The Greatest News

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! AMERICA!

This, folks, is the greatest chapter. The GREATEST chapter in the history of chapters. Everyone's saying it. Many people. Very smart people. Probably the smartest people.

(pause for imaginary applause)

I've read a lot of chapters. Probably more than anyone else. Nobody reads chapters better than me. I read chapters faster, stronger, more beautifully than anyone. But this one? This chapter? Best chapter. Of all the chapters. No contest. Everyone agrees.

(points to nowhere)

And not just because I’m in it. Although, let’s be honest, me being here makes it tremendous. Absolutely tremendous. A big, beautiful chapter.

(leans closer to microphone)

Many incredible people worked on this chapter. Good people. Fantastic people. Some are very good friends of mine. I have the best friends. The Narrator, for example—brilliant. Tremendous guy. I once met him at a party, probably. Maybe not. But if I did, it was the best party. Everyone said so.

And I want to say something very important: "Some people out there—very fake people, bad people—will tell you otherwise. They'll say, 'Oh, it's complicated, it's about language collapse, blah blah blah.' WRONG. WRONG. It's very simple: they didn't have enough walls. Or hats. Or me.

(waves an American flag that suspiciously has emojis instead of stars)

But don’t worry. Because today, thanks to me personally, we are making America space again. Yes. Space again. I am proud to announce that the first Millennial, a tremendous young man named Kyle—Kaido—Kito—whatever, great kid—was launched into space under MY leadership.

This is history! Big, beautiful history! And you are witnessing it. Thanks to me. You’re welcome.

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The cracked, flickering TV in the courtroom blared on.

Ronald Bump’s face filled the screen, tinted a sickly green by the faulty lighting. Behind him, a wrinkled American flag sagged like it wanted to resign.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is my tremendous honor—probably the greatest honor in the history of honors—to welcome back America's greatest Millennial hero: Kaito Sasaki!”

He mangled the name mid-speech, calling him “Kyle Sushi” once and “Kit-Kat Suzuki” immediately after, but the enthusiasm never wavered.

“Sent into orbit by my administration personally, folks. PERSONALLY. Nobody else could’ve done it! Not China! Not Mexico! Not even Belgium, and I have very good relations with the Belgians, fantastic waffles.”

The camera panned to a blurry, cheap animation of a rocket wobbling toward a cartoon version of Pittsburgh, complete with three bridges and an inexplicably large emoji heart hovering overhead.

“And now,” Bump declared, slamming his tiny hands on the podium, “this brave, beautiful boy is coming back! Not just landing—landing RIGHT HERE in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, USA, WORLD, UNIVERSE. Greatest comeback of all time. Better than Lazarus, honestly. Huge.”

Sota stared at the TV, jaw halfway unhinged.

Hana crossed her arms, unimpressed. “I feel like half of those words weren’t real.”

The parrot tilted his head and muttered: “I’m ninety percent sure Belgium didn’t volunteer for this.”

The camera zoomed awkwardly back to Ronald Bump, who pointed directly at the screen with the passion of a man giving a Yelp review to the concept of gravity itself.

“The rocket—beautiful rocket—will be descending momentarily, landing safely—or mostly safely—somewhere in the Pittsburgh Metro Area. Give or take a few football fields. Maybe a river. We’ll see. It’s gonna be beautiful, folks. Absolutely beautiful.”

Behind him, a confused aide tried to place a graphic titled:

🛰️ "PROJECT SPACE BOY: RETURN TO GREATNESS" 🛰️

It was upside down.

The feed crackled, glitched, and abruptly cut to static—leaving only Bump’s disembodied voice yelling,

“YOU'RE WELCOME, AMERICA!” before silence reclaimed the courtroom.

For a moment, nobody moved.

Not the scattered jurors still dazed from the Trial By Gladiator.

Not the emoji-smeared toddlers playing hopscotch on the broken tiles.

Not Hana.

Not Sota.

Only the parrot, who flapped his wings twice and said dryly:

“Well. Guess we’re going to a landing party.”

Sota blinked hard, still processing.

“Did he say Pittsburgh? As in... here?”

Hana was already grabbing her bag, scanning the exits. “He did. And if that lunatic somehow got Kaito back from orbit... we need to find him before Pittsburgh finishes the job.”

“You mean... before someone mistakes him for a meteor and tries to sell him for parts?” Sota asked, already half-jogging to catch up.

“Exactly.”

The parrot squawked: “Dibs on the llama suit if he explodes!”

They hurried out of the ruined courthouse into the still-chaotic streets, the distant sound of rioters clashing with rogue street performers still ringing in the humid air.

Above them, the sky was a mess of burnt orange and dirty gray, like someone tried to microwave a sunset and forgot about it for three hours.

And cutting right through it—a long, flaming arc.

“That’s him!” Sota yelled, pointing skyward, his voice cracking halfway between excitement and panic.

“Kaito’s… him is fall! I mean—he’s falling!”

Hana didn’t even glance up. She was already weaving through the wreckage-choked streets at full speed.

“Focus on the road, not the sky,” she snapped. “If he survives the landing, he’s still a sitting duck down here.”

“Right—run first, happy later!”

The parrot flapped overhead, dodging a shower of broken glass as another storefront gave up on existing.

“LEFT! LEFT! NO, YOUR GOOD LEFT!”

They cut through a side street where two guys in emoji armor were arguing about whether 🚀➕🌮 equaled freedom or just a spicy disaster.

Nobody noticed them.

Nobody cared.

Because above them, Project Space Boy was coming home.

A hissing, sputtering, half-melted capsule barreling toward the earth like an overdue Amazon package.

“There—by the river!” Hana pointed, vaulting over an abandoned scooter.

They sprinted toward the waterfront, ducking under dangling power lines and weaving through clumps of confused protesters waving signs that now just read:

📚=💀

✏️=🚫

🥒+🏛️=👑

(That one made absolutely no sense.)

Sota was falling behind a little, his breath ragged.

“We make... he's Fast!” he gasped.

Hana didn’t even look back this time.

“Keep up!”

Another boom echoed overhead.

The rocket—barely clinging to controlled descent—banked sharply left, then right, shedding bits of flaming metal like bad dandruff.

It was gonna hit somewhere close.

Maybe too close.

The parrot looped around, shouting:

“CLEARING AHEAD! THAT’S WHERE HE’LL LAND!”

Sure enough, the trees opened up into a patchy, overgrown park, half-eaten by graffiti and feral hotdog stands.

They pushed harder, feet slamming pavement, lungs burning.

Sota stumbled on a crumbling curb, muttering under his breath:

“Sorry! I am run… quick...ly?”

The parrot, flying just above him, shot a sharp look down but said nothing yet.

Finally—the edge of the park.

Hana skidded to a halt on the cracked asphalt path, eyes locking onto a wide, muddy clearing ringed by burned-out food trucks and fallen flags.

And descending toward it—

—Kaito’s capsule.

Sparking.

Smoking.

Screaming like a dying blender.

“BRACE!” Hana barked, dragging Sota behind an overturned barbecue cart.

The parrot dive-bombed into a pile of rubber chickens for cover.

With a final, heroic wheeze, the capsule crashed into the earth.

Hard.

It skidded through the mud, bounced once, twice, and finally crumpled against the twisted skeleton of what used to be a bounce house.

The dust cloud that followed looked like it was personally offended by everything.

Everything went still.

Sota coughed into his sleeve. “That's not a very smooth land.”

Hana stood first, her fists clenched.

Hana stood first, her fists clenched.

“Come on.”

Without waiting, she sprinted toward the wreckage.

Sota stumbled after her, still a step slower than usual, his words sticking like gum in his mouth.

This was it.

The moment.

I gripped my notebook tighter.

And watched as they reached the smoking, broken capsule.

The capsule hissed, releasing steam like a furious kettle. Metal groaned under its own confusion.

Then—

Bang.

The hatch popped open with the sad energy of a toaster giving up mid-toast.

A hand emerged.

Followed by a furious, muddy, extremely alive Kaito Sasaki.

“—stupid cultists—stupid rocket—stupid space llama suit—” he muttered, dragging himself out of the capsule like a very angry sock puppet.

His hair stood on end. His llama costume was half-melted. His shoelaces had tied themselves together sometime around re-entry.

He staggered two steps, pointed at the sky, and croaked:

“You call that a launch? I’ve seen better coordination at a toddler’s birthday party!”

And that’s when Sota lost it.

“KAITO!!”

Sota barreled forward, the parrot barely flapping out of the way.

In two strides, he collided with Kaito like a human battering ram, knocking them both into the mud.

“You’re BACK!” Sota sobbed, clinging to him like a drowning man grabbing a pool noodle.

(And for the first time in hours, his grammar was perfect again.)

Kaito blinked. Once. Twice.

Then, croaked:

“Sota. Buddy. Air. Please.”

Sota just cried harder.

Meanwhile, Hana jogged up, arms crossed, smirking.

“Nice entrance, Space Boy.”

Kaito wheezed. “You—shut up—help—oxygen—”

She only laughed harder, crouching beside them.

“You smell like burnt marshmallow and despair.”

The parrot landed on the capsule with a thump, wings slightly scorched.

“And you look like an unpaid crash test dummy.”

Even I—hiding behind a battered lemonade stand with my useless, soggy notebook—felt something catch in my throat.

(Just allergies. Definitely allergies. Maybe from the rocket fumes. Or the broken dreams in the air. Definitely not emotions.)

The mud squelched as Sota finally loosened his death grip.

Kaito flopped back like a guy who just finished fighting every law of physics and most of thermodynamics.

“I hate everything,” he muttered into the ground.

Hana patted him lightly on the head, like a proud, exasperated parent.

“Welcome home, genius.”

For one stupid, reckless, wonderful second—they were all there.

Together.

Alive.

Mud-streaked. Burnt. Bruised.

But together.

And for the first time in a long time, the world didn’t seem quite so broken.