Blue eyes behind clear lenses meet purple behind none.
"Your move, commie," one spits.
"Da. I know, America," the other replies sweetly.
The chessboard between them is immense, far larger than any normal chessboard. It covers the entirety of the table between them. The pieces are overlarge to match the board; the kings are each five inches in height.
Russia thinks, then moves his pawn to block America's knight from claiming his last bishop. America furrows his brow. The stark white light of the room flashes off his glasses, glaring.
Both have seven pieces left: the larger nation has his king, queen, knight, bishop, and three pawns. The other has his king, queen, both rooks, a knight, and two pawns.
As America thinks, his right foot begins to tap. He starts tapping with his left instead, because his foot had hit something small and hard and metal, a Snakes-and-Ladders piece.
The two sit in a white room, with one table, one (locked) door and no windows.
They are surrounded by the carnage of discarded board games of every kind.
Red and black checker pieces litter the floor. Ripped cardboard lies here and there, and paper of every kind seems to be everywhere. A broken, wooden backgammon board sits in a corner. Cards are scattered, some ripped, some not.
Behind America's chair is a whole King of Spades.
Behind Russia's chair is a whole King of Clubs.
America moves his queen to take one of Russia's pawns, opening a way to possibly checkmate Russia's king.
Russia laughs that creepy laugh of his, and smiles his childish, innocent smile. America keeps his face set in its expression of stone, only gritting his teeth further.
As the game progresses, the pieces on each side are picked off one by one. The sacrifices are neither significant nor useful.
They are left with one king on each side, thanks to Russia's last move, in which he used his king to pick off America's last piece.
America cannot stand it any longer, and he stands up, slamming his hands into the table.
"Are you serious?" he snarls. "A draw? You bastard—"
"It is just a game, America," Russia replies in a sugar-coated tone. "Just a game. Shall we begin another?"
America glares at him. Russia smiles back. He sits down.
"What shall we play next, then?" America asks, voice suddenly level. His sharp blue eyes bore into Russia's, bearing no trace of the America that the world knows. They know the American idiot, who drinks soda pop like water and subsists purely off hamburgers and McDonalds and has a voice louder than most jet engines.
Russia doesn't immediately reply, for he is thinking not of a game, but of America and what he thought he was. America was an idiot with ideals too far to reach, an idiot who didn't think before he spoke, an idiot who suddenly turned smart enough to corner him, Russia, into a draw at chess and so many other games.
It was surprising, yet Russia thought he always felt the American hid something from the rest of the world. He knows now, that if America decided not to be the idiot the rest of the world thought he was, he wouldn't be. No, he would be something else altogether, something that would topple the world and throw everything off balance.
Russia shook his head, still smiling. It was a pity, really, that America was utilizing his skills here, in this tiny room, playing board games for a war gone cold, rather than taking over the world like Russia now knew he could.
Russia knew America would never show this side to anyone else in any other situation.
He felt honored.
Then again, nuclear war was on the line.
"Shall we play another round of chess?" Russia asks happily.
Finally, he had an opponent he could proudly defeat.
America glares at him, and sighs. "Fine, red commie. You set up the board, I did it the last round."
Russia nods, and begins to pick up the pieces and place them on their squares.
"Let's switch colors," America says. Even when playing games, his sense of fairness shows.
"I'll be white this time, and you'll be black." The pieces are set up.
Now, sightless black chess faces meet white.
"Let's start."
"Da."