Prologue

In the quiet part of Europe sits a little old town, one that has changed little in 150 years. In fact if you were in this town, you might've seen high in the sky, a plane. It is a descent, old style one, one you might have seen in World War 1. But this plane has no guns, bombs, or war-photographer aboard. In fact, war is the last in the young pilot's mind.
Indeed, why would the sweet, young fifth grader Arnold be flying a war-plane? He was flying, not by villainy or by crookery, but because he loved the air. On this particular day, he sure could use some.
Arnold looked out over the cockpit and smiled. The breeze felt great. The sun was shining. The gulls flew overhead, blissfully ignorant of the young flying kid who had joined them.
Arnold flew in lower, this time gliding under a cobblestone bridge by the countryside. A stage jockey barked at this inconvenient flying route, but Arnold was already far out of sight before he started his squawks.
Arnold was now high in the clouds, his favorite part of the sky. Only… Hey! Where was the town? And the birds? And what was… a forest? Monkeys? How'd he get to the jungle?
Arnold pondered for a moment, before realizing the truth. He looked to side. In the plane which was now flying beside him, sat his parents behind the controls.
"Mom?! Dad?!" he gasped. Before they could respond, down they flew. Arnold scratched his head but soon knew why. More planes! Six, no seven of them! Black! Angry! And shooting…

"Noooo…!" Arnold awoke with a scream. It was over. It was just a nightmare. He looked around and was saddened to see he was yet again, all alone.
"HEY ARNOLD! HEY ARNOLD! HEY ARNOLD! HEY-" went his potato alarm clock. Arnold jumped up in surprise. He certainly was not in the mood. All of a sudden, much to his surprise, Arnold swung his arm around, so hard he broke it. There was a large crash, as the shelf the now dead time-piece once sat, fell, dumping her load of books onto the floor. Arnold looked down at his hands.
He could barely realize this new-found strength, but he was even more surprised by Grandma, who upon hearing the crash had readied herself for an attack in full bathrobe and frying pan defense.
"Where is he!" she demanded. "I'll beat him to bits!"
"Calm down gramma, it was me!" he pleaded. At that moment, Grandpa Phil entered the room. He too, was dressed in a bathrobe, but his tone was much calmer considering he was still half asleep.
"Pookie," he said, yawning. "Must you fly off the rail at this hour?"
"I'm saving Chimba from the wild beast himself!" she howled. At that moment, a fly promptly landed on the end of her weapon. "There he is!" she scowled. "No mercy!"
And with this last shout, Pookie began swinging violently and chased the insect out of the room and down the hall. "I'll have your head you fiendish tiger! Heave-to!" she yelled.
The room was now much quieter. It was at this point that Grandpa took the opportunity to look around the room. His eyes fell upon the broken alarm clock, and the fallen books, and cracked shelf surrounding it.
"Well," he said, looking down. "I suppose you had that same dream again?"
Arnold nodded sadly. It had been weeks since he had uncovered his father's journal, which had helped him learn the truth about his parents. On the last page was a map, which he assumed must have been the route his parents took before they disappeared. He was excited, and planned to find them as soon as possible. He had taken the liberty to try and research the region known as San Lorenzo, where the map and the journal both mentioned by name by buying several pamphlets and textbooks and such from there, all of which arrived in small brown packages, but alas he had gotten no nearer than when he started.
It was now his first day of firth grade. He cringed, walking toward the bathroom. At last, taking a breath, he said, "I have to go to school, Grandpa."