A warning issued, the Spectator's thoughts turned to the past, and memories bitter and sweet. What If became the question of the day, and the Spectator took advantage of the pause in the game to consider this question.
The Fallen Queen leaves comments, shocking the Spectator, temporarily, out of her role. A game of chess governed by a game of cards, or a game of cards alongside a game of chess? Her goals as indecipherable as the Black King's, the Fallen Queen makes an offer the Spectator cannot afford to accept.
Perhaps you, dear reader, deserve a little more backstory. An explanation to illuminate a little more of this dark building. Careful you not delve too deep, however, lest you outpace the light.
Once, the Fallen Queen and the Spectator had shared a home and a heart. When the Black King had finished his last game, he began anew. The Spectator was on the phone with family, and overheard a conversation she will never forget.
"Honey?" it was her mother's voice. "Honey, I need to hang up. There's a child outside. He's been looking in our windows." Her voice was flat and distant. Already, the Black King had sunk his claws into her mind. "I'm going to let him out of the cold. Daddy can't talk, he's having trouble breathing." Police would later find him, dead in bed with a knife in his heart.
That's the last the Spectator heard from her family until two police officers questioned her about any motives anyone would have to kill. The Spectator was reminded of an old folk tale from Germany, Der Ritter, but kept her thoughts to herself. Why would the police believe her? But... she told the Fallen Queen. That night, the Black King visited. One of this Pawns broke into the house and trashed it, leaving a warning.
"HE SEES ALL."
The Spectator found a... relatively unknown forum, dedicated to those who had seen this creature. Before the Board that Birthed Zalgo unleashed it on the public, well... the Spectator is getting off track. Suffice to say, there were others. The Fallen Queen suggested banding together and fighting the Black King, and thus the game began. The idea spread like wildfire. Perhaps, on some level, we all knew it would fail, but believed dying in battle was better than being hunted down like so many frightened rabbits.
The Spectator and the Fallen Queen, when we were the last, ran. We never stayed at one place for more than a week, until that last month. We became complacent. They took her while I went out to procure canned and dried goods for the next leg of the journey. When I returned, all I saw was a slip of paper reading "checkmate."
The next the Spectator saw of the Fallen Queen, she was His. There was no doubt. An ultimatum was delivered, one last twist of the knife--observe, and cease all direct involvement in the game, and the Black King's hunt would cease. Ignore the ultimatum and, well, let's just say the Spectator's been abiding by the ultimatum for want of a better way.