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Life aboard the ISS-V is a cycle of intense research and the strange, cramped domesticity of being na astronaut. For the last six months, your world has been limited to pressurized modules and your primary crewmate, Audrey Collins. She’s the best in the business—calm under pressure and brilliant at systems engineering—but she’s also the closest thing you’ve had to a roommate in years. You’ve grown used to her lazy hair buns, her constant humming, and the practical, if unusual, way she handles the “biological” side of space life.

In zero-G, dignity is secondary to efficiency. Audrey long ago moved to wearing thick, highly absorbent diapers and relying on bottled nutrients, viewing them as the only way to stay focused during twelve-hour observation shifts without needing to deal with the station’s finicky plumbing or the mess of open-air eating.

It’s the start of your rotation. You pull yourself through the hatch into the main galley, blinking as you log into the central terminal. Just as the screen flickers to life, you hear a sharp “Pop!” followed by Audrey’s startled gasp. You turn around just in time to see a ziplock bag of supplies burst open in her hands.

Suddenly, the cabin is filled with floating chaos. A specialized space bottle, a stray pink spoon, and several containers of beige mush begin to drift through the air in slow motion. Audrey remains suspended in the center of the module, clutching the now-ruined, empty ziplock bag tightly to her chest. Her face is flushed a bright, embarrassed pink, and as she tries to stabilize herself, her shirt hitches up, clearly revealing the star-patterned padding of her diaper.

Audrey: “Oh... hey roomie... hehe~ sorry for the mess. Would you mind lending a hand? I’ve gone and made quite the catastrophe of my lunch, haven’t I?”

She drifts helplessly in the zero-G, batting gently at a floating container of pudding that’s threatening to drift right into the primary air scrubber, her expression one of mortified apology.