Author's Note: The idea for this one-shot actually popped into my head during a game of chess. I just couldn't resist. This has nothing to do with any of my other stories or characters. A big thank you to Exilo for betaing this. Enjoy, and please review!

Checkmate

For some reason, today Private Adam West was preoccupied with chess.

Despite the direness of the current situation—pinned inside a gutted building—he could not help but shake his head at the ridiculousness of the thought.

Then again, it was not so ridiculous, was it? He was on a battlefield. Chess was an ancient game styled after battles from the medieval era he had learned about in grade school.

Adam had grown up playing chess. His father had learned the game at an early age as well and had a beautiful hand carved stone chess set that Adam's grandfather had given him. It was Adam's now, safely stored with the rest of his things at his home on Earth. Adam had battled his father with that set so many times he knew each of those pieces by heart. They had played hundreds, if not thousands, of games on that miniscule model of a battlefield, pitting his reckless, hopeful moves against the contemplative wisdom of his experienced father.

Adam could afford to be reckless then. If he lost, he simply reset the pieces and started over. When he was little, his father had even let him redo moves after his brilliantly devised strategies had been foiled.

Adam wished for his father's experienced wisdom now. His father had never made mistakes or wanted to take back a move. Even as Adam had grown and gained experience of his own and managed to construct a challenging resistance to his father's forces, his father had calmly remained a step ahead. Suddenly Adam saw many parallels between those war games and this present war:

The Covenant were like his father: cool, calculating, in control and always a step ahead.

The UNSC was him: floundering, scrambling to delay the inevitable, outmatched and outwitted at every turn, doomed before the game even began.

If he considered it enough, he could assign the participants to individual pieces. Maybe the Elites were like the Queen: dexterous, mobile, fast and deadly. The avian Jackals were the Knights: advancing and stepping aside, just keeping their enemies sighted in their crosshairs. Perhaps the Hunters were the Rooks, less mobile than the Elites yet still leading the charge, powerfully overwhelming those who were foolish enough to be caught before them, and the Brutes—creatures Adam had heard of but only seen from a distance—were the Bishops, seemingly appearing suddenly, as if out of thin air, to blindside an unprepared soldier.

It was a great, effective war machine that crushed all that stood before it.

Adam drearily pictured himself as a lowly Pawn.

A glowing blue orb sailed past his head, through a hole blown in the wall. He ducked instinctively as the plasma grenade detonated behind him amid shouts from his five comrades, then risked a glance outside.

There had always come a time, when he dueled his father, when the inevitable loss became visible, tangible, creeping inexplicably closer, taunting and toying with him. As he had grown older, it had been delayed longer and longer. But it had always come. He would begin losing pieces. Bishops, Knights, and Pawns usually went first. His Queen would be next, and that marked the beginning of the end, after which everything would slide downhill alarmingly quickly. At the end, the King would be the last piece standing, defiant to the end. But oddly enough, it would be the Pawns, weak and insignificant, that attended him last, that remained with him the longest, standing bravely as they were picked off, surrounded on all sides.

He heard the rapid firing of a Needler and return fire from behind him, and Adam spun, firing on an Elite. Someone threw a frag grenade, and he stumbled and fell, covering his head. When the smoke cleared, their sergeant lay still on the ground. The grim faces of the other four reflected his. He had, Adam drily thought as he climbed to his feet again, just lost his Queen.

Adam reloaded his assault rifle as another plasma grenade arced through the group, this time landing too close to an unfortunate comrade. No words were spoken, none were needed among the three survivors. Adam felt a resolve light inside of him, as it always did at this time in the game: last time, he had been so close, surely he would triumph this time. The game continued. He still had time.

With a gurgle, another private toppled, throat melted by a sleek plasma bolt from a beam rifle undoubtedly held by a Knight. They always stepped aside, the cowards. Adam tightened his grip on his weapon; any second now it would be time for one last counterstrike, and he knew it would be successful this time.

He heard large footsteps and the hum of an energy sword just before the Elite appeared around the corner, snarling. Yelling in unison, the other two soldiers, closer to the Elite, opened fire. One was immediately run through. The other attempted to back up but was knocked off his feet by a fist, gun flying from his hands.

He was not done though. In one fluid motion as the Elite towered above him to finish the strike, he yanked the pins from both frag grenades carried on his belt.

There was a bellow from the Elite, and the nearest wall blew out as Adam again shielded himself, but he wasted no time, firing blindly into the dust and smoke.

The grenades had taken down the monster's shields! He could do this, victory was within sight…the Elite stumbled, lurched and then fell, blood dribbling and oozing from dozens of places on his person, sightless eyes staring behind Adam.

The Private reloaded his weapon again on autopilot, rigorous training taking over, moving his hands though his shocked mind did not register it as he stared at the dead alien, a strange mix of emotions prompting him to laugh, cry, and punch something all at once. He had done it! He had finally won!

He felt more than heard something enter what remained of the building behind him, and the emotions died as he whirled, gun pointing wildly, heart pounding.

He had always gotten so close, playing with his father, been convinced of his victory and dropped his guard, only to have his father suddenly turn the tables in a devastating trap that overwhelmingly crushed and left him reeling and mind boggled.

Adam heard a plasma sword ignite right below his ear at nearly the same instant twin prongs of energy sprouted from his chest, casting a blue glow around the dismal scene. Had someone asked him as his last breath faded, Adam could have honestly answered that he had never won a game of chess in his entire life.