"It'll be over before you know it," the catboy purrs, as he straps you into the chamber's rifled cavity. His cel-shaded touch is cold, yet welcomingly soft, though it is hard to make out where his silhouette ends and the scenery begins. "The third dimension's more disposable than most people think."

He can tell you're still not convinced, so he flips over to reassure you, body folding in half neatly by your side. "Cheer up," he says. "At least you're not getting your stomach optically pumped. There'll be a tingling when your skin gets excited -- you'll know exactly when it happens."

He breaks a diode into his syringe and injects the mercurial liquid into your forearm. The world grows sharp with silver dreams. Too late to back out now: your heart, beating faster, only reminds you of its own weight. Your body straining against you, heaving against the straps. Meanwhile, the catboy, weightless, flits around the controls, humming celluloid tunes. "Avoid reflective surfaces and prisms," he sings, before the neon floods the chamber.

When you leave the clinic, you feel a little lighter.