Season 10, Week 1
Nov. 22nd, 2016 10:24 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rayasoTopic: I Need the Struggle to Feel Alive
For Mr. Jones, the match ended, as all games must, in defeat. It was not the preferred outcome, at least not his preferred outcome. Future generations would thank Mr. Jones, if they knew about him, but no one would. That was the deal. Mr. Jones toppled his king, thanked the winner, and walked off into the fog.
Mr. Jones hated losing chess in the park. It’s so public, so humiliating, he thought. The winner? Sheila McCoy, who was thrilled by her victory and accepted the congratulations of her fellow enthusiasts. She had fought hard and played a brilliant game, far above her usual level.
Savoring the victory, Dr. McCoy headed back to work feeling energized, confident, and ready at last to submit her grant proposal, finally able to pursue the research that would eventually lead to her winning a Nobel Prize and the gratitude of a suffering world.
Not a bad result for a single chess game, thought Mr. Jones as he took the bus back to the office.
A vaccine for HIV, and it all depended on one game of chess. Lose, and Dr. McCoy would never have the confidence to pursue her dream, but when she won, mankind won.
There would be no headlines for Mr. Jones, no prizes, not even the satisfaction of a job well done, just the sting of another defeat. This job is killing me!
It all started with a small “help wanted” ad in an Empire Daily Times left on the counter near Mr. Jones at the Sloppy Pig BBQ Shack (“Homestyle Manners!”):
Like to play games? Want to facilitate history? This is the job for you!
Travel required. Serious inquiries only. Call 555-487-3283 for appt.
Short of work and down on his luck, Mr. Jones was willing to play games if someone would pay him. The university must need test subjects at the Psych Department again. He didn’t know much about history, but he was willing to fake it for a few bucks and the Psych Department usually paid well.
Mr. Jones noticed a nickel on the diner floor and picked it up. Heads, I call -- tails, I don’t, he thought. Heads it was
The phone number wasn't for the Psych Department after all. Gameplay International was housed in a dingy, non-descript office in a failing strip mall, next to Sparkle’s Nail Salon, Premium Payday Loans, and Ernie’s Interlude, a dreary neighborhood bar for aging alcoholics drinking away their Social Security checks.
The lobby of Gameplay belied its external appearance, as Mr. Jones discovered. Everything was sleek, modern, and expensive, including the receptionist, a well-dressed young man who greeted him with an indeterminate European accent. “Welcome, Mr. Jones. We’ve been expecting you. Please come this way.”
“This way” led to an elevator and down many floors, much to Mr. Jones’ surprise, and eventually to a large warren of very plush offices. There was a definite buzz of excited voices when he entered. Weird, he thought.
Mr. Jones’ meeting with Mr. Stanley of Recruitment was weirder still.
“Gameplay,” Mr. Stanley began, “is a secret organization devoted to shepherding humanity through crucial points in history. We do this using any means possible, but sometimes simply through playing games with key figures at important moments in their lives. Winning a game gives them the confidence to follow the correct path. After all, nothing succeeds like success.
“That’s all I can tell you for now. One of our gameplayers met with an ahistorical end, and we want you to replace her. Of course, we offer a very generous salary. Interested?”
Mr. Jones’ response was equal to the importance of the moment: “Who the #$%@ are you? Do you think I’m &%$## crazy?”
“Not yet,” replied Mr. Stanley. “I can tell you more, but first we want you to play games. Lots of games. And we’re willing to advance you a large sum of money for your cooperation.”
Well, Mr. Stanley was right, and the offer was very tempting, but still, Mr. Jones hesitated.
“You know you want to accept,” said Mr. Stanley, “or else you wouldn’t have picked up that nickel and flipped it.”
Mr. Jones interrupted his mental shopping spree long enough to pay attention.
“That nickel was put there by one of our agents, a coin flipper in fact,” Mr. Stanley said.
This was getting stranger again. “What’s a coin flipper?” asked Mr. Jones.
“A coin flipper is responsible for ensuring that a coin is available when certain events are to be determined by a coin flip, and for guaranteeing the proper outcome. You didn’t come to us by chance.”
That’s it, thought Mr. Jones, these people are loons. But if their money is real, I’ll play their games.
For the next week, Mr. Jones did nothing but play games, including checkers, chess, Battleship, Monopoly, poker, Risk, 21, Life, roulette, and Go.
The tests confirmed what Gameplay suspected: Mr. Jones had the key quality they needed. He lost nearly every game, even Candyland and Go Fish. It defied probability. Games of strategy, games of chance, and even drinking games – the results were nearly always the same.
At the end of the week, Mr. Jones met with Mr. Stanley, who formally offered him the job. Worn down by the incessant game-playing and the lure of a renewed bank account, Mr. Jones accepted.
“There’s just one more little thing,” added Mr. Stanley, “the implant.”
“Implant!!! Not a chance in hell!”
“Not that kind of implant,” explained Mr. Stanley. “We’re not aliens. It’s just a little device that hooks your brain up to Infinity, our ultra-computer. You cannot be an expert at every game. Using the link, Infinity feeds you the moves, until your natural talent takes over at the end. There’s a bonus for submitting to the surgery.”
Mr. Jones gave in. Following the operation and additional training, Mr. Jones was unleashed on history.
Mr. Jones became a specialist in losing at chess. He had a real knack for it and his fondest memories involved chess.
Once, shortly before Bobby Fischer played Boris Spassky for the world chess championship, Fischer began to doubt his own ability, and was on the verge of pulling out. Infinity arranged a game between Fischer and Mr. Jones.
It was a game of such beauty and power that it would have ranked among the best ever played, had anyone seen it. When Fischer finally won, he knew he was ready for Spassky. Unfortunately, Fischer never reached such heights again. He spent his life chasing perfection, until his mind could no longer take the stress and he slipped into madness.
Most assignments ended happily for the subjects, even those that involved extra effort. Mr. Jones had to lose three games of chess to Steve Jobs before he had the confidence to drop out of college, eventually founding Apple, Inc.
Jobs and McCoy were exceptional assignments. Most of them were run of the mill: gaining the confidence to ask someone out, take a new job, get a divorce, or have children. They were the everyday struggles of everyday people. The immediate effect might have appeared small, but those outcomes became important strands of history that needed to be protected.
It was exciting at first, but despite the good he was doing, the years of constantly losing finally wore Mr. Jones down. He longed for just one victory. Once, in a chess game, he resigned after only ten moves. The Infinity computer delivered a gentle reminder through the implant. After regaining consciousness, Mr. Jones never tried that again.
It was Steve Jobs’ success with computers that led to Mr. Jones’ eventual deliverance.
As computers advanced, more and more people turned to online gaming. The Infinity system could handle these games without the encumbrance of a clumsy human interface such as Mr. Jones.
Future Bobby Fischers could not tell if the opponents they were crushing were human or Infinity. Even Candyland, Operation, and Rock’em Sock'em Robots were online, and Mr. Jones certainly did not miss playing eight year olds. It’s so creepy and I hate the tea parties for the My Little Pony games.
It was far more efficient to let Infinity interact directly with people, although the boost players received from beating some anonymous opponent was never quite as strong as from playing a human being. Infinity’s inability to keep up with gamer slang was another minor problem which was never solved.
Eventually, only older people still played games with each other, but those people were irrelevant to history anyway, having already made their contributions. The gameplaying unit had less and less to do, while Gameplay’s black ops history department thrived. Mr. Jones and the other gameplayers were finally retired, after having their implants removed.
At first retirement was wonderful. No more history, no more games, plenty of money, and no more losing, Mr. Jones often thought, while relaxing on yet another beach. But even paradise could become boring. After a while, Mr. Jones missed the camaraderie, the human contact, and the conflict of the games.
Eventually, he started visiting chess games in the parks, at first simply to watch, but later, he started playing again. He was a popular opponent who could be relied on to play a good game and lose graciously.
That did not last. He still remembered the things Infinity had taught him, and eventually he started winning. It felt good. Mr. Jones even won some major seniors’ tournaments, and he began teaching young players. Playing games with children no longer felt creepy.
Among Mr. Jones’ students was Melissa Hightower. She was an indifferent chess player, but was also a math prodigy who would go on to win two of the Millennium Prizes for unsolvable math problems.
Protecting history still needed the human touch and Mr. Jones had always excelled at that, even though future historians never recognized his contributions. It had to be that way, so that no one suspected history had needed a little help.
Still, after all the work he'd done . . . a footnote would have been nice.
THE LOSER
For Mr. Jones, the match ended, as all games must, in defeat. It was not the preferred outcome, at least not his preferred outcome. Future generations would thank Mr. Jones, if they knew about him, but no one would. That was the deal. Mr. Jones toppled his king, thanked the winner, and walked off into the fog.
Mr. Jones hated losing chess in the park. It’s so public, so humiliating, he thought. The winner? Sheila McCoy, who was thrilled by her victory and accepted the congratulations of her fellow enthusiasts. She had fought hard and played a brilliant game, far above her usual level.
Savoring the victory, Dr. McCoy headed back to work feeling energized, confident, and ready at last to submit her grant proposal, finally able to pursue the research that would eventually lead to her winning a Nobel Prize and the gratitude of a suffering world.
Not a bad result for a single chess game, thought Mr. Jones as he took the bus back to the office.
A vaccine for HIV, and it all depended on one game of chess. Lose, and Dr. McCoy would never have the confidence to pursue her dream, but when she won, mankind won.
There would be no headlines for Mr. Jones, no prizes, not even the satisfaction of a job well done, just the sting of another defeat. This job is killing me!
* * * * *
It all started with a small “help wanted” ad in an Empire Daily Times left on the counter near Mr. Jones at the Sloppy Pig BBQ Shack (“Homestyle Manners!”):
Like to play games? Want to facilitate history? This is the job for you!
Travel required. Serious inquiries only. Call 555-487-3283 for appt.
Short of work and down on his luck, Mr. Jones was willing to play games if someone would pay him. The university must need test subjects at the Psych Department again. He didn’t know much about history, but he was willing to fake it for a few bucks and the Psych Department usually paid well.
Mr. Jones noticed a nickel on the diner floor and picked it up. Heads, I call -- tails, I don’t, he thought. Heads it was
The phone number wasn't for the Psych Department after all. Gameplay International was housed in a dingy, non-descript office in a failing strip mall, next to Sparkle’s Nail Salon, Premium Payday Loans, and Ernie’s Interlude, a dreary neighborhood bar for aging alcoholics drinking away their Social Security checks.
The lobby of Gameplay belied its external appearance, as Mr. Jones discovered. Everything was sleek, modern, and expensive, including the receptionist, a well-dressed young man who greeted him with an indeterminate European accent. “Welcome, Mr. Jones. We’ve been expecting you. Please come this way.”
“This way” led to an elevator and down many floors, much to Mr. Jones’ surprise, and eventually to a large warren of very plush offices. There was a definite buzz of excited voices when he entered. Weird, he thought.
Mr. Jones’ meeting with Mr. Stanley of Recruitment was weirder still.
“Gameplay,” Mr. Stanley began, “is a secret organization devoted to shepherding humanity through crucial points in history. We do this using any means possible, but sometimes simply through playing games with key figures at important moments in their lives. Winning a game gives them the confidence to follow the correct path. After all, nothing succeeds like success.
“That’s all I can tell you for now. One of our gameplayers met with an ahistorical end, and we want you to replace her. Of course, we offer a very generous salary. Interested?”
Mr. Jones’ response was equal to the importance of the moment: “Who the #$%@ are you? Do you think I’m &%$## crazy?”
“Not yet,” replied Mr. Stanley. “I can tell you more, but first we want you to play games. Lots of games. And we’re willing to advance you a large sum of money for your cooperation.”
Well, Mr. Stanley was right, and the offer was very tempting, but still, Mr. Jones hesitated.
“You know you want to accept,” said Mr. Stanley, “or else you wouldn’t have picked up that nickel and flipped it.”
Mr. Jones interrupted his mental shopping spree long enough to pay attention.
“That nickel was put there by one of our agents, a coin flipper in fact,” Mr. Stanley said.
This was getting stranger again. “What’s a coin flipper?” asked Mr. Jones.
“A coin flipper is responsible for ensuring that a coin is available when certain events are to be determined by a coin flip, and for guaranteeing the proper outcome. You didn’t come to us by chance.”
That’s it, thought Mr. Jones, these people are loons. But if their money is real, I’ll play their games.
For the next week, Mr. Jones did nothing but play games, including checkers, chess, Battleship, Monopoly, poker, Risk, 21, Life, roulette, and Go.
The tests confirmed what Gameplay suspected: Mr. Jones had the key quality they needed. He lost nearly every game, even Candyland and Go Fish. It defied probability. Games of strategy, games of chance, and even drinking games – the results were nearly always the same.
At the end of the week, Mr. Jones met with Mr. Stanley, who formally offered him the job. Worn down by the incessant game-playing and the lure of a renewed bank account, Mr. Jones accepted.
“There’s just one more little thing,” added Mr. Stanley, “the implant.”
“Implant!!! Not a chance in hell!”
“Not that kind of implant,” explained Mr. Stanley. “We’re not aliens. It’s just a little device that hooks your brain up to Infinity, our ultra-computer. You cannot be an expert at every game. Using the link, Infinity feeds you the moves, until your natural talent takes over at the end. There’s a bonus for submitting to the surgery.”
Mr. Jones gave in. Following the operation and additional training, Mr. Jones was unleashed on history.
* * * * *
Mr. Jones became a specialist in losing at chess. He had a real knack for it and his fondest memories involved chess.
Once, shortly before Bobby Fischer played Boris Spassky for the world chess championship, Fischer began to doubt his own ability, and was on the verge of pulling out. Infinity arranged a game between Fischer and Mr. Jones.
It was a game of such beauty and power that it would have ranked among the best ever played, had anyone seen it. When Fischer finally won, he knew he was ready for Spassky. Unfortunately, Fischer never reached such heights again. He spent his life chasing perfection, until his mind could no longer take the stress and he slipped into madness.
Most assignments ended happily for the subjects, even those that involved extra effort. Mr. Jones had to lose three games of chess to Steve Jobs before he had the confidence to drop out of college, eventually founding Apple, Inc.
Jobs and McCoy were exceptional assignments. Most of them were run of the mill: gaining the confidence to ask someone out, take a new job, get a divorce, or have children. They were the everyday struggles of everyday people. The immediate effect might have appeared small, but those outcomes became important strands of history that needed to be protected.
It was exciting at first, but despite the good he was doing, the years of constantly losing finally wore Mr. Jones down. He longed for just one victory. Once, in a chess game, he resigned after only ten moves. The Infinity computer delivered a gentle reminder through the implant. After regaining consciousness, Mr. Jones never tried that again.
* * * * *
It was Steve Jobs’ success with computers that led to Mr. Jones’ eventual deliverance.
As computers advanced, more and more people turned to online gaming. The Infinity system could handle these games without the encumbrance of a clumsy human interface such as Mr. Jones.
Future Bobby Fischers could not tell if the opponents they were crushing were human or Infinity. Even Candyland, Operation, and Rock’em Sock'em Robots were online, and Mr. Jones certainly did not miss playing eight year olds. It’s so creepy and I hate the tea parties for the My Little Pony games.
It was far more efficient to let Infinity interact directly with people, although the boost players received from beating some anonymous opponent was never quite as strong as from playing a human being. Infinity’s inability to keep up with gamer slang was another minor problem which was never solved.
Eventually, only older people still played games with each other, but those people were irrelevant to history anyway, having already made their contributions. The gameplaying unit had less and less to do, while Gameplay’s black ops history department thrived. Mr. Jones and the other gameplayers were finally retired, after having their implants removed.
At first retirement was wonderful. No more history, no more games, plenty of money, and no more losing, Mr. Jones often thought, while relaxing on yet another beach. But even paradise could become boring. After a while, Mr. Jones missed the camaraderie, the human contact, and the conflict of the games.
Eventually, he started visiting chess games in the parks, at first simply to watch, but later, he started playing again. He was a popular opponent who could be relied on to play a good game and lose graciously.
That did not last. He still remembered the things Infinity had taught him, and eventually he started winning. It felt good. Mr. Jones even won some major seniors’ tournaments, and he began teaching young players. Playing games with children no longer felt creepy.
Among Mr. Jones’ students was Melissa Hightower. She was an indifferent chess player, but was also a math prodigy who would go on to win two of the Millennium Prizes for unsolvable math problems.
Protecting history still needed the human touch and Mr. Jones had always excelled at that, even though future historians never recognized his contributions. It had to be that way, so that no one suspected history had needed a little help.
Still, after all the work he'd done . . . a footnote would have been nice.
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Date: 2016-11-29 05:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-11-29 06:44 pm (UTC)