The door opened by itself as we approached. On the other side of the door was some kind of reception area. The door closed behind us, and while we waited Rosa leaned against it. She jumped as someone or something banged at the door. It opened, and the towel that had swung me around inched its way inside like a worm, gathering itself around my right foot like a puppy. Rosa leaned against the door again, folding her still-visible arms across her chest.
I was getting tired of being handcuffed and didn’t see any point in it. “Would it be possible to take these cuffs off?” I asked. “I don’t know where I am, so it’s not like I could get away.”
In response to the question, I felt my arms being pushed apart. I looked down to see that the short chain between the cuffs had changed into a solid rod, which was growing longer. Once the rod was about three feet long, my left arm was raised over my head while my right arm was shifted behind my back. Then the rod changed back into a chain and began to shorten again, pulling my left arm down uncomfortably behind my back until the chain was back at it’s original length.
For some reason Rosa found this funny. “I think you just insulted the chain. You’d better be careful; I don’t even want to think of what might happen if you do it again.”
After a couple more minutes, I heard keys jangling and in walked the most attractively accessorized police uniform I had ever seen. Feminine curves of an unseen female officer walked slowly but purposefully into the room, coming to a stop right in front of me.
“Rosa,” a voice asked, “is this the man that causing all this trouble?”
“That’s him, Della,” Rosa answered.
“And I see Officer Irons had a part in this too,” Della continued.
“OFFICER Irons? You gave a name to a pair of handcuffs? What kind of weird place is this?” I stupidly yelled out.
The handcuffs began to constrict around my wrists until I cried out in pain. Della and Rosa just laughed. Finally, Della said, “That’s enough, Irons. I think our visitor here has finally learned enough not to insult you again. Let him go. Like he said, he can’t go anywhere.”
“You heard that?” I asked.
“Of course, we heard,” Della answered with a laugh. “There’s a microphone somewhere in your clothes. Comes in handy in case of confessions of guilt, hidden evidence, things like that.”
The cuffs returned to regular size but stayed on, giving no signs (none I could read, anyway) of letting go. Della repeated, “I said, let him go, Irons! That’s an order!”
The cuffs clicked open and fell to the floor. I stretched and groaned, finally able to move freely for the first time in hours. Then the booking started. I wasn’t inclined to give them any more trouble, since I didn’t have any idea what they were capable of or even what they really were. When it came time to catalog my personal belongings, things got really strange.
I felt a hand dig into my right pocket and pull out my money, but I didn’t see anyone or anything there. Similarly with my wallet; it just rose out of my pocket and began to unfold as if someone was flipping through it, but there was no one there I could see. Then it came time for the briefcase…
“Ah, yes, the famous briefcase,” Della sneered.
“Famous?” I repeated.
“Yeah,” Della said. “I’ve been hearing all kinds of fantastic rumors about the stories and printouts in your briefcase. Stories about invisible women, photos of invisible women and androids, and I thought it might have been made up, or exaggerated.” She sifted through printout after printout, both of my own originals, stories from other members of the invisible girl clubs, and stories found on the net about androids, artificial intelligence and virtual reality gone out of control, even a few gender change stories. When she had finished, she continued, “But I can see now that it wasn’t an exaggeration. You are just… you just are. I have to consult my superiors and figure out what we’re going to do with you.”
“But what does my briefcase have to do with what you say I’ve done wrong?”
Della sighed. “People just don’t get ANYthing, do they? The stories and graphics prove that you have little regard for the inhabitants of our fair land. Since you’re here, and since there’s no one here to speak for you, your fate is entirely in our hands.” Then, very loudly, she called out, “Will someone come and take this… this… MAN away?”
Someone grabbed my arms and held them behind my back, guiding me down the corridor. The person stopped, and soon I could feel Irons restraining my arms again, but this time they were behind my back.
“Wait a minute, his arms should be in front,” the voice behind me said, seemingly out of concern. Irons let go of my left wrist and, almost too fast for my eyes to follow, swung my right arm around in front of me. I wasn’t about to resist; I brought my left arm in front of me and brought them near Irons, which clamped onto my left wrist and clicked shut.
When we got to a cell, the door slid open and Irons let go of my wrists. When I entered the cell, I turned around to see that my escort to the cell was none other than the mannequin I had bumped into back at Worth’s. It, or should I say “she,” now had a head, and brown curly hair, but no facial features.
I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could say anything, a voice with a hint of a Spanish accent (presumably the mannequin’s) whispered, “SHH! Not one word. You don’t want to wind up in more trouble than you’re already in.”
“I have to know,” I countered. “Are you really a mannequin?” I wanted to say more, but like I had been warned, I didn’t want any more trouble.
“Technically, no, I’m not a mannequin,” she answered. “I’m an android, but some of us pose and model clothing just like androids. We have the advantage of being able to move around. Once a shop buys androids, they don’t have to worry about having as many merchandisers around either.”
“So this attack I’ve been hearing about… is just androids? No mannequins?”
“Sorry, but that’s classified. Now you REALLY have to stop talking. I’ll have no choice but to record anything else you might say.”
She walked away, leaving me with my thoughts. It seemed that my supposed victim was concerned about me, moreso than those who supposedly came to her rescue. I was too worn out to think too much about what that meant. It was about dinnertime, but I was ready to call it a night.