Logs:Gambit

Gambit
Dramatis Personae Erik, Lucien, Matt
In Absentia Dusk, Polaris	2022-05-19 "You can tell a thing or two about a man by how he answers the Queen's Gambit, no?" (after Matt and Erik first met)
Location <NYC> Tessier Residence & Washington Square Park - Greenwich Village
a small prelude The upper floor of this apartment holds the bedrooms; one master bedroom and three smaller ones. One has been converted to a lounge, couches and more books and a large desk by its window. The other two smaller bedrooms upstairs, in strange departure from the rest of the house's style, seem decorated more with younger occupants in mind. One of them, styled largely in purples and blues with a strong butterfly motif, has a lofted twin bed and an antique writing desk. The other is very green, its bedspread green-and-black striped; the walls are covered with a host of movie posters. Between the two bedrooms stands a bathroom, cheerfully decorated with colourful mosaic fish in its tiles. The master bedroom, in contrast to the paler, earthy scheme outside, is warm and rich, decorated in deep reds. The exquisitely crafted furniture is dark, with reddish undertones to the mahogany wood. The king-sized bed is stocked with an overabundance of pillows, and more cushions rest in the windowseat. One wall holds a spacious walk-in closet. A table, low to the ground, sits on a thick rug between the bed and the entrance, the right height for kneeling rather than chairs; the checked pattern carved into its surface marks it as a chessboard, though the pieces are not in evidence. The master bathroom adjoins the bedroom; it is large, done in black marble, with an overly spacious glass-walled shower and a similarly large jacuzzi bathtub. It is probably getting late by most standards, but the Tessiers are not most people. Matt's bedroom windows are open to let in the cool breeze scented by night-blooming wisteria. The lights have been dimmed just enough to go easy on the eyes, and Bach's Air on a G String is piping softly from unseen speakers. The rest of the house is quiet and still, the dog sprawled asleep beside the chess table to remain in optimal petting distance for both players. On the black side of the board, Matt is looking paler than usual, the Tegaderm bandage on the side of his neck giving a hint to the cause. He wearings a soft, somewhat threadbare pale blue t-shirt with a Victorian party aboard a ship suspended from a flying mechanical whale, and soft lightweight pajama pants. He has one elbow propped on the table and his chin propped in that hand, a celadon mug in the other which he presently puts down to advance another pawn in his thus-far leisurely--by his standards--exploration of a new Sicilian defense variation. "{We didn't really do much processing about his recent eating problems, but at least he did eat.}" Lucien is scrutinizing the board intently, leaning back with his weight propped on one arm while the other hand scritches slowly at the dog's belly. "{What is there to process}," is his dismissive answer, "{The more consistently he is fed, the less likely he is to tear out anyone's throat, no?}" It takes him some time to make up his mind before he, too, moves one of his pawns forward. "{I hope,}" his eyes are straying to the bandage on Matt's neck, "{it was a pleasant evening, regardless of his emotional progress.}" Matt turns one hand up, a very abbreviated shrug. "{Yes, but what is simple is not always easy.} His eyes dip down to the board, thoughtful, as he brings out his second knight to take up a somewhat unusual position in front of his king. "{But, yes, it was quite enjoyable. And quite interesting.}" He takes another sip of his tea. "{His other volunteer was the Master of Magnetism. Though I think now the 'Master' part is debatable.}" "{Having the life sucked out of me is not my idea of interesting, but I will allow you your --}" Lucien has been studying the board intently. He's picked up one of his bishops, but stops, brows hiking high, to look back up at Matt. "{Really. In Riverdale?}" It takes him a moment to remember himself, moving the bishop to knock one of Matt's knights from the board. "{Is his prowess just good PR, then?}" Here, at least, he sounds mildly impressed. "Tsé, you do it for your craft, and I, being artless, do it for the amazing sex." Matt affects the mildest of indignant huffs. "{Yes, just walking around dressed like some prototypical elder punk of East Village.}" His answering move comes quick, a pawn capturing the attacker, though not from the expected side of the file, opening the closed defense earlier than seems prudent. Or, it could be a trap. "{Oh, the magnetism he did not flex so much, although what I did feel of it--near identical to Polaris's. I just mean he's a sub.} He picks up his mug for another sip. It is a good thing Lucien's own tea is finished, because the breath he sharply exhales would almost certainly have been a perfect spittake. He blinks, studying Matt for a long and incredulous moment. "{The man has been on the loose five minutes --} my gods, man, but you are fast." He drags his palm across his mouth, his eyes wide and his turn forgotten. "Magnetism's Servant {does not quite inspire the same awe, does it?}" may 19th Behind a majestic white marble arch, a smaller cousin of the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, this beautiful green space is a popular destination for the young, the hip, and the artistic. A huge circular wading fountain is the centerpiece, ringed by benches, playgrounds, dog runs, gaming tables, and lush green lawns. In fair weather, the park is almost always crowded with tourists, students, chess enthusiasts, and local families come to tire out their children and dogs. It’s a more risky proposition, this excursion outside Freaktown, and with it comes more Kingsguards. Where Erik could wander relatively freely among the other mutants, in this crowded park crawling with police the stakes are higher. Pyro loiters near a trash can, slowly working his way through a pack of menthols; Whisper is sprawled on a blanket in the grass with headphones on, apparently listening to music and reading while Astra sunbathes next to him. They could be any springtime park-goers, if it weren’t for the way their attention flicks ever so subtly around the park, the way Whisper’s telepathy keeps careful watch over the many cops’ minds. The white hair (only just tinged with red, now) is tucked under a newsboy cap, a pair of drugstore reading glasses perched on his nose and threatening to fall onto the last stages of the chess game in front of him. Today’s disguise is marginally helped by the addition of a fake moustache and a switch to shapeless Old Man slacks and button-down with a grey jacket that just hides the steel bracelets on his wrists — he could be any WSP chess player. And he is enjoying himself immensely — “{Checkmate},” he declares in German to his sore loser of an opponent, who mumbles something about missing his train before scurrying off. No matter — Erik begins resetting the board. Lucien's ambling path through the park is veering by the chess tables out of long habit, his pale blue eyes flicking casually over the ongoing games. His clothing is simple, a soft gray-blue v-neck tee and slightly but evenly faded slimline jeans, though the tailored-fit of his clothing quietly suggests that simple has not come cheap. His interest in the games seems very passing -- it's his currently-augmented senses that draw a flick of a glance between his brother and Erik's ending game. His eyes drift first over the chess pieces and, next, over the man resetting them. Where his senses are intertwined with his brother's, Matt can feel a flutter of something -- amused, curious -- that he lets dance through his senses for a moment before filing neatly away. He's quiet as he drifts up to Erik's table, an unobtrusive presence both physically and in the strange tranquil glassiness of his mind, until he gestures with a tip of the thermos he holds in one hand toward the table. "May I?" His voice is soft, and softly tinged with a gentle francophone accent. Beside his brother, Matt is looking less impeccably casual in a white tee shirt with a red and black geometric logo beside the words "Veridian Dynamics", under which a line of smaller letters read "Don't cross us. Ever. Seriously. Just don't.", gray cargo shorts, and athletic sandals with black zigzag straps. It is unsurprising most assume Lucien is the elder sibling. Though his mind is also oddly flat in its own way, radically different from his brother's, that tranquility does not make it to the surface. He offers Erik a warm smile and just the slightest upward tick of eyebrows that make his bright green eyes momentarily brighter. "And may I spectate?" His accent is almost aggressively American, unremarkable broadcast-standard with a faint touch of New York. "I can do so quietly if you prefer." Erik’s eyes flick up towards the thermos, to the pair of men, a small smile forming when his gaze falls on Matt. “Of course. Please, sit.” He gestures to the empty seat, white pieces about half returned to their starting positions. On the grass, Whisper flicks to a new page of his book, frowning presumably at the thesis of the current essay as his mind prods at the brothers’ minds — looking for recognition of Erik and any instincts to yell for law enforcement. Pyro lights up again — Astra sits up to rummage in her purse. Erik’s moving the black pieces back into place. “No need for quiet, either — I welcome commentary. That win was the first in a long time.” His accent is quietly German today — not the thick German Matt first heard nor the muddled Eastern Europe mess of his true accent. There is a dull pain in his right shoulder, stitched nicely but still aching as it heels, a scattering of aches in his neck and shoulders from sleeping on too soft a mattress. A light headache forming behind his temples from Whisper’s reoccurring updates on police movement. "I apologize in advance," the soft amusement warming Lucien's tone sounds no bit apologetic as he takes a seat opposite Erik, "my brother is an inveterate kibitzer." If there is any family resemblance between him and the man standing beside the chess board it's hard to see; perhaps only apparent to Whisper in the measured stillness of the brothers' minds and the casually familiar intimacy with which their biochemical landscapes are currently twined together. The surface of Lucien's mind does not betray much at all -- but the prodding slips easily past that still-water placidity into an extremely tightly regimented mental plane, every passing thought and feeling carefully catalogued and tucked into intentional place. Lucien has absolutely clocked Erik via his brother's borrowed meta-sense. There's no trace of cops in his mind but there is an acute flare of pain, a sensory booby-trap Matt has no doubt seen in Lucien before, sharp and stabbing through the temples like the world's worst migraine lying in wait for any hapless telepath who pokes at him. Somewhere underneath the blinding pain -- if they stick around to see past it -- there is a second , quieter recognition: a deep prickly irritation at prying telepaths. Externally, Lucien betrays very little of the pain he's just inflicted on himself-and-anyone-in-his-brain. His smile is a polite neutral, visible more in his eyes than on his lips, and in time with this nerve-bomb he's reaching for one of the remaining as-yet-unplaced chess pieces, fingers tracing a light circle over the round pawn-head. This entirely fails to soothe; he places the piece in short order, picking up his thermos instead ostensibly for a drink but largely to run his fingers against its matte surface. "Congratulations, then. I may well give you a second -- I don't know that I am quite up to the standards of this park's regulars." At the first touch of Whisper's targeted prodding Matt turns and shoots him a piercing glare. His rage is instant and breathtaking yet somehow still calm in the way that the sudden ominous drop in air pressure before a storm is calm. << Get. 'Out.' Leave my brother be. I will not ask twice. >> The touch of his power also feels like pressure, and he does not try to hide from Whisper what he intends to do in lieu of asking twice, which does not involve police but does involve suppressing the telepath's abilities, none too gently. Behind all of this but still sensible, his mind is mechanically processing the anger into something more careful, more manageable. When he turns back to Erik there is no hostility in his expression, and though the smile that returns is thinner than before it is not at all unfriendly. "I assume that man is your friend," he says, conversationally, "and that he is only looking out for you. But we mean you no ill, and I would so appreciate if he does not try that again." Despite the smile, the warmth of his tone, the easy relaxed way he still carries himself, there is something in the steadiness of Matt's smiling eyes that makes this last sound like more than just a polite request. "My brother sells himself short. But really, regulars or no, win or lose, one of the refreshing things about this park is the sheer variety of people you meet here." “Kibitzen,” Erik repeats, the plural pronounced in the Yiddish fashion, “are usually welcome at my table. I do love an audience.” Whisper is — not really processing the glare, barely even processing the command coming from Matt, just reeling from the pain and pressure. He’s withdrawing from Lucien’s mind quickly, seemingly content with the brief glimpse he managed before being lightly stabbed in the brain. At the blanket, he’s gritting his teeth, trying very hard not to vomit from the pain. Astra, still digging through her purse, pulls out some Advil. “Do forgive him,” Erik says, rubbing lightly at his temple where Whisper has oh so eloquently deposited the idea of << !?!?!?! >> at the stab of pain, “he is only doing his job.” << Poorly, it seems, >> rumbles back to Whisper, << if you missed that I know this man. Is there a threat? >> Whisper swallows four pills. << No, but — >> << Then back to your book and your pig-minding. >> The light touch of Whisper’s telepathy recedes from Matt as well. Erik’s tone is measured and light. “He will heel.” Erik sets his last black pawn in place, gestures for Lucien to open the game. “I have not been a regular here in sometime, but perhaps you already knew that.” One eyebrow hitches just a fraction up. "There are no secrets between brothers, yes?" Lucien's head turns, his eyes following the line of Matt's glare for only a brief moment. His subsequent relaxation is largely an internal thing; the spike of pain subsides after Whisper pulls back, the circular trace of his fingertip against the thermos sends calm and pleasing ripples across his mind through his slow sip of iced tea. The soothing calm echoes through Matt, as well, just a gentle brush against his brother's protective ire. "Between brothers?" There's a brief disrupting flutter of unease in his mental filing system. It evens out in short order, and his small smile comes with an equally small feeling of comfort and ease, just a subtle touch that mellows the edges of Erik's pains. "I expect you'd know a good deal about that. -- But we are quite close, yes. Don't worry," the glimmer of amusement here might be a little bit self-aware at the absurdity of the line when spoken about someone with Erik's outsized national reputation, "Matthieu had only good things to say about you." He's moving his queen's pawn forward two spaces as he recaps his thermos , but does not set it down. "How are you finding --" Almost unconsciously, his eyes are flicking towards a distant pair of police, standing around toying with a sentinel as if it's a spindly metal K-9, tossing small rocks to watch the robot zap them out of the air and then congratulating each other, delighted, on the trick they've taught it. "-- the city these days?" Whether by Whisper's quick retreat, Erik's ready assurance, or Lucien's stimming, Matt appears mollified. "Understandable, of course. I try to keep an open mind about most things, but I'm a touch territorial in that particular respect." His faintly unsettling intensity recedes as quickly as it had come. Erik's perhaps rhetorical question also sends an uncomfortable flutter through him--too dejected to be anger, too frustrated to be sorrow, ambiguous and hurt and soon overshadowed by his keen interest in his brother's opening move. "As lovely a time as it was, I've not gone about bragging to anyone else, if that's a concern." He plucks the thermos from his brother's hand and takes a long sip himself before returning it. "In many ways it is not the city we grew up in, in other ways...well, it is the city we became. I imagine you must have seen it change rather a great deal more." “As well you might. We are guaranteed so little in this life — a free mind should be one of them.” Erik stares down at the board with a seriousness that cannot be altogether about chess. “I am… flattered,” comes after some searching for the word, “and trust you will give our mutual friend no reason to regret making our acquaintance.” He moves his queen’s pawn two spaces forward just a moment after Lucien’s turn. “Grew up in? I thought I heard a touch of ‘somewhere else’ in your brother’s voice.” His attention, too, flicks to the Sentinel, lips pressing together. “New York has changed much since I first arrived — and also hasn’t changed at all.” Erik tears his gaze away from the Sentinel. “There is much more noise, these days. That seems to be the main change." "This city adopted us, when we were younger," Lucien affirms softly. "Montréal will always have a piece of my heart, but this is home." He is moving another pawn forward, alongside the first at queens bishop 4. "Regret," he turns this word over thoughtfully. "My brother values the safety of his community quite highly." His hand has curled once more around his thermos, fingers tracing meaningless paths against it. "The city does have -- so much sensory clutter." His gaze is idly skimming the park, now, with it's barking dogs and buskers, ubiquitous background taxi horns at its fringes, chattery tourists, the arguments yelled on the basketball courts, the conversations over chess tables. "I suppose there is some level of noise at which it becomes easier to disappear into it -- not," he's adding with just the faintest hint of a flush (Matt at least can feel the deliberate signals he gives summon up the performative diffidence), "to assume that blending in is what you will --" Now he's looking very briefly to Erik's hat, fading red hair, mustache, "continue to want." "Quite," Matt agrees lightly, though his brother can distinguish his flash of annoyance at the doubt implied by Erik's comment on his discretion. "Our dear friend's vouch is no idle claim, and neither is mine. We've not much in the way of safety by any definition of 'safe', and I know what it is to have even that torn away." The intensity of his focus sharpens further when Lucien offers his pawn up for the taking. "Ah, such a simple position deliciously laden with potential. You can tell a thing or two about a man by how he answers the Queen's Gambit, no?" His smile skews slightly to one side, too playful to really be a smirk, and there is something almost coquettish in his soft voice when he adds, "Or how he answers any fulcrum that can change the shape of an entire game with but one decision." At his community there is a slight curdle of distaste in the back of Erik’s mind. “Hm. And those values are shared, yes?” He considers the board. “Safety is, in my experience, a delightful illusion, at best. I am sorry,” he adds, “to hear you have not been allowed even that comfort.” There is a flicker of something else, now, sharp and bitter, behind Erik’s eyes. “I am not,” Erik says, moving his king’s pawn two spaces forward next to the other, “particularly fond of hiding.” His attention slides over to Matt, the corners of his mouth twitching up. “{What does this tell you, then?}” Erik’s French is is continental, shaped in the style of Northern France and the West German border. “{About who I am and where I have been?}” One of Lucien's brows hitches at Erik's move, and he leans just slightly forward, studying the board with a delighted fascination. "{It says you do not believe in safety,}" he replies with quiet amusement, "{but that, we already knew.}" He lifts his gaze to fix on Erik, now, studying the older man with an intensity that was missing from his previous brief glances and lack of eye contact. Matt can feel the seismic shifts in his internal mental organization, restructuring the quiet and regimented plane of his emotions. "{There is its own kind of power in the illusions people choose to believe. To be a terrorist -- or a hero to our people -- those are fictions that someone sees fit to create.}" Lucien plucks up his pawn to accept the counter-gambit, taking Erik's pawn from the board and setting it aside. "{Even the promise of liberation, of safety, that is an illusion too, no? But a powerful one. One people will fight for.}" Matt's reaction is simultaneous and similar, if more animated -- Lucien does not need biokinesis to sense his palpable excitement. He also leans forward, both eyebrows lifting as he half-hides a boyish smile and a quiet little gasp behind loosely curled fingers. "{There is ultimately no safety in chess, either.} In French, at least, his accent is distinctly Québécois, slick and melodic and unabashedly full of Montréal color. "{That does not mean there is no value in defense, but this--}" Despite his giddiness, his gesture at the board is small, careful not to disrupt either player's sight line. "{--this says you will clear the way by any means necessary--}" When he breaks off this time he does not immediately resume, bright eyes riveted on the first capture of the game and his power coiling briefly tighter around Lucien's without restraining it. Beneath the surface his surprise is more complex, worry and intrigue and pride muted to avoid distracting his brother. At a delay, he finally manages, with a twitch of his smile at both players' abruptly opened positions, "{--even if your opponent may walk through, also.}" He looks back at Lucien, pride blossoming into admiration, excitement returning, too. "But there is more than one way to blow up the game, no?" Erik’s smile forms fully with a flutter of amusement at the brothers’ assessments. “{Our,}” he echoes, “{people?}” His eyebrow arches, a faint alarm clanging at the back of his mind at either the revelation or the capture of his pawn. “{It was only his community a moment ago,}” Erik says, tone lightly curious as he tips his head towards Matt. He rolls the pawn between his fingers once before setting it down, one step forward from where it began the turn. ”Why ‘blow up’ your game, hm? {A defensive player is not often eager to make sacrifices this early.}” He leans back, eyes flicking from Matt to Lucien and back. “{I know from hiding — I know the risks in peeling back this particular illusion. Surely it is not just to impress me?}” There's an elated flutter of warmth in Lucien at Matt's pride and admiration, bubbling up though he makes some effort soon afterwards to tamp it back away. Despite Matt's best efforts at not distracting him, it takes another internal recalibration for him to focus on the conversation. "{Impress you?}" One eyebrow arches delicately, a faint tug lifting one corner of his mouth. "{I hardly imagined being a mutant was all it took.}" Matt alone can feel the conflicting feelings in him at defensive player -- a flutter of amusement swiftly followed by a tremor of unease. He takes another sip of his tea, swallowing slowly and letting an artificial calm wash over him together with the cold drink; the edges of this relaxation, featherlight and unobtrusive, seep into the other two men as well. His expression is only a quiet thoughtfulness. "{I meant his community,}" he replies mildly. "{There is a bond my brother shares with the others who came out of the labs -- given how it was forged, it is hardly a company I have any wish to join. But Matthieu would go to some great lengths to ensure that neither Dusk nor any of his comrades come to harm.}" His hand tips elegantly upward in place of a shrug. "{I do not believe I need to share those particular trials to care about the safety -- however illusory -- of our people.}" He frees his King's knight from the back rank in what could easily be mistaken for a safe, passive response to Erik's incursion. "{That was the question, no? If I could be trusted with discretion, here?}" Matt's anger is a low-roiling thing this time, but it does actually show on the surface, if only in the minute narrowing of his eyes. He bolsters his brother's mental processes at that uneasy shiver. Just that in itself begins to ease his rage, and he leans hard into the calm that washes over from Lucien, deliberately relaxing himself. "{Yes, we do take care of each other, but my brother has also worked tirelessly to help those we rescue find their feet.}" He lays a hand on his brother's shoulder, the blossoming of his pride and affection easier to attribute now. "{He is trusted and beloved in my community and ours.}" His eyes track the white knight, a knowing smile brighter in his eyes than on his lips. He manages to keep his occasional expressions of excitement quiet as the players fall into a not exactly uneasy silence. As Erik continues pressing his attack, Lucien's pawn formation parts, yielding the center as soon as his king is safely castled away while developing his pieces out to the sides instead. The unconventional opening unravels rapidly to an equally unconventional midgame. Erik has a respectable line of captured chessmen, but his control of the center is precarious, Lucien having quietly positioned his surviving pieces to flank the overextended black formation, leaving doubled rooks to guard his back rank. Perhaps no longer able to contain himself, Matt finally blurts, "Ah, but this is thrilling!" He's eyeing Erik's largely absent defensive formation thoughtfully. "{It can be perilous to assume a player's strategy from his opening gambit. This defense is sound because he chose what to sacrifice before you chose for him.}" Lucien can feel the abrupt ecphoric cascade begin as his explanation ends; one memory tugged violently from long term storage, then another, another, another, tumbling together into a crash of rage and agonizing sorrow and leaden guilt. The calm bleeding out from Lucien mellows the spikes of fight-flight-fight instinct to something a touch safer. Externally, Erik’s gaze has gone distant as he moves his queen’s knight. “{I misunderstood your meaning before, I see.}” His tone is dropping into a quiet seriousness, losing all trace of the more jovial undertones that had characterized, more or less, the rest of his conversation. “{That was indeed the question — I have my answer here.}” That’s all he says for a while — whether its the roiling of recollection or the intensity of the game’s phase shift that drives Erik’s silence is unclear. He doesn’t take long with his next moves, each thump of plastic against the board coming with some force, as if trying to knock away something more than just another white pawn. At Matt’s outburst, Erik glances up sharply, his recently captured white knight still pinched between his fingers. “Hm.” He runs his finger over the head of the captured white knight briefly before setting it aside. “{Perilous, yes. Perhaps disastrous for my chances at a second win today.}” He’s only paying the barest attention to white’s next move — as soon as Lucien’s fingers leave his chesspiece Erik is finally cloistering away his king on his right hand side, considering the new state of the board. ”{Lucky for me then, that this is a game where one can learn from his failures.}” Lucien's head bows just slightly, some echoes of Erik's inner turmoil reflected to his brother as well. "I apologize for bringing up such a tenebrific subject. {I only wished to remove the pall of doubt, not -- add a new one entirely.}" His voice is quiet, and lapses into silence as he focuses down on the game. A glimmer of smile touches his expression when Erik speaks again. "There are fewer parallels between chess and life than the best efforts of so many writers through the years might imply -- but that ability, I believe, is one of them." He moves his king's rook to threaten the queen at the forefront of Erik's attack. "{It does leave me so curious to see what you do next.}" Matt's expression softens, though nothing in his neurochemistry suggests what most would recognize as sympathy. "{Mmm, this is why I am good at chess and bad at life. But even to me, it is shocking how many resist learning.}" He sounds rather nonchalant for all that, eyes riveted on the game. A bit more absently, "In all honesty, it does not even parallel real life strategy particularly well." It's perhaps not altogether conscious or voluntary, but he emits a soft pleased sound as the game shifts gears again. Both players radically adapt their strategies to the long chain of exchanges that propel them with uncommon celerity to the endgame. Matt is cocking his head one way, then the other, fascinated. It is not always easy to discern the rapidly-changing faces he's making behind his hand, but Lucien at least can feel him thrilling in the unusual and quick-paced match. When the dust settles, all the minor pieces are gone save Lucien's light square bishop to keep company with his sad scattering of pawns and single remaining rook to face down Erik's two. Far from dismayed, Matt studies the board with near-unblinking intensity, bright eyes flicking back and forth tracking possible moves by both players that have not yet come to pass. Lucien can feel the formidable churn of his brother's internal analysis even as he presses for a--draw? There is a lot of ducking and weaving between his solitary rook and the black king while Erik tries to shepherd his pawns toward white's back rank in between. Quiet, abstract, "{What, indeed, will you do next?}" “Of course it does not match real strategy — in life, both sides do not have to play by the same rules.” The seriousness remains in his voice, but there is a touch of a fluttering, bitter amusement in the back of his mind. "{But the basics of chess and war remain the same — strengthen your armies,}” Erik lifts his pawn off the board, replacing it with the captured black queen at the back rank, “{— control territory, — }” where she now has both Lucien’s king in check and the remaining rook in her threatening sight-lines, “{— and give your opponent no quarter.}” The pawn itself he sets in front of him at the edge of the board, eyes flicking up to look at the brothers. “{Next? Surely you can guess — directly into the fire, back to the battle I’ve been so long removed from.}” "{To be fair, the police do move in very predictable ways.}" A soft huff of laughter escapes Lucien -- whether it's at Erik's words or the new predicament in front of him on the board, it's hard to say. His eyes hand fixed on the board steadily, and he studies it intent through his next slow sip of tea. He sets down his thermos and with a great solemnity reaches for his king -- to topple it onto its side. "You would have had me in five," he evinces no disappointment in this fact, just a soft appreciation in his voice with his, "{thank you for a very excellent match. I hope your future battles end similarly victorious.}"