Chapter Text
The opening in chess is a series of moves used to state one’s intentions. It is the art of bringing one’s pieces into the best possible positions and setting the tone for the entire match.
Feofan Sergeyevich Veksel had a surname that spoke for itself, though his parents had made sure his given name was no less suggestive.
"Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven," his mother would tell him in response to his reproaches about their poverty and their miserable existence.
"Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted," his mother would tell him when he came home in rags, having fled from bullies, staring at his reflection and struggling not to cry.
"Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth," his mother would tell him while tending to his cuts and bruises.
"Blessed are the merciful, for they shall be shown mercy," his mother would tell him while prying his clenched fists open.
His mother loved to quote the ancient Scriptures, transmuting his every shame into a virtue. She taught him to be grateful for how pathetic their existence was—she died of consumption on a damp mattress in a tiny room without windows. As for his father—they said he drank himself to death out of grief, but Feofan thought otherwise: his father was a weak, submissive man, which was why he died so humiliated and filthy. Feofan promised himself to be different, and to believe in neither archons nor gods.
God appeared to him in a white coat, faceless, amidst the cold glare of the operating room lights.
"Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God," flashed through his mind as the man in white leaned over him, pressed a mask to his face, and cast him into the darkness.
His mother and father had taught him to suffer in silence and gratitude. He, however, was angry, and it was that anger that saved his life.
Memory came back in flashes, but the ill-fated day was gaining shape and color: a successful, grandiose deal; a bar; the sour wine he hadn't finished; the darkness of the alleyway; a blow to the head, bruised kidneys, shredded palms; rage, rage, r a g e. He hadn't been carrying a weapon—a mistake, he should have been armed—he had tried to knock the blade out of one of the bastards' hands, kicking, biting, clawing—a bottle had been smashed over his head, and he’d blacked out. Later, they were carrying him somewhere, like a stuffed sack—too heavy to carry, too valuable to toss. He listened to their footsteps, seething, his fists clenching almost imperceptibly, while one thought pulsed in his mind: I will survive. Survive-survive-survive. Out of spite, let the bastards choke on it, he would live—he would live, he would live, he would live—and they would die.
He felt sick, he felt wretched; he should have been preparing to die, but he had no intention of doing so. First came the sound of metal, voices—"They'll pay for a live one"—then a scent of mustiness hit his nostrils, followed by the sting of alcohol teasing his receptors. Feofan became all ears—and he listened, listened, and listened.
Scents, sounds, words... A hospital? No, not a hospital—otherwise, the first thing he would have smelled was sterility, not mustiness. An illegal facility. Organs? Experiments? Think—think—think.
He had no time, he had no strength, and yet Feofan devised the only way to cease being mere meat, easily carved up, and become a person once again—someone capable of sparking interest. He held on as best he could, gritting his teeth against the pain. When they left him on the creaky gurney and someone approached—confidently, almost lazily—he focused his gaze and smiled, dredging up an expression of happiness and sincerity through sheer force of will:
"I am lucky to have met you, Doctor. Thank you."
He needed a reason not to be killed. After all, wasn’t it more pleasant to deal with someone open to cooperation?
Someone chuckled. His vision blurred; they had injected him with something. He came to on an operating table.
"Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God," flashed through his mind.
Perhaps he was delirious. Perhaps not. But where he found himself, there was a sense of calm. The gurney stood next to others—next to those who hadn't been so lucky—but he had clawed his way to luck, had bought his life with a smile and gratitude to his executioner. And so, instead of dying in a row with the fools, the proud, and the cowards, he had ended up in a room. Something resembling a ward: a narrow bed with a thin mattress, screens, the beeping of instruments unfamiliar to him, himself lying naked, covered by a sheet up to his collarbones. Alive.
He attempted to move, but his arms and legs were restrained; his body felt like a stranger's. Feofan avoided looking at himself: there were too many wires and tubes leading into and out of him. His spirit felt unnervingly light, and he felt the urge to laugh, like a madman: he had bought himself time, opportunity, and life with nothing but a smile and gratitude. With humanity. He could not remember the face—had he even seen it?—and spent his time wondering when the Doctor would visit him.
An eternity later, a nurse entered. Without looking at him, she checked the monitor readings.
His tongue felt heavy, uncooperative, but Feofan managed to command it just as the girl had her back turned to him:
"Tell the Doctor: I would be glad to see him."
The nurse turned around with a strange smile—part pity, part professional curiosity—and gave him a nod. She left without saying a word.
His tormentor and savior appeared to him in his sleep. At first, Feofan only felt a presence, and then he opened his eyes. Once again, the faceless man stood over him: the medical mask was gone, but the one he wore now obscured his eyes. Feofan tried to piece together the stranger's features, but could not.
"You were admitted with internal bleeding. I performed an emergency laparotomy to rule out injuries to your liver, intestines, and spleen. Your kidney was damaged; I had to suture the renal capsule. Try not to move; secondary hemorrhaging would not be to your benefit."
"What should I call you?"
"Doctor. Call me that."
"Feofan Sergeyevich Veksel."
"How ironic."
"How often will you visit me?"
"As the need arises."
"Visit more often. It would be a pleasure for me to speak with you."
The Doctor almost smiled. His voice was deep, soft, like the purring of a cat.
"That is a reaction to the anesthesia, Feofan. It loosens the tongue and provokes nonsense."
"Then I love you."
The Doctor laughed, and Feofan closed his eyes in bliss: he had managed to spark interest. He was a person.
The mysterious Doctor visited him once a day for the first three days—Feofan tracked the passage of time by the medication schedule. The nurses—two girls who alternated every other day—handled the medicine, the dressings, and the equipment; the Doctor, however, spoke to him, questioning him in detail about his well-being, his sensations, and whether he felt any changes. On the fourth day, they forced him to sit up and try to stand; by the time the Doctor arrived, he was exhausted. The only thing Feofan asked him for was a newspaper. He was bored to death. From that day on, the Doctor visited him twice—as he would for the days to follow—after lunch and before sleep, always with a newspaper.
"Nothing of interest today," the Doctor said, arriving empty-handed on the twelfth day.
By this time, the drains had long been removed, the stitches bothered him less and less, and the monitors and IVs had been disconnected. Aside from sitting and standing, he could now pace the room out of sheer boredom, measuring the ward in steps along the walls, diagonally, from the door to the wall, from the wall to the bed... He still took his pills under supervision and was escorted to the restroom, but after everything that had happened, this was no more than a minor discomfort. He had managed to request a clock and a calendar, a stack of paper, and a squeaky marker to keep himself occupied. He had never been an artist—he filled some of the sheets with chessboards, recalling basic opening systems: a chess opening sets the tone for the entire match.
The Doctor settled comfortably into his armchair, legs crossed—the chair had appeared on the fifth day—and watched him, fingertips pressed together. Masked, as always. Perhaps the inability to see the expression in his eyes was starting to tire Feofan quite a bit.
Unexpectedly, the Doctor asked:
"What do you plan to do, Feofan, once you have recovered?"
He preferred not to think about it. His rent was a week overdue, he was bankrupt, he had been betrayed and, evidently, sold to the "Doctor." He had no money, no home, and no contact with the outside world. He was living at the whim of one man and against the wishes of others. He had planned to survive and had achieved that goal, but he had set no new ones: there were too many unknown variables.
Feofan pushed back the blanket and slowly, cautiously, got out of bed. He walked around it and sat on the edge, positioning himself directly opposite the Doctor, face to face. He calmed himself with a brief gesture—he stroked the palm of his left hand with the thumb of his right.
"I can offer you my services as an economist. An accountant. As payment for my treatment, and, if it suits you, as employment. I can create on paper, quite convincingly, that which does not exist, and conceal that which one would prefer not to be publicized."
The Doctor tilted his head to the side, and it struck Feofan that the "bird-like" gesture and the beak of the mask made him resemble a raven.
"Weren't you bankrupt?" the Doctor asked—a question that made Feofan’s insides go cold and a wave of nausea rise. Feofan forced a smile.
"Due to human greed, if I may note. An unfortunate sequence of events, the wrong company, but certainly not a lack of talent."
"And do you consider me the right company?"
"I have no reason not to trust my benefactor."
The Doctor smiled, rubbing his chin, and looked at him for a long, searching moment—then, he touched the edges of his mask with his thumb and middle finger. A click. A handsome young man with a bold, mischievous gaze stared back at Feofan. He rose, covered the distance in two lazy steps, and held out an open palm.
"You may call me Zandik."
Feofan shook his hand firmly, confidently, but when he was left alone—his hands trembled.