Buck inhales deeply and quietly as he stretches his arms and cracks his knuckles. The popping joints seem to him as loud as firecrackers in the silent night, but no one else hears. Loosening up and relaxing, he exhales and sets his sights on his target. This game has been going on for weeks now, and each side has yet to move ahead. One group makes a move, and the other blocks them, then retaliates later. The rules are simple. Kill as many of the other side as possible, and make it out alive. Mayhem and complete destruction are key, but the moves are calculated and intelligent. Incidentally, chaos is a personal favorite of Buck's. However, this particular move is to be quiet, so he must control himself. The effect will be chaotic, but its execution will be silent. No one will notice.
And no one is noticing. Buck has started to move from his position. He tenses all his muscles, ready to begin, and the adder on his back, his team's brand, ripples. His eyes narrow to slits. He is focused. Ready. Watching. Watching you. But you are unaware. A player for the other team, the queen of this epically proportioned chess game, you are nearly invulnerable. You have thought of every defense, you can make any move, and your own personal army guards you as you work.
You are allowing toxic gasses to seep into an unassuming apartment building, its old brick exterior as bland as the interior, which has been set up as a barracks. It is the other team's home. You've invaded their territory, and you smirk as you stand on the seemingly empty streetcorner (remember, your army is everywhere) and imagine your opponent's pawns dropping dead like flies in an early frost. As a precaution, you wear a mask between yourself and your invisible murder weapon, so no one sees the look of triumph on your face. You have won. The pawns have been taken.
But there is one thing. Starting now, it is the other team's turn. And you have not expected them to stalk you like vultures do a lion to the place where you have made your kill. And that is where you made your mistake. Buck raises his gun. The last thing you see is the glint of its silver barrel in your peripheral vision. The last thing you hear is the explosion of the bullet escaping its confines. And the last thing you feel isn't the pain of the bullet in your heart. The last thing you feel is the warmth of your own blood soaking your shirt. All but one pawn was sacrificed. And he took the queen. And still, no one has noticed. Yet.