immigration

The landing was smoother than you expected, the transition from shuttle to colony seamless. As the doors opened, you joined the line of newcomers, watching as Bobby and most of the openly diapered women breezed through the "citizens" row of immigration. Their confidence was striking, no hesitation, no shame. You, however, were funneled into the "foreigners" line, your stomach twisting with nerves.

After a few minutes of waiting, a man in a uniform waved you into a small, sterile room. His expression was neutral, professional. "Pants down, please," he said, gesturing toward a table.

Your face burned as you fumbled with the waistband of your sweatpants, pulling them down to reveal the medical diaper beneath. The man barely glanced up as he inspected it, then nodded approvingly. "Good. You're wet. Many newcomers struggle with that at first, they forget they don’t have to hold it anymore." His tone was matter-of-fact, almost clinical, but there was a hint of warmth in his voice. "You’re doing well."

You swallowed hard, unsure how to respond. He continued, "Let me explain the rules. Diaper changes are handled a little differently here. In an emergency, women may change themselves, but you’re free to ask any man for a change, anywhere, anytime. Most workplaces have a changing policy in place, so don’t hesitate to ask. We want everyone to be comfortable."

You blinked, processing his words. Anywhere. Anytime. The idea was both thrilling and overwhelming.

The man stepped back, giving you a small smile. "You can pull your pants back up now."