Diaper Story: American Babies

Table of Contents

Author Notes

This story is based on the movie American Carnage. I hope you enjoy it! 🙂

Description

Get ready for this ABDL story inspired by the chilling film American Carnage. Jenna Ortega and other innocent immigrants are thrust into a horrifying new reality at the Immigration Center, forced to work at a childcare facility. As they witness the abdnormal behavior of the children, their suspicions grow: something is seriously wrong at the center.

Chapter 1: Happy Birthday, Now Get Down!

The greasy air hung heavy, a mix of frying potatoes and despair, as Jenna slammed another burger patty onto the sizzling grill. “Happy freakin’ birthday to me,” she muttered, adjusting her hairnet with a grimace. It wasn’t that turning twenty-one was a tragedy; it was more that spending it flipping burgers while inhaling the essence of a thousand forgotten diets felt tragically ironic.

“You said it, sister!” A voice chimed in, thick with mock sympathy. It was Marco, her partner-in-crime in this grease-stained purgatory. He leaned against the counter, attempting a suave pose despite the ketchup stain adorning his apron. “Another year older, another year wiser, another year stuck in this fluorescent-lit hellhole.”

Jenna snorted. “Speak for yourself, Romeo. You’re the one who keeps trying to impress the drive-thru girls with your spatula skills.”

“Hey, a man’s gotta have goals,” Marco shot back, grinning. “Besides, you’re just jealous because you’re the reigning queen of ‘No, sir, we don’t have onion rings with that.’”

Their banter was interrupted by a shriek from the back. It was Angelica, their beleaguered manager, wrestling with a mop and what looked suspiciously like a small furry animal.

“Seriously, dude?!” Angelica’s voice echoed from the depths of the supply closet. “I told you, no more bringing your emotional support ferret to work!”

Jenna and Marco exchanged a look. This was shaping up to be another classic evening at Burger Nirvana.

The hours crawled by in a blur of sizzling meat, ringing registers, and increasingly bizarre customer requests. By the time her shift ended, Jenna was ready to collapse face-first into a vat of industrial-sized mayonnaise, just for the peace and quiet.

Driving home, she tried to shake off the feeling of grease-induced melancholy. It was her birthday, after all. Her family was throwing a party, there was a mountain of her abuela’s tres leches cake with her name on it, and even the thought of her Tia Silvia’s bone-crushing hugs couldn’t dampen her spirits.

The sight that greeted her as she pulled up to her modest house banished the last traces of her work-induced gloom. The front window glowed with fairy lights, the faint sound of music and laughter spilled out onto the porch, and even her grumpy old neighbor, Mr. Henderson, seemed to be smiling (or maybe that was just a gas pain).

“Surprise!”

A chorus of voices erupted as she stepped inside, engulfing her in a wave of hugs, confetti, and the warm aroma of a thousand delicious dishes. Her parents, beaming with pride, her younger siblings buzzing with excitement, aunts, uncles, and cousins she hadn’t seen in months—the house was bursting with the chaotic love of a family determined to celebrate.

For the next few hours, the world outside ceased to exist. There was music, dancing, an impromptu conga line led by her slightly tipsy Tio Miguel, and enough food to feed a small army. Jenna, for the first time that day, felt truly happy.

It was during her second slice of tres leches, as her Abuela regaled the table with a slightly embellished tale of her youth in Cuba, that the knock came. A single, sharp rap on the door that seemed to cut through the music and laughter like a knife.

The chatter in the room died down. Her mother, a flicker of concern crossing her face, moved to answer it.

The moment the door swung open, everything changed.

Three figures in dark uniforms stood on the porch, their faces grim, their movements stiff and practiced. Their eyes, cold and impersonal, scanned the room, taking in the festive decorations, the half-eaten cake, the family gathered in what now felt like a fragile bubble of happiness, about to burst.

“Everyone on the floor!” one of the officers barked, his voice a chilling contrast to the joyous atmosphere. “Immigration and Customs Enforcement.”

The world tilted on its axis. Jenna’s heart, a moment ago overflowing with warmth, turned to ice. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. Not on her birthday. Not to her family.

But as she looked around the room, saw the fear etched on her parents’ faces, the confusion in her siblings’ eyes, the stunned silence that had descended over the once-joyous gathering, the terrifying reality sunk in.

This was happening. And it was about to get much, much worse.

Chapter 2: Beige Is The New Black (And White Is For Walls)

The following hours were a blur, her family and herself were dragged out of their home in handcuffs and thrown into a car and drove to the immigration centre, a place of sterile hallways, echoing voices, and the sinking feeling that she’d been sucked into a bureaucratic black hole, one where the décor leaned heavily on shades of beige and the only reading material was outdated pamphlets on fire safety.

Jenna found herself crammed into a holding cell that smelled faintly of stale coffee and desperation. The other occupants, a motley crew united by their shared misfortune, ranged from a terrified-looking grandmother clutching a rosary to a burly dude who claimed to be a chef specializing in artisanal tofu (the irony wasn’t lost on Jenna).

“Welcome to the land of the free,” a woman with wild, curly hair muttered from the corner, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She held up a plastic cup of lukewarm water. “Complimentary beverage. Enjoy the aftertaste of despair.”

Jenna managed a weak smile. Leave it to strangers to inject a little dark humor into a situation that felt like a bad telenovela.

The holding cell became their temporary ecosystem. They shared meager meals (mystery meat disguised as sloppy joes, rubbery eggs that bounced when dropped, and a beverage that tasted suspiciously like watered-down Kool-Aid), swapped stories (some heartbreaking, some hilarious, all tinged with a fear of the unknown), and even attempted a round of bingo using a crumpled napkin and a handful of old bottle caps.

“B-12! Anyone got B-12?!” the chef, whose name, surprisingly, was Barry, shouted, his booming voice echoing through the cell. He brandished a rusty bottle cap like a winning lottery ticket.

It wasn’t exactly a party, but the shared experience, the gallows humor, and the surprising resilience of the human spirit in the face of adversity, kept Jenna going.

After what felt like an eternity, but was probably closer to forty-eight hours, Jenna’s name was called.

“Ortega, Jenna. Room 214.” The guard, a woman built like a refrigerator and possessing all the warmth of a freezer burn, pointed down a seemingly endless corridor.

Room 214 turned out to be less of a room and more of a large, excessively bright closet. A woman sat behind a steel desk, her expression as welcoming as a tax audit. She wore a crisp white suit that practically screamed “I’m important, you’re insignificant,” and was meticulously consuming a pink lady apple, one bite at a time, as if it were a sacred ritual.

“Have a seat,” the woman commanded, gesturing to a chair bolted to the floor. No danger of getting too comfy here.

Jenna sat, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

“You’re Jenna Ortega,” the woman stated, her tone more of a confirmation than a question. She placed the apple down with a delicate click. “And you, along with your family, are in violation of the new immigration laws.”

“Look,” Jenna began, her voice shaking slightly, “I know my parents, they… they filed all the paperwork, years ago. We’re legal, I swear.”

The woman, whose nameplate identified her as Ms. Davis, raised an eyebrow. “The law has changed, Ms. Ortega. And ignorance, as they say, is no excuse.”

“But…but that’s not fair!” Jenna protested, her anger rising. “We’ve built a life here, paid taxes, contributed to this country. We deserve a chance to fight this, to appeal.”

Ms. Davis’s expression remained unchanged, a mask of bureaucratic indifference. “The law is the law,” she said, her voice as sharp and cold as a scalpel. “And as it stands, you and your family are subject to immediate deportation.”

Deportation. The word hung in the air between them, a looming threat, a promise of separation and heartache.

“However,” Ms. Davis continued, her tone shifting slightly, taking on a hint of something that sounded almost…sympathetic? “There might be…an alternative.”

Jenna’s head shot up, a flicker of hope igniting in her chest. “What? What alternative?”

Ms. Davis leaned forward, her gaze piercing, the hint of a smile playing on her lips. “We have a program,” she said, her voice low and conspiratorial. “A program that offers individuals like yourself, and by extension, their families, a chance to demonstrate their commitment to this country, to prove their willingness to embrace the values of American society.”

Jenna hung on her every word, desperate for a lifeline, even if it meant navigating a bureaucratic labyrinth.

“It’s called the ‘American Babies’ program,” Ms. Davis said, her smile widening, the apple forgotten on the desk. “And it might just be your salvation.”

“American Babies?” Jenna echoed, her brow furrowing. The name conjured up images of apple pie, baseball games, and…well, babies. What did any of that have to do with immigration law?

Ms. Davis seemed to sense her confusion. A small, self-satisfied smile played on her lips.

“It’s quite innovative, really,” she said, picking up the pink lady apple and polishing it on her sleeve as if preparing it for a photo shoot. “The program recognizes that successful integration requires a return to fundamental values. A blank slate, so to speak.”

Jenna’s confusion deepened. “A blank slate? What does that even mean?”

“Think of it this way,” Ms. Davis continued, her voice taking on the patient, condescending tone one might use with a particularly slow child. “Children. They represent innocence, purity, the very essence of what it means to be…malleable.” She took a deliberate bite of the apple, the crisp snap echoing in the otherwise silent room.

“So, what? You want me to go back to kindergarten?” Jenna asked, her voice laced with incredulity. “Because I’m pretty sure finger painting won’t exactly erase my immigration status.”

Ms. Davis chuckled, a sound that was somehow both melodic and chilling. “Not quite, Ms. Ortega. Though art therapy is certainly a component of the program.”

She leaned forward, her gaze intent. “We believe that by immersing individuals in a nurturing environment, one that fosters a sense of childlike wonder and encourages the development of core American values, we can facilitate true integration.”

“You’re talking about a… a re-education camp?” The words left Jenna’s mouth before she could stop them. A chill ran down her spine. It was like something out of a dystopian novel, not real life.

“Re-education is such a harsh term,” Ms. Davis chided, her smile never faltering. “Think of it as… a chance to start anew. To embrace the opportunity to become the best American you can be.”

Jenna’s mind was reeling. It all sounded insane, yet…there was a glint in Ms. Davis’s eyes, a quiet confidence in her voice, that suggested this was not a joke, nor a negotiation. This was a lifeline, twisted and terrifying as it was.

“And what exactly would this…opportunity entail?” Jenna asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“You would be working at a state-of-the-art childcare facility,” Ms. Davis explained, her tone regaining its professional polish. “Your role would be as a caretaker, providing for the needs of the children, engaging them in age-appropriate activities, and most importantly, modeling the very best of American values.”

“And my family?” Jenna asked, her voice tight with apprehension. “What happens to them?”

Ms. Davis’ smile softened, ever so slightly. “Successful completion of the six-month program guarantees immediate reunification with your family and a full review of your immigration status.”

Six months. Six months in this… this “childcare facility,” whatever that truly entailed. Six months separated from her family, living under the watchful eyes of the government, all for a chance, a slim, terrifyingly uncertain chance, to stay together.

It was a bargain with the devil, a Faustian deal disguised in pastel colors and the promise of a happy ending. But what choice did she have?

Jenna drew in a shaky breath, her gaze locked on Ms. Davis’s unwavering smile.

“Alright,” she whispered, her voice hoarse with resignation. “I’ll do it.”