Chapter 6: The Sly-villains

He was seated at a table with a closed music box in front of him. When he lifted the lid, the Sleeping Beauty Waltz began to play. He looked across the table and saw Faison sitting there. Faison reached over and flipped the lid shut again.

"Turn that damned thing off," he said.

Then a voice came out of Harried's mouth that sounded nothing like his. It was Helena Cassadine speaking. "Rather surly today, aren't you?" she said.

"Of course I am," he said. "It's come to my attention that I was, in fact, acting upon your orders all along. A mere pawn in the game."

Harried felt his lips curl in an unfamiliar smile. "And this bothers you?" said Helena's voice.

"YES!" came the loud, sarcastic reply. "I am perfectly capable of plotting and carrying out my own vendettas."

"Are you now?" came Helena's reply. "And just what were your plans, exactly?"

Faison put his head in his hands. "How the hell should I know? I started out seeking revenge upon Mac Scorpio...or was it Felicia?...or was it Luke Spencer?... " his voice trailed off and his eyes glazed over for a bit. He shook his head and continued. "But then I wound up as a glorified baby-sitter for Lucky Spencer."

A delicate hand appeared in Harried's line of vision, drumming at the surface of the table with perfectly manicured nails. "I admit I share in your confusion, as my plots have often changed focus, as well," Helena's voice replied. "And like you, my role in the grand scheme of things has become almost...pedestrian," she said, sending a shudder through Harried's dream-body.

Faison looked thoughtful in a rare moment of utter stillness, his index fingers steepled under his chin. "Perhaps," he said in a quiet, dangerous voice, "we've been seeking revenge against the wrong people..."

"You're right," Helena agreed, nodding Harried's head. "Maybe it is time to focus our interests elsewhere..."

And suddenly, Plotter's dream perspective shifted. He was no longer seated at the table; he was walking toward the Hospi-toil's sleeping room, approaching his own bed....

"AHHH!" Harried cried, as he sprang awake, clutching the bedclothes to him and squinting in the dark. But it was not Helena Cassadine standing over him, it was her son, Stefan.

"Disturbing dream?" Stefan inquired, regarding him curiously.

"Um...yes...very..." replied Harried, somewhat relieved.

"I am sorry if I've caused you any undue distress by awakening you," he said smoothly "But you've slept through classes and I've come to escort you to the Sly-villain house."

Harried sat up and rubbed at his eyes. "I must've been really tired," he mused. He rose from the bed and followed Stefan out into the hallway, glad that it was he, of all the Sly-villains, who came to fetch him. Stefan was, after all, his own creation.

They wound their way through a number of passages, all dark and convoluted, until Plotter thought that perhaps he was still trapped in the dream. He pinched himself to make sure, and Stefan raised an amused eyebrow.

"You don't trust what you see?" he inquired. "Perhaps that's wise. But you are awake, I can assure you, as I'm very well practiced in the art of watching others sleep."

Harried looked a little sheepish, but said nothing.

The two men walked on in companionable silence, Stefan sometimes pausing to right a crooked painting or adjust the flame in a wall sconce. He didn't seem to be in much of a hurry, Harried thought. Stefan always was a patient man, who relished the journey as much as, or perhaps even more than, the destination. He smiled to himself: this could be one instance where the creator could learn from his creation.

At last, they came to the end of a long hallway, where there hung a familiar portrait.

"I thought you burned that painting," said Plotter.

"I did," replied Stefan. "But it rose again from the ashes, in the manner of a phoenix."

He moved to touch the delicate lines of lace on the dress, and the woman smiled.

"Hello Lasha," he said, returning the smile.

"Hello Stefan," she replied. "What's the password?"

"Timoria," he said.

The painting swung open. "Revenge, or atonement?" she asked.

"I've yet to discover that," he replied, and motioned for Plotter to follow him down the hall.

When they emerged through the doorway, they were in the same stainless steel room where Lucky had been kept during his confinement with Faison. Built into the wall was a multimedia center, complete with computer, television, stereo, VCR and DVD. In the center of the room stood a table with a chessboard on it. So far, the room was deserted save for the two of them.

"Do you play?" asked Stefan, indicating the chessboard.

"Certainly not as well as you do," replied Harried.

"How do you know this?"

"Because I wrote you that way."

Stefan picked up one of the pawns and twirled it between his thumb and forefinger. "Curious--isn't it?--that I play chess so well, a game with near-infinite variations, and yet I seem doomed to make the same mistakes over and over again," he mused. "My infatuation with blondes, for instance..."

"...which was explained by your need to be loved by your mother."

"Ah yes. A bit of a non-sequitor though, don't you think? My mother used to be a brunette..."

"...and you used to be nonexistent."

Stefan gave a low chuckle. "Touché."

"So where is she?" asked Plotter. "I was expecting her and Faison to be here too."

"Oh, they are," said Stefan, pointing to the cameras overhead.

"Are we being held captive?"

"In a manner of speaking," replied Stefan. "I've been held captive for many months now, trapped in an isolated storyline, while you've been held hostage by a non-verbal under-garment."

Harried looked down at the ratty sorting shorts, wondering if they'd ever make a decision.

"They won't, you know," said Stefan, as if he'd heard Plotter's thoughts. "They never could speak."

"WHAT?!" said Harried. "But they were singing..."

"All done with technical smoke and mirrors," he said, pointing at the array of complicated recording equipment. "We've quite a few experts in that area."

Harried grabbed the ugly shorts and tore them off. He balled them up and threw them on the chessboard, upsetting whatever game was in progress. "So all of this was just some little prank? Some joke at my expense?"

"Looked at one way, yes," admitted Stefan. "But looked at another way, the shorts did live up to their name."

"Well, they certainly didn't tell me where I belonged," said Harried dubiously.

"No," agreed Stefan, "as that's a decision only you can make. However, they did allow you to sort through a few things, wouldn't you say?"

Harried laughed. "If I didn't know you better, I'd think you just made a bad pun. But you're right, they did that indeed." His smile vanished, as he considered everything the Backburner denizens had put him through over the past few days. "It wasn't all that bad, was it?" he asked.

"No, of course not," assured Stefan. "Like or dislike of any theatrical endeavor is largely subjective. Those of us confined here for any length of time would no doubt have a different perspective from those to whom you lavished the most attention."

Harried shook his head, smiling. "You always were polite to the point of obfuscation," he said, and extended his hand. "I'm going to miss you, my friend. I'm sorry about our estrangement."

"And I will miss you, as well," said Stefan, shaking the proffered hand. "Despite all that came after, you gave me a glorious beginning, and for that, I'll always be grateful."

"Beginnings were always my strong point," Harried mused.

Stefan reached over and flipped a switch on the steel wall, opening another door that led directly out of Backburner castle. "I think that you will find that the way out is considerably shorter than the way in," he said. "Farewell."

"Thanks," Harried replied. "Farewell to you too, my friend." And with that, he ducked out the door, crossing the threshold into the real world, vanishing from the canvas.

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