Xenoman

18 Nether Warning

"Everyone in your dream is played by you." Trianne slid the glass doors shut behind her, licking a lollipop.

"How can I be sure this is a dream?"

"How can you be sure your waking life isn't? How can you be sure your life, and the reality that goes with it, didn't just begin after your last blink?"

"Are we going to sit around and go in circles about Descartes's demon of systematic doubt?"

"You already are."

"But I'm not wearing the black box. It's lying on the sofa."

"That's an illusion, Xeno. The fact is, the black box is still strapped to your chest."

"Can you prove it?"

"Why should I have to prove anything to—" She coiled forward with a sudden surge of abdominal pain, holding in her gut, then bent back, trembling from some sort of seizure. The physique of the Trianne polymorph mutated, bursting the costume fabric, body pallor turning gray, breasts flattening out, chest expanding like a prize-fighter, face stretching like balloon rubber, turning wide and squat. She grabbed at her own face with chaffed gray fingers, peeling it off in strips, exposing the fully formed face of Number Three, complete with dark glasses, his big gray hands now tearing off the last of the Trianne poly-molt like moist butcher paper, until he stood before Xeno, fully formed in brand new vacation clothes—a dry floral print shirt, cargo shorts, and flip flops.

"Hello, Xeno!" Number Three greeted Xeno with a cheerful smile and hearty handshake. "Sorry to burst in like that." He swung open the fridge door, opened himself a beer and took a chug "I thought this would be a good time to have a little chat."

"So, you do talk."

"I can smile, too!" He smiled for Xeno, then gulped down half the can. "Ahhh! I always feel more at home in the netherworld, like I can breathe, you know, open up, be myself."

"What happened to Trianne's synthetic apparition?"

"She's still here, in spin down mode, while I'm here, in spin up mode. I made an emergency breakthrough, so we could have a little privacy. Hope you don't mind."

"Not at all. Is this a dream or are we—"

"We're in the Nth Dimension, orbiting the outermost rings of synthetic sensory bandwidth."

"How are we able to communicate?"

"I have merged with your mind. We are speaking to one another in occult spacetime."

"I thought the Nth Dimension allowed you to see what reality is made of, but it all seems like I'm looking through a microscope that has to grind a new lens just to bring the next image into focus."

"In the Nth Dimension, you become entangled with the thing you observe. The idea of the figment is a figment of the idea. Now, you know why mom told you to stay away from the Ouija board." Number Three jerked forward—a sudden spike in pain around his forehead. He put his fingers to his face, massaging his temples. "Oh, gawwwd damn!"

"What's the matter?"

"My brothers are trying to listen in on our conversation. I can sense it."

"Are you referring to The White Boys?"

"Yes. We don't talk much. Even in occult spacetime."

"I though they were brain damaged."

"They are. That's the problem. Sometimes they make involuntary telepathic communication. Kind of like telepathic bed wetting. It creates a horrible bass vibration. Like surround sound. God, I hate surround sound."