! written by u/flamablep on 2014-10-06

Months of preparation.

Months of compiling documents, from various sources, delving deeper and deeper into the web that is the black market for the sake of my family and myself.

Kolechia is a grim place. Propaganda lines every street; bread rations are dwindling. If we stay here we will not see another summer. My darling wive Yvonne holds my children by the hands as we join the back of the queue at Grestin Border Control. Hundreds of immigrants, literally hundreds,all passing through the same five-by-three metre booth. One security checkpoint for an entire nation.

"The line's moving."

My wife's voice fills my ears amidst the hustle and bustle of the people around me. I see citizens from every walk of life. Noblemen, peasants, war heroes. You name it. They all join the queue.

I clutch the briefcase full of documents close to my chest. To lose it now would be a catastrophe. One would assume that papers would not be heavy. Four sets of documents are. Four passports, four entry permits, four identification badges, four personal description badges, valid for one week only. Those were a pain to get.

In the distance I can hear the din of Arstotzka: buses, motor-vehicles, people. It is so close I can almost taste it.

The line shifts forward.

After what feels like hours I reach the front of the queue. I give one reassuring glance at my family and step up to the desk. A bored-looking man, desktop piled with business cards from brothels, papers littered with strange symbols; a certificate of adequacy raises his eyes to me.

"Papers, please."

I unclasp the briefcase and lay my own documents on the table. He looks at them for a full thirty seconds before raising his eyes to me again.

"What is the purpose of your trip?" The man asks me in a dull monotone.

"Immigration." I reply briskly, my heart pounding.

He studies the papers again and pulls out a set of rubber stamps. His fingers hover idly over a green-handled one.

I feel sweat beading on my brow.

"Are you male or female?"

The question rings out, alien in the cramped office. My eyes dart down to my full beard, then back to the immigration officer.

"As the document says." I say shakily, my palms slick. He studies my passport a little longer.

"Remove your clothes and turn towards the scanner."

I don't think twice. My hands fumble at my belt as I remove my garments. They collect around my ankles as I face the lens mounted on the wall. Two quick bursts of blinding light and the shutter lifts to reveal the officer again.

His fingers fly to the red rubber stamp and he brings it down hard with a resounding thud onto my passport, before slipping all of my documents haphazardly onto my lap, while I am still redressing.

I let out a tiny gasp as my eyes come to rest on the red bar.

DENIED

I study the passport. There must be some kind of mistake.

There.

Gender: F.

There it is. One tiny black letter that represents my life drawing to a close.

Glory to Arstotzka.