The Temple Walls
Sometimes, you need to slow down and take a closer look at what you left behind...at what was written on the temple walls.
Co-ordinates: Hillwood: 40°41'34"N, 73°59'25"W; San Lorenzo: 4°55'22"N, 52°19'37"W; Washington DC: 38°53'42"N, 77°02'12"W
Laws, Who Makes 'Em?
38°53'42"N 77°02'12"W
September 1st, 13:55
Warning: This chapter contains swearing.
It was a bad day, due only to become considerably worse; no sun was shining, the coffee was bitter and everybody was speaking too loudly. Helga jammed her slim security access card toward the scanning sensor beam, without luck. In her hands, the super-sized latte cup dipped dangerously onto its side as, consecutively, she managed to narrowly miss the blinking red laser. Helga frowned in frustration and slammed the key card back into the correct position with a forceful jab. Immediately, the office doors opened but, simultaneously, the coffee cup perched perilously in her hands tipped too far. One instinctive side-step later and Helga had narrowly missed showering her feet in scaling hot caffeinated liquid but, unfortunately, the hem of her pants had suffered quite a deal of black-splash. In a bout of incensed rage, she tossed the cup and its remaining contents at the nearest available trash can much to the surprise of a mousy-looking office worker who sat nearby.
Unfortunately, her dramatic entrance drew the attention of various staff, predominantly those easily distracted from their workload. Ronald, who had not even held so much as a pen in his hand, drew away from the paperwork he had been steadfastly ignoring.
"Mornin' sweet-cheeks." he practically drooled. "Hair's a bit frizzled this morning."
Helga instantly flashed him a hateful glare. "Why haven't you been fired yet?" she snarled. Unconsciously, her fingertips grazed the sides of her notably lackluster hairstyle; a plain, tight bun. It felt like carpet.
It wasn't often that her hair become unmanageable, in fact, for the most part her blonde locks were long, straight and simple. No considerable effort was required to maintain its shine and most decent hairstyles were effortlessly achieved. She couldn't hold curls for long, bar the use of strange jungle plants and oils, and it was much the same for errant frizz. Only one thing, aside from French dog-grooming parlors, could make her hair resemble a badly neglected fluff-ball and that was extended sleep deprivation. It also rarely occurred, despite her typically restless sleep patterns, and it had predominantly come about during childhood due to night-time vigils on Vine Street, followed directly by a weekday during the school term. In this current instance, she could safely blame an overload of stress.
"If I was, you'd miss me." Ron simpered in response. It was accompanied by a disgustingly audacious wink.
Of course, the present stressful, restless nights were certainly the result of the upcoming election process. It was quickly becoming a twenty-four hour responsibility, between creating a positive public image and developing sound policies. No matter where she found herself, the campaign followed with a swarm of communications; texts, emails, phone calls, sticky-notes, and the like, from assistants, delegates and businesses. In addition to that, Candace from the embassy called upward of twice per week to cheerfully confirm that, no, nothing further had been achieved. Nothing at all.
Ron attempted another sleazy facial movement and, without much thought, Helga succumbed to her childish instincts and reacted by flipping a large stack of paperwork over the edge of his painfully disorganised desk. It was followed by indignant protests from the useless man, to which she barely bothered to listen to as she continued onward. She similarly ignored the throat-clearing of Normandy's self-righteous secretary, whose name she still couldn't recall, and stormed directly past.
Unfortunately, there was no similar reaction from Mr Normandy, nor the tempting possibility of heart-stopping shock, when Helga flung open his newly polished office door and stormed inside. Helga found herself further agitated by his lack of appropriate consternation.
"Ah, Mrs Shortman." he, instead, welcomed her cordially. It was followed by a wave of his hand, toward the chairs adjacent his desk. "Good morning."
Helga growled softly beneath her breath and harshly released grip upon her weighty briefcase. It slammed to the office floor with a satisfying thud, and Helga purposefully avoided his intended seating arrangement. In silent defiance, she stiffly poised herself upon his gray armchair, by the bookshelf. She didn't bother correcting his choice of name, nor did she verbally respond to his greeting, either. Instead, she met his gaze with an unmistakable loathing.
It amused her, if only somewhat, to note that Normandy immediately stood but remained behind his desk; apparently unable to verbally wrangle with her unless he felt taller, and adequately protected behind heavy wooden furniture. He tugged at his tightly-fixed tie.
"Electoral registration is finalised in just over two month's time." he said, "Ten weeks, to be precise. Although, I'm sure you're already aware of the diminishing time frame?"
"I'm aware." Helga snapped.
Normandy stood taller, straightening his posture. "Ronald Irving, from my copy department, has brought it to my attention that you have sought preview copies of your electoral posters in recent weeks."
Helga narrowed her eyes. "Snivelling little jackass."
"Previewing electoral posters, as I'm sure you are well aware, is common practice for editorial measures." he stated importantly, pacing slightly within the small space between window and desktop. "There is no crime in such an act. However, there is cause for concern when one is previewing posters that feature a name which, in light of current circumstances, is an illegal pseudonym. It is matters such as those that cause me grave concern."
Helga pressed her fingertips against the plush of the antiquated chairs armrests; her nails dug sharp lines in the upholstery. "I can assure you the current circumstances will not be continuing." she seethed, "I will run for election as Helga Pataki and that is exactly what my posters will say."
"Mrs Shortman.," responded Normandy, pointedly. "Your dealings with the San Lorenzo consulate are not beyond my knowledge. I am well aware that your husband is proving elusive. I believe he has taken up with an indigenous cult?"
"The Green Eyed People are not a cult." she spat. "They are a tribe, a civilisation of native people."
Instead of looking appropriately contrite, Normandy appeared to show little concern for the technicalities. "I do not profess any familiarity with their customs," he elaborated, quite unapologetically. "but I do know this: they are difficult, if not impossible, to find and your husband has very close ties with them. I simply say this because I harbor grave doubts that the international agency assigned to the case will be able to locate Mr Shortman, especially within just ten weeks time. I feel you will have no option but to enroll under your married name, and thus, you should prepare yourself and your posters accordingly."
"Isn't the law supposed to protect me?" she narrowed her eyes. Ignoring, completely, his remarkably plain demand that she succumb to his directive. "Why do I feel like it's kicking me up the ass right now?"
Normandy sniffed, reveling in his perceived victory. "Such is the case," he started slowly, with a look of clear condescension, "when you combine delicate international laws."
"And here I was under the impression that laws were your specialty!" Helga glowered, abruptly rising from the armchair.
In two efficient strides, their speaking distance had been halved. Normandy reacted in tandem with her movement, shuffling further backward until he found himself settled behind two barriers; his desk, and his office chair. A tense moment of silence befell the conversation. Helga raised an eyebrow, wordlessly challenging him for a returning statement.
"Mrs Shortman." he said, once more, although with notably less assurance lacing his tone. He adjusted his neck tie for the second time. "Perhaps, if you had intended on wanting your birth-name back, you should not have given it away in the first place."
Helga clenched her teeth, eyes focused hard upon his own. "It's Pataki." she hissed loudly. His slight flinch did nothing to placate her; grasping for her suitcase she headed for the exit. "And, fuck you." she added, before slamming the door in her wake.
A/N: It's official, I'm a terrible person! It's been a whole month, my gosh – yes, you can throw your half-filled latte cups at me and knock paperwork off my desk as revenge.
In response to a few reviews I've received...
I know you guys are hanging out for more explanation of what happened between Arnold and Helga and, I promise, you'll hear Helga's side of the story in a few chapters time. Arnold's side of the story, well, that'll take a little longer (since, you know, he's in a jungle and all...)
And, to those who were worried about me cheating on you with the HP fandom, fear not I will not leave you! I'll just be splitting my time between both. I still fully intend to do 'Carry You' and other mentioned HA fics. I ain't goin' nowhere ;)