They were smiling.  They'd been smiling for hours now. Russia
had barely blinked, and America, if he'd been entirely stable at
that moment, might have found his mind wandering to "The Silence
of the Lambs" and drawing eerie parallels. As it was, he just
kept smiling, and his mind didn't wander.  The two nations sat
in a dark room on comfortable club chairs, upholstered in black,
like everything else around them; as if the decor itself was
made to leech away any light having the audacity to intrude. The
only source of illumination in the room was a bare bulb hung
over their heads - even that only cast a weak circle of
brilliance before being suffocated by that dark, dark, dark.
There was a small clack as Russia relocated his king. America
didn't bother looking down to the chessboard between them. There
was no need. He just followed the rules, and moved his king a
space to the left.  America couldn't remember if they'd started
playing with a full chess set. It seemed like centuries, those
they had spent chasin