Many thanks to Morbane for trying to make sense of this. Any remaining inconsistencies are of course my own.

The headcanon that I've worked out for another fic (which I will be posting soon) places the first act of the play in 1981; this story is set seven years earlier, during Florence and Freddie/The American's first meeting. I've taken a few creative liberties with both RL and fictional chronologies, although I've tried to tie it into a few other RL events.

If you've liked the stuff I've been uploading for Yuletide, check out my profile for links to more fics that this website doesn't really have a good place for!

World Junior Chess Championships
Birmingham, England
August 1974

"There's a four-year-old girl who won a tournament in Budapest. With a perfect score."

"A four-year-old? In what category, Setting-Up-The-Pieces?"

"I'm trying to read—"

"Brilliancy award for the five-year-old who remembers that it's 'queen on color!'"

"It says here—"

"Babies disqualified for sucking on the pawns."

"Thank you for letting me read."

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry. Jeesh. I shouldn't be so surprised, Eastern Europe, anything goes."

"Yeah," she says, absentmindedly flipping the page of the journal. "Girls' under-eleven tournament, it looks like."

"That's probably good."

"For who?"

"The western world." He flips one hand over, gesturing across the room, in mock grandiosity. "If their top players are getting taken down by a preschooler? Doesn't bode well for the rest of them."

"Who's to say that those are actually their top eleven-year-old girls? Maybe the best eligible players are busy playing mixed-sex tournaments."

"Mhm. You'd better explain how that works."

She tosses the journal aside, a little more forcefully then she'd been planning on. "Do I look like I'm in charge of the Budapest under-eleven system?"

"No, but, you're here."

"Oh. Well. I grew up in a small town, there weren't that many people to play with, most were boys. It would be—I don't know, weird, to play just women."

"But it's not a problem to play just under-twenty-year-olds?"

"Of course it's a problem," she teases, "I'm not under twenty, neither are most of us. Just stupid labels."

"Touché. Isn't Miles nineteen?"

"Do you have to get the last word on everything?"

"I'll take that as a yes." He picks up the journal.

"I wasn't done with that."

"I'm sorry, in America when you throw your magazines down that's generally considered a sign that you're done with them."

"And in England when someone comments on what they're reading, that's a sign you should either make pleasant conversation or keep quiet. When in Rome..."

"Pleasant conversation. Okay. How does Miles open?"

"I haven't played him yet."

"Yet?"

"Well, in previous tournaments, but that's not really a good guideline."

"We're running out of rounds."

"If I recall, he was drawn against a Soviet next. Getting ahead of yourself?"

"The only way to win is to see farther ahead than your opponents."

"Well, I'll just be going, then. I'd hate to accidentally give you any advice."

She's a few steps down the hall before he calls out "Hold on!" and she turns. "You forgot your journal."

"It's not mine," she calls.

"But I'm not going to read it, so you can have it, if you want."

She walks back, slowly; it's still creased open where she left it. "It's highly unlikely I'll be going to Budapest any time soon, I don't think I need to keep track of the up-and-coming prodigies."

"It must be so weird, to play in a tournament with all women."

"Just like it is when you play in a tournament with all men?"

"That's different," he snaps.

She reaches out for the journal, but doesn't take it. "And how?"

"I—well. There's no tournaments set up for men only, the open ones just work out that way."

"Not all of them," she points out.

"Okay, sure. Some of the idiots down the hall would probably tell you that men are too dumb and would get—distracted—by playing against women."

"But you wouldn't."

"Course not."

She rolls her eyes. "Modesty's never in short supply at these tournaments."

"Now, the Soviets—I haven't asked their opinions, but I bet they'd be all right with women playing. Just to show off, you know, we can take a girl and turn her into anything we want."

"That's not what my mum would say," she blurts out before she can think better of it.

"Who," he says, staring at her in confusion, "brought your mum into this?"

"Nothing—I—the Soviets—never mind."

"No, it's all right."

"The Soviets don't...I'm not sure it'd be worth their time, to take anyone off the street. They'd look...for people who are talented already. All they care about is winning, beating the American stars, whoever the USA brings up."

"But they don't bring us up—I don't need the country behind me, helping me along. I do it myself, because I want to beat people."

"Exactly. You're in the free world, you can do what you want, whether it's geeky or girly or what."

"Excuse me?"

"I mean—generic you, I can do what I want."

"Oh. Well. All right." He breathes a little more slowly, then places the journal back in her hand with an exaggerated sweep of his arm. "Here you go."

She rolls her eyes. "Thanks."

"Any choice propaganda to share? Where is it even from?"

"Not sure, just found it sitting around." She glances down at the article again. "László Polgár—the four-year-old's father—says that he wanted to show that anybody could become great, if they put enough time into it. Genius is made, not born."

"I don't think so."

"Had it in you all along?"

"Yeah. Didn't you?"

She shrugs. "I'm not sure. Of all the things you could do to your child, teach them chess at age four? Shouldn't you be—singing songs or learning the animals' names?"

"Yeah, well, life isn't easy."

"I never said it was. There's just a lot of kids who don't get to know their parents at all, to waste your childhood practicing for hours..."

"She can probably beat him already. She needs a real teacher, then she can go back to singing animal songs at night. Have a nice and happy childhood, or whatever the Soviet equivalent is these days."

She laughs and closes the journal, tucking it under her arm. "All glory to the motherland."

"You never answered my question. Were you born a genius, or did it grow on you?"

"You think I'm a genius, already?"

"If you come and hang out with a bunch of teenage boys for several days at a time, you're probably either a big genius or a big idiot. Since you haven't started singing about the glories of communism, I'm going to assume you're not an idiot. But I reserve the right to change my mind."

"I'm flattered," she says. "Tell you what, I'll split the difference. I wasn't born to be a chess genius, but I didn't have any great teachers either. So I guess I'm kind of self-made."

"Okay, put it this way. Could you imagine yourself becoming a teacher? Helping someone who doesn't have a spark for it?"

"No. I have better things to do with my life." She pauses. "But maybe I could help along someone who was already there."

"The spark theory. It'll grow on you." He nods down at the journal. "Better than what those communists are selling."

"So if you're so naturally talented, does that mean I don't need to wish you luck?"

"Precisely. And that even if I'm not wishing you luck, you shouldn't take it personally."

She smiles. "For what it's worth, Miles is vulnerable on the Pirc defense."

"Good to hear."

Three months later, four-year-old Susan Polgar is in another chess lesson when her younger sister Sofia is born.

The Polgar sisters all go on to become International Masters, and don't bother to restrict themselves to women-only tournaments.

Neither does Florence.