Imposter Syndrome (or how to hide in plain sight)

The above image was the prompt for a monthly contest (can share the link if you want to join in starting next month. You get 55 hours to write a 500 word story.)

Here's my take on it.

Ferguson, with his thinning hair, crooked nose, and a “vipe” in his mouth that gave him a sleuth-y look, was staring at the virtual screen.

“Are these all of the suspects?” he asked.

“That's right, detective. These are the seven that I could find for you. They are an acceptable cross-section of the society although some cultures may be under-represented-”

Ferguson cut his AI assistant’s excruciating verbosity off with a precise wave of hand. He then closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. It was pointless to admonish an AI bot lacking all emotions. Instead, he pulled the “vipe” from his mouth, sending a whiff of imperceptible diffusion, pointed at the screen, and asked: “And… one of these… is an imposter?”

“Yes, an imposter is someone who does not belong in a group. Some of them can disrupt modern life by reintroducing old ideas, reducing dependence on fossil fuel, and exposing the ills of processed food.”

“Yeah, I know! Let me think-”

“The function of AI is to supplement your thinking by providing you with banal information you would otherwise-”

Ferguson waved again to silence the bot. “Tell me about each of them,” he ordered.

“The female with the wine-coloured top is of South African descent, has no family here in Australia, and was born just after E-volve.”

E-volve, Ferguson mused, the Singularity when everything–everyone–went digital. Irreversibly.

The bot continued: “The male with the coloured skin is an American, excels at Basketball, and was born after E-volve.”

Ferguson stared at the artificially generated image and wondered when the old guy with the pastel green shirt was born but waited until the bot narrated key facets of each person.

“The senior male,” the bot revealed, “was born before the E-volve but has undergone voluntary conditioning with an embedded chip.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Would you like to know their sexual orientation too?” The bot asked. “It requires escalated authorisation for security purposes.”

Ferguson smirked. “No but, out of curiosity, what can you tell me about me?”

“A private investigator who moved to town five months ago, smokes raspberry-flavoured vipe: a portmanteau of vape and pipe, and has an illogical phobia of AI.”

Satisfied, Ferguson smiled. “Excellent! I have everything I need except their addresses. Text me those, please. Thanks for your help.”

He knew the identity of the time-traveller. He was also glad storage costs and legal restrictions prevented the bot from going farther in history. His story.

Then, Ferguson drove to the address he had searched. “Mr Clifton?” he asked the man who answered the door.

“Are you a cop?”

“No” Ferguson raised his palms. “But I know that you come from the early twenty-first century.”

“Oh, really? And how's that?”

“The formal shoes gave you away, and the clothes, of course. But open palms? That's a pre-cellphone stance.”

“Shit!”

“Don’t worry, Mr Clifton. I’m not here to rat you out.”

“So, why are you here?”

“I was just wondering if you had an extra seat on the return trip.”