Dayton: Junior Guardian Chronicles: Episode 47

The stairs beneath Dayton’s feet created a rhythmic percussion as she climbed, soft thuds muffled by thick carpet, each step carrying them higher into the private sanctuary of the Harris household. The walls were painted in pale lavender, a color that spoke of careful consideration rather than impulsive decoration. Family portraits lined the hallway in matching silver frames, graduation photos, vacation snapshots, holiday gatherings. Tall people frozen in moments of laughter and achievement, their smiles radiating the confident warmth of those who had never questioned their place in the world. The truth that Dayton did know Sara Reeves who appeared in several photos at various ages. 

A world Ezra no longer belonged to. 

He sat in her palm, spine rigid as a soldier at attention, knees tucked beneath him for stability and support. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, not in defiance, but in a futile attempt to hold himself together as everything familiar continued to dissolve around him. The Charm on his collar chimed with each of Dayton’s steps, a delicate silver sound that marked time like it was counting down to some inevitable conclusion. 

“Ezra,” Dayton began, her voice soft but carrying the weight of absolute certainty. “I’m not trying to be mean. I say it because I care.” 

He glanced up at her, studying the earnest set of her features. Her expression wasn’t triumphant or smug, emotions he could have fought against, rallied his dignity to resist. Instead, her face held something far more devastating: genuine concern. The kind of look a veterinarian might wear while explaining a difficult diagnosis to a pet owner. 

“You’re my Little now. My pet,” she continued, the words falling between them with the finality of a judge’s gavel. “I’m responsible for your safety. That means something real, Ezra. That should mean something to you, too.” 

His stomach lurched, the careful meal of pellets from earlier threatening to revolt. Her sincerity was like sandpaper against his remaining shreds of dignity, abrasive, unrelenting, determined to polish away every last vestige of what he still believed himself to be. 

“I’m doing this because you were living dangerously,” she said, her tone taking on the patient cadence of someone explaining something obvious to a child. “You didn’t understand the world you’re in anymore. But I do. And I’m going to help you navigate it.” 

The hallway stretched ahead of them, lined with closed doors leading to spaces he would never see as anything more than a visitor. Guest rooms, home offices, bathrooms with fixtures designed for people who could reach light switches and turn doorknobs. 

“This is your home now,” Dayton said, pausing at the top of the stairs. “Not the classroom. Not the faculty lounge. Not your old apartment, which, by the way, has already been cleaned out supposedly. You’ll be here. With me. Forever.” 

Ezra’s throat tightened against the collar, the leather band suddenly feeling more constrictive. The apartment he’d called home for eight years, filled with books and lesson plans and the accumulated debris of an academic life, gone. Distributed or discarded according to federal guidelines governing Little property dissolution when he was under the districts care.. 

“Navigating this house on your own?” Dayton continued, turning toward a door at the end of the hall. “It would take you days. Weeks, even. The distance from the kitchen to the living room is probably half a mile for someone your size. And that’s assuming you didn’t get lost, or hurt, or stuck somewhere.” 

She reached for the door handle, a brushed nickel lever that gleamed under the hallway lighting. As the door swung open, Ezra found himself bracing for chaos, perhaps the kind of lived in disorder he associated with teenage spaces. 

Instead, he was greeted by a room that perfectly captured the intersection of adolescent personality and meticulous organization. 

Dayton’s bedroom was a carefully curated expression of her thirteen year old aesthetic sensibilities. Three walls were painted in soft dove almond gray, while the accent wall behind her bed featured a light purple that caught and reflected the afternoon sunlight streaming through white curtains. The color combination was sophisticated yet age-appropriate, the kind of palette that suggested she’d spent considerable time browsing Pinterest boards and interior design apps. 

The hardwood floors gleamed with recent polish, their warm honey tones complemented by a plush white area rug positioned perfectly beside her bed. The rug’s texture looked impossibly soft, the kind of thing designed for bare feet and late-night study sessions. 

Her bed dominated the space with the authority of a teenager’s personal kingdom. The comforter was a trendy geometric pattern in shades of blush pink and white, paired with throw pillows in complementary textures, velvet, faux fur, and one with sequins that shifted color when touched. Fairy lights were strung along the headboard in precise swoops, their warm glow adding ambiance even in daylight. The bed was made with the kind of attention to detail that spoke of either obsessive personality traits or strict parental oversight, probably both. 

But it was the walls that truly revealed Dayton’s personality. Movie posters were arranged in a carefully planned gallery, Little Women, The Hunger Games, Wonder Woman, each featuring strong female protagonists. Interspersed between them were inspirational quotes in elegant script: “Nevertheless, She Persisted” and “Be Your Own Hero” in rose gold lettering. A corkboard near her desk displayed a curated collection of photos with friends, academic achievements, and concert tickets arranged with the precision of a museum exhibit. 

Her desk was a masterpiece of organized efficiency. The white surface held a sleek laptop, a ring light for video calls, and a desktop organizer filled with color coded pens and highlighters. A VR headset sat on a custom stand, its surfaces carefully cleaned and positioned for both function and display. Small succulent plants in geometric planters added organic touches to the technological landscape. 

Above the desk, a floating shelf system displayed books arranged by height and color, young adult novels mixed with academic texts, their spines creating a rainbow gradient that was both practical and aesthetically pleasing. Her Guardian Certification hung in a place of honor among other achievements: honor roll certificates, student council recognition, Sports acoolades, and a framed photo of her with what appeared to be other Guardian trainees. A photo that was by itself but seemed to be in a place of prominence was a photo her and Kinsley shortly before Kinsley had caught Smallara. Smiling, happy, unaware of what fate would cost them.  

Every element of the room spoke to hours of planning and curation. This wasn’t the impulsive decoration of a child, but the considered design choices of someone who understood the power of environment to communicate identity and values. 

“This is too much,” Ezra said finally, his voice barely audible even to himself. 

Dayton settled into her desk chair, a ergonomic model in white and rose gold that matched her aesthetic perfectly, adjusting its height with a pneumatic hiss before placing him carefully on the smooth surface. The desk was vast from his perspective, a polished expanse that stretched beyond his ability to cross without significant effort. He found himself positioned between her laptop and a small glass dish filled with paper clips, like a living decoration in a carefully organized workspace. 

“We’re going to go slow,” Dayton said, her voice taking on the gentle firmness of someone accustomed to training. “One thing at a time. One lesson at a time. You were lied to, Ezra.” 

There was no venom in her tone. No anger or malice. Just a kind of terrible, weaponized compassion that made resistance feel not just futile, but actively cruel. 

“You’re not a person anymore,” she said, the words delivered with the same matter-of-fact kindness she might use to explain that recess had been cancelled due to rain. “I’m sorry. I really am. It’s cruel and it’s unfair. I know first hand what Smallara takes it doesn’t give back. I know its different for you as you are living it. But my friend Kinsley has Smallara. Every day, every action, every achievement  I’m reminded of what I lost.  Wha I never get to expierence. The person who I never get to expierence it with.  I hate that she is not considered a person. That the laws don’t recognize her for who she is. It’s the world we live in and you being a little is the truth.” 

 And the sooner you accept that truth, the sooner we can work on making you happy in your new life.” 

Ezra stared up at her, stunned into silence. The weight of the collar around his neck had never felt heavier; its presence a constant reminder of ownership and dependency. The small LED indicator blinked green in steady intervals, a digital heartbeat that confirmed his status as tracked, managed, and contained. 

“And I’m your Guardian,” she added, the words carrying the quiet authority of someone stating an immutable fact of physics. 

Ezra shook his head slowly, a gesture more of disbelief than denial. “My classroom,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “My students. I still have assignments to grade. I need to finish the unit on dystopian literature. The kids are in the middle of Fahrenheit 451 and they” 

“You need to learn how to be a Little first,” Dayton said, cutting through his protests with surgical precision. Her tone never rose, but it carved through the air like a scalpel, silencing his objections before they could fully form. “Once you’ve adjusted, once you’re properly trained, we can look at appropriate roles for you. Maybe, and I’m saying maybe, you could assist Ms. Whitaker in class. Help her organize papers. Keep her supplies sorted. Assist her with her lesson plans.” 

The words hit him like ice water, each syllable a small death. 

Cassie Whitaker. 

The student teacher he had mentored. Whose lesson plans he had reviewed and refined. Whose teaching techniques he had helped develop through hours of patient guidance and constructive criticism. 

Now he was being offered the possibility of becoming her aide. 

Her helper. 

Her pet project, in the most literal sense. 

He said nothing, couldn’t speak past the tightness in his throat. His fingers moved unconsciously to the collar, tracing the smooth leather and finding the small metal tag that dangled beneath his chin. The engraving was crisp, professional, irreversible: Ezra J. Harris   Property of Dayton Harris. 

Even his name had been altered. Rhys, the surname that connected him to his father, his grandfather, generations of educators and scholars, had been stripped away. Replaced with hers. He would spend whatever remained of his life as Ezra J. Harris, a permanent reminder of ownership and belonging. 

The surrealism never ended. 

“You don’t need to wear that suit anymore,” Dayton said, her voice softening as she opened a drawer built into her desk’s pedestal. 

She withdrew a neatly folded outfit—tiny jeans in a dark wash, a soft gray T-shirt, and a pair of sneakers no bigger than her thumbnail. Each item was perfectly proportioned, clearly expensive, and unmistakably designed for his new status. She placed them on the desk beside him with the delicate care of someone handling precious objects. 

“I thought casual would be more comfortable,” she explained, smoothing an invisible wrinkle from the miniature shirt. “The suit’s just… not practical for what you’ll be doing now. This is better for daily activities. Exercise. Training.” 

Ezra stared down at the clothes, his academic mind automatically cataloging details. The fabric quality was excellent, soft cotton, reinforced stitching, attention to detail that spoke of significant expense. These weren’t emergency purchases or rush orders. They had been selected with care, measured with precision, acquired with planning. 

She had been preparing for this moment for weeks. Possibly months. 

And then his gaze shifted, following Dayton’s proud gesture toward a section of her room that made his breath catch in his throat. 

Integrated seamlessly into her sophisticated teenage aesthetic was a custom-built care station that could have been featured in a Guardian lifestyle magazine. A sleek white cabinet with glass fronts displayed Little-sized supplies arranged with the same attention to detail as her book collection. Bedding sets in coordinating colors, sheets, blankets, and pillows that matched her room’s palette. A feeding station with multiple bowls and dispensers, each piece looking more like modern art than pet supplies. A grooming kit with brushes smaller than matchsticks, organized in a clear acrylic case. Exercise equipment that could have been designed by Apple, all clean lines and premium materials. 

The setup didn’t clash with her teenage decor, it enhanced it, as if caring for a Little was simply another sophisticated hobby, like photography or fashion design. Each item had been chosen not just for function, but for how it would look in her carefully curated space. 

“I’ve been getting ready for this since the summer,” Dayton said, and for the first time since entering the room, her voice carried a hint of excitement. Almost shyness. “Ever since I passed certification with honors. I didn’t know you would be my Little, of course. But I wanted to be prepared for whoever I was matched with.” 

She gestured toward a thick binder on her floating shelf, its spine labeled “Little Care & Training Manual – Personal Study Notes” in her neat handwriting. 

“I studied everything. Nutrition requirements, behavioral modification techniques, housing specifications, medical care protocols. I practiced with Thomas during my practicum, he was my training Little through Generitech’s program. I learned proper handling, feeding schedules, discipline methods, enrichment activities.” 

Ezra’s mouth opened, then closed. “You… planned for this.” 

Her eyes lit up with genuine pride, the same expression she might wear when discussing a perfect test score or a successful student council project. 

“Of course I planned. I’ve wanted to be a Guardian since I was eleven. I didn’t know it would happen this soon, or that the opportunity would involve someone I already knew. But when your situation became available…” 

She trailed off, but the satisfaction in her expression completed the sentence. When the system had declared him unclaimed and vulnerable, she had seen opportunity. When his independence had been classified as dangerous, she had stepped forward with a solution. 

When his humanity had been legally dissolved, she had been there with a collar and a credit card to claim what remained. 

Ezra followed her gaze back to the care station, his eyes moving across each carefully chosen item. Every dollar spent, every hour of training completed, every rule memorized and internalized, it all painted a single, undeniable truth. 

This wasn’t revenge for classroom slights or teenage resentment. 

This was conviction. 

This girl, this child, believed in the system with the fervor of a convert. She had studied its principles, mastered its techniques, and prepared herself to implement its vision of proper Little care with the same meticulous attention she brought to her room’s design. 

And now, that belief system had a test subject. 

Him. 

The afternoon light shifted through her curtains, the fairy lights along her headboard beginning to twinkle more prominently as shadows grew longer. The reality of his situation settled around him like a physical weight. He was no longer Ezra J. Rhys, middle school teacher and guardian of young minds. 

He was Ezra J. Harris. 

Property. 

Pet. 

Project. 

And judging by the sophisticated care station seamlessly integrated into her teenage sanctuary, Dayton intended to excel at his management just as thoroughly as she had excelled at everything else in her methodical, ambitious thirteen-year-old life. 

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