic idea. Which, according to our new rulebook, made it the most likely to succeed. “Alright,” I sighed, feeling the last of my adult dignity preparing to abandon ship. “It’s worth a shot.”
Closing my eyes, I tried to tap into that same sense of unthinking, absolute play. “Oh, mighty Diaper Fairy,” I intoned, cringing at every word. “Your humble princess is in need of… uhm… enchanted butt-fluff. Grant me a single, legendary… undergarment!”
For a second, I felt that now-familiar warmth, that faint sense that reality was becoming pliable. A shower of pink-gold sparkles Poofed into existence at the foot of my bed, coalescing with a soft floomp. I opened my eyes.
Lying on my duvet was a single, obscenely large diaper. It was constructed entirely of shimmering, non-absorbent glitter and held together by what looked like spun sugar. It shimmered beautifully in the low light. It was also completely, utterly, theatrically useless.
«ALINA»: Experiment failed. Item manifested is functionally decorative. Conclusion: The Imagination Protocol can manipulate existing matter or manifest simple energy constructs, but cannot spontaneously generate complex, functional objects with specific properties like… say… superabsorbent polymer cores. We need actual raw materials.
Lily whined about how I didn’t play pretend but instead pretended to play…
Mia just projected an unending, silent scream into my mind.
I ignored the both.
So, the store it was. First, clothes. I found a pair of old, dark blue gym shorts with a drawstring that could be pulled tight enough to stay up, and a massive, baggy promotional t-shirt from some tech conference I’d gone to ages ago. The ensemble screamed ‘person trying desperately to hide their body shape,’ which was perfect. I was an anonymous blob.
Armed with my small pile of cash and an enormous sense of impending doom, I stood before the apartment door. This was it. The first encounter with a world that didn’t know me, that would see me as a child. A child on her way to a 24-hour pharmacy to purchase adult diapers.
My hand rested on the doorknob, cold and solid. Through the door, I could hear the muted sounds of Kichijōji at night. The world outside was still blissfully, boringly normal.
Forget giants in golden jumpsuits. That door felt like the final boss. I took a deep, shuddering breath, a chorus of dread and resolve echoing in my skull. I turned the knob.
°°°
Opening the door, all of Kichijōji’s nighttime symphony hit me, the distant rumble of the last train, the clatter of a closing metal shop-gate, the murmur of a couple walking home, their laughter sharp and carefree. It all sounded threatening. Everything was louder. I felt smaller, my oversized t-shirt a pathetic attempt at camouflage.
My first few steps on the cool concrete of the outdoor walkway were stiff and uncertain. My center of gravity was wrong. I was looking up at things I used to look straight at.
«EVELYN»: Too exposed. The overhead lights are too bright. The Miyamoto-sans are still awake, I can see their TV flickering. What if they see us? ‘Oh look, it’s that little Aoki girl who lives alone sneaking out in the middle of the night!’ They’ll call my parents! We don’t have an explanation for them!
“No one is looking at us,” I hissed under my breath, my voice swallowed by the hiss of traffic on the main road. I pulled the hood of my t-shirt up, an instinctual but useless gesture.
The ten-minute walk to the nearest all-night sundrug store felt like between my heart and mind. Every pair of headlights that swept over me was a searchlight. Every shadow was a potential ambush. I knew I was just being paranoid, but it felt sickeningly real.
«LILY»: Ooh! Look! The light on top of that building is blinking a pretty red color! It’s like a happy little wink from a giant! Maybe he’s wishing us luck on our secret princess mission!
«MIA»: Less likely a lucky wink, more likely the last thing a pilot will see before his plane clips the building due to metal fatigue. Let’s try not to be standing beneath it when that happens. Our luck seems to be trending in that specific direction.
The automatic doors of the drugstore slid open with a cheerful chime that felt like the tolling of a doom-bell. The wave of air that rolled out was cold, sterile, and smelled of lemon-scented floor wax and cherry-flavored cough drops. The light inside was a harsh, fluorescent white that drained all color and warmth, creating a stark, clinical atmosphere.
There were only three other people inside. A haggard-looking salaryman staring blankly at a wall of energy drinks. An elderly woman slowly inspecting packs of rice crackers. And the clerk, a young man slouching behind the counter, absorbed in his phone, his face bathed in a apathetic blue glow. A thousand imaginary scenarios where he pressed a silent alarm button flashed through my mind.
«ALINA»: Grid-map of the store layout is processing. Based on standard retail schematics, non-prescription medical aids, including hygienic products, are located at the rear, typically near the pharmacy counter to deter theft. Course plotted. Minimize engagement with the snack and cosmetic aisles to reduce mission time. We are on a clock.
My body moved on autopilot under Alina’s direction, my sneakers squeaking softly on the linoleum. We passed an aisle of colorful, glittering eye-shadows and shampoos promising volume and shine… things that just yesterday had been a part of my world. Now they seemed like artifacts from another life.
We passed the sweets aisle.
«LILY»: Hey, gummy candies! Can we get the ones shaped like dolphins? Please? They taste of soda! As operational supplies! For morale!
‘No!’ came a unified, mental shriek.
And then we saw it. Aisle 7. “Lifestyle and Elder Care.”
The packaging was a serene pallet of soft blues, dignified purples, and gentle greens. On every bag, a smiling, silver-haired sixty-something was depicted engaging in wholesome activities: playing with a grandchild, tending to a small garden, taking a peaceful walk on the beach.
I stood there, paralyzed, facing a wall of our humiliating containment protocol.
«EVELYN»: So many… It’s a whole wall… Everyone who walks past this aisle will know what we’re here for. We’re going to be seen! The security camera is right there, it’s zooming in, it’s uploading our face to a database for ‘suspicious diaper-buying minors!’
«ALINA»: Ignore the marketing aesthetic. Focus on the metrics. We require a product with a high SAP (Super Absorbent Polymer) to fluff-pulp ratio, preferably with re-sealable fastening tabs and leak guards. Look for the absorbency rating, it should be marked with droplet symbols. I calculate, given the catastrophic nature of the last two discharges, we require something rated for… ‘heavy overnight use.’
I reached out a trembling hand, my fingers brushing against the crinkly plastic of a package.
‘Live with Confidence!’ one of the brands proclaimed a bit too cheerfully. My entire body was a coiled spring of shame.
«MIA»: Might as well grab the largest, most absurdly padded one they have. If we’re going to surrender our dignity, let’s get our money’s worth. They probably feel like wearing a sofa cushion. A sofa cushion of lies and personal failure.
A package right at my eye-level had a particularly kind-looking grandma on it. It promised ‘ultimate comfort’ and had a high droplet rating. My face was burning. This was it. Seizing the package before I could lose my nerve, I tucked it under my arm, turning on my heel in a single, fluid motion born of pure panic.
Time stretched during the walk to the checkout. Each of my squeaking footsteps echoed in my mind. The plastic package under my arm crackled with every move, broadcasting my shame to the entire store. The salaryman was gone. The old woman was now inspecting daikon radishes. It was just me and the clerk.
I placed the package gently on the counter, as if handling an unstable object. I couldn’t meet his eyes. I kept my head down, a curtain of black hair hiding my face. I could feel his gaze on the product.
He scanned it. The register beeped. Its cheerful electronic voice sounded like a shriek.
“T-sen roppyaku-en,” he mumbled, his voice bored and tired. ¥3,600.
My hands shook as I fumbled with my money, extracting four crisp thousand-yen notes from my wallet and placing them on the counter. He took them, his movements languid, placing the diapers in a plain white plastic bag. He made my change. My fingers brushed his as I took the coins. His hand was warm. He was a real person, living a normal life, closing out a retail transaction for a weird kid buying adult diapers at one in the morning.
He probably didn’t care. To him, this was just five minutes ago. To us, it was history.
“Arigatou gozaimashita,” I whispered to the floor, grabbing the bag and practically fleeing the store. The doors chimed me out as I burst back into the cool night air. I didn’t stop until I was a full block away, leaning against a cold brick wall, my chest heaving.
The plastic bag in my hand felt impossibly heavy, its weight far exceeding that of its contents. The price of practice.
Alina’s voice was the first to slice through the aftershock of adrenaline and shame, her tone crisp, clear, and focused on the next objective.
«ALINA»: Containment protocol acquired. We are now equipped to conduct further experimentation.
°°°
The walk home should have been a relief. Mission accomplished. The worst part was over. But every rustle of the white plastic bag in my hand sent a fresh wave of heat to my cheeks. It felt like carrying a neon sign that flashed my embarrassing secret in a hundred different languages. The bag crackled, a constant reminder of the ugly compromise I had been forced to make. All I wanted was the solid click of my apartment door locking behind me, the familiar quiet of my own space where I could deal with this… nightmare in private.
As I rounded the final corner onto my street, that hope was strangled in its crib. My entire building was a black hole punched out of the warm, amber grid of the neighborhood. Dark windows stared back at me like empty eye sockets. A single utility truck was parked sloppily on the curb, its hazard lights painting slow, strobing lines of orange across the dead facade.
Taped to the main glass door of the lobby, a stark white notice provided the verdict, its clinical text illuminated by my phone’s flashlight.
EMERGENCY NOTICE: A critical failure has occurred in the district power transformer. Due to the age of the building’s wiring, a full system inspection is required before power can be safely restored. Estimated Outage Duration: 4-6 hours. We apologize for the inconvenience.
A four-to-six-hour inconvenience. Four-to-six-hours of being homeless. The thought was so absurdly overwhelming it almost felt funny. Almost.
«MIA»: Of course. Because why would anything be simple? We are clearly the universe’s chew toy. It must have gotten bored of torturing that cockroach and decided to move up to higher-order lifeforms. Our bad luck is a statistical anomaly at this point.
Hehe…
Maybe the electronic lock on my apartment door had a battery backup. Maybe. I climbed the three flights of stairs in a darkness so complete it felt like swimming in ink, my hand trailing against the cool, gritty concrete of the wall. When I reached my floor, I fumbled for my key card. I pressed it against the sensor.
Nothing. Not even a sad little beep. My door, my sanctuary, my only fortress of solitude and order in a world gone mad, was sealed shut.
I slid down the wall, my back pressing against the cold metal door. My legs wouldn’t hold me up anymore. I was alone, outside, in the dark, with nowhere to go. My meager supply of cash wasn’t enough for a hotel room, and the thought of explaining my situation to a front desk clerk, just thinking about it… 'an unaccompanied minor trying to check in at 2 a.m.’. it was impossibly daunting. My grand escape from the store had ended here, trapped in a powerless, hostile hallway. Raw despair, cold and heavy, settled in my gut.
«LILY»: We could sleep in a bus stop! It’ll be an urban camping adventure! We can tell ghost stories!
‘No…’ The mental command was weary, a plea more than an order. I needed a place. Not for sleep. For shelter. To think. To exist. At least for the next four hours.
A memory surfaced, fuzzy and distant. A small park, just a few blocks away. The one old men used for Go and mothers brought their children to after school. It had benches. It had trees. Right now, that felt like a five-star resort. Clambering back to my feet, I started walking again, the plastic bag, my only real possession now, swinging from my hand like a lead weight.
The park was deserted, washed in the sterile silver light of the moon. Chains on the swing set creaked softly in the breeze, a lonely, rhythmic sound. I found a bench under the dense cover of a massive gingko tree and collapsed onto it. The silence was absolute, a stark contrast to the cacophony in my head.
I sat there for a long time, listening to the city sleep. The panic began to ebb away, leaving a hollow ache. I felt like a ghost, haunting the edges of a life I could no longer live. A lost child on a dark playground.
That was it, wasn’t it? The core of it all. I was a child. My mind still held onto nineteen years of calculus and social anxiety, but my body, my circumstances… they belonged to someone younger, someone who shouldn’t have to figure this out on their own. The sudden, overwhelming urge to just curl up and cry was so powerful it took my breath away. And right on cue, a familiar and uniquely dreadful pressure began to stir in my lower belly. A dull, insistent ache.
Nonononono.
«EVELYN»: Not here! Oh my goodness, not out here! There are… there are nocturnal animals! We’ll freeze! We’ll get… park cooties!
There was no public restroom. No options. Just the unforgiving concrete and that damning white bag sitting beside me on the bench. The bag felt warm, a low, inexplicable hum seemed to emanate from it, barely perceptible. My mind was probably just playing tricks on me now.
With a shudder of resignation that rattled my entire skeleton, I reached into the bag and pulled out the package. I tore it open, the sound echoing loudly in the quiet night. What came out wasn’t quite what I’d seen on the shelf. The diaper I pulled free was plain white, yes, but impossibly, stupidly soft to the touch, like freshly spun cotton rather than the coarse medical-grade pulp I was expecting. A faint, almost imperceptible scent drifted up from it, it wasn’t antiseptic, more like something clean and gentle like chamomile and laundry day.
Flipping it over in my hands, I saw the fastening tabs. They weren’t the standard plain squares of tape. They were a pale, pastel blue, two on each side, with tiny numbers ‘1’ and ‘2’ printed on them in a soft, rounded font, like markings from a child’s building block set. Then I saw it on the front, a landing zone for the tapes that wasn’t blank plastic, but a panel printed with a pattern of tiny, sleepy little white clouds.
«LILY»: Princess pantaloons! See? I told you they were special!
It wasn’t a cartoonish abomination like the glittery one. It was something far more insidious. It was gentle. Reassuring. Softer and friendlier than it had any right to be. With clumsy, fumbling movements born of desperation and deep, soul-crushing shame, I stood, kicked off my shorts, and figured it out. It fit perfectly, cinching snugly around my waist and legs as if it had been tailored specifically for me.
