Daily Free-Write December 13, 2020

When he woke up, Steven had 22 new messages on his phone. 

"What the... oh no." 

He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead and temple with his right hand. A large baby bottle was tipped on its side and some of the milk had spilled on the waterproof blankie pad beneath him. 

He took a deep breath to steady himself and read the texts. 

"What are you talking about?"

"Sorry bro, no idea what you're trying to say."

"Are you bab texting again, Stevie?"

"Go to bed!" 

That was just one of the people he had texted last night. He didn't remember any of it, but his side of the conversation was right there.

"Ga ga boo goo"

"I wike miwkies"

"Stevie. I'm stevie!"

"aglak;gj;lgjalg" 

He was pretty sure the last one was just from him chewing on the phone - he could see the teeth marks on the case. 

"Next time, I'm gonna lock my phone up." 

The problem was, he didn't know when the next time would be. He had gone to a synth bar not long ago. He was pretty sure that was the start of all this. Some damn synth drink. He'd have to go back and clear things up. Hopefully they had a way to stop this embarassing problem. 

He untaped his diaper, sucked on some pants instead, a loose black shirt with neon geometric shapes and lines on the front, and a neon block print cotton bomber jacket. He put some blue goo in his hair, set it up in his signature mohawk style, threw on his fingerless leather gloves and headed out of his humble apartment.

The bar was walking distance from his place. His neighborhood was called Northbridge, and it was popular with the 'chip set' - the tech savvy youth of motherboard city. It was in that perfect in-between stage - safe enough for tourists and slummers but not gentrified enough to attract the high-end shops and developers that would drive away the very people and venues that made it hip in the first place. 

He took a shortcut diagonally through SuperPatch Park, thowing a nod at the gaggle of street-punks that never seemed to leave the picnic table. He like to think he was one of them, but never had the courage to go up and introduce himself. You had to pick your people carefully here. Directly across from the opposite corner of the park was the heatsink. There were no windows, just a little neon sign up top. In the daylight, you could walk right past it and never know it was there. 

He opened the grey door and walked in. Immediately he was met with the smell of acrid smoke. 

"Uh oh, looks like Glitch fried his circuits again!" 

On the floor of the bar was a heavyset man who looked like he was wearing a clear plastic dome on his head. It was packed full of electronics, and Steven knew he was probably more machine than man at this point. Unfortunate becasue it looked like the machine part was not having its best day. Glitch opened his mouth and breathed out a puff of black oily smoke. 

"Ooh, what a trip!" 

Two other chip heads helped him up, each supporting his weight with one arm thrown over their shoulders. Steven's eyes widened as he watched a wet spot spring up from the tent in his pants, and run down in rivulets down his loose brown pants. Glitch did not seem to know or care, and everyone, following some unspoken signal, turned their attention back to what they had been doing. Steven shuddered. He didn't want to end up like that. The Chip Heads were definitely not his people. 

Synth bars were something new - they offered dozens of custom experiences on tap. Drinks which could mimic the effects of any drug, but wear off in as little as 15 minutes, or a few hours depending on your preference. No side effects, no addictive properties, or so it was said. They were legal. 

He grabbed the attention of a young lady at the bar, she wore a black tanktop and had long black hair, cut short over her ears, only to come back down in long sideburns strung with beads. 

"What'll it be, Jamie?"

"You remembered? I'm impressed! I only came here twice before."

"I never forget a cute face. So what can get you, sweetie?" 

He blushed a bit at that. He always seemed to be called hon and sweetie in public no matter how much of a bad boy image he tried to put out.

"Uh, just a soda, thanks."

"Not thirsty for something a little more... adventurous?" She asked, cocking her head slightly.

"Eh, I think I had enough of that last week. Actually... I really came here for some advice. I think I've been having flashbacks..." 

Her eyes widened. "I wouldn't know about that, hon. All our products are the real deal. No side effects or addictive properties." 

"Okay, okay, I get it. But have you ever heard of that happening?" 

"Sure, I've heard of people getting permafried on synth products - not here of course, we only carry pharmacy grade synth - but it happens." 

"You think I'm permafried?!" I asked, incredulous.

"Shhh! Keep it down, greenie. I didn't say that. You're gonna get me in trouble."

"But I thought synth was legal."

"Synth? Legal. But if you remove the limiter? Decidedly illegal. Sounds like someone messed with your cocktail. Uh... what did you say happened in these flashbacks?"

"I didn't. It's a kind of embarassing." Steven looked over his shoulder to the group that called themselves 'The Babies' and shuddered. They were giggling and clapping, and playing a drinking game of spin the baby bottle - seeing whose turn it was to take another drink and get a hefty dose of whatever it was they were drinking. Before he turned his attention back to the conversation he noticed that most of them had opted to go pantsless, and their thick swollen diapers were looking worse for wear. He prayed to the cloud that those were not his people. He turned to face forward and met her gaze.

"Is that what happens to you when you have a flashback?" she asked, plainly. 

"No," he said, a little too quickly. He could tell she wasn't buying it. "Well, okay maybe. Yes. I don't get it, though. I never ordered a baby drink, if there is such a thing."

"There is," she said. "They're some of our best customers. It's weird though, I mean what did you have?"

"Well, so far I've tried liquid courage, jumpers, and, uh... rutting rhino..." 

She didn't even crack a smile. "Hey, sweetie, nothing to be embarrassed about here. Listen, I have to help some more customers. Here's some soda, on the house. You just wait here, don't take your eye off your drink and don't drink anything else. Got it?" 

He nodded. 

One of the babies had toddled up to the bar and was yelling. 

"My baba is empty. I need a refiww!" 

"Coming right up, sweetie!" 

She stepped away and he stared down into his soda. He really wasn't very thirsty, especially after seeing what these drinks did to some people. At least this one was unadulterated. He took a sip. Waited. Nope. Definitely not adulterated. He took a bigger drink, and almost shot it out his nose as the person next to him spoke up.

"She's right you know."

"Oh my cloud. Sister Sarah, you can't scare me like that!" 

Sister Sarah was a regular and unofficial mascot of the bar. Everybody knew her. She had a very specific cocktail she liked to sip on - one that helped her shrug off her everyday persona and be her sunny self. Who that everyday person was, no one knew, though some said that they had seen a nondescript man in a suit and tie walk into the bathroom once and sister sarah would walk out. Whether that was her john or her alter ego, no one could say. 

"Sorry, I have that effect on people," said Sister Sara with a sweet smile. "Anyway, as I was saying, she's right you know."

"... ...About what?"

"Hmm?"

"She's right about what?"

"About watching your drink. Listen, it's no secret that the babies aren't exactly the best at recruiting new members. How do you think they keep growing?"

"I don't know. I know about adult babies. I just figured there were more of them than I thought."

"Honey, wake up. They're spiking people's drinks with baby juice. See that big bald one in the center?"

Sure enough there was a chubby bald baby-man smiling and clapping and laughing like a dope.

She continued, "That *used* to be Mad Dog Marty. He was with the growlers, one of their toughest guys. All muscle and practically dripping testosterone. Left his drink alone for 30 seconds, and next thing you now he's pissing his pants and asking for his baba and teddy."

"Oh my god, you're kidding me," said Steven, trying to imagine the overgrown infant who was snuggling his stuffed bear as a tough guy. 

"You better find your people soon, kid. Safety in numbers."

Sister's eyes flicked over to his hair and back to him. 

"And here's a tip if you're trying to join the punkers: stop trying so hard."

"What tipped you off?" he replied, which got a laugh from Sister Sarah. "Do you think that's why I've been having the... you know... flashbacks?"

"Definitely."

"What can I do about them?"

"Not much. When did you have your last one?"

"Last night. I woke up this morning on a baby blanket with a bottle laying next to me and a wet diaper between my legs." 

"Wait, you had those things in your house?"

"No. That's the weird thing. I don't own any of that stuff, at least not that I know of." 

"Oh honey, you are in trouble. You have tail on you. Yes, honey. Someone is dosing you up and giving you those things when you go into baby mode. If you're not careful, you're gonna be a permanent baby." 

"Shit. I hafta get outta hewe." He said, setting down his empty drink and backing away. He felt a little unsteady on his feet. What was happening? He wasn't sure he'd make it out without falling so he opted to crawl out of the bar. The babies looked over his way and whispered amongst themselves as his butt disappeared out the door. One of them stood up and followed behind.

"Gotta get home. Gotta get home." Steven just repeated this mantra in his head as he crawled down the street, drawing strange looks from passers by. Then he felt it. His pants were getting wet. He looked down and cried as he watched the wet spot blossom on his faded jeans, spreading out and running down his legs. He plopped on his soggy but and began to cry. Then the felt hands lifting him up. Many hands. When he came to, everything was fuzzy. He was back in his apartment. He must have fallen asleep. He sat up and blinked. He spit out the bikie that was in his mouth and tossed the fluffy stuffed bunny he was holding to the side. Another round of messages on his cellphone. This was not good. He opened them up and the first one sent a chill down his spine.

"Welcome to The Babies."

He wanted to run, he wanted to hide. Then he hiccuped and suddenly everything felt warm and fuzzy again.

He grinned and sucked his thumb. He had finally found his people.