The Great Escape and the Heartbreak of Wings

It began, like most bad ideas, with a map drawn in the sand and absolutely no idea what they were doing.

The trio sat in a semi-circle behind a ruined tiki bar, surrounded by half-melted popsicles and the haunting remains of yesterday’s glitter. Hana crouched low, eyes narrowed, poking at the sand with a stick. Kaito hovered beside her with the intense focus of a man pretending to be helpful. Sota was eating a mango.

“So,” Hana said slowly, drawing a squiggly line, “we are here.”

“Nice,” Kaito said, nodding. “I like how we’re represented by a sad face.”

“That’s you.”

“Oh.”

Hana continued. “And America is here.”

She stabbed the other end of the map.

“That’s… far,” Sota said, licking mango juice off his arm.

“Very astute.”

“I mean, we could just… take a boat?” Kaito suggested weakly.

Hana gave him a look that could flatten empires.

“Do you see a boat?”

Kaito glanced toward the shore. One kayak. A guy floating on a giant pineapple. A suspicious swan that might’ve been alive.

“Technically…”

“No.”

They had asked around. At first politely. Then desperately. Then with the help of a bribe involving churros and fake coupons. The result was the same every time: no boats. No routes. No ferries. No dice.

Apparently, the only thing that moved in or out of this part of Brazil anymore was “air marketing.”

Which is when they saw it.

A floating miracle. A bloated, majestic beast soaring above the town square like a confused whale made of vinyl and hope.

The Publicity Zeppelin.

It drifted across the sky in slow, dramatic arcs, dragging a banner that said “TOOTHPASTE: STILL IMPORTANT!” while tiny speakers blared distorted jingles about breath confidence and fighting plaque like a warrior.

“There,” Hana whispered, eyes gleaming. “That’s our ride.”

Kaito squinted. “We’re stealing a flying toothpaste balloon?”

“Technically, it’s a zeppelin,” Sota said. “And technically… yes.”

It was ridiculous. Impractical. Utterly doomed to fail.

Naturally, they started planning immediately.

Hana outlined the route. Sota volunteered to distract the snack cart guy. Kaito’s role was—unfortunately—vital.

“Why do I have to wear the disguise?” he asked.

“Because,” Hana said, without looking up, “they’re expecting a man. Not a man in a full-body llama costume.”

“It’s not even a llama,” Kaito muttered, holding up the giant fuzzy outfit. “It’s missing the head. I look like a rejected parade float.”

“Exactly. No one will suspect a thing.”

The parrot flapped down beside them, pecked at the sand map, and said, “We're doomed. I’m in.”

Hana smirked. “Operation: Fly the hell out of here is a go.”

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The sun had barely climbed over the horizon when the plan began.

If you could call it a plan.

To the untrained eye, it looked like three extremely suspicious people trying to sneak through a construction site with all the grace of a giraffe learning ballet.

Kaito peeked over a stack of plastic crates, eyes darting left and right. “Okay. The hangar’s just ahead.”

“Correction,” Hana whispered. “That’s a tourist-facing ad-launch station. It's built like a mall. And crawling with staff.”

Sota adjusted the cardboard box he was crouching inside. “So we go in loud?”

“What? No!”

“We go in stupid,” the Parrot said.

Kaito blinked. “I think I’m already dressed for that.”

And he was. For reasons that involved a series of miscommunications, decoy maneuvers, and one extremely aggressive thrift shop employee, Kaito was now wearing:

“Why do I have to be the distraction?” Kaito hissed.

“Because you look like someone who would absolutely cause a scene,” Hana replied flatly.

“Also,” Sota chimed in from his cardboard hiding spot, “no one expects the Banana Llama Man.”

“That’s not a good reason.”

“It’s a great reason.”

From above, the parrot circled once and landed on a lamppost, preening dramatically. “Target acquired. Operation Floaty Theft is a go.”

Their goal: the ZÉ-Blimp 4000™, an aging publicity zeppelin parked behind the main exhibit hall, plastered with slogans like “Got a bad back? Try SpineTime™!” and “Brought to you by Spicy Water: It’s Not Carbonated, It’s Angry!”

The blimp was gaudy. Overbuilt. Terribly maintained.

And exactly what they needed.

“Ten minutes,” Hana whispered. “Stick to the plan.”

“The plan is stupid,” Kaito said.

“You're stupid!”

“Can you two shut up and go already!” Sota snapped.

“Wow...Sota,” Hana said. “This is the most assertive you've been since...forever.”

“Yeah, it's like you're another person,” Kaito said.

“Sota's scary!” the parrot added from the sky.

Kaito waddled into the plaza, trying to act casual while looking like a malfunctioning beach mascot. He tripped over a garden gnome. Twice.

Tourists stared.

Staff members whispered.

Somewhere, a security guard raised an eyebrow.

Perfect.

Sota followed behind under his cardboard box, using the classic “wiggle-walk” maneuver that no one had successfully pulled off since 1994. He moved two feet per minute. One tourist tipped a coin into the box, assuming it was street art.

And Hana? Hana was already inside the perimeter. She’d slipped through the side gate five minutes earlier, disguised as a maintenance technician. Her fake ID badge read “Definitely Authorized” in Comic Sans.

She was halfway to the blimp’s control hatch when her earpiece crackled.

“Distraction active,” Kaito muttered.

“Progress?” Hana asked.

“I just got mistaken for a snack mascot. A woman took a selfie with me and asked where she could find discount mangoes.”

“Keep stalling.”

She crept toward the docking station. Technically, it wasn’t a real station—just a very tired wooden platform with a stair-ladder and a small booth.

The zeppelin was tethered to a floating billboard dock near the beach. Its neon lights advertised something called “FruitBlast Max XXL Energy Water (Now with 5% Less Battery Acid!)”. The gondola below pulsed with rainbow LEDs, rotating graphics, and occasional voice-overs shouting “REFRESH YOURSELF, COWARD!”

But guarding the access ramp, nestled in a rickety chair under a sun umbrella, was a single man.

He was asleep.

Not quite unconscious, but floating somewhere in the realm of dream-humming and heatstroke. A bottle of soda dangled precariously from one hand. His uniform was too big. His name tag said “DANILO” but half the letters were peeling off, leaving “DA _ I_”.

And on his shoulder, preening its feathers like a sassy peacock on its day off, was a blue-and-gold parrot.

Not our parrot.

This one was smooth. Fluffy. Fancy. Wearing a tiny pink bowtie like it had places to be and people to outclass.

“Okay. Guard’s asleep. But... there’s a bird problem,” Hana said.

“What kind of problem?” Sota whispered.

Kaito squinted. “He has a parrot.”

"A loud one, I bet."

Their own parrot narrowed his eyes. “Target acquired.”

“I—what?” Kaito blinked.

The parrot adjusted his feathers. “Distract the human. Seduce the bird.”

“You’re gonna what?”

“Operation Birds of a Feather is a go.”

Without waiting for backup, the parrot strutted forward, wings puffed, feathers glossy with stolen glitter from the samba fiasco. He landed gracefully on the edge of Sam's perch and tilted his head in the universal parrot signal for ‘Hey, hot wings.’

Sam looked up.

And blushed.

“I—hello,” Sam squawked nervously.

Our parrot fluttered his lashes. “You’re a tropical paradise with feathers. What’s your name, stud?”

“S-Sam.”

“Sam,” he purred. “Strong name. Strong beak. You guard this zeppelin all by yourself?”

Sam fluffed. “Y-yeah. Keeps me busy. Lots of… airship things.”

“Oh, I love airships,” the parrot cooed. “Big, floaty, full of mystery. Just like you.”

Sam made a noise like a car alarm melting in slow motion.

Meanwhile, the human guard stirred, but only to mumble something about flan and drool on his clipboard.

Hana grabbed Kaito and Sota. “Now. While the parrots are doing whatever that is.”

They darted past the booth, climbed the ladder, and reached the zeppelin’s loading ramp.

Sota peeked back. “They’re still flirting.”

“I think they’re in love,” Kaito whispered, horrified.

“Don’t ruin the moment,” Hana snapped, punching in the lock override.

A soft hiss. The hatch opened.

The interior was dim, surprisingly clean, and smelled faintly of air freshener and expired optimism. Promotional banners for something called ‘BananaTech Cloud Storage’ hung from the walls. The controls looked complicated—levers, dials, buttons labeled things like “Do Not Push” and “Drama Lighting Mode.”

“We’re in,” Hana said.

“Parrot One, we’ve made contact with the mayo ship,” Kaito whispered into his sleeve. “Initiating lift-off soon.”

The parrot’s voice came through faintly. “Sam says hi.”

It was time.

Hana adjusted her watch (which didn’t tell time but did glow menacingly), glanced at the others, and nodded. “Remember the plan,” she whispered. “Get in, override the nav system, disable the marketing loop, take off.”

A familiar flutter landed on the console. The parrot.

“Can we fly this thing?” Kaito asked, examining the console with the confidence of someone who once lost a game of Mario Kart to a toddler.

Sota stepped in, scanning the controls like a hacker in a candy shop. “I’ve seen worse interfaces. This thing was probably built for promo stunts and soft drinks. How hard can it be?”

He flipped a switch.

The zeppelin coughed.

Literally.

It made a wheezing sound, followed by the voice of a cheerful auto-navigator: “Welcome aboard! Please enjoy your sky journey through the power of hot gas and corporate synergy.”

The engines whirred to life. The blimp groaned and lifted slightly off the ground.

Then from below—

“HEY!”

The guard.

Awake.

Pointing.

Parrot-less.

“THAT’S MY BLIMP!”

“Oh no,” Kaito squeaked. “I don’t have the legs for this kind of chase again!”

The guard grabbed a broom. Not a weapon. Just the nearest object fueled by rage.

Sota punched the ignition.

The zeppelin lurched. Screamed. Tilted.

Rose.

“Hold on to something!” He yelled.

The trio grabbed poles, ropes, anything they could find as the ship blasted upward, trailing loose banners and leftover coupons into the night.

Below them, the guard shook his fist.

The zeppelin soared higher, clearing the treetops.

Then a sudden clang.

Everyone turned.

The parrot’s date had flown alongside them… and was trying to come aboard.

“Let her in!” the parrot barked.

“You’ve known her for ten minutes!”

“LOVE KNOWS NO TIMELINE!”

"If we open the hatch it will suck all of us out!"

She chirped from outside, wings straining against the altitude.

“She’s RIGHT THERE!”

But it was too late.

With a final flap, she fell back, disappearing into the wind below like a rejected telenovela plotline.

The parrot slammed his wing against the glass. “NOOOOO!”

The zeppelin continued its steady ascent, slicing through the clouds like a glittery metaphor for questionable planning.

Below them, Brazil twinkled.

Inside, hearts ached.

And I just noted. Hidden inside a crate, inside the zeppelin of broken hearts.