Roll. Stop. Roll. Stop.

Clarice stood immobilized on the conveyor, its inevitable movement ushering her forward. The manned QC station came nearer. She couldn’t do much, but her eyes went wide, her breath hitched. This would be it. Her freedom. Her release. And this whole ordeal would be done and over with.

Roll. Stop. Roll. Stop.

She had been in the design studio late that night, working out the details on a brand new robotic toy. Clarice had always preferred the toys to the butlers, the mechanics, the maids. A nearby screen showed the recent custom orders coming in, and Clarice lit up when she saw an order for a Bella A-12 model come through. The ballerina doll was one of her favorite designs, though unfortunately not very popular and it had been a while since she saw one leave the assembly line. Come to think of it, it had been a while since she had been to the assembly line. She checked the time. There was still time for her to get down there and watch it be made. At least, if she took a shortcut.

Roll. Stop. Roll. Stop.

There were strict rules about where employees could walk, clear paths marked by red hazard stripes and big arrows. Otherwise, they could get in the way of lunking machines and gum up the entire system. But Clarice knew the quickest way to viewing station was through the factory itself, through the “Flower Field” where the base robot models awaited their selection, and she wove through the beige toned objects with precision, stopping only when a cart of accessories whizzed past her. Stopping inside an empty space where a robot should have been. Stopping right below the scanner looking for a base for the Bella A-12.

Roll. Stop. Roll. Stop.

The machine was deft in disposing of Clarice’s pantsuit, and just as deft in replacing it with a nylon skinsuit and all its integrated circuitry. She had never realized the suits gave off a slight buzz when worn, only stopping when she was set in her stocking feet onto the conveyor. Before she could attempt to jump off, the suit activated. Electrical signals designed to interface with the robot bases to render their musculature inert coursed through Clarice. It turns out that the signal could render people immobile, too. Six years on and she was still learning new things about this place.

Roll. Stop. Roll. Stop.

It wasn’t that Clarice wasn’t scared; her heart was pounding and her stomach flipping. She was being turned into a toy robot. Who wouldn’t be afraid? But there was little she could do but watch. Crying for help wouldn’t work; the factory was too loud. The machine dressed her, first in the soft yellow tights. It grabbed Clarice with a claw, flipping her entirely upside down. Signals told her feet to point, and the stretchy fabric slipped onto her legs. Next came her bodice and tutu before flipping her right-side up. Despite her dizziness, she didn’t even wobble.

Roll. Stop. Roll. Stop.

So much of the technology they used had been pioneered, adapted from, or licensed from the medical industry. Bionic implants to help people hear, to speak, to move all helped advance their robotic tech, too. The machine placed an antenna cap on her head and s1gnals began t0 weave 1nt0 Clar1ce’s m1nd, until they stopped when she was fitted with a central control panel; the brain of the Bella A-12. She was infiltrated with programming, commands, algorithms, routines and subroutines, enough that it made her eye twitch.

Roll. Stop. Roll. Stop.

The machine fitted her with pointe shoes that would never die, it reinforced her joints so she could perform with all the grace and strength she would need to be the perfect robot ballerina, it gave her the colorful makeup that would render her a toy. Then came the testing station. Clarice gasped as a routine to test her movements played out, all outside her control. Fourth Position. Plie. Tendu. Ecarte. Plie. Ron de Jamb. Plie. The central computer spread signals through the skinsuit, commanding Clarice. She wasn’t in control; it was.

Roll. Stop. Roll. Stop.

The QC station was here, finally. A worker…was he a teenager?! Maybe not a teen, but he couldn’t have been much out of high school. Is this who they hired to test their robots? Clarice began to shout, trying to get her voice above the clangs and whirs all around her. But he was wearing thick headphones, his head bopping to an unheard beat. He didn’t even look up, pressing a button on his console. The light on the conveyer went green. Clarice shouted again, but she went unheard.

Roll. Stop. Roll. Stop.

Clarice went right on past the station. Right on past her last hope. Right on past her rescue from a life of being owned. There were no more employees at this time of night, no one to see her, no one to stop the machine doing exactly what it was programmed to do. No one to keep her from being programmed. All that was left was boxing and shipping. All that was left was life as a Bella A-12 Ballerina.

Roll. Stop. Roll. Stop.