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
Acquiesce To My Request
38°53'42"N, 77°02'12"W
September 9th, 09:30
"I. Want. A. Divorce!"
Helga narrowed her eyes as Candace startled; two large, hazel eyes flying to meet her own. Instantly, there was a loud clattering as the stunned receptionist fumbled and dropped the telephone handset. Neither moved for a moment, Helga continued to gaze unwaveringly and Candace continued to gape.
"Er, ah, Mrs Shortman..." she suddenly garbled, crouching down toward the floor and retrieving the telephone. "We completely understand tha-"
"Stop!" Helga demanded, slamming her fist onto the countertop. It echoed throughout the waiting area. Candace jumped. "Stop calling me Mrs. Shortman."
Apparently lost for words, Candace opened her mouth to formulate a response but promptly shut it again. Helga, unamused, simply glared harder. It had begun a terrible week and seemed destined to finish even worse. Nobody seemed capable of doing their jobs without her constant reassurance. Normandy continued to send her vaguely menacing emails and Ronald Irving, of all people, had transferred to her building.
It had all become too much the instant she had received the morning mail; license renewal papers, side by side with her bank account statement. Both infuriatingly addressed to Mrs. Helga G. Shortman. Helga G. Pataki did not appreciate playing the losing game, especially not plural. If by the end of the following week she did not have efficient staff, a filter on her emails, Ronald fired without pay and her surname correctly amended, she was liable to loser her temper. Again.
Candace had managed to regain a tentative smile. "Oh, yes, my apologies ma'am, it's just that... well... it-it is your name..." she trailed off meekly.
"Yeah. And it's bad enough that I see it on my driver's license, and on my bank account, and on government documents – the list goes on. So, let's try not reminding me in general conversation. Capiche?"
"I... ah, yes!" Candace nodded fervently. Her eyes darted to her hands, noticing she still held the telephone handset tightly in her grip. She placed it down quickly. "Right. Of course, as you wish."
Helga dropped her hands from the desk. "Alright, blondie," she progressed. "Now can you explain to me why the heck I'm not divorced yet?"
"Mrs-um, Helga," the petite blonde hesitated. Her gaze flitted downward, in the direction of her computer screen. "Your husband... is well, very super... incredibly difficult to locate and... well..."
Candace looked at her rather helplessly for a fleeting moment, before redirecting her gaze again. Helga growled inwardly at the lack of progress.
"Stupid, Football-Headed, do-gooding, elusive, trouble-causing, heart-breaking shrimp." she muttered.
Discreet footsteps sounded from the main corridor. Candace snapped her eyes toward the doorway. Several moments later, Helen Wayman emerged, headed for the reception desk. She paused immediately upon seeing Helga.
"Mrs. Shortman?" she began. It sounded much like a greeting, yet effectively conveyed the question as to a reason for her presence.
Helga ignored the intoned question; focussed on the name spoken. "I swear," she said gravely. "If one more person calls me that today, I'm throwing them off the Washington state bridge."
Ms. Wayman remained in the doorway for another moment, looking contemplative. Behind the desk, Candace carefully sunk back into her chair and disappeared below the desktop. After seemingly reaching a decision of sorts, Ms. Wayman placed a document upon the counter nearby where Candace had resumed tentatively typing upon her keyboard.
"Do you have a moment, Helga?" the older woman inquired. "I just concluded a phone call that I believe you will wish to be informed of."
Helga was unimpressed by the resigned expression upon Ms. Wayman's face. "I'm going to be married forever, aren't I?" she essentially whined. It sounded childishly petulant, even to her own ears.
Instead of responding, Ms. Wayman politely inclined her head toward her office. Helga resigned herself to receiving bad news and followed her lead down the corridor. Inside the office, she slumped into a chair adjacent Ms. Wayman's desk.
"I have received communication from the International Affairs council in San Lorenzo." Ms. Wayman began immediately, closing the office door behind her. "They appear to have concerns over our dealings with local authorities in order to locate your husband. Specifically, their issue lies with the welfare of the Green Eyed People; the government takes their protection very seriously."
Helga scowled as Ms. Wayman sat. In a further fit of juvenile behaviour, she raised a hand to roughly pinch her forearm and loudly yelped at the resulting stinging sensation. "Nope," she spat bitterly. "Not a nightmare."
Ms. Wayman looked annoyingly apologetic. "The council has ruled that efforts to locate Mr Shortman consequently place the tribe in danger." she explained. After a momentary pause, she slid forward a document. Helga examined the page; an email, with blocks of brightly highlighted text. "If their main village is located during proceedings, it prompts several safety concerns."
She directed attention toward a dot-pointed list. It was highlighted in its entirely, began halfway down the page and extended over onto the next. Helga skimmed the numerous items all detailing specific safety concerns with possible ongoing, and other resulting, threats associated with uncovering the location of the Green Eyes village. It became particularly graphic after the fourth line.
"For that reason, they have insisted that the search be discontinued."
Helga remained focussed upon the dot-points, but grit her teeth in annoyance. "Surely there has to be a way."
"There may be, although, it's probably not what you want to hear." Ms. Wayman alluded. Helga lifted her gaze from the document. "Pablo Martinez is the Chairman of the Green Eyes Protection board in San Lorenzo. Chief Martinez advises the government on tribal law and ensures effective safeguarding of tribal villages. As I'm certain you have surmised, he does not support the authorities searching for Mr Shortman, however, he did make it explicitly clear to me during out telephone conversation that he supports you looking for him. He repetitively stated that as a Shortman, you personally have authority to enter their villages."
It grew silent; a tense quiet sweeping the small office space. Helga wrestled with an onslaught of uncomfortable emotions, until it morphed into the undeniable sensation of an oncoming headache. "I would have to personally go... to San Lorenzo?" she slowly clarified.
"I presently cannot see an alternative."
Helga eyed her sternly. Ms. Wayman merely retook the highlighted document and drew out a scrap of notepaper.
"Chief Martinez would organise a guide, who would travel with you to the closest outpost and, from there, trek with you to the main Green Eyes village." she said, reading from the handwritten note. "If your husband is residing in another village, the guide will accompany you to that location."
Helga let out an undignified noise of protest. "I vowed to never step foot in that jungle again."
"Alternatively," Ms. Wayman began. "You could remain married-"
"No."
"American Airlines flies to Saint Laurent Airport biweekly." she stated smoothly, without a moment's hesitation. "I can have on a plane departing Washington International tomorrow, or, tomorrow fortnight. Your other option is a direct flight into Brazil International with a ten hour layover in Brasilia, then a Cessna flight into Saint Laurent."
Helga gaped. "I can't board a plane tomorrow."
Ms. Wayman shifted, fingers poised above her keyboard. Helga noticed a series of numbers and dates, too small to accurately read at a distance, listed upon the computer screen.
"A fortnight, then." she confirmed. It was a statement, not a question.
Helga sunk lower in her seat. "Yeah, yeah." she grumbled. "A fortnight."
A/N: Alrighty, so, I suck at updating (again). In better news, we get to see Arnold soon! Yay! As a disclaimer; Saint Laurent International Airport does not exist, and neither technically does 'Saint Laurent' as a city (in this context) as it is the false capital of San Lorenzo for the purposes of this story. American Airlines doesn't, of course, fly to a mythical place every fortnight (although, that'd be cool) but they do fly to a city nearby where I have fictionally located San Lorenzo, so that's why I used them.
Oh, and poor little Candace. She's so cute, I think I've become attached to her – unfortunately, this chapter is the last time she will appear in the story. Bye, bye Candace *sniffles*
ForeverAn80'sKid: Yes, Gerald is certainly acting strangely! I promise there's a reason. And, well, as you can see Helga is trotting off to San Lorenzo - apparently having forgotten her commitments, the silly girl (distracted by mention of Arnold, perhaps? Hmmm!)
pru blue: Oohh, there goes my paperwork! Ouch. Good to see you back; I'll be contacting you about the Spanish in a few (3 or so) chapters time – if that's still ok!? And no, not really any 'back story' with Ron, he is just an ass.