Disclaimer: The Hey Arnold characters belong to Craig Bartlett, and 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: Vasquez survives a shotgun blast and prepares to finish his job, only for Phoebe to thwart him, with some help from Olga. Arnold arrives to get them away from the scene.

Now buckle up, readers: incoming chapter in 3...2...1...

20. Because Family Matters (Part I)

By all accounts, she had aged gracefully. Her body made it a tough proposition for anyone to reconcile it with her age of 63. Thanks to the daily laps she swam at the gym – a throwback to her days as a competitive swimmer – her toned figure gave her the look and feel of someone twenty years her junior. As a result, she was still reasonably active in the dating scene with a few conquests and many more broken hearts in her wake.

She was semi-retired from the day-to-day running of her business, though her input was still highly sought-after when it came to deciding which phone models and accessories would be a season's bestsellers. She had just studied the latest sales reports, and she found the numbers encouraging. The models which she had predicted to be the bestsellers, proved to be exactly those. Her business acumen was uncanny, as was her ability to stay ahead of consumer trends. Both her staff and her business rivals would listen intently to her recommendations, such was her business sense.

Miriam Pataki was seated in the study in her house, the brownstone which Robert had lost when he still insisted on gambling on the beeper market all those years back. It hadn't been easy for her since his conviction and the subsequent transfer of his property and debts to her name. She was fortunate enough to parlay her fifteen minutes of fame following the trial into securing a business loan, which she used to repurpose the beeper store, first into a cell phone store, before branching into general electronics. Many years later, all debts (hers and Bob's) had been settled and the business was consistently operating at a healthy profit.

And yet…it wasn't enough.

Certainly, the sense of achievement should have been reward enough. So too the daily 'fuck you' she sent to the Pataki clan by accomplishing what their golden boy Robert never could while keeping his surname just to smear salt into their wounded pride. His name was still plastered all over the store – Big Bob's Electronics – just in case the bastard would read about it in prison and realize that his useless wife was thriving without his intervention. Surely he'd also have read about how she bought back the brownstone and was living comfortably again. That thought surely would be enough to make her life worthwhile.

And yet…had she gained the world at the cost of her soul?

Her relationship with her one remaining daughter was strained at the best of times, following Robert's trial. Olga wanted to blame Arnold for tearing down the family with his tirade at the memorial, though Miriam didn't agree. As far as she was concerned, it was Arnold who freed her and Olga from Bob's destructive ways even if he did initially put them through hell. And with that, a mother-daughter bond was fractured. Olga had rebuffed all of Miriam's offers of assistance, both monetary and moral. It was only through Olga's kind husband that reconciliation was slowly, very slowly, becoming a possibility.

Miriam remained optimistic that her relationship with Olga could yet be salvaged; she was determined to make a success out of this endeavor. Unlike her greatest failure, the symbol of which was prominently framed against a wall in the study as a daily reminder. Every day she'd force herself to look at it as a reminder of past sins and motivation for her never-ending quest for atonement.

Seventeen years later, and no matter how hardened a businesswoman she'd become, no matter how much she'd moved on with her life, the sight of the display was enough to release the still-raw pain within her and effectively undo her.

Like now, as she started weeping, sobbing, weakly calling out her daughter's name.

"Helga…"

Smith had made good on his word. His contact at NASA had arranged for the promised satellite. True to her promise, it had taken roughly an hour to change its orbit to a geostationary one above Hillwood Harbour. Thus far all that was on display was the normal day-to-day stevedore activity: nothing out of the ordinary.

Oh well, Brainy would have to be patient as the going was still early. The lull could be useful; at least he'd be afforded maybe an hour or two of rest, maybe a chance to grab a quick bite.

Unlike what happened about forty minutes ago.

Forty minutes ago, he had called Arnold for a progress report. And as usual with Arnold, the feedback had been good news-bad news.

Good news: Phoebe was safe; Olga too.

Bad news: Phoebe was quite banged up.

Good news: Arnold would patch her up at her place.

"So did Vasquez get to her? Were you able to stop him?"

Bad news: No, they didn't get there in time.

Good news: They didn't need to. Phoebe and Olga fought him off.

Good news: Vasquez is dead.

Bad news: Vasquez is dead.

"Oh shit. Arnold, he may have been dirty, but he was still a cop. You'll have the whole Hillwood PD looking for one or more cop-killers now!"

"You think I don't know that? Both Phoebe and Olga are on the hook!"

"So what can you do about it."

"Look, I planted an SD card containing the dirt on Vasquez you gave Phoebe. Could give any investigators pause for thought. Maybe they'll first run it by the higher-ups, buy Olga and Phoebe a day or two. Enough for us to take down Scheck. Plus, I have the murder weapons, and—"

"Murder weapons? Murder weapons, plural?" One thing about Arnold, Brainy suddenly realized as he recalled the dialogue. Brainy enjoyed a reputation of being even-keeled in even the most untenable situations, and there was Arnold, newly arrived and already fraying every goddamn one of his nerves.

"Three, actually. Now don't worry. I've disassembled them all. I just need them disposed of and…"

"Fine!" sighed Brainy in resignation. "Can you get them over here in ten minutes? The school kids will be coming home soon, so we're pressed for time."

"Not a problem," replied Arnold. And momentarily thereafter, Brainy heard a knock at his door. He opened the door to reveal Arnold, stood there phone in one hand and three bags clenched in the other. His smile belied the seriousness with which he was treating the situation as he continued. "I mixed up the parts in three bags. I just need them disappeared."

Brainy accepted the bags reluctantly and asked sardonically: "Anything else?"

"Actually, yes!" replied Arnold. "You mentioned how you wanted to get Olga out of this minefield as cleanly as possible. Well, so do I. So does Phoebe. We reckon she'll be needing a damn good lawyer. You got one lined up?"

Brainy smiled at that request as he revealed that he had a team of defence attorneys lined up for just this situation, all of whom had racked up a ton of IOU's with him which he was waiting to cash in. He retreated inside to put down the bags before scribbling a number on a slip of paper, which he then handed to Arnold. "Tell her it's from Brainy. She'll take it from there."

"That's some preplanning," admired Arnold.

"Hey, I've had this plan set up for some time yet," said Brainy. "I couldn't help Helga, but I can still make things right for her family. Maybe this will smooth things over between her and Miriam."

"You're OK, Brainy," commended Arnold in admiration. "We're just lucky you're on our side!"

With that, Arnold extended his right hand to Brainy, who took it for a firm handshake. Only, when Brainy wanted to release his hand, he found that Arnold was still maintaining his grip.

"Thumb," Arnold whispered cryptically.

"Excuse me?"

"Thumb," repeated Arnold as he loosened his grip to raise his right thumb upright as a demonstration.

Oh god…was this..?

Brainy mimicked Arnold's gesture and raised his right thumb as well, for Arnold to move his thumb in front of it in a side-side motion without letting the digits touch.

Fuck…it was!

"Haven't done this for seventeen years, not even with my Ranger buddies," explained Arnold in a tone hinting at long-repressed sadness. "You've done so much to keep hope alive, and I reckon Gerald would approve."

With that said, Arnold was gone. Walking to the idling red Golf waiting for him, before Brainy's mind could measure the significance and the profoundness of the gesture. Holy shit, he'd earned the wholehearted trust of Arnold Shortman!

Back in the here and now, Brainy was forced to recognize that as much of a pain in the ass that the new Arnold could be, deep down he was every bit as loyal to and appreciative of his friends as he'd always been. That singular gesture with the thumbs had spurred Brainy into recruiting two of the most reliable, discreet and off-the-books couriers/cleaners he knew. He'd handed the bags to the one with a single instruction: no trace. The second one was entrusted with a small envelope and her instructions were similarly concise: Hillwood PD; Police Commissioner. Time to play his hand, he reckoned while hoping that his timing would not be off.

What he didn't know at the time was that those bags and their contents were indeed destined to disappear with no trace as instructed. He'd never know how the bags found their way to the steel mill where they were 'accidentally' dropped into a smelter. He did, however, know that the envelope would be in the hands of the Police Chief within half an hour.

Satisfied that he'd bought Phoebe and Olga the time they needed, and also that the endgame had commenced, back he went to observe Hillwood Harbour for any unusual activity.

Before Arnold's visit to Brainy, Arnie had driven him and the women back to Phoebe's place. There, Arnold had performed another safety check that yielded nothing untoward. Next, Arnie's 300C went into the garage after Arnold's Golf was taken out. The reasoning was that while Vasquez may have looked into Arnold's vehicle, his inquiries would almost certainly have been off-the-books and under-the-table. With his death, interest in a certain red Mark V Golf GTI clearly had to be on the wane. In contrast, Arnie's Chrysler ran the risk of being placed at the site of the detective's death, so it had to be hidden from public eyes.

On their way to returning to Phoebe's place, the cousins had taken the time to get takeout for the party. Arnold had picked up sushi for him and Phoebe. He figured Chinese would be a safe option for Olga. Arnie, being ever the country boy, settled for a fried chicken meal.

Once back and fed at home, Arnie retreated to the lounge's sofa for some much-needed sleep. The fatigue that began with his all-night trip to Hillwood had conspired with his fading adrenaline and declining caffeine levels to leave him in desperate need of rest.

This left a precarious trio comprising Arnold and Phoebe and Olga. And since Arnie had called dibs on the lounge, the trio was forced to retreat to Phoebe's study. The relatively cramped location served only to heighten the tension between Olga and Phoebe, and also the animus Olga projected towards Arnold. But either Arnold wasn't aware of Olga's enmity, or he didn't consider it worth dwelling on.

So it was he who broke the ice and suggested: "Phoebe let's go take a look at your injuries and dress them." He then turned to Olga, and also the folder on her sister that Phoebe had held onto after Vasquez's death and had placed in the study. "Olga, maybe you should take time and examine the folder and see if Mark was twisting what he read about Helga, you know, just to get a rise out of you."

Before Olga could protest, Arnold guided Phoebe out of the study and left her be.

They were in the main bedroom, sitting on the bed, facing one another. Arnold had broken out his first aid kit and was preparing to attend to Phoebe. Before he and Arnie left for Brainy, he'd asked her to ice up wherever Mark had struck her to reduce any swelling. That much she had done, and her bruising had subsided somewhat.

"What is it you said to me when we arrived here for the first time?" Arnold teased. Which he felt he could well afford to do, as Phoebe was safe now. "'You're not playing the tragic, self-sacrificing hero as long as we're together!' 'And please, please. No unnecessary risks.' I take it those rules were meant for me but not you, right?"

Phoebe's adrenaline had subsided since her encounter with Mark, and she had gradually become number to those around her. Such as now when she barely registered his light-hearted jibe. Her eyes seemed listless and glazed over and her expression was of shocked realization. Arnold caught on immediately: he'd seen that look countless times among his squadmates; he himself had expressed it. That first-time look of realization that another human being was dead by the wearer's hands. He immediately placed his hands on her shoulders and looked directly into her eyes.

"Phoebe, listen to me!" he whispered in urgent, soft reassurance. "What happened today was self-defense. No more, no less! He wanted to kill you, he was ordered to kill you, he was going to kill you! It was either you or him!"

He then watched as a flicker of life returned to her eyes. And he pressed on: "And Phoebe? I'm glad it was you. I'm relieved it was you. To hell with anyone else!" He kept looking at her, then saw the flicker become a spark: a good sign.

"I…I…killed…" she stammered, on the verge of tears.

At which point, he changed his grasp to an embrace, being careful not to agitate the tender ribs on her left side. "Shh, Phoebe. You had no choice. It wasn't your fault. It wasn't—"

"It was, Arnold!" Phoebe interrupted despondently. "It was! If I only hadn't become involved with him! If only I hadn't been so senseless!"

"No, Phoebe, don't say that. Don't even think of it!" Arnold's tone remained calm and reassuring, never giving in to impatience. "Whether or not you slept with him doesn't matter. He'd have come after you anyway. They'd have come after you anyway."

"But-but-but…Olga…" Nothing out of the ordinary with Phoebe's rambling reckoned Arnold. She'd committed something atrocious, self-defense or not, and subconsciously she didn't want forgiveness or comfort.

Well, tough! He loved her too much not to let her handle this matter alone. He was glad to have her back and wouldn't risk losing her in any way. He had to keep trying to reach her. "Olga would have been dead too, Phoebe. He'd have killed her too…after lying to her for such a long time. The marriage was a sham anyway. You get it, Phoebe? She'd be dead too! You helped save her!"

He then paused to look her in her eyes again. He saw her starting to grasp the situation, and from her normal, familiar comfort zone that was a logical standpoint. "That's right, Phoebe. That's correct!" Though his vocabulary was nowhere near as comprehensive as hers, Arnold had to engage Phoebe at her level. "You had no way of…um... forecasting this outcome."

Her eyes lit up ever so slightly at that remark.

"Yes, there was a certain sense of…inevitability. Yeah, inevitability…to what happened today."

The look from her suggested that she was focussing her attention on him now, as opposed to her inner turmoil.

"Besides which," he continued, trying to imitate her vocabulary and intonation so to maintain his connection with her, "have you considered how many people would have been utterly and emotionally gutted if you were to pass away prematurely? Your parents. Your family. Your friends. Me?" At that last word, her eyes widened, and he noticed.

"Remember what I told you when we arrived? How you as a person are my number one priority? How you're not someone I'd want to risk losing? I meant it then, I mean it now." He capped that statement with a small peck on her cheek, before releasing her and pulling away. "You're too significant a person in my life for me to let you go through this by yourself," he spoke in a stumbling meter, trying still to mimic Phoebe's diction.

She sat silently, a tear streaming down the side of her face. A smile then crept up on her face as she leaned towards him, her lips finding his, softly touching and caressing them for a kiss of intimate understanding. She pulled away, continuing her smile as she commented. "Arnold, Is that really how I sound to you when I talk?"

A seemingly encouraged Arnold went with the most diplomatic answer he could construct: "Yes. And I wouldn't have you any other way!"

"And how fortunate a decision that is, too!" she proclaimed. "But Arnold, seriously," she said to temper her euphoria, "this is still a serious matter, this recent action of mine…"

Arnold countered by lightly pressing his right index finger on her lips. "And that's why I'm here. To help you through it. I've been exactly where you are now. I know what you're going through right now."

"You do?" asked Phoebe before remembering his past. "You do."

To which Arnold nodded, then replied: "Let's talk about it while getting you patched up. Think you can take off your top?"

He watched Phoebe's smile turn mischievous, followed by: "You know, I seem to be having some upper-body mobility issues. I'm afraid you'll have to handle that task for me."

*Quote*

Helga Pataki: You think that's annoying? Try having a sister that's perfect.

Dr. Bliss: Perfect? What do you mean, perfect?

Helga Pataki: Well, she gets straight A's at Bennington College, all the boys want to go out with her, but she's got to stay home and practice the piano for the Brandenburg Concerto she's giving at the orphanage this weekend! And Mom and Dad can't get enough of her.

*Unquote*

Olga Pataki couldn't believe what she was reading. She'd never known Helga to be the most sparkling of personalities, and Helga's open and hostile antipathy towards her had not gone unnoticed. Still, Olga Pataki always guessed that her little sister was fronting with her displays of ill will, or maybe she was just going through a temporary phase.

And here Olga was, reading seventeen years after the fact how Helga's animosity towards her family was no act. That she wasn't merely seeking attention; she was seeking love and acceptance from those who were meant to nurture her.

*Quote*

Dr. Bliss: So what about your dad? He doesn't notice you either?

Helga Pataki: Are you kidding? All he cares about is Olga because she's so perfect. She's got him completely buffaloed, always has, as far back as I can remember.

*Unquote*

The transcript went on to mention that one morning when Olga was impressing their parents with her Chopin recital, to the point where Helga was ignored and had to leave for preschool on her own. Olga read this, and the realization dawned that she had always dismissed Helga's behavior as the petty tantrums of a child.

Now, however, she who was Olga Pataki, could she have been part of the reason for her sister's antisocial, sociopathic behavior? Absolutely not! How could she? She loved her sister oh so very much!

Did she? Really?

Of course I did! I even told her how I was shielding her from Daddy's unrealistic expectations by being the perfect daughter!

"Are you sure?" asked a familiar voice. Mark?

"Were you really that magnanimous towards her? Did you really love and care for your baby sister like you claimed you did?" Mark's voice played through her head; he even mimicked her tone when he mentioned 'baby sister'. She looked around for the origin, scanning every corner of the study until he appeared at the doorway, still sporting the injuries and bullet entry wounds that had ended his life. "Because I'm not convinced."

"Shut up, Mark! What would you know?" Olga spat back in defiance.

"I know what I'd do if I was used to having my parents' attention all to myself for over a decade, then have to share it with a new arrival…"

"I said shut up!" Olga shouted back at him.

But he didn't. "I'd fight hard to keep all the attention to myself. Get the straight A's, win the competitions, get the scholarships. Anything to make me the darling of my parents. To keep them interested in me."

"Shut up! Shut up! Shut. Up!" cried Olga ever louder.

"But I'd also pretend to show her some interest. Pretend to be on her side, make her believe I've got her back. Fucking fawn on her every fucking chance I get!"

At which Olga quickly got up and charged at him with a shrill, banshee-like wail, only to pass right through him. She turned to face him and found him still there. His smile taunted her, signifying that she was at his mercy now.

"…while in reality, I'm keeping her away from Mommy and Daddy's spotlight because I don't want to share it!"

"That's not true!" she shrieked at him. "I loved her! I always loved her!"

But Mark kept talking as if her presence didn't matter. "Ah, but here's the best part! All the fawning makes her believe I'm a ditzy, clueless airhead and so she doesn't take me seriously. She doesn't even realize I'm the one driving her away from Mommy and Daddy. Yay! More attention to me!"

"Mark, for fuck's sake! Stop it!"

He didn't. "Because, behind the sugar-sweet personality, the overachievements and the kind façade, I'm nothing more than a selfish, two-faced, malicious little cunt!"

"You fucking liar!" Olga yelled as she lunged at him again, hoping to strangle the fucker. Instead, she once again passed through him and barrelled headlong towards the edge of the desk. Upon impact, she was jerked bolt upright, seated at the desk. Her breath coming in labored panting, her brow sweating, all from the vividness of the dream from which she had escaped.

She realized that she'd nodded off while perusing Helga's file, a product of latent exhaustion after a harrowing day. It took a while for her breathing to stabilize, whereupon she recalled the dream. Mark was wrong! She did love Helga. She did want to protect Helga from the weight of their father's expectations.

She did.

Yes, she did.

Yes, she fucking did!

But reading Helga's file had shown Olga that her good intentions had had the opposite effect and had in fact driven Helga away from her and the family. And there was no denying it this time: Olga had been a horrible sister. Aloof, inattentive, uninterested: uncaring despite her outward projections. She couldn't even be of help to Helga in San Lorenzo. Even here in Hillwood, before San Lorenzo, she'd made a better sisterly connection with Lila Sawyer.

And suddenly the deluge had begun as the memories arrived.

Every slight towards Helga. Every instance of embarrassing her, of undermining her. Of making her feel unimportant, irrelevant.

She allowed a tear to flow as the truth finally hit her: I was a terrible sister.

Still, she owed it to herself to understand who her sister truly was. So back to the reading she went.

The neighbors of Mark and Olga Vasquez arrived home from work in the late afternoon, and immediately noticed a set of tire skid marks on the road opposite the couple's house, signs of a burnout that seemed incongruent in their suburban idyll. It looked as if someone had left in a hurry: a burglary, perhaps?

They feared the worst when they found the front door unlocked. Fear turned to dread when they entered tentatively and found the body of Detective Mark César Vasquez lying in the lounge. One frantic 911 call and twenty minutes later, the first responders arrived. For two hours, photographs were taken, dimensions were measured, the body was inspected, and evidence was gathered. Among the evidence gathered was a seemingly nondescript SD card, well-hidden in the study.

Thankfully, the computer crimes unit was along for the investigation, given the astronomically high profile of the victim.

They inspected the SD card and its contents.

They paused.

They inspected the contents again. They verified the soundness of the data.

They reported it to the detective in charge of the scene, who promptly called the Chief of Detectives, who just as promptly called the Police Commissioner. The Police Commissioner, in turn, went, "Oh shit!" because about two hours earlier he had received a call from a man claiming to represent Gino Giovinazzo. The man had called to announce that the Commissioner was about to become part of a very messy, very awkward and very career-killing situation.

What situation?

His complicity and participation in an act of domestic terrorism, specifically the bombing of The Sunset Arms seventeen years ago. He needn't have been reminded that there was no statute of limitations for such crimes.

What proof, if any, did the caller have?

Bank records, email transcripts (all with properly verified metadata) showing how the Chief of Detectives back then (now Commissioner), the Commissioner (now Mayor), and the District Attorney (now Governor) conspired to facilitate the crime, as well as suppress crucial evidence and have the incident declared an accident. Could they imagine the ramifications if such information were to come to light? If the constituents, especially the proletariat, were to find out that the three officials had acted in such an unpatriotic way and sold out their American values to the highest bidder, could he imagine what the consequences would be?

Fuck!

Yes, fuck indeed. Oh, and no need to trace the call; it wouldn't do him any good. The evidence had been replicated a few times over and was being stored with various…let's say 'associates'…in various worldwide locations and should any move be made on Mr. Giovinazzo…well, the consequences were obvious, weren't they?

Fuck!

Yes, that was what the Governor and Mayor also said when confronted with these terms and conditions. Yes, Commissioner, they were also on board.

What did the caller want?

Well, the formal terms were to be determined on a future date. But for now, they did have a set of small ad hoc tasks with which the trio could perhaps be of assistance. Well, they didn't have an exact timeline, but they were fairly assured that a certain Alphonse Perrier du von Scheck would meet an untimely demise within the week, and would they kindly not interfere if and when said event took place? Oh, one more thing: Arnold Shortman. Didn't matter who he is. Anyway, he and a certain Phoebe Heyerdahl…yes the reporter…they were to be left alone for an indefinite period, them and any of their associates. It didn't matter for what actions; would they please comply with this second request, as a test of their good faith? Thank you so much, Commissioner.

The Commissioner's day would have merely been crappy had that exchange been the only bit of bad news. But now he found himself in possession of an SD card, delivered half an hour ago by an unknown messenger and addressed to him. The card contained a rather lengthy video of an exchange between two men, somewhere in the cemetery.

And…oh shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!

There was Detective Mark Vasquez, on video, confessing to the best goddamn CI – to this day still known only as Brainy – that he was in the pockets of Scheck and the late Santalov. Admitting to the way he was receiving his payments and how he was making his wife an accessory in the matter. Granted, the Commissioner was aware of this arrangement, but the public wasn't. Shit, if this were to get out…

All his arrests and convictions would be called into question. The Department was staring at a very public disgrace.

And here was the Chief of Detectives, bearing even more bad news. Another SD card, found at the detective's house. Containing, amongst other information, detailed bank records showing monthly deposits made to the detective from a bank account belonging to Vitaly Santalov, showing that the detective was on the take.

FUCK!

And now the commissioner had to make a very fucking delicate call. An enormous can of worms was about to be opened with this case and could send Hillwood PD right down the crapper.

"So you say Vasquez was shot dead, right?" he asked his subordinate.

"Yes, Commissioner. CSU says nine times. With different calibers. They recovered six .22 slugs and three .38 slugs from the body. The bastard went down hard."

"What about the weapons used?"

"None found at the scene. No casings either. Could have been a hit."

The Commissioner carefully considered the information he'd just received. He had another question: "What about the wife? Has she been informed yet?"

"That's just it. We tried contacting her, but her phone was still in the house. She didn't have any next of kin listed, so as far as we know, she's still in the wind. "

More mulling by the Commissioner, then: "Chief, don't bother with her. And have CSU wrap up processing the scene. I believe I've solved this case for them."

They were still seated on the bed, with Phoebe stripped to her blue bra while still wearing her jeans. Arnold, however, had no time to admire her sleek curves as he was tending to her injuries. First, he'd inspected her entire upper body and was happy to see only minor, superficial scrapes instead of lacerations after she told him how she was flung over a teeming kitchen counter. He was equally relieved to see that the bruising from Mark's ground and pound was just as slight. "Looks like your sweatshirt was thick enough to absorb the worst of his strikes," Arnold had postulated to no argument from Phoebe. He did, however, have to confess that the inspection had lasted a bit longer and was perhaps a bit more thorough than it should have been, but he didn't hear Phoebe voice any objections to that either.

Next. he'd stitched up the open wound Phoebe had received on her left temple from Olga's shotgun strike and which was further aggravated by Mark's headbutt. Then, he'd checked her spine for any dislocated or fractured vertebrae and was relieved to find none. Finally, he inspected her ribs and was thankful to inform her that they weren't broken, just bruised, and needed to be strapped up. A goal he'd just accomplished.

"Let me guess, Arnold," speculated Phoebe, "an atavism from your days in the Rangers?"

"I suppose," he replied, glad that Phoebe's advanced vocabulary had returned. "What about you?" He was recalling Phoebe's account of her combat with Mark. "Where did you learn to fight?"

"Oh, you know, my father taught me fencing when I was eight. I kept at it through elementary school. Then…that…happened. Then the backlash at PS 118. Suddenly I decided that I needed some form of hand-to-hand combat. It would have been most peculiar carrying my épée out in public, so in Seattle I took up Goju-Ryu karate. Made it to First Kyu Brown Belt. I also dabbled a bit in jiu-jitsu to cover me on the ground. Unfortunately, the university demanded all of my time, so I was forced to quit. But the peculiar thing about martial arts; train long enough and even when you stop, the muscle memory never goes away."

"True that," agreed Arnold, now fondly remembering how his grandmother had schooled him in Shotokan, long enough for him to develop the muscle memory. He then thought sadly of how in spite of his fighting knowledge, he simply froze against Lasombra back in San Lorenzo when his life and those of Helga and Gerald really needed his fighting skills. To this day, memories of his inaction still visited shame upon him.

"Arnold, are you alright?" Phoebe asked, having noticed his melancholy eyes.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just thinking of a past event that I'm not too proud about."

"Care to share, perhaps?"

He then went into a lengthy explanation of his encounter against Lasombra with Helga and Gerald, and the helplessness he felt then and how he never wanted to be in a similar situation ever again.

"Which explains why you were so all over me at Olga's place!" she cutely surmised.

Arnold remained serious, yet calm. "Let's just say the possibility of losing you was a strong motivator. I mean Scheck is threatening to destroy San Lorenzo itself to force a final confrontation, but you were still more important."

"Wait, what?" Phoebe's mood suddenly turned incredulous. "He's threatening what?"

To which Arnold replied, having realized that Phoebe wasn't yet up to speed on a lot of new information, including Brainy's confession and Scheck's scheme: "Maybe you want to remain seated. You did miss out on quite a bit."

Meanwhile, Olga was still poring through the file and indeed it painted a bleaker picture of her sister's circumstances and state of mind than she could ever have imagined.

*Quote*

Dr. Bliss: I'm hearing your anger again, Helga.

Helga Pataki: Okay, so you hear my anger. So I get angry. I already told you that I've got a lame mom, a blowhard dad, and a perfect sister. So they make me mad, big deal!

Dr. Bliss: So why do you take it out on Arnold?

Helga Pataki: Why do you keep bringing up Arnold? I am not angry at Arnold.

Dr. Bliss: Helga, I've seen you express more anger at him than anyone else.

*Unquote*

Olga always thought of herself as the family peacemaker, the adhesive that kept them a happy nuclear unit. What she was reading made a mockery of that notion. The reality of her being a divisive figure in the Pataki household was becoming harder to dispute.

*Quote*

Helga Pataki: I love Arnold! There, I said it! I love him! I love him! Arnold! Arnold! Arnold! I'm absitively posolutely in love with the boy! I want to grow up having a fabulous life, traveling around the world with him! Coffee in Paris, roses, sailboats, the whole nine yards! I want to have a perfume named after us: 'Arnold Helga'! I Love ARNOLD!

*Unquote*

It was Arnold! It always was! Her love for him perfectly counterbalanced her hostility towards her family. He showed her the compassion and understanding that she never received at home. Only…

*Quote*

Helga Pataki: But I'm not ready to tell him!

*Unquote*

...she was unable to open up to him, until the airport at San Lorenzo. She remembered fondly how her little sister's eyes lit up when Arnold confessed his affection towards her. Olga had seen Helga smile, but never as wholeheartedly as at that very moment. She couldn't recall Helga, before or since, ever being more openly happy to be in the presence of another person. In a matter of minutes, Arnold had brought to Helga a sense of belonging, of being loved and appreciated. Olga after eleven years hadn't even come close. Who knows? Maybe, given time, he could have been the husband, the significant other whom she deserved.

And suddenly, the events at the memorial came into perspective. 'Fuck you, Bob' was no random statement. It was the profound loss of those he loved, a group which had come to include Helga Pataki, whom her father had openly disparaged. It was a benevolent boy reaching his breaking point. It was Arnold's frustration, his undiluted disbelief at Bob's shitty parenting and equally shitty personality, finally simmering over.

Wait, did I just admit that Bob was a shitty person?

No, she didn't want to think it, but the more she did, the more sense it made. The open favoritism, the conditions attached to his love, the fact that he loved her only for as long as she was achieving. Which was why he only ever had the time for her, not for Helga and not for her mother.

Oh god, Mummy!

Yes, the woman who spent entire days plying herself with those damn alcoholic smoothies, except…except, when Olga was visiting! God, why didn't she see it then? Answer: she was too fucking oblivious, that's why! Mark was right; he had her number: "All that brainpower, not one bit of mental strength!"

No, No. No! She forced his pejoratives out of her mind and went back to Miriam.

*Quote*

Helga Pataki: My mom? My mom wouldn't notice me if I was an alien pod-person chanting Hare Krishna and spitting nickels.

*Unquote*

Not intentionally, Baby Sister. Her tears were welling as she silently protested to her dead sister. She didn't drink because of you. She drank because of Daddy! Miriam loved Helga; Olga knew it. She cast her mind back to the rescue at Lasombra's camp. She specifically recalled how Bob stopped fighting once he was sure his favorite daughter was safe.

Miriam, however…

She was by far the more vicious fighter; she took on the biggest goon in the camp and broke not only his cheekbone but also his eye socket with a frying pan. And even when the fighting was over and everyone was safe, she pleaded with anyone nearby for word on Helga. Bob didn't.

Only…Helga would never come to know of this amazing feat. Or indeed of her mother's hidden strength. Or did she? In a transcript of one of Helga's last visits to Doctor Bliss, Olga found:

*Quote*

Dr. Bliss: Tell me, Helga. Since San Lorenzo, has your relationship with your mother changed in any meaningful way?

Helga Pataki: Miriam? Nah, nothing's changed. She still lies all day every day in one of her stupors.

Dr. Bliss: But haven't you tried reaching out to her? You say she's an alcoholic, you've said so at numerous sessions. I know you to be wise beyond your age, so why not be proactive in trying to make a connection with her. Maybe be a catalyst in her recovery.

Helga Pataki: Doctor, don't tell me you've started writing material for comedians now! Because that line was so lame I don't think even the most desperate stand-up would hire you!

Dr. Bliss: Oh, I'm quite serious, Helga. When last have you bonded with her? Actually, let me rephrase that: have you ever bonded with her in any significant way.

Helga Pataki: Ok, well...There was this road trip when she showed off her rodeo skills. I'll admit under duress that it was kind of cool spending time with her. And a time when she actually helped me with my homework without complaining once.

Dr. Bliss: See, Helga? She can't be all that bad if her maternal instincts are still intact.

Helga Pataki: Listen, Doc. Two isolated cases do not a good mother make! As soon as we get home, it's back to the damn smoothies, the stupors, the hangovers, the blackout spells, the slurred speech, the whole nine freaking yards.

Dr. Bliss: So she only drinks at home?

Helga Pataki: Well, yeah?

Dr. Bliss: When you and your father are home with her?

Helga Pataki: Yes! Doc, what's your point? Are you privy to some earth-shattering insight that I'm not seeing? Come on, out with it! And tell it straight!

Dr. Bliss: Very well, Helga. I think your mother is protecting you from your father.

Helga Pataki: Doc, I think you and I should switch places once more. How in the name of Chris Barrie did you arrive at that conclusion?

Dr. Bliss: Think about it, Helga. Even when she's intoxicated, she'll make a concerted effort to connect with you. In fact, I don't believe you're the reason for her drinking; I believe your father is. She's under the influence so that he can focus his anger on her instead of you. And that's why I think she needs you by her side. I know you don't think highly of her, but as far as she is concerned, you'll never stop being her daughter and she'll do anything to protect you.

*Unquote*

Olga felt her tears dripping off her cheeks and onto the desk and pages. She'd been wrong all the time. About Helga, who was dead. About Bob, whom she just now realized had been a prick to his family. About Miriam, who was much stronger than she ever let on.

Helga and Bob, it was too late to mend any relationship with them. It wasn't too late for Miriam.

Suddenly, Olga Pataki needed to visit her mother.

And there we go, dear readers! Chapter 20 is complete! Twenty chapters: how did that happen? Anyway, thank you as ever, you wonderful people, for keeping the traffic stats for this story on a nice, constant uptick. Your patronage will always be appreciated and I encourage you to please review and comment on whatever chapter you happen to read.

Author's Note: Same title, different meeting. Chapters 18-20, as well as the upcoming Chapter 21 all play on the different meanings of the word 'matter'. In 18 and 19, 'matter' is a noun meaning 'issue' or 'trouble'. For this and the following chapter, 'matter' becomes a verb meaning 'having importance or significance'.

Author's Note #2: For all the violence and adult themes and situations, this story remains essentially a 'Hey Arnold' story, and I used this chapter to touch on the fact that Arnold at his core remains every bit the helpful and loyal boy he's always been to those near and dear to him and also go out of his way to make amends to those whom he has wronged in any way.

Author's Note #3: Helga's case file was never intended to remain just a MacGuffin to set up the final confrontation, which by the way draws ever closer. I always had a more meaningful and benign use for it as well.

Author's Note #4: The more I worked explored Olga's character, the more I fascinated I became. She's so fundamentally flawed, so self-delusional about her family, but still very sympathetic as a character and I wanted to run with that interpretation of her. Plus, I also understood why she clicked so easily with Lila in the series: they were both cheerful exteriors masking overwhelming baggage.

And finally, the Spotify list for this chapter:

Turn Back Time - Aqua

Once Upon A Long Ago - Paul McCartney

Stamina - Beatenberg

Breathing - Watershed

Unfinished Sympathy - Maxence Cyrin (Mental turmoil expressed beautifully over 88 keys)

Red Rain - Gregorian (I know it's sacrilege not to go with the Peter Gabriel version, but this one has a much more mournful feel to it which worked more effectively)

That'll do for this chapter. See you next time!