Chapter Two Hundred Five:
Similar Features

Cassadine Compound

Josef Pappas stands at the top of the stairs leading down to the dock, wearing a somber expression. The boat is coming. Not entirely unexpected. But problematic.

The usurper returns, he thinks. He's never had any use for Stefan. He knew his own father's suspicions against the man -- though he'd heard them from his brother.

He'd been three when the Prince died. He remembered, vaguely. Not events, conversations -- but the air. The silence inter cut with calamity. The Prince was gone. The Princess would not return. The family lay at the feet of a six week old baby and his grief stricken, enraged, grandmother. HE did remember his mother pulling him back against her skirts as Helena raged through the great hall, screaming in Russian, English... languages he hadn't entirely understood. Her meaning had been clear enough.

Someone would pay. Someone would pay for the death of her son.

Looking back on it, he had to smirk. The great and wily Helena Cassadine, she who could supposedly freeze men's hearts with a look... had been abandoned, plotted against, and then neatly and bloodlessly overthrown by her own son.

He'd been ten when the coup occurred. Nikolas an immensely spoiled and entirely pointless child of 8. Josef had no patience for him, but had been backhanded across the face by his mother the one time he had spoken against the prince. He understood from a young age, that his family had an all-encompassing flaw, that somehow he did not possess the stomach for. They all hung their identity on blind and dutiful service to the Cassadines. Only his grandfather seemed to truly understand that service was something given and that faith had to be earned. He'd watch the way the senior Pappas served a dead man, and he could see the honor in it. He overheard the arguments about the coup. He understood the unspoken accusation that his father's actions were cowardly and constituted a betrayal of Prince Stavros.

Over the years, GeorgeSr., softened his opinion towards Stefan. Josef wondered mildly about the irony that held. After all, his grandfather had never returned from his final visit to America. Josef knew there had to be a body someplace. And that Stefan had, mostly likely, disposed of if.

There could not be a greater insult to a family that had served so selflessly for so long.

Josef starts down the stairs as the boat approaches the dock. He's known his calling for a long time. It had been clear to him most of his life that his brother, the Cassadine-blessed son, was not his equal. Josef was smarter, stronger and in all ways more suited to the life his brother had been assigned to. This knowledge had been enough to placate him initially. He told himself repeatedly that he did not want the special treatment his brother received as the valued first son. But the truth was, he raged with jealousy. But, he insisted, the Prince was not worth his time.

His opinion had changed quickly once he'd met the young Prince outside of formal functions. First of all, it had never occurred to him that he -- a stable boy at the time -- could have had any ability to control the Prince. He'd been shocked to see the effect of being treated like just any other human being on Nikolas. And he'd realized something from it. The Prince's position was just as much an accident of birth as his brother's. He was not a God to be adhered to... he was fallible. And the longer Josef experienced him, the more he could see it. Strangely impressionable, predictable if you pushed the right button. But determined. Intelligent. Essentially able to control his outward manner. He was charming. Gregarious enough in public to make up for his dour uncle. But inside there was a fire of rage, that the boy channeled into a drive to conquer anything that he did not have control over.

It occurred to Josef then, that in Nikolas's case, fate had dealt the right hand. He had ended up the only place someone like him could survive. Thrive, even. Take the same should and put it in a man of lesser standing... and watch him perish.

Nikolas was not the sort of man who would ever realize full potential himself, though. That much was obvious. There was a gaping hole inside of him that would prevent true greatness if it was allowed to. He needed strength outside of himself. Power behind the throne.

Over the years, Josef's resolve to be all that Nikolas truly needed on this earth hardened. There was just something wrong about the way the world was run now. And there was definitely something wrong about his family's position in it. The Cassadines would never be heads of states again. No Principalities to govern. But they still held power and he could feel the possibilities. And once he finally encountered Helena Cassadine -- something that took more than a little degree of doing -- he knew what he had to do.

Disposing of his brother was easy. A solid whack with the boom on a sailboat and that was it. No one had ever even expected he was present. After that.... He had consented to wait for Helena's plan to unfold. Not because he supported it in anyway, but because it served it's purpose. Nikolas's greatest weakness was personal attachment. That would not be a problem, shortly.

The boat is docked and being tied down by the docksmen. Josef walks along to greet the island's new guests, approaching just as Stefan Cassadine steps onto the dock. Josef forces an easy smile. Not much of this left, at this point...

Josef: Mr. Cassadine. Welcome home.

The Chimera.

The room is dark. No windows, no light seeping in from under the door that just closed behind him.

Another game.

Once upon a time Lucky would have groaned. But small vocal expressions of disappointment, annoyance, fear... They've lost all meaning to him, some time between last night and this moment. He closes his eyes and leans back against the wall -- the only surface he can sense.

Lucky: (hoarsely) Em. (He holds his breath without realizing it, waiting. Nothing comes and it takes him a minute to realize he didn't think it was. He can't put any meaning on that, can't think about what it means. He has to struggle to make his mind start working again -- think, Spencer. You gotta keep thinking. What game is she playing now?

She's locked him in a room that, from the little he can tell, is probably a floating prison. With no light. And no... visible company. It's possible there is another door, another room. It's possible that Emily is in here, some place, and just can't answer...

It's possible because he can't make himself believe that Helena wouldn't have relished the chance to present him with Emily's corpse, if there was one. He'd kept seeing it, over and over last night. The image of Hannah's blue-lipped corpse in the morgue blurring with Emily in his mind. Laid out some place by Helena's henchmen like the Lady of Challot.

But that hadn't happened.

So -- subtract 4 and carry the one... Emily was alive.

Or just that he wanted that to be true so badly...

Lucky shakes his head. Ok. Back to the task at hand.

He closes his eyes and tries to listen to the dark. He can't hear anything. Not one damn thing, not even the sound of his own breath. He's tempted to just slide down the wall then and there. Like stories he's heard about drowning -- going down for the third time and just feeling tired. Feeling like you need to sleep, to close your eyes and make everything float away. His thoughts had been drifting that way lately -- fighting to stay alive for what, exactly? Helena had said he was going to die.

And all he could think was "So be it."

Lucky jolts violently when the lights go up on the room without any warning. He snaps his head up, then squints in response to the light. Damnit. New rules.

The thought has just crossed his mind when he hears, very softly, a sound. He feels a grip of cold start to descend down his back as his brain slowly starts to put meaning on this new information. He brings his head down and scans, for the first time, the visible contents of the room.

It's a bedroom. A suite, in fact, if he wants to investigate further. The carpet is rich and a deep red. There are dark oak furnishings, oil paintings in gilded frames on the walls, and a chandelier. And there is a bed. In the far side, near the wall. It's large -- a four poster, the posts jutting up to the ceiling like spires. A thick velvet curtain, much like the ones on the windows of Nikolas's apartment back in Port Charles, hangs from wooden rods that run from spire to spire, making it impossible to see if anyone actually lies upon the bed.

Lucky takes a single unsteady step towards the bed, then stops. God, how much does he want to know? His brain is at capacity right now, Helena's words over breakfast all swimming around and fighting for space. He has an overwhelming dread that he doesn't want to know anymore. That the problem, right from the beginning, has been a serious case of "too much information". And given the past experiences with these people, nothing good is going to come from drawing back that curtain.

Stop being a coward, Spencer.

Lucky starts to walk across the room, feeling like he's moving in slow motion. He has no idea, when he reaches the bed, how long it's taken him to get there, but he refuses to let himself hesitate again, and reaches out and draws the curtain aside.

There she is. Laid out, dressed in that same white dress she'd worn the night before at the compound. Not the "American" clothes she'd had on when she'd disappeared. Her face is turned towards him, face flushed slightly, lips parted. Her chest rises and falls slightly with the labor of breath. She's never looked more beautiful to him. Lucky feels his knees weaken, but somehow manages to stay standing as he struggles to comprehend the information in front of him.

She's alive.

Lucky stands at the edge of the bed, the curtain gripped in his hand, and waits. Waits for the other shoe to drop from the ceiling and crush both of them like a couple of bugs. Something must be going on here. Helena had NOT just locked him alone in a room with his girlfriend after giving him a promise of death. His BREATHING girlfriend -- no, that wasn't a possibility. He feels the room start a slow spin. Something is not right...

And why, exactly, a voice in his head speaks up, do you care?

Lucky drops his grip on the curtain and he forward quickly, scrambling across the bed towards her, and nearly collapsing when he reaches her, his arms sliding under hers, gathering her limp form up in his arms. Lucky buries his face in her hair and breathes deeply, pressing her body against his, confirming for himself that she's really there.

Lucky: Oh God. (Another moan escapes her and hot tears spring to his eyes, burning sleep deprived eyes.) Thank God... (He sits back, pulling her with him so that she is draped over his lap. He shuts his eyes, rocking her gently in his arms. His mind is reeling, flooded with such an overwhelming sense of relief that it borders on a religious experience. This wasn't supposed to happen... Despite all the attempts at reason and the constant insistences he'd made to himself that she had to be alive. He could now admit, that deep down, he hadn't known the truth. He had been silently prepping himself for the worst. And the realization that whatever this is, it's not the worst case scenario, is monumental.

So what is this? His brain prompts. So what is happening? Lucky swallows.

Lucky: Emily. (Nothing) Em? (He pulls back. Her eyes are closed, eyes moving rapidly under thin translucent lids. He feels his stomach lurch. God, no. Why isn't she waking up?) No... baby, come on. You can't do this to me AGAIN. No. No way. (he hears his voice crack, sliding up a few octave. His heart is pounding suddenly, and somehow he can't feel anything anymore. Why does this keep happening to them? And WHY can't he ever be the one who is unconscious?

Lucky exhales, long and shaky, trying to maintain some sort of grip before he falls into complete panic. He lets his hand brush her hair back from her face, as if it has a mind of it's own. The rest of him feels paralyzed with fear, unwilling to say anything else, to try and coax her back into the world of the waking. He can't face up to the possibility that this part of his nightmare isn't over. It's too much and he can feel himself shutting down. He feels suddenly exhausted, staring at the wall in deep detachment. He can't do this anymore, he thinks mildly. This is really it.

Something, though he can't say what, pulls his attention back to earth. A flicker of movement in the corner of his eyes. He looks down and is shocked to see Emily's eyes opened wide, staring into his. Lucky laughs, a slightly hysterical sound. His arms suddenly feel like rubber. He feels absolutely possessed with mild hysteria, and still manages to pull her up against his chest, holding her close to him and pressing his lips to her forehead. There are a million things flying through his mind, things he feels an intense need to say immediately -- I love you, I'm sorry, I can't believe this is happening... Instead he just holds her in near delirium. He feels Emily's hands come up and grip his arms, her nails digging into his skin. He pulls back, to look at her again. She is still staring up at him, her eyes wider than he's ever seen them, looking thoroughly lost. He smiles at her, through tears, and lays a light kiss on her lips. He pulls back, trying to form something resembling a thought.)

Lucky: Hey. (He can feel his voice quake, even in the effort he makes to keep it steady.) Welcome back. (Emily stares at him, and opens her mouth slightly, catching her breath.) You're going to be Ok. You are. (Lucky frowns, seeing a look in her eyes that is disturbingly close to fear. Her nails dig deeper into his arms. He clears his throat) I swear, Em --

(Lucky's words are cut off as Emily opens her mouth and screams.)

The Chimera, a suite. The clock ticking is the first thing Nikolas becomes aware of. He's not sure how long he's been hearing it, but it's loud and incessant, and he needs it to stop. Sitting up, he looks around groggily trying to ascertain the location of that offending object.

Oh... no.

Nikolas blinks a few times, taking in his surroundings. The room looks out of focus and decidedly abstract. Two-dimensional. Like if he reaches out, the air in front of him will rip like paper. He shakes his head slightly. The room jostles around him. He leans forward, dropping his head and lets his eyes close again.

Ticking.

He exhales, and it sounds like wind rushing through a cavern. He tries it again, then lifts his head.

He has no recollection of actually making the decision to go to bed. The last thing he remembers -- and this is with effort -- he was sitting on the bed, head in his hands, trying to get a grip on his situation. He'd felt cleaned out, sick to his stomach, and shakier than he'd felt in months. He had to keep repeating to himself that he knew what he was doing, that everything was all right. It made sense. It DID. He was going to take care of this.

But somehow it hadn't stopped. He'd just felt his insides twist around, winding up into a giant knot. And he had stopped being able to catch his breath... and then...

Then nothing. Nothing until he heard the ticking.

Nikolas rolls out of the bed and scores major points by finding his feet with startlingly little effort.

Water.

God he needs water.

Grabbing on to this firm directive, Nikolas stumbles across the small section of carpet that separates him from the en suite bathroom (yes, I know they are called "heads" on ships but if you had any idea how much time I spent debating this one sentence you'd really leave me alone about this one) ignoring the half consumed pitcher of water on the nightstand.

He stops and leans momentarily against the doorframe, feeling less unsteady than he expected to. Everything around him feels so unreal and cartoon-like... but he isn't as discombobulated as he thought he'd be. He stops and takes a breath, then walks towards the sink that is straight in front of him in the tiny room. He takes a moment to look at himself in the mirror, seeing uncommonly black eyes staring back at him. The image seems strangely distorted, just like everything else. He pulls his eyes away, unnerved, and turns on the tap, sending cold water blasting into the small metal sink.

Nikolas cups the cold water running out of the tap in his hands and splashes it on his face. He has to snap out of this. Having filled the small sink in the corner of the room half full with water, dunks his head under the water and shakes it firmly. He stands up, gasping for air, rivers of chilling water running down his neck and under the collar of his shirt. Nikolas shivers and turns the tap off. Straightening up again, he grips the edge of the sink with his hands, locking his arms and letting the water drip back into the sink. He lets out a long shaky breath.

God, he feels like he's been here forever...

Mingled in with the dripping water, Nikolas becomes aware of a sound. Distant... moaning? A voice. He turns, feeling entirely apart from himself, retaining his grip on the sink to support himself.

Singing.

He swallows hard. What the hell... ? He closes his eyes and tries to listen. Words start to make themselves clear.

"If half of your love... Is all I can win...."

It sounds far away... echoing. Like it's coming to him through an old gramophone. Something in the voice, something he can't quite define, it's so faint -- is effecting him. He pushes hard on the edge of the sink and propels himself into the main room of the suite.

"I don't knooooow...."

He freezes. The silence stretches out around him, until it's finally broken by the next line of the song.

"How we came to grow...."

Nikolas closes his eyes, a sweat breaking out, pricking at the skin on his forehead and the back of his neck. Oh, God...

"Into this very sad affair"

Piano keys. He can hear a piano now, just as distant and haunting as the voice. What the hell is this, he shakes his head feverishly. What is he hearing?

He knows what he's hearing. He knows that voice, he knows, even in speech, the way words twisted in her mouth.

"I threw away your alibis, and all your worn out clothes"

His mouth goes dry and he loses his ability to feel the floor beneath him. He accepts this a moment, until, in his dazed state, he begins to realize he might be falling. His eyes fly open, and he catches his breath at the sight that greets him.

Hannah.

"I threw myself upon the floor -- but I couldn't throw away...."

She looks just like she did the one and only time he ever saw her at the club. Jeans and a loose fitting blouse, her hair half up, half down, stance a little crooked. She looks up and cocks her head at the sight of him. An amused smirk forms on her lips.

"This poisoned rose..." she puts her hand up and counts off five beats with her fingers, her expression still teasing. "This... Poisoned... Rooo-oose..."

She throws her head back on the last note of the song and Nikolas's breath catches. This... can't be. It CAN'T be real, his mind screams at him. He saw her. He saw her dead in front of him, he saw her taken away, her ashes are in this very room!

But. Nonetheless.

Nik: (croaking) Hannah. (she drops her head and looks at him. Same sly smile, playfulness -- rare and treasured playfulness -- written all over her. He takes a step towards her, then stops himself. Not real. Not real.) God... Hannah -- (she tips her chin up, closing her eyes, then purses her lips and blows a kiss into the air. Nikolas feels his legs weaken as, he could swear, he feels the warmth of the kiss, the intention, all of it, brush past him. He stares at her, aware that a strong tremor is rising inside of him, gripping him and shaking him hard. He stumbles over his words) I ... I'm -- I miss you so much -- (Without warning, the door to the room opens, creaking ever so slightly, and Nikolas jumps, his gaze moving swiftly and instinctively towards the source of the interruption. His grandmother stands before him, dressed elegantly, her hair coifed, make-up perfect and impenetrable. He gapes at her a moment, then turns back to the wall, towards Hannah.

Nothing there.

Nikolas feels his heart careen against his rib cage and stick, pressing itself painfully against his ribs, forcing his throat to close up. He hears the fabric of Helena's dress as she sweeps into the room. Helena: Nikolas! You're awake! (Nikolas nods dumbly, his eyes still scanning the empty space on the wood paneling where he had seen his lover so clearly. He snaps too, and spins around, short of breath. He looks at his grandmother unsteadily)

Nikolas: What the hell did you do to me?