Outside was cool with a slight breeze blowing gently from over the Aven peaks. The sun at its zenith was not too hot. It bathed the platform on which they stood with rays of gold as the two brothers studied the chess board on the table. The landing platform was not where Jason would have wanted to play. He would have preferred the privacy of his workshop or one of the many rooms in the gigantic estate behind him. John had insisted—no, demanded—on playing on the landing pad; Jason did not ask why. Asking John why he did something would yield more confusion than understanding.

Jason studied the board for a while, then stretched a hand towards the queen. Maybe if I—

John smacked Jason on the back of his hand with a wooden ruler. “Ouch!” Jason cried, pulling his hand to his chest. He glared at his older brother for a moment, then Jason stifled a chuckle when he considered his brother. John’s gaze jerked up and Jason smothered his grin. With much effort, Jason schooled his face to stillness.

Just looking at that face, Jason chuckled slightly. John had—for some reason Jason could not fathom—decided that thick rimmed black glasses would suit his square oblong face. Why? Jason thought, still laughing in his head. Puberty maybe? With hair plastered against his scalp by gel that had a very peculiar scent and that stiff-cut red cloak and uniform pressed to stiffness—he might as well be wearing wood for how his clothes refused to bend.

Still, that slap stung. “What was that for?” Jason asked.

“That was a stupid move,” John said flatly. He had one hand behind him, the other upraised, ready to strike again should Jason choose the wrong move. “It’s simple,” John said, “select the move that would put your army in the best tactical position.”

“Easy for you to say,” Jason said. John did not respond. Jason turned to the board, observing the pieces: the rook, bishop, and queen. Those were the big guys, he thought to himself, those are what matters. After studying the board, he still drew a blank when it came time to move. John was glaring at him now.

Abruptly, he threw his hands in the air. “What's the use of this anyway?” Jason said. “I want to learn actual battlefield strategy.”

John shook his head slowly, clearly trying to copy the regality of the General, but he just looked like a cheap copy instead. “Chess develops the necessary way of thinking to approach those tasks.” John said. “If this is too hard, then you should probably just give up.”

Jason considered the chess board again. The pieces seemed foreign to him. The ruler cracked against his hand.

“What!” Jason cried. “I haven’t even moved yet!” John just glared at him, stone-faced. “Oh, you just love being in charge, don’t you?” A thin smirk curled John’s lips.

Jason sighed. Why am I doing this to myself? Jason shook his head. Having his brother teach him was the last thing he wanted, but if this was what he needed to do, he would do it. The troops lined up beside the platform for training, ready for their captain to join. Some wore Bio-Mech; they have seen much battle.

“Tell me, John,” Jason said. His brother raised an eyebrow. “Captain,” Jason corrected himself. John nodded. “How much better do your Bio-Mech-enhanced men do in battle?” John’s brows twitched. Despite what Father said about not creating them as weapons, everyone saw their potential and would eventually acknowledge it, and the General would too. Besides, the men who had them used them as weapons, didn't they?

John’s shoulders slouched at the question. “I noticed no difference?” John replied flatly, staring at the board and not meeting Jason’s gaze. Abruptly he met Jason’s eyes as though just hearing him for the first time.

“They are not weapons, Jason,” he said, dropping his eyes again to study the boards. “They are not weapons, but in the wrong hands, they might be.” The resentment in his voice spoke to something deeper. He was talking about Snake Face. They never did talk about that day; they both lost someone dear to them, someone irreplaceable. Mother. Despite the fact that John danced around his question, he realised that he was not the only one thinking the way he did. We could do more, be more with this technology.

“You know as well as I what the wrong people can do with them,” John said. Jason grimaced as he regarded his brother; a spark of understanding blossomed between them. This was probably the only thing they could agree on. Snake Face must pay. Father would not approve and John would not agree openly, but his eyes bore the same primal resentment that Jason felt. They were not assassins, Father told them, not mere killers for hire; they were protectors.

John regained his regal air, back stiffened and ruler upraised. “Father’s words are final,” he said as though trying to convince himself, “and I will not resist him. Come now, I have men to train.” John emphasised ‘men’ as though Jason was but a boy he had to put up with. He clapped the rule against the table. “Make a move, Jason.”

Jason glared at the pieces on the board. Every move seemed wrong to him, every play a trap, and every option led to a deserter. Annoyed, John repeated himself. “Make a move that will get you out of this mess, if this were a battlefield is this how you would fold leaving your men to die.” The men gathered and watched as the captain taught his little brother a lesson. They eyed him with that smug look on their faces, as though they could do any better. Jason eyed the rule in John’s hand and then moved at random. The wooden rule cracked against his hand. “Wrong, still dead,” John said.

“There is no good move!” Jason shouted. “Nothing I do will work!”

John cracked a smile, a cynical grin really. He clasped both hands behind him. “Exactly,” he said softly. “Finally, you make some sense.”

“What?” Jason asked, brows knitted in confusion.

“It is as you say,” John answered, “it's all the same, nothing you do will save you.” John eyed him knowingly.

“That’s it?” Jason asked. John nodded. Jason shook his head, “so nothing I do would help?”

“Yes, and no,” John replied. He had a satisfied smirk on his face, pleased to simply be in charge of causing Jason pain. Yes, John was quite pleased to have something to hold over his little brother.

“Stop trying to sound wise, John. You just wanted an opportunity to hit me! Admit it!” Jason demanded.

“Who is hitting who?” said a soft feminine voice. Jemma. Jason spun; he did not hear her coming. Her soft flower-marked dress displayed daisies and roses. It outlined her delicate frame in a way that revealed enough to be appreciated but with the modesty one could expect from a Gale; they too followed the way of the Maker.

John’s shoulders stiffened; he seemed more rigid than usual.Jason gave him a knowing grin that earned him a glare from his older brother. Some of his men also bore a knowing grin.