Quirk

Dear Mr. Wiggles,

This might be my last Skipper entry, little baby boy. The Basis promises they'll pass on these diaries if we die on missions. I think they’re lying, but I love the idea of them giving this to a dog.

It made sense that I was an anomaly, the only version of myself in all the time fields… abandoned and living in a youth habitat, where I met you and fell in love. I miss you, Mister Man. I’m so sorry I left you, and now I wish I hadn’t.

The Basis said I was essential. They say Skippers save the time fields through the Dreamsphere, guiding people who play crucial roles. Does free will even exist? I don’t know what I believe.

Remember Ione? My first mission? Well, I visited her more than once. It’s forbidden, but I don’t care. I wanted to see her perfect, round face, jump on clouds, fight creepy animal-faced humans, and explore underwater cities. I love her dream worlds.

Last night, Ione and I were running through an alleyway. As we ran, it twisted and changed shape—into a purple sandy beach, then a forest with glowing blue trees. That’s when the dream became one of those dreams. A physical one. I could feel everything—her skin against mine, faint to her but searing to me. She seemed so happy, and I swear I can still taste her.

I finally felt free until a few hours ago, when The Basis told me to delete Ione. I’ve decided to tell her the truth and escape. When Skippers advance, they become Scouts, with a device that lets them travel into actual worlds. That’s how they retrieved me. I stole one. Maybe I knew I would need it someday. Wish me luck, baby man.

Love, Birdie

⧗

Birdie takes a deep breath and inputs the coordinates she got from Ione’s file into the device. Air bursts from her lips when the numbers align. This rescue relies on guesswork. It could become an abduction if Ione refuses to come, but she won’t let her die. She stares at the device in her palm, its blinking coordinates like a heartbeat. The stolen Scout tech feels warm, almost alive, and heavy with consequence.

What if this kills her? What if Ione doesn’t remember her, or worse—wants nothing to do with her? Ione will definitely think all of this is complete madness, but Birdie didn’t care. Clover used to joke that jumping timelines could cause your brain to melt. Birdie closed her eyes and pictured Ione’s smile. Worth it.

Birdie swallows hard, her fingers trembling over the button.

She wasn’t a Scout. She skipped all the training, lectures, examinations, and spiritual clearance. She was sure she was missing other essential tools or equipment. She was just a girl who fell in love with a dream and refused to let it be erased. Her thumb hovers. Her heart pounds. Too late to back out now.

She holds her breath and presses the blue button.

⧗

Entering the Dreamsphere is like falling into a pool of thick, electric static; ears, eyes, and mouth are stuffed with fuzzy wool, which eventually subsides. Entering another reality isn’t the same. Birdie’s stomach flips, her head explodes, then shrinks before her body feels like it is being sucked through a narrow tube for a small eternity. This was the part that definitely required training, and she wished she had taken a breath before pushing the button.

⧗

Suddenly, Birdie is standing in a shadowy bedroom. She collapses and retches. Her vision is fuzzy and shaking until she begins to make out thin streams of light shining through cracks in the blackout curtains. The bed is unmade. She tiptoes over and picks up a light green quilt, sliding the soft, worn fabric through her fingers. A piece of fabric snags on a hangnail on her thumb. This is where Ione sleeps and dreams. Where is she? The coordinates probably mark where people sleep. What if Ione’s gone? How long until she returns?

The room smells faintly of lavender and something warmer, like sugar mixed with skin. Birdie’s eyes wander across the clutter: a stack of books, an overused candle, dusty crystals, and a chipped ceramic dog mug holding colored pens.

She walks toward the desk when she steps on something soft—a dark blue sock embroidered with white stars. She picks it up and presses it to her face. Something real. Something of Ione’s. Ione wears socks. This is Ione’s real room, not the cotton-candy dream world with endless mall stores, floating vines, and centaurs, but a place where dust collects and diseases linger. Without thinking, she stuffs the sock into her jacket pocket.

Thoughts race through Birdie’s mind until she hears the clatter of dishes outside the room. She moves to the door and peeks into the hallway. Soft slippers sit by the wall. A houseplant with curling yellow leaves.

She follows the sound and comes to a halt.

A middle-aged woman with silver curls stands at the kitchen sink with her back to Birdie.

“Don’t freak out,” Birdie says.

The woman spins around and does the exact opposite, screaming and throwing the plate she’s holding. It shatters against the wall next to Birdie. When the woman sees her, her jaw drops. Birdie keeps talking.

I’m sorry I scared you. Is your daughter Ione home? I need to see her immediately. It’s an emergency.

“My daughter?”

“Yes, your daughter. It’s a long story, and we don’t have time.”

“Will the story explain why my dream girl is here in real life?”

Those words hit Birdie like a punch in the stomach. She can’t breathe or move.

Memories from the Dreamsphere flood back in an instant. Ione’s laughter as they ate from a tree that grew pastries. The way she clutched Birdie’s hand as they rode giant hawks through pink and orange skies. The time they got lost in a mine filled with rainbow crystals while being chased by mutant bat people. She remembered a night when they lay on a lavender beach with lime green waves, and Ione whispered, “How are you in all my dreams?” Birdie had lied and replied, “How are you in mine?”

Ione walks over and touches her cheek. Birdie grabs her hand and pulls her close. Tears fill Ione’s honey-colored eyes and stream down her wrinkled brown skin. She is still Ione, and Birdie still loves her. Birdie leans in and presses her lips to Ione’s. She tastes the same, but real life feels so much sweeter.

“What’s the emergency?” Ione asks after their long kiss.

“You’re in danger, but I’m here to save you,” Birdie says. Why stop with just her? Birdie wanted to restore natural chaos back to the universe... if it ever really existed.

Ione cups Birdi’s face in her hands to stop her from rambling. “Save me from what?”

Birdie hesitates. She doesn’t want to say the word murder or even erasure, even though that is the truth. “The Basis, they’ve marked you for deletion. They want your mind, your influence, your future… gone. Your existence is destabilizing their pattern.”

Ione’s brows are furrowed, and the fear in her eyes is tangible, as real as her socks. “But can’t I just tell them I won’t do anything? Can’t they tell me what I’m going to do and stop me?”

“It doesn’t matter. They think you’re a threat,” Birdie says. “But I know you’re not. You’re just… you. That’s why they’re so scared.” She pauses and takes Ione’s hand into hers, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I can get us out of here. I can find a place for us to hide and regroup. But we need to move now.”

“What should I bring?” Ione asks, glancing around at the broken plate and a half-eaten pie.

“Just yourself,” Birdie says.

“But, I have a life here,” Ione says, tears welling in her eyes. “A job… friends.”

“None of that will matter after the deletion,” Birdie says. “Your friends won’t even remember you.”

“Who are you? Do you usually do this? Why should I believe you?” Ione drops Birdie’s hand and takes a few steps back. “What if you're just some hallucination? It’s true that you’ve been in my dreams for the last twenty years—I remember you—but you can’t actually be here. This isn’t real.”

“But I am,” Birdie’s voice is trembling. “I’m here. I was just a Skipper, and I broke the law because of you. I risked my life and crossed the time fields for you.”

“This isn’t right,” Ione says, touching her fingers to her cheek. “You look exactly the same. You haven’t changed, and I’m—” she gestures wildly at herself, grabbing her gray curls. “I’m this now. I moved on because you weren’t real.”

“The love was,” Birdie says, tears streaming down her face. “Time works differently in the Mirage. I was recalled after the first mission, but I kept sneaking back to keep dreaming with you. I couldn’t leave you. And I’m not leaving you now.”

“The mirage?” Ione says, folding her arms across her chest. “This is insane.”

Birdie opens her mouth, but a sudden sharp beep cuts her off. Her eyes flick to the device in her pocket—a red light pulses.

No.

They aren’t supposed to enter anchored fields; they are violating protocol.

“They traced the jump,” Birdie whispers. “They’re here.” A low hum begins to vibrate through the air, as if reality is tuning itself to another frequency.

“What? Who’s here?” Ione says, her voice rising.

“The Basis. Enforcers,” Birdie says. “I didn’t think they’d find me or care. You’re right, I’m not supposed to be here. I’m working for them because I’ve never mattered, but you do. You don’t deserve to be erased because of something you might become or do.”

Ione stares at her without blinking, her mouth half open. The dying plant rattles on its rickety stand before falling over—dirt scatters across the wooden floor, with clumps vibrating against the linoleum. Birdie grabs Ione by the elbows.

“Please,” Birdie pleads. “I’m real. This is all really happening.” The air thickens around them, and Birdie’s ears fill with pressure.

“You’ll keep me safe?” Ione asks, her voice growing louder.

“Always,” Birdie says. The red light pulses more quickly.

“Then let’s go,” Ione says.

“I promise I’ll explain everything on the way,” Birdie says, punching coordinates into the device.

“On the way to where?”

“Breathe and don’t let go,” Birdie says, grabbing Ione’s hand as she presses the blue button. “We’re getting Mr. Wiggles.”

The world bends as the hallway rips open into a flood of impossible colors and swallows them whole.

⧗

Birdie clings to Ione, her body stretched tight, her breath ripped away. Something breaks, and the colors shatter like glass. She feels her body thinning, coming apart. She knows what this means.

“Don’t let go!” she screams, though her voice is already fading.

Ione grips tighter, but it’s useless. The device is burning in her pocket, and Birdie’s body begins to dissolve.

“Please remember me… I love you,” Birdie says, her voice a whisper, and then her hand is gone.

⧗

Ione stumbles forward into lavender sand, alone. She turns to see a dark blue sock embroidered with white stars, lying in the surf.