He refused to be black. He hated being the black pieces, just as he hated going second. He had to go first; he had to win.

He always won. Though his comrades screwed up their faces in annoyingly thoughtful expressions, they would never beat him. He was their leader, their prized piece, the piece they must respect, protect, and fear at the same time.

His white pieces had spread across the globe, trailing after the still fleeing black pieces. It was only a matter of time, he was sure, until all of them had been captured and their king knocked down to lay in shame on the checkered board in front of him.