Operation Skyfall (No Relation to the Movie, Please Don’t Sue)

It is a well-known scientific fact that parrots cannot feel heartbreak.

This is, of course, a lie.

As the zeppelin floated somewhere between we’re definitely gonna die and wow, the clouds look like cheese, a certain parrot stood at the window, unmoving. His feathers were ruffled—not in the sexy way, but in the “I just lost the love of my extremely short, bird-sized life” way.

Ladies, gentlemen, and endangered species:

The parrot is not okay.

He may look fine. He may be sipping coconut juice like a vacationing retiree. But make no mistake—this bird is drowning in heartbreak, and the life preserver is nowhere in sight.

Because somewhere down there, back in Brazil, he left behind the only creature who ever looked at him like he was more than just a mildly literate, emotional support sidekick.

A parrot.

With a worm tattoo.

On her wing.

“I mean… she was a good bird. Strong wings. Great bowtie,” Kaito said, trying to break the silence.

The parrot didn’t blink.

Sota added, “She had… sparkly eyes.”

Still no reaction.

“Her squawk was melodic,” Hana muttered, scrolling through zeppelin diagnostics.

Finally, the parrot spoke. Quiet. Steady. Broken.

“She called me a snack.”

Kaito placed a hand over his heart. “Damn.”

They left him alone after that.

Outside, the sky grew darker. Not with rain. Not with nightfall.

With something else.

Something fast.

Something with a very tiny plane.

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It started with a beep.

Then another.

Then a really suspicious beep-beep-boop that sounded like an AI choking on bubble tea.

Hana squinted at the dashboard. “We’re being scanned.”

“Scanned for what?” Kaito asked, still awkwardly hovering near the parrot like he was afraid emotional support was contagious.

“Dunno,” Sota said, tapping a screen. “Altitude’s steady, fuel’s fine, air pressure’s… not ideal but survivable.”

Suddenly: static.

The cabin speakers crackled, squealed, and then—

“Kaito Sasaki.”

A voice. Deep. Smooth. With just the right amount of I'm-about-to-murder-you-but-politely in the tone.

Kaito froze. “Did the blimp just… talk to me?”

“No,” Hana said, her eyes narrowing. “That’s external. Someone’s broadcasting in.”

The static cleared.

“You have something to answer for. Come quietly, or I will shoot you out of the sky with my extremely illegal aircraft.”

There was a pause.

Then—

“Also, hi.”

Kaito’s stomach dropped. “That’s him.”

As if summoned by sheer narrative drama, a tiny, angry speck emerged from the clouds behind them. It zipped through the air like a mosquito with a vendetta—small propeller plane, matte black, customized with what looked suspiciously like glitter paint. And on the windshield?

A sombrero. Taped on. Like a hat for a car.

“The sombrero man,” Kaito whispered. “He’s back.”

The speakers crackled again.

“I told the Cult you wouldn’t get far. I bet against you. I made fifty bucks. But unfortunately… now I have to collect.”

A mechanical clunk echoed through the air.

Then something whooshed past the zeppelin.

“Did he just fire a warning shot?” Kaito yelped, ducking instinctively even though they were inside.

“No,” Hana said, typing furiously. “He missed.”

Sota squinted out the window. “Are we… sure?”

Another boom. A chunk of the banner trailing behind them exploded into a glorious fireball of vinyl and slogan.

“TOOTHPASTE: STILL IMP—”

Gone.

Kaito gasped. “He’s targeting the ads! That could be our source of passive income!”

“Forget the money!” Hana snapped. “We’re going evasive!”

“But this thing’s not built for evasive!” Kaito shouted, gripping the wall. “It’s built for marketing synergy!”

Another explosion. This time closer. The whole zeppelin lurched.

Sota gripped the controls. “I can fly. I can fly. I can—AH, THE BUTTONS ARE IN PORTUGUESE.”

“Kaito!” Hana barked. “You’re the most expendable! I need you to find the parachutes!”

“What!?”

“Just do it!”

Kaito scrambled into the back compartments, yelling things like “Nope!” and “Why are there thirty inflatable toothbrushes?”

He returned, pale and panicked.

“There’s only one.”

They froze.

Even the parrot.

“One?” Hana asked. “Just one?”

Kaito held it up. “Yup. One. Uno. The Only Child of Falling Safety.”

The radio crackled again.

“Last chance, Sasaki. Give up, or I’ll paint the sky with your regrets.”

Another shot fired—this one clipped the top of the gondola, sending sparks raining down.

Sota spun the wheel. “Okay! Okay! We need a plan! A real plan! Not a sand map! A real, actual—”

The zeppelin dropped ten feet in a single stomach-turning lurch.

For a moment, everything stopped.

Not literally—gravity still worked, the engines still wheezed like asthmatic bagpipes, and somewhere in the background, a jingle about SpineTime™ looped tragically through the intercom.

But inside the gondola?

Silence.

Kaito held the single parachute like it was made of guilt and betrayal. The fabric fluttered slightly in the breeze of a broken window, whispering things like “You’re screwed” and “Hope you said your goodbyes.”

Sota looked at Hana.

Hana looked at Kaito.

The parrot looked at the empty seat where his beloved had once dreamed of flying beside him.

Outside, the tiny sombrero plane looped back around.

“They’re not aiming to kill us yet,” Hana said quietly. “They’re herding us. Slowing us down.”

“Why?” Sota asked.

“Because if they shoot us down over the ocean, there’s no wreckage. No bounty to collect.”

Kaito swallowed hard. “So... what do we do?”

Hana didn’t answer. Not immediately.

Instead, she looked out the window.

Below them, clouds drifted like lazy ghosts. The sea glittered far beneath, uncaring. Somewhere behind them, Death did another unnecessary barrel roll.

And for the first time since this madness began—since the owl died, since the streak broke, since words started melting like cheap ice cream—Kaito realized something:

They weren’t just running anymore.

They were being hunted.

Targeted.

Because of him.

He didn’t say it out loud.

Didn’t need to.

He just tightened his grip on the parachute straps and stepped forward.

Not dramatically. Not slowly. Just… decisively. Like someone walking into a bad haircut and saying “Do it.”

“Kaito,” Hana said sharply. “No.”

“There’s only one parachute.”

“We’ll find another way.”

“There isn’t another way.”

He turned, trying to smile. It didn’t work. His face twitched somewhere between brave and constipated.

“Listen, it makes sense,” he said, shrugging. “I’m the one they want. I’m the ‘Duo Killer,’ remember?”

“Allegedly,” the parrot mumbled.

Kaito laughed. “Exactly. So maybe if I jump, they’ll stop chasing you. Maybe you’ll get a clean shot to the U.S.”

“But we’re a team,” Sota said, eyes wide. “We’re the Banana Llama Squad!”

“No one agreed to that name,” Hana muttered.

Kaito hesitated. He looked at each of them—Sota, whose voice cracked with every sentence; Hana, who looked like she could punch a tank in half but was trembling just slightly; the parrot, who had lost his soulmate and still showed up anyway.

“I’ll meet you there,” Kaito said.

“No,” Hana snapped. “You won’t survive that fall.”

“I have the parachute!” Kaito said.

“Assuming something works in this world is the most dangerous thing you can do!”

"She has a point," Sota said.

The zeppelin jerked as another blast rocked the side. Sparks flew. A console exploded behind them with a noise like a dying blender.

Kaito nodded.

Sota ran up and hugged him so hard it made a squeak. “You better live! If you die, I’m haunting you!”

“That’s not how—okay, fine.”

The parrot fluttered onto his shoulder. “Don’t be stupid.”

“I was stupid the moment I didn't open that Duolingo app.”

Kaito pulled the hatch lever.

Wind roared in. The clouds screamed past. The sky opened like a mouth full of teeth.

One last look back.

One small salute.

One very shaky “SEE YOU SOON!”

Then—

He jumped.

I peeked through the crack in the crate again, just in time to see the hatch flapping wildly in the wind.

For a brief, glorious second, silence returned.

The hatch flapped in the wind like a tongue wagging at gravity. The zeppelin swayed, wounded but still airborne. Hana stared at the open space where Kaito had just been.

Sota sniffled. “He’s falling majestically.”

The parrot squinted. “He’s spinning like a chicken nugget in a tornado.”

He jumped.

He actually—he actually did it.

And I was still in the crate.

Sweating.

Panicking.

Regretting every career decision I’ve ever made.

Because if he dies… the story dies.

And if the story dies… so do my chances of becoming a journalist before the world ends.

I could feel it already. That creeping nothingness at the edge of my thoughts. The fraying edges of narrative. The way my internal monologue started glitching like a bootleg audiobook.

I slapped the side of the crate and grabbed whatever was nearby—a FruitBlast banner, a cracked helmet, a juice box that may or may not have been leaking something green.

I wrapped the banner around my shoulders like a cape, tied a pot lid to my face for “privacy,” and burst out of the crate like a narrative emergency.

Sota screamed. “WHAT THE HELL?!”

Hana spun, jaw dropped. “WHO—WHO IS THAT?!”

I didn’t stop.

I didn’t explain.

I didn’t even look cool.

I just ran.

Straight for the hatch.

Straight into the wind.

Straight into disaster.

And I shouted:

“STAY ALIVE, YOU GRAMMAR-DEFYING MORON!”

And jumped.