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It starts as a bad joke. Or more properly, a bad bet. One that Magnus hadn’t intended to make, but one that he couldn’t resist when the opportunity presented itself. Of course John would ask who he thought would win the second semifinal, no matter that the question was redundant. There was exactly one person that everyone expected to win the second semifinal. Because while Anish Giri wasn’t a terrible speed chess player, she wasn’t any more impressive than any other 2700+ GM. So naturally, everyone expected Hikaru to win. Everyone with a brain, at least.
Anish had barely made it into the semifinal to begin with, and that only thanks to an increasingly improbable series of events.
Nepo hadn’t played like himself in the first round, and then in the quarterfinals the pairing gods had seen fit to pit Anish against Hans. Hans who most certainly had a mental block against Anish. One that only got worse and worse after each loss. If it wasn’t Hans then perhaps Magnus would feel sorry for him. Having a mental block against Anish Giri of all people sounded like a special kind of hell.
But in the end it was Anish that had claimed the semifinals spot, no doubt much to the chagrin of Danny Rensch. Not that Anish wasn’t a draw at all - Magnus had heard the usual poetic spiel about it helping their image to have a woman competing - but Anish wasn’t Hans. She didn’t put butts in seats, no matter that she was no doubt objectively the hottest of the top chess players. Not that there was really much competition there. Tari was barely even in the top 100 these days. Jordan was at least knocking on the door of 2700, but he had a proclivity for haircuts that didn’t help his case. And Dubov, to quote Anish, was a rat.
Perhaps Magnus should have made a bigger stink about getting Denis as his semifinal opponent then. Because Anish Giri was by far the weakest of the semifinalists when it came to speed chess, and he was the defending champion. He should be playing the fourth seed. But given that Alireza had been expected to be the one coming out of that quarter, perhaps it was less of a surprise that Hikaru was the one that got to play Anish. It was like March Madness seeding, after a fashion. Alireza had been upset and so Hikaru got the gift of a weak opponent.
So Magnus laughs when John Sargent asks him who he thinks will be his opponent in the finals. Everyone already knows who he’ll be playing. He almost feels bad for the commentators at this point. They’ll have hours of airtime to fill, and there are only so many ways that one can say that Anish Giri is horribly losing. There’s not even a mercy rule. Perhaps there will be for the next iteration.
Magnus isn’t quite sure what makes him give the little add-on to his answer. Hikaru will beat Anish, of course. He’s the better speed chess player. It’s not close. A sign in the audience - something about Magnus’ new mustache - brings a flash of memory into Magnus’ mind. Ella, reading off various comments. The denizens of the internet were not terribly impressed by his new mustache. So why not bait them a bit? Hikaru would win 100 times out of 100.
“I will bet my mustache on it.” The crowd makes a collective noise at that, and Magnus can’t help the smirk before finally making his way offstage.
Three hours later, it was a smirking Anish Giri standing beside John Sargent. Caissa had some sick sense of humor. There had been no technical issues in Magnus’ semifinal, but during the second semifinal Hikaru’s PC had been haunted. There was no other way to put it. Haunted to the extent that Magnus was fully expecting Ella to show him tweets of Hikaru fans accusing Anish of being a witch.
Sometimes it felt like she was a witch, but that was more an over-the-board thing. And she was a jerk too. Anish was the sort that always knew the rules a little too well, and she’d been a complete asshole about all the technical issues. Refusing to agree to the reasonable restart points Hikaru proposed. Being difficult in a way that must have given the arbiter a few more grey hairs. Because it was Anish. She was always difficult. And Magnus wouldn’t have put it past her to have repeated the rules loudly and incorrectly in Hikaru’s hearing to the extent that Hikaru had messed up right at the final bell because of her. Anish was of the old Soviet School. The sort that always had a KGB agent on hand. Or several.
And despite it all, she’d only barely hung on for the victory in the end. Hikaru had clearly been the better player. Everyone could see it clear as day. The commentators had even said as much in the few times that Magnus had turned the commentary on by mistake. Perhaps that had been it. The commentators had said that Hikaru was better despite being behind in score and Caissa had decided to punish them for it.
Even if John hadn’t brought up Magnus’ little bet, Magnus for one had no doubt that Anish would have brought it up herself. She’d made no secret of her thoughts on the mustache. But the quip about it being the thing that gave her the extra motivation she used to win had Magnus rolling his eyes. Anish was an edgy teenager at heart, no matter that she pretended to be a responsible adult. The comment was uncalled for, and frankly cringeworthy. As was the following one about London and some musical and needing to go buy a razor. It was enough that Magnus turned the broadcast off. There was only so much of Anish Giri talking that any sane man could stand.
Magnus, it turned out, didn’t have a razor. It didn’t make sense to bring one, what with the fact that he’d only be in London three days. And as much as he probably could have gotten one from the hotel, Magnus did have some standards when it came to sharp metal objects. So he’d make a sheepish joke in the interviews and shave his mustache when he got home. No doubt Ella could come up with some witty caption for a social media post.
Anish Giri hadn’t gotten the memo. The ‘razor’ in her hands when Magnus caught sight of her before the finals was more akin to a murder weapon. It wasn’t a proper razor, either. It was an old-fashioned straight razor. The sort of thing that Magnus would have thought was 200 years old but for the fact Anish had said she’d buy a razor in her interview the previous day.
There was a certain beauty to it - the blade and handle were both a shining silver. It was a beautiful, deadly thing. Rather like Anish, really. Because for all Anish wasn’t the sort of woman who came across as entirely sane, she wasn’t the sort of woman anyone called ugly either.
She - with the murder weapon in her hand - made a beeline for Magnus, flicking it open as she did. Like she really intended to stab him. Or shave him. Or stab him then shave his corpse. Was it even possible to stab someone with that type of razor? Magnus didn’t much want to find out.
But as he took one step back, then another, he stumbled into his chair.
Anish, moving as smoothly as a cat, was practically in his lap a moment later, pressing the cool metal of the straight razor against his cheek.
“Time for the pornstache to die, Magzy.” Anish purred the words. As much as Peter called her a snake, she was more of a cat. Snakes mostly minded their own business. Cats could be psychotic monsters.
Magnus opens his mouth to object, but Anish is pressing the flat of her giant silver razor to his lips a moment later.
“Hush, Magzy. I assume you this lovely implement is very sharp, and it would be such a shame if I cut your lips to ribbons because you were inconsiderately trying to talk while I shaved you.” Anish’s words were poisoned honey. The way she said them was like she wanted Magnus to give her an excuse. Some tenuous reason. Anything.
Anish’s delicate fingers angled Magnus’ chin slightly, and she turned the razor. Magnus should have objected to the lack of shaving cream, but everything happened too quickly. Anish’s hand was steady and sure, and the razor was sharp as can be. So sharp Magnus didn’t feel so much as a breath. Only the remnants of his mustache falling away.
“There.” Anish stood up smoothly. “Now the people can see your handsome face.” She closed the razor and tucked it in her pocket before waltzing off as if nothing had happened.
The final wasn’t close. Anish had somehow won the first two games in the 5+1 section, but that had only been because Magnus had needed a few more minutes to center himself. Once he’d found his flow, things had been easy. Anish wasn’t Hikaru. Anish wasn’t Alireza. Anish wasn’t even Denis. And it showed.
So before long Magnus had been accepting adulations. The trophy still wasn’t impressive, but now there was a fancy cup that would get Magnus’ name on it once again.
Once he’d signed a few autographs and given the required answers to the interviewers, Magnus finally found his vanquished opponent backstage.
For a chess player, Anish was rather good at pretending to be a gracious loser, even when there weren’t any cameras on her. So she smiled and gave the little deferential head nod that Magnus was used to seeing from his foes. The silver handle of the folded straight razor was glimmering in her pocket.
In a fit of pique, Magnus put the little 3D printed trophy into the cup.
“Hold this.” He thrust the trophy into Anish’s arms, taking in the surprise on her face as he did. And he plucked the razor from her pocket. It was heavier than he’d thought it would be. More solid. He flicked it open. The motion was smooth. The blade seemed like a whisper. And it shone with an almost uncanny light.
“Girinho.” Magnus pressed the flat of the blade against Anish’s cheek. It had been so very cold against his cheek before the match. Let Anish feel that. She knew how sharp it was. But perhaps he should give her a proper demonstration. Not a deep cut, but one that would hurt as it healed.
Magnus watched as Anish swallowed. Her eyes were wide. Not panicked, but certainly not unafraid. Good. She shifted slightly, but Magnus kept the razor pressed against her cheek. A cut there would heal, no matter that it would be painful for a time. And Magnus wasn’t the sort that liked to gift his opponents things. He liked trophies. Ones that weren’t some 3D printed thing that looked like a random teenager designed it.
The razor was silent as Magnus flicked it to the side, but it was just as sharp as it had been when Anish had wielded it against Magnus’ mustache. And so the lock of Anish’s hair offered no resistance. It was silky in his hand. He hadn’t meant to take quite so much as he did, but Anish had called him a greedy trophy hog before. She would understand.
It wouldn’t be a noticeable loss to Anish’s hair, at least not to the outside world, but no doubt she would notice. Magnus closed the razor. To the victor, the spoils. The razor felt even heavier in his pocket. Anish would understand, wouldn’t she? The smile he gave her was not a kind one. For all Anish could be ferocious, she was the sort of foe that had some modicum of self preservation.
So she bared her neck as he took the trophy back from her. The pretty young leopardess, doing just what she should in the face of a dominant male leopard.
“Room 501.” It was impulsive of Magnus to give Anish the room number no doubt, but on some level he simply couldn’t resist. It was Anish. And Ella was far away. Magnus had won. He deserved to be treated like a champion.
It wasn’t a surprise to wake up to a cold bed. Anish might lose well for a chess player, but she was still a prideful prickly thing at the best of times. Magnus would expect nothing less.
The lock of Anish’s hair is laid out just where Magnus had left it the night before. 15 cm long and perhaps a centimeter or so wide. Dark and silky. A proper trophy.
The silver razor that had been beside it when Magnus had gone to sleep beside his vanquished foe was decidedly absent. Perhaps Anish had taken offense to Jorden’s beard and mustache, then. Or perhaps she just wanted to torment him with it. With Anish it could be so very hard to tell such things.