Chapter Text
i. first story of chess.
Alexander Molokov sits on a carpet on the floor. It is undignified for a man of his age, but the children he visits never care about dignity. The little girl before him plays with her toys. A month ago, he gave her a chess set and asked her to transform it into something exceptional (however she might interpret that). It’s an exceptional request to bestow upon a child her age, but this is an exceptional child.
Today, he is presented with the same board. As the child arranges all of the pieces, Alexander realizes she’s swapped them out with something else. Little machines, it looks like. She places each minuscule robot on the board with overflowing affection.
When she is finished, she looks at her creation in wonder.
“These are my friends,” she whispers. “I made them.”
So she did. Alexander conceals his shock. For years he’s swallowed back emotion in hopes of rising in ranks. It’s paid off. He is not yet thirty and his career already blossoms before him, blooming with opportunities left, right, and everywhere between. This little child will secure him a spot at the top. She doesn’t look intelligent, but he knows he’s found something remarkable.
“Would you like to hear the story of chess?” he asks her.
The girl lights up and wraps her arms around her legs, settling in for storytime. Orphaned children, Alexander has learned, are the best children to work with. They’re so often starved for attention. Give them a pebble and they’ll see a mountain. He pulls a piece of candy from his pocket and offers it. The child is delighted. She licks at her lollipop, eagerly awaiting the story.
Alexander tells her what he knows. He talks about the Hindu throne, weaving a careful story that culminates in the explanation of the modern game. He references the mechanical pieces on her board directly. By the time he finishes his tale, the child is fascinated.
“More?” she pleads, reaching over and taking his hand with her tiny one. He squeezes it and leans closer to her, as if he's going to tell her a secret. Maybe he is.
“The story is still in progress,” he whispers. “Look around you. Look outside. Every day, the story of chess continues.”
He can sense that she is deep in thought, stretching the story of chess into something she can understand.
“I understand,” she slowly says, “and I think it was an interesting story. But the world does not seem very happy right now. Does this mean the story of chess won’t have a happy ending?”
“It could have a happy ending,” he says, because years in this job have suggested so, and many years more will prove it. “If we win.”
The child, startled, frowns.
“But that’s not a happy ending for the other side.”
This is the downside to working with children, Alexander thinks. They do not understand the complexities of the world they live in.
“Our happy ending is what matters,” he simply says, and he lets the girl sit with that. She doesn’t have to like it.
She lets go of his hand.
“May I tell you my story of chess?”
She has a certain maturity that Alexander does not see even in his contemporaries. He glances at his watch; he has other children to scout, other plans, much bigger than all of them, to enact. But he senses that this is an important step in building his relationship with this particular child, so he nods.
She finishes her candy and puts the wrapper in her pocket. Then she gestures towards her board.
“Here,” she says, “you have two sides. Both are filled with little robot pieces. They’re very different and very similar. They could be wonderful if they worked together, but they haven’t realized that’s an option.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “They think they’re supposed to fight. They’re programmed to fight. They’re chess robots. Chobots.”
Alexander holds back an exasperated sigh. Sometimes he likes his job very much. Other times…
The child continues.
“Each chobot is special, but they’re all bound by rules. Rules are the reason chobots are. Without rules, the chobots would have no reason for being.”
Alexander does not listen. He takes his notes out, quickly searching for her file. He wants to double-check her name before he recommends her for the new… chobot program, you could say.
He finds it.
Svetlana.
“But what if we don’t follow the rules?” Svetlana softly asks. Alexander suspects she’s not really speaking to him, but to herself. It’s a ridiculous child’s fantasy, anyway, and he really must get going.
“That’s a sweet story, Svetochka,” he says, standing, “but we cannot disobey the rules. If we broke the rules, we wouldn’t be playing chess.”
“And if we weren’t playing chess,” Svetlana says, looking up, “then we wouldn’t be taking pieces from one another. We’d be sharing. Am I right?”
“No.” He is tired of this conversation. The child is annoying. “There would be no point in the game.”
“Right,” Svetlana agrees, not missing a beat, “because that is what your story of chess says. What if chess wasn't actually about winning? What if the pieces got to decide whether they wanted to take or share? What if the chobots decided they wanted to exist for themselves? What if I programmed my purple queen to hold hands with the blue king, but she decided she actually wanted to hold hands with the red king? What if a chobot pawn decided it wanted to move backwards—?”
“Those are very nice fantasies.” Alexander does not like what he is hearing. He is finished here. “Maybe you can write stories about these friendly chobots one day. But always remember that real chobots are only tools.”
Child: Svetlana. HIGHEST RECOMMENDATION by AM.
Notes: Occasionally annoying, but very much a find. There is something special about her.
She will change history one day.
ii. second story of chess.
Outside, night rages.
It is not all that rages. Florence’s heart is on fire. Her gaze, daggers, doesn’t move off the door. Papa tells her to look away, but Florence always watches. She watches when Papa rips off her band-aids and she watches when nurses give her vaccines.
Florence has to watch pain in action. She does not like it, but it is how she understands it.
“Check,” Papa says.
With tremendous effort, Florence pulls her gaze away from the door and focuses on the board before her. Papa taught her chess before she could speak. It was her first method of communication. He’s never gone easy on her. She knows it’s because he loves her.
She saves herself, but a checkmate is inevitable. The night looms over them. Her eyes flicker back to the door, because she will look their attackers in the eye. Papa, who always knows what she is thinking, urges her to look only at the board.
“Check,” he repeats. Florence’s eyes burn themselves now, not because she is going to lose the game, but because she is going to lose something far greater.
“Why are they doing this?” she asks.
Papa, for once, does not answer. Florence used to believe he was all-powerful. Impossibilities would manifest at his feet. Over the past month, she’s learned the truth. He only made it seem like he could do anything. If you can fool others, you hold the pen; you get to write the story. You can do anything.
…almost anything. The truth is that Florence and Papa are disposable.
She feels as if she is on fire. Who is writing this story? It's a terrible story.
“Florence.” Papa’s voice cracks, because he, too, knows what is coming. “What came before you and what will come after are nothing compared to what comes from inside you. You are a miracle.”
What comes from inside her is only burning rage. If rage is a miracle, then Florence is going to set the world on fire with miracles. She looks Papa in the eyes, trying to commit him to memory. Soon, a memory is all she’ll have.
“I’ll lose this game,” she whispers, “but I’ll win the next one.”
Papa holds his arms out. Florence has never seen him cry before. She climbs onto his lap, game abandoned, burying her face in his chest. Her eyes aren’t burning anymore. They’re dry, because Papa is crying and Florence has to be the strong one. Mama is gone and Papa will join her. The last thing — and only thing — Florence can do is be strong.
It's how the story goes, little Czechoslovak girl. You are the sole survivor.
“You mustn’t hold onto this anger forever, Florence,” Papa urges, openly weeping. He trembles more than she does. He holds her like she is his lifeline. She isn't enough. “Mama wouldn’t have wanted this for you. I don’t want this for you.”
Soon, I’ll have neither of you, Florence bitterly thinks, and what you want won’t matter.
They hold each other, Papa falling apart and Florence holding herself together.
It is the last night she ever sees Papa.
Something terrible happens that night.
Florence watches it happen. It's how she understands pain.
iii. third story of chess.
His father ripped the board to shreds during a fit of rage, and Freddie put it back together. It was made of cardboard to begin with, so tape has done wonders. The poor thing is peeling, incredibly frayed, creased, and falling apart, but Freddie cherishes it more than anything. Something banged-up can still have value. In fact, something banged-up can mean the world to someone.
He takes a pawn made from the box of a Happy Meal and makes a move.
Next, his father makes a move.
He’s not playing with his real father, of course. His real father is downstairs, screaming at his mother. That father would never play, so Freddie has made up an imaginary father to play with. This imaginary father smiles at him and tells him he’s playing so well. If Freddie wants enough, he can hear his imaginary father saying things he’ll never hear out loud.
I’m proud of you.
That was a good move. How did you come up with that?
Are you hungry? Cold?
When was the last time you ate? Slept?
Do you need help with your homework?
How was school today?
Are the other kids nice to you?
Why do you come home from school with bruises every day?
You don’t let the other kids hit you in hopes that your mother and I will finally notice you, right?
I see your bruises.
I saw you before the bruises.
You didn’t need to let them do that.
I saw you.
I always have.
I see you.
I see you.
I see you.
I love you.
iv. fourth story of chess.
ERROR.
Story not found.
‘ANATOLY’ not in this system.