I Can Do Zat

So this is how it ends.

The thought filled Anton's head, at once overwhelming, terrifying, and calming. He had never really thought about death before, especially not his own. He knew, of course, that he was going to die someday; it was just a fact. But he had never seriously considered it. He was twenty-seven years old, in good physical and mental health. Death was a long way off. It was a mystical, nebulous realm far beyond the stretches of imagination. It was something that wasn't going to happen to him anytime soon.

Except, suddenly, here it was.

Being pinned to your brick mailbox with a Jeep Grand Cherokee had a way of confronting you with these things.

He was dying. Oh God, he was actually dying. What about all the people he still had to say goodbye to? His mom, his dad, his dog...his fellow actors...the friends he had made. What about all the things he was going to act in? He was slated to make his directorial debut this year! And then there was the rest of his life—he was going to get married, raise a couple of kids, act in and direct more movies...

But none of that mattered anymore. As he struggled for each breath, the blood slowly leaking out of him, his body wracked with pain like he had never felt before, none of it would matter anymore.

It will all be over soon, he told himself. All of it will be over soon. He found the idea comforting, but also horrifying. A million thoughts flitted through his head at once. Why was this happening? How could his life just end? What was someone supposed to think when they died? Wasn't your whole life supposed to flash before your eyes or something? What would his parents, his friends, his family think when they found his corpse? He found the idea of his having a corpse inconceivable—and yet here he was, being forced to face that very possibility head-on. Oh God, make it stop, make it stop, make it stop. Please, just let the pain go away.

Suddenly, the pain went away.

What was this? Had he died? Was he in heaven? Or nirvana, or the Underworld, or whatever afterlife there was? But no, that couldn't be possible; he was still pinned to his mailbox by his car in front of his Studio City home, and the sky was still littered with the same stars that it was before. The only difference was that he wasn't suffocating anymore, wasn't hurting anymore. Somehow, time had stopped. But how?

He looked to his left and found the answer. There, standing right next to him, was an impossibly dark, ethereal figure too smooth and beautiful to be quite human. Its face was shrouded in shadow, except for its eyes, which were piercing blue and shone from underneath its hood with all the joy and sadness and emotion of a thousand billion souls. As Anton stared at it, he felt an odd sense of peace come over him that he couldn't describe. There was only one explanation.

"Death?" The word came out as barely a whisper.

Hello, Anton. Death's voice was smooth and collected, not quite male, not quite female. Its sound washed over Anton like a river. I must say, I didn't expect to collect your soul quite so soon. It is always a tragedy when such accidents happen.

"A tragedy?" Anton couldn't keep his voice from rising. "Why? Why is this happening? There's so much I haven't done! I'm not ready! I still need to say goodbye! Goodbye to all my family and my friends and my fans and my dog and my..." He sighed, only managing to get one final word out. "Why?"

That, Death said, I cannot tell you. I am not the killer, I am the reaper. I am only here to collect your soul, and to take it wherever it needs to go. So please... Death held out its gloved hand. Come with me.

Anton looked at its hand, then at the car in which he was about to go to an rehearsal, which was now squeezing the life out of his body in front of him (did he exist outside of his body as a soul, or was he still in his body but time had just stopped? He didn't know and didn't spend much time pondering the question). He looked at the home where he had spent so much time, at the stars that he had stared at for so long. And he made an impulsive decision.

"I challenge you."

Death raised a curious eyebrow. Challenge me to what?

"Chess," Anton replied. He remembered the chess tournaments he had had with his friends Bruce Greenwood and Karl Urban on the set of Star Trek—he remembered being quite good at it. What would Chekov say at a time like this? I can do zat!

"A game of chess," he repeated. "If I win, you let me go. Not forever. But at least long enough to finish the rest of my life."

And if you lose? Death asked.

Anton took a deep breath. "Well, then, I guess I die."

Death gave a barely perceptible nod. Very well. It snapped its bony fingers, and a chessboard—as dark and incorporeal as Death itself—appeared between the two of them. The milk-white pieces in front of Anton provided a stark contrast to the midnight black pieces facing Death.

As Death seemed to make itself comfortable across from him, Anton looked at the chessboard with some trepidation. How was one supposed to start a chess game where the stakes were literally life-or-death? How had he gotten himself into this? Then he heard Chekov's voice—well, his own voice—in his head again: I can do zat! And somehow, it made him feel a little better.

Death gestured at the chessboard. White always goes first, does it not?

—————

Anton's heart sank. Death had just made a good move, a very good move. He had been able to sneak his way away from some of Death's traps before, but this time there was no escape. And it wasn't as if they could go on playing forever. Sure, the stars stayed where they were in the sky, and the midnight breeze had stopped mid-blow. But this time freeze wouldn't last forever, because Death would inevitably capture him. He saw now that there was no escaping it—Death was too tricky. He would lose the game, and he would go back to dying as was originally planned.

As he thought that, he felt a strange wave of comfort wash over him. It was one thing to be faced with death as it happened, but it was quite another to be faced with it after you had bargained for your life...and you knew you were losing.

He had been terrified—devastated even—not that he was dying, but that he was dying before his time. But he knew now that this was the way the Universe planned it. He didn't know how, he didn't know why, he didn't know if it was even true. He had not been a very religious man, and didn't really believe in destiny or fate. But he was playing chess with the physical manifestation of Death—at that point, he supposed anything was possible.

And, he reasoned, the Universe was not a cruel universe. It had given him a good life, a loving family, and lots of friends and fans. It had even let him be an accomplished actor in the twenty-seven years of life it had given him. He had had a wonderful life. And if it ended, well, the universe would go on just as it was supposed to. He would be buried, remembered, mourned. Maybe people would even pay tribute to him. And then, after that, life would go on. Time would tick by.

He had had a wonderful life. And now, it was time to say goodnight.

Anton took a long look at Death, who was staring at him expectantly, then looked down at the chessboard and made his move.

Checkmate.

Anton nodded. He figured as such.

And he realized he was okay with that. He had had a beautiful life, and all things came to an end eventually. He knew he would be remembered. He knew people loved him, and that he loved them back. And he knew he would find a way to say goodbye...somehow.

He stuck out his hand. "Good game."

As Death took his hand, something flitted across its face—the closest thing it could make to a smile.

But after shaking hands, Death didn't let go. It took Anton's hand—or, rather, Anton's soul's hand; Anton's body was now pinned lifeless between his car and his mailbox—and led him away. Where, Anton didn't know, but if there was a good thing about him dying, it was that he would get to find out, once and for all, what happened next.

The world would go on—without him in it, but with his legacy.

And everything, at last, was as it should be.