A/N: It's taken me way too long to do something for one of my favorite cartoons.

Chapter 1: The Hillwood Hurricanes

The Hillwood Paintball Stadium was absolutely buzzing with excitement. The national finals were about to begin in a couple of hours and Arnold's team, the Hillwood Hurricanes, had made it further than anyone could have expected or hoped. What started out as a throwaway group mashed together just to score a few after-school points on their middle school record wound up snowballing into what they were today: an officially registered, sponsored team with the hopes of the city of Hillwood riding on their backs. They were the personification of the term 'underdogs', a scrappy six-man squad fueled by so much determination that they had risen to the top in sheer defiance of the walls set up to stop them.

But now, as Arnold stood in the locker room, staring at his reflection in the mirror, he felt anything but confident. Oh, sure, he looked ready to go out and bring home a victory as he had done many times in the past; his paintball uniform fit comfortably, his main rifle was slung over his back while his back-up pistol was in the thigh holster strapped to his thigh. He couldn't have been more ready. And more lost.

The memory of the last match still haunted him even now, days later. It had been a split-second decision—a shot fired in the heat of moment to save one of his teammates—but it had gone horribly wrong. His paintball had struck an opposing player directly in the face, blinding them. The pitched sound of their screams, the pain in their voice, and the guilt that followed had been unbearable. An earlier collision had knocked the visor portion of his opponents mask askew, and that masterfully placed paintball was the catalyst to what the doctor's were saying would more than likely lead to permanent loss of vision in that eye.

Since then, Arnold had replayed the moment a thousand times from a thousand different angles. When he wondered why he had taken that shot the answer came quick and sharp. Because it was his job to pull the trigger. He was the ace on their team, the one who could make the impossible shot from any direction. That was his role, had been from the very beginning when they first started training and Mr Simmons, their teams coach, realized Arnold was unnaturally gifted with an paintball rifle.

"Yo, Arnold, you coming?" Gerald's voice broke through his jumbled thoughts and Arnold's weary gaze drifted up in the mirror to see his best friend standing in the doorway, already suited up in his paintball gear. "This next one's for the money, man. You down to make it do what it do?"

The only thing Arnold was "down" to do was dump his rifle into the nearest bin, step out of his paintball gear, and sequester himself back in his room, the same room everyone had great difficulty prying him from since the accident.

Now he winced, leaning forward until his forehead met the cooling, reflective glass. "I don't know, Gerald. I thought I was cool when I woke up, you know? I felt… okay. Not great, but okay. Then I put on this"—he motioned at his uniform—"and it just feels so heavy right now… like what if I hurt someone again?"

Sighing, Gerald stepped inside, his boots clomping over the floor, and placed a reassuring hand on Arnold's shoulder. He squeezed, sporting a grin. "Hate to say it, man, but we're gonna get hurt regardless. These paintballs fly faster than we can see and leave a mean bruise," he chuckled. "What happened last time wasn't your fault. They ruled it as an accident, nothing but a mask malfunction. But we need you out there, Arnold. You're the best shooter we've got."

"Yeah," agreed Arnold blandly, "and look where that's gotten me…."

Before Gerald could respond, both boys jerked when the locker room door burst open and Helga stormed in like a hurricane, her usual fiery demeanor on full display. Her eyes, narrowed into slits, shifted from Arnold to Gerald and back again, reading the room in an instant. "What's the hold up, football head? We've got a championship to win and you're in here moping like a lost puppy!"

A harrowing sigh left Arnold and he raked his hair with a hand. It was either do that or elbow-check the girl who had taken up residency on his other side. "Helga, you—" he started warningly, but Gerald silently squeezed his shoulder again and he shifted gears—"er, I just… I can't stop thinking about what happened, what I did. I'm terrified," and the way his face suddenly scrunched up, the despair glistening in his eyes emphasized his twisted mental state more than words could. "Like, really, really terrified of it happening again."

Hearing that, the way Arnold's voice cracked near the end, caused Helga's expression to soften for a moment—she oddly looked like she wanted nothing more than to embrace the struggling blonde and hug him close—but she quickly masked it with her trademark scowl and instead of looking directly at him, she turned that sneer toward Arnold's reflection. "Listen, Arnold. You look absolutely sad right now, sadder than usual," she started in a tone determined to remain controlled. "Some kid might not be able to see outta their eye for the rest of their life. Okay. And? That is literally a risk we take every time we suit up. You were doing your job and things went hella sideways. It happens. But if you let a freak accident define you, you're just gonna keep holding yourself back. And frankly, I'm not about to let you drag the rest of us down with you."

"Helga's right, Arnold," said Phoebe, having stole into the room as quietly as a church mouse despite her gear and was now nodding at the incensed pigtailed blonde. She flashed Arnold a calming smile. "We all believe in you. You just need to believe in yourself. It wasn't your fault."

"Listen to the girl, man," Gerald grinned. "She's our biggest moral compass. If she says you're good to go, you're good to go."

Hearing all those supportive words, knowing the ones who spoke them were being sincere and truly saw no fault in him, it served to relieve Arnold's trauma slightly. He still couldn't find the strength to return Phoebe's uplifting smile, a gaunt grimace being the best he could muster up, nor did he feel any closer to wanting to wield his rifle, but his clothes felt somewhat lighter now.

That is, until the locker room door swung open again, banging off the adjacent wall. Harold strolled in, tearing into a footlong sandwich. His eyes found Arnold and he gave a thumbs up as he took a heavy sit on one of the benches. Behind him and twice as large was Wolfgang, who rolled his eyes as though able to feel the atmosphere. "Are we really doing this again?" he ground out. "Look, Shortman, if you're too scared to play, just say so. We'll find a way to win without you."

All at once, Arnold felt a volcano of anger erupted from deep within, washing away the barricade of relief that had been haphazardly built. He clenched his hands into fists. "I'm not scared, Wolfgang. I just… I don't want to hurt anyone."

Storming up to him, Wolfgang scoffed. "It's a game of paintball, not brain surgery—"

"That kid Arnold blinded almost needed it, though," quipped Harold around his sandwich, and Helga shot him a piercing glare. "Sorry…"

"People get hit," Wolfgang continued, and being the biggest one there, he seemed oddly impressive as he always did when he suited up, going even further by running boot polish under his eyes. "Getting hit is the whole point."

"Yeah, getting hit—not blinding people," Arnold argued back, turned sideways to glare at his towering teammate. "That's the issue I'm having here!"

"It's not an issue, Shortman. It's a weakness. Everyone else here is pulling their weight because we want to win. No one believed in us when we first started and yet here we are, proving all of them wrong. We're one step away from glory and you're so wrapped up in your own guilt, you'd let all that hard work go to waste." He clucked his tongue, staring Arnold from head to foot as though he were little more than a roach. "If you can't even handle your rifle, maybe you shouldn't be on the team anymore."

Several things happened in the blink of an eye: Helga's mouth pried itself open with all the fury of a dragon about to breathe flame; Gerald looked as though he had been shot; Phoebe clapped a hand to her mouth; and Harold started choking on his hoagie; but they were all summarily stunned when Arnold lifted his rifle in one hand, aiming it right between Wolfgang's eyes.

The silence that followed was so absolute that everyone could hear each others hearts beating wildly. All of them except Arnold, who looked strangely calm as he tilted his head a ways to the side. "I can handle my rifle just fine, Wolfgang," he breathed, ignoring the way Gerald bracingly gripped him by the forearm. "The real question is… would you be able to handle it if I pulled this trigger?"

"You can barely shoot the opposition, I'm not worried," Wolfgang responded over the sound of Phoebe helpfully thudding Harold over the back. He stepped closer, pressing his forehead to the cold muzzle. "Do it, then. I'd rather sit out this last match than trip up at the finish line."

Arnold's trigger finger tensed—but Helga stepped forward, placing a firm hand over his rifle and lowering it. "Criminy, all this stupid testosterone—can we save it for the enemy team, football head?" she snapped, glaring at Arnold, who continued to stare emotionlessly at their larger teammate, "and you"—she faced Wolfgang with nothing but pure venom resonating in her eyes—"you need to back off before you get neutered, capeesh? Arnold's been carrying this team since day one. You know it, I know it, we all know it—that's why he's the ace. If anyone shouldn't be here, it's you."

"So. Better dead-weight than no weight at all, huh?" Wolfgang sneered, not even deigning to meet Helga's eye. "Aye, Shortman. Just picture the enemy squad as versions of me telling you how much you suck. Whatever you gotta do to feel what you just felt, do it."

Arnold said nothing. He was distracted by the fact that with Helga standing so close to him, that hints of her perfume, or whatever she was wearing, swirled within his nostrils, bringing him down from the primal pulsing that had seized him earlier. He took small, controlled breaths, not wanting to seem weird, and for a second, he thought he saw Helga flinch somewhat, but the movement was so innocuous he couldn't be sure if he had actually seen it or not.

Then she glanced back over her shoulder, a snide grin playing across her lips. "Save whatever freaky tendencies you have until after the match, Arnoldo."

Her jib coerced the smallest of smirks out of Arnold as Gerald extended a fist. "Hey man, just one more win and you can sit on this guilt for as long as you want—"

"—at least until the next circuit in six months," Phoebe cut in, holding Harold's half-eaten sandwich out of his reaching hands.

"—but for right now… are you with us?" Gerald finished as though there had been no interruption.

Arnold glanced around at his teammates. With the exception of Harold, who was actively trying to reclaim his sandwich, they were all looking at him. They were all depending on him.

He nodded, gripping his rifle tighter and lifting his other fist to meet Gerald's. "Let's go win this thing."

Helga thumped him over the shoulder. "Now that's what I'm talking about. Bring it in everybody, you know how we do this."

She extended her hand. Arnold placed his over hers. Gerald over his. Phoebe over his. Harold over hers. And Wolfgang slammed his down with a cocky smirk that drew a disapproving frown from Phoebe. Helga rolled her eyes.

"Anyway… one, two, three—HILLWOOD HURRICANES!" she yelled.

"BRING THE STORM!" they chorused.

No one heard Arnold's voice crack. No one except Helga seemed to notice the way Arnold's hand trembled, yet before she could make mention of it, the locker room door opened for the umpteenth time and Mr Simmons entered with his hands comfortably in his pockets. The very picture of unbothered, even despite the avalanche of muted cheering that followed him in, his eyes traveled over them all, pausing for a split second longer on Arnold.

Then his face split in a fatherly smile. "Are we excited yet?"

If there was one thing that couldn't be overstated, it was the change in Mr Simmons demeanor. Usually so timid and meek, relegated to massaging his knuckles whenever things became too much to handle, it was not only astonishing but invigorating to see how becoming their coach had dismantled and built him back up. Defending kids from each others childish antics was par the course for a teacher, nothing a swift detention couldn't usually solve, but once their paintball team was formed and the taunting started coming from media outlets and entire stadiums, it created a different kind of pressure that he had to adapt to in order to protect the mental wellbeing of his young players.

A more outspoken man stood before them now, politely confident, one with a posture that curtailed a lot of heckling before it even began and a presence that imbued them with their own version of strength.

"Alright, Hurricanes, about an hour from now, you guys are going to be the new national champions, and I couldn't be more proud of you guys—even you, Wolfgang," Mr Simmons added jokingly, narrowing his eyes at the teams biggest member, "but before that, you know what you've gotta do."

"Skin those Crimson Cobras," said Helga viciously, dragging a thumb over her throat in a sentencing fashion.

Mr Simmons nodded. "Too right. Now, as your coach, this would be the part where I give you this big motivational speech to hype you up, but honestly," he shrugged, "what's a cobra to a hurricane?"

His question curved the tension that had been building in the locker room and when he smirked, they returned it. All of them except Arnold. He stared at his teacher imploringly and when their eyes met, it wasn't hard to convey what he was feeling without having to say a single word. Mr Simmons had always been naturally good at picking up cues like that, but being their coach had taken that to a new level and he exhaled gently, knowingly.

"Whatever doubts you guys may be feeling now, leave them in this room so you can come back and rub your victory in its face. Helga, your gut calls are second-to-none, show no mercy—"

"I ain't built for mercy, sir," she responded dutifully.

"Gerald, shot-caller extraordinaire, keep your aim as cool as your attitude—"

Gerald nodded. "Ice cold, baby."

"Phoebe, you've studied this arena front to back—"

"I'll lead us to a win, sir, don't worry!" she declared, adjusting her glasses.

"Harold, you're our impenetrable wall—"

Harold thumped himself proudly over the chest. "Nothing's breakin' through me!"

"Wolfgang, bring them chaos."

The grin that touched Wolfgang's lips was blood chilling. "I'll decimate 'em all, coach."

"And Arnold…" Mr. Simmons paused, turning to the most deadliest member of their team. Something frenetic shifted his normally lax expression, a slight hitch in the corner of his mouth that instilled a manic rush of energy within the boy. "Let them know your name."

Arnold nodded reluctantly, his stomach churning as he followed his teammates out of the locker room. In silence they marched, their heavy footsteps echoing off the walls, each one wrapped up in their own thoughts on how to bring about a victory.

The open-air arena was massive, a battlefield of towering barricades, winding tunnels, and hidden sniper nests. Screaming fans cheered and stomped their feet in the bleachers that encased the area, giving them a birds eye view of the action about to begin.

On their end of the field was where Arnold and his team stood. Gerald, Phoebe, and Harold were huddled together, going over last-minute details of the map and where they needed to be; Helga was testing the sight on her custom-rifle, muttering something absolutely vile under her breath; and Wolfgang stood off by himself, arms crossed over his broad chest and eyes closed almost meditatively.

Sighing, Arnold turned his gaze skyward. The day was overcast, threatening rain if the murky clouds drifting by were any indicator. He could smell the salt in the air, in the wind that whipped through their uniforms, and inhaled deeply, filling his lungs and drowning out the howling crowds.

"Comms check, one, two, one, two." He heard Helga's voice reverberate in his ear and joined the others in nodding. "Masks up, Hurricanes."

Arnold had barely gotten through snapping his into place and making sure he could see properly when microphone feedback cut through the noise. He grimaced.

Here we go.

"Allllllright!" boomed the announcer, and somehow, the cheering grew louder, borderline deafening. "Ladies and gentlemen, it's finally here! The Hillwood Hurricanes! The Crimson Cobras! You know 'em—you love 'em—and they're ready to duke it out to prove which one of them has what it takes to be the national champions! Will the defending champions be able to hold onto their trophy, or will they be dethroned by the indomitable rookies? Welcome all to Judgement Day!"

Wincing, Gerald dug in his free ear when the crowds erupted like a volcano. "Dang, you'd think this was the Super bowl with all that noise."

"This is bigger," said Phoebe tightly, looking constipated. "The Crimson Cobras are four-time national champions. They're practically the league darlings. In comparison, The Hillwood Hurricanes are just a bunch of first-year upstarts who've made it further than anyone thought possible."

"And trust me when I say they pose a very real threat," added Helga, the look in her eyes burning with determination. "We're about to upend the entire league of competitive paintball, ladies and gents."

Now Wolfgang opened his eyes, inclining his head so that a sinister shadow played over his face. "Let's feed 'em to the hurricane."

"Coach said he'd treat me to an all-you-can-eat meat buffet at any restaurant I want if we win," Harold all but snarled out, and he slammed his fist into his palm. "There's no way those snakes are takin' this."

The way Arnold's heart raced was a new sensation. He had been nervous before, yeah, several times, but this was different… there was a fair amount of fear woven into every beat and it pulsed through his veins like a sickness. He shook his head, not trusting his stomach to remain settled enough to speak.

"Hey, Arnold." He almost jerked hearing Gerald's voice. "You good, man?"

It was visually clear that he was the very antithesis of the word 'good', evidenced by the gaunt look in his eyes and the way he only lifted a thumbs up, but there was nothing anyone could say now. They were in the endgame, all or nothing.

"Contestants to the starting line!"

When they moved, Arnold was the only who stumbled and he found himself standing between Helga and Wolfgang, both of whom silently regarded him out of their peripheral.

"THREE!"

Arnold gripped his paintball gun so tightly that his knuckles whitened.

"TWO!"

Through all the ear-bleeding noise, he could still hear it… those agonized cries…

"ONE!"

A whistle blew in the distance and Arnold stepped over the line, sprinting forward with his team.

The match was on.

A/N: Will Arnold be able to hold it together for his team? Or will his guilt spell disaster for the Hillwood Hurricanes? Part 2 coming (real) soon, so I say to you, get excited.