Then, Numbuh 4 stepped in front of him, fists raised. “Yeah, no. You know what I remember, Harvey? I remember being seven and crying because I scraped my knee. And you know what? Growing up should mean you get better at stuff. Tougher. Smarter. Not dumber.” He cracked his neck. “Decommissioning stinks. But turning into a bitter, nostalgia-poisoned zombie who breaks into prisons? That stinks worse.”
The lavender beam didn’t explode. It washed over Numbuh 1 like warm bathwater. And for a split second, Nigel saw it: a flash of a future. Himself, at fifteen, slouched on a couch, wearing a boring gray polo shirt. His father patting him on the head. “Good report card, son. Have you thought about summer school?” No treehouse. No friends. No mission. Just a long, gray hallway of homework and dentist appointments. Codename Kids Next Door
“What you’re seeing is Numbuh 4.7,” she said. “Or rather, what he used to be. Real name: Harvey Hapsburg. Decommissioned at age thirteen, standard protocol. He was a promising operative. Sector M. Invented the S.P.L.A.N.K.E.R. (Strategic Post-Logical Anomaly Neutralizing Kinetic Energy Rifle).” Then, Numbuh 4 stepped in front of him, fists raised
Outside, the sun set over the canyon. And somewhere in the distance, a treehouse alarm blared. A new mission. A new problem. A new chance to be a kid—with all the messy, complicated, beautiful memories that came with it. I remember being seven and crying because I scraped my knee
The image zoomed. The coat was stitched with faded patches: a broken Rainbow Monkey logo, a crossed-out “Great Pustulio” patch, and one that simply read “Class of ’04.”
Numbuh 1 nodded. “Operation: G.R.O.W.N.U.P. isn’t a mission. It’s a conversation.”
“Then why is he breaking into our own prison?” Numbuh 1 asked.