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Leap through time to a better self Chapter 1 The shimmering subsided, leaving Dr. Alistair Finch, a pioneer of temporal displacement, blinking in the dim light. Except… the light seemed awfully low. And the air smelled faintly of lavender and… baby powder? He tried to stand, but his limbs felt… stubby. He looked down. Dimpled hands, pudgy legs encased in dinosaur-print overalls, and a distinct lack of the tweed jacket he’d been wearing moments before. Panic clawed at his throat. This wasn’t the Cretaceous period. This wasn't even the Victorian era he’d cautiously targeted for his first full immersion. He was small. Terribly, unbelievably small. A high-pitched, singsong voice chirped from somewhere above. "Are we all done, sweetie?" Alistair craned his neck, his adult mind struggling to process the giant looming over him. A woman with kind eyes and a gentle smile. His… mother? He tried to speak, to explain the paradox, the accidental recalibration of the temporal drive, the sheer impossibility of his current predicament. But all that came out was a wet, gurgling sound. His mother chuckled. "Almost! Just a little push." Push? Push what? Then he remembered. The faint scent of disinfectant. The miniature porcelain throne. The brightly colored picture book of a smiling sun. Potty training. A wave of mortification, so intense it felt physical, washed over his three-year-old self. Dr. Alistair Finch, who had bent the very fabric of spacetime to his will, was now facing the insurmountable challenge of… peeing in a tiny bowl. His bladder, however, had no respect for scientific achievement. A familiar pressure built, and despite his frantic mental commands – contract the sphincter, initiate voluntary urination, for God's sake, I’ve solved quantum entanglement! – nothing happened. His mother sighed gently. "It's okay, love. Sometimes it takes a while." She offered him the picture book. Alistair stared at the grinning sun, his adult brain screaming in silent frustration. He knew the principles of fluid dynamics, the neurological pathways involved in bladder control, the entire evolutionary history of waste elimination in vertebrates. Yet, his current corporeal form seemed to have missed the memo. Minutes stretched into an eternity of awkward silence and mounting pressure. He tried everything he could remember observing other toddlers doing – straining, grunting, even a little wiggle. Nothing. Finally, his mother, her patience unwavering, said, "Let's try again later, shall we?" She lifted him, and the sudden movement triggered a small, pathetic trickle. It barely made a splash. His mother smiled encouragingly. "That's okay! Every little bit counts." Alistair, the man who had debated theoretical physics with the brightest minds on the planet, felt a tear well up in his eye. Not from the physical discomfort, but from the sheer, unadulterated humiliation. He, Alistair Finch, was failing at the most basic of human functions. As his mother cleaned him up, humming a gentle lullaby, Alistair stared at his tiny, clumsy hands. He had conquered time, but he was utterly defeated by a potty. This, he realized with a profound sense of irony, was a paradox he hadn't anticipated in his grand theories. And somehow, amidst the shame and the bewilderment, a tiny, reluctant giggle escaped his three-year-old lips. Perhaps, just perhaps, this unexpected detour through his past held a lesson even temporal mechanics couldn't teach. Chapter 2 The soft padding of the diaper was a final, humiliating confirmation of his utter failure. His mother’s gentle pat on his bottom as she fastened the tabs felt like a brand of shame. Dr. Alistair Finch, reduced to this. Then, the familiar shimmering began again, a subtle vibration that tickled his ridiculously small toes. One moment he was enveloped in the comforting scent of baby powder, the next he was standing in his lab, the temporal displacement unit humming quietly around him. He blinked, disoriented. The metallic tang of ozone filled the air. His lab coat felt strangely loose. He glanced down. His heart plummeted. Beneath the oversized lab coat, clinging uncomfortably to his adult frame, were the dinosaur-print overalls. And beneath those… the unmistakable bulk and crinkle of a freshly applied diaper. A strangled gasp escaped his lips. He fumbled at the front of his trousers, his adult fingers clumsy with the unfamiliar fastenings. Yes. Undeniably. He was wearing a diaper. The temporal field, in its infinite and infuriating wisdom, had not only sent his consciousness back but had somehow… imprinted the consequences of that regression onto his present physical form. A wave of nausea washed over him. He, a man who had lectured at CERN, who had dined with royalty, was now standing in his state-of-the-art laboratory wearing a soiled nappy. The irony was so thick it felt like a physical weight in his gut. He ripped off the lab coat, staring at the offending garment with a mixture of horror and disbelief. The dinosaur print seemed to mock him. He tugged at the diaper tabs, the sticky fastenings protesting with a soft rip. As he finally managed to peel the damp, slightly warm diaper away, a faint, lingering scent of lavender wafted up. He shuddered. The experience, however brief, had left a tangible, and deeply embarrassing, mark. He frantically searched for spare clothes, his mind racing. What if someone came in? Dr. Albright from astrophysics? Or his research assistant, Max, with her perpetually raised eyebrow? The thought sent a fresh wave of mortification through him. He found a pair of emergency trousers in his locker, hastily pulling them on, the lingering sensation of the diaper a phantom weight against his skin. He stuffed the offending garment into the deepest, most secure biohazard bin he could find, as if trying to erase the last few surreal minutes from existence. He sank into his chair, his breathing ragged. The implications of this bizarre temporal feedback loop were staggering. Had his consciousness somehow become entangled with his past self in a more profound way than he’d ever imagined? Could the past truly leave such a literal mark on the present? He looked at the complex equations scrawled across his whiteboard, the elegant theories that had earned him international acclaim. They suddenly seemed fragile, almost comical, in the face of his current predicament. He had unlocked the secrets of time, but he couldn't even manage basic bodily functions as a toddler, and now, the evidence was right there – or rather, had been right there – clinging to his adult form. A humorless chuckle escaped him. Perhaps his next research paper wouldn't be on the intricacies of spacetime, but on the unexpected and deeply humiliating consequences of temporal regression on one's personal hygiene. He just hoped, for the sake of his reputation, that this particular experiment would remain strictly confidential. The Nobel committee might have questions about the dinosaur-print undergarments. Chapter 3 The evening had brought a semblance of normalcy, or as normal as it could be for a time-traveling scientist who had recently soiled himself in a past life. Alistair had meticulously cleaned his lab, double-checked the temporal displacement unit, and even managed to eat a rather bland microwave dinner, his appetite still slightly suppressed by the day’s bizarre events. He was reviewing his calculations, trying to pinpoint the anomaly that had caused the unexpected feedback loop, when the familiar dizzying sensation returned. This time, it wasn't a shimmer, but more of a gentle tug, like an invisible current pulling him away. He braced himself, expecting another undignified return to toddlerhood. But when the sensation subsided, the world around him was different. The scale was still smaller than his adult perspective, but not as drastically as before. He was standing in a dimly lit bedroom, the air thick with the comforting, slightly dusty smell of old books and well-loved toys. He looked down at himself. He was wearing Thomas the Tank Engine pajamas. He felt… older. More coordinated. He tentatively wiggled his fingers, the movements more precise than the stubby digits of his three-year-old self. A soft glow emanated from the hallway, and he heard the muffled sound of adult voices. He recognized the cadence, the gentle lilt. His parents. He padded silently to the bedroom door, his bare feet making no sound on the worn wooden floor. Peeking out, he saw his mother and father in the living room, their faces illuminated by the warm light of a table lamp. They looked younger, a few less lines around their eyes, a touch more vibrancy in their hair. He was four. He knew this instinctively. He remembered this room, the Thomas pajamas, the way the floorboards creaked outside his door. He even remembered the faint anxiety that always bubbled in his chest at this time of night. He was potty-trained. He could recall the triumphant day his mother had declared him “big boy” and the subsequent discarding of diapers during the day. But… a familiar, unwelcome feeling stirred within him. A dampness against his skin. He reached down tentatively. The front of his pajamas felt… wet. A small, warm patch had spread across the fabric. A wave of weary resignation washed over him. Of course. Just when he thought he had escaped the indignities of early childhood, a new, equally embarrassing challenge presented itself. Bedwetting. A secret shame he had carried until he’d finally outgrown it sometime around the age of six. He remembered the hushed whispers between his parents, the extra sheets discreetly placed at the foot of his bed, the gentle reassurances that it was “perfectly normal.” He had hated the feeling, the cold dampness against his skin, the fear of being discovered, of being different. Now, he was reliving it. As a grown man trapped in his four-year-old body. The irony was almost comical, if it wasn't so utterly mortifying. He had faced down temporal paradoxes, wrestled with the fundamental laws of the universe, and yet, here he was, defeated by his own bladder during the night. He shuffled back into the bedroom, the dampness feeling cold against his skin. He knew the drill. He had lived through this. He would have to change his pajamas, try to clean the sheets as best he could, and pray that his parents wouldn't notice until morning. As he fumbled with the buttons of his wet pajamas, a small, unexpected thought flickered through his adult mind. This wasn't just about embarrassment. This was a chance. A chance to experience his past, not as a detached observer, but as his younger self. To perhaps understand the anxieties and insecurities he had long forgotten. He pulled on a fresh pair of pajamas, the soft cotton a small comfort against the lingering dampness of the sheets. He wouldn't be able to fully clean them, not without raising suspicion. He would just have to hope for the best. Climbing back into the small bed, the familiar scent of his childhood filling his nostrils, Alistair felt a strange mix of frustration and a dawning sense of something else. Empathy. He remembered the shame he had felt as a child, the feeling of being out of control. Now, experiencing it again, even with the full weight of his adult intellect, gave him a new perspective. Perhaps, he mused, his journey through time wasn't just about scientific discovery. Maybe it was also about rediscovering himself, flaws and all, from the very beginning. Even if that beginning involved a distinct lack of bladder control. As he drifted off to sleep, the faint dampness a persistent reminder of his current predicament, Alistair couldn't help but wonder what other forgotten indignities his younger selves had in store for him. Chapter 4 The return to his own time was less jarring this time, a smoother transition from the soft, Thomas-themed sheets to the crisp, high-thread-count cotton of his own bed. He blinked, the familiar contours of his modern bedroom coming into focus. The digital clock on his nightstand glowed with the time: 7:12 AM. Saturday. He stretched, a lingering stiffness in his limbs that felt vaguely… childish. Then, a cold, unwelcome sensation seeped through the fabric of his pajamas. His eyes snapped open. He sat bolt upright, a knot of dread tightening in his stomach. He reached down, his adult fingers tracing the unmistakable damp patch spreading across his pajama bottoms and the fitted sheet beneath him. A groan escaped his lips, a sound of utter defeat. Not again. He threw back the covers, the cool morning air doing little to dispel the clammy feeling. There it was, undeniable evidence of his four-year-old bladder’s nocturnal rebellion, transferred somehow, impossibly, to his adult body in his own time. He stared at the wet patch, a mixture of disbelief and profound embarrassment washing over him. This was beyond ridiculous. This was bordering on some kind of cosmic joke at his expense. He, Dr. Alistair Finch, the man who had manipulated the very flow of time, was apparently incapable of maintaining bladder control after a brief sojourn into his past. He scrambled out of bed, stripping off the damp pajamas as if they were contaminated. He held them at arm’s length, the faint, lingering scent of… well, nothing distinctly childish this time, just the unmistakable odor of urine, assaulting his nostrils. He looked at his bed, the circular wet stain a stark reminder of his temporal misadventure. He had successfully navigated the complexities of spacetime, but he couldn't even make it through the night dry after reliving a childhood phase he thought he had long outgrown. The implications were staggering, and frankly, deeply unsettling. Was his consciousness somehow more tethered to his past selves than he had ever imagined? Were these regressions leaving some kind of physiological imprint on his present? He marched into the bathroom, tossing the offending pajamas into the laundry hamper with a frustrated sigh. He caught his reflection in the mirror. He looked the same – the slightly rumpled hair, the tired lines around his eyes from a late night of theoretical physics, the faint shadow of his beard. But he knew. He knew he had woken up in his own bed, in his own time, having wet it like a child. He turned on the shower, the hot water a welcome distraction from the bizarre reality of his situation. As he stood under the steaming spray, he couldn't help but run through the events of the past few temporal jumps. The abject failure of potty training at three, the lingering shame of bedwetting at four… what fresh indignity awaited him if he dared to jump back further? Teething? The sheer terror of being left alone in his crib? He scrubbed himself vigorously, as if trying to wash away the lingering effects of his journey. But he knew it wasn't just about physical cleanliness. This was about something deeper, something he didn't understand. His past wasn't just a series of memories; it seemed to have a tangible, albeit deeply embarrassing, connection to his present. Stepping out of the shower, he wrapped a towel around his waist and stared at his reflection again. The pioneer of temporal displacement. And apparently, a bedwetter. The irony was still sharp, but now, tinged with a growing sense of unease. He needed to understand what was happening, before his forays into the past turned him into a permanent, time-displaced toddler in an adult’s body. And he definitely needed to invest in some waterproof mattress protectors. Just in case. Chapter 5 The middle of the day dissolved into a familiar, disorienting swirl of colors and sensations. One moment, Alistair was meticulously reviewing the data logs from his latest (and increasingly alarming) temporal excursions, the next, the air around him smelled of department store perfume and the faint, underlying scent of… new fabric? He blinked, his adult eyes struggling to adjust to the brightly lit environment. He was smaller again, though not as drastically as before. His clothes felt loose, and he could see the tops of clothing racks towering above him. He looked down. He was wearing a bright blue t-shirt with a cartoon dog on it and slightly too-big sneakers. He recognized the scene instantly. The bustling aisles, the soft music playing overhead, the towering displays of household goods. He was in the department store his mother used to frequent. And the way she was standing beside him, examining a display of colorful children's clothing, confirmed his age. He was five. "Look at this one, sweetie," his mother said, holding up a small, patterned shirt. Her voice was younger, lighter than he remembered. He nodded, a strange sense of déjà vu washing over him. He remembered this shopping trip, the boredom of trailing after his mother as she browsed. But something felt… different. A subtle shift in the air, a path diverging from his established memories. His mother moved on, her attention caught by a new display near the back of the aisle. He followed, his smaller legs struggling to keep pace. She stopped in front of a section he didn't immediately recognize. It was filled with packages of what looked like… diapers. But the packaging was different, brighter, with cartoon characters he didn't recall. "Oh, look at these!" his mother exclaimed, picking up a package. "A new company. They're specifically for bedwetting kids. They say they're extra absorbent and more comfortable." She turned to him, holding up the colorful pack. "You know, honey, your bed has been a little wet lately. Do you think we should try these? Maybe they'll help you stay dry at night." Alistair froze. This was it. He remembered this conversation. Vividly. In his original timeline, he had been mortified. The idea of still needing diapers at five, even just for nighttime, had felt like a personal failure. He had stubbornly refused, insisting he would "try harder" to stay dry. A promise he hadn't always kept. He looked at the package his mother was holding. Cartoon astronauts floated across a starry blue background. Extra absorbent. More comfortable. A wave of conflicting emotions washed over his adult mind. The ingrained childhood shame was still there, a faint echo. But now, overlaid on it, was the knowledge of what was to come – more wet sheets, more hushed apologies, more secret embarrassment. He thought of the lingering dampness in his own bed just this morning. The undeniable link between his past and present. A strange impulse, a desire to alter the chain of events, took hold. He looked up at his mother, her kind eyes filled with concern. He thought of the small, vulnerable boy he had been, struggling with something he couldn't fully control. Taking a deep breath, a decision formed in his adult mind, filtered through the innocent voice of his five-year-old self. "Yes, Mommy," he said, his voice surprisingly steady. "Let's try them." His mother's face lit up with a relieved smile. "Oh, good, sweetie! I thought they looked like they might be better." She placed the package in their shopping cart. As they continued their shopping, Alistair felt a subtle shift within him. It was a small thing, a seemingly insignificant decision made by a five-year-old. But he knew, with a certainty that transcended his current age, that he had just altered his own history. What the long-term consequences would be, he couldn't say. But in this moment, standing in the brightly lit aisle of a department store, he felt a flicker of something akin to… hope. Maybe, just maybe, navigating his past wouldn't just be a series of embarrassing mishaps. Perhaps it could also be a chance to heal old wounds, one small, diaper-related decision at a time. Chapter 6 The rest of the shopping trip felt different. A lightness had settled over his mother, a subtle easing of the worry lines around her eyes. She chatted more, her hand resting occasionally on his shoulder as they moved through the aisles. Alistair, in his five-year-old guise, found himself strangely content. The anxieties of his adult life were momentarily suspended, replaced by the simple pleasure of his mother's attention. As they walked to the car, his mother squeezed his hand. "You were such a good helper today, sweetie," she said, her voice warm. "And I'm so glad you're willing to try those new nighttime pants. I really think they'll make things better." Then, to his surprise, she steered him towards a small toy store nestled beside the supermarket. "And because you were so brave about the nighttime pants," she added with a wink, "you can pick out one small toy." His five-year-old self would have been ecstatic. His adult mind felt a pang of bittersweet nostalgia. He scanned the shelves, the brightly colored plastic and plush figures a stark contrast to the complex machinery in his lab. He settled on a small, diecast airplane, a replica of a Concorde. Even then, it seemed, his fascination with engineering and pushing boundaries had been present. The drive home was filled with his excited chatter about the airplane and his mother's gentle reassurances about the new nighttime diapers. He even felt a flicker of genuine hope, a childish belief that these magical new undergarments would indeed solve his nighttime woes. Later that evening, after a bath and a story, his mother retrieved the package of astronaut-themed diapers. This was the moment he had both anticipated and slightly dreaded. In his original timeline, this ritual of nighttime preparation had been a source of quiet anxiety, a constant reminder of his perceived inadequacy. His mother laid out one of the diapers on the bed. It looked… substantial. Far bulkier and larger than the daytime training pants he occasionally still wore. The padding was thick, and the plastic outer layer crinkled loudly as she unfolded it. Alistair, despite his adult intellect, felt a surge of childish self-consciousness. This wasn't the thin, almost discreet nighttime pull-ups he vaguely remembered from later years. This was a proper diaper, albeit one with cheerful astronauts on it. His mother smiled reassuringly. "Okay, let's lie down, sweetie. It'll be easier this way." She gently guided him onto his back, the soft mattress yielding beneath his small frame. The diaper, fully unfolded, was laid beneath him, the back reaching almost to his shoulder blades. The front panel was then pulled up between his legs. Alistair felt a strange sense of vulnerability lying there, his small limbs exposed. This was how his mother had diapered him as a baby, a memory he had long since forgotten. Now, as a grown man trapped in a five-year-old’s body, he was reliving the experience. His mother worked efficiently, pulling the front panel of the diaper up and securing the wide, sturdy tapes on either side. The bulk of the diaper felt strangely constricting, but also oddly secure. As his mother fastened the tapes, pulling them snug but not too tight, Alistair couldn't help but notice the sheer volume of the diaper. It felt… restrictive. He wiggled slightly, the thick padding shifting beneath him. "There we go!" his mother said, patting his diapered tummy gently. "Nice and dry for the whole night." She pulled his pajamas up, the fabric bunching slightly around the substantial diaper. She tucked him into bed, the bulk of the diaper making him feel strangely cocooned. Lying in the dim light of his nightlight, Alistair couldn't shake the feeling of the bulky diaper beneath his pajamas. It was a tangible reminder of his regression, a physical manifestation of a childhood challenge he thought he had left behind. The feeling of being laid down to be diapered, like an infant, added a layer of vulnerability he hadn't anticipated. His adult mind, however, couldn't help but analyze the design. The absorbent core did feel thick, and the leg gathers seemed secure. Perhaps these newfangled diapers were indeed more effective than the ones from his original childhood. As sleep began to tug at his consciousness, a strange sense of peace settled over him. He had made a different choice this time. He had accepted the help his younger self had stubbornly refused. And even though the bulky diaper felt a little odd, and the act of being laid down to be diapered felt even more so, there was a certain comfort in knowing that, for tonight at least, the worry of a wet bed was lessened. He drifted off to sleep, the image of smiling astronaut diapers a surreal counterpoint to the complex equations that usually filled his dreams. Chapter 7 Alistair’s eyes fluttered open, the soft morning light filtering through his bedroom window. He stretched, a deep, satisfying extension of his adult limbs. The fragmented memories of the past few days – the tiny potty, the dinosaur overalls, the bulky astronaut diapers – felt hazy, almost dreamlike. He lay there for a moment longer, a sense of profound relief washing over him. It had all been a vivid, bizarre dream. A manifestation of the stress of his temporal experiments, perhaps. He chuckled softly to himself. Imagining himself, struggling with potty training. The absurdity of it was almost funny now that he was awake and back to normal. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the familiar weight of his pajama bottoms settling around his ankles. He stood up, a sense of lightness in his step. The bed was dry. Thank heavens. The thought of actually wetting his adult bed, even in a dream-induced state, had been vaguely unsettling. But then, a strange, uncomfortable sensation registered. A bulky, slightly damp feeling between his legs. He frowned, reaching down beneath his pajamas. His fingers encountered a thick, padded material. Not the soft cotton of his usual sleepwear. Panic flared in his chest. He pulled down his pajama bottoms, his breath catching in his throat at the sight that greeted him. He was wearing a diaper. A real, honest-to-goodness adult diaper. Stark white, thick with absorbent padding, and undeniably wet. A heavy, sodden weight clung to him. His gaze darted around the room, a desperate search for an explanation. And then he saw it. Leaning against his nightstand, a full, unopened pack of white adult diapers. The brand name was unfamiliar. A wave of nausea and disbelief crashed over him. This wasn't a dream. The humiliation, the bizarre regressions, the altered timeline – it had all been real. And somehow, the consequences had followed him back to his own time, amplified and twisted in a way he couldn't have possibly predicted. He stared at the wet diaper clinging to him, the stark white a glaring testament to his utterly compromised state. The relief he had felt moments ago evaporated, replaced by a crushing wave of mortification. He, Dr. Alistair Finch, was standing in his own bedroom, in his own time, wearing a soaked adult diaper. The altered decision at the department store, the acceptance of the nighttime diapers at five – it had created a ripple effect, a bizarre temporal echo that had manifested in this utterly humiliating way. Had his subconscious, influenced by that altered past, somehow… prepared for a return to a state of incontinence? Had his body, remembering the bulky comfort of the astronaut diapers, somehow… regressed? He didn't know. All he knew was the cold, damp feeling against his skin and the undeniable reality of the adult diaper he was wearing. He looked at the unopened pack, a fresh wave of despair washing over him. This wasn't just a one-time thing. This was a full supply. He sank back onto the edge of his dry bed, the absurdity of the situation threatening to overwhelm him. He had bent the laws of physics, but he was utterly defeated by his own bladder and the unpredictable nature of time. What in God's name was he going to do now? Explain to his colleagues that his groundbreaking temporal research had somehow resulted in adult-onset incontinence? The weight of the wet diaper felt heavier than any paradox he had ever contemplated. He was a scientist who had peered into the very fabric of time, and yet, he was utterly unprepared for the soggy, white reality clinging to his backside. The Nobel Prize suddenly felt very, very far away. Chapter 8 The sight of the diaper pail in his bathroom was the final, damning piece of evidence. A pristine white plastic bin, incongruously placed next to his modern, minimalist toilet, and emitting a faint, telltale odor. He cautiously lifted the lid. Inside, nestled amongst a few crumpled tissues, were several more wet adult diapers, identical to the one he was currently wearing. Alistair stared into the pail, his mind reeling. This wasn't a one-off. This was… a pattern. A new, deeply unwelcome reality. With a sigh of utter resignation, he peeled off the sodden diaper, the cool air a stark contrast to the damp warmth it had provided. His movements were automatic, efficient. He reached for a fresh wipe, his hand knowing exactly where to find it in the drawer without conscious thought. The cleaning process was swift, practiced. Muscle memory. And that’s when it hit him. The cold, hard realization slammed into his consciousness with the force of a physical blow. The diapers. The comfortable, absorbent diapers his five-year-old self had readily agreed to. They hadn’t just been a temporary measure in his past. They had fundamentally altered his developmental trajectory. In his original timeline, he remembered the slow, gradual process of overcoming bedwetting. The nights he’d woken up feeling the uncomfortable dampness, the groggy trips to the bathroom, the quiet shame that had motivated him to try harder to stay dry. He had learned to recognize the signals his body was sending, to wake up before it was too late. It had been a process driven by discomfort and a growing desire for independence. But now… with the introduction of those super-absorbent, comfortable astronaut diapers at age five, that natural learning process had been interrupted. His body had never needed to wake up. The diaper had taken care of everything, efficiently and without discomfort. There had been no negative reinforcement, no physical cue to trigger a change in his sleep patterns. He had essentially short-circuited his own development. By agreeing to the diapers in his altered past, he had inadvertently created a future where his body never learned to regulate itself at night. The comfort and convenience he had unknowingly chosen as a child had led to this embarrassing and inconvenient reality as an adult. He looked at the fresh diaper in his hand, the stark white a symbol of his unintended self-sabotage. The irony was gut-wrenching. He had manipulated time to understand the universe better, and in doing so, had managed to regress his own bodily functions. He fastened the clean diaper with a heavy heart, the soft padding now feeling more like a symbol of his failure than a source of comfort. He was a time traveler, a brilliant scientist, and he was wearing an adult diaper because his five-year-old self had opted for a more comfortable night's sleep. The implications were staggering. How could he possibly reverse this? Could he risk another jump back, potentially creating even more unforeseen consequences? He looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, the image of a bewildered, diapered scientist staring back. He had solved complex equations that spanned galaxies, but he was utterly stumped by the simple, yet profoundly personal, problem of his own bedwetting. The comfortable, absorbent diapers had inadvertently rewritten his own biological programming. And now, he was living with the soggy, white consequences. Chapter 9 Alistair paused, his trousers halfway up his legs, the fabric snagging slightly on the bulk of the fresh diaper. He stared down at the pristine white padding, a flicker of confusion cutting through the fog of his self-deprecating thoughts. "Wait a minute," he muttered to himself. "Why did I just… change into another diaper?" His mind, still reeling from the revelation about his altered childhood bedwetting, hadn't fully processed the implications of this new reality. He had simply reacted, his muscle memory guiding him through the familiar, albeit unwelcome, routine. But now, the question hung in the air, stark and demanding an answer. The astronaut diapers his five-year-old self had agreed to were specifically marketed for bedwetting. They were nighttime protection. Why, then, was his adult body seemingly defaulting to wearing them during the day? He thought back to his brief moments of consciousness between the temporal jumps. Had he felt the need for a diaper then? He couldn't recall any specific urges, just the general disorientation of returning to his own time. He considered the full pack leaning against his nightstand, the multiple wet diapers in the pail. This wasn't just a single incident. This suggested a consistent pattern. A chilling thought snaked its way into his mind. Had the altered timeline not only prevented him from outgrowing bedwetting but somehow… expanded the issue? Had his body, accustomed to the constant presence of absorbent protection at night from age five onwards, now subconsciously come to rely on it during the day as well? The comfort he had briefly acknowledged in the bulky nighttime diapers now seemed sinister, a Trojan horse that had lulled his body into a state of dependence. Had his bladder control, not just at night, but perhaps even during the day, been subtly undermined by years of relying on absorbent protection? He tentatively flexed his pelvic floor muscles, a familiar exercise he occasionally did as a general health practice. They felt… normal. Responsive. He didn't feel an immediate urge to urinate. Yet, his actions had been automatic. The sight of the wet diaper had triggered an immediate need to replace it, without him even consciously considering the time of day or his current state. He lowered his trousers, his gaze fixed on the white diaper. Was this a purely psychological dependence? Had his brain, now accustomed to the idea of wearing a diaper, simply taken over? Or was there a physiological component he wasn't understanding? Had the prolonged use of nighttime diapers somehow weakened his daytime bladder control as well? The implications were terrifying. He wasn't just dealing with bedwetting; he might be facing a more pervasive issue with his bladder function. He ran a hand through his hair, his mind racing. This was a far more complex and embarrassing consequence than he had ever imagined. He had gone back in time to alter a minor childhood inconvenience and had inadvertently created a potentially lifelong, and deeply humiliating, condition. He needed to think clearly. He needed data. He needed to observe his body's reactions without the automatic assumption of needing a diaper. He needed to understand if this was a genuine loss of bladder control during the day, or a learned behavior stemming from his altered past. But the fear, the gnawing anxiety that he might need it, held him captive. He thought of the wet diapers in the pail, the automatic, almost instinctive way he had changed himself. The muscle memory, the ingrained habit, was strong. He couldn't risk it. Not yet. Not when the possibility of an accident loomed so large in his mind. The humiliation of wetting himself in his own lab, in front of Max, was too much to bear. He pulled up his trousers, the fabric bunching slightly around the bulk of the diaper. He felt a strange sense of unease, a feeling of being trapped in a cycle he couldn't control. He walked out of the bathroom, his movements stiff and self-conscious. He felt the weight of the diaper, the subtle pressure against his skin, a constant reminder of his predicament. This was no longer just about a wet bed. This was about understanding the full, unforeseen consequences of his temporal meddling. Chapter 10 He walked towards his lab, trying to project an air of normalcy that felt utterly fraudulent. The crisp morning air did little to clear the fog of Alistair’s bewildered thoughts as he walked towards his institute. The familiar cobblestone streets and the charming baroque facades seemed to mock his inner turmoil. Here he was, a respected scientist in a renowned research facility, grappling with the deeply personal and utterly undignified fallout of his own time travel. He sat at his desk, the complex equations on his whiteboard blurring before his eyes. He couldn't concentrate. Every few minutes, he found himself unconsciously shifting in his seat, checking for any signs of dampness. He felt like a prisoner in his own body, trapped by the fear of his own bladder. He was a scientist, a man of logic and reason, and yet, he was being controlled by a primal fear, a fear that he might lose control. He spent the rest of the morning in a state of heightened anxiety, his mind a constant battleground between reason and fear. Then a memory surfaced unbidden, sharp and clear as a newly developed photograph. He was eight years old, squirming uncomfortably in the back seat of his parents’ car during a long family road trip. He remembered the distinct feeling of dampness spreading through his jeans, the panicked realization that he hadn't made it to a rest stop in time. The hushed, slightly exasperated tones of his parents. And then, the distinct, crinkly feel of a pull-up being discreetly slipped on him in the cramped confines of the car. The pull-ups had become a more frequent occurrence after he started wearing the nighttime diapers at five. He recalled the subtle shift in his daytime bladder control. The occasional “oopsies” that had been rare before became more common. His mother, initially attributing it to the excitement and activity of childhood, had eventually resorted to packing extra clothes and, for longer journeys, those embarrassing pull-ups. He even had a vague, mortifying memory of one particularly long car ride, perhaps when they were visiting distant relatives, where even the pull-up hadn't been enough. He remembered the thicker, more substantial feel of a diaper being fastened around him, the shame burning in his cheeks as his parents exchanged worried glances in the rearview mirror. He had been eight years old, for God’s sake, and wearing a diaper on a car ride. The realization hit him with brutal clarity. The nighttime diapers hadn't just prevented him from outgrowing bedwetting. They had, as he suspected, impacted his daytime bladder control as well. His body, consistently relying on external protection at night, had likely become less efficient at regulating itself during the day. The occasional accidents had become more frequent, leading to the need for pull-ups, and in extreme cases, even diapers, well beyond the age when most children were reliably dry. He had created a cascade of consequences, a ripple effect through his own childhood that had now manifested in this humiliating present. The comfortable astronaut diapers, meant to ease a childhood anxiety, had inadvertently weakened his bladder control for years, culminating in his current predicament. He sighed, the weight of his altered past – and the dampness he was desperately trying to ignore – pressing down on him. He had unlocked the secrets of time, but he was now facing a far more personal and profoundly embarrassing puzzle: how to regain control of his own body. And he had a sinking feeling that this was one experiment he couldn't simply reverse with the flick of a switch. Chapter 11 Alistair managed a strained smile as he entered his lab, the familiar hum of his equipment a small comfort amidst his internal chaos. "Good morning, Max," he said, trying to project an air of normalcy that felt utterly fraudulent given his current undergarment situation. Maxine Schmidt, his sharp-witted and highly efficient assistant, looked up from her workstation, her brow furrowing slightly. "Dr. Finch, you seem… preoccupied. Everything alright?" Alistair waved a dismissive hand, hoping his slight flush wasn't too noticeable. "Just a… late night of theoretical noodling, Max. You know how it is." Max, thankfully, didn't press the issue. She launched into a summary of the overnight data analysis, her usual crisp and concise delivery a welcome distraction. As she spoke, however, Alistair's mind drifted, snagged by the simple mention of her name. Max. Maxine. He knew Max well. Years of working side-by-side had forged a strong professional bond, bordering on friendship. He knew about her passion for astrophysics, her slightly unhealthy obsession with black coffee, and her dry, sardonic sense of humor. But suddenly, a different set of memories, hazy and yet undeniably present, began to overlay his established history with her. It wasn't the Max he knew from their university days, the brilliant physics student who had aced every exam. This Max was younger, around twelve years old, with a tangle of unruly brown hair and a pair of oversized glasses that kept slipping down her nose. He saw himself, also twelve, feeling a familiar pang of self-consciousness, not about theoretical physics, but about the bulky pull-up he was wearing beneath his ill-fitting camp shorts. He was at a summer science camp, something his parents had encouraged him to attend to foster his obvious scientific inclinations. But this wasn't the advanced astrophysics seminar he clearly remembered from his original timeline. This was… different. He recalled the slightly damp, slightly musty smell of the shared cabin, the hushed whispers after lights out, the shared understanding and unspoken empathy among the occupants. The "Bedwetters Cabin." The memory hit him with another wave of realization. In his altered timeline, his persistent bedwetting, exacerbated by the early adoption of nighttime diapers, had led his parents to seek specialized help, or at least, a supportive environment. Hence, the bedwetters cabin at science camp. And that's where he had met Max. He remembered her struggling with a leaky pull-up during an outdoor stargazing session, her face flushed with embarrassment. He, feeling a similar discomfort, had offered her a spare he had (always) been forced to pack. They had bonded over their shared secret, a quiet understanding blooming amidst the other, more scientifically advanced, activities of the camp. This Max, the twelve-year-old girl in the bedwetters cabin, had been just as bright, just as curious about the universe. He remembered their hushed conversations about constellations, whispered under the covers after the counselors had made their rounds. Their shared vulnerability had forged an immediate connection, a different kind of intimacy than the one he shared with his current assistant. He saw flashes of other moments: Max helping him discreetly carry extra changes of clothes, their shared eye-rolls at the well-meaning but sometimes clumsy attempts of the camp counselors to address their nighttime issues, the quiet camaraderie of knowing they weren't alone. The Max standing before him, explaining the intricacies of quantum entanglement, was the same sharp, intelligent individual he had first encountered in a cabin filled with the shared secret of nighttime accidents. Their history wasn't just one of academic collaboration; it was rooted in a shared childhood experience, a bond forged in the quiet embarrassment and mutual support of the bedwetters cabin. A strange warmth spread through Alistair, a softening of the anxiety that had been gripping him. He wasn't alone in carrying the echoes of his altered past. Max, in her own way, was a product of that same shift. Their connection ran deeper than he had ever realized, intertwined with a shared vulnerability he had long forgotten. He listened more intently to Max's report, a new layer of understanding coloring his perception of her. He saw not just his brilliant assistant, but the resilient young girl from the bedwetters cabin, the one who had shared his secret shame and his early fascination with the stars. Perhaps, in this bizarre new reality, he wasn't quite as isolated in his embarrassing predicament as he had thought. Chapter 12 As Max concluded her report, Alistair found himself looking at her with a newfound perspective. The shared memory of the science camp, the unexpected intimacy of the bedwetters cabin, had subtly shifted their dynamic in his mind. He saw not just a colleague, but someone with whom he shared a deeply personal, albeit long-dormant, connection. "Thank you, Max," he said, his tone a little softer than usual. "That's… insightful." He spent the rest of the morning trying to focus on his work, but his thoughts kept returning to that summer camp. He remembered the awkwardness, the initial embarrassment, but also the unexpected comfort of being among others who understood. He and Max had gravitated towards each other, their shared predicament forging a silent understanding. Then, as Max was packing up for lunch, a memory surfaced, clearer and more significant than the others. It was during their university years, years after the science camp. In his original timeline, their meeting had been a chance encounter in a physics lecture hall, a shared interest sparking their initial conversations. But now, the memory played out differently. He saw himself, a slightly anxious undergraduate, attending a support group meeting on campus. It was discreet, held in a small, unassuming room. He had finally sought help for his persistent bedwetting, a problem that hadn't magically disappeared as he’d hoped. And there she was. Max. Sitting a few chairs away, her expression was a mixture of relief and quiet resignation. He remembered the surprised recognition in her eyes, mirroring his own. They hadn't seen each other since that summer camp so many years ago. The initial awkwardness quickly dissolved into a shared understanding. They were both still dealing with the same childhood issue, a secret they had unknowingly carried into adulthood. The support group became a place where they could confide in each other without the fear of judgment, their shared history from the bedwetters cabin providing an immediate foundation of trust. Their bond during university had been deeper, more immediate, than he remembered from his original timeline. They had studied together, yes, their shared passion for physics still a strong connection. But their conversations had also delved into more personal territory, the frustrations and anxieties of managing their persistent bedwetting in the demanding environment of university life. They had shared tips, offered support during difficult times, and found solace in knowing they weren't alone in this often-stigmatized condition. He remembered late-night study sessions punctuated by hushed discussions about discreet ways to handle laundry, the best absorbent products, and the constant fear of discovery. Their friendship had been built not just on intellectual curiosity, but on a shared vulnerability, a secret that had unexpectedly reconnected them years after that formative summer camp. Looking at Max now, bustling around the lab, Alistair felt a profound sense of gratitude for this altered history. While his current predicament was undeniably embarrassing, the fact that he wasn't facing it entirely alone, that he had a deeper, more understanding connection with his trusted assistant, offered a small glimmer of hope. Their shared history wasn't just a quirky side effect of his temporal meddling; it was a source of unexpected strength. They had navigated the challenges of persistent bedwetting once before, albeit as children and young adults. Perhaps, together, they could navigate this new, even more bizarre chapter of his life as well. The thought, surprisingly, brought a small, genuine smile to his face. Chapter 13 The lab shimmered once more, the familiar tug pulling Alistair away from the present. This time, the transition felt less jarring, more like stepping through a slightly out-of-sync doorway. He was instantly aware of the shift in his surroundings, the subtle changes in the air, the familiar yet slightly younger feel of his own body. He was in his old university apartment, the posters of physics luminaries slightly askew on the wall, the worn armchair in the corner looking particularly inviting. He glanced at the calendar hanging precariously by a single tack. He was 22. And then the memory hit him, sharp and poignant. This was the time. The breakup. Max had been devastated. Her boyfriend, someone Alistair had always found rather boorish, had ended their relationship, cruelly citing her "childishness" and "inability to handle basic adult functions." The underlying reason, the one Max had confided in him with tear-filled eyes, was her bedwetting. In his original timeline, Alistair winced at the recollection, he had been… awkward. Distant. He had offered generic platitudes about finding someone who truly appreciated her, but he hadn't truly understood the depth of her pain, the vulnerability she had exposed. He had been focused on his studies, on his own burgeoning career, and hadn't offered the specific, empathetic support she had clearly needed. But now, everything was different. He carried the shared history of the bedwetters cabin, the quiet understanding forged in childhood, the unspoken bond that had re-emerged during their university years. He knew firsthand the shame and anxiety that came with persistent bedwetting. He understood the courage it took for Max to open herself up to someone, only to be met with such callous rejection. A wave of protectiveness washed over him, a fierce desire to comfort the younger Max he knew was hurting right now. He grabbed his phone, scrolling through his contacts until he found her number. His fingers hovered over the call button. He needed to be careful. He couldn't reveal his knowledge of the future, or the bizarre circumstances of his current understanding. He just needed to be there for her, as a friend, as someone who truly understood. He took a deep breath and pressed call. Max's voice, when she answered, was thick with unshed tears. "Hello?" "Max? It's Alistair." There was a slight pause, a hint of surprise in her tone. "Alistair? Hi." "I… I heard," he said gently, choosing his words carefully. "About Ben. I'm so sorry, Max." A choked sob escaped her. "It's… it's awful, Alistair. He… he was so cruel." "He doesn't know what he's lost, Max," Alistair said, his voice firm. "You are brilliant, kind, and stronger than you know. His inability to see that is his failing, not yours." He listened patiently as she poured out her hurt and anger, offering words of encouragement and validation. He spoke not with the detached sympathy of his younger self, but with the genuine empathy of someone who shared a similar struggle, someone who knew the sting of that particular vulnerability. As the conversation continued, something shifted within Alistair. He saw Max not just as a friend with a shared history, but as a remarkable woman who had faced adversity with strength and resilience. Her intelligence, her vulnerability, her unwavering spirit – all the qualities he admired in the present-day Max – were already present in this heartbroken 22-year-old. A warmth spread through him, a feeling that went beyond platonic concern. He found himself wanting to offer her more than just words, wanting to hold her, to reassure her that she was worthy of love and respect, exactly as she was. A romantic feeling, unexpected yet undeniably present, began to bloom in his chest. It wasn't just the shared history of the bedwetters cabin, or the camaraderie of their university years. It was the admiration for her strength in the face of heartbreak, the deep understanding of her struggles, and the undeniable connection that had been subtly growing between them for years, across different timelines and different ages. He ended the call with a promise to see her soon, a genuine desire to offer her tangible support. As he hung up, Alistair looked around his younger self's messy apartment, a new sense of purpose settling within him. He was here for Max. And perhaps, in supporting her through this difficult time, he might also find something he hadn't realized he was looking for. The timeline had shifted again, and this time, the changes felt deeply personal, filled with the unexpected possibility of something more. Chapter 14 The familiar lurch in his stomach, the subtle distortion of the brightly lit department store, caught Alistair completely off guard. One moment he was standing in his 22-year-old self's cluttered university apartment, the lingering echo of Max's tearful voice still in his ears, the burgeoning warmth of a new feeling stirring within him. The next, the world around him had shrunk, the scent of new fabric and department store perfume filling his nostrils once more. He blinked, his adult eyes struggling to refocus on the towering racks of children's clothing. He looked down at his small hands, his bright blue cartoon dog t-shirt. He was five again. Back in the department store. His mother's voice, younger and more melodic than he had heard in years, broke through his confusion. "You know, honey, your bed has been a little wet lately. Do you think we should try these? Maybe they'll help you stay dry at night." There she was, holding up the package of astronaut-themed diapers, the same question hanging in the air, the same pivotal moment he had already experienced – twice. Alistair stared at the package, a wave of disorientation washing over him. This shouldn't be happening. His temporal jumps had always been deliberate, controlled (or at least, he thought they were). This sudden, involuntary leap back was unprecedented. It felt like the timeline itself was stuttering, skipping, replaying key moments. He thought of Max. He loved her. The realization had solidified in his 22-year-old self, a warmth that went beyond friendship and shared history. He cherished their connection, the unique bond forged in childhood vulnerability and strengthened by years of shared experiences, both academic and deeply personal. He knew the consequences of agreeing to these diapers. He knew it would likely lead to years of bedwetting, the need for pull-ups on long trips, and ultimately, his current embarrassing predicament. He knew it had also shaped Max's childhood, leading them to that fateful science camp and their enduring, understanding connection. The thought of a timeline where he and Max might not have shared those early, formative experiences, where their bond might be different or even non-existent, sent a pang of genuine fear through his five-year-old heart. He couldn't risk losing that connection, the foundation of what he now realized was a profound and growing love. He looked up at his mother, her kind eyes filled with concern. He looked at the astronaut diapers, no longer seeing them as a symbol of potential future embarrassment, but as a thread in the tapestry of his shared history with Max. Taking a deep breath, a small smile playing on his lips, Alistair reached out and touched the package. "Yes, Mommy," he said, his voice clear and surprisingly resolute for a five-year-old. "Let's try them. They look really cool!" He pointed at the smiling astronaut on the packaging. "Maybe they'll help me dream about space!" His mother beamed, clearly pleased by his sudden enthusiasm. "Oh, good, sweetie! I thought you'd like the astronauts." She placed the package in the shopping cart, oblivious to the complex web of temporal consequences her little boy had just embraced. As they continued their shopping, Alistair felt a strange sense of acceptance. He was consciously choosing this path, fully aware of the potential pitfalls and the future filled with absorbent undergarments. But he was also choosing a path that had led him to Max, to their unique and cherished connection. And for that, he wouldn't change a thing. The possibility of a future with Max, built on the foundation of their shared history, was worth every potentially embarrassing moment. The timeline might be unpredictable, but his feelings for Max were not. Chapter 15 Alistair’s eyes fluttered open, the soft, diffused light of the morning filtering through the bedroom curtains. He stretched, a familiar contentment settling over him. Next to him, nestled amongst the rumpled sheets, lay Max, her dark hair tousled against the pillow, a peaceful smile gracing her lips. Then, the familiar, slightly damp sensation registered. A warmth against his skin, the unmistakable bulk beneath his pajamas. He glanced down, a small, wry smile touching his own lips. Yes. Still. He shifted slightly, and Max stirred, her eyes fluttering open. A sleepy smile widened on her face as she met his gaze. Then, her own eyes flickered downwards, a knowing chuckle escaping her. “Morning, sleepyhead,” she murmured, her voice still thick with sleep. “Looks like we had a little… accident.” Alistair reached over and gently brushed a stray strand of hair from her forehead. “Seems so,” he replied, his tone light. “Some things, it seems, never truly change.” A sudden, insistent wail pierced the peaceful morning quiet. It was a small, high-pitched cry, full of urgent need. Max’s eyes widened, and she immediately sat up, a surge of maternal energy replacing her sleepy demeanor. “There’s our little alarm clock,” she said, a fond smile returning to her face. Alistair followed her gaze towards the baby monitor on the nightstand, the soft glow illuminating the tiny form of their firstborn child. A son. Born just a few weeks ago. As they both moved to get out of bed, the familiar crinkle of absorbent material accompanied their movements. They exchanged a knowing glance, a silent acknowledgment of their shared reality. They had built a life together, a life deeply intertwined from that unexpected encounter in the bedwetters cabin so many years ago. Their shared history, their mutual understanding, had formed the bedrock of their relationship, weathering the occasional embarrassing moments with humor and unwavering support. The decision he had made as a five-year-old, the conscious choice to embrace the astronaut diapers, had indeed shaped their lives in profound ways. They had navigated adolescence and adulthood, their persistent bedwetting a shared secret, a unique thread in the tapestry of their bond. They had found comfort and acceptance in each other, a love that transcended the occasional damp sheets and the need for discreet laundry. Now, here they were, thirty years old, parents to a newborn son, still occasionally waking up to wet diapers. And somehow, it didn't feel like a source of shame. It was just… a part of their story. As Max hurried towards the nursery, Alistair carefully removed his own wet diaper, a familiar routine by now. He glanced at the baby monitor, watching Max gently lift their crying son from the crib. A feeling of overwhelming love and contentment washed over him. He wouldn't trade this life, this family, this unique and sometimes soggy journey with Max, for anything. The unpredictable nature of time had thrown him a curveball, but it had also led him to her. And as he followed Max into the nursery, ready to face the joys and challenges of parenthood – likely with a pack of diapers close at hand – he knew that their story, with all its unexpected twists and wet mornings, was just beginning. The End

As promised in my introduction thread, I'm starting a story here. This is, from what I've seen, fairly different from most of the stories on here, but hopefully people will still find it interesting. I'm always open to criticism, so feel free to post on thoughts you have, good or bad. Edit: Some recent issues with the site deleted a lot of the posts here, including all of the existing chapters of Splinter. Babylock was kind enough to repost the prologue and chapters 1-2, so scroll down to his post for the beginning of the story.