Chapter 7: Check
That afternoon, Seven Kharaos found himself sitting at one of the only tables in Megid's poor substitute for a cafe -- the little convenience store that beat at the heart of the insignificant village that beat a shallow pulse, rarely showing the signs of the vibrant lives many of the townspeople lead.
A puzzled look robbed his face of natural innocence, keenly revealing the cunning strategist who lurked beneath, analyzing the world with active interest carefully disguised behind otherwise disinterested eyes. Across from him sat the traitor, Jennsen Wraist, who watched him with the same look -- more or less; he was either worse at hiding it, or even better at obfuscation. Seven had never really been able to decide one way or the other with his childhood friend.
Between them lay a chessboard, simple and rustic in design save for the queen, a spiraled piece of wood carved in such a way that it appeared to sprout naturally from the unpolished cider platform. Jennsen stared at Seven's piece now, unable to raise his eyes to meet his old friend's, as he nervously spun a Styrofoam cup of black coffee between his hands.
In truth, his friend would probably win. Jennsen played almost exclusively by the book; a mechanical and efficient manner, systematically attacking and defending in the way the masters had long ago discovered. Seven, on the other hand, preferred guerilla tactics, striking with speed and seemingly out of nowhere -- sometimes he built a defense on the right, keeping his opponent properly distracted even while he planned a crippling assault on the left -- a psychological player, who could change his strategy minute-to-minute.
Against someone well-versed with his tactics, though, Seven could find little ground to gain; Jennsen would likely not be taken in by his smokescreens or battlefield sleight of hand, would fail to be distracted or psyched out by Seven's wild, unpredictable movements. Instead, Seven faced an inevitable, slow rout by the well-regulated White army.
"About Destine," Jennsen began, the actual first words either of them had said to each other; the game ritual so deeply ingrained that Seven had come immediately after descending the mountain with his sister, settling down and placing the pieces out on the board. Jennsen had already been waiting, stoically pondering the pitched battle ahead.
Seven raised a hand to ward off the discussion, simultaneously making a move -- he had found the tiniest chink in Jennsen's armor, but could not quite bring himself to exploit it just yet. "I'd rather not discuss it," he said.
Jennsen let out a frustrated sigh, even as he countered Seven's move with a bland defensive castle. "Look man," he said, "you were gone for a long time. She was worried about you, so was I."
Some of the other patrons leaned in closer; hoping to fish up some juicy gossip that would serve as mealtime conversation back at home that night. The Kharaos family were well known in Megid, having resided there since long before and would likely be there long after.
Still, the whole family possessed a reputation that wavered between excellence and arrogance; a point of pride and a blemish all the same -- prone to fight, to protect, to inspire, and to frustrate, the Kharaos clan followed a singular dogmatic code; a steadfast dedication to their own sense of justice, and to hell with all else.
Seven sometimes regretted that he, too, indulged in such selfish pursuits. Often, he exulted in it. He turned a cold glare on his onlookers and they turned back to their own lives; pointedly ignoring the two old friends who glared at each other across a divide far more profound than the wooden warriors arranged before them.
As Seven made his next move, he looked up, catching Jennsen with the same glacial stare. "I'm sorry," he said, "about making such a big deal. Just shocked, I guess." He leaned back in his chair, "Suppose I shouldn't be."
Taken off guard, Jennsen made his first mistake. "Okay then," he said, using the back of his checkered sleeve to wipe away a drop of sweat. "So," he asked, "we're cool?"
With a nod of satisfaction disguised as agreement. "On that front at least," he declared firmly. "How have you been, Jennsen?"
His friend offered a nervous smile, a flash of brilliant white teeth that quickly disappeared as he took in the board. In the flurry of movement designed to distract from their mutual discomfort, Seven had turned the tables, casting natural order from its axis -- chaos itself was his greatest weapon.
"I've been as good as always, I suppose," he ventured, mind still reeling as it attempted to quantify what had happened. "Where have you been? I thought you said you were going to the Middle East?"
Seven looked up at his friend, disturbed. "How would you know that?" he demanded softly. Something tickled the back of his mind, though he failed to recognize the impulse for what it was -- too infantile to lend name to the blossoming emotion. He tried to force it down, told himself that it was insane.
But as Mirai had told him, the world he had gone to sleep in the night before existed no longer -- and now, insanity ruled the day.
"You told me last time we met, that time down in Columbia. Man, you pulled my bacon out of the fire!" Jennsen laughed, as he often did, especially when recalling all the dangers he had faced -- and just as often managed to drag Seven into.
"Surrounded by FARC rebels in a burning house," he shouted loudly, drawing the attention back to them once more; Megidders often entered the military, and every single one of them loved a good war story. "They were telling us to give up, come out and we'd be well treated," he guffawed, drawing a raucous round of laughter at the absurdity of the idea -- they all knew how South Americans treated their audiences.
"Inside, we were talking about how many we could take before they took us, and all of a sudden this asshole burrows up into the middle of us from the god damned floor, dusts himself off and says he'd spent the night drilling in with something he'd jerry-rigged from a computer fan, a car battery, and a soup ladle. Thirty seconds after we get out of the tunnel, there's this huge explosion -- this bastard somehow rigged their radios to –“ Jennsen’s voice cracked mid-sentence as Seven’s fingers clamped firmly around his throat.
The spectators leaned closer still; the only thing they enjoyed more than a good war story was an even better war. Seven’s voice dropped to a menacing whisper, “I told you that I was going to eastern Asia, not the Middle East. Now, Jennsen, how did you know where I really went?”
The old clock on the wall, always running late, ticked away slowly in the thick silence; matched only by the low growl that issued from Seven’s throat. All the pitiful soul desired, rife with the aching sting of betrayal already pumping poison into his fast-beating heart was some form of denial, some sweet lie to mask the bitter pill.
Instead, Jennsen’s hands came up unthreateningly, showing his empty palms. Even then he managed to crack a smile; it was not a look of nervous confusion, but rather confident calm pulled up at the edges of his thin lips into the faintest shade of a smirk.
“Do you really want to do this here?” he asked softly, a veiled threat hidden in those words, plain only to Seven. He leaned towards his friend, speaking only loudly enough for him to hear, “You are treading on some damn thin ice, Sev, better you don’t go prying where you’re not wanted. Or would you like them,” he gestured with his head, “to know the rest of that story, Seven Kharaos? How many Shadow Soul are here, do you think? Half the town serves in the company one way or another.”
Seven did not bother to look around the room for the telltale signs that someone belonged to the mercenary group co-commanded by his old friend: the razor-edged gleam of impending violence that indelibly stained the soul so deeply it reflected in their eyes. He pushed his thumb a bit harder into Jennsen's Adam's apple.
"How many do you think I could take?" he hissed.
Jennsen's plastic smile did not slip as he raised his shoulders into an acknowledging shrug. "All of them," he managed to get out, "all of them." Seven released the pressure and his friend gasped in denied air. "But you don't want anyone to know what happened down there; not even me," he paused before adding, "not even y
ou. Last chance Sev, I'm tryin' to save you here. Back. Down. Now."
He laughed deeply, easily, and smoothly pushed himself back, sliding clear of Seven’s loosened grip and leaving Seven to ponder the revelation. “So,” Jennsen switched subjects, speaking louder once again, “I see that you’ve picked yourself up a stalker.”
Seven blinked twice, looking at his friend even closer now; the dark man who held far darker secrets -- a fragment of the truth, or possibly the whole ugly thing. He glanced nervously around the room, half-expecting Mirai to be lurking in a corner, and he desperately wanted to warn her in that moment that nothing was as it seemed in the idyllic hell called Megid. Mercifully, she was nowhere to be found.
“Be careful of her,” Jennsen warned, “she’s liable to get you killed.”
“She’s not the only one,” Seven shot back. He moved a piece across the table. “Check,” he said.
Jennsen expertly countered the move, dancing his king into a well-protected pocket that Seven would have trouble laying siege to. “Fair enough there. Don’t you just get tired of it all?” he asked suddenly, seemingly sidestepping the jab; only the weary timbre in his voice revealed at all exactly how deeply the words had managed to cut.
Knowing that a frontal assault would simply be stymied by Jennsen’s stickling defense, Seven set about planning a feint for what would hopefully be a crippling attack to the white army’s unprotected flank. “Tired of what, exactly?” he asked, already knowing the answer. Jennsen had asked the question dozens of times before.
“The world, I mean,” Jennsen chose his words as carefully as he manipulated his pawns, each falling into rank and file with military precision. “We’ve seen a lot of shit, done a lot ourselves – I know my hands ain’t ever gonna be clean,” he said, holding up his palms as though he could see the blood still stained there upon them, permanent as the scars that crisscrossed his arms; old battle wounds, well-earned and well-loved. “And you know what’s changed? That’s right, not a god-damned thing. Not a single god-damned thing. And here we are, back where we started, living like it don’t matter.”
Seven sighed at his friend’s self-deprecation, but he could not shake the feeling that somehow he was being tested. “Look man,” he said, “the whole world sucks. If you really want to change it, go spray-paint a tree orange. If you want to change your world, start by changing yourself. You never got that, always focused on the outside, trying to shape the world to fit your image of what it should be – and if you can’t handle that, then I guess you could just try destroying the damn thing. Just bitching about it isn't gonna do jack.”
Jennsen looked up from his hands, as though seeing his friend for the first time. “And what about you, Seven," he asked in a soft rumble, "stuck absolutely to a code that only you seem able to decipher; rushing from battle to battle – you’re like a scrap of newspaper caught in the wind, and wherever you go, trouble follows. Don’t you feel guilty? Angry that fate drags you down these rubble and grief strewn roads time and again to break you, throws you into conflict not just with your enemy -- but your friends, with yourself? What are you going to do about it, Sev?”
The question seemed odd, more the tone of a sinner seeking salvation than a friend seeking validation. Until that moment, Seven had never really considered the question. It dawned on him then that what he had always been seeking was not the answer -- he had one, always had -- he only needed that simple, poignant question; a cardinal direction.
With the queer, half-crazed smile he donned like armor before plunging time and again into chaos and the unknown, he declared for everyone who cared enough to listen, “I'm gonna paint the whole fucking world orange.”
The answer drew a surprising burst of relieved laughter, not just from Jennsen but from the eavesdroppers who had never quite turned back to their own business. When, at last, it died down, Jennsen looked down at the board once more. “Can I count on you for that?” he asked softly.
“You tell me, J,” Seven said, “When've I turned down a challenge? Especially one so easy,” he laughed. His friend joined him.
“Well, I wouldn’t quite measure you by that,” Jennsen said as he moved his queen to the fore for the first time. “After all, you still can’t beat me. Still, I'm gonna look forward to see exactly what shade of orange you bust out. In the meantime, though,” he said, “Checkmate.”
Seven spent a long and silent time looking at the board, desperately seeking a way out of the Black King's inevitable fall.