Just a Friendly Game of Chess

Part Two of Three

Morning turned to afternoon as Steve Rogers and John Smith set out to find refreshment. They passed through the crowds, leaving markedly different impressions on the people they encountered.

The first man was tall, his body fit and sound. Most would have guessed him to be a man of no more than fifty, until they looked in his eyes. It was there his true age resided, bearing a look of weariness, as if long duty and toil had left their mark. Even so, there was no defeat in the man. He reminded some of a trusted teacher, fair but firm. To others he invoked memories of a grandfather whose guidance always steered them true. To still others, he seemed to be the very image of a soldier, standing watch on a high, lonely tower.

The other man was altogether different. Not so tall as his companion, but tall nonetheless. His attire was elegant. He wore black, except for his white shirt and silken red tie, which spilled from his desiccated neck like a gush of blood. His posture was straight, almost painfully so. The flesh on his bones was spare, yet there was no weakness inherent in his form. Indeed, there was strength there. Intelligence, cruel and swift, danced behind the veil of his eyes. His face gave the impression of flint dipped in wax, painted to approximate skin. His mouth was a gash, and when he smiled, which he did often, it seemed as if he were in on some secret joke; a jest directed against all of humanity. Unlike his companion, he was perfectly aware of the effect he had on those around him. He reveled in it.

After walking a short spell, they came across a concession stand. Stepping up to the counter, Steve ordered first.

"I'll take a lemonade."

The proprietor nodded, and turned to the well-dressed man in dark. "Okay Mac, what can I get...for y…" The words froze in his throat; he just then truly noticed the man.

John smiled. "I shall take a Coca-Cola, my good man. Super sized, if you please."

John insisted on paying, and he included a generous tip. The two men began to walk, sipping at their beverages. Upon discovering a group of children playing baseball, they stopped awhile to watch. After a time, John pointed toward the field of play.

"Do you see that Negro child? The boy on the pitchers mound. He has ability. Did you notice the drop he has on his sinker?"

Steve nodded.

"As I recall from you dossier, you played baseball in your youth, yes?"

"Every American boy played baseball when I was a kid."

"Yes, the 'Great American Pastime', I know…but you excelled at the game, did you not? Like that boy?"

"I was okay."

John shook his head and tisked. "Must you always be so modest? You were a gifted athlete. Scholastically, you excelled. You were born to be exceptional, yet you play it off, as if you are embarrassed by the fact."

"I was sickly as a young man."

"After polio struck you down. It cheated you, Steven, robbed you of your true self, by taking your strong body and making it weak. Erskine's serum gave it back to you. It did not make you exceptional…for you already were exceptional. It was the same with me. I was born for greatness. The potion merely unlocked what was already there."

"I suddenly feel a lecture coming on. Are you going to harangue me on the myth of the Aryan Superman? We disproved that one in forty-five, when we broke the vaunted German war machine."

"Aryan Superman? Absurd—I did not believe such nonsense then, I certainly do not believe it now. Ah, but the Superman, such as Nietzsche prophesied? That is an undeniable truth."

He gestured towards the children at play, like a sorcerer casting spells. "Look at them, Steven…the common herd. Take any of them—take all of them—and inject Erskine's serum into their veins. Would any turn out as you, or I? A champion? A conqueror? Admit it…you know they would not, for they are not like us. They are ordinary."

"Ordinary men and women were good enough to win the war. Are there things we can do that others can't? Yes. But it doesn't set us above them. I'm proud to call myself a human being, and 'ordinary' is no insult to me."

"Fah! How can I talk to you if you insist on clinging to such silly mythology?" The German accent in John's voice grew strong. "Do you actually believe the propaganda they created for you? The ninety-pound weakling? The 'ordinary everyman-turned hero'? That was all a lie, and you know it. They neglected to tell the public of your genius level IQ or the exceptional physical specimen you were before illness laid you low. Not one man in ten-million could match your drive, your determination, your iron will power. That is what made you Captain America. So spare me the Gary Cooper modesty."

Steve turned from watching the children, and slowly, offered his replied.

"I was more of a Jimmy Stewart fan."

John snickered, and then he laughed, heartily. He bowed to Steve. "Have it your own way. If it makes you feel better to pretend to be common, so be it."

The two of them returned to the path and resumed their pace. John used his walking stick flamboyantly, clearly not needing its assistance to ambulate. With his free hand, he lifted the cup to his mouth, and drank.

"Ahh, I love Coca-Cola. Baseball, French fries...I love all things American."

"And freedom? What's your take on that?"

John laughed. "Overrated. Besides, Americans love freedom no more than do any others in this world. Which is to say, they love it not at all. It is the illusion of freedom that you Yankees cherish. That is why your people love Coca-Cola so much."

John held the paper cup up for display. "Is there anything more perfectly American than this beverage? It rots the teeth, corrodes the arteries, bloats the stomach, and yet it is so sweetly addictive that you just can't get enough of it. That, my friend, is America. And I love it so."

John drained the remainder of his drink in one mighty draught, vacuuming the dregs loudly with the straw before tossing the refuse into a near-by trashcan. He returned to his theme.

"Americans pay lip service to freedom…but deep in their secret hearts, they yearn for someone to think for them, to guide and protect them. They long for an iron hand to set them on the path of true freedom…the freedom from responsibility. They tire of your false ideals of liberty! What your people want, Steven, is Coca-Cola! Throw in some pornography and some simpleminded diversion, and they will follow you anywhere."

Steve looked at John, distaste showing in his eyes. "I'd call your assessment shallow, but that would be an insult to shallowness. There's more to America than that cartoon you just painted."

John looked aghast. "Have you not seen the most popular programs these days? Game shows! Professional wrestling! Scripted dreck passed off as reality programming! And you have the gall to call that freedom? It is a sham! You are too hard on your people, Steven, asking them to be free, and to think for themselves. I ask only that they obey."

John stood on the path, giving the impression of an orator, addressing multitudes.

"I long ago gave up the pointless idea of military conquest. The real war is the war of ideas, and my ideas are winning! Check the web, you will find ten-thousand sites for fascism. More come every week. Strain your ears but a little, and you can hear the sound of boots marching in the streets. In the end, your people will follow me, because I know them better than you ever will. Captain America indeed!"

John watched Steve closely, searching for some reaction to his words. Steve quietly finished his lemonade, gently tossing the empty cup away.

"You have a snappy line of B.S. for every subject under the sun. It makes me wonder if you stay up late at night thinking this garbage up."

John laughed. "Would it surprise you if I said that I did? Oh, I am a shameless performer, I know. But after all, did not the Bard say 'all the worlds a stage, and we are merely players'?"

"As usual, you have it half right. You skip the part where Shakespeare says that everyone has a time to enter…and a time to exit."

Steve leveled a hard stare at his companion. "The problem with you, John—and this is only one of many, mind you—is your rampant ego. You hog the spotlight, ignoring that the audience has tired of your act. The plain truth is you've been rejected. The curtain's been dropped, but like all corny hacks, you just don't know when to leave the stage, do you? You claim to know America so well, and yet you don't seem to know the one thing we find more pathetic than anything else…a has-been."

There was no longer any play-acting in John as he spoke. Rage boiled the words as they left his mouth.

"Choose your next words carefully, Rogers. For twenty years I have kept to our truce…but there are limits to my patience."

Steve squared his shoulders, starring John down. "Don't hold back on my account. Or maybe you're just afraid you don't have what it takes anymore?"

"Do you think me diminished, Captain? I, who have stood at the brink of total power? Armies rise and fall at my command, and this world will yet be mine. Not even time itself can defeat me!"

"Really? So why is it that after all these years standing at the brink, you're still on the outside looking in? I was wrong before. You're not a has-been…you're a never-were."

John Smith faded from sight, and Johann Schmidt appeared. Anger that bordered on rage that bordered on psychotic fury burned in his eyes. He shook from the roiling storm stirring within him, but anger also burned in Steve Rogers now. He met the flame of his enemy, unblinking, and stepped closer.

"You're good at dishing it out. That's the Nazi specialty. The problem is that you just can't take it, can you? Have a second listen, John. It isn't boots you hear echoing in the streets…it's the garbage man. He's here to sweep you away."

Steve Rogers and Johann Schmidt locked eyes. They stood on the edge to the path, while also standing on the edge of something far deeper and more treacherous. To eyes that could see such things, these were not simply men; they were Harbinger and Guardian, a star of silvery-white, and a skull, red as a hearts blood. They seemed beyond time, standing opposite and apposite of one another, one in eternal vigilance, and the other in eternal predation. The crowds that passed them by seemed completely unaware of what transpired. All they saw were two old men, of long acquaintanceship. For such they were.

Time resumed. Steve and John settled back into themselves. Steve spoke first.

"We're back where we started."

"And where, might I ask, is that?"

"Call it what you want. Armistice, truce, stalemate..."

John smiled, a paltry affectation. "Stalemate, I should think."

They resumed their walk, this time in silence. As the afternoon shadows lengthened, the circuit they had been walking completed itself: they were back in the shady grove of maple and birch trees, beneath which sat a chessboard. The two men took their seats. Steve spoke first.

"It's your move, John."

John reached his hand to the board, but halted. After a moment, his hand still hovering in space, he spoke.

"Perhaps stalemate is not the word, after all. Perhaps ceasefire is more fitting. Do you recall twenty years ago, when I suggested that in order to ensure this ceasefire, we hold these annual meetings of ours?"

"I do."

"Do you know why I picked this particular day?"

"I assume because it brings you pleasure to remark on this day being my birthday. I'm afraid you've grown terribly petty in your old age, Skull."

"You cut me most unkind, Steven. I will prove you wrong, and demonstrate the depths of my generosity."

Vitality returned to John. His words took on their earlier power and conviction as he spoke.

"First, let me say that I do think of this as your birthday. However, this also marks the anniversary of my own birth. Exactly one year before Erskine transformed you in America, he did the same for me, in Germany. On the exact same day. Do you not see the meaning inherent in that fact? We share the same birthday. We share the same father. You and I are brothers, Steven, bound together by a common fate. I come today to honor your birth…and I bring with me a most precious gift. The gift of time."

Steve watched as John reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, retrieving an antique pocket watch. The timepiece looked strangely familiar. When John opened the watch, Steve's mouth went dry. Posted on the inner cover was a small cutout photograph. The likeness was faded and timeworn, yet Steve recognized the image: a beautiful young woman, from a time long past. His voice trembled as he spoke.

"Schmidt…where did you get that watch?"

"Is that really important? Take it, Steven, I know how much she meant to you."

John slid the watch across the table. Steve did not take it. He sat, staring in mute shock at the photo. John went on, his voice an obscene parody of concern.

"How it grieves me to know the burden you have born these many long years, the crushing loneliness. Take heart, my brother, for I bring you salvation. I can do more than just replace the timepiece you lost…I can replace the time that you lost. Before the sun sets on this day, you can again hold Margaret Carter in your arms. All I ask in return is that you lay down the mantle of Captain America…for all time. A permanent ceasefire."

John smiled. The black glee had returned to his eye. He advanced his queen. "The move is yours, Steven."