"The MORAL LAW causes the people to be in complete accord with their ruler, so that they will follow him regardless of their lives, undismayed by any danger."

- Sun Tzu, Art of War

The famous board game, Chess.

Two men shuffled in their chairs, their bones underneath them creaking about on the pavement.

Perhaps the edge of a rocky outcropping located next to a slowly drying riverbed which cascaded to a shady basin forty feet down, was not the most ideal place for a tabletop game, but the way the rock, weathered over time, almost perfectly resembled a pair of chairs situated opposite each other and a small flat plateau which could function as a table for their board, proved much too tempting to not be used as a seating place.

Alfred had arrived first with the chess set, opening the wooden box which also served as the game board, and arranged the pieces in their default position. He took care to ensure the board's correct orientation, as the bottom right square from White's perspective had to be white and the Queens of each color had to be standing on a square matching their color. Finally satisfied with the arrangements, he leaned back in his stony "chair," occupying his waiting time by gazing over the cliff and examining the panorama which stretched beneath and beyond him. The pool of water from the waterfall formed into a stream, which flowed down along the valley in a meandering, curvaceous path. If the line of the stream designated the center of Alfred's view, then two very similar landscapes formed the basis of the rest of his perspective.

A wide plain stretched out in opposite directions from the stream, reaching about four hundred yards in width from the beginning of the stream, below while Alfred sat, towards the horizon. Lengthwise, it spanned a great amount hard to measure, especially considering the hilly terrain. Trees flanked both sides of the stream, beginning whilst the plain ended, as it extended far enough that the thick foliage covered it from view. It was a bit delineating, Alfred admitted, but the serenity and simplicity of the view made it worth the while to sit admiring the world at this height.

At the moment, he was interrupted by footsteps along the hard stone, indicating the arrival of the person for whom he was waiting. A man, pulling his cloak closer to him as the wind blew across the rock, moved towards the chair opposite him and took a seat.

"Alfred, I apologize for the delay," was the man's short address to Alfred.

"It is not a problem, Ivan."

With the white pieces on Alfred's side, Ivan gave him a questioning look before Alfred realized it was his turn and quickly moved a pawn two spaces forward. It was not a move made in rash haste: as he had planned a few opening moves out in advance prior to the meeting. He seemed to have done the same, almost immediately moving a black pawn two spaces forward to meet his pawn. Alfred retaliated by moving the pawn in front of his queen two spaces alongside his white pawn. The widely recognizable move – the Queen's Gambit – indicated the tone of this game, a very aggressive one. Ivan had no qualms with this kind of pace.

Clack.

The pawn landed with tight restraint, with a slow screw, implanting the very terrifying essence of the Russian chess master. This, the opening move, was ordinary. Alfred watched motionlessly as the huge Slav delicately placed a meaty hand on top of his timer.

Click.

As the opening moves were made, two armies had gathered on the plain below the two players, one bearing a white flag with a combatant lion on it, the other red and raising a banner with a falcon depicted in a diving position. Two men rode forward to meet each other at the stream, exchanged a few words, and rode back to their respective armies, pulling their swords from their scabbards. The white army began to ride towards their enemy, while the red army advanced cautiously to meet them.

Ivan had chosen to take the Queen's Gambit, capturing the undefended pawn with his own. Just as he moved the captured pawn off to the side, the white army had delivered a sudden attack to the red army's right flank, with a few inexperienced soldiers spearheading the assault. Slightly taken by surprise by the unorthodox move, the red army faltered before organizing their own counterattack, in which the soldiers at the head had perished, but not without taking a sizable amount of enemy soldiers down with them – an amount far greater than normally expected. The sudden maneuver allowed the white army to take up a much more aggressive position, and the commander of the red army knew he had to manage his men cautiously or risk a swift and total rout.

Alfred's go. He followed a similar procedure, nearly mirroring the Slav's, except for the pawn being one column across. A clammy hand reached out from his striped jumper, and gingerly pressed the top of the timer with a single, sharp finger. There was a stark distinction between the men that almost overshadowed their imposing style of Chess. Alfred Jones was American, and five eleven, lanky. The Russian, Ivan Branginsky, was six foot three, and colossal. He kept a short crop of hair, though the it was an unusual silver, and he had nearly lavender eyes that watched Alfred with steely intent. Alfred glared back with deep blue eyes, from his mother, and dark blond, sweeping hair, that went up in a quiff at the top of his head. The sides of his hair was fairly short compared to the top, and his ears were average sized, where Ivan's, like the man himself, were large, and looked to be made almost out of plasticine. Effortlessly, the Russian flew his right hand to the bishop in a lightning claw, both gripping it and screwing into the table in below two seconds.

The game continued once more.

Clack. Click.

The two players paid no mind to the bloody scene of war that were taking place a great deal of meters away. They seemed oblivious to the conflict, which had grown quite loud especially considering the repeated clangs of steel on steel and the shouts of men, whether they be authorizing an attack, a retreat, or uttering a terrifying scream as they watched their enemy deliver a fatal blow to one of their comrades. The men's game, rather than slowing down, or pausing from the chaos that greeted them, rather, only became more and more intense as bishops and knights went down. Alfred in particular had just sacrificed one of his knights to capture a seemingly meaningless pawn.

Down on the battlefield, the right wing of the white army had charged in a reckless maneuver at one particularly fortified section of the red army, and although some soldiers in the position were killed, the white army had suffered much greater losses.

Soon, Alfred's aggressive attack caught Ivan off balance and allowed for a series of moves played in quick succession which repeatedly placed his king in check, forcing the Slav to sacrifice a few pieces to save his king. And in clock-work, on the battlefield, the white army kept up its relentless attack on the red commander as the red vanguard had to overextend itself to keep the formation to get his, suffering heavy losses. Seeing the sudden descent into chaos, the red commander ordered a retreat into the forest to slow the momentum of the white army.

The white commander quickly gave chase, but the red army, which repeatedly broke and reformed formation amidst the trees, frustrated him as his knights became scattered and disoriented in the undergrowth, whose visibility had lessened and danger increased tenfold. Ivan, atop the rocks, had regrouped and captured a key rook of Alfred's to halt his momentum. The wind picked up even harder, sweeping up his cloak, which only remained with him due to it being fastened around his neck. Hardly bothered by the change in weathers and perhaps unaware of it completely, he continued on with his stratagem with a deep look of contemplation on his face.

By this time, both Alfred and Ivan had reached the endgame. Both had begun to get their kings involved, hoping to protect pawns, previously considered useless but now regarded as highly important. The commanders on the battlefield also realized their shortages of men and had no choice but to take to the field personally, as well as their personal retinue of guards. In a clearing, the two commanders stumbled upon each others and instantly engaged in combat. The knights accompanying the commanders charged first, hoping to protect each of their commanders from danger. Yet neither of the men were willing to sit back and let their soldiers do their dirty work, so they, moving around the scene of chaotic battle, rode at each other, both hoping to end the chaos with one swift strike. However, their swords hit nothing but each other with a deafening clang as they sped on by each other. Wheeling their horses around one hundred eighty degrees, they came at each other again, only experiencing the same result.

The wind had picked up considerably once again, engulfing the two players and the board like a cyclone. However, neither of them gave any indication of being bothered by it, or perceiving it at all; likewise, the chess board did not move a single inch. After one of Ivan's more powerful plays, tremors erupted from the ground, forming a few cracks in the rock as the earth began to shake back and forth.

Effortless could be used to describe the move. But the eagle-eyed could see the grey eyes analyzing every single piece during Alfred's move, and never left the board but to stare at Alfred. One could call Alfred nervous, but he was far from it. Anxious, perhaps. He had awaited this match for a long time. So, with direct movements, and forward motions, Alfred lifted his pawn to the board once more.

Their setting has shifted. No longer was there a cascade of water falling from the earthy- bounds that covered the earth. Nor were there any more figuratives attmepting to disrupt their matches. For this time, there was no peaceful meadow for the men to ease themselves on. Because at this time, the men were greeted with a large room, in the very, literal present. The year was 1969, the place was Berlin, and the room was full. Alfred had seen this as a sort of proxy war, as ridiculous as it was. Similar to the moon landings, a month past, it was posturing, the Soviet Union and the West, this time minus the US, and with the ailigned United Kingdom taking their place. And so, with this potential elephant in the room, Alfred smiled tightly. The crowd were far from the table, sat upon bleachers to observe the action, far enough to see the pieces, too far to hear them talk below heightened his voice.

"A good move." Alfred said. He did not seem to be affected by the sudden change of environment. He did know however, that he was indeed playing a chess match with a Russian in a large room filled with delegates. It was much more nerving than a serene valley.

"Thank you." Ivan replied, his voice giving no hint if he were affected like Alfred at the sudden change. Oh well. The man replied more clearly this time, though: "You're supposed to go now."

So that is his response, Alfred thought. He glanced around, noticing the newly-appeared delegated surrounding the two players. They never proceeded in trying to reach them, nor either spoke them. Instead, much like the multitude appearing in the room, there was all silence. The world was anticipating what the two men's next moves were. For a strange reason, Alfred was not as nervous as he was earlier. He felt as if he were the commander in this room, as if it was his orders that the people in the room gleefully strained to hear. It was at that moment, that Alfred decided what move he would take in. Placing his knight down, he glanced towards the man opposite from him.

When he spoke, he did not fear his words.

"A man can wait", he had said.

"A match cannot", was the man's reply.

"A valid point." And so Alfred lifted his knight from the table gently, hovering it above a pawn for a second, then placing it one square in front and two to the left. The Russian bishop was poised to strike, though only at a pawn rather than the knight.

"Bold. A horse is valuable."

Clack. Click.

Chess. A game of strategy and tactics, it was where skills and intellect plays a major role. Knowing how to move all 16 pieces properly, each one with their own distinctive traits and uses, across a board eight squares large and eight squares wide, requires an excellent understanding of the game itself. Predicting your opponent's next action and responding three steps ahead requires even more control and cunning than most games out there.

Clack. Click.

Their game continued once more from where they had left off.

"A knight is, you can buy a horse at market every Sunday."

"You can get work slips at market every Sunday."

"Kiev must be fun."

"Berlin s also. Kiev is a imposing city, nowadays and in the past. They call it Russian, but it is Ukraine land."

"I do not doubt it. Your go."

Clack. Click.

The tempo had heightened Alfred's senses.

"Your bishop is threatened Alfred."

"I know this."

"Yes, of course you do." The Russian smiled thinly at Alfred, then he sat back to let Alfred take his go. The violet eyes, for once, watched not the table, but Alfred. He could feel the eyes on his forehead, even as his eyes were pierced onto the board, placing his rook-side pawn up two squares. It barely made any noise.

Both commanders had been thrown off their horses, previously moving at maximum speed, and being easily knocked off balance by the sudden quake. With no time to remount, they engaged in a traditional duel of swordplay. Their movements were deliberate and slow, due to the earthquake still ongoing, making steady footing difficult. Once they had accommodated for the continual shaking of the earth, they came at each other, just barely dodging the swinging blades and ducking underneath fatal slashes aimed at each other's necks. But when the white commander, in his haste, charged the red commander too recklessly, he left an opening for his opponent to easily parry and thrust his sword into the white commander's torso. He stopped in mid-charge, falling to the hard earth. Seeing his commander's distress, one brave young knight of the whites attempted to throw himself between his commander and the enemy to allow for him to escape, but the other red knights seized him and disposed of him as well, setting the stage for the final blow.

Clack. Click. Rang the chess pieces as they hit against the board.

In all honesty, it can be likened to running an actual kingdom itself and waging a war with the opposite side. The pieces were the subjects, obeying the will of their king with fierce loyalty and undying devotion. And each of them was extremely vital in the kingdom's survival, though their strengths differed from one another in major ways.

Click.

This time, both men leaned back from their board and stared across to the other men opposite to them. Their match forgotten for a temporary moment, was replaced by a much remienscenal mood. The men reflecting on how they achieved so much in such a small frame of time, remembered the moment that had started it all, and with it, their game of chess.

He hated that man.

Hated him with a cold icy hate that never thawed.

He hated how that man could enter a room. Everyone would stop and turn to that man. Like those oh so precious sunflowers, they would focus on that man.

He hated how that man would glare at him with plasma-eyes that burned with an inner fire. That burning glower that made him forget, if only for a moment, the harshness of winter.

He hated that man.

Hated him with a passion as hot as the deserts of his lands.

He hated how that man could enter a room. His very presence could freeze the marrow of those terrifying ghosts, but instead froze the marrow of the living.

He hated how that man would stare at him with those cold violet eyes that hinted at cracks in glacial ice. That cold smile that was anything but friendly, but made him remember when the cold wasn't so bad.

It was with trepidation that the tall, blond man entered the match room. At the left of the small side table sat the biggest of the gathering; at his right, the strongest. There were others, he knew, but they and he were mere observers in this deadly game the two played.

"Chess match?" the taller said softly. The smaller growled as he continued. "It would be far less painful for you. Just join Мать России."

The smaller one jerked as fire rained from the sky in a far away land onto people who did not belong and metal flew to bite and bring death and pain. Red bloomed on his white undershirt like a twisted carnation when it continued. By the time the skirmished had ended, he was left feeling the latest gash that had opened beneath his uniform and bomber jacket. He looked up at the other.

"Ivan," He ground out, breathless with pain, harsh with unshed tears, strong with is infamous pride, " A game of chess is not suitable without one player. All 5 pieces are needed to completer a chess set, no? If you would not battle me up front, then I won't let your accursed ideals corrupt anyone else."

"Поэтому упрямый." The taller muttered to himself. The bushy-browed voyeur did not hear, but he was aware the dangers if he were to be discovered by the two. He stayed where he was. "I, должны исправить."

"I hate you so much, Russia," Said the smaller man. Both the watcher and the taller man blinked as he continued, voice rising with distress, "I hate you so much I fucking hurt. I hate your cold eyes. Your empty smile! Your stupid beliefs in a Goddamned flawed system! I hate you so much I can't stop thinking about you. I want to hurt you. Hurt you so bad you won't ever be able to…"

He stopped yelling and looked down. His last words were whispers, but even if everyone had been here, the watcher knew that those final words would have been heard throughout the entire room. "Never be able to hurt anyone else…"

"Vat is this you are saying глупых Америки?" Replied the other in a slightly strained voice as he got up, "You are delirious. I shall fetch the врач."

Пребывания. Прослушивание," came the sharp commands in Russian. The taller stilled in surprise. He had never heard the other use another language, only his own twisted American English. Now he knew why. The sounds of another country sounded somehow wrong in ones ears. It was like… General Winter using words instead of his silent communication, "You will listen you goddamn bastard. I hate you. I hated how I needed to fight you. I hate how I want to see you every single goddamned day. And I hate, that no matter how I deny it, I want you. I hate you, because you made me love you."

The bushy-browed observer quickly vacated, knowing it was time to retreat.

"You are ill товарищ," repeated the taller desperately, fearing to believe the truth of the statement, "I will call when you are better."

"No you won't," came the tired reply. The other looked at him with that plasma-blue gaze, "We will fight. We will continue to hate each other. We will want to kill each other. We will be good neighbors and build bigger fences and bigger and badder weapons. We will be like this for a long while."

He did not refute this statement, just as he had not refuted the last, or any of the others in this impromptu rendezvous. The other looked at him sadly with those burning eyes as he got up. They both knew he would not return through those doors until the next world meeting; just as they knew the next time they spoke would be words of anger.

He hated that man.

Hated him with a cold icy hate that never thawed.

He hated how that man could enter a room. Everyone would stop and turn to that man. Like those oh so precious sunflowers, they would focus on that man.

He hated how that man would glare at him with plasma-blue eyes that burned with an inner fire. That burning glower that made him forget, if only for a moment, the harshness of winter.

He hated how much he wanted to soothe that man's hurt. To take it away and keep him safe. Even as he wanted to be the one to destroy him. Body and soul.

He hated that man.

Hated him with a passion as hot as the deserts of his lands.

He hated how that man could enter a room. His very presence could freeze the marrow of those terrifying ghosts, but instead froze the marrow of the living.

He hated how that man would stare at him with those cold violet eyes that hinted at cracks in glacial ice. That cold smile that was anything but friendly, but made him remember when the cold wasn't so bad.

He hated how much he wanted to thaw that icy exterior. How he desired to melt the frozen heart held within. Even as he wanted to tear it from its home and crush it in his hands.

How they hated how they loved each other. For they knew that hate was only the extreme of love and only a violent hate such as theirs would create such a twisted mockery of love.

Alfred, too, sat back, and the clock ticked. He remembered the moment all to well when their game had only just begun to get interesting. The times of the old did little to alleviate the desire for winning, or rather, the craving of developing strategums and decisive sequences. Their game had not been without trouble- what would be a game without a little unexpected turns. It was like a battlefield; one wrong move and you'll find yourself biting the dust at an early stage. It was a game for masterminds, those who were smart enough to lay traps and false leads five steps before their opponent makes their own. A game for strategists, those who knew when to attack and when to retreat. And a game for leaders, those who knew how best to command their subordinates and ensure victory would be on their side.

What good will be a game without a bit of disorder?

"You care little for your pawns. How old are you?" Ivan asked him, momentarily directing away his thoughts.

"Nineteen. I do pay my own bills, mind you."

"I am twenty-eight. I do not."

"Lucky you."

"Luck is subjective."

"Lucky me."

"You care little for your pawns." Ivan repeated. His voice was still hoarse, though the volume had risen from his previous near grumble. His words were delicately pronounced, each syllable an effort for him.

"Pawns are worthless. Everyone knows this." Alfred said back, giving a vacant shrug of the shoulder, and a meaningful look over. Ivan picked up his bishop once more, sliding it into the place of the rook-side pawn. The Russian planted a hammer hand onto the pawn, lifting the porcelain white piece from the table.

Clack. Click.

"Even a pawn can create check-mate. Nothing is worthless."

The Pawn. It was the weakest among the pieces. The front-line warriors. The expendable ones. All they can do was to move forward, killing anyone in their way or dying gloriously for their sovereign. They follow the orders of their king with blind zealousy, needlessly charging into battle for the sake of the kingdom. That was their only purpose in life: to die for their lord. And yet... they were also considered as one of the most powerful pieces. For when they get to the other side of the field, the enemy kingdom's territory, then they can have the power of a high ranking piece... even that of a Queen.

"What about that move?" Alfred gripped his rook, sliding it to the bishop. The coal-black piece fell over onto its back, emitting murmurs from the crowd. Ivan kept his cloudy eyes on Alfred for all of a second, then shrugged.

"A man can make mistakes."

"Some mistakes are better than others."

"Tell your parents that."

Alfred rolled his eyes. "Cheap." Ivan said nothing.

Click.

"There comes a time when cheap moves have effect. See the tragic circumstances in our South-Eastern friends."

"Your friends or my friends?"

"Why not both, for instance."

Clack. Click.

Ivan moved another pawn that last move, and Alfred did the same. Nothing was said for the next move.

Clack. Click.

Ivan had pushed forth his rook, though on the opposite side of Alfred. He had placed the night-black stalwart fortification two squares north of the nearest porcelain pawn.

"Why not? The Cong have an audible reason."

"As does our," Ivan raised his voice, "imperialistic mutual friends." More murmurs. Alfred couldn't help but to smile at that remark.

"You were saying."

Clack. Click.

"Tactics most foul are being utilised."

"By whom?"

A pawn fell to the stalwart castle. Alfred paid no notice. No, he simply raised his nearest horse to be two squares behind the rook. Outside, he was a rock. Inside, he smiled, for if the rook came to strike his pawn at the rear, it would come into the attacking range of his bishop, allowed by the moving of a pawn nine moves ago. But that move did not come. No, that rook struck his rook.

"Hm." Alfred muttered.

"Hm, indeed." Ivan replied, a jaded look in his old eyes. His appearance and his gaze were akin, sharp and business-like, as the Russian wore a fine suit for the occasion, whilst Alfred had worn merely a striped jumper that was too big for him and ripped jeans. The other masters could barely believe him when they saw him. One that common could not learn such moves, they said, and when they lost to him, they shook his hand, though not without disdain. Mostly self-inflicted, Alfred summised. It was his fault he dressed as he did, but he didn't care. Fuddy-duddies, the lot of them, as his nan would say. Despite that, Alfred did feel a sting of disgust whenever he won, and not when he lost. Perhaps he felt ungrateful for winning, he didn't exactly know. Nor did he specifically wish to learn either. After all, no-one wants to learn they have a crippling self-esteem issue before a chess tournament final.

"Most foul." Ivan repeated, by way of reopening the prior conversation.

"Pardon? Oh. Yes. Indeed."

"Napalm. A god-cursed thing. Most likely that man who created it, wherever he is, whenever he opens a newspaper and sees pictures of little children covered in his creation, perhaps, just perhaps, he feels sorry, and repents, and feels guilt and wishes to end his life but can never bring the courage up to do it and blames himself for it."

"You're observant."

"It is a talent, you imperialist!" Ivan spoke, this time loudly, then gestured for Alfred to take a move. The men around the Russian glanced towards them, but did not attempt any means to react. It must have been apart of his plan. This competition was rife with ridiculous moments, Alfred deduced. His bishop was threatened. He had no option but to move another piece then allow the rook to eliminate the bishop, then strike it with his queen. Or... he mused, as he lifted the knight and moved it three places down and one place left, one space forward and one left from the rook.

He decided to play along, if only to gain amusement around him.

"Communist!" Alfred retorted, regaling in the ridiculousness, though it was silent otherwise, with a steely confrontation being played out to those out of ear-shot. A large window was beside the table, some ten metres away from the centre of the room, where the table was set. Outside it was Berlin.

Clack. Click.

"Fifty million people are outside that window." Alfred observed.

"A pleasant fact. Many supporters across the world. "

They were the Bishop, great supporters. Staying on the sidelines next to the King and Queen, it attacks the enemy ranks at their weakest point, striking from afar with precision. Much like an adviser, it never enters the battlefield alone, and it always attacks when all the other warriors have joined the fray. But despite this, the strength of a Bishop cannot be underestimated. If the situation was dire, it can break through enemy lines, placing itself directly next to the other King and giving the rest of the army enough time to set up a trap. It can sacrifice its well-being, all for the sake of the kingdom.

"Fifty million. And all it takes is for one overzealous man with a fancy suit and title with a healthy disgust for Unions and Communists to press a red button, and to wipe them out. And another. And another. Gone. All gone. Radioactive dust with no agenda but to pollute the atmosphere for decades.. Poof." Alfred animated with his hands. He gazed out of the window, squinting due to the evening sun. The room was cool, with air conditioners whirring in the background. And even so, a slick layer of sweat was due to come to his head.

"It must end soon."

"The match, or the city?"

The Russian looked to Alfred, who was still staring out of the window, and whispered so for certain, only Alfred could hear it.

"Both."

"At times I believe the human race will come to a self-designed end."

"A sentiment shared by few."

"Is it not correct? World War Two was fought with shells and bullets, but World War Three will be fought with sticks and stones and nail and bone."

"Yes." the huge man said, near to whispering. His voice had all but disappeared, and he moved another piece, and Alfred another, and Ivan another, and Alfred another, and all those moves they did not deign to speak further, for too much time had already been wasted.

"Like a hero rushing towards battle?" Alfred's nose quivered when he spoke that.

Then there was the Knight. A versatile piece, capable of leaping great distances, even over a comrade or an enemy piece itself. It protects all the other pieces from harm, especially the King and Queen, while charging into the fray and trampling everyone in its path. It was a powerful foe and an excellent commander. But if the need arises then it could sacrifice itself for the sake of the kingdom. It will protect its liege up to its last breath, dying with honor as befitting of its rank. For there can be no greater glory to a Knight save to die for its King and Queen.

It had been all of ten minutes until they talked once again. The board was now scattered, Alfred has lost three pawns, a rook and a knight, Ivan two pawns, a bishop and a rook. Both players were fighting hidden agendas, eyes glaring at one another every other second, with a careful eye on the board, looking at it from every perspective they could imagine, a dozen tactics already forming, a dozen moves ahead, poised, ready, anticipating.

"Is it not funny?" Ivan emoted, "It is almost a game of espionage, chess."

"If one could read minds."

"Like a pawn?" Inquired the Russian.

Alfred blinked. Hesitantly, he lifted his eyes from the board.

"One can read bodies and eyes."

"I'd rather not be a book today."

"The Great Game. Which one is which? The game of chess, or the game of politics and hidden daggers stored in open cloaks?"

"You would really equate chess to geopolitics?"

"The last line of defense; but not in that order."

And then the Rook, the last line of defense. A moving yet impenetrable and unstoppable fortress. It plows everything in its path as much as it shrugs off all but the most strongest attacks. And it holds so much power that only a Queen can stand up to it. Hence, it takes a clever maneuver and extreme talent for a lower ranking piece to even bring it down. But despite this, it was a defensive piece first and foremost. A tower. A castle. Its duty was to safeguard the King, and if the situation was dire enough, the ruler could rest safely within its mighty walls. However, even though the Rook offers a great defense, nothing can match the ultimate protection offered by the strongest piece...

Clack. Clack.

More pieces were moved off the board.

The red commander strode up to his fallen opponent and lifted his sword for the final time.

Alfred examined the board before him, once stacked with thirty-two pieces, now only housing a handful. With a sigh, he moved his king to the only space that lay open for him. Playing back the match in his head, he berated himself on a few mistakes as he awaited the move which would end the game.

The game was never one to be happy off.

Politics and war are two very different beasts that are conjoined at the hip. It had been a political decision to dispatch the two men to represent their countries in a game of Chess. Maybe they considered it destiny, or maybe, a ploy set for ruin. w

But then, that had been for the sake of avoiding a war.

It had been a political maneuver on the Soviet's part to issue a series of snubs directed at the US Administration; an innumerable amount of minor grievances from dumping in various markets to outright condemning some of America's policy.

Of course, these political decisions eventually culminated in war.

Or, rather, the curious sort of prelude to open hostilities, denoted by the childlike notion of trying to threaten and 'silent treatment' the other side into submission.

If America and Russia were both children in this metaphor, they were the obstinate sort that refused to give up their toys. Things get confounded, however, when said toys are weapons of mass destruction, capable of causing unspeakable harm and unparalleled loss of life.

Clack!

More pawns distracted him from his thoughts.

"Jones," came the gruff voice before him. Ivan waiting expectantly for his opponent to move, but Alfred had other priorities to think off at the moment. Alfred turned to peer at the man, tearing his eyes from the nadir game-set to look at Ivan. His expression was stoic as usual, like a statue. He could imagined him with that same emotionless face when being told of a family member's death, or that his wife was pregnant, or that she had left him. Never changing, bar the occasional quirk of a brow, curling of a lip.

It was the sort of face that exclusively belonged in war films, if not on the battlefield itself. A Judge Holden, who only smiled when it was at the displeasure of others.

"Another move Brangiski?" He asked, trying to keep casual. There was no point thinking that they hadn't seen the news; even if Ivan avoided it like the plague, and something told me that he did, he would've been informed by now. If not by his Government, then by Alfred.

Ivan shrugged his shoulders. "Nothing. Same-same."

It was odd to think that we were possibly the only American and Russian communicating in the world right now. As uneventful as the talk seemed to be going.

Their game of chess was interrupted for a moment; A moment that both secretly relished.

Ivan unceremoniously moved his pawn a space forward. "Checkmate." At the mention of the word the wind immediately died down and all fighting in the valley had ceased. Alfred nodded in acknowledgment, and he wordlessly stood up and left, leaving Alfred sitting alone on the stone. With a nonchalant expression on his face, he again looked to the plain before him, whose he perceived the sprawled bodies of the white army lying in utter defeat, just as he did.

Perhaps this would be of some thoughtfulness for him...Which reminds him, he still had to ask him to accompany him on that chess match he was supposed to participate in...Perhaps...

When the match ended, both men stood up, walking back to their own lives. The match was long, and each male wanted to rest after the long session. Ivan and Alfred both shifted on their feet on the table and eased back into their tiny grass-coated armrest. The game was tiring, as the other had expected, but they didn't dare to give up the opportunity for a much-needed rest.

Alfred's mind wandered ceaselessly and uselessly into the early hours of the morning. As so often they would, his thoughts returned to the same, unbidden regrets. Although he tried hard not to dwell on any one thing for long, some thoughts would intrude, like a stone caught in his boot, again and again. Chess, how he missed the game, the strategy, the thriller. A complex game, for a complex world.

How fitting.

Alfred watched the crew around him clean up. He reminisced on their work, their particular craftsmanship, their livelihood. At the brink of complete and total annihilation, these people were most vulnerable. Mere pawns of a higher order, not allowed any flexibility in their jobs. Just mundane hours, for a mundane citizenry, In mere hours, they could see ICBMs cascade from the sky like fallen angels cast from Heaven; or, they could pray that their silent protectors in the form of mutually assured destruction, were their doomsday. He believed that it was their doomsday, and he, he.. would be the one to spare the consequence. He was essentially a diplomat, but he would still face the doomsday like the rest of the world.

A slight movement to his side pivoted away his thoughts. A pudgy woman, speaking a German language, was waiting for him to leave the room. Her features contorted the more she yelled at him. He could see, when looking above, a clock nearing the next hour.

It was closing time. With a tip of his imaginary hat, and a smile of amusement from the woman's face, Alfred left the room, just as quickly as he had entered.

He had gotten lost on his way out, unfamiliar with the many German Streets, and German Signs, and German Roads. Mumbling supplemented his directions, as he was cursing himself for not asking for a guide. It was only we he bumped into something, is what stopped his tirades.

The man from the match- Ivan- peered down from his tall height at the now dirtied Alfred. With a bemused smile, he offered a hand to Alfred, which Alfred had gladly accepted.

When their eyes met, their time from the match had left them with no words to say. Their pauses had guided them towards an unoccupied bench, which they swiftly sat down at.

"...," He didn't speak at the moment, only turning away, tapping his fingers against the rims of a bench. The silence was broken when he spoke. "I guess we all saw this one coming then, right? Should've placed bets on it."

The Russian smiled, slightly spoke this time, his voice crisp, English unaccented. "Eh, I thought they would have at least finished this expedition before going up in arms. Wouldn't have come otherwise."

"I doubt they would've postponed their precious politics just for the sake of some chess match. Call me cynical, but I say it was always going to happen whilst we were up here. The expedition was just a temporary buffer."

"You can never really tell with international affairs," Alfred said, winding strands in his hair. "Tensions are always there. Just a matter of when they reach boiling point."

"Now they have," Ivan noted, his eyes downcast.

Alfred sighed, "Hmm.." Movement caught his eye as the Russian faced him. With a frown he spoke softly, "At least we speak for first time besides politics..."

"Hmmm..." Ivan, Alfred learned, had a habit of doing that.

"I wonder what made them do it... could've been anything, really," He said, fiddling with his hands.

"Probably everything," Alfred offered.

"You may be right."

Alfred didn't know what to think of this conversation. They grew quite antiquated with one another over their matches, but they never formally got to introduce themselves. A shine gleamed in Alfred's eyes as he thought of something. His thin lips curled into a smile, but he didn't say anything. "Hey, at least we might get some time off now? To enjoy the view." He gestured to the black nothingness before them, interrupted only by the green and blue mound that was Earth.

Ivan let out a low rumble. It was something of a laugh. "Beautiful."

They were professionals. But, at the end of the day, they wore their country on their arms and served in the name of their Governments. The hostility in Ivan and Alfred was palpable, even if they tried to mask it. They weren't actors and, unyielding as Ivan was, matching his cold stare was liking staring down the barrel of a gun.

"Have you heard back from your country yet?" Alfred asked, curling forward, resting his elbows on his knees and holding his head in his palms.

"Just news. Communications are pretty much through on both our ends, apparently."

"Just the news," Alfred echoed, nodding his head imperceptibly. He looked over to Ivan, who shifted in his seat.

The ensuing silence was telling. Alfred sighed, realized the conservation was going nowhere, and intended to shuffle past the taller man to go along his way. That stopped when the taller man moved in the way of the exit.

Ivan peered down at his companion. The nervousness in his face did little to obscure his interventions. "I've got a question."

He said it quickly without much thought. "Sure, ask away."

In front of him, Ivan stared down at Alfred, stretching his arms onto the younger man's shoulders.

"How much do you value your country?"

Alfred thought about it, knowing that he was giving him more credit than the question warranted by doing so. He didn't consider himself a follower, nor did he feel too sentimental about Independence Day and living under the red, white and blue. Freedom, liberty or whatnot; to me, it was a side effect of living in the first world.

He just wasn't all that political, either. That being said, there was pride in his service; He felt privleged to be born where he was, He loved the people in the USA for who they were, not necessarily where they were from, and would do anything to serve them. That, I=he could not deny.

He loved the United, just not necessarily the S and the A. But I still knew I owned a great debt to all three.

"As much as you do yours."

Ivan didn't respond for a moment, instead chewing his lower lip. When he looked up, his eyes didn't quite meet his. It took him a second to realize he was looking behind Alfred, not at him. His eyes were now rheumy, tearing up at some unknown thought. The man who Alfred thought as composed and amusing to look at, had a frown on his face. His lips were quivering, his hands were clenching, and fresh beads of sweat wre pooling on his face.

It was surely something bugging on his mind, but Alfred couldn't identify what it was, nor explain the man's shift in composure. Instead, he watched the man, biting at his lips, peeling bits of skin from my crusted lips-which Alfred paid very much attention to- and stepped back when the man was clenching at his chest.

With eyes widened, Alfred saw Ivan clench at his chest, trying to claw something invisible to the both of them. The more Ivan clawed, the more his chest reddened, and his clothing stained. When Alfred heard the man's screams, he grew frantic, waving his arms about trying to find a care provider.

"Help! Help please!" Were his cries. But yet, no one came to the man's aid. Realizing that there was no one but he, Alfred helped Ivan the groundz taking great strides in trying to not already more sully his clothing further was mumbling now, saying even more incomprehensible phrases that Alfred did not understand. When Ivan spoke with Alfred, he was able to make out some words:

Queen.

Freedom.

Life

Rule

The phrases were simple to make out, but not at all able to be easily followed with. Alfred thought on the phrases, wondering what they could mean. It was an obvious reference to their prior game, but he did not know enough about the match to be certain on their significance.

More gurgling sounds drowned out his thoughts. He hurried over to his companion's side, checking if he was still breathing. When he found a beat he released a sigh. Although they were enemies due to what their jobs depended on, it was natural to assume that the men mutually hated one another- despite having no other major confrontation at this time.

The thought of him and Ivan as rivals made him perturbed.

His thoughts were once more interrupted buy a light cough where he saw this great man as venerable as this. Like royalty, Alfred thought. .

The Queen. The greatest and most powerful of all. It stays at the King's side at the beginning of every game, surveying the battle and protecting its liege. Its strength was unmatched save for the enemy Queen, and only a clever ploy and sheer luck can breach its defense. It usually stays close to the King, keeping it safe from harm while the army overwhelms the opposition. But when it comes to it, the Queen can go into battle itself, annihilating everyone in its path. And woe to them that stand in its way! Not even a Rook can stop it, not unless the enemy focus solely on neutralizing the threat it poses, and mere pawns have no power against it. It was so strong that the outcome of the entire game can depend solely on it.

And if it falls, much like a true queen, then the king falls as well.

Alfred stayed with him for a bit when he was recovering. He thought of many things: explosions glimmering across lanfs like stars. Many families running from fear of an intending , we will see our families evaporate into smoke before our very eyes. Tonight, we will see the end of a nation, an ideal, and a way of life.

Still, we stand strong in the face of complete and assured death, not because we are too weak to retaliate, but because we're strong enough not to.

His chapter is at its end. The great experiment reached its conclusion, not with a fizzle, but with a bang. However, that does not mean the story of mankind need to end. Are we really so vain to believe that just because a nation dies, all of mankind must perish? Are we really so arrogant to trust in our ideal of equality that the whole world must die?

He glances at the now resting man beside him.

They made their answers clear to the world. We hope it resonates and echoes in a new era so that mankind may truly understand what the end of the world mean and consequences it carries, so that some day in the future, despots and maniacs may not threaten nuclear war with a mad grin, but with a solemn attitude of remembrance. Perhaps one day, we can see how childish we really were.

Five different pieces, each with their own strength. These alone was enough to win the game, from the weak little Pawn to the mighty proud Queen. The entire battle revolves around them, and a great chessmaster knows how to fully utilize their capabilities. However, while these five pieces were the backbone of each side, one piece remains the most important and probably the most strongest of them, much more powerful than a dreaded Queen...

He was a King, that is what he knew

The King. The one who holds the entire game in its hand. The one whom all other pieces must protect at all cost. If the King was lost, a checkmate, then the game was lost as well. Much like a Pawn, it can only take a single step. And against all pieces, even a Pawn, it's so weak that it will be easily overwhelmed and defeated, forfeiting the battle... or at least, that's the standard and common rule. A true chessmaster, arealking, knows how to use it to his advantage. The King may only take one step at a time, making it vulnerable against any attacks, but it was also this single move that could decide everything. Sometimes... no, most of the time, a single step in the right direction was all it takes to turn the tide of a battle. To change defeat into victory. To transform a loss into a win. The King taking a bold step towards danger was essential to make this happen, and as a ruler, it must face the enemy head on with the Queen and the army at the back, ready to obey his every command.

After all, if a King didn't lead, how can he expect his subordinates to follow?

In essence, a chess game was very similar to leading a kingdom itself. The King leads the army, the Queen follows her king and protects him, the Rooks keeps the rulers from danger, the Bishops serves as advisers and supporters, the Knights eliminates all threats to the King and Queen, and the Pawns obey their lord and charges into battle. However, much like being a real king, one wrong move could bring the downfall of the empire. It was important then that the ruler takes every careful measure to ensure his survival; to avoid a checkmate. He must be willing to consider all possible actions, even if it means sacrificing his pieces. He must also keep his subjects in check to avoid insurgencies and rebellions, distabilizing his nation and undermining his authority. Of course, in a game of chess, there's no such thing as rebellion and coup d'états. After all, it's just a battle between two sides, and there's no room for a third faction that would tip the status quo.

Then again, real life was not a chess game. Yes, most of the rules apply. But instead of two players, there were many people participating in the power play between different factions in this grand strategy game called Life. And much like Chess itself, a single mistake could lead to one's downfall.

And Alfred Jones, just learned what type of move had been made against his Russian opponent.

A/N:

I'm back with another story after a short break. In this story, it shows a period of tension between the USSR and the USA. Though short, both superpowers express their thoughts on their world through a game of chess. They seem to routinely throw insults back to one another, but also seem to willingly, listen to the other's point of view.

I hope you enjoy the story and check out a few of my other stories! Have a good evening.

-Enchanting Grace