Chapter Text
OPERATION: O.L.D. S.C.H.O.O.L.
Override
Logistics
Directive -
Secure
Command
Hub
Outpost
Orbital
Link.
The trip to City Station was silent and unbothered. No small talk was needed to be had, nor did any extra direct orders have to be given to the flight crew.
It was just a simple visit to the disturbed city, at least for the pilots.
Nigel had a stoic gaze while he sat in a S.C.A.M.P.E.R. by himself. There had been a lot on his mind over the last couple of days, but today had him on edge for one reason or another.
Braced for the winter air, he had given his wardrobe an upgrade.
He wore a long, fuzzy winter trench coat, lightly gray and thick, held on his waist with a buckled strap. A crimson scarf was wrapped around his neck, tucked in professionally under the collar. Charcoal black earmuffs cupped his ears on each side, and a pair of equally black gloves kept his fingers warm in his lap. His snow boots were flat on the floor, with one tapping in rhythm out of anticipation.
He hunched over in his seat slightly, clutching his sunglasses in both hands. His eyes, uncovered in this rare moment, stared out the circular window of the vehicle door, watching as the barren, snowy landscape passed him by. The haughty wind crusted the glass with a layer of frost.
Nigel’s thoughts were running rampant right now.
He thought about Maurice, his old friend, old rival. Somebody who once shared the same ideals before growing jaded and distant. At the moment, he was trying to figure out what he would say to him once he found him.
Next came the thoughts about the mission: setting it up, gathering the supplies, and making the trip. There was the enemy everyone shared, hero or villain, imposing as a looming threat.
He wondered how the Moon Base was right now.
Fear crept in, making him think twice. No matter how much he tried to bury it, it was still there. He wasn’t afraid of falling; he was afraid of failing. Nigel didn’t want the world to end up worse than it already was, and silently, he felt the weight on his shoulders. He had to live up to the name he had been given.
Numbuh One.
This quiet ride gave him a moment to contemplate, wrestling with his thoughts in a muted war.
The S.C.A.M.P.E.R. jittered slightly as it began its descent. Clouds parted to reveal the disturbed but still-standing city down below.
Finally, a voice came through a speaker on the corner of the wall. It was calm and professional, familiar in a friendly way.
“We’re approaching the station now, Numbuh One,” said one of the pilots. “Prepare for landing.”
Nigel blinked once, eyes refocusing.
In an instant, he sat up. He slid the sunglasses back over his eyes, hiding the ounce of anxiety that was there moments ago. He straightened himself in his seat and nodded politely.
“Thank you, operative.”
He reached down, buckled his seat belt with a satisfying click, and then crossed his arms over his chest. His expression was blank, his figure composed like nothing troubled him.
Nigel exhaled once, softly and long.
This was just a check-in. He was to find Maurice, get him to cooperate, and move on to the next step.
But he knew better than anyone that nothing about missions like these ever went according to plan.
The vehicle touched down with a soft hissing steam as it rested snug on a wide metal platform. Its side door slid open smoothly, and Nigel Uno stepped out into the full weight of City Station.
He stopped to admire the sight.
Before him was a tower of high-tech, a layered metropolis built as a logistical hub straight into the urban grid of the region. The old, cracked concrete streets riddled with potholes were long gone, replaced with steel and glass. Suspended highways criss-crossed through the city skyline, three levels deep, with both Monkey Skyway Agents and KND hovercrafts zipping between platforms like bees to a busy hive.
It was no longer a transit station, but now a launch point. It was at the center of the dozens of tall skyscrapers, reinforced with a polished titanium under the fresh layer of snow. Just at the top were dozens of antennae, turret arrays, and landing ports. At the very summit was another parked KND vehicle, sitting stiffly next to three Monkey Skyway Agents bearing patrol lights. A squad of Dexbots was also assisting, maintaining each vehicle that came by.
All around, mounted on holographic wall panels, dozens of glowing flight codes were listed in looping cycles:
“Sector V - Departing Soon.”
“Marquee Row - Delayed 7 minutes.”
“Tech Square - Delayed 15 minutes.”
Beside them were rows of terminals that sat next to one another, staffed by more robots. Their glowing eyes blinked as they managed large queues of travelers like citizens, heroes, and scientists alike. Everyone from delivery boys to scared parents clutching what few bags they had, trying desperately to get a ticket off the island before things got worse.
The invasion had clearly drawn closer here.
Nigel stood on the platform and simply took it all in for a moment. His lips pursed, and he furrowed his brow silently.
This was meant to be a hub for checkpoints, not a full-blown evac terminal.
Behind him, the two KND pilots stepped out, hands folded behind their backs. Both of them gave a crisp salute.
“Numbuh One,” one of them said.
He spun around just enough to acknowledge them with a curt nod. “Thank you, operatives. You’re dismissed.”
They stepped away without another word, re-boarding their vehicle to begin refueling. Nigel, meanwhile, moved forward alone. His boots tapped lightly on the cold steel flooring as he descended the ramp and approached the checkpoint bridge.
There were hundreds of people here. Yet somehow, he’d never felt more like a recluse.
He reached up briefly, tugging his scarf a little tighter around his neck as a gust of wind blew through. His eyes were hidden behind his shades, yet they scanned the information boards and walkways.
Like a man on a mission, he slipped away into the background.
Snow drifted through the open sky of the Sunken Mall, fluttering between the cracks of the closed escalators and shop windows. It was once busy, full of life on a grand summer day. By now, the only sounds were the distant clunk and drag of heavy things scraping the concrete.
Down below, a small squad of SACT agents moved like they had practiced.
Five of them, dressed in thick insulated snow gear, stepped through the main concourse of the closed plaza. They were wrapped in dark gray thermal layers with body armor atop, inspired by the Camo Tech suit line. Master toxic masks (much similar to gas masks) hid their faces, each with reflective visors and internal HUDS behind the lenses.
Their boots stomped quietly thanks to their cushioned treads, muffling their steps. However, there was no mistaking what they approached.
A bundle of frostbitten fusion monsters roamed the top of the mall, just outside of City Hall. They were massive, at least eight feet tall, dragging steel-drill arms like mutated muscles. Their metal bodies had patches of oil-like tar and bits of broken pavement. They twisted and churned, digging into the concrete walls and chewing through support beams like mindless termites.
One SACT operative lifted a closed fist.
They all stopped.
A few seconds passed. The team leader, identified by his beret, raised two fingers and spun them in a slow circle.
Then, he held up three fingers and pointed at the lumbering beasts.
Behind him, three of his fellow operatives nodded, lifting their weapons.
Slowly, they moved forward, revealing a line of issued rifles. They were orange-coated and thin-barreled, pulsing with inner currents that sputtered like a controlled storm. Each rifle looked almost kiddish to some extent, like it belonged to an airsoft line. However, they were much more dangerous than that.
The leader closed his fist again, and they went off altogether.
CRACK! ZAP!
The first blast fired like a thunderclap. A fresh bolt of energy lanced forward, crashing into one of the Asphalt Creeps dead center in the chest. The creature jerked violently, stunned, and collapsed into the snow.
A second bolt followed, and then a third, arcing from another rifle like a forked bolt.
The creature twitched one last time before exploding into a pile of smoking fusion matter, bubbling and hissing against the snowy concrete.
The squad kept going with brutal accuracy. They hit joints, throats, and pulsing weak points between limbs. Their HUDs locked onto pressure points beneath the ruined armor.
Within twenty seconds, nearly fifteen Asphalt Creeps were reduced to heaps of slop, absorbed by the NanoComms strapped to their wrists.
The SACT leader exhaled lightly and moved his fingers in another circular motion.
The team approached the Terraformer now in full view: a twisted growth wedged between a couple of trees. It pulsed in a light green, absorbing the nutrients from these already withering winter oaks. Veins of fusion root spiraled out, budding from the concrete and dirt.
Two agents knelt again, pulling out chrome, canister-loaded nozzles from their heavy backpacks. They took positions on either side, flanking the growth.
Their leader signaled again, this time a sweeping motion around it.
With a sharp shrill, dense white foam burst from their weapons. It sprayed in tight, directed streams as if they were firefighters holding hoses. The reaction was chemical, spontaneous, and violent. Pockets of green gas burst from the skin as the foam soaked deeper, acting as an antacid to the acidic alien parasite.
The final phase came as their leader stepped forward.
His weapon was sleeker, with a smaller barrel and a glowing orange igniter. He adjusted a dial on the side of his pack and pulled the trigger.
FWOOSH!
The moment his flame touched the foam, the reaction turned explosive. Fire lit up the sides of the Terraformer in a brilliant surge of orange and yellow. The entire parasite groaned, and its flesh buckled and began to shrivel more.
The two foam agents stepped back just as the other two stepped in, raising their Lightning Guns and raining coordinated bursts of electricity into the burning core.
It burst, not like a bomb, but like a boil. A disgusting wet pop echoed through the street, sending rancid fusion pus splattering across the ground.
For a moment, everything was still.
Then, the group’s guide gave a small nod. He stepped back, his boots crunching over a patch of ice as he raised his NanoComm. With a soft chime, he tapped a few commands into the console. Static flashed briefly, then came a clear hologram.
A man appeared.
He had a short blonde buzz cut with bright, analytical blue eyes. A rugged scar ran down his face with some flair. He wore a heavy winter trench coat over a black tactical turtleneck, and his broad shoulders were dusted with frost. The cold didn’t seem to bother him.
“At ease,” he greeted gruffly, his voice low. “How are things looking at City Hall?”
The SACT leader turned his gaze outward. He overlooked the view of the Sunken Mall, including some of the ruined buildings.
“Clean,” he replied through his distortion mask. “Nearly all of the Terraformers in our sect have been cleared. Minimal resistance. But… our cleaning foam’s running low, sir.”
He remained quiet, then gave a slow nod.
“Understood. We’ll re-up your resources back at camp. Mission priority now shifts to regrouping. I want your team back at base.”
“Copy that,” the squad leader confirmed.
With another tap, the hologram vanished.
He turned to his group and finally spoke out, his voice scratchy through the mask.
“You heard Steel. Let’s move out and breathe!”
The agents all relaxed a little. With ease, they slid their Lightning Guns onto magnetic black clamps and began packing up the rest of their foam canisters. A few of them knelt over the puddles of fusion matter left behind, scooping up the excess for containment.
That sickly smell of acid and ash lingered like a bloody-nosed scab.
One by one, the squad reformed into formation, walking smoothly down the road. The sidewalk was cleared, revealing old concrete paths beneath the snow. Their boots made soft thuds over it, leaving faint trails in the dust.
In the rear of the group, one SACT agent quietly removed his mask.
He exhaled into the cold, his breath fogging up like a dragon sighing.
The man had eyes older than most, but still young. His pale brown skin was flushed from the cold, and a tiny scar traced down the side of his cheek. Tied-up dreadlocks poked from the back of his hood, a few iced at the tips. He blinked once at the winter sky, overlooking the ruined buildings of Townsville Center.
Maurice.
His eyes weren’t full of fear, just the weight.
He tucked the mask under his arm and kept walking. Toward the camp in the distance, jet-black tents poked out from the white hillside.
Maurice didn’t speak as the squad trudged forward. The straps of his backpack tightened across his shoulders, weighed down by something the others didn’t notice. Nestled carefully beneath his rations and spare gear was a sealed canister, containing the last of his cleaning foam he’d packed.
He stashed it discreetly. They shouldn’t know. No, they couldn’t.
With one last glance behind him, he adjusted the pack and pressed forward, joining the line of SACT men and women as they descended into the valley.
The camp greeted them like a scar.
Beneath them was the ground that gave way to a massive wound. It was a jagged chasm that stretched at least three city blocks in diameter. Snow drifted gently all around it, but it didn’t stay. The moment any flake landed around its inner edges, it evaporated instantly. The air shimmered green here.
It wasn’t just hot, it was all wrong. The gravity was warped, pulling chunks of concrete and debris, suspending entire broken hovercars and hunks of asphalt. They had their own orbit, spinning slowly in place. Street lamps bent inward toward the sinkhole as if bowing to something.
The entire place had been sealed in an infection zone thanks to Dexlabs tech. Sturdy barricades, like steel dominoes, had been dropped around the outer rim, giving squads a place to take cover if another monster crawled out.
The camp surrounding the wound was split into two sects.
To the left: rows of SACT tents, jet-black and uniform, with antennae and comm towers set up. Dozens of cases for weapons, rations, and supplies sat neatly in some storage. The people moved coldly and quietly, speaking softly to one another while addressing this concerning sight.
To the right: Plumber equipment was stocked up, more alien. Curved, clean tents were organized like they were copying the other group. Several men and women overlooked data being scanned from the fissure with Galvan analyzers and Mecomorph modules. It was mostly humans here who worked side by side, but were blessed with otherworldly equipment.
At the center, where both sides met as a makeshift alliance, stood a folding field table with three very distinct men.
Maurice slowed down, his lips parting in subtle surprise as he noticed them.
Lieutenant Steel stood square-shouldered and tight-lipped. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, and his eyes were fixated on the map in front of him like they were on fire. Every square foot of him demanded respect from everybody, and they did.
Next to him was a slightly older man, now with a graying beard and chubby belly. He had a few more worry lines etching the corners of his face, but his eyes were equally as sharp with the status of a veteran. His classic winter jacket looked well-worn but functional, nowhere near as professional as Steel’s.
Finally, next to them, a massive man in a kilt and thick black boots stood with his arms crossed. A bushy red beard with a couple graying hairs curled across his jaw, and his single remaining eye squinted with distaste at the fissure beside them.
Even here, by the poisoned winter pit, he stood barefoot on principle. The wind snapped around him, but he didn’t care. He was a rock, and the misty air was going to listen to him.
Maurice’s squad began to break formation, drifting toward the SACT side of camp. A couple went to get food, others ammo. One slumped down beside a heater and immediately began taking off his boots.
Yet he stayed, curiously listening to their plans and strolling up beside them.
The man in the middle was the first to speak, sounding concerned but even as he gestured toward the map on the table. It surveyed the fissure, dotted with Plumber and SACT operations.
“Some of our Plumbers have been monitoring deep seismic feedback from the fissure’s core,” he said. “Strange energy pulses are being emitted from the mouth. Whatever is going on down there… it’s messing with the tectonic plate our island is sitting on.”
Steel furrowed his brow as he leaned closer. His arms crossed tightly now, boots shifting against the asphalt. “You think it’s planetary, Tennyson? Some kind of geological retaliation?”
Grandpa Max shook his head slowly, uncertain. “Could be. Or it could be something worse. This isn’t natural fusion matter anymore; it’s organizing, thinking for itself. I’m not so sure if this is the planet reacting to the invasion, or if the enemy’s evolving into something we’ve never faced before.”
The SACT leader’s lips tightened. “If it is, then we’re running out of time to react.”
“We’ve considered sending a recon team down,” Max continued, reaching for a small tablet from his side. “But the density of the fusion matter is so extreme, even our best suits won’t last more than an hour. It would take weeks to clear out enough just to establish a radar dish down there.”
From beside them, the Scotsman huffed through his nose. He glanced out at the levitating debris with mild amusement, grinning crookedly.
“Pfft. Weeks? Bah!” he scoffed, thudding his boot on the ground. “Get me a rope and some boots that don’t freeze m’toes, and I’ll march down there into that glorified soup bowl mahself!”
Max looked at him sideways, trying (and failing) not to smirk.
Steel turned his head sharply toward Max, visibly unamused, his breath fogging the air. “Is he serious?”
Tennyson lightly chuckled, waving a hand as if to ease the tension. “You get used to him. He once suplexed a fusion giant into a canyon because it interrupted his breakfast.”
The Scotsman gave a proud nod. “Aye. Ruined my stew, it did. Deserved what it got!”
Lieutenant Steel muttered something under his breath, straightening his posture. “Be that as it may… no one’s going down there yet, Scotsman. Not until we’ve got fusion-resistant gear, air support, and at least three fallback options.”
“Ach, cowards,” the Scotsman muttered, arms still crossed. But he didn’t argue further.
Behind them, Maurice approached fully now, not hiding his eavesdropping anymore. His breath was low and steady, and he kept his pack slung over one shoulder as he came to a stop.
Steel shot him a glance.
“Agent,” he said without turning his body, only his eyes. “You part of the strike on the Townsville Terraformers?”
Maurice gave a small nod. “Yes, sir. That’d be me.”
“You boys got everything cleared out?”
The young man replied, “Yep. City Hall and the Sunken Mall are cleared out. Won’t be surprised for a little while now.”
Steel nodded, shutting his eyes. “Good work. I’ll be sure to update the logs and inform everyone of our progress.”
“Aw, no need,” Maurice stepped forward, raising his arm and pulling out a plug-in from his issued NanoComm. “I can just upload it to the grid.”
“Perfect,” Max said. “This’ll help us spread the word on the work we’ve gotten done today. Good work, Maurice.”
He gave a faint smirk. “We do what we can.”
“Maybe you do,” Steel muttered.
The Plumber chuckled again. “Steel, give the kid a break. He’s been working on pest control for hours. He’s earned a breather.”
The Scotsman looked Maurice up and down. “Wait a tick… have I seen you before, lad?”
He blinked, then chuckled under his breath. “If you’ve ever had fine dining, then maybe.”
“Hah! I like ye already.”
Maurice looked out over the fissure, thoughtful.
Steel was still looking at him. It wasn’t suspicious, just measured.
“You looking to rest up, agent?” he asked. “Or are you just hanging around for another assignment?”
He didn’t answer right away. However, that caused some concerns deep within him.
Something stirred, and he needed to act quickly.
“Yeah. I think some rest sounds good.”
The man turned to look back with a cool smirk.
“Thanks, Lieutenant.”
Maurice turned and gave a polite nod before slipping away, heading toward the black row of SACT tents. The cold air flushed his cheeks, but the quiet of the camp gave him some peace. A few agents were still moving between workstations or huddling around heaters, but no one bothered him as he found his assigned tent.
He reached the front flap and pulled the zipper down carefully, the sound breaking the winter breeze.
Inside, the warmth greeted him like an old friend.
His space was tight but livable, just enough for a cot, a footlocker, and a few other SACT agent necessities for on-the-move missions. Spare gear was tucked by the wall, and a few empty ration packs were chucked into a bin. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was home enough.
Maurice sat down beside the heater and let out a long, tired exhale. He pulled the canister from his backpack, still cold, and set it carefully on the floor between his feet. Steam rose from the heater, fogging his gloves.
After a pause, he turned on his NanoComm. A faint beep came, and then a blinking red light.
He sat up straighter, steadying himself.
“This is Maurice… checking in.”
His voice was calm but heavy, like what he said had weight to it. The heater light cast an orange glow across his cold face, making his eyes look darker.
“My decision to infiltrate the Special Alien Containment Team has been unexpected, yet… drastic times call for drastic measures. My gig as a waiter undercover didn’t last too long, either.”
He reached down and scooped up the canister toward the camera.
“This foam’s good stuff. Dexlabs thinks it’s just another anti-fusion composite. But with the right tweaks, it can do more than burn back corruption. This’ll be delivered into the hands of Sector V for safekeeping, something SACT doesn’t want them to have. But you know what? That’s just too bad.”
Maurice lowered the canister and leaned forward slightly.
“Even while I’m locked in, I’m still fighting for the same cause. Always have been. Even if the field just changed.”
There was a pause, long enough for him to contemplate his situation. He furrowed a brow.
“Being an adult now… it’s funny. You spend your whole life in the Kids Next Door thinking that growing up means you forget your mission. The moment you turn thirteen, you become an enemy.”
He leaned back slowly, letting his head tilt up toward the tent’s ceiling.
“But what does the Kids Next Door mean now, in a world like this? When monsters crawl out of the sky, and kids have to fight shoulder to shoulder with their parents just to survive? Not to mention, they just threw decommissioning out the door.”
The man paused again, conflicted.
“I don’t have answers, not yet. I just know I’m not done fighting tyranny. Even if that tyranny looks different now.”
His fingers brushed against the wrist strap with a worn patch, the last visible part of his old uniform, hidden under his gear.
“And Cree… she keeps me grounded. If it wasn’t for her, or her decision to leave the Teen Ninjas with me, I don’t know where I’d be right now.”
He glanced toward the entrance. There was no movement outside, just snow drifting past the plastic tarp.
“When the time comes, I’ll make my stand. But for now… I’ll keep pretending to be one of them. So someone like me can still fight like one of us.”
Maurice took one last breath, now fully facing the NanoComm.
“It’s good talking with you, man. Checking out.”
The light on the NanoComm shut off. His eyes lingered on the canister for a moment longer before tucking it beneath his cot.
Surprisingly, he lifted his device and immediately dove into his emails. He didn’t bother to go over his recording again just to see if he looked good; he didn’t need to.
Within moments, his message was emailed to another user without a subject or note. It was just delivered, and that’s all he needed.
Then, slowly, he sat back against the tent wall. The heater hummed as background noise, and his dreadlocks brushed the wall behind him. He let his eyes close for the first time all day.
A whirring gust of cold air blew across the skyline as a Kids Next Door hoverboard zipped through the sky like a streak of lightning. It was low to the rail, no caution, no brakes.
Nigel crouched low on the board, his scarf whipping behind him, his gloved fingers holding onto a homemade Two-by-Four tech scanner, cobbled together with fickle wires, blinking lights, and a rugged data screen held together with scrap metal and chewing gum.
Below him, riding on the dangerously thin sky railway line, was the infected but deserted Townsville Center. Roads were torn apart, lamp posts bent like grass that had been stepped on, and a soft green glow came from the fissure over by the infection zone. The nip in the air was chilling, and yet he didn’t flinch.
The board trembled as he waved between Skyway Agents and elevated traffic. Sparks flicked beneath the board as he hit the top rail. One mistake, and he’d be shot into a billboard.
However, he was Numbuh One.
There would be no mistakes.
The screen on the scanner buzzed as encrypted packets began to decode. Green text scrolled by as he haphazardly read it to himself.
His jaw tightened as something came up.
“Bingo,” he muttered, lifting his sunglasses slightly to make sure he read it right. The wind howled louder, but he didn’t care.
He tapped the edge of the scanner and stowed it for now, bracing for impact.
CRUNCH!
Nigel hopped off the railing and landed perfectly on a rooftop, the board skidding to a sharp stop as the ice cracked beneath his weight.
The man stood up, overlooking the sight in front of him.
Down below, the Sunken Mall was quiet. There was nothing there to be seen, except for the fresh layer of ice.
He raised the scanner and tapped into the trace again. A faint blip appeared near the camp off in the distance.
Nigel narrowed his eyes behind the lenses of his shades. The signal was weak but present, just enough to triangulate. He could see it nestled toward the park off in the distance, just outside the infection zone.
Whatever message had been sent was recent, very recent. This concerned him, yet also proved that luck was on his side today.
He reached behind him, stowing the hoverboard on a magnetic clamp on his back. It powered down, beginning to charge idly thanks to a double-a battery charger and some Fizzy Rox.
Then, with that signature in mind, Nigel took one step forward, clenching his fists. He looked down.
Tap! Tap!
Nigel clicked his heels twice, and he ignited. A pair of impressive rocket boots sent him launching off the rooftop with a spiral of flame and smoke. The world blurred around him as he cut through the skyline, diving past a broken glass window with a steamy hiss. He posed, weaving through a pair of buildings.
In a practiced motion, he flipped twice, then landed hard on the snowy sidewalk with a satisfying thud. Snow kicked up subtly around him as he made his grand entrance, his boots cooling off.
Nigel sat up, letting the wind fold his coat around him. His fists slid quietly into his pockets.
He said nothing.
The camp up front was waiting, cold and organized. He could see the active work and drive, and more importantly, he spotted an old issue before his moving.
The Fissure.
A bad taste already formed in his mouth as he furrowed his brow, and the thought of having to deal with this mess already soured his mood. Still, he pressed on, eager to get things done.
To his left, a group of Plumbers were actively at work around the fissure edge. None of them had noticed him yet, still too occupied with pointing lasers and scanning strands of fusion corruption like swelled cancer cells.
Briefly, he checked his scanner once more, giving it a glance. The blip hadn’t updated anywhere, but he was close.
However, his eyes focused on the center of the camp.
Three distinct figures were actively talking work: Steel, Tennyson, and… a massive kilt-wearing warrior he knew all too well.
Steel was his replacement, he thought. How fitting.
Nigel pressed his collar tighter with one hand, shaking a bit from the ice.
He moved in, and caught their continued conversation.
“If the gravity sink gets any stronger,” Max was saying, “we’ll lose another block into it by the end of the week. We’ll have to establish seismic discs along the walls to stabilize it.”
“Then I’ll punch the gravity ‘til it behaves,” the Scotsman grunted, arms crossed. “Fusion filth’s never been able to stand me fer long.”
Steel just shook his head, narrowing his eyes at a readout from a tablet. By this point, he was just ignoring the Scotsman. “We’re talking field disruption, corrupted plate stress, and irradiated atmosphere. This fissure’s widening and bleeding into a subterranean channel. This can’t be a natural phenomenon; something’s down there.”
“It’s only a matter of time until it hits,” Max said grimly.
The lieutenant furrowed his brow, his gaze locked onto the map. “If you've got anything experimental, now’s the moment to use it. Otherwise, we’ll need to evacuate the entire quadrant.”
“Well, we’re already moving the citizens…” the old Plumber sighed, shaking his head.
Steel stopped, turning his head.
The Scotsman raised a brow and spun on his heel as well, looking behind him.
“Now that’s a face I haven’t seen in a while!” the Scotsman bellowed. “Come ‘ere, laddie!”
He spun around and instantly snatched Numbuh One, who was approaching before he could say anything else. He yanked him into a stiff one-sided hug, the strength practically knocking the wind out of him.
Nigel’s face squished against the man’s solid chest, and his sunglasses bent slanted. “G-Good to see you too…” he muttered, eyes half-shut. “You can… let go now-”
The Scotsman laughed heartily and finally released him, patting him so hard he could’ve cracked a rib. Uno stepped back, straightening his coat and resettling his scarf.
Grandpa Max shot him a smile from across the table. “It’s been a while, Nigel. I’m glad you could find some time to join us.”
The KND operative grinned with a respectful nod. “Always a pleasure, Max Tennyson.”
Steel simply gave a nod. Nothing else than that.
Nigel turned to the group, adjusting his sunglasses.
“I’m afraid I won’t be sticking around too long, gentlemen,” he said crisply. “I’m on a top secret mission and cannot afford to linger.”
The lieutenant raised an eyebrow, turning to Max. “So… you’ve met this young boy before, Tennyson?”
Max nodded, folding his arms. “Oh, yes. Before the second wave of the fusion invasion, Nigel was crucial in setting up camp here. Helped with fissure logistics before things started unraveling. The boy’s sharp.”
The Scotsman huffed proudly. “Deceptively tough, given his size. He’s got the makings of a war-band general, he does.”
Nigel gave a half-smirk as he turned toward Steel. “I see you’ve gotten yourself comfortable, Lieutenant.”
Steel didn’t blink, staring at him. “That’s subject to change.”
They stood there for a moment, all taking in each other’s company.
“Good,” Nigel said quietly. “I’d hate to think anyone was getting too used to this nightmare of a park.”
His eyes drifted for a moment, just to glance over the crowd by the outer ring of tents, and then stopped cold.
There he was.
A silhouette walking calmly past a row of crates. The tied-up dreads, the pale brown skin, that familiar stride. He didn’t rush; he had no fear.
Nigel’s expression changed immediately. The warmth on his face changed to a serious stare. His jaw tightened, and he pursed his lips.
He had his mark.
“I’ll let you return to your discussion,” he said silently, his voice suddenly serious. “Always good to see you again.”
Max gave him a nod. “Take care of yourself, Uno.”
“Don’t go gettin’ lost in the snow again, ya wee phantom,” the Scotsman added with a bold wave.
Steel watched him carefully, arms still crossed. He didn’t speak, but he noticed where Nigel’s focus was: toward the row of his tents.
His eyes narrowed only slightly.
Nigel shot a glance back at the lieutenant sharply.
Then he left. Slipping past a pair of SACT agents, neither of them paid him any mind. His boots crunched as he swept between tents. There was distant talk, radio transmissions, and the low hum of field equipment around him. However, he tuned that out.
The signal was still somewhere in this camp.
He wove through the maze of black tarps, bypassing workstations and dozens of others. Each step drew him closer into the heart of the SACT camp.
Up ahead, a lone figure turned the corner of one of the larger tents. He wasn’t in a rush, still unaware. The man was moving like someone who didn’t need to run.
The air shifted as Nigel spotted this. He watched him and stood there, feet planted in the snow, arms at his sides.
The other man stopped too.
In an instant, it was as if an unseen thread connected within only seconds.
He turned around, and their eyes met.
Numbuh Nine.
The years had gone by, and neither of them were the same. One wasn’t the boy who once cracked jokes in Sector V’s treehouse, and one wasn’t the rebel operative who’d vanished off the map.
The snow came down between them like uncovered history.
Maurice recognized his face immediately. He was older, sharper, and just as stubborn as he remembered. His eyes narrowed, not from anger, but from the recognition. Maybe there was some resentment there.
Nigel stood still, calm as ever. He slipped his fists into his coat pockets.
“Well,” he said finally, his voice low. “I think I just got lucky.”
Maurice’s shoulders tensed. Another cold gust swept between them sharply.
“You should’ve let me stay gone,” Maurice muttered, eyeing the camp around them.
Uno didn’t budge.
“I couldn’t.”
The air grew tense, yet familiar. It was like two chess players who had sat down to play before, and yet the stakes were different this time.
Both of them didn’t wear the same stripes, or fight the same enemies. Even their silhouettes told different stories now: battle-worn, bent but not broken, and draped in different uniforms. At the end of it all, it was the same war, but different fields.
Maurice tilted his chin up slightly with distrust in his eyes.
“How’d you find me?”
Nigel’s response was smooth, professional but personal.
“I heard rumors about an off-grid agent helping with fusion suppression in the Townsville sector, away from the Treehouse yet deceptively close enough to throw me off guard.”
He pulled out his Two-by-Four scanner from its pocket, still whirring with faint lights.
“I cross-checked encrypted signals and movement patterns. Only one camp matched the timing and technique I was looking for.”
Briefly, Nigel flashed the mini radar over the display.
“Then I caught a ping just in time. It was something small, but that was all I needed.”
Maurice stared down at the scanner, then immediately caught on. He looked down at his NanoComm on his wrist, clicking his tongue.
Nigel went on, “I figured you were communicating with someone else in hiding, too. However, I didn’t expect you to be so vocal in the shadows, and also join our alien containment friends…”
Maurice dryly chuckled, turning his eyes away. “You always were lucky. Some things just don’t change.”
He adjusted the device on his wrist, not out of discomfort, but just finding an excuse not to look at him.
“So what is it, then?” Maurice asked. “You finally ran out of yes-men, or did Sector V send their prized puppy to bring a stray back into the pound?”
Numbuh One didn’t flinch at his jab. He let the silence fill the air for a moment as he answered softly.
“I need your help.”
Maurice stopped short. His brows lifted a little, looking unsure.
“...Seriously?”
Nigel nodded without any drama or pause.
“Moon Base is under pressure. The second wave took out half of their outer systems–communications, security, and no doubt likely more I’m unaware of. We haven’t heard a word since the blackout, and I’m going up there to make things right.”
Maurice dryly blinked. His face didn’t change, but his shoulders snapped at the thought.
“So why not just round up your old crew?” he asked, arms folding tightly. “That’s your thing, right? Get the band back together. Solve everything with duct tape and bravado.”
Nigel’s shoulders sagged slightly at that. He let out a low, tired sigh.
“We’re spread thin, Maurice. Most of Sector V’s assisting evac routes or fighting off the fusion invasion. They’re mutating faster than expected.”
He stepped forward just enough to feel the heater coming from his tent.
“I don’t need muscle. I need someone who knows how to spot the enemy when it’s hiding in plain sight. I need someone who remembers what it was like when we stood for something, and knows how to tell when that’s slipping away.”
Maurice tilted his head slightly, now more skeptical.
“So you want a spy to play spy again.”
Nigel didn’t answer right away.
“No,” he said after a moment.
“I want a friend.”
Both of them flinched at this. A long silence had passed, only left by the background noise and the sprinkling of the snow.
Maurice looked down at his boots. That hit him in a spot that was more sensitive than he’d thought. Something old was unearthed as he said this, and he couldn’t help but frown at that. It was both fond and painful.
“No.”
Nigel blinked once behind his glasses.
“I’ve got work here,” Maurice said, quietly but firmly. “And I’m not done. I don’t know if I believe in what the Moon Base stands for anymore. The KND, the Splinter Cells, even this crusade of yours against the fusions–it’s all blurring together.”
He stepped back once, putting the distance between them again. Maurice snapped, his voice hardening.
“And another thing. Decommissioning. You put that on hold.”
Nigel’s face didn’t change, it just stopped him in his tracks.
“That goes against everything we stood for,” Maurice continued, stepping forward while de-shedding the cold. “The whole point of the Kids Next Door was that we don’t become them. We don’t grow up and make compromises. So what, you change the rules just because the world’s ending? That’s the legacy?”
Nigel exhaled through his nose. “It wasn’t that simple-”
“No?” he shot back. “Felt pretty simple when I walked into a black-site and got assigned field duty like it was just another school day. No questions. No red flags.”
He jabbed a finger toward the camp, now meeting him face to face.
“I’m twenty-four, Nigel! I’m still playing around with foam bombs and tracker beacons like we were back on the playground again. Look around!”
He motioned to the camp, more specifically to the SACT agents with weapons slung over their shoulders.
“You’re telling me that this, all of this, is what the future holds for the Kids Next Door? A bunch of grown up operatives in black snow gear, taking orders, carrying weapons like we’re soldiers?”
“I was there,” Nigel said suddenly.
Maurice stopped, his face changing.
“I was there,” he repeated, a little slower now. “When the vote happened. I wasn’t even here at the time when the first wave came. I was up at the Moon Base, picking up some of the pieces. There were talks about decommissioning being put on hold the moment this invasion began baring its teeth.”
He looked down for a moment, his eyes shaded by his glasses. His words started carrying a heavy edge.
“We didn’t have a choice. We didn’t want to cancel decommissioning. But if we didn’t pause it, just pause, the entire organization would have been gutted. Our best agents would be all gone. Not just because of the fusion war, but a technicality, to a birthday cake.”
Nigel mustered up the courage to look him in the eye, lowering his sunglasses only an inch so that he’d see him for what he looked like.
“You think we sold out? Got comfortable? We didn’t. We made the call because we had to. We needed everyone on board for this. Every slingshot, every soda bomb, every spunky treehouse engineer with a makeshift jetpack. We didn’t give up. We adapted, Maurice, and we’ve held the line longer than anyone else.”
Maurice’s face twisted as he heard this, painful behind his scowl. The words landed, like each sentence was dragging something out of him.
“Don’t you hear what you’re saying?”
Nigel stopped.
Maurice went on, now speaking in a haunted whisper.
“Look at us, Nigel. We aren’t kids anymore.”
He gestured between them, the frost misting from his breath, the weight of the gear on their backs, the experience in their eyes.
“We’re not rebels fighting candy pirates with cane swords. We’re adults, clinging to the idea that the mission still means what it used to. But it doesn’t. It can’t. Don’t you understand how twisted that sounds?”
Nigel paused. A moment passed as he sat on his point before making a comment.
“You’re right,” he said quietly. “But I’d rather spend the rest of my life pretending to be a kid who fought for something than an adult who gave up because it got too hard.”
The snow drifted around them again.
Then he took a step back, his calm facade coming back to his voice.
“You don’t have to come with me,” he said gently. “But if you ever find yourself wondering whether you still belong… you do.”
He tapped his chest with two fingers, looking up at him. Then, slowly, he turned his head and looked away.
“I didn’t find you just to guilt you, Maurice. I came because I still trust you.”
His hand went into his coat and pulled out a folded slip of paper, sealed with a KND encryption.
He set it gently on the corner of one of Maurice’s supply crates just inside.
“There’s no pressure. No orders. The door is open. The passcode to get through it is inside.”
Then, without another word, Numbuh One turned.
His coat caught in the wind as he walked off into the cold. He didn’t dramatically pause or look back.
He stared at the folded slip of paper left behind, the KND encryption seal still blinking gently in the faint sunlight. It felt like it weighed more than it did.
His arms remain crossed. It wasn’t defensive, just tight. It was like if he let go, he’d unravel.
In the light of it all, he didn’t feel cold anymore, just hollow. It was like the warmth was pretending too. He looked out toward the distant skyline beyond the camp, seeing the way the clouds churned over Townsville’s broken edge. The Fissure beside him pulsed. No one was yelling, nor were any orders being barked, just still work.
Maurice then exhaled sharply through his nose, then looked down again.
Nigel was already mounting his hoverboard at the edge of the path, powering it up. The signal blinked once. He didn’t turn around, leaving him there.
In seconds, he was just a shadow moving through the cold day.
He clicked his tongue, then eyed the encryption slip still sitting on the crate. He didn’t pick it up, but he didn’t toss it away either.
Instead, he turned and walked back into the tent.
He sat down heavily beside the heater, gloves coming off slowly. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, rubbing his fingers together to thaw them for more than just the cold.
His eyes lingered on the patch sewn into the strap of his gear. The faded insignia was still there.
Maurice didn’t smile about any of this, yet he felt indifferent.
Outside, the snow kept falling, and the paper on the crate still waited,
right where Nigel had left it.