Disclaimer: The Hey Arnold 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.
ICYMI: Arnold is fine, thanks to friends in hidden places. Vasquez is not fine, following the fallout from Phoebe's intervention. Phoebe makes a resolute decision. And did Brainy just confess to..?
Ladies and Gentlemen, the next chapter is upon us!
16. The Dice Was Loaded From The Start
Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck was a winner, and no one would tell him otherwise.
Over fifteen years, from the comfort of his prison cell and under the radar of the SEC, he had steered FTI to its current status. The current FTI was light years removed from the realtor company it originally was. Under the guidance of an incarcerated Scheck, FTI went on an acquisition binge in a quest for portfolio diversification and risk hedging: basically, more chances to earn more money. It had expanded into communications, technology, security, and finance in addition to its original property portfolio. All portfolios were runaway successes; the bottom line was healthy, the dividends were high, and the shareholders were happy, year in and year out.
Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck thrived on adversity.
Even in a maximum-security prison, where any of his white-collar peers would have committed suicide or been raped within a week, he spent fifteen years forging partnerships and alliances with people who understood the power of green. Alliances like Santalov whom he used for property acquisitions and for keeping the local free market in check, and others for uncovering dirt on rivals, enemies and powerful potential allies.
Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck was unstoppable.
So what if one snot-nosed little punk derailed his plans all those years back? Even before the attempt to buy out the neighborhood, the little shit was interfering with Scheck's plans. Gladhand was where it started. Gladhand: a councilman in Scheck's pocket, dispatched to undermine the neighborhood and make it unliveable enough to force the residents out. But that little footballheaded bastard was also there, to help a fucking butcher of all people beat Councilman Gladhand in an election, thus buying the neighborhood time from Scheck. Even when Scheck came back more aggressively…Arnold fucking Shortman was there to send him straight to jail.
Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck always got the last word, no matter what.
Ha! Some victory, when his family and girlfriend were blown to hell less than a year afterward! When word of their demises and of Shortman's life turning to shit reached Scheck in his cell, Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck served the remainder of his sentence wearing the biggest goddamned smile any of the prisoners had ever seen.
But now Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck was a worried man.
Some key assets in the local police force had stopped returning his calls. He still had the Chief of Police, the Mayor and the DA, but they seemed too preoccupied with their own political survival to tend to him. Then there was the team of PMC's – products of FTI's foray into security – who had assured him that as good as Lieutenant Shortman was, they were better.
They weren't.
Neither was that blowhard, Rawlins. If the job had gone as planned, then following Shortman's death, the PMC's would have killed and disappeared that idiot at the base, leaving the base to be blown apart as they flew off to retirement in a non-extradition country. No body, no evidence, nothing to be traced back to Scheck or FTI. Just a tragic story of Arnold Shortman being in the wrong place at the wrong time, as sold by the superstar detective in the investigation of the matter.
That's not how events played out.
Shortman was still in the wind – no body was recovered. The superstar detective was under heavy scrutiny and off the case.
As Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck stood by the armored glass window in his now heavily guarded office, watching a new day dawn over the city of Hillwood, he had to ponder…
For the first time in his life, was he actually afraid of another man?
They were all dead. Either that or they were dying.
Seconds earlier he was spinning the decks, keeping the playlist safe and accessible for all assembled, young and old. Daft Punk's 'Get Lucky' was going down well, so he was thinking of following it up with something equally upbeat. Maybe Jamiroquai's 'Little L', or 'Good Times' by CHIC, or maybe even 'Odyssey' by Johnny Harris. Anything to keep the party mood going. Not that it mattered anymore.
"Funny, isn't it? The tiny little details I can clearly remember that have nothing to do with the matter…"
He must have been doing something right because his booth was surrounded by people falling over each other with their requested songs.
Then it happened.
An ear-piercing bang, followed immediately by a much louder one, accompanied by intense heat and force. He was leaning forward, adjusting his setlist at that very moment, which is why he survived. The people in front of him took almost all his share of the shrapnel. He watched – with no time for disbelief – as Rhonda, Nadine, Stinky and Sid were struck, scragged and flensed by shards of anything – glass, metal, brick – that was sent flying their way.
"Shit, Brainy! You actually saw that happen?"
"Something I'll never be able to unsee," he replied in a sorrowful tone. "They all took the shrapnel that was meant for me."
He then felt how the floor – indeed, the entire building – quaked beneath him, before giving way and swallowing him and everyone else, dropping them in stages and levels to the cold merciless rubble below.
After that, he was still conscious – "…like fate was saying 'I ain't done with you yet!'" – but an incessant high-pitched ringing in his ears had replaced most of his ability to hear. Not all of it, as the headphones he wore in the booth offered some protection from the boom. His senses of direction and spatial awareness were ruined, however – "…'up' and 'down', 'left' and 'right', they didn't exist anymore…"
No self-awareness either, or else he would have noticed the shard of glass protruding from his right arm and gone into shock, possibly to bleed out. He was lying on his back, atop something soft that must have broken his fall. He rolled over to look at his savior. What he saw…what he saw…
"Rhonda and Nadine and Curly…blood all over them…they were cut up so…so…badly…bleeding from their mouths and ears and…eyes". Brainy felt his voice falter at that recollection.
"AAAAARGH!" he screamed as he frantically twisted and scrambled away from the bodies. "AAAAARGH!" But there was no escape. Everywhere he looked…
Harold: face down, his left arm blown almost completely off, viscera sticking out from either side.
Stinky: lying on the ground, spasming, with countless glass shards sticking out of his chest. One more spasm before vomiting blood one last time and expiring.
Sid…oh god, Sid!
"Sid! SID!" Sid couldn't answer; half of his face was missing, his nose was almost completely severed.
"Brainy, that's awful!" piped a highly empathetic Sheena. "That would have been terrible even for an experienced paramedic, let alone an eleven-year-old..!"
He started shambling and crawling and scrambling, in any random direction, amid this nightmare of fragmented concrete and gnarled metal and twisted bodies. Death surrounded him, though he couldn't hear anything. His brain had decided not to process what his eyes and ears were perceiving.
"It's like…I was seeing and hearing it all…but…my brain was arguing with my eyes and ears…telling them they were lying…"
No direction was a good choice. Even with severely compromised hearing, he still heard the deathly din within the ruins. He wished for deafness; it would not be a handicap. He wished as well that he could have been blind to the sights. But no…
There lay Gerald: still; pointed upwards, a pool of blood spreading from the back of his head. Having drawn his terminal breath.
Eugene, with a gaping hole where his heart once was…eyes wide open, having processed too late the mortal nature of the injury.
"Son, we get the point," Smith chimed in. "No need to torture yourself like this!"
"No, I have to! You need to know the whole truth!"
Dead or dying everywhere. Arnold's parents, grandparents. The short balding man. The Asian man. Fuck it, all the tenants! His brain was working overtime to override his sight and vision, to preserve his fragile sanity.
Then…he saw…her.
Lying on her back on a pile of rubble, still writhing in agony.
"She was still alive? Brainy, WAS SHE STILL ALIVE?" a demoralized Arnold asked.
He scrambled over to her with no regard to his own wellbeing or of his own surroundings. As he got closer, his hope peaked…then ebbed as the thin metal pole sticking out her chest came into focus.
"Shit, she was impaled?" Arnold asked as his disbelief pervaded throughout the room.
He knelt over her, placed his hands carefully on her shoulders, shouting in a voice he could barely hear but hoped that she at least could: "Helga! Helga! Can you hear me?" His voice matched the raggedness of his breathing.
She sputtered awake and looked at him with weak, fearful eyes. The ringing in his ears made him focus all his effort and strength into hearing her words. "Helga! Say something! Please!"
Helga, in as much excruciating pain as she was, was still lucid enough to recognize him. "Br-Brainy," she coughed weakly as she raised a frail left hand to his right cheek. He cupped his right hand over her left as if to offer assurance that both he and she knew were futile.
"Stay with me, Helga. Please…please!" he begged her.
"No good…not…gonna…make…it…" she coughed out.
"No…NO! Helga, NO!" it was all he could say as his tear ducts went into a full flood. This was the girl whom he loved more than anyone, and here he was, helpless to save her. If only…
"If only I had even one percent of your resourcefulness, Arnold…"
"Brainy…" Helga resumed her blood-slicked coughing. "Need…help…please…"
"Anything, Helga! Anything, anything, anything! Anything!"
She pulled his right hand away from his cheek. Then with her right hand, she motioned for his left, which he eagerly yielded. Then – oh god, no, no! – she was guiding them to her…to her neck, around her throat.
"Helga, I-I…I can't do this! I won't do this!"
For all the pain she was projecting, she managed a weak, timorous smile. "Brainy…too much…pain. Ambulance…too…too…late. Die…own terms…own…terms. Help…"
"I…cant!" he sobbed back at her.
"Do it, Brainy…"
His sobbing intensified.
"DO…IT!" Her weak voice now projected anger, as did her equally weak eyes. Just as quickly, they softened, and she said: "If…you…love me…please…free…me…"
His sobbing became a pathetic whimper as he closed his eyes, his brain barely registering his hands tightening around her neck…
Time seemed to stop in the room as its occupants vented their disbelief: "BRAINY! YOU DIDN'T..!"
When Phoebe Heyerdahl was still actively consorting with Mark, they both agreed on not disclosing each other's addresses: communication was solely via instant messaging. No addresses, only contact numbers.
Even now, she wasn't particularly worried that Mark knew her old number. Granted, he was onto Foutley's ruse, but so what? Tracking the old phone would be fruitless, and he wouldn't be able to use the number itself to find her in Hillwood. The chief reason was that her billing address was all the way back in Seattle – So good luck on that front, Mark! Furthermore, Hillwood PD was in damage-control mode following Mark's botched press release and the higher-up's subsequent clean-up attempts, so locating a singular journalist protected by the First Amendment could not have been high on their to-do list.
She on the other hand…
She had his number, and within the span of a few calls to some associates of her own, she had his address. Through the wonders of social media, she also obtained some salient information on Olga Pataki-Vasquez. Information that included her place of work: City Library.
She called the employer under the pretense of being an old friend of Olga's, who happened to be in town and through social media found out where she worked. Anyway, could she speak with her long-lost friend? Maybe meet her in a public area for the reduced chance of theatrics.
Sorry, they said, but she's not feeling well and called in sick. So much for that idea…
Well thank you so much anyway, Phoebe ended the call politely. So it seemed a house call was in order.
These events were accomplished by Phoebe after a reasonable-given-the-circumstances four hours of sleep, but before much-needed ablutions, and a quick breakfast. Here she was now, fretting and fussing over what to wear and how to present herself to Olga. She settled on somewhat baggy blue jeans, which she matched with an equally loose-fitting blue t-shirt and her one-size-too-big black university sweatshirt. Her plan was to hide as much of her – admittedly – sexy curves as possible so as not to arouse suspicion in Olga. At this moment in time, she couldn't afford to take for granted that Olga didn't know of the affair, nor that her mental health had become any more robust with age and wisdom.
As she was set to leave the room, something caught her eye. The revolver, given to her by Hilda via Arnie. Phoebe had placed it on her dresser and pretty much ignored it since. The butt was protruding from what Arnold had earlier explained was a belly band holster. Great concealment, especially for such a small weapon, he extolled. She stared and she stared, not knowing if taking the weapon with her would be a prudent decision.
Suddenly Arnie's words from the previous morning were playing in her head:
"This is because Hilda believes you'll be needing it in the near future. And Hilda is never wrong about these things."
Well, Phoebe and Arnold did prove Hilda correct in how they would need and still needed one another.
But this…
What were the chances that Hilda could be wrong?
There she lay.
His goddess, his beautiful goddess, decked out in pink and white. Smudges of dirt and grime and blood covering her.
Eyes closed, no more pain in her expression. Seemingly at peace…for all eternity.
What have I done? SWEET JESUS, WHAT HAVE I DONE?
His mind descended into chaos. His vision became a prismatic tunnel as his brain went into overdrive to shield itself from what the eyes and ears were transmitting to it.
"Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!..." he yammered as he began a zombie-like shuffle to nowhere in particular.
He was now oblivious to light and sound and space and time as he shambled…and shambled.
His trudging came to a halt as he heard a familiar voice: "Brainy?...BRAINY?...BRAINY!"
Next, a boy and girl came into focus: Arnold and Phoebe. Familiar faces. Live familiar faces. Arnold kept inundating him with questions, but Brainy wasn't hearing them.
"Don't know…Sorry…Sorry…"
It was all his brain would allow his mouth to utter. Then his brain decided he'd had enough and shut down. Merciful blackness engulfed the pain and confusion.
"You…you killed her? You killed her!" Arnold felt his anger rise.
"I didn't want to!" a still tearful Brainy pleaded, before looking the rest of the room over. Smith wore a heavy, dour expression. Sheena stared at him, her eyes widened in shock and her hands covering her equally wide-open mouth.
"You killed her!" repeated Arnold, even louder.
"Arnold!" Sheena turned her attention to her patient, perhaps welcoming the moment of distraction. "Control yourself. You're still recovering," she urged. "He had no say in the matter!"
She turned back to Brainy. "It's true, isn't it Brainy?" she pleaded with a note of desperation. "You didn't want to do it, right? Right?"
When he came to, Brainy found himself on a hospital bed, alone in a ward except for a doctor at his bedside who instantly became aware of his newfound consciousness.
"Good day, Mister Doe," she greeted while looking up from a tablet which she was intently studying. "I'm Doctor Morrison, and I'm mightily impressed at your hardiness. You survived an explosion that totaled an entire building, and in some style too! Most we had to do was remove a glass shard from your arm and stitch up the wound. Other than that, just a medium concussion and some cuts and scrapes. Like I said, color me impressed!"
"D-Doe?" Brainy managed.
"As in 'John Doe Number 2', as admitted to Drymon Medical Clinic roughly twenty-four hours ago, and whose parents still haven't provided us with positive ID," Doctor Morrison clarified. "Look, we're on a timer here. If I offer you a glass of water, would you be willing to straighten up some things for me?"
She offered; he accepted. And on to the questions.
"See," she started. "I've got bystander accounts of a scrawny young boy with crooked spectacles stumbling his way out of ground zero – that would be you, by the way. Then I also have this curious case. Young girl, named Pataki…ever heard of her?"
With that, she turned the tablet his way and immediately he felt his stomach pitch. She had shown him a picture of Helga lying on a mortuary slab, eyes wide open, a white sheet preserving her post-mortem modesty. He wanted to throw up, but the doctor intervened: "Hey! Hey! No hurling of guts until after we're done, you savvy?"
Brainy nodded weakly.
She then swiped to show him another picture, a close-up of Helga's open eyes. "See those purple spots on the eyeballs, young man? We doctors call them petechiae: teeny tiny little burst blood vessels, that's what they are."
Brainy felt queasy again, but Doctor Morrison wasn't having it. "And you know what our first instinct is when we find such nasties? That the victim was choked to death!"
The queasiness was building, but no, the good doctor had more. Another swipe and Helga's neck was on display. "See the bruising there? What we doctors call...ligature marks. Another sign of manual strangulation."
It was all too much for Brainy as he motioned desperately for the wastepaper basket, which he received barely in time to vomit a vile concoction of blood and bile.
Doctor Morrison was unmoved. "You know who else calls these things 'petechiae' and 'ligature marks'? Police detectives! Specifically…the ones who when I show them these pictures would arrest the only person seen walking out of the rubble, whom they'd presume to be the last person to see the Pataki girl alive and—"
"Her name…" Brainy interrupted with a gravelly voice, "was Helga…Geraldine…Pataki! Don't you be so…flippant…about her!"
He felt an angry determination overcome his weakened state. He saw how the doctor paused briefly at his outburst. She then smiled wryly: "Good! We seem to be getting somewhere! So you're saying you didn't do this willingly?"
Brainy nodded before recounting the entire ordeal, after which the doctor made yet another swipe, though this time she didn't turn the picture towards Brainy. "Hm," she declared, "that explains the hole in her chest. For what it's worth, kid," she continued with more compassion in her voice this time, "you did her a favor. The pole pierced her left lung and ruptured her thoracic aorta. She'd have bled out painfully in a matter of minutes."
"Knowing that brought me fuck-all relief," a still tearful Brainy confessed to the assembly.
Apparently, she was done with the tablet, for she gave it no further attention.
"But you see, John Doe Number 2, we now have a problem. I am still obligated, required by law, to report my findings and your confession to the police…"
Brainy felt an onset of vertigo.
"…which will put you on the hook for manslaughter."
He was blacking out as the blood was flushing out of his brain.
"On the other hand…how can I ignore an act of mercy like this? Tell me – and be honest! Helga Pataki. Helga…Geraldine…Pataki. You loved her, didn't you?"
His answer: "I wish our roles were reversed right now. I wish she was on this bed and I was on your tablet."
He then watched as Doctor Morrison, having heard his answer, made a few motions on her tablet before declaring: "Oh darn! Wherever did those pictures suggesting strangulation go? Shoot! I guess the official cause of death will have to be exsanguination or even respiratory shock as suspected by the paramedics! Don't you worry: I'll sell it!"
Brainy was confused. "Doctor. Why?"
Doctor Morrison's flippant tone evaporated, replaced by sober professionalism. "Because anyone willing to bomb a building full of innocent children is one twisted, godless, motherless sack of shit, incapable of feeling love for another human being. And you, John Doe Number 2, are not that kind of person. You do not deserve to burn in hell for all eternity, just to quench the idiot public's short-sighted demand for its pound of flesh."
Brainy felt tears of relief welling in him, and the doctor noted as much. "And as for our discussion? Consider yourself Catholic, me the Pope, and this your confession. Only…without the thing about little boys…That's just gross!"
He felt ashamed that he wanted to start chuckling under the given circumstances, and the doctor noted that as well. "This is your second chance, kid. Grow up, take care and do good."
At that very instant, a nurse rushed into the ward. "Doctor Morrison! Doctor Morrison!" he called breathlessly. "The Shortman kid's regained consciousness! He wants to know about his family...!"
The doctor turned back to Brainy and sighed. "Always my least favorite part of the job...," as she and the nurse left the room.
"Brainy, for what it's worth, the doctor was right," Sheena reassured. "Helga would have died one way or the other."
"So why do I still feel like crap all these years later?" replied Brainy. He then slowly left the room as Arnold and the others looked on in sympathetic silence.
Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck did not like the position in which he currently found himself. He was seated in his office at FTI headquarters. He had increased his security detail even more; he was effectively a prisoner in his own fortress.
He knew that the staff was gossiping about the increase in guards. He was aware that speculation was rife about the big boss man suddenly needing more and more protection. It had not escaped him that he was appearing weak to them by arriving and leaving with a heavily armed entourage of PMC's.
He had canceled all of today's meetings, and internal communications had to be done via email or phone, or through a trusted intermediary.
A reasonable onlooker would call him cautious.
A suspicious one would call him paranoid.
"Fuck you, Arnold Shortman!" he loudly vented his fury. How come his body wasn't found after last night's events? Answer: Because he's a stubborn little fucking insect who refuses to be squashed!
The bus crash.
The bombing.
Asmara.
A squad of fifteen PMC's.
Another bombing…
He would not stay down!
He was the reason for the mighty Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck having to cower behind a wall of guards. He was the reason for this powerful business leader becoming the object of ridicule to his peers and minions. He was the reason that Scheck's recent actions and decisions had been erratic and desperate.
And so Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck had to arrive at the inevitable conclusion: he was scared of Arnold Shortman.
Perhaps it was time to cut his losses and sound the retreat to some far-flung tax haven. Luxembourg, maybe. Ireland, or even Switzerland. Set up shop in any of those countries and live out his life away from his nemesis.
But that would make him seem like a coward, a failure in the eyes of his long lineage. The Tomato Incident was to this day considered a blemish on the Scheck name, and the boy who had twice thwarted Scheck's quest for family redemption was threatening to undo his successful third attempt.
Arnold Shortman had to die: no matter the cost, Scheck would not back down. He couldn't.
His more powerful allies may have been scurrying for their own survival, but he still had mid-level support waiting to be exploited. And suddenly, Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck grinned a diabolical grin as he felt another plan take shape.
He reached for his Rolodex to retrieve the number of another influential contact whom he knew would remain loyal come what may.
His message was simple: "Cut him loose…Yes, I'm sure…Because I believe he has regained his usefulness."
With those words spoken, Plan B was set in motion. He then buzzed for his assistant: "Red, can you bring over some files? I'm looking into expanding our portfolio into Central America…That's right…Well, let's start with San Lorenzo's mineral mining and energy rights!"
On the other side of the call, a short, balding middle-aged Rat Squad detective whose suit made him look more like a bitter, ineffective vice-principal than anything else, ended the call.
He then made a show of gathering his documents and switching off the recording equipment, before announcing to Detective Mark Vasquez: "We're done, detective. Thank you for your time and co-operation."
Is that it? Vasquez was confused. He grills me for an hour or so, then he just stops and says we're done?
The IAB detective sensed Vasquez's confusion and simply offered: "Seems our boss still believes in second chances."
Scheck! He still wants to go after Shortman. Is he fucking insane?
"You're still off the cemetery case, though," the other detective clarified. "Chances are you'll be placed on administrative leave. I'd suggest going home and waiting."
Later, as Detective Mark Vasquez walked out of the building, his relief was clear for all to see and all he wanted at that very moment was to crawl into the deepest hole he could find and disappear off the planet. But he knew not of any such hole, so a coma on his bed at home would have to suffice.
Brainy was unsure how much time had passed since walking out of the room.
Ten minutes? Twenty? An hour?
His confession had been much needed and long overdue, but it had done little to ease his conscience. As he stood in his backyard, staring into eternity, he wondered if Arnold would forgive him for his action. Or even understand, let alone forgive.
And Sheena. Was she offering mere platitudes by defending him against Arnold? Because for some bizarre reason, knowing that Sheena would believe him was his number one concern. Arnold and Smith's support still mattered; Sheena's mattered more.
"…I just want to say…it took a lot of courage to…well…tell the truth after all these years."
He turned to his back door, where Sheena was standing and from where her voice had come.
"I mean, uh," she hesitantly continued, "I always thought there was something hurting you inside…even all the way back at school."
His eyes were still puffy from the tears he'd shed as he dared to look her in the eye. "You must think I'm a terrible person." He'd cry some more if not for the fact that he was out of tears.
Sheena maintained her non-accusatory tone as she answered: "You know, a year or so ago I get this call. Some random guy walked into a bar with a shotgun and proceeded to shoot up the place something bad. Killed three patrons before getting shot himself. Anyway, I get there to find the shooter and a fourth victim on the floor. Shooter happens to be closest to me, so I tend to him first – I mean, he's still a victim, right? 'Innocent until proven guilty', or so they say. While I'm working on him, the fourth victim dies…"
"That…that had to suck," was all that Brainy could contribute.
"Yes, indeed it…it sucked…but it gets better. I patch him up and we get him to the ER. Full eventual recovery, we hear. Three months later, he's out on bail…same guy hits a fast food joint. Same MO, only this time he kills eight innocents, including two children, before blowing his own brains out."
Brainy was stunned silent.
"Sometimes you're forced into a situation where there's no clear right or wrong answer. And no matter what choice you make, someone ends up getting hurt or worse and there's nothing you can do about it. I had to learn that lesson very quickly."
Having heard that revelation, Brainy no longer wanted to hear any more of Sheena's words; he wanted to hug her. Which is exactly what he did, as he walked up to her, then wrapped his arms around her in a tight embrace that suggested never wanting to let her go. Sheena was rendered mute as she stood rigid in her initial surprise, before wrapping her own arms around Brainy for an embrace of her own that matched his in tenderness, sincerity, and intensity. After what seemed far too little time, the two freed themselves and stood hand-in-hand staring at each other.
Sheena broke the silence eventually: "Look, I have to get back home. You know…" she trailed off with a smirk, "…to get whatever sleep I still can before my shift starts this afternoon."
Brainy could only smile apologetically for his actions. "I suppose a sorry not sorry is in order then?"
"I suppose so," replied Sheena.
"In that case…" teased Brainy as he leaned into Sheena and planted a kiss plumb on her lips, holding it briefly before pulling away and continuing with, "…sorry, not sorry."
"Take care, Brainy," was all she said with a smile as she turned to leave.
After seeing Sheena off, Brainy found Arnold seated in his lounge, flipping idly through the news channels.
"Where's Smith?" Brainy tentatively asked the former Ranger, not sure of the appropriate tone and conduct given his recent confession.
"Left with his driver. Some or other details at the office he needs to look into." Arnold's tone was the vocal equivalent of an effective poker face. Somehow, the soldier sensed Brainy's uncertainty and added: "Sit down if you want to! I'm not going to hurt you!"
"Promise?"
"Promise."
Deciding that Arnold's assurance was genuine, Brainy slotted himself on the couch next to his blonde comrade. They sat in silence, pretending to be interested in the recycled news reports that really told them nothing other than what they already knew.
Brainy found the silence unnerving, and so ventured: "So…how come you're not wanting to put a bullet in my brain?"
Arnold answered in casual monotone: "Who says I wasn't?" Brainy felt as if he'd tap-danced on a yellowjacket nest while covered in syrup. So his relief was all too palpable at Arnold's follow-up: "But I did have time to think it over and cool down a bit. And guess what…I have a story similar to yours."
"How so?"
"Last night I put a bullet in the head of an attacker who was gutshot and asked to end it quickly. I then got into a really heated argument with Phoebe after she dragged me over the coals for that."
"Oh?"
"I swear, she can be as stubborn as the best when she sticks to an opinion."
"I hear you!" replied Brainy with a sigh, interpreting Arnold's cues as permission to be more informal with one of Uncle Sam's finest killers.
"So after defending my actions against Phoebe and then hearing you confessing to similar action," Arnold resumed, "I reckon I'd just be a hypocrite for coming down on you too hard."
Brainy was relieved. "Doesn't make what I did any less horrible," he exhaled ruefully.
"Wanna know why else I believe you?" asked Arnold, thus giving the spook hope that forgiveness was forthcoming. "Phoebe would think I'm nuts if I told her this. You, on the other hand…I think you'd want to hear me out."
"Go on," nodded Brainy, his curiosity whetted.
"For the past seventeen years, I've been having these dreams in which I'm talking with Helga. I'm talking full-blown dialogue, with total recall! Sometimes I playback the time at San Lorenzo's airport when we became a couple and damn near made out in front of the entire class." Brainy wasn't all too pleased with that reminder, and Arnold noted his expression. "…anyway, I had one of those dialogues with her while I was out after the fall last night. She said something about…how I shouldn't give up on my life…not like she did."
Arnold paused and Brainy's silence urged him to continue. "And you know, when we talk, she's always so cheerful…but so sad at the same time. Like there was something she wanted to tell me but never could. I never thought it would be this!"
"You couldn't have known, Arnold," offered Brainy. "For all she knew, you were also dead, Phoebe as well. All she'd have left would be her family. And, well…" He left it there; he really didn't want to mention the possibility.
"To quote a wise man: 'So why do I still feel like crap all these years later?'" mused Arnold.
"We're pathetic, aren't we?" assessed Brainy, which earned him a quirked eyebrow and a sideways glance from Arnold. "I mean," explained Brainy, "you have an asshole who loved the girl wholeheartedly but who thought the best way to impress her was by stalking her…"
A suppressed titter from Arnold.
"…then you have an idiot who got stalked most of his life by someone who would later become the love of his life, as a result of the worst case ever of Stockholm Syndrome!"
A suppressed chuckle; he was bent on preserving his ribs. "Well, when you put it that way..! Yeah, I guess we are pathetic."
Now sensing a budding camaraderie, Brainy ventured onto a different, possibly lighter topic. "So…you and Phoebe, last night in the alley. It was getting pretty steamy out there. Care to explain what that was all about?"
Arnold didn't even blush when he replied: "Only if you first tell me what happened out back for Sheena to leave with such a big grin on her face."
The trip across town comprised three bus trips, followed by a three-block walk. It should have been tedious and to be honest, she'd have welcomed the tedium. Phoebe did not want to make this journey but her guilt over the matter had overridden her logical faculties.
Even with the three-block walk from the last bus stop, the journey was over all too soon.
Here she was now: Phoebe Heyerdahl, poised to ring the front doorbell at the residence of Mark Vasquez. Hoping to confess her infidelity with Mark… to none other than his wife, Olga Pataki-Vasquez.
Sure, what could possibly go wrong?
Thanks to a large spike in courage and adrenalin, she rang the doorbell.
And waited.
And waited.
She heard steps from inside approaching the door, followed by the sound of locks and bolts moving.
The door opened to reveal a smiling Olga.
Before Phoebe could utter her first word, Olga beat her to it. "Why if it isn't Phoebe Heyerdahl, my old friend from out of town?" Her smile and tone were too saccharine to pass for sincere. "Imagine my surprise," Olga continued, "when I got a call from my librarian friends saying that you were looking for me. I've been expecting you. Please, do come in."
At which point Phoebe felt compelled to accept the invitation. The sawn-off double-barrelled shotgun Olga was pointing at her left no room for argument.
And that concludes Chapter 16, my friends. Thank you so, so much for keeping my Traffic Stats ticking over at a fair clip.
Author's Note: 'Vivid, Not Graphic.' That was my mantra for Brainy's flashback. The point was not to dwell on the actual carnage, but on Brainy's horror after he was dropped into the thick of it. That's also why didn't have the doctor show him all the pictures; if he didn't see them, then I wouldn't have to describe them.
Author's Note #2: Yes, I do believe Helga would have made such a decision after considering her future prospects without Arnold or Phoebe, whom she could reasonably have assumed had also perished. Also, she would have been aware of Brainy's love of her after two separate events from the series: one from 'Helga on the Couch' and the other from 'The Jungle Movie'.
Author's Note #3: I watched a Youtube review of 'The Predator', which (unsurprisingly) hated it. The most interesting criticism was how an invincible, unstoppable bad guy really is a boring bad guy. A vulnerable bad guy, such as in the original 'Predator', is far more interesting as it must compensate with cunning and a long-game mentality. That's why Scheck and Vasquez have made errors, so we can see how resilient they are and what their Plan B will be.
Author's Note #4: In case you're wondering, I constantly refer to Scheck by his full name and to Vasquez by his rank and full name, so that you get an idea of their overblown senses of self-importance. Just in case you were wondering...
And here's the Spotify list that most influenced this chapter. It was mostly tailored around Brainy's scenes to reflect his state of mind.
Rooster - Alice in Chains
Harry's Place - Bruce Springsteen
Brothers in Arms - Dire Straits
Beautiful - Elvis Costello
What If - Kate Winslet
Chinese Translation - M. Ward
Into Dust - Mazzy Star
Carpet Crawlers - Steve Hackett (feat. Ray Wilson)
King of Pain - The Police
The Song Is Over - The Who
Harm In Charge- Toro y Moyo
And that's really it, good readers. See you next chapter!