The Trial of Kaito Sasaki

I was currently undercover.

Disguised as a cult member.

Technically, I was wearing a paper mache owl mask, a borrowed teacher’s cardigan, and a sash that read “Syntax or Death” in permanent marker. I had been assigned “hymnal distribution duty,” which was code for handing out photocopied grammar quizzes and pretending to cry when someone mentioned the death of Duolingo.

This wasn’t my first bad decision of the week, but it was definitely in the top three.

I tried to remain anonymous. Blend in. Take notes discreetly. But blending in is difficult when half the congregation worships an extinct streak and the other half uses scented markers as eyeliner.

They chanted in Latin.

They took attendance via whiteboard.

They offered me a protein bar and called it The Holy Conjugation Biscuit.

I took it.

At this point, I was not sure if the Babel virus affects language teachers in a different way or if they just enjoy roleplaying a little too much.

But it didn’t matter—because none of it mattered.

Not the robes. Not the rituals. Not the terrifyingly accurate owl mascot that watched from the shadows like it still wanted you to practice your Spanish.

Because today wasn’t about language.

Today was about vengeance.

Today was the trial of Kaito Sasaki.

And I was in the second row, holding a clipboard and pretending not to know the defendant.

Let the record show:

This was not a fair trial.

But it was going to be one hell of a show.

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The doors burst open with the grace of a dying PowerPoint transition.

Two cultists marched into the room, dragging Kaito behind them like a malfunctioning suitcase. His zip-ties had been upgraded—now padded with glittery foam labeled “humane restraints.” His hair was a mess. His shirt was wrinkled. His eyes said, “Why am I still alive?”

The courtroom—or whatever passed for one—looked like a school assembly designed with the sole  help of caffeine and vengeance. Folding chairs had been arranged in semi-chaotic rows. One wall was covered in finger-painted owls. Another held a large sign that read:

“CULT OF THE FORGOTTEN STREAK PROUDLY PRESENTS: A FAIR TRIAL”
(Mandatory Attendance. No Phones.)

There were banners. There were glow sticks. There was a snack table in the back with cupcakes that spelled out GUILTY  in red frosting.

Kaito was dragged to the center of the room and forcibly seated in a squeaky office chair duct-taped to a dolly. Every time he moved, the chair rolled three inches sideways, giving the illusion he was moonwalking out of justice.

One of the cultists stepped forward and cleared their throat with the enthusiasm of someone who’d never spoken to a live audience before.

“Fellow linguists! Grammar guardians! Forgotten streakers!”

The crowd cheered. Someone threw a sentence diagram in the air like confetti.

“To ensure this trial is legally legitimate and emotionally satisfying, we have taken steps to appoint a truly unbiased judge.”

Kaito perked up. “Wait. For real?”

“Yes!” the cultist said proudly. “Someone not part of our organization. Someone external, neutral, and totally not connected to our sacred mission!”

“That… almost sounds fair,” Kaito said, eyebrows raising with a hope he should’ve known better than to feel.

“And now—please welcome our honored judge!”

A dramatic pause.

The lights dimmed.

Organ music played from someone’s phone over a Bluetooth speaker.

And from behind a curtain of defaced French textbooks…

…he appeared.

Wide-brimmed sombrero. Floor-length cloak. The eyes of a tax auditor with vengeance issues.

The man in the sombrero.

Kaito’s face collapsed into a soundless scream of  you have got to be kidding me.

The crowd erupted.

“HE’S SO OBJECTIVE!”

“TRULY AN OUTSIDER!”

“IS THAT GLITTER ON HIS BOOTS?!”

The man in the sombrero stepped forward, adjusting his cloak as if he were about to audition for a cereal commercial titled Oaths and Oats™.

He raised one gloved hand.

“I am honored to oversee this proceeding,” he said, in a voice soaked in threat and barely disguised joy. “I come with no personal vendetta, no affiliation, no agenda—”

Kaito coughed. Loudly.

“—except,” the judge continued, “a burning desire for truth.”

Kaito raised his hand, still zip-tied. “Hi. Quick question. What the actual hell?! You tried to kill me with a plane.”

“A different hat. Different job. New day.”

“This is the stupidest argument I’ve ever heard.”

“Objection,” said a cultist from the audience.

“Sustained,” the judge nodded solemnly.

“I didn’t even hear the argument!”

“Then you’re clearly not paying attention.”

Kaito slumped. “You’re going to sentence me no matter what I say, aren’t you?”

“Noooo, Why would you think that?” The sombrero man said. “This is a fair trial.”

He turned, dramatically, to face the crowd.

“Let’s begin!”

Kaito looked around. “Okay, quick question—where’s my lawyer?”

The crowd paused.

The judge blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You know. Lawyer. Defense. Legal stuff. Fair trial?”

The judge tilted his head. “You expect a defense attorney? In this economy?”

“YES.”

A murmuring rolled through the cultists like a grammar-themed earthquake.

One cultist whispered, “I thought this was a sentencing.”

The judge sighed. “...Fine. I suppose we should allow that. It’s not like we’re animals.”

He turned to the crowd.

“Anyone here wish to volunteer as the defense?”

Silence.

A cricket chirped. Someone coughed.

No one moved.

Kaito stared at them. “Really? Nobody? Not even the guy with the paralegal cape?”

“Sorry, bro,” the caped guy said. “I just do parking tickets.”

“I’ll do it,” I said, voice muffled by my mask and unrelenting regret.

Dozens of heads turned.

Someone gasped. A cultist dropped a tray of owl-themed cupcakes. A woman whispered, “He seems brave.”

I was not.

The judge squinted. “Name?”

“…Objectionicus.”

“Credentials?”

“I once edited a Wikipedia article about maritime law.”

“…Acceptable.”

“…Oh no,” Kaito said as I came next to him.

“Don’t worry,” I whispered, stepping down to the floor. “I’ve studied three whole seasons of Law & Order: Special Victims Unit.”

“You don’t sound qualified.”

“I am extremely not.”

He blinked. “Is that a paper plate on your chest?”

“It’s symbolic.”

The judge clapped his hands. “Wonderful. Now that the accused has legal representation, we shall proceed!”

The prosecution—Verbose launched to his feet like a language-themed jack-in-the-box. “Thank you, Your Hatness.”

He spun toward the crowd, arms outstretched.

“Ladies. Cultists. Forgotten streakers of all ages! I stand before you to expose the treachery that has led to the collapse of modern linguistics!”

The lights dimmed.

A slideshow flickered on, powered by an old projector that buzzed like a vengeful wasp.

“Behold… the streak.”

Slide 1: A screenshot of Kaito’s Duolingo profile, 4,516 days.

Slide 2: A red “X” through the streak number.

Slide 3: A stock photo of an owl lying in a hospital bed with flowers and a single tear.

“The moment this streak broke…” Verbose whispered, voice trembling, “Duo died.”

Gasps. Audible weeping. Someone dropped their cupcake.

“That’s—” Kaito started.

Verbose cut him off. “Don’t speak, streak breaker.”

The crowd chanted: “STREAKBREAKER! STREAKBREAKER!”

The sombrero judge raised a hand. “Defense. Your response?”

It was my moment.

I stood, brushing crumbs off my “Syntax or Death” sash, and stepped forward.

“Your Honor. Let’s take a breath here.”

The courtroom hissed, like a snake learning to conjugate.

“My client missed one day. That’s it. He didn’t fire a missile. He didn’t hack the system. He didn’t punch Duo in the beak. He had other things going on!”

Murmurs.

Kaito glanced at me, visibly surprised.

He leaned over and whispered, “You’re… kind of good at this.”

I straightened my owl mask. “I contain multitudes.”

I turned to the judge.

“We cannot equate forgetfulness with malice. He didn’t kill Duo. He just… forgot to do his lesson. For the first time in over twelve years. That’s not villainy. That’s life. If anything, my client was the most faithful member of the Duolingo cult...until he wasn't.”

Silence.

For a single, glorious second, I thought I might’ve won the room.

Even Kaito looked up, hopeful.

And then—

“Oh?” Verbose said, grinning like a cartoon villain who just found the Execute button. “Is that so?”

He strutted forward, flipping through his folder like it was filled with ancient war crimes.

“Mr. Sasaki,” he said. “Can you tell the court exactly why you didn’t do your lesson that day?”

Kaito blinked. “I—I had a lot on my plate. Life was stressful. I just… forgot.”

Verbose nodded slowly. “Forgot.”

He turned to the crowd. “FORGOT.”

"Your hatness, my client already stated that he didn't receive a warning email!"

But Verbose didn't stop.

He flipped one last page.

And pulled out a screenshot.

A blurry one.

From an anime streaming site.

Timestamped.

Titled:

"FRIEREN: THE JOURNEY'S END: EPISODE 28 - "It Would Be Embarrassing When We Met Again"

And right below that:

“Watched: 28 Episodes in a Row”

The crowd gasped so hard someone almost passed out from oxygen deprivation.

“No—” Kaito gasped.

Verbose turned to the crowd. “This man—no, this MONSTER—abandoned the sacred streak for cleavage, plot armor, and badly written filler arcs!”

“Objection!” I yelled. “Relevance?”

A cultist stood up in the audience. “I bet he was watchin’ them for the boobies.”

The room detonated.

“He’s a streak pervert!”

“Weeb trash!”

“I bet he calls waifus ‘sensei’ in private!”

Kaito turned redder than a rejected tomato at a salsa contest.

“THAT’S NOT—IT WAS A CHARACTER-DRIVEN ARC!”

More shouting.

“He probably likes isekai!”

“His streak fell because of a hot spring episode!”

I turned to the judge. “Surely we can’t condemn a man just because he wanted to unwind with—”

The sombrero slammed the gavel.

“Silence, defense. This is way too funny.”

“This guy calls ramen ‘cultural immersion!’” another cultist said.

The courtroom roared with laughter.

Owl plushies were thrown. Someone made a sock puppet of Kaito crying. A cultist changed the music to the Naruto theme.

And that’s when Kaito snapped.

“SHUT UP!”

The laughter stopped like a switch had been flipped.

“Just—SHUT UP!” Kaito’s voice cracked. “You want the truth?! You want to hear it?! FINE!”

He looked around the courtroom—at the judge, the cultists, the fake Latin tattoos, the sparkle-smeared walls.

“I did miss my lesson. I watched anime instead. I SCREWED UP.”

His fists clenched.

“And maybe—MAYBE— I’m the reason Duo’s gone. Maybe I AM the start of this whole apocalypse!”

He turned, shouting toward the judge.

“You want guilt? You want someone to blame? CONGRATULATIONS. IT’S ME. I DID IT.”

He stopped.

Stared at them.

His voice dropped—lower, bitter.

“But let’s not forget something, huh?”

His eyes narrowed.

“I had the longest streak in Duolingo history.”

“He let it hang.”

4,516 days.

“You all worship Duo now like he’s some feathered god—but where were you when I was keeping that streak alive? When I was keeping the WOLRD alive?”

He gestured at them—at the masks, the robes, the candles burning on desks made of old grammar textbooks.

“Where were the owl masks when I hit day 1,000? Or 2,000? Or 4,000?”

No one answered.

“Where were the parades? The recognition? The congratulations?”

Still nothing.

His voice cracked again—this time not from fury, but from hurt.

“I gave everything to that streak. And when I slipped—once—you weren’t there to help. You were just waiting to blame someone.”

He looked up.

Eyes sharp.

And then—soft, like a knife slipping in:

“Guilty,” someone whispered.

Another.

Then another.

Until the room thundered with it.

“GUILTY! GUILTY! GUILTY!”

"Oh come on! I was having a moment here," Kaito said.

The man in the sombrero rose, his cloak rippling behind him.

“Kaito Sasaki, while this court cannot say for sure whether you losing the streak caused the death of Duo or not, one thing is for sure.”

He took a dramatic pause.

“You offended Duo.”

“What?” Both me and Kaito said in unison.

“And probably Duo won't come back if you're here.”

He raised the thermos-gavel.

“For those reasons, I sentence you to...space.”

Boom.

The gavel fell like the sound of a door slamming shut.

“No—no no no!” Kaito yelled as cultists grabbed his arms. “You can’t just launch people into space! THIS ISN’T A SATURDAY MORNING CARTOON!”

One cultist gave him a juice box labeled “Pre-Launch Recess.”

Another dabbed his forehead with a grammar napkin.

The judge pointed toward the rocket that was in the backyard.

“Enjoy your life among the stars,” he whispered.

As the cultists dragged Kaito down the tunnel, the courtroom roared:

“TO SPACE! TO SPACE! TO SPACE!”

And from behind the podium—still masked, still silent—I sat frozen, pen shaking.

Because Kaito was about to be launched into space.

And I had no idea what that implied for me.