Not many were left on the desolate plane, but Tony knew that losing was not an option; his pride would not allow it. His brows furrowed as his brain combed over what had just taken place. How could have he slipped up? He should win like usual. What did he miscalculate? All of his pawns of his little game of war laid facedown, all gathered into a pile, a monument of his carelessness. He glared upon the white stallions, poised ready to end it all, to bring down his reign. He growled lowly at his single surviving black stead, hands twitched. His attention was caught by a faint chuckle. He gazed across the battlefield to Bruce, whom smirked in his shy way. However Tony knew that was it was a convincing mask of his conniving and plotting enemy. Sweat dripped down Tony's brow as Bruce lifted his hand to give the final command. With a click and a tap, Tony gaped at his fallen queen. Bruce simply smiled.
"Checkmate."
This. Means. War.