Walsh Family Universe V2

Chapter 8
Transformation

They came for him at 5:30 AM.

Ash had barely slept. Every time he'd started to drift off, he'd jerk awake with his heart pounding, remembering where he was. What was going to happen.

The door opened. Stevens entered with Palmer and Johnson, plus two orderlies Ash hadn't seen before.

"Good morning, Mr. Walsh. It's time."

Ash sat up on the narrow bed. His whole body felt heavy, disconnected. "I don't want to do this."

"I know." Stevens' voice was professional but not unkind. "Come with us, please."

The orderlies flanked him as they walked down the hallway. Not restraining him, but ready to if he tried to run. As if there was anywhere to run to.

The procedure room was larger than Ash expected. Dominated by a massive machine that looked like a cross between an MRI scanner and something from a science fiction movie. Monitors lined the walls. Multiple staff members moved around checking equipment, preparing.

In the center was a table. Padded, with restraints built in at regular intervals.

"On the table, please," Stevens directed.

Ash's legs wouldn't move. This was it. Once he got on that table, once they started the procedure, there was no going back. This was his last moment as an adult. His last moment as himself.

"Mr. Walsh." Stevens' voice was firmer now. "We can do this with your cooperation or without it. Your choice."

The orderlies moved closer.

Ash walked to the table on shaking legs. Lay down. The surface was cold even through the thin hospital gown.

They secured the restraints. So many restraints. Across his chest, waist, thighs, calves, ankles. His wrists were secured separately, arms at his sides. He couldn't move more than an inch in any direction.

"These are necessary for your safety," Stevens explained as Palmer started an IV line. "The procedure involves controlled seizure activity. The restraints prevent injury during the physical transformation."

"Seizures?" Ash's voice came out high, panicked.

"Controlled seizures. You'll be under general anesthesia. You won't feel anything. When you wake up, it'll all be over."

"I don't want this." Ash pulled against the restraints uselessly. "Please. Please don't do this. I'll do anything. I'll go to rehab. I'll do house arrest for life. I'll—"

"Mr. Walsh, your parents have already signed all the consent forms. We're legally authorized to proceed." Stevens checked something on a monitor. "Dr. Matthews will be performing the procedure. He's done over five hundred regressions with a one hundred percent success rate. You're in good hands."

A man in surgical scrubs entered. Asian, middle-aged, with the calm demeanor of someone who did this every day. Which, Ash supposed, he probably did.

"Good morning," Dr. Matthews said, washing his hands at the sink. "I'm going to be overseeing your regression today. The whole process takes about four hours. You'll be unconscious for all of it. When you wake up, you'll be in recovery with your parents present." He moved to stand beside the table, looking down at Ash with professional assessment. "Any final questions?"

"Don't do this." Ash was crying now, couldn't help it. "Please. I'm begging you. Don't do this to me."

"I understand you're scared. That's a normal response. But I promise you, in a few years, you'll look back on this as the day your life was saved." Dr. Matthews nodded to Palmer. "Let's begin anesthesia."

"No—wait—please—"

Palmer injected something into the IV line. Almost immediately, Ash felt warmth spreading up his arm. The room started to blur.

"Count backwards from ten for me," Dr. Matthews said.

"I don't—I can't—please don't—"

"Ten," Palmer prompted.

"I don't want—"

"Nine."

"Please—"

"Eight."

The room was spinning now. Ash's tongue felt thick. His thoughts were scattering like leaves in wind.

"Seven," he slurred.

"Good. Keep going."

"Six... I... please..."

"Five."

The ceiling tiles were melting together. Ash couldn't feel his body anymore. Couldn't feel anything except a spreading warmth and the terrible knowledge that this was it, this was the end, this was—

"Four..."

His vision tunneled. Everything going dark around the edges.

"Three..."

So tired. Why was he so tired?

"Tw—"

Darkness took him.

Consciousness returned in pieces.

First: sensation. Soft fabric against skin. Warmth. The feeling of being held.

Then: sound. A rhythmic beeping. Quiet voices. Someone humming softly.

Then: the attempt at movement. Ash tried to lift his hand and—

Something was wrong.

His arm moved, but it felt wrong. Too light. Too small. The angle was off.

Ash's eyes flew open.

The room was too big. Everything was too big. The ceiling was impossibly far away. The monitors on the wall looked enormous.

And his hands—

Ash held up his hands in front of his face and his breath caught.

They were tiny. Pudgy. Baby hands with dimpled knuckles and short fingers.

No.

No, no, no—

He tried to sit up and his body didn't respond right. Everything felt wrong—proportions off, center of gravity shifted, limbs that didn't move the way they should.

"Shh, baby. It's okay. Mommy's here."

Ash turned his head—such a big movement, why did his head feel so heavy?—and saw his mother.

Shannon sat in a chair beside the bed, leaning forward, reaching for him. Her face was enormous. Or no—Ash was tiny. He was so fucking tiny.

"Don't touch me." The words came out wrong. High-pitched, toddler voice, consonants soft and imprecise. "Don't—"

"It's okay, sweetheart. The procedure is over. You're safe now." Shannon's hands were reaching for him, so big, and Ash tried to scramble backward and fell over instead because his body didn't work right, didn't balance right, everything was wrong—

"No! Get away! Don't touch me!" But it came out as "No! Get 'way! Don' touch!" and Ash wanted to scream, wanted to make his mouth form proper words, but his tongue was thick and clumsy and nothing worked right.

Patrick appeared on the other side of the bed. Also enormous. Also impossible.

"Noam—" Patrick started.

"That's not my name!" But it sounded like "Tha' not my name!" and Ash hated it, hated his stupid baby voice, hated everything about this.

"Hey." Patrick's voice was firm. "We need you to calm down. You're going to hurt yourself."

"Good!" Ash tried to stand up, to get off the bed, and his legs wouldn't hold him. He fell, Patrick caught him, and Ash started hitting—tiny fists against Patrick's chest, completely ineffective. "Let me go! Let me go!"

"Noam Francis Walsh." Patrick's voice was sharp. "That is enough."

Ash went still. Not because he wanted to. Because something in his father's voice activated some deep childhood programming that said when Dad used that tone, you stopped.

"We know this is hard," Patrick continued, still holding Ash—no, holding Noam, holding this toddler body that used to be Ash. "We know you're scared and angry. But you need to get control of yourself."

"I'm twenty-four years old," Ash said, and hated how it sounded. "Twen-four years old." The 'ty' sound wouldn't come. His mouth couldn't make it. "You can't—you can't do this—"

"It's already done." Patrick's voice was steady. Maddeningly steady. "The procedure is complete. This is your body now. And we're your parents. We're here to take care of you."

"I don't want you to take care of me! I want—" Ash's voice broke. "I want my body back. Please. Please give me my body back."

Shannon made a sound that might have been a sob. But when Ash looked at her, her face was composed. Sad, but controlled.

"We can't do that, honey," she said quietly. "This is your body now. And we're going to help you adjust to it."

"I don't want to adjust! I want—" But Ash was crying now, and his toddler body didn't even cry right. His chest hitched wrong, his breathing was all off, and he sounded like an actual child instead of an adult trapped in a nightmare.

A nurse entered—Palmer from yesterday. "How's our patient doing?"

"Distressed," Patrick said. "As expected."

"That's normal. The first few hours are always difficult." Palmer approached with a tablet, checking something. "Vitals look good. Transformation was successful. He's registering at approximately 24 months, right on target."

"Can he understand us? Cognitively?" Shannon asked.

"Completely. All memories intact, full adult consciousness. Just limited physical capabilities and vocal development. The speech will be the hardest adjustment—the vocal cords and tongue aren't developed enough for complex speech yet. He'll have to work within toddler phonetic capabilities."

"So he's... he's fully aware. He knows everything that's happening."

"Yes. That's by design. The program doesn't work if the participant isn't aware." Palmer made a note on her tablet. "Dr. Matthews will want to do a follow-up exam in an hour. For now, I'd suggest trying to get him calm. Maybe hold him. Rock him. The physical comfort often helps with the psychological adjustment."

Palmer left.

Ash—Noam—whoever he was now—stared at his parents with growing horror.

"You're not touching me," he said. "You're not—"

Shannon reached for him anyway. Lifted him like he weighed nothing. Because he did weigh nothing. He was a toddler. A two-year-old.

"Put me down!" Ash struggled, but his tiny body was useless. Shannon held him easily, adjusting him to sit on her hip like he was an actual child.

"Shh," she murmured. "It's okay. I've got you."

"I don't want you to have me! I want—" Ash's voice dissolved into sobs. "I want to die. I want to die. Please just let me die."

"No." Patrick moved closer, one hand on Ash's—Noam's—tiny back. "You don't get to die. We made sure of that. You're going to live. You're going to get better. And you're going to thank us for this one day."

"I'll never thank you. Never. I hate you. I hate you both. I'll hate you forever."

"That's okay," Shannon said, and her voice was sad but steady. "You can hate us. As long as you're alive to hate us, we can live with that."

She carried him—actually carried him, like a baby—to the rocking chair in the corner. Sat down. Started rocking.

Ash wanted to fight. Wanted to scream and kick and make them put him down.

But his toddler body was exhausted. The procedure had taken everything out of him. And despite his rage, despite his horror, despite everything—

The rocking was calming. Shannon's heartbeat against his ear was steady. The warmth of being held was...

No.

No, he wouldn't let this comfort him. Wouldn't let his stupid toddler instincts override his adult consciousness.

But his eyes were closing anyway. His body was going limp against Shannon's chest anyway.

"That's it," Shannon murmured. "Just rest. We've got you. You're safe now."

"I hate you," Ash whispered, but it came out slurred, already half-asleep.

"I know, baby. I know."

The last thing Ash felt before exhaustion dragged him under was his mother's hand stroking his back in slow, soothing circles.

The last thing he thought was: This is forever.

Then: darkness.

When Ash woke again, he was in a different room. Still in the facility, but this looked more like a hospital room than the recovery area. A crib stood against one wall. A changing table. Drawers presumably full of baby supplies.

He was lying in the crib.

Ash sat up—an awkward, clumsy motion because his body still didn't work right—and looked around. The bars of the crib came up to his chest. He couldn't see over them without standing.

He tried to stand. His legs shook. He managed it on the third try, gripping the crib rail with tiny hands.

The room was empty. Where were his parents?

The door opened. A woman in scrubs entered—not Palmer, someone new. "Oh, you're awake! Let me get your parents."

"Wait—" But she was already gone.

A minute later, Patrick and Shannon entered. They looked exhausted. How long had Ash been asleep?

"Good morning," Patrick said. "Or, technically, good afternoon. You slept through lunch."

Ash stared at them. Tried to form words around his stupid toddler tongue. "How long?"

"The procedure was this morning. It's about 2 PM now." Patrick approached the crib. "How are you feeling?"

"How do you think I'm feeling?" But it came out garbled. "How you think I feel-ing?"

"Probably terrible. That's understandable." Patrick reached into the crib—Ash backed away but there was nowhere to go—and lifted him out.

"No! Put me down!"

Patrick set him on the floor instead. Ash's legs immediately gave out. He sat down hard on his padded bottom.

The diaper.

Oh God, he was wearing a diaper.

Ash looked down at himself for the first time. Oversized t-shirt that hung like a dress. Diaper visible underneath. Bare feet, small and pudgy.

"No," he whispered. "No, no, no—"

"The facility provided some temporary clothing," Shannon said. "We brought proper outfits from home. They're in the bag."

Home. Like Ash was going home. Like they were all just going to go home and pretend this was normal.

"I'm not going anywhere with you," Ash said. Tried to say. It came out as "Not go 'nywhere wi' you."

"Yes, you are." Patrick's voice was firm. "Dr. Matthews cleared you for discharge. We're taking you home this afternoon. There's a car seat in the car. Your nursery is ready. Everything you need is prepared."

"I don't have a nursery. I have a room. My room."

"You have a nursery now," Shannon corrected gently. "We converted your room. It's very nice. I think you'll—"

"I'll what? Like it?" Ash's voice rose. "You think I'll like the nursery you made after you turned me into a baby? Are you insane?"

"We're not insane," Patrick said. "We're your parents. And we're doing what's necessary."

A knock on the door. Dr. Matthews entered with a tablet.

"Ah, good. You're all awake. I wanted to do a final check before discharge." He crouched down to Ash's level—which wasn't far, because Ash was so small now. "How are you feeling, Noam?"

"That's not my name."

"It is now. Your parents completed the legal name change this morning. You're Noam Francis Walsh, age two years old." Dr. Matthews pulled out a penlight. "Look at me. I need to check your pupil response."

Ash turned his head away. Dr. Matthews caught his chin—so easy, he was so small—and forced him to look forward.

"Pupils equal and reactive. Good." He pulled out a stethoscope. "Deep breath."

"No."

"Noam, I need to listen to your lungs."

"My name is Ash. And I'm not breathing for you."

Dr. Matthews looked at Patrick. "You'll find this is common. The oppositional behavior. It usually peaks in the first few weeks."

"We're prepared," Patrick said.

"Good." Dr. Matthews stood. "Physically, the regression was flawless. All systems functioning normally. Neurologically, he's exactly where we want him—full consciousness but limited physical capability. The speech delay is typical. He'll be able to communicate, but with toddler phonetic limitations. Fine motor skills will be significantly impaired. Gross motor skills are present but unsteady. He can walk, but not well. Bladder and bowel control—"

"I'm right here," Ash interrupted. "Stop talking about me like I'm not here."

"—are absent," Dr. Matthews continued, ignoring him. "That's normal for this age regression. Toilet training would typically begin around 18-24 months, so you're right at the window. Some parents choose to start immediately, others wait a few months for adjustment. That's up to you."

"We'll discuss it," Shannon said.

"Good. Now, the Neural Compliance Implant." Dr. Matthews pulled up something on his tablet. "It was installed during the procedure. Let me show you how to activate it."

"The what?" Shannon asked.

"The NCI. It's standard for court-mandated participants. It helps with... compliance issues." Dr. Matthews showed them the tablet screen. "You'll each have an app on your phone. The trigger phrase is: 'Noam Francis Walsh. Mommy knows best.' or 'Daddy knows best.' followed by a simple command. The implant creates a 2-12 second compliance window where his body will follow the command without conscious control."

Ash felt ice in his stomach. "You put something in my brain?"

"At the base of your skull. Very small. Completely safe. And necessary, given your opposition to the program." Dr. Matthews looked at Patrick and Shannon. "Use it sparingly. It's a tool for situations where physical compliance is needed but dangerous to force manually—taking medicine, getting into car seats, preventing escape attempts. Overuse can create dependency or psychological damage. But used appropriately, it makes the adjustment period much smoother."

"I'm not a fucking dog," Ash said.

"Language," Patrick said automatically.

"I'll say whatever the fuck I want! You can't—"

"Noam Francis Walsh." Patrick's voice was firm. "Daddy knows best. Sit down."

Ash felt his body move without permission. His legs folded. He sat down hard on the floor.

The control released two seconds later, but the damage was done.

"No," Ash whispered. "No, you can't—that's not—"

"It's a safety measure," Dr. Matthews said. "Nothing more. Most families find they rarely need it after the first few months. Once routines are established and the participant adjusts, it becomes unnecessary."

"I'm never adjusting to this." Ash's voice shook. "Never."

"We'll see." Dr. Matthews made a final note on his tablet. "You're cleared for discharge. The facility will email you all the documentation. Follow-up appointment in one week. Call if you have any concerns before then." He looked at Ash one more time. "Good luck, Noam. I know this feels impossible right now. But I've seen hundreds of participants go through this. It gets easier. I promise."

He left.

Ash sat on the floor, shaking. They'd put something in his brain. Something that let his parents control his body. Override his will. Force him to obey.

"Come here," Shannon said softly.

"No."

"Noam—"

"My name is ASH." But it came out wrong, the consonant cluster too complex for his toddler mouth. "Ash!"

"Your name is Noam," Patrick corrected. "And we need to get you dressed and ready to go home. You can cooperate, or we can use the compliance command. Your choice."

It wasn't a choice. None of this was a choice.

But Ash let Shannon pick him up anyway. Let her carry him to the changing table. Let her remove the t-shirt and—

"I can dress myself," he said desperately.

"No, you can't. Your fine motor skills aren't developed enough." Shannon pulled out an outfit from the bag. "I got you comfortable clothes. Elastic waistband pants, easy shirts. Nothing complicated."

She dressed him like he was an actual toddler. Guided his arms through sleeves, pulled on pants, fastened them. Put on tiny socks. Tiny shoes.

Every moment was a fresh humiliation.

When she was done, Shannon held up a mirror.

Ash looked at himself.

A toddler looked back. Round face. Big eyes. Chubby limbs. Wearing a striped shirt and elastic-waist pants and tiny sneakers.

He looked like every two-year-old ever. Innocent. Sweet. Small.

He looked nothing like himself.

"No," Ash whispered to his reflection. "That's not me. That's not—"

"This is you now," Patrick said firmly. "This is Noam. And Noam is going home with his parents."

Shannon picked him up again. Settled him on her hip like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Let's go home, baby," she said.

And despite his protests, despite his rage, despite everything—

They walked out of the facility.

Into the parking lot.

To a car with a car seat installed in the back.

Shannon strapped him in. Ash fought weakly, but she just kept securing the straps until he was locked in place. Unable to free himself.

Patrick got in the driver's seat. Shannon in the passenger seat.

They pulled out of the parking lot.

Ash watched the facility disappear behind them through the car window.

This was real.

This was actually happening.

He was going home as a toddler.

As Noam Francis Walsh.

Age two.

Property of his parents for the next sixteen years.

Ash closed his eyes and tried not to scream.

Failed.

Screamed anyway.

And his parents just kept driving, taking him home to the nursery they'd built, to the life they'd chosen for him, to sixteen years of childhood he'd have to survive all over again.

The nightmare had only just begun.