By The Psyentist 18 Comments
The White Queen and the White Knight
Alexandra Steele and Jean Quentin sat across from each other within the confines of their mental construction. They were nearly mirror images as they stated at each other through their icy blue eyes, golden hair framing their perfect, porcelain faces. The White Queen and the White Knight. It was time for another game. But this time, the stakes were high.
The surgeon's azure gaze fell upon the astral chess set before them, shifting his piece forward before returning his attention to his clone. "I'm not an idiot, Xandra. Our psychic link offers very little privacy between us. I know you want me as president for your own ends. I know you see me as another of your chess pieces, to move according to your will. America is not and should not be the world police. We are not an army you can requisition for your purposes. If you think I am so weak to just let you manipulate the armed forces of this nation?" He shook his head. "I know what you're planning, and it makes me very nervous."
Making her own move, the Vampiric Vixen looked across coolly at her male likeness. "If I thought you were an idiot, what use would you be to me?" Jean's eyes smoldered like blue fire. Of course he knew there was little point in getting about Xandra's pragmatic nature. Besides, her words were as much a compliment as any received from the Frost Queen.
A pawn was pushed forward along his chosen path. "You plan on attacking Satar. Just how do you plan victory? And at what cost will it be bought? I'm not so sure we should assault his forces. I don't see it going well for anyone."
"War is never pretty, Jean. But Satar is a cancer spreading across the globe. We can no longer afford to sit back and watch him burn society to the ground. A post-apocalyptic environment would not kind to a primarily white wardrobe."
Jean huffed at her attempt at levity regarding such a serious predicament. "Satar is a cancer, no doubt. But war is like chemotherapy or radiation. How much of ourselves have to be killed or reduced to pain and suffering while attempting to rip him from the world? I do not like the man. He's an anarchist, ripping civilized society apart at the seams and leaving his own, scourched domain in his wake. He thrives off the strong and dissatisfied, the weak trampled under his iron boot. But that does not mean I wish... I wish with all my heart that there was an option with less bloodshed."
"With cancer, there may be hope of relief in a dignified death. There is no such respite for the Earth. Satar's continued dealings will leave enduring scars. You and I as immortals will have to deal with the repercussions for centuries to come." She shook her head as the two exchanged their plays. "Oh, Jean. You're such a bleeding heart. Always thinking about the 'least of these.' Bleed too much for too long, and even you will exsanguinate. As a surgeon, you know the importance drawing a little blood can be. A surgical slice, and we can withdraw the cancer. There will be pain. There will be recovery. But it is better than the alternative."
The PsyKnight rested his chin in his hand thoughtfully. His brows were knit, his face pensive as they quietly continued their game. The lips of the Mutant Mistress showed the slightest hint of a smile as Jean's silence indicated his persuasion. "Jean, this is not some gesture of wanton violence. If it was, I would have never involved you. This is for the good of society, for the people you love."
Pieces shifted along the board once more, her attention seemly arrested by the game. Her eyes drifted back to meet the sky blue of Jean's melancholy gaze. "I have been assembling the best of the best to assault Satar. Abigail and Dulhat Aensland of the League of Shadows. William Greystoke, Lord of the Lycans. The richest entrepreneurs on the planet. The most powerful mutants, mages, and men this world has to offer. We have armies and resources at our disposal." A slender finger pushed forward her white knight. "With you in the White House, our strength will only improve. You will rally STRIKE and the heroes of America, call upon the leaders of the world to crush this menace. Now is the time, Jean."
The blonde man pursed his lips, his fingertips tapping upon the checkered board. His eyes ascended with a sudden opalescent brilliance, the trace of a smile upon his lips. A finger flicked over his king. "Checkmate."