![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Anatoly closes his eyes and leans back in his seat. Any minute now, the plane would be cleared for take-off and this disastrous day would finally be at an end. He'd been a fool to think he had been beyond the reach of the Soviet Union. The consequences of his defection has finally reached him, and now he and his family would pay the price.
He had only wanted freedom and a life with Florence; he has neither, now. He doesn't even have the consolation of a title - he's thrown that away along with the match to Freddie. He has no one to blame but himself, he knows. If he had been smarter, more careful... but there's nothing to be done for it. What happens will happen; it's all out of his control now.
He hears commotion and turns his head to listen. There is a delay of some sort and their departure time has been pushed back another half-hour. He can hear Molokov having an apoplectic fit at the harried pilot, which amuses him more than it should. Not even the "Soviet Machine" can jump ahead in the fight order.
He holds his breath as Molokov stomps past him, but luck, for once, is on his side and the KGB agent passes him by without a word. Anatoly knows they will talk, eventually, and the conversation will not be a pleasant one, so he is grateful for any reprieve he can get.
He turns his head the other way to glance at his wife, but she is facing away from him. Her body language suggests that any attempt at conversation would be highly unwelcomed. She seems miserable, and he would feel guilty at that, if he had not long ago given up all hope of ever making her happy. They were worlds apart from each other, even when in the same room. His defection hadn't made things worse between them – how could it, when they were already at rock bottom? If there had been no children, they doubtless would have severed ties long ago.
With nothing else to do but wait, he drifts off to sleep. He dreams of a giant chessboard where the pieces are human and real lives are at stake. His children are pawns, Molokov a bishop. Svetlana is queen, and he, of course, is the king. It's not precisely a nightmare, but neither is it pleasant and fanciful. The last image he sees before he wakes is his opponent bearing down on him, scepter in hand.
At first, he thinks the desert island and the palm tree he's leaning against is part of the dream. As he wakes up more fully, he realizes that he has, in fact, somehow managed to fall asleep on a plane and wake up on a desert island.
He gets to his feet and looks around, hoping to find some sign of life. Perhaps it's a trick of Molokov's, though it's not quite his style. If he were to be abandoned anywhere, it would surely be Siberia and not this place.
"Hello?" There must be other people here. He couldn't be alone, could he?
He had only wanted freedom and a life with Florence; he has neither, now. He doesn't even have the consolation of a title - he's thrown that away along with the match to Freddie. He has no one to blame but himself, he knows. If he had been smarter, more careful... but there's nothing to be done for it. What happens will happen; it's all out of his control now.
He hears commotion and turns his head to listen. There is a delay of some sort and their departure time has been pushed back another half-hour. He can hear Molokov having an apoplectic fit at the harried pilot, which amuses him more than it should. Not even the "Soviet Machine" can jump ahead in the fight order.
He holds his breath as Molokov stomps past him, but luck, for once, is on his side and the KGB agent passes him by without a word. Anatoly knows they will talk, eventually, and the conversation will not be a pleasant one, so he is grateful for any reprieve he can get.
He turns his head the other way to glance at his wife, but she is facing away from him. Her body language suggests that any attempt at conversation would be highly unwelcomed. She seems miserable, and he would feel guilty at that, if he had not long ago given up all hope of ever making her happy. They were worlds apart from each other, even when in the same room. His defection hadn't made things worse between them – how could it, when they were already at rock bottom? If there had been no children, they doubtless would have severed ties long ago.
With nothing else to do but wait, he drifts off to sleep. He dreams of a giant chessboard where the pieces are human and real lives are at stake. His children are pawns, Molokov a bishop. Svetlana is queen, and he, of course, is the king. It's not precisely a nightmare, but neither is it pleasant and fanciful. The last image he sees before he wakes is his opponent bearing down on him, scepter in hand.
At first, he thinks the desert island and the palm tree he's leaning against is part of the dream. As he wakes up more fully, he realizes that he has, in fact, somehow managed to fall asleep on a plane and wake up on a desert island.
He gets to his feet and looks around, hoping to find some sign of life. Perhaps it's a trick of Molokov's, though it's not quite his style. If he were to be abandoned anywhere, it would surely be Siberia and not this place.
"Hello?" There must be other people here. He couldn't be alone, could he?
