Scepters, Stockfish, and Sorcery

The Player and the Patriot

Calmly resting in the library of his home in Oslo, Norway, Frode Magnussen reviewed his preparation for the upcoming Chess World Championship in Barcelona. He would be playing against Sebastien Lagrave, a Frenchman supported by his entire country.

Frode peeked out of the window at the bustling streets of the city below. The common folk walked through the streets, scum to Frode. Frode did not hesitate to share his views, so he lacked support from the public. However, Frode remained uninterested in the help of others; they would struggle to be of use to him as they held a far lower status than him in his eyes. Exhausted from hours on end of perfecting his opening repertoire, Frode stepped out into the brisk Norwegian air for a walk.

Meanwhile, in the French countryside, a man named Jean-Jacques Bacrot had just been released from a mental asylum. With “La Marseillaise” blasting through his home, Jean-Jacques paced through the halls, the buttons on his black jacket jingling with every step. Trotting past an image of the woman who had divorced him, he schemed on how to elevate his homeland to glory.

After Jean-Jacques had paced for hours, his

The Player and the Patriot

epiphany arrived. The World Chess Championship would have to be won by a Frenchman. Peering through his tinted spectacles, Bacrot retrieved his scepter, books of sorcery, and cunning as he plotted his next move.

Through the Firewall

Having returned to his home, Frode once again opened his laptop to find an image of a man wearing clothes darker than a Norwegian winter and holding an ominous scepter. “Monsieur Magnussen, I am Jean-Jacques Bacrot,” he proclaimed, his accent piercing Frode’s ears. “I will do everything in my power to ensure that Monsieur Lagrave defeats you.” The image cackled maniacally before disappearing from the screen. Terrified by the uncanny hologram which had made its way onto his computer, Frode slammed his laptop shut and threw himself onto his bed. Tossing and turning restlessly throughout the night, Frode could not comprehend how a mere commoner could have penetrated his computer’s defenses.

Shattered Hopes

Groggy from his poor sleep, Frode forced himself out of bed and into the kitchen. After preparing his usual breakfast of a stockfish sandwich and a cup of coffee, he peered out of his window again to see the bright and sunny sky.

Having finished his breakfast, the Norwegian booted up his laptop to find that all of his opening files had vanished. Yet another message had appeared on the screen. The message simply read, “Vive la France! - Bacrot.” Livid, Frode defenestrated an antique Persian armchair onto the cobblestone street below. Blustering around his room, Frode cursed Bacrot and his antics.

Shattered Hopes

Skid to a Stop

A week later, after meticulously perfecting his endgame technique, the time had come for Frode to fly to Barcelona for the match. He packed his bags and loaded them into a limousine with his chauffeur in the driver’s seat.

As the car made its way through the green Norwegian landscape between Oslo and its airport, Frode battled his nerves. Throughout his six previous world championship matches, he had never experienced such feelings. A fickle leaf in Bacrot’s wind, Frode reassured himself with his previous success. Usually, he would just let his chess speak for itself, but something bigger than the game existed this time around.

Suddenly, a black Peugeot swerved into the road in front of the limousine. The cars collided with a crash, sending the limousine rolling into the trees by the side of the road. Frode exited the car without checking on his chauffeur, ready to face whoever had ruined his trip.

Jean-Jacques Bacrot ran out of his totaled Peugeot to see the status of his mission. Having seen Frode fuming outside of his limousine, the Frenchman

dashed off in hope of finding safety from his enemy’s wrath. Sprinting beside the highway, he attempted to channel the magic he had spent years in the asylum perfecting. Despite his efforts to escape, the wailing of police sirens grew louder by the second. Lost in his attempts to harness otherworldly forces, Jean-Jacques tripped on a weed before being engulfed by seven police officers.

After hitchhiking the remainder of the journey to the airport, Frode knew that his problems had subsided with the capture of Bacrot. Once his flight disembarked, a wave of tranquility flowed through Frode’s body, and not only from the lavish first-class seat.

With Bacrot gone, only chess remained to hinder Frode from retaining his title of world champion. With his worries gone, the hum of the engines slowly lulled Frode to sleep.

Guess Who's Bach

Meanwhile, Oslo police were interrogating a certain mysterious Frenchman. Bacrot had been placed in a holding cell while awaiting his trial for resisting arrest. Though the police believed Jean-Jacques to be an insignificant common citizen incapable of defying their authority, he continued to plot his escape. He discovered an air conditioning vent in his cell from which he could escape. Doggedly, the Frenchman crawled through the spiderweb of vents until he finally saw the sun shining through the cracks. Having escaped from his captors, only one thing remained for Jean-Jacques Bacrot to do. He booked a flight to Barcelona.

With one day remaining until the first game of the world championship match, Frode Magnussen sat in his hotel room, listening to classical music. Media from around the world attempted to ask him questions throughout the day, but Frode shrugged them off like his feeble opponents. He stepped outside for a promenade through the majestic Catalan city. As the hours strolled by, so did Frode’s nerves and emotions.

Landing gear sending sparks off the runway, Jean-Jacques Bacrot had touched down in Barcelona with five hours to spare until the first game of the world championship match would start. Bacrot rushed out of the plane, eager to arrive at the venue with haste. He hailed a taxi, ready to become a part of French history for millennia. Once the taxi had reached its destination, Jean-Jacques buttoned his jacket and bolted without paying.

Endgame

Prepared for the game ahead of him, Frode donned his glasses and headed to the playing hall. The enormous piece of architecture housed a thousand spectators, all eager to witness the fragment of chess history ahead. The Norwegian strode across the street, ready to enter the most important room in the world.

Jean-Jacques had located an area within the hall where he would remain unseen to his Norwegian counterpart. As Frode stepped into the room, Bacrot took a deep breath, a cheetah ready to pounce.