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.
Author's Note(s): I had a fun time trying to figure out how Phoebe and Brainy would have evolved given their personalities in the series and the tragedy they've had to endure. Making Brainy the shadowy figure you encountered in the previous chapter felt like the only logical choice. As for Phoebe, I figured that she'd want to use her faculties to pursue justice in one way or another. Her personal life might be another story entirely.
3. Aftermath: Arnold
He had the dream again. It had long stopped haunting him, but it refused to go away. It felt as though his deep subconscious still considered the event a significant one, even after seventeen years. He witnessed – again – in vivid picture quality and crystal-clear sound, how the group was assembled in the departure terminal at San Lorenzo, waiting to board their flight home. He witnessed how he was happily and eagerly talking with his family: Mom, Dad, Grandpa, Grandma. The family was whole again; he was whole again.
Elsewhere, his classmates were chatting amongst themselves in both joy and relief. Gerald was recounting to Phoebe the details of the perils he had faced with the Green-Eyed People; Phoebe was listening with rapt concentration. The others were chatting idly about the preceding events. There may have been one or two embellishments here and there as Sid, Harold and Stinky tried to outdo one another in the magnitude of their bravery. Bob and Miriam were fussing over Olga, relieved that she had survived unscathed. Bob was however disappointed that his stash of beepers had to be sacrificed to facilitate her rescue, but hey…this was Olga after all, and no price was too high.
Helga was sitting alone in bitter, contemplative silence.
He noticed this and saw an opportunity. He would do this now or not at all. He excused himself from his family and walked over to her.
"Uh…Helga?" he faltered.
"What?" was her curt response.
"You mind if I sit with you?" he felt his resolve strengthening.
"Actually I do. But you're gonna take the seat anyway, Footballhead." Nonchalant, but not averse. It was an opening at least.
Slightly emboldened, he took the seat and faced her: "I…feel…we need to talk." Kiss or no kiss, tender moment or not, she still cut an intimidating figure.
"Oh?" was her indifferent response. He couldn't tell whether it was real or feigned. But he had to press on. "I was wondering about our…encounter…at the temple," he started as he saw in her expression a momentary spark of interest in the conversation. "I mean…we haven't had any time since then to talk about…"
"Blame your parents," Helga interjected, not in anger but with indifference. "Makes sense you'd want to spend the time with them. You know with them going all Sleeping Beauty on you."
As blasé as that comment was, it was on the proverbial money. Since leaving the Green-Eyed People, he had been spending most of his waking moments with his family. But he had to continue: "Sorry about that. But I still want to talk about…"
She cut him off again, this time annoyed: "Yeah yeah, the event." Her tone suggested she didn't see the same significance in it that he did. "What about it?"
"It's just that…I want to know where we go from there. I mean, that wasn't another heat of the moment situation. Was it?" This was harder than expected. He had rehearsed his lines for this conversation with all contingent answers to any of her possible responses, and here she wasn't responding according to any of the permutations.
"Oh, Arnoldo. You sweet, innocent, naïve fool!" Here came the mockery. "Listen, Bucko, you really thought I would consider the event a personal milestone?" "Of course it was the heat of the moment. Again! I was just relieved that you had found your parents and that this stupid, unhappy sequence of nonsensical events finally had a happy ending for at least one person! Notwithstanding of course the long hours with the local constabulary and the oh so joyous experiences at the consulate that was still to come because…."
"Dammit Helga, that's enough! I'm being serious!" he snapped, more loudly than he had expected.
That got her attention. In fact, it got everyone's attention. Everyone within earshot had turned to witness what the commotion was. Given the size of San Lorenzo's departure terminal, that meant everyone, period. Their collective gasps led to an awkward, expectant silence.
"Willickers, Arnold," Stinky's lazy drawl eventually weighed in, "yew sure must have some kind of death wish, on account of yew cussin' out Helga G. Pataki."
Next was Harold with his whiny, singsong teasing: "Oh look! The married couple is having a fight!"
The crowd started murmuring, no doubt offering opinions on the direction Arnold and Helga's conversation was about to take. Arnold looked at them, at the crowd, with an expression that threatened dire consequences if they didn't keep quiet. They all bought it and went silent, even the adults wishing to chastise him for his language.
Arnold surveyed the area: all eyes were still on him and Helga. It didn't matter anymore. Not the stares and not the murmurs. He turned back to Helga – who was now stunned silent – and continued, louder and undeterred: "It's just…I saw things that I wish I could unsee. I watched a man try to murder you and Gerald. I watched a man fall to his death."
Helga tried deflection. "Arnold," she said in an anxious whisper, "you're causing a scene and you're embarrassing yourself." Ah yes, classic Helga. Trying to wrest control of the situation away from him.
"So what?" louder still. "I've been humiliated on our local news for wearing a white bunny onesie. In public! I've danced on stage in a phallic banana costume! At your say-so! You think I'm now bothered by this small crowd?" He sounded almost angry.
"Yeah, I remember that onesie!" Curly piped. "You were so precious!"
"Not helping, Thaddeus!" Arnold growled sharply with the dirtiest look anyone had seen. Curly's resolve shriveled and he retreated.
Curly's distraction had not affected Helga. She still stood in quiet, doe-eyed incredulity, but Arnold couldn't afford to relent: "All of what happened in the jungle gave me perspective. I always thought you were cool to hang out with. And the chance of losing you, it frightened me. A whole lot. I remember that look in your eyes when we were hanging for our lives on the bridge. And just like that…it was like all the pieces of a puzzle suddenly falling into place." His voice softened as his hands found hers: "I feared I might never get this chance. I realized that deep down I actually liked you. As in, like you...like you."
Her eyes had started welling. A flush of crimson had claimed her cheeks. He wasn't faring much better, but he wasn't done yet: "That's why…if you'll have me, I'd be happy…no, no, more than happy…to be…your…boyfriend…. If…uhm…that's ok with you…" This was feeling more like a proposal.
"OMG, Nadine," Rhonda stage whispered to her best friend, "we may be witnessing a historic event!"
Fighting back tears and blushes, Helga marshaled some measure of composure: "Arnold, I believe my hearing may be failing. For my benefit and yours," she was trying hard to keep her tone as neutral and nonchalant as possible, "please tell me that I heard you correctly." Arnold hesitated, then by way of an answer, he planted a quick peck on her lips. The dumfounded gasps from those witnessing seemed to suck in all the air inside the terminal.
"That dude's crazy!" Curly exclaimed, the irony of his statement apparently lost on him.
"He's dead!" Sid quietly corrected. "Why, Arnold, why?"
Stinky eulogized: "Let us bow our heads at the loss of our great friend."
Eugene at least seemed willing to back Arnold: "That's it, Arnold! Go for it!"
Now Helga was flustered, her eyelids batting many times per second. Then, she stared at Arnold for several eternities compressed into about ten seconds. Her eventual response was to reach out and cup his cheeks in her hands. "My footballhead!" she exclaimed tenderly as she pulled his mouth to hers for a longer, more tender – but still PG-appropriate for all the adults present – kiss. "My beautiful, brave, caring, noble footballhead!" she continued, punctuating the adjectives with quick pecks of her own on his cheeks and forehead, suddenly not caring just who knew of her love for Arnold Shortman (Old Betsy would deal with anyone who had a problem). She then pressed her lips against his for another sustained tender kiss. Arnold didn't resist; instead, he cupped his own hands on Helga's cheeks and met her intimacy halfway. Inside he was giddy with ecstasy.
Harold would have blurted out some disparagement at the sight, but he was denied. The crowd erupted in spontaneous applause, drowning out his intentions. Arnold's grandparents were especially loud with their cheers. Gertie even let out a loud: "You go, Eleanor!" Miles and Stella were gobsmacked at the audacity of modern tweens, but Phil and Gertie held them back from intervening. Phoebe and Gerald were smiling in equal parts relief and approval. Bob, Miriam and Olga were simply agape at what was unfolding.
The kissing couple either didn't hear the commotion or didn't care one jot.
A beeping sound from the PA system announced that the gate for their flight was now open and they could commence boarding. It did so again.
And again.
And again.
That's when Arnold Phillip Shortman, age 28, realized that his alarm had gone off and it was Sunday morning, 6:00, time to wake up. There were errands to run.
Phoebe was impressed. Even by Brainy's superior standards for gathering intel, the dossier he had provided was a masterpiece.
He'd found her almost the moment she started her journalism career. She had barely settled at her desk when she received the first of his many lucrative phone calls. He'd offered to be her CI, free of charge. What a bargain; he had the uncanny ability to gather impossible-to-find facts, figures, incriminating evidence and other materials that eluded even the best investigators. Thus the rookie fast became the paper's top performer, or at least she would have had the editors and bean counters not decided on the path of maximum ad revenue above all else.
He was there even when she went freelance, and as always his intel was righteous. A large portion of her books was due to his information that held up against even the most rigorous scrutiny and fact-checking.
It bugged Phoebe that Brainy was also invited to Arnold's fateful party seventeen years ago. She could recall seeing him on the roof before the event: just how did he survive? His answers would be some variation of either "Not important" or "This is not about me." Eventually, she stopped pursuing the matter any further: the quality of his services surpassed her curiosity.
The dossier on Arnold was comprehensive, almost too much for her to digest. She had to bullet-point it for the sake of compendiousness:
Family killed in tragic explosion ("Public knowledge, Brainy!")
Moved to San Lorenzo; Dual Citizenship granted ("So that's where he went!")
Psych Evaluation: Emotionally inert. ("Dr. Bliss couldn't help, I guess…")
Amazingly no criminal record at all. ("Good for you, Arnold!")
Involved extensively in humanitarian work. ("That's more like the Arnold I knew!")
Graduated high school with distinction. ("Wow! What motivated you?")
Relocated to the US. Enlisted with Army. ("What..?")
Exemplary service record. ("Decided to be all you could be, huh?")
Recommended for Army Rangers; Passed RASP1. (What. The. Actual….!?")
Active in several theatres including the Middle East and the Horn of Africa
2 Distinguished Service Crosses; 1 Medal of Honour ("How…?")
Honorable Discharge at age 26. ("Why?")
Current activity: Bounty Hunter ("I swear, Brainy, if you're making this up…")
Currently living in…? ("What? He's back in the USA?")
She silently gulped at the revelations. There was no way he could be the same sweet-natured, benevolent boy she remembered from childhood. She had read information on him known possibly only to the DOJ or Department of Defence, maybe even the International Criminal Court. And here she was, on her way to meet him after seventeen years.
Arnold always noted that his most dominant memory from the past was Helga. Not his parents, not his grandparents, but Helga. Could she really have meant that much to him? Granted, he had barely known his parents and had shared more misadventures with Helga than with his grandparents, but he still couldn't fathom how she was the single most enduring figure in his dreams.
Be that as it may, her memory is what spurred him on with his humanitarian work in San Lorenzo while still at school. And when the humanitarian work no longer seemed fulfilling, her memory proved the catalyst for him to bid farewell to Eduardo return to the USA and join the Army through his dual citizenship. The fear of having her disappointed even from within the afterlife was all motivation he needed to endure basic training and his tours of duty.
Helga.
Helga.
Helga.
She was as big an influence in death as she was alive.
The transcript made for an especially engrossing read, enough for the road trip not to seem like the tedious slog that it was. Apparently, Arnold was being court-martialled for Conduct Unbecoming and his defense attorney was questioning a witness. Phoebe gathered that "RS" designated the defense attorney, while "JK" was the witness.
RS: Please state your name for the record.
JK: Captain Jonathan Knowles, Squad leader of Unit 42.
RS: Captain Knowles, would you please describe the events preceding and occurring on July 13?
JK: Well we received what we believed to be reliable intelligence of a Boko Haram cell appropriating a sizeable weapons cache somewhere in Asmara, near where we were stationed.
RS: And what exactly was the significance of this event?
JK: We had Khaled Aziz, a high-ranking Boko Haram general and Abdul Ahmed, one of the biggest arms dealers in the Horn of Africa, together in the same location at the same time. We had a prime opportunity to set back Boko Haram operations in the area very significantly. We had a date and a time: July 13th, 1400. We had a location: an apartment building in Abba Shawl.
RS: And so, what happened on the day of the 13th?
JK: When Unit 42 got the green light, we moved into the building. Right into an ambush as it turned out. The lobby had been rigged with explosives. Not enough to destroy the building, but large enough for the rubble to trap us. Lieutenant Shortman would have been last in the building but the blasts sealed the exits and left him outside. Then all hell broke loose.
RS: Would you elaborate please, Captain Knowles?
JK: The enemy had set up a machine gun nest on the roof of the apartment opposite the street. We're talking a 50-caliber machine gun, tons of AK's. They started strafing our location; bullets were flying all over the place and I even recall an RPG round coming our way too.
RS: And were you convinced your team would survive the encounter?
JK: Not at all. We were pinned down, under sustained fire with little cover. I personally had taken an AK round to the leg and another in the chest. Sergeant MacPherson and Corporal Gomez also caught shrapnel from the blast, and they were incapacitated as well. Basically, we were sitting ducks.
RS: Can you explain what happened next?
JK: Well, Lieutenant Shortman was outside but was somehow able to remain out of the enemy's line of sight because they were more focused on our location. Plus, he retained radio contact.
RS: And how is that fact helpful in these proceedings?
JK: It's helpful in that he kept me abreast of his subsequent actions, meaning I can truthfully and under oath say the following. Lieutenant Shortman was able to remain unsighted while moving towards the enemy structure. He then lobbed two grenades on the roof which at least distracted the nest's occupants because the firing ceased afterward. I then heard how he entered the building and engaged its occupants. I heard several gunshots over the radio for about two minutes.
RS: Please explain what happened next.
JK: Lieutenant Shortman resumed radio contact, confirming that he had cleared out the building and that he was calling in an extraction for the squad.
RS: Was that the end of your encounter?
JK: No. After Lieutenant Shortman called in the extraction, backup for the nest team arrived in a convoy, presumably to finish the job. He was…
RS: Captain Knowles, by "He", do you mean Lieutenant Shortman?
JK: Yes sir. Lieutenant Shortman was able to commandeer the machine gun on the roof and use it to repel the reinforcements. He saved us. He saved the whole squad. Singlehandedly and facing near-impossible odds. When we were eventually extracted, only then did we see the extent of Lieutenant Shortman's wounds. The medics counted five entry wounds across his shoulders, flank and legs, plus back at the infirmary, the medics pulled shrapnel from him that lodged dangerously close to his lungs. This I know from reading his prognosis.
RS: Very good, Captain. You've provided a compelling context for the real reason we're all at this court-martial. Lieutenant Shortman stands accused of striking a Senior Officer, one Colonel Charles Rawlins, an action witnessed by seven officers. Captain, what would you say to those witnesses?
JK: I'd provide them with even further context. As I mentioned earlier, we acted on intel presented to us as reliable, which ultimately almost got us killed. A subsequent investigation into the matter revealed that the intel had firstly not originated from any of our known and reliable informants.
RS: And secondly…?
JK: And secondly, the intel was not corroborated and vetted properly, maybe not at all. No reports, no photographic evidence, no satellite images, nothing. Colonel Rawlins was in charge of the vetting process but neglected his duties by handing us uncorroborated intelligence. Under military guidelines, his actions constitute Dereliction of Duty. Somehow Lieutenant Shortman caught wind of this revelation and went to confront the Colonel. What happened next is as the prosecution's witnesses testified: The Lieutenant punching out the Colonel, knocking out two of his teeth if I remember the one's testimony…
RS: One final question, Captain. As Lieutenant Shortman's direct superior, how would you characterize him?
JK: Simply put, Lieutenant Arnold Shortman is the bravest, fiercest soldier I've ever had the pleasure of leading. His resourcefulness and determination under fire are beyond reproach. He's a tactical genius, always finding a way out of even the most hopeless situations at very short notice. Over and above that, he is a good person, period, loyal to his friends, and generally a benevolent soul. He is an asset to Unit 42 and the US Army would be so much the poorer without him.
"The more things change…" Phoebe sighed to herself, recalling the Karr epigram. Arnold had gone through hell many times over, but on the evidence presented, deep down he remained the kindly boy she remembered from PS 118. Her initial intrigue in him was slowly becoming a genuine desire to meet him.
The court-martial presented a dilemma to the Army. On the one hand, Lieutenant Arnold Shortman had shown courage and valor above and beyond under fire, only to undo it all by striking a superior officer. On the other hand, testimony for the defense revealed that said superior officer was notorious for not being thorough in his duties, and it was after all his lack of oversight that put Unit 42 in jeopardy in the first place. The solution was the Colonel being dishonorably discharged, while the Lieutenant received an honorable discharge with a full Three-Star General's pension, plus a Congressional Medal of Honour to sweeten the deal further.
Arnold Phillip Shortman returned to the USA. Asmara made him want to reconnect with whatever remaining family he had. Spurred on by those events, he reached out to his cousin Arnie, who he learned had moved to an obscure town in the Northwest. Their reunion was not as painful as either had feared, mainly because both had had seventeen years to develop a profound appreciation of blood relations. It helped Arnold that the county was absolutely gorgeous with its rugged mountains, verdant forests, not to mention its remote location; he decided to make this area his new permanent home.
However, the dream of a bucolic idyll evaporated when he realized the county was well outside the jurisdiction of any given metropole and also within close proximity of the Canadian border, thus making it a destination of choice for big city bail jumpers – who almost always were wanted for heinous, violent crimes. Still, he saw an opportunity: Why not apply to be a bounty hunter? That proved to be the easy part as the county only required that applicants be in possession of a non-zero heart rate.
Once licensed, he found that performing his duties was the easier part. Most of the fugitives banked on the residents being too afraid to confront them and were not prepared when Arnold arrived to collar them. Sometimes he only needed a few calmly spoken sentences to make them believe that he was the devil incarnate, thus convincing them to come quietly and avoid trouble. Those that didn't, required other forms of persuasion: oftentimes a swift elbow to the jaw proved sufficient, though one or two did require several kicks to the crotch as well and one even received a gunshot to the leg for his belligerence.
Gradually the fugitives started looking elsewhere for a hideout; the reputation of the ex-Army bounty hunter was enough to deter all but the foolhardiest, who would eventually find themselves back to awaiting trial from the comfort of their cells just like those who came before them.
Despite Arnold's fearsome reputation among the criminal element, he was on amicable terms with the town's residents. He didn't go out of his way to be anyone's friend, but his cordial mannerisms meant that no-one considered him an adversary either.
Two years had passed since then and different circumstances notwithstanding, he felt that his quest for an ordinary world was nearing its end.
"Hey Vasquez! Girlfriend's GPS shows she's done traveling!"
Vasquez's dinner at home with his wife had been interrupted by this phone call, so naturally, the loud mention of "girlfriend" in her immediate proximity was – to put it mildly – potentially catastrophic.
"Idiot! You wanna blow your cover? Not so loud!" Vasquez made a show of his rebuke before covering his phone's mouthpiece and mouthing to his wife: "Damn rookies."
She looked up at him, indifferent to the explanation, before continuing with her meal.
He excused himself to continue the call in more privacy. "Are you certain about that?" he sounded more composed.
"Absolutely. No movement for two hours. Looks like she ain't going anywhere. She's at some loner's house some way out of…hey Yuri, what's the name of this hick town again?"
"Forget that! Why aren't you moving in on her?"
"Oh Christ, Vasquez! We've been on the road all fucking day! We're exhausted so we're staying at a motel. She'll still be there in the morning."
"Idiot! Move in now, while she's tired and her guard is down! Remember, the suspect is armed and should be considered extremely dangerous. Exercise ultimate caution. Deadly force may be unavoidable." He emphasized his instructions to make sure his wife could hear him issuing them.
"Screw you, Vasquez! We kill her now, then what? Dispose of the body at short notice, while pretty much out on our feet? Then drive another six hours back while still tired? We've been up all day, no way we'll have the energy for all of that, with or without a plan!"
"I am so glad we're talking over a secure line," Detective Vasquez began his admonishment. "Otherwise you'd have broadcast our names to God knows who."
"Like you're fucking top of the class," the voice countered. "Santalov asks you to shadow the woman, to find out what she knows, and you go and stick your dick in her! That complicates matters, and you know how the boss feels about complications. Say we do it your way, right now, and someone finds the body and links her back to you. Can you say 'compromised'? What about 'loose end'? We're saving your ass as well over here, so no input from you."
"Fine!" Vasquez grumbled bitterly, having been reminded of the balance of power in Santalov's organization. He ended the call with much indignation.
"Trouble at the office, dear?" his wife asked with a sardonic voice from the dining room.
"Nothing I can't handle," he replied as he rejoined her. "Just a slight disagreement over tactics. It's been sorted out now."
At least he hoped it was and those idiots would get the job done so that his wife would never hear about the affair!
All that remained after that was Phoebe's spook. That morning, after Phoebe left the alley, the detective entered to confront the guy. He found the area deserted, no signs that anyone had ever been there. He had to admit that it was spooky; the entrance he took was the sole entrance to the alley, so her man must have simply vanished. Even the local surveillance cameras would later reveal nothing to suggest that anyone other than Phoebe and he had entered and exited. Oh well, he mused, he'd be found and dealt with eventually.
The more Phoebe perused through the meticulously detailed Arnold file, the more she believed that Brainy had to have a personal investment in the matter. There had to be more to his assistance in bringing down Santalov than merely his civic duty; as far as she could gather, he provided his services exclusively to her and always refused any payment.
The journey had been interrupted by two stops for fuel, food and bathroom breaks. Other than that, she was so absorbed into her research that she hardly noticed the passage of time or scenery during her trip. Eventually, they pulled into the driveway of a remote lodge surrounded by pines and firs. It was here that the driver surprised her out of her Zen-like studying with his first and only words: "You're here." She had just spent the entire journey poring over Arnold's history; she hadn't even looked at the flash drive. As soon as she alighted with her luggage, the driver and his Crown Vic were gone.
The building itself was a sturdy structure of grey stone; from the outside, it at least looked every bit like the stereotypical hunting lodge. She feared that inside lurked many a stuffed animal head, a fanatic belief in the Second Amendment, and a pervasive aversion to humanity. What the hell have I stepped into, she wondered. As she made her way to the front door, she heard music playing inside at a high volume, the possibility of which she attributed to the severe lack of neighbors. Bracing herself, she knocked on the front door with as authoritative a "HELLO!" as she could muster.
She heard the music go silent, then movement inside, then the door being unlocked. It opened to reveal a man wearing faded jeans and a loosely hanging chequered shirt. He looked about 5'9", of well-above-average build with hardened facial features. But that oblong head with its unruly blonde hair was unmistakable.
They stared at one another, eyes gradually widening in recognition.
"Phoebe?" Arnold eventually broke the silence. "Phoebe Heyerdahl?"
And the best response she could manage: "Hey Arnold."
Author's Note(s): I had a friend at high school, a shortish guy who — lack of oblong head notwithstanding — would have been the Arnold of any group of friends. After high school, he emigrated to the UK because he had dual residency because of one or both of his parents were a UK resident. Fast-forward ten years and I find out he's a SAS soldier. This was my inspiration for making Arnold an effective soldier.