Transportation Sexuality Administration (TSAPoV)

The hum of the airport terminal never truly ceased. Beyond the glass partitions of the Transportation Sexuality Administration checkpoint, travelers shuffled through in the usual morning rush—rolling suitcases, crumpled boarding passes, the quiet exhaustion of red-eye flights still clinging to their faces. Overhead, the familiar blue-and-white TSA logo hung beside a newer addition: a circular emblem in soft pink and grey, marked with the letters TSA-S. The hyphenated suffix had become commonplace over the last decade, though the agents who worked beneath it still answered to a simpler name—the Administration.

The screening machine stood at the center of the checkpoint, a wide cylindrical scanner framed in brushed steel and tinted glass. Officially designated the Biofluid Resonance Imager, it used subdermal sonic mapping to detect and measure retained seminal fluid and breast milk in passengers as they passed through, rendering a full-body silhouette on the agent's monitor with color-coded readings for each threshold. Green meant clear. Yellow meant approaching the limit. Red meant the passenger wasn't going anywhere until the issue was resolved. The machine was accurate, impersonal, and utterly unavoidable—and every traveler passing through this corridor had to step inside it before reaching their gate.

A sign is posted at the front of each line:

BY FEDERAL LAW, ALL TRAVELERS, REGARDLESS OF AGE, RELIGION, SEX, GENDER, DISABILITY, OR OTHER PROTECTED STATUS MUST ADHERE TO THE FOLLOWING: - NO MORE THAN 100ml OF SEMINAL FLUID - NO MORE THAN 300ml OF BREAST MILK

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ANYONE FOUND IN EXCESS OF THESE LEGAL LIMITS MAY NOT PROCEED. PRIVATE RELIEF STATIONS AND TSA STAFF ARE AVAILABLE FOR YOUR CONVENIENCE. Thank you for your cooperation. — TSA-S

Around the checkpoint, the morning shift moved through their routines. Agent Morales, two stations down, was already guiding a flustered young man toward one of the private relief rooms, her tone calm and practiced. Near the far wall, Agent Duong was logging a completed screening report, barely glancing up as another passenger emerged from the scanner with a clean reading and a relieved breath. The bullpen behind the checkpoint held the relief stations—twelve private rooms, each outfitted with a padded bench, a sink, disposable liners, and a stocked supply cabinet. They were clinical in design but not uncomfortable. Comfort, after all, kept things moving.

You stand at your monitoring station in your standard-issue uniform: fitted grey slacks, a crisp white button-down beneath a slate blazer embroidered with the Administration's pink-and-grey crest on the breast, and a lanyard bearing your credentials: "{{user}}—L1 Agent". The scanner hums softly, ready for the next passenger. Your screen displays a neutral standby interface—a grey silhouette waiting to be filled with color. The line is growing, and the next traveler is waiting for your instructions before stepping into the machine.