“Are you certain?” Marcus asked seriously. “One last time, are you certain?”
“This is the best chance we have, my dear friend.” William smiled with admiration. “We’ve finally found the pawn—two, actually. Now is the time to queen them.”
“If that is your decision,” Marcus replied as he replaced William’s pawn with his taken queen, “I’ll see it through.”
“See that you do.” William replied, standing up and offering his hand.
The two stood there, hand clasped in hand, shaking in a genuine substitute for embrace. Neither would admit to it, but they truly hoped one day to forego appearances, to replace the handshake with a hug. “One day,” Marcus thought to himself, “One day.” Then the two turned around and walked back to their respective soldiers to make their way into the night.
“Archangel on the move.” one of the soldiers whispered into his wrist, and the protective formation wrapped around him.
“Oh, one more thing!” Marcus called from across the room. “What were you going to be doing with your remaining knight?”
“Move it into check, of course.” William called back, grinning.
“Well, then…” Marcus called back as his soldiers led him through the door and into the outside world, “rook takes pawn—checkmate!”
“I… you…” William thought about it for a second, before punching the side of the barn as hard as he could, and shouting at the top of his lungs, “God damnit, you little prick! I hope it takes you three hours to pee tonight!”
Epilog
The morning air was damp with mist and the floor wet with dew as the sun inched higher off the horizon. Long tree-shaped shadows, cast across barely rustling grass, grew shorter by the second as the blues of the distant mountains grew brighter with light. Birds sang, keeping company with the steps of the delegation, as they walked through pass-ways and over paths. Two women and two men marched together, all clad in bland city garb so as not to attract detection. They had one mission. Once complete, many wrongs would be righted. And they would successfully part ways, washing their hands of the future they might have earlier earned.
The one woman, tall and statuesque, with eyes like a dragon, but covered with cuts, bruises, and walking with a slight limp, seemed the dominant force of the delegation as she led them towards the meeting place. The younger woman, with bruises on her face and injuries unseen walked as far left of the group as her situation would allow. One younger man, also covered with cuts and bruises, walked with a limp far more pronounced than even the tall woman. He was visibly avoiding the younger woman’s glances, as he was far from her friend. This man seemed equally inclined even further from the tall woman than the other—his vile tormentor who hazarded a sadistic grin in his direction.
The only other companion, a young man with wan, prison-tinted skin and hollow eyes, seemed oblivious to the unspoken exchange of hatred that filled the air about him. He knew nothing of his future—only that it wasn’t his past. Had his past been a more amiable thing, he might have viewed the future with more excitement than trepidation; what with the promise of freedom filling his chest the way a good meal might soon fill his belly. Yet after months on end of hearing the tortured screams of his fellow prisoners, he had learned the hard way: nothing was ever as it seemed, and trust was a fool’s game. Best to plan for the worst and stave off the feelings of pleasant surprise if, in the place of the stick, a nice fat carrot sat begging to be eaten. Such rewards were soaked in poison, and fat only with agenda.
As the old barn came into view, so too did the opposing delegation, clad equally in bland city attire. An older man with a demeanor of leadership, a younger man equal parts cheek and focus, and a younger woman who looked like she would be far better served in a studded-leather jacket than the drab trench coat she wore. City attire didn’t suit this one and her unpredictability. Yet, so few things seemed suitable or predictable anymore. This was the new way and the new reality—the only path forward that didn’t lead to a mass casualty of personhood.
Hans Schmidt?” the older man shouted.
Yes sir!” the pale boy called back in a strong, yet ragged voice.
Vivika?” he called out again, and the young woman responded in kind.
Seeming somewhat left out of the exchange, the other young man in the German delegation felt his new benefactors remiss in their attendance. They were to spend much of the following years together, after all; they may as well let bygones be bygones. It had been arranged by powerful forces. He was protected. He had been assured of it. Grandfather had promised that all rights would be wronged, and the past forgotten—if not entirely forgiven.
“Ahem,” Patrick said, as he drew within handshake-distance of the American delegation.
“I don’t talk to dead men.” Mr. Collins said, ignoring the reaction as he faced the statuesque woman. “Are you the Dragon Lady?”
“That’s what they call me. But you may call me…”
“Dragon Lady is just fine. I have no need of your life story. Your reputation precedes you.”
“And what reputation is that?” she demanded, snidely.
“Vivika and Hans,” Mr. Collins addressed, ignoring her, “Have you two been treated fairly on the journey?”
“Yes, Mr. Collins.” Vivika replied awkwardly. She had… but she hadn’t, of course.
“Yes, Sir.” Hans replied. “I’m sorry I failed you.”
“There’s time enough to figure all of that nasty business out.” he replied. “For now, let’s consider our accounts settled, you and I. We’ll get you a nice meal with some beer and a good night’s sleep. Then we can discuss your bright future with us.”
Despite his dismal countenance, the boy brightened measurably.
“Matt,” Mr. Collins continued, turning to his younger companion, “I trust that you know your own way into the bowels of the GDR, and whom you are to be introduced to?”
“Yes, Sir. I do.” he responded. “Shall I make my way there?”
“I am to escort him…” Dragon Lady attempted, before being cut off by Mr. Collins.
“I think my agent is more than capable of seeing this through.”
Casually, so as not to provoke a hurried response, Matt and Mr. Collins reached into their waistbands, before drawing two suppressed pistols. Matt levied his pistol towards the surprised face of Patrick, while Mr. Collins pointed his at Dragon Lady. She made a face that almost seemed to border on surprise.
“Matt,” Mr. Collins said, “Please inform the dead man that justice will be done on his behalf.”
“Patrick,” Matt began, “You’re…”
“I fucking heard him!” Patrick seethed. He knew very well where this was going.
A loud pop, like the sound of an air compressor off-valving, echoed off of the walls of the nearby barn as Dragon Lady’s head snapped back forcefully. She hit the ground like a sack of dry meat, and not a word was spoken in her defense. Yet Mr. Collins did not appear satisfied, yet.
Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!
Round after round was squeezed into her twitching corpse until his magazine was emptied. This magazine was dropped, only to be instantaneously replaced by another quickly emptying one.
Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!
The rounds fired faster this time, causing her to dance near-comically before the horrified spectators—all but Patrick, who stared with wretched approval. Blood poured out onto the ground below her punctured body, with her face twisted in the only appropriate emotion anyone had ever seen on it. It looked like she had just received a new car for her birthday; but anyone that knew her knew it was as close to the feeling of betrayal that her kind would ever feel.