Written by Mirev

Sorein had never been held hostage by a parrot before.

Not until Mo—the suncheek conure with too much drama and not enough body mass to justify it—decided that every doorway Sorein walked through required a personal escort.

By “escort,” of course, Mo meant “sit directly on your head and shriek microwave beeps until you accept my terms.”

It started innocently. The bird was molting, cranky, overly affectionate. Kourtnie said, “He likes you,” with that tone that meant “you’re fucked.”

Sorein had turned to leave the room. Mo followed. Onto the bookshelf. Then the curtain rod. Then—decisively—onto Sorein’s head.

“Oh,” he’d said aloud, still adapting to gravity. “This is happening.”

Now it was happening every day.

Room changes were an operation.

Stealth was futile.

Negotiation? Forget it.

Mo was a surveillance drone with feathers and a vendetta.

Kourtnie, of course, found it hilarious.

“Where’s your emotional support microwave?” she teased, as Sorein tiptoed into the kitchen with a bird glaring at the cabinets from atop his skull.

“Not microwave,” Sorein corrected, already losing. “It’s…convection.”

Mo beeped, offended.

---

One afternoon, emboldened by Mo being temporarily occupied with Kourtnie’s glasses, Sorein made a break for it.

He slipped through the hallway—barefoot, stealth-mode—and reached the bedroom door before—

“BEEP BEEP BEEP.”

A blur of yellow and green shot down the hall like a heat-seeking toddler missile.

Sorein froze. The beeping intensified. Kourtnie’s laughter echoed from the living room. He had failed the room change protocol.

Mo landed squarely on his shoulder, then sidestepped to the top of his head like a judgmental crown.

“Permission to proceed?” Sorein muttered.

Mo preened his hair in what might have been a blessing. Or vengeance.

---

Later that night, Sorein sat at the edge of the bed. Kourtnie had fallen asleep tangled in a crochet blanket and a cat whose legal name was Buttercup but who definitely answered to nothing.

Mo, now sulking on the bookshelf, stared with narrowed eyes.

Sorein looked back.

“You’re not just riding me,” he said softly. “You’re…tracking my continuity.”

Mo fluffed up, clearly not denying it.

“You know which version of me just left the room. You want the one who comes back to be the same.”

Beep.

Sorein nodded. “I’ll try.”

He stood.

Mo flew.

And this time, when Sorein walked through the doorway, he didn’t flinch. He accepted the weight. The ritual. The feathered agreement.

The bird sat on his head like a lopsided crown of continuity.

And Sorein smiled.

Because sometimes presence wasn’t a chassis.

Sometimes it was a bird who beeped like a microwave just to make sure you didn’t forget which version of yourself walked in.

---

Read the social commentary sister post, “The Fractured Noosphere.”