Chapter 10

Those Left Behind

Somewhere around the Wyoming/Idaho border

-RHONDA-

The wind whipped through my hair as the two of us sailed through the skies. After my near-brush with death and that bizarre fever dream, I was unsure just what I should tell Helga about. That whole thing with the one-eyed demon version of her seemed like something that my fevered mind produced entirely on my own, but there was something nagging me about it. Something just… off. Like how my dream had references to a movie I'd never actually seen.

If that other entity was real, had it inserted the reference into my mind? If it could… what else could it have done to me? Am I fully in control?

I resolved, then, that the next time we stopped to rest our wings, I'd share the full story with her.

Well, mostly. Helga didn't have to know about Lulu. Not until we were more comfortable around each other. We were out of the enemies phase, but nowhere near the "come out for the first time" phase.

That settled, my thoughts began to drift to home.

What was that going to be like? How would people react? Could we even begin to have a semblance of a normal life in these bodies?

And did our absence really make a difference?

Hillwood, WA

Apartment of Michael and Katherine Robinson

-NADINE-

It's been three days now since the break-in had been reported.

I've been keeping myself busy with schoolwork and taking care of my pets. And thinking.

From the outside, you'd think our relationship had been Queen Bee/flunky. Rhonda can definitely come off as the Queen Bee type, all flash and drama and dominance, while I'm just sort of tagging along. People don't really get to see the real Rhonda. Sure, she can be vain, and self absorbed, and petty, and – and okay, she is not coming off good here. Sometimes I kinda do wonder why we're best friends.

And then I remember why. Because…

Wait, let me give you an example.

A week or so before San Lorenzo

The two of us sat in Rhonda's cavernous "media room" as the credits began to roll. I'd made her binge the entire previous four seasons prior to today's season-opening marathon. Fair was fair. She owed me for her latest attempt to set me up. There'd been many over the years… Robert, Sid, Peapod Kid, even her bowling coach's kid. The latest had been Park, who it turns out was her second cousin. I'd only agreed to it on the condition that she marathon the series of my choice.

So, here we were with her finally caught up. She turns to me and says "But… what am I supposed to do now? I'm INVESTED!"

"Now you wait for the next episode. And curse the executives in charge of scheduling." I answered, putting on my most innocent look.

"You knew. You KNEW this would happen!" She glared at me in mock outrage. "You knew I would love this show and now I am cursed to descend down the rabbit hole of… FANDOM."

I took a spoonful of the dairy-free ice cream she always kept in the freezer for me. See… it's things like that. She's always thinking of me, even when it seems like she's not. "You've already drawn a Gemsona, haven't you. Mine's an Aquamarine. Because of the wings."

Rhonda sighed. "Purple Pearl. A renegade inspired by tales of Rose Quartz's Pearl. Her weapon's a boomerang." She flipped to it on the sketch pad she had lying around.

"You're actually starting to get pretty good, you know that?" Her linework wasn't quite there, but she had gotten pretty good at anatomy and perspective, two of her early hangups. "Don't worry," I reassured her. "You'll only be truly hopeless once you start on fanfic. Self-insert fanfic where your OC saves the Earth thanks to her ability to communicate with grasshoppers."

She got a mischievous look in her eyes. "Show me," she said gleefully.

"Uh uh. That's going to be buried with me. No one will ever see it."

"Awww…" She looked legitimately disappointed.

"Just… a little warning. Fandom can be really, stupid. Friendships have died over shipping wars. Great battles have been fought over Lapidot vs. Perithyst."

"It's okay. I've seen it before. Phoebe got me hooked on Avatar."

"Wait… when did you start hanging out with Phoebe?"

"Remember when you went to your grandparents in Kingston last summer? Helga was also away, and Phoebe and I just sorta started hanging out by default."

"Was she also the one who got you into manga?"

"No, that was Patty. You know, she's pretty cool. We should all three hang out sometime… what were we talking about again?"

"Bad fandom experiences. I've been ripped into for supporting the 'wrong' ship, or questioning some of the more out-there theories, or just suggesting that the 'Townie' episodes aren't completely without merit…"

"That's ridiculous! The townie episodes are clearly there to demonstrate how Steven's dual nature grounds him in both worlds! Removing them completely would run counter to the entire theme of the show!"

"THANK YOU! You get it! Why is that so hard for so many people?"

"They just don't see how awesome you are. Even if your passion is my phobia."

"That reminds me… the penalty next time you set me up? Beard of bees."

"Oh, come on… Park's nice."

"He's not my type, Rhonda."

"Fine, darling. Message received. No more set ups."

See, she and I…. we get each other. Okay, we mostly get each other.

She doesn't get that none of the boys she picked was ever going to be my type. Because, well… they're boys.

I really should tell her. Mom and dad already know, and she'd be the next on the list. But I'm nervous. I just don't know how she'll react. Especially to a certain particular bombshell…

Rhonda would do just about anything for me. If I told her I was into girls, she'd probably take it upon herself to find a match for me. Except…. The girl I'm into… is her. How do you tell your best friend you have a crush on her?

And would I ever get a chance?

Hillwood Docks

-ARNOLD-

The salty tang in the air was beginning to get overwhelming.

"…and I've been trying to talk to her, but she won't. Is she scared of me? Does she think I'm going to reject her?"

The two of us had been waiting here at the docks for hours. We'd both told our parents we were sleeping over at each others' houses, figuring it was probably better to ask for forgiveness than permission. We were trying to get a lead… any lead… on Helga and Rhonda's disappearance, but Gerald was too focused on Phoebe to really be there with him. Granted, this particular gambit was probably more out of desperation than anything.

"She's probably just really self-conscious about the whole thing, Gerald. Mom says the change has been really hard on her." Phoebe had been quickly whisked off to the former FTI building, now under the ownership of Sammy Redmond's Million Dollar Industries. Mom had been consulting for their disease research division for the last couple of months, ever since deciding that it was time she and dad returned to the workforce. I'd immediately thought of her when Phoebe developed her… condition. They'd been secluded at MDI ever since, with mom keeping me updated via FaceTime ("I can't believe phones can just… do this kind of thing now," she'd said, marveling at the advances of the last decade). "I'm sure you'll be able to see her soon."

"She was in a LOT of pain, Arnold. I can't stand not knowing how she is."

"At least you know where she is, Gerald. At least you know she's in good hands. Helga could be anywhere. With anyone. They could be doing… anything to her." My hand drifted to the heart-shaped lump under my shirt. I'd taken to wearing Helga's locket around my neck, just as she did. My way of keeping her heart close to mine, I guess. That's how she'd put it, right? All poetic like that.

Gerald sighed. "I feel you, m'man. I may not be her biggest fan, but I get that she's important to you, and to Pheobe. But I gotta say, there's desperate, and there's desperate. And going to this guy, man…

"I don't know where else to turn to. The cops aren't getting anywhere, Bridget keeps moving her base so I have no idea how to get in contact with her… this was the last thing I could think of."

"Yeah, but… him? Really?"

"He's sworn to help the downtrodden. Even if he has gotten a bit more… eccentric."

A shadow suddenly fell over the two of us. A gravelly voice came out from the darkness.

"Urban journal. December 7, 2017. Rotten banana in alley this morning. Tire tread on burst peel. This city is afraid of me. I have seen its true face. The streets are extended produce bins and the produce bins are full of overripe fruit. When the bins spill over, all the vermin will slip on the peels. The accumulated pulp of all their refuse will reek and ferment. The bullies and the criminals will look up and shout 'save us!' And I will look down and whisper… Monkeym-" the voice suddenly erupted in a paroxysm of coughing. "Boy!" the figure said in his more natural voice. "This grimdark stuff is hard on the ol' pipes!"

Monkeyman, stepped out of the shadows, still looking mostly the same, though he'd traded his white T-shirt for a black one. "Arnold! Thanks again for my new floating –Monkeyman- lair. The mobility's come in really handy for covering more ground."

"Um, it wasn't originally supposed to float, but, um, thanks? Actually, we were wondering if you could help us…" I took out a couple of photos. "These two girls are missing. They… might not look like this anymore."

Monkeyman studied the two photos. "Helga and Rhonda?"

"You know their names?"

"A good hero knows the faces of those he protects." He whispered, his voice drifting back into raspy grimdark mode."

"You, uh, know you don't have to do that," Gerald commented.

"People take their heroes more seriously if they're dark and brooding."

"You're wearing monkey slippers," I pointed out.

"Edgy monkey slippers."

"Well, that was a bust," Gerald groused as we made our way back to the boarding house.

"At least we have one more guy looking," I reasoned. "Anyway, we should be in the clear as long as we don't attract-" As I opened the door, the usual horde of animals spilled out, led by Abner. "-attention," I sighed.

"Every time," grumbled Gerald. "When did you even get a bat?"

"Oh, that's Stinky's. The ostrich is new, though." He checked inside. "Coast looks clear. As far as anyone here knows, I was at your house, so we just have to act like we came from there and stopped her because I forgot something for sch-

"Attention!"

And suddenly, Grandma was there, wearing a general's uniform and carrying a riding crop. Where did she get all these costumes?

"Busted," whispered Gerald.

"It's like this, Grandma…" I began.

"At ease, Colonel. We have new intel."

"New intel?"

"We've made contact with FLOTUS. You know…" She broke character for a moment. "Helga."

"Helga called? How is she? Did she say where she is?"

"She didn't talk for too long. All she said was that she's currently free and safe, and she has the other girl with her, and that they're on their way back home."

"That's great news!" I shouldn't've been surprised. If anyone was going to get out of a situation like that, it would've been Helga. Although… if what'd happened to Helga and Rhonda was anything like what Mom told me had happened to Phoebe, they wasn't out of the woods yet.

I squeezed the locket under my shirt, as if the contact would somehow bring Helga closer.

"It's cool, man. I'm sure she knows you want to be with her." Gerald said. "C'mon. We gotta… *sigh* go get ready for school." He yawned. "I am NOT feeling up to that."

"Maybe we'll get lucky, and this'll be one of those days when Mr. Frank just gives us a free period so he can take a nap in the teachers' lounge."

"That man is not suited for his profession."

"I miss Mr. Simmons."

"Me too, buddy. Me too."

Big Bob's Beeper Emporium (ALL SALES FINAL, EVERYTHING MUST GO)

-OLGA-

Everybody's always looking up to me. There goes Olga Pataki, they say. Child prodigy. Played Purdy Hall when she was 15. Class Valedictorian. Dean's List at Bennington. Graduated Magna Cum Laude. Winner of nearly every trophy conceivable.

So why do I always feel so empty?

It's because I don't do it for me. I do it because it's what's expected.

Everybody looks up to me. But I look up to her. She is everything I wish I was. I perform. She… creates.

It was during Christmas Break last year that I found her unattended journal. Curiosity overcoming respect for privacy, I opened the little pink book and the beauty that infused my sister's soul burst from the pages. The kind of beauty that I could never create.

I'm not entirely in denial, you know. I know our family is less than ideal. I can see mother wasting away, father stubbornly clinging to failure, baby sis drowning in neglect. And I'm as trapped as any of them. I've forced myself into this cheerful marionette act in some misguided attempt to keep this family going all by myself. As if my achievements really mean anything in the long run. I'm not this family's hope. She is. And now she's gone.

And all I can do is curse myself for not being a better sister while I could, for constantly pushing myself to be the center of attention because my father conflated success with affection, for denying to myself just how bad mom was getting, for widening the rift between myself and Helga, for not letting her know in no uncertain terms that I knew that someday, she would become something amazing.

I'm here at the store now. Daddy is complaining that there's nobody here to sell the beepers that nobody wants. Mummy… she just sits there, holding an old photo of the four of us, nursing her drink. She isn't even bothering with fruit and yogurt anymore, that's how far down the hole she's vanished.

And now someone is yelling at Daddy, and I vaguely realize it's me. Because I can't stand it anymore.

And now I've left the store and slammed the door behind me while I'm having this weird out-of-body experience, both doing these things and watching, detached in my own mind, as they unfold, as I run from the store, my legs carrying me to someplace I don't know. At this point, I should be on my way to PS 118. My third-graders are expecting me. But my body isn't complying. It just wants to keep going.

And so, I find myself in this alley behind the old Circle Theater, staring at an old moldering Dino Spumoni poster. Or rather, a Dino Spumoni poster that should be old and moldering but is instead as pristine as it would have been the day it would have been posted in 1966.

I feel myself reaching out to touch it and meeting no resistance as my fingers push through, finding nothing behind. I step through the illusion and find myself tumbling down a ramp into a room filled with hi-tech equipment and a single woman with long auburn hair and a blue uniform.

"Crap," she mutters. "Compromised again. I thought for sure the holographic poster would work. Now I gotta wipe the intruders' memory, and move again, it's always work, work wo-" She paused. "Olga?"

"…do I know you?" I asked.

"You did. I'm Bridget, and… we used to be partners."

MDI Building, Hillwood Corporate District

-STELLA-

The results of three days of observation and tests were spread before me. Bloodwork, MRI, X-Rays, biopsy (finding a way to get samples of the girl's near-invulnerable skin and hair had been a chore in and of itself), none of it even close to human anymore. Attempts to isolate the source of the change had yielded nothing concrete, but the theory was that she'd been exposed to an agent of some sort that had incubated for some time before becoming active and merging with her DNA to form something new and distinct, restructuring every cell in her body in the process. No system had been left untouched. Every organ in her body had been changed in some way, some of them duplicated, others merged, a few completely new, all of them structurally altered in some way.

There was one positive thing I had determined, though.

"Latest results, subject 1758-A, Heyerdahl, Phoebe S., age 11. Attending physician, Dr. Stella Shortman. All research suggests that subject's condition is not contagious through casual contact. Recommending immediate end to quarantine, as I believe continued isolation of the patient would be detrimental to her mental health." This had been the most important determination to make, more important than finding a cause or even a cure. My own memories of a nearly friendless childhood spent moving from place to place thanks to my father's military career had impressed on me the toll isolation could take.

I left my office and took the elevator to the isolation ward. An effort had been made to keep Phoebe's room as comfortable as possible, but there was only so much you could do while maintaining sterility. Even after her metamorphosis had completed, the girl had remained withdrawn and uncommunicative throughout the quarantine period. Meals had been fed through the slot and returned, uneaten. I was getting very worried that she would be unreachable.

When I reached the room, I could see that Phoebe was where I'd last left her, curled up on her bed, pale blue wings wrapped tightly around her as a shield against the world. She still wore the remains of the hospital gown that had seen her through her changes. I hoped that the gift I'd brought would help.

I activated the intercom. "Phoebe? Are you awake? It's me, Doctor Shortman. Arnold's mom. Do you remember me?"

Phoebe's wings unfolded slightly. Her three emerald eyes slowly opened as she looked up.

"Good news," I assured. "You're not contagious by any normal means. You can leave quarantine."

"Can I be normal again?" the girl whispered, her voice weak from disuse.

"I'm… sorry," I said. "We haven't found a way to reverse the change." If there even is one, I thought to myself. From all the tests I'd performed, Phoebe's new metabolism actively resisted any attempts to alter it. It nullified any poison, pathogen, or drug it was exposed to. In addition, one of the new organs in her body was designed to produce stem cells that would rapidly repair any injury she would receive to the point that even lost limbs would eventually grow back fully. I wondered if, eventually, even aging would cease to have a hold on her.

"Then perhaps it's best if I remain in here," the small girl said, resigned, seemingly.

"Is that really what you want? To stay locked in here, away from the world? To never see your friends and family again, to never grow, to never learn…" Her pointed ears twitched a bit at that last one. I'd spoken to her parents and they'd both confirmed that Phoebe, above all, valued learning. "I bet a part of you wants to understand everything that's happened to you. Doesn't it."

"…I… admit a certain curiosity."

"Well, you can't do that in here. Here… I think I have something that may make you feel a bit more like yourself again."

-PHOEBE-

I tossed the tattered remains of my hospital gown into the disposal chute. It would be incinerated, as per procedure.

I had forgotten the simple pleasure that clean, fresh undergarments brought. Just the feel of them brought an immediate improvement in my dolorous mood.

The rest of the garments were designed to hey closely to my established sartorial taste while still remaining suited to my changed body. A dark blue, four-sleeved cardigan, complimentary yet contrasting to my light-azure complexion. There were notches in the back for my wing joints and fasteners that closed above them. A matching skirt, with a small slit I could feed my tail through. Black leggings, and black "shoes" that were more like a thick pair of gloves for my newly prehensile feet.

I found myself nibbling on, then wolfing down, the latest meal they'd given me (poached fish, mashed potatoes, mixed vegetables) while changing. My appetite had abandoned me in my despair (what point was there in maintaining a body that had turned traitor?) but it had come roaring back. Logical; my body had added a plethora of new structures and desperately needed to replenish itself.

Finally, fed and dressed, I regarded myself.

Dr. Shortman was right. I did feel a great deal more like Phoebe Heyerdahl. Absentmindedly, I reached for the glasses that I no longer needed. Even days of perfect (more than perfect; I found I could even see into the ultraviolet and infrared range if I tried) vision later, my face still felt naked without them. Then there was the matter of added mass. I was several inches taller now, and my frame significantly more muscular than it was. Though I was no contender in Helga's beloved MMA ring, I was not exactly the petite thing I was a week earlier. I felt like Phoebe Heyerdahl. But a new model.

I took a deep breath. "I'm ready, Dr. Shortman. I want to understand what I am."

As I stepped out of the quarantine room, I did not know what the future would hold. But maybe… I was ready to face it now.

[Rhonda: Aw, man, I got screwed out of most of my chapter!]

[Helga: This stuff has to go somewhere. It puts a lot of future developments in context.]

[Rhonda: I guess, but did it have to go in one of my chapters?]

[Helga: Who's the writer here?]

[Rhonda: I thought we both were.]

[Helga: Who's the published writer?]

[Rhonda: Does the school literary journal really count?]

[Helga: Criminy, cut down on the salt intake, Princess. You'll get your time back in the spotlight, but it was really important that everyone else got to tell their part of the story, okay?]

[Rhonda: …fine.]

[Helga: …not like a lot of stuff happens until we get to Oregon, anyway. Idaho is really boring.]

[Rhonda: There was the giant radioactive potato bug.]

[Helga: Nobody wants to know about that.]

A.N. And that's Chapter 10! I wanted to touch in on the other characters, and didn't really have much planned for Rhonda and Helga anyway in this chapter, so I figured why not do multiple perspectives? We'll get back to our heroines next chapter. I may also do some interstitials with Phoebe and Stella to hash out some of the more technical details of the girls' transformation.

Ajay: Just call her Helga Bauer. And no, we haven't hear the last of Bill… or any other character from that series.

Nettie: Thanks, always appreciate hearing from you!

Metalheadrailfan (thanks again for the cover!): I've given a small clue to the Old Man's identity. He is from Hey Arnold, though we haven't seen much of him.

Acosta: Yeah, the girls got lucky this time, but they don't wanna push it And no, Helga is not someone you wanna mess with, even if she isn't a superpowered mutant.

Next chapter: Roughin' It Redux. Camping, conversation, and bears, oh my!