"You have to keep your temper in check," Kyle said, straightening Cartman's tie. He knew his words were in vain. He'd been dealing with Cartman's moods for years, so he knew well enough that the man would do whatever he wanted, despite the consequences.

When he was happy he was a smug son of a bitch who enjoyed nothing more than reveling in others' misery. When he was unhappy he was a vindictive asshole. It was hard to gauge what his mood was as they went into the press conference. He seemed pleased with himself, but there was an air of nervousness about him fed by whatever insecurities he had. Kyle didn't know. They didn't talk about those things.

It started out simply enough. The reporters asked the standard sporting event questions about his level of skill, and how he felt about his chances, and he answered in his usual boastful manner.

Then they turned to the political questions, asking how he felt the match would impact the relations between the US and USSR. Cartman's mood became less cordial, but he still went along with it. He didn't seem too happy that he had to share his spotlight with yet another Americans vs Commies debate, but it was to be expected, and he dealt with it more gracefully than Kyle would have anticipated.

It was when they started asking personal questions that things turned ugly.

"How do your parents feel about you playing this match?" one man asked.

"I don't know."

"They haven't discussed it with you?"

"They aren't around anymore."

And then the questions somehow turned to the subject of his and Kyle's relationship, and it was all downhill from there. Infuriated that someone might think they were together, Cartman spewed out anti-Semitic remarks before launching himself over the table and attempting to assault the reporter who'd asked the offending question. He was forcibly escorted from the room before he could do any real harm, and Kyle was left behind to stammer out excuses for his behavior.

"It's the pressure of the match," he said, "He's got the expectations of an entire nation riding on his shoulders. I'm sure you all understand."

He didn't mean a word of it.

"You humiliated me out there!" he shouted at Cartman, back at the hotel. "I can't believe you'd do that! Not only is it unprofessional, but if you're hoping to make yourself a media darling you've completely fucked that up at this point."

"Don't be stupid," Cartman replied, "Behaving yourself might make people like you, but who cares about that? The real money is in the spectacle itself. We'll get the media attention because we're more interesting."

"That's ridiculous. I'm not sure how coming across as a racist, homophobic asshole makes you more interesting…"

"Any attention is good attention," Cartman said.

"Ok, now you sound like a child."

"You know I'm right."

"Well you're more than capable of making an ass of yourself without my help. Call me when you have real work for me to do," said Kyle.

He left in disgust.

Bebe and Stan watched the press conference from Stan's hotel room with a combination of amusement and horror. This Cartman man was nothing but a showboat, clearly engaged in stealing all the press for himself to garner more attention. It wasn't about chess to him. It was about the fame.

"He's losing his touch," Bebe said, "He knows he isn't as good as he once was, and it's driving him mad."

"Don't be ridiculous. Don't underestimate him just because he lost his temper. He's every bit as good as he once was. There's a reason he's famous for his game."

"Hm. If you say so. I feel sorry for his Second though," Bebe said, "having to clean up that man's mess. He must be difficult to work with."

"Well at least he seems to know what he's doing, unlike you," Stan said, giving Bebe a dirty look. "If you truly want me to win, you'll find me a Second who can actually play chess, not simply act as a pawn for the KGB."

"You can be mad at me all you want, but I didn't ask for this job. You don't exactly say no to those people."

"I suppose not," Stan conceded.

"I'll do what I can to find you the help you need, but don't forget you are representing the entire USSR," Bebe said. "This isn't just a chess match. It's us versus them."

"No," Stan said, "This is nothing more than one man against another. We both have the skill, and it's not until we sit down to play that we'll have any idea who will come out on top. I guarantee nothing."

"I don't think you appreciate our situation," she said, "The whole world is watching."

"The whole world can watch. I'm not going to buy into that pressure, though. It isn't fair to me, and it isn't fair to the game."

Bebe sighed, irritated at his attitude. There was pressure on her as well. Her job was to make sure this match went the way it should. His cooperation was necessary for their mutual success.

"Am I to understand that you're not concerned with winning or losing?" she asked.

"I am concerned with nothing but winning. I just refuse to do it for anyone but myself. Now get out of my room, and don't come back until you have some useful information."

This is a disaster Craig thought, surveying the wreckage. They'd had two successful matches, and then the American had thrown a temper tantrum over something and walked out, leaving his Second to try and clean up the mess while the Russian and his crew raised their objections.

"You'll see right here in the rule book-" he started.

"How can we go by the rules when their side is clearly cheating!" screamed Bebe.

"How the hell are we cheating? If he stormed out there must have been a reason! He must have seen something was off and refused to continue the match," said Kyle.

"Frankly I don't know how you can work for that man in the first place," said Stan, "since he treats you like the pay must be good."

"I only want to work for the best. Pay is hardly my biggest concern," Kyle answered.

"Well, how's that working out for you?" Stan asked.

"This is getting us nowhere," Bebe said, "We need to discuss this in a more comfortable atmosphere. Maybe if we take an hour break and meet at the hotel's restaurant-"

"Without you," Stan said.

"What?"

"I can meet with Cartman and Kyle, and you can stay behind. We only need input from people who know the game. You'd only get in the way."

Bebe tried to argue her point, but was shut down. Stan would only agree to a meeting without her, and with tempers fraying, she didn't want to push her luck. A meeting was arranged, and she would just have to sit it out.

Cartman was late. Go figure Kyle thought. So they waited, and waited, and enjoyed the fine wine and beautiful mountain views in the meantime.

"So, are you expecting this guy any time soon?" Stan asked.

"Oh I couldn't care less. He doesn't care about anyone but himself, so he only works on his own schedule."

"He must be fun to work for," Stan said.

"Yeah, well," Kyle shrugged.

They stared at each other awkwardly, trying to ignore the decidedly romantic atmosphere of the restaurant.

"You're from the USSR as well, aren't you?" Stan asked.

"Minsk."

He could see the curiosity in Stan's eyes, but he knew he wouldn't ask why. There were few people who didn't have a reason to flee, really. Kyle could just as easily ask why Stan hadn't yet.

"It must be hard to get people to trust you in this kind of setting. The whole us vs. them business," Stan said.

"It's a pain in the ass, if you want to know the whole truth."

"So you're not… um…"

"A spy? No."

Stan smiled, and Kyle relaxed a little. His confidence was magnetic. It was hard not to like him, even though he was supposed to be the "enemy".

"How are you feeling about the match?" Kyle asked.

"I can't tell you," Stan said with a smirk, "Can't give away too many secrets, now can I?"

Kyle laughed.

"If you weren't his, I'd-"

"Who says I'm his?"

By the time Cartman showed up, the two men were well into their cups, leaning toward each other and speaking in low voices.

"Having fun?" he asked, sitting down next to Kyle.

"You have no idea," he responded with a grin.

Arguing with Kyle was a bad idea in general, but arguing with Kyle when he was drunk was an exceptionally bad idea.

"You fat fucking piece of shit!" he screamed, hurling a lamp at Cartman's head, "How many years of my life have I wasted cleaning up your messes? You fuck things up, and then I'm left behind picking up the pieces and making excuses for you!"

"I told you, Kyle, I was late because I was securing more deals with the press. More deals mean more money. I thought you of all people could appreciate that."

"Oh, because that's the only thing I care about?"

"Well, you're Jewish, so…"

"That has nothing to do with anything and you know it. I'd rather live in poverty and have a job where I'm respected than be rich and be treated the way you treat me."

"Well maybe if you were any good at your job I wouldn't be so stressed out, and I wouldn't act the way I do!"

"That's a load of shit. You're a grown man! No one is responsible for your actions other than you! If I'm such a bad Second then maybe you should have fired me years ago!"

"Maybe I should have," Cartman screamed back, "but maybe I should do it now so you can go fuck that Russian guy like you obviously want to."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I saw the way you were looking at him!"

"Not that it's any of your fucking business who I look at in what way, but maybe I was just happy to be around someone who doesn't treat me like shit!"

"Well go on then. Obviously I don't matter to you. Go spread your legs for that fucking asshole while everything I've been working for falls apart. Go on!"

"Fuck you," Kyle said, charging out of the room.

"Fucking whore!" Cartman screamed after him.

"I was hoping I'd see you again," Stan said, ushering Kyle into his room, "but I didn't think it would be so soon."

"Well… Uh, we got into a fight. Cartman and I. I think he fired me."

"You think?"

"Well it was sort of a heated conversation. One of those 'say things you don't really mean' things. Or maybe we both meant what we said. I don't know. But I think I'm done anyway. I can't…" he trailed off, the events of the night starting to catch up with him.

"Hey, it's ok," Stan said, placing his hands on Kyle's shoulders, "Don't worry about a thing. I'll take care of you. I'll take care of everything."

"I can take care of myself, you know," Kyle said as Stan leaned in to kiss him.

"Well, yeah, but you don't always have to."

He had a snappy comeback in mind, but he was too busy kissing Stan back to say it.

There were a few people behind the scenes who knew what was going on. After all, Cartman's Second sneaking out of Stan's hotel room in the middle of the night raised a few red flags by those who witnessed it.

But despite what they thought, Stan winning the match had nothing to do with Kyle's shifting allegiance. Stan had not asked for his help, and Kyle had not offered it, either.

The affair had (thankfully) been kept out of the press, but Bebe had threatened to make it public if Stan didn't win the match. Her threats had nothing to do with the fact that Stan did win. It was simply a bonus to him that he didn't have to worry about that becoming public knowledge.

Stan actually regretted that winning was easier than he had anticipated. Cartman had clearly become unhinged, though whether it was from the pressure placed upon him or Kyle's abrupt departure was unclear. He looked sick and hungover on the second day of the match, and his concentration wasn't what it should have been. However, he'd behaved so abhorrently toward everyone with whom he came in contact that no one had any sympathy for him.

He'd been deserted by nearly everyone in his camp, and no one could say he didn't deserve it.

Stan was also a deserter, but it was the USSR he was deserting. As soon as the match was over and he'd been crowned world champion, he hightailed it to the American embassy with Kyle in tow, seeking asylum. And he was granted it, of course. The chess match had been watched by the whole world, and the Russian champion seeking freedom in America was excellent PR.

Before anyone knew it he was following Kyle back to the US, leaving his nation, his PR team, and his wife behind him.