"Charles," his opponent says, "make a move already! You're taking too long."
Charles looks at the chess board and then lifts his head again, straining to see the face of the person sitting opposite him. Too many shadows; he can't identify the man he's playing against.
"There's no time limit for each move," he says in a patronizing tone. "You simply must wait until I'm sufficiently comfortable with the plan I settle on."
"Blah blah blah," the faceless opponent says. Charles wonders if it's Hawkeye, but the voice isn't right. It's too high for Pierce.
"Mocking me isn't going to hurry the process along either."
"This aint brain surgery, for God's sake. Just make a move!"
Although Charles rarely submits to anyone, and although this man is not threatening him in any way, he feels compelled to obey for some reason. "Very well," he says, and hastily moves his queen. "Check," he says, which is a surprise even to himself. He didn't know he was about to check his opponent.
But the man isn't the least bit intimidated. In a flash, he has taken Charles's queen with his bishop. "That was a very stupid move," he admonishes Charles. "You put your queen in harm's way. Tsk tsk… now she's gone. Look at that."
Charles is dumbfounded. He's never been this sloppy at chess before. He prides himself on his meticulous attention to detail, on being able to think ahead four or five moves and know exactly how to get to checkmate. He's a brilliant chess player, and this man has just made him look like a rank amateur.
He sputters a little, then slumps back in his chair. It's only a game, he realizes, but it feels more important than that. It feels like life or death, and he knows he's failing.
"Well well," his chipper opponent says. "You're looking awfully befuddled there, Chuckles. Are you giving up?"
Charles finally finds his voice. "What if I did? What if I said I wanted to stop playing?"
"You can't," the man says. "We play until you either win or lose. And from the looks of it, you're going to be losing. But hey, who knows, you might actually pull this one out. Why don't we just see what happens…"
"No," he says sharply, and he stands up, moving away from the board. "I'm quitting now, thank you very much. We are finished."
His opponent is quiet for a moment. When he speaks again, his voice has turned serious, somber. "That's too bad, Charles. You still had a chance, as long as we were playing. Now I'm afraid you have no chance. None at all."
Charles has had his back to the man, but now he whirls to look in his direction. He still can't see the man's face, merely an outline in the shadows. "What is that supposed to mean?" he demands. "Are you threatening me?"
The figure stands up and slowly moves toward the door. "Of course not, Charles. I would have no reason to do that. But a good chess player knows to keep an eye on the entire board. See the whole picture. That's a big part of the game, isn't it? Stay on your toes, Major. You never know what's underneath the mattress."
Charles isn't sure he heard that last part correctly, and he's about to ask the man to repeat it, but it's too late. His opponent has gone.
He looks around the Swamp, bewildered. What has just happened to him? The whole thing felt so… odd. Eventually he goes back to look at the chess board, to see if he can figure out exactly where he went wrong, but all of the pieces have turned to gumdrops.