Disclaimer: Hey Arnold and its characters belong to Craig Bartlett, and to him alone. That his characters have inspired such hubris in me that would see me attempt a fan fiction based on them, speaks volumes of my reverence of the man.
Author's Note: While I am chomping at the bit for Season 6 to be greenlit one day, whether on Nickelodeon or Netflix (I'm not fussy), I approached this project with the underlying premise of how HA could be if it were to be picked up by HBO instead.
1. Prologue: All Good Things…
"Where is he?" Her tone betrayed her frustration. "I mean, criminy, the Football Head goes through all the effort to organise this fancy-schmancy rooftop shindig and he doesn't even have the decency to show up on time for it!"
"Oh Helga," Phoebe retorted. "he's probably trying for the fashionably late angle."
"Get real, Phoebe! Arnoldo and fashionable do not belong on the same continent, let alone in the same sentence!"
"Oh, come on, Pataki!" the third voice weighed in. "Now that you two are an official couple you're gonna have to accept him with all his eccentricities. He probably stopped to help an old lady cross the street or find her missing cat or something."
"Ooooo….'eccentricities', Geraldo! Did Phoebe teach you that new word?" Helga playfully mocked.
Gerald was having none of this: "Well at least she's a good influence on me. Hopefully he'll be a calming one on you."
Helga would have been livid at Gerald's remarks if not for the fact that they were true. She and Arnold were a newly-minted couple. The confirmation had been made in the presence of witnesses. Said witnesses had reacted with cheers of joy, and maybe also a sense of relief, of knowing that the inevitable had happened. Not that it was the reason for the rooftop celebration at the Sunset Arms. The real reason was to celebrate the return of Arnold's parents and for Arnold to apologise to his classmates for drawing them into the San Lorenzo misadventures. Which was why Miles and Stella were on the rooftop, socialising with Phil, Gertie and the rest of the tenants. Even Aunt Mitzi had put aside her rivalry with Phil to celebrate the survival of her nephew and his beautiful wife. Most of the San Lorenzo tour group was there as well, partaking in the feast laid out by the Shortmans as a symbol of their contrition. Festivities everywhere. Friendly, cheerful chatter, the jungle ordeal reduced now to humorous anecdotes – with some exaggerations here and there. Everyone enjoying the moment. Except for one.
"Phoebe! Run down and check if Arnold is on his way!" Helga instructed with her usual brusqueness.
Phoebe understood. As much as Helga loved Arnold, as much as the class and most of the neighbourhood knew about their relationship – good news travelled quickly after all – Helga still felt the need to maintain her tough veneer and thus didn't want to come across as too eager about being around her beloved footballhead. Such was Helga and her contradictory emotional states.
Phoebe understood the situation all too well and responded: "Checking!"
And with that, she tore for the exit. Gerald was more interested in helping himself to the spread laid out and went to do just that. Helga was left alone to ponder how she would chew out Arnold for his tardiness before immediately making up with him.
She would not get the opportunity.
There was cause for the celebration. San Lorenzo was a memory. Whether it was a good or bad memory depended on who was asked. For Arnold, the good outweighed the bad. By a very, very long margin. He'd found his parents. He'd made his feelings known to Helga and she accepted. There was however also the bureaucracy and long hours with the San Lorenzo police, recounting the kidnapping ordeal with Lasombra. In the end, they needn't have feared any legal ramifications, as the local law enforcement was all too happy to be rid of "that pendejo" Lasombra: his demise and the fates of his soldiers were cause for much celebration by the rank and file.
The stifling bureaucracy encountered at the US consulate would also be filed under "bad memories". Questions, forms, more questions, background checks, corroborations: all for the sake of replacing lost travel documents just to get back to the USA, to Hillwood. But eventually even this was dealt with and before long they were all back home.
There'd still be the therapy sessions with Doctor Bliss. Lots of therapy sessions given that they'd experienced, according to an unusually understanding Principal Wartz, "a very severe mental trauma" and would need time to unpack the events and their impact.
But it was the here and now that mattered to Arnold as he breathlessly sprinted to the Sunset Arms. His excitement to be with his parents had not waned since they touched down three weeks ago, nor had his eagerness to be with Helga. He had been delayed because Mrs Vitello had needed help crossing a particularly busy street and required help that he was all too willing to provide. Prior to that, he'd been shopping for a gift. A gift signifying acceptance and reciprocity. One sure to surprise its intended recipient, in the best possible way he hoped. Now though, he was dreading the wrath of Helga for not arriving at the appointed time. Eventually, the building came into sight, with Phoebe standing at the main entrance.
"Arnold!" she yelled. "You'd best hurry. Helga is really agitated by your tardiness."
"Sorry! Sorry!" he huffed between worried gasps.
As if Helga had heard Phoebe's admonishments, she peered over the ledge on the rooftop and caught sight of Arnold. Arnold felt her gaze and looked up at the roof. Their eyes met, and Arnold saw disapproval and unconditional love in Helga's steely gaze as only she could manage.
"Hey Football Head! Party's started without you! Get your keister up here right this moment!" she shouted in the most convincing display of agitation she could conjure.
"Whatever you say, Helga, whatever you say!" he shouted back.
And then she died.
A preliminary forensic report would later posit that three explosions occurred. The first one would have in the basement of The Sunset Arms, where it ruptured a gas main, causing it to ignite. The subsequent gas explosion, sizable enough to register on the Richter Scale, emitted a powerful shockwave that critically weakened the building's foundation and structure. The building was rendered structurally unstable, but it remained standing momentarily. The shockwave also set off a sizable stockpile of dynamite, curiously located in a room rented out to one Ernie Potts. The dynamite was of such a poor composition to be unstable enough that the shockwave was sufficient to trigger it. As an aside, it was later established that Ernie Potts had been stealing dynamite from the demolition company at which he was employed and stockpiling it for an as yet undetermined reason. The dynamite explosion was powerful enough to destroy the base of the first floor. It also took out enough of the roof to cause it to cave in, spilling the occupants to the inside of the building's structure. At this point, the report stated, the walls caved in and buried the occupants in the building's rubble. Those not killed by the initial shockwave or by the subsequent fall were fated to perish, whether directly or indirectly, by being crushed by said rubble.
This chain of events lasted for less than twenty seconds, but Arnold experienced it in slow, dream-like disbelief. He witnessed Phoebe being propelled away from the doorway by the sheer force of the gas explosion and land hard on the road surface before skidding and rolling across the asphalt, striking and tumbling over the opposite kerb before finally grinding to a halt on the opposite sidewalk. He looked up at the roof to see Helga peering at him wide-mouthed in fear and confusion. He would have screamed some reassurance to her, but the third explosion drowned him out and engulfed the roof in dust and ash. He would have run up to be with her, but Phoebe was closer and in more immediate need of his help. He ran to her and found her bloodied, limp and barely conscious; her hair, skin and clothes were all smouldering from the blast. Then, as the building buckled for the final time, it was all he could do to pick up the severely injured girl and run like hell down a nearby alley to the back of the building opposite The Sunset Arms. He offered a prayer that the lee of the building would protect them from the fast-approaching cloud of thick, choking dust.
His prayer had been answered; the back of the building kept most of the dust away from them. Finally, he had a chance to assess the situation. He was coated in dust and his arms and chest were slick with Phoebe's blood. He became aware that he himself was bleeding; not that he realised it immediately, but bits of brick and glass had struck him and embedded themselves in his left arm and left flank. He would have collapsed at the realisation, but he forced himself to stay conscious for Phoebe's sake at least.
Finally, when the dust had settled somewhat, he was able to peer down the alley towards his former residence. It was no more: only bricks, mangled steel pillars, shattered glass. Most sickening were the pained screams and groans from within the debris, amplified mercilessly by the narrow, resonant alley. Loud at first, then fading…and fading…becoming distant and softer. Then…silence. No more screams. No more groans. No more desperate pleas for assistance. Nothing.
His growing disbelief manifested in a series of increasingly despairing screams.
"MOM!"
"DAD!"
"GRANDPA!"
"GRANDMA!"
"HELGA!"
"ANYBODY!"
Only silence as tears streamed down his cheeks to punctuate his distress. Deathly silence, broken only by Phoebe's pained moans as he cradled her limp figure in his arms, then by a wheezing sound slowly approaching. Brainy's severely injured figure emerged from the subsiding dust in a zombie-like gait.
"Brainy?" Confusion. "BRAINY?" Disbelief. "BRAINY!" Hope.
"Huh…huh…Arnold," Brainy managed weakly.
"Were you on the roof? How'd you survive? How..?" Arnold realised he was overwhelming the spiky-haired boy.
"Huh...I don't know."
"What about the rest!? WHAT ABOUT THE REST!?" Arnold found himself not caring about his classmate's fragile physical condition.
One word, wheezed pitifully: "Sorry."
"No no no no no no NO! You mean my family? My my my friends?" Then quivering: "Gerald…? Helga…?"
That word again: "Sorry." At which point Brainy surrendered his consciousness.
That single word enervated Arnold and his adrenaline started wearing off. He finally became aware of the shooting pains in his flank where small bits of high-velocity glass and masonry had found their target. He could feel a sticky wetness spreading across the area.
He would have embraced unconsciousness as well at that point, but he felt Phoebe slipping away in his arms. Damn him! Damn him for always wanting to put the needs of his friends before his own! She had to stay alive, she had to. He was desperately telling her that much while willing himself to remain alive and calm for her sake. And for Brainy's.
The subsiding adrenaline made Arnold aware of approaching sirens coming to a halt near the remnants of The Sunset Arms. Then came the booted footfalls and the loud issuing of orders within the rubble. Arnold gathered the last of his fading strength to stagger with Phoebe into the now almost clear alley to face the first responders: it didn't matter who saw them.
"Hey! Over here! OVER HERE!" he managed. A firefighter turned to him, towards his wounded scream.
"OH JESUS! WE GOT SURVIVORS! WE GOT LIVE ONES!" she screamed to her colleagues as she sprinted towards him and Phoebe.
Arnold interpreted her undivided attention as permission to lapse into insentience, which he did.
Arnold woke up to a clean, sterile environment. He was taped up, stitched up and hooked up. He didn't like it, so he fidgeted violently in an attempt to escape the bed, the tubes and the monitors.
"No no no, don't get up! You need to rest!" came the calm insistence of the nurse as his firm grasp stopped Arnold from removing the tubes.
Arnold didn't want to comply, and he struggled with ever-fading strength and vigour until he was forced to accept that he was going nowhere.
"There you go, champ," the nurse reassured him, "there you go."
Arnold opened his mouth to talk, only for it to feel like he was gargling on gravel. Eventually, he forced out a word: "…Where…"
"You're at Drymon Medical Clinic," answered the nurse, who anticipated the next question as well. "You were pretty banged up. You've been out and under for almost a day now."
"…Huh…?" Arnold's lucidity was a long way yet from returning.
"Oh yes!" the nurse explained. "You have a concussion from the blast. Plus you were treated for first-degree burns. And then, young man, and then...you know how many stone and glass fragments they fished out of you? One or two even nicked an artery here and there. So there was blood loss as well. Not to mention the dust inhalation…actually, you got off much more lightly than you could have!"
Arnold wished to respond, but words were still proving elusive. "Water…" he eventually managed.
The nurse fetched him a glass of water, which the blonde boy drank in desperate gulps to soothe the sandpaper lining his throat. He now felt confident to speak more than one word at a time. "Family…friends…OK?' at least his throat wasn't seizing up anymore.
The nurse's expression went from chipper to solemn and suddenly he seemed lost for an answer. When two uniformed police officers entered, his relief was visible to all. "Good evening, officers. How can I help you? This young man just woke up! Are you here to take his statement? I guess I should leave you to it then!" he issued in a constant stream as he beat a hasty exit from the room.
The officers stared in bemusement at the nurse's exit before one of them turned to the bedridden boy: "How about it, son? We heard your nurse striking up a conversation with you. You up to answering a few questions?"
Arnold nodded weakly, then proceeded to recount the events up to and immediately after the explosion. One officer asked the questions, the other studiously jotted down the answers. The questions were relentless but considerate. Anything out of the ordinary, anything at all? Any vehicles that didn't belong in the neighbourhood? Anyone whom he hadn't seen in the area before? Any details, big or small, anything that could help in any way. Anyone from the block acting differently?
No. No. No. And many times, no.
What about the explosion? Arnold recalled hearing more than one explosion. He knew that one propelled Phoebe away from the building, while another one brought the building down. But he could have sworn he heard another one immediately before those two. Eventually, the ordeal was over, and the policemen thanked Arnold for his co-operation before leaving.
At the same moment, the nurse arrived with a doctor, both with expressions suggesting that some grim news was forthcoming. They made their way to his bedside, the doctor bracing herself mentally and the nurse preparing himself to back her up.
"Mister Shortman…Arnold…I'm afraid I have some very bad news," she began with a quiver in her voice, watching how his heart rate started spiking on the ECG.
Arnold feared what was coming. All the time he'd been nurturing feint hope that his family was still alive. He'd rationalised it over and over. Grandma and Grandpa survived ninety-plus years of the worst that Earth could throw their way; what was a little explosion? Mom and Dad survived pirates, ground zero at a volcanic eruption and a potentially fatal case of sleeping sickness. Helga, Gerald… they went through hell with him and for him, they walked away from a crashed bus…what was a small collapsed building? He had to believe that they were still alive. He had to remain optimistic – Goddammit, someone had to!
"Arnold? Arnold?" the doctor's voice came back into focus; Arnold's jumbled thoughts had drowned her out.
"Huh?" was all that could convey his desperation and disorientation.
"I'm really, really sorry. Your father and grandparents did not survive the collapse. Your mother…we did all that we possibly could for her, but…the organ damage was too severe, and she died in the ER."
Arnold felt his chest tighten. Still, he managed: "Friends...Gerald…Helga?"
"Excuse me? Who?" the doctor wasn't sure of the question.
The nurse whispered into her ear, and the doctor nodded in recognition though her expression did not lighten in the slightest.
"There was a Gerald Johannsen, DOA. Severe cranial trauma. Helga Pataki, she made it to the OR but unfortunately, she…she had a piece of shrapnel lodged in her one lung, causing it to collapse. She…went into respiratory shock and we couldn't resuscitate her. I am so, so sorry for your loss, Arnold," she stated with equal parts warm empathy and cold professionalism.
"What?" Arnold asked, fuelled by disbelief and a spike in adrenaline.
"Arnold, I'm sorry but you and two others are the only survivors. Another boy – I forget his name – and a young girl – Phoebe Heyerdahl, I believe – still in surgery, but I must tell you that her prognosis is not looking good."
He'd heard enough; in fact, he'd heard more than enough. Arnold's shock at the news was revealed in a cry that defied his weakened state and his still-scratchy throat. He let out a wail that echoed throughout the entire floor while he flailed wildly at anything and nothing in particular. His vision was reduced to tear-streaked flashes of colour and violent motion. He heard one voice, two voices, more voices shouting for him to calm down. He felt hands push down on him, keeping him still as a voice in charge ordered more sedatives. He struggled, he thrashed, he wriggled, he screamed, he felt himself weakening and as he slipped back to sleep he heard the doctor's voice saying once more how sorry she was.
Arnold's youthful innocence died that day.
Arnold's youth died that day.
"Hey Orphan Boy!"
And so his already bad day was about to worsen exponentially. He had been discharged after a week in the hospital. It was a week that made him regret his survival. Brainy had recovered and vanished. Phoebe was still in intensive care, in a medically induced coma and still miles inside the woods. He himself had had a few sessions with Doctor Bliss with no sight of any breakthrough, no matter how many times she reassured him – and the police report confirmed – that no part of the tragedy was his fault.
"Hey, I'm talking to you!"
Worst of all were the visits from the bureaucrats from Child and Family Services. Their stern mannerisms were immune to his tragic circumstances. All that mattered to them was placing him somewhere, anywhere, to hell with his wants and needs. He'd be lost and forgotten in the system if not for the timely intervention of Eduardo.
"You've got some nerve being here!"
A possible terrorist attack on American soil was worldwide news, and when news of the associated loss of Miles and Stella Shortman reached Eduardo in San Lorenzo, it prompted him into catching the earliest available flight to Hillwood. His time there was split largely between being Arnold's only visitor and engaging with CFS, whom he eventually convinced that he would be a suitable guardian for Arnold Philip Shortman.
"You got something planned for the rest of us, huh? Hoping to finish the job?"
Arnold was ambivalent at Eduardo's news. Eduardo was a way better option than Arnie and his brood, but he'd have to relocate to San Lorenzo. Eduardo insisted that it would pose no problem, given the fact that Arnold's birth in San Lorenzo granted him dual citizenship. Arnold was not fully convinced.
"You think that cheap suit makes you less of a killer?"
Having barely been discharged, he was now at the memorial service for his deceased family and friends. Given the extraordinary circumstances surrounding their deaths, the city and press were making a national live event out of the occasion. The largest hall was booked, no expense was spared. Full police guard detail. Large garishly framed pictures of the deceased. Limousines for all the next-of-kin. Flowers as far as the eye could see.
It was here, under the unrelenting scrutiny of countless news cameras, that he encountered the remaining Patakis amid a sea of glares, hisses and murmurs from the other attendants. Arnold was regretting his survival once again. Bob's jibes were relentless, and the pointed gazes of the other mourners crippled him with their unspoken questions: "Why only you? Why not my son? Why not my daughter? Why not my brother, my sister, my friend?"
To which he had no answers.
"Christ, wasn't it enough to kill off Helga?"
Enough! A switch had tripped inside Arnold's mind and the guilt previously painted across his face disappeared, in its place a look of searing anger. Arnold walked up to Bob, who was spread across his aisle seat.
"NOW?" he asked the seated figure.
"Excuse me? Did you say something?" Robert Pataki rose to face Arnold, to the embarrassment of Miriam and the chagrin of Olga.
"She has to die for you to remember her name?"
Bob was caught off-guard briefly, but he recovered quickly: "Watch your mouth, little man!"
Arnold felt all the eyes, ears, irises and microphones suddenly focus on him and Bob but was no less perturbed.
"The hell I will! You treated her like shit while she was alive. Now you suddenly care about her?"
"That's none of your business, Orphan Boy!"
"Fuck you, Bob!" the diminutive boy blurted out to nationwide gasps.
His candour earned him a fierce backhand across his cheek that sent him spiralling across the aisle.
"Don't you fucking talk to me like that, you little shit!" Robert Pataki bellowed. "I'm Big Bob Pataki, and don't you fucking forget it!"
But before he could continue his tirade, Robert Pataki was tackled by several policemen announcing that he was under arrest for assaulting a minor. The ensuing melee drew screeches from Olga for the police to leave her daddy alone as she joined in the struggle, drawing more officers into the skirmish. The reporters sensed a Pulitzer and congregated around the chaos.
One of them saw Miriam keeping her distance and approached her, voice recorder primed and ready.
"Mrs Pataki, is there any truth to Arnold's allegations?"
"I-I-I-I…" stammered an overwhelmed Miriam.
"What about you, Mrs Pataki? Has your husband treated you badly too?" another reporter asked.
"Has he abused you? Has he abused his daughters?" another still.
"Miriam! Shut up! Don't say a word!" screamed Bob, flailing and striking and struggling from within the ongoing altercation.
But the barrage of questions continued as even more reporters chimed in.
"Mrs Pataki, did your husband sexually abuse your daughters?
"Mrs Pataki…!"
"Mrs Pataki…!"
"Mrs Pataki…!"
"Miriam, don't say another word!"
The hall erupted into chaos at the sight of the unfolding spectacle. Even the mayor's call for order went unanswered. Miriam felt the chaos engulf her and fell to the floor where she curled into a foetal position and started humming Chopin's Minute Waltz to herself, oblivious in her newfound happy place.
Soon enough the policemen were able to overpower and cuff both Bob and Olga and were leading them out of the venue. Eduardo was helping a dazed and bleeding Arnold back to his feet. They both watched the handcuffed duo in their impromptu perp walk. Bob had gone quiet, however Olga looked back at Arnold with murder in her eyes.
"You bastard!" she shrieked. "This is all your fault! I'll get you for this! You ruined everything! You're dead, you hear me? YOU'RE DEAD!"
The reporters ravenously pursued the entourage in a din of flashing cameras and shouted questions. Miriam was left behind, forgotten, still humming somewhere in Cloud Cuckoo Land and able to receive attention from the assembled paramedics. Otherwise, silence descended, though the air remained no less acrimonious.
Arnold broke the silence: "Eduardo, can I have a moment please?"
Eduardo nodded and Arnold walked to the photographs at the front. To each one he said a solemn farewell: Rhonda; Nadine; Eugene; Harold; Curly; Stinky; Sid; Mr Huynh; Ernie; Mr Kokashka.
He got to Gerald's portrait and started choking on the emotions: "Farewell, my brother!"
By Helga, his sobbing couldn't be repressed: "Sorry Helga. I'm so very sorry. I really did love you. I'll never forget you."
Finally, his family: "Thank you for being my family. I'll always love you."
Arnold was now convinced. He rejoined Eduardo and they left together. Three hours later they were on a flight back to San Lorenzo, to a new life away from Hillwood.