Who Are You Both... Anyway? Are You Your Resume? That's just a-- Sorry. Showtune. Anyway!

The brown haired girl was waiting.

"Uh -- John," you said. "John Doe."

She cocked her head and gave you a look.

"What?"

"Seriously? You're going with 'John Doe?'"

"That's my name!" You fumbled your wallet out of your pants, showing the girl your driver's license.

She squinted, looking at it. "Well, that's self-image stuff, not intentional stuff... okay. Wow. Your last name is Doe and your parents named you John?"

"...yeah?" You cocked your head almost exactly like she had. "Why? I don't get it."

She blinked. "John Doe! That's... that's the slang term or legal or police term or... okay, I don't know who came up with it, but that's what they call unidentified people!"

You kept looking at her. "...I don't get it."

She rolled her eyes. "Ugh. Drink your tea. I made it for you, didn't I?"

You picked up a cup. It looked like tea in there. So you sipped it. Tea wasn't really your thing but--

"Whoa... this is good."

"I know. Okay. Have you ever. In your life. Watched a cop show?"

"...yes?"

"You know how the cops will find, like, a body in the woods, and not know who it is?"

"...yeah?"

"If that body's a guy, they call him 'John Doe' until they learn his identity. And that's a real thing. At least I think it is. Everyone thinks it is, anyway. If you call someone a 'John Doe,' it's because you don't know who he really is! Are you telling me you're..." she squinted at your license again. "Eighteen years old and no one ever made fun of you-- wait." She looked closer. "Wow! Happy birthday! Well, couple weeks back!"

"Thanks!" You blinked, and shook your head. "Wait--"

"Sorry! I get off track. What can I said, lucid doesn't mean we aren't dreaming, right? Though you're dreaming during... this must be maintenance period for you, so lucid's probably a lot easier right now."

"...uh, yeah. That's what he said. At least about the maintenance part. Though he also said that could cut into my... sleep? Because I'm sleeping?"

"Yeah, the paradox of the psychotopologist. Either we have a really active waking life or we sink into insanity and despair like the sleep dep'd normals. But that takes a long while. Losing a day or two isn't a big deal. S'why getting sick feels like Hell. And why fever dreams get so exceptionally vivid for us, since we end up half-in and half-out and maintenance goes on like normal and... you don't know any of this stuff, but you're doing advanced subliminals? And, not, like... natively. You have technique."

"You said that before. 'Subliminals?'"

"Yeah. Manipulating other dreamselves. Implanting suggestions and shifting perceptions and expectations. You did it to me when you walked in on me -- that's why I flashed you."

"...and... you're not pissed about that?"

"Please. Don't swear in my house. And of course not. We all do it. We couldn't get anything done if we didn't, and if we get a little show or some fun on the side, there's no harm unless you're rewriting girls into a daytime harem or something." She paused again, looking at his face. "Oh shit, you are. You're doing that."

"You said no swearing--"

"It's my house! I can fucking swear! You're..." She paused. "You don't know what you're doing but you do it like an expert. You're tailoring dreamselves to influence waking selves for your benefit but you're completely innocent about it."

"Who... are you?"

"Traci. Traci Bryant. A pleasure. Right. No two ways about it. Take off your clothes."

You blink. "...was... that supposed to be... a subliminal? Because--"

"No. God. Just strip!"