The Game
The board is different every time.
Sometimes it resembles a chessboard, black and white and sharply edged, but then it tilts, stretches, becomes glassy and iridescent, each square a shard of another world. Other times, it looks more like woven silk, threads of gold and blood-red and soft rain-grey looping and knotting under their fingers. Once, it was a garden. Another time, a spiral staircase of light.
Zemo sits cross-legged, sharp-eyed, calm as ever, watching the play unfold. His token tonight is a glinting knight of obsidian and bone. When it is taken, the piece disappears in a shimmer. He exhales slowly, not in defeat, but recognition. Beside him, Bucky shifts, a quiet smile at the corner of his mouth.
Zemo doesn’t rush. Just selects a new piece. This one shaped like a fox with tiny sapphires for eyes. He places it with care. The board shifts. In the distance, thunder murmurs.
A god frowns. A thread tightens.
Zemo glances sideways. Bucky meets his gaze and lifts one shoulder, casual. As if to say, ‘We’ve done this before.’
Zemo’s answering smile is small, fond. ‘We’ll do it again.’
The board trembles. One of the gods’ pieces - gleaming and brittle, shaped like a lyre - fractures down the middle.
Zemo picks up a new token. A rabbit’s foot. Bucky nudges him with his knee. “Sentimental,” he murmurs.
“Strategic,” Zemo counters.
They don’t argue. They place it together.
Sometimes, the gods play bold. Sometimes, they play cruel. But they never last. Because these two always find the thread. Always find the return.
And when the board resets, because it always resets, they’re still there.
Side by side. Laughing softly. Playing on.
***
FIN