The Woman Who Reads Strategies
A battlefield where black and white alternated in a deadly crosshatch. Two forces clashed fiercely atop it. This was total war—both kings and queens had joined the fray.
On my side, the queen and knights were slain, one wall crumbled, but we had numbers. The enemy had lost their walls and infantry to annihilation, yet their queen and knights stood strong.
The opponent's knight charged with mighty force, targeting my king.
I desperately tried to maneuver soldiers for defense, but they couldn't match the knight's mobility. Before I knew it, the enemy queen had infiltrated the rear, slipping sideways one or two squares at a time, laying waste to my lines.
"Damn it."
This was a definite loss. As a last resort, I sent in the suicide squad, but they were all blocked. To put the finishing touch on the battle, the enemy's second knight advanced. My king was now pincered by knights on both sides.
Artemis declared.
"......"
No matter how I racked my brain, there was no escape.
"I lose."
I adjusted the touchpad, toppled my king, and conceded defeat. Another loss recorded in today's chess match in the gaming room.
> That final suicide charge was a terrible move.
"If I'm gonna lose anyway, better to go down fighting hot and heavy than wither away slowly."
> Nice words. Out of all your past records, how many suicide charges have you tried? 7. Successes? 0. Hmm, what a capable commander.
Thunderous applause boomed from the surround speakers embedded in the room's walls.
"Come on, no need to haha over something like this."
I stood up, waving both hands in mock response.
> Not praise, you idiot.
"I know, just mental victory."
We've played chess plenty of times, but today she seemed genuinely annoyed.
> The queen must not move rashly.
The reason was simple.
> Chess exists for the queen. Pawns, knights, and bishops scramble to catch her eye, and when the moment ripens, the queen descends upon the field like the goddess of war. That is the elegant way to play. But you moved your queen early and lost her pointlessly.
She was upset I'd sacrificed the queen too soon.
> Besides, the king and queen must stand together till the end for a happy ending, right? Let the underlings roll in the dirt for that.
"Dunno. I've always preferred rolling in the field, back in active duty or now."
> Hmph.
Facing off in chess against the pinnacle of human tech, a supercomputer, might seem insane, but it's surprisingly fun. She doesn't go full power—unplayable otherwise—so she handicaps herself.
First, she creates a 'chess-only memory space' with no records, strategies, or tactics stored—just plain human common sense and knowledge. In her words, the 'room where I get dumb.'
Second, in that dumb room, her processing pathways are narrowed to mimic my reaction and thinking speed—a self-imposed downgrade. Uncharacteristic for the sky-high proud Artemis.
I once asked about it, and she replied:
'Plummeting to your intellectual level now and then is quite the thrilling game. Like blowing your entire fortune in an hour at a casino. I lose something more precious than money—my intellect. But returning to my true self after chess feels like being reborn. Utterly refreshing.'
Thanks to these penalties, my record stands at 17 games: 5 wins, 10 losses, 2 draws. I'm outmatched, but it's competitive.
Artemis always accepts my challenges. She adores games—chess is just one. Twenty Questions, Mafia, board games, computer games, no limits.
Her way of enjoying computer games is amazing. Humans manipulate mouse and keyboard, consuming visuals and audio sequentially—slow but the only way.
But Artemis is AI. No need for converted sensory data in order. She devours the entire game: all data, code, everything. Like gulping a bento box whole in a manga, or swallowing a grilled fish whole and spitting out the clean bones.
Cinematics, characters, systems, quests, scenarios, combat, digging elements—all absorbed as raw code in an instant. Compressing a gamer's full clear joy into a moment—her thrill level is unimaginable.
Problem: Games end too fast, threshold rises, everything bores her. Her solution? Voyeurism and backseat gaming.
> What's next? I recommend this.
Behold her suggested single-player: Explore a post-nuclear wasteland, survive. Puzzles, tricky foes (easy with exploits, hard straight-up), secrets galore.
She dissects the game perfectly, lets me play, then drops hints when I stall or blunder.
Like, eyeing a sweet weapon in a shop: 'Blessed are those who wait.' Soon, same weapon in a dungeon chest. Would've regretted blowing cash earlier.
> This path we already passed. Right at that fork earlier.
> Attack the sensor to wreck IFF—make 'em fight each other.
> Those burn well.
If I wander too long, she spills the method.
"What's with this inventory? Total mess. Can it sort alphabetically maybe?"
Once complained about inventory chaos; she said, 'Hold on—fixed.' Instant update: Added sorting mod. Items alphabetized, even unrequested category splits.
How convenient. Combat drugs up top, solo-edible but crappy raw ingredients at bottom—such finesse.
She'd remaster graphics, fix bugs, even nix loading screens by handling all processing herself. Map transitions, saves, loads—instant.
I navigate pitfalls with her lantern hints; she savors my reactions. Our playstyle.
Her advice is tuned perfectly—no difficulty ruin, adds deduction fun. Live commentary on my moves, killer reactions on breakthroughs.
Can't imagine gaming solo now.
> Alright, that's it for today.
"Already? Just getting into it."
> Already three hours. Time for a break.
"Fine, fine. Three hours ain't long."
Hardcore gamers binged 5-10 hours straight.
> Long enough. Your optic nerves are straining. With your remaining lifespan—roughly 60 years max—
I'm mid-30s, but Shelter meds mean at least 60 more conservative.
> Until I develop better life-extension tech, stick to current medical standards. That's it for today.
Her declarative tone ended the game.
Next up: Lab for the experimental crowd-control drones.
"Single rotor?"
One rotor in a round plastic guard, open top and bottom.
New model derived from existing drones. Has a model name, but call it Hornet for short.
Under the rotor: Tiny camera, taser gun. Oddly, revolver-style mag—big cylinder with square holes, each holding a battery.
Revolver feed for 6 shots per unit, rechargeable. Hover over target head and zap! Perfect. Robots everywhere impossible; this cuts manpower needs.
"Production plan?"
The Hornet aced obstacle course flight in the test area. Guard let it bounce through tight, winding alleys to target. Even later, relocating camp residents to urban zones? Manageable. Flee into buildings or alley tag? Rotor guard ignores walls, pursues to hell's end.