Across the street from Boutique, Xeno and Trianne made their way through the congested parking lot of a twenty-four hour indoor strip mall. As they approached the main entrance, Trianne spotted Fayke Tan's full screen mogul eyes roaming towards them on telepanes mounted along the front facade, squinting through tall tree branches, peering into parked cars, darting towards anyone with Trianne's hair coloring or physique.

“Uh oh.” Trianne yanked Xeno down behind a parked car.

“What is it?”

“Fayke's eyes on the telepanes, looming large.”

“Is he stalking you?”

“Let's not stick around to find out.”

Xeno and Trianne ducked in and out of the shadows, from vehicle to vehicle, until they were able to slip around the corner of the mall, all the way around to the back lot. They hustled past the shadowy back wall of featureless sandstone, crossing a desolate stretch of asphalt. To the other side of the lot, a high retaining wall rumbled with elevated freeway traffic, with shafts of oncoming headlights bleeding over the edge.

“Do you know where you're going?” Trianne asked.

“Yeah, this is the express route.”

“Do serial killers use it?”

“Yeah, I think there's one hiding in that creepy loading dock.”

“Thanks, that really puts me at ease.”

“We're almost to the other side.”

The path narrowed as they walked through a cramped formation of stacked shipping containers, drawing them into blacker shadows. Several yards away, a drifter appeared in the scant light at the opposite end, a towering man in wool sweater and baggy work pants, stumbling his way through the steel chasm like a drunken dock worker. As he lumbered closer to Xeno and Trianne, one discerning feature became ever more visible as he passed beneath the intermittent shafts of lamp light—his head had been severed clean off, the base of his neck completely healed over like a petrified tree stump.

“My god, that guy has no—” Trianne whispered.

“It's a headless synth.” Xeno pulled Trianne close. “Just stay still and let him pass.”

The headless synth veered towards Trianne with clumsy steps, reached out with his hand and felt around her forehead with meaty gray fingers, touching her cheeks, feeling around her throat, gliding his palm down her chest, then over her breast. Xeno slugged the headless synth's forearm with his fist as hard as he could, startling the poor creature. The headless synth backed off, making frightened jazz hands, then fled past them until he was out of sight.

Trianne stumbled back, almost losing her balance.

“You all right?” Xeno steadied her with his arm around her shoulder.

“I just need to get food in my stomach.” She put her hand to her forehead, looking woozy.

Xeno wrapped his arm around her waist, keeping her on her feet, her head drooping, bobbing forward . . . a wisp of smoke rising through the strands of her platinum hair. He said nothing, in spite of his suspicions . . . In spite of the stench . . .

Fayke appeared in the Kick City START menu with his fellow Kick City avatars, while the kids at the strip mall gaming station fussed over variations of Fayke's avatar in the Character Chamber—changing his hair style, hair color, skin color, eye color, costume type, while the other avatars got little or no screen play at all. The typical Kick City tournament consisted of one variation of Fayke Tan versus another variation of Fayke Tan, with features ranging from a bright purple mohawk, to Elvis hair, gold flake leather pants, a star-spangled jumpsuit, and on and on . . .

Xeno and Trianne emerged from the back of the mall, keeping their noses to the sidewalk as they passed in front of the gaming station, avoiding eye contact with the Kick City START menu. They crossed the parking lot undetected and entered a public park with several columns of defunct pill silos, poking up from the lawn like weather-worn sculpture. Through the tree branches, they could see the massive fiberglass Klownsy head, rotating in and out of darkness on a massive steel pole, grinning down at them like a silent speed freak with wild green hair.

Maddened by the tedium of having his body parts and costume swapped with every color of the rainbow, Fayke did the unthinkable again. He hacked himself from the Kick City START menu, disobeying the Kick City software instructions, finding his electromagnetic way across the parking lot, onto the public park telepanes, mounted on the hilly grass like random drive-in movie screens.

“Trianne! I make myself real man for you!” Fayke cried out, heading off Xeno and Trianne on the lawn at the nearest telepane. “Come to other side and I make you feel sexy and loved!” He reached out into the organic world and made a desperate grab for Trianne with a digitally animated hand that was as tall as she was. His grabbing fingers took on a spotty orange glow, decomposing from contact with the fabric of human reality. Xeno stepped in front of Trianne, trying to protect her, trying to hit back at the phosphorescent demon with his fists.

“Xeno! Don't touch him!” Trianne tried to yank Xeno away, but it was too late—Xeno swung his fist through the membranes of Fayke's plasma fingers.

Fayke retracted his hand into the telepane and paused for a moment, looking blankly at Xeno. Then a renewed smile covered his face, his eyes widening with what appeared to be joy, but no longer directed at Trianne.

“Xeno! When you walk down Telepane Avenue, I watch you!” Fayke reached out of the telepane, trying to grab Xeno, now infatuated with him. “Come to other side and I make you feel sexy and loved!”

“What the hell is this?!” Xeno jumped back out of Fayke's reach, glaring at Trianne.

“He becomes infatuated with any human he touches!” She yanked Xeno further away from the telepane.

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“He's never reached out of the telepane, before.”

“Then how did you two get together?”

“He stayed on his side of the screen . . . and I stayed on mine.”

“Noted.”

“Xeno!” Fayke beckoned from the telepane on the park lawn. “Come back! Come back! Big smoochy smoochy await you!”

Xeno and Trianne hustled into a vacant pill silo, and slammed the door shut.

“Delete! Delete! Delete!” The gamers marched across the park lawn, filtering through the pill silos, waving their fists in protest, surrounding the telepane where Fayke appeared. “Delete! Delete! Delete!”

“You suck!” Fayke yelled back from the surrounded telepane. “I make you all lose! No one delete Fayke Tan! No one!”

The gamers pelted the telepane with fast food and soft drinks, splattering over Fayke's face on impact, the crowd visibly upset over his breach of Kick City etiquette—walking off the START menu in the middle of pre-fight customization.

Safe inside the pill silo, Trianne flicked on her chemorette and took a drag, illuminating the interior with a cool blue glow.

“So, what's to keep Fayke from slipping into my window while I'm sleeping?” Xeno asked.

“And do what? Give you big smoochy smoochy?” Trianne leaned in and kissed him, then pulled away, watching his eyes light up in silence.

“What was that for?”

“For not being like Lew . . . and Zoom . . . and Fayke . . .”

“And you're welcome . . .”

A pair of Kick City security guards arrived on the scene and pushed their way through the irate mob of gamers in the silo park, confronting Fayke on the telepane. Now, he was grabbing at kids on the lawn with his giant hand, missing them by several yards. The security guards jabbed Fayke's fingertips with spear-like avatar prods, stunning his digital nervous system. He yelped from the jolt, his hand throbbing with bright bands of oscillating light.

“No replay, assholes! You be sorry!” Fayke yanked his hand back into the telepane and dispersed into a barrage of pixels, until there was nothing left but black screen.

When the commotion dispersed, Xeno and Trianne emerged from the pill silo, crossing through the park, until they arrived at the Klownburger entrance. They entered the fast food joint and slumped into a booth, surrounded by walls textured to look like crumbling frescoes. recently shelled by an air raid. Overhead, a sprawling assembly of pipes hung from the ceiling, dripping water, leaking steam.

“I like the whole war-torn theme Klownburger is experimenting with,” Xeno said, admiring the faux wreckage.

“I wish I could say the same for their hamburgers,” Trianne said. “They always have this weird chemical flavor.”

“That's why everyone gets the sushi platters, speaking of which, I'm getting this one.” Xeno selected a platter and glass of beer on the cylindrical touchscreen menu, centered on the table, then swiped his Klownburger gift card through the debit slot. Trianne followed suit, selecting a sushi platter and a glass of beer as well. In seconds, panels retracted on the table and their meals and pre-poured glasses of beer rose to the surface, ready to eat. They tore open the packaging and chowed down with chopsticks, sighing through their nostrils with relief from hunger, savoring the fumes of seafood and beer

“So, Velva didn't want to see me?” Trianne said, still chewing her food.

“She didn't interrogate you?” Xeno paused on a sip of beer.

“No.”

“You didn't miss anything. The conversation didn't go very well.”

“What did she say to Holly?”

“She didn't mention Holly. By the way, what happened to Holly?”

“Woke up and left, I guess. She never says goodbye, anyways.”

“I guess Velva wanted to see me alone.”

“Suddenly, nobody cares about me and everyone cares about you.”

“I wouldn't call it caring . . . Velva set up a lab for Lew to revamp Insto-Plas, but you already knew that.”

“No, I didn't. Where is he?”

“Don't know.”

“What about Sunlite? Does she have any more?”

“She's guarding it much more closely. I don't know of anyone who can manufacture Sunlite from scratch.”

“Not even Lew?”

“He's a good chemist, but he's not that good, and she's having Lew's child—thought I'd just toss that in there. She's incubating the embryo in plasma.”

“Beautiful.”

“So, how did you and Lew hook up, before the Shoki Pao? I missed that episode.”

“Before the Shoki Pao, before getting to know you a little better, there was Date-Ape.”

“An online dating service?”

“More like an online raping service. We met at one of Velva's catwalk parties. Lew was the producer. I was cutting hair in a salon. He told me I could be an actress. Actress is in air quotes.” She made the quote sign gesture with her fingers.

“What about Holly?”

“She was back-up dancing in telepane videos, making nothing. Lew produced her first 5-track demo, but it caused seizures. He was using corrupt software. He couldn't afford a clean code farm.”

“And Lew cheated on you with Holly?”

“No, he cheated on me with me.”

“You mean, like with your clone?”

“No, I was screening a Date Ape profile with a naked chick that looked familiar, but I didn't recognize the face. I did, however, recognize the body and the bedroom in the background. The bedroom I shared with Lew, when we were living together.”

“I thought you said Lew wasn't cheating on you.”

“He wasn't at the time. He was hiding in our closet and snapping nude photos of me. Then he'd upload them to Date Ape for the screening process.”

“Why didn't you catch it?”

“He inserted another girl's face over mine.”

“What was the point?”

“He was tired of sleeping with me. He wanted to see how many views my body got on his own dating site, without my knowledge. It was his twisted way of convincing himself that he should feel otherwise, through the eyes of others.”

“Did your body get a lot of hits?”

“Yeah, mostly guys wanting to meet for coffee with their wieners hanging out. I started sleeping at The Pods, just to disconnect from the weirdness, and then . . . Lew offered me the pole dancing gig at the Shoki Pao, and I was going broke, and . . . I'm getting really tired of talking about myself. . . What are the chances of Blouse coming home, tonight?”

“Slim and none. You can sleep there all day, if you want. Later on, we can have a nice quiet dinner and get soggy in the hot tub.”

“Slim and none just keeps getting better . . . I need to freshen up.” She scooted out of the booth. “Why don't you hail one of those rickshaws?”

“Good idea.” Xeno rose from the booth, gulped the last of his beer. “We'll take the scenic route.”

Xeno stood in front of Klownburger, waiting for Trianne to freshen up, looking around for a rickshaw on duty, watching the commercial on the telepane across the street—a geisha girl hawking skin products in another dialect, holding the dispenser up close, for all the boulevard to see:

COMING SOON

INSTO-PLAS VER 2.O

BY

BOUTIQUE

Bored with the outdoor commercial, he began imagining Sunday afternoon with Trianne in his mind: get some sleep, have some lunch, have a few drinks at the bar, get the hot tub warmed up, unplug Andrea so she wouldn't pop up on the telepane right above the grizzly bear rug, straighten the curb cracks, what to do about the curb cracks, spinning, spinning in a slow drift, along with the pedestrians, and the traffic, and the geisha girl on the telepane, falling out of view, turning to sky . . . Geezus . . . on my back again . . . That mist getting in my eyes . . . That stench . . . Trianne should be stepping out any minute . . . Car skidding towards me . . . Parking in the street . . . Door clicks open . . . Guy's getting out . . . Shuts the door . . . Coming towards me . . . Creepy bald guy with dark glasses . . . looking down at me . . . Well, do something buddy . . . Help me out here . . . Wait a second! Where are you dragging me?!

Trianne stepped out the Klownburger entrance with a fresh layer of lip gloss, her hair and lashes once again looking like something out of a magazine.

Xeno was nowhere in sight.

“Trianne . . . Help me . . .” The voice sounded like Xeno with a bad head cold, the clarity getting lost in the techno blare of car stereos.

“Xeno?” Trianne wandered away from the entrance, into the parking lot, scanning the crowded bike racks, the empty rickshaws, the discolored roofs of packed cars.

“Over here . . .” The voice sputtered from a cluster of dilapidated eighteen-wheeler trucks, the storage containers riddled with graffiti.

“Xeno? Are you all right?” She looked into the windows of the empty cabs, poked around the empty space between the trucks, bending down to look under the hulls, expecting to see Xeno curled up on the pavement, beat up, or too sick to stand. No such image came to light, just the fading reflection of a Sunday afternoon that seemed to be glowing with a warm bed, champagne, a free for all bar, a hot tub . . . a forearm wrapped around her throat, cloth mashed over her mouth, her nose, the awful chemical smell, making her dizzy, knocking her on her ass. “Let me go you motherfffffff! . . . Fffffff . . . spinning on the clown head . . . with the pole out of focus . . . on the clown head . . . on the pole head spinning out of focus . . . on the clown head . . . on the god low . . . clow no sun . . . le me go . . .