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klmwrites · 2 months ago

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Bishop takes Rook (a pre Black Ops 6 Story)

ao3

Directing his attention back from the room to the chessboard before him, Adler now raised a hand to make his move. On the opposite side of the stage from where the pair were seated one of the staff members near the giant board, upon placing down a pair of binoculars, reached for the cutout of a white bishop and moved it diagonally upwards - replacing the position of the black rook before it.

The audience visibly stirred.

“Bishop takes Rook.” he heard the younger woman murmur under her breath, her mouth set in a firm line as Adler moved a finger to press down on his side of the Fischer clock. Chewing her bottom lip, Bell now turned her attention towards her one remaining rook and king.

“I should tell you Adler, survival is now the main priority of ours now. Her eyes now flicked upwards, gaze directed at Adler as she switched the positions of the aforementioned two pieces with ease. “My job is to do anything to make sure it stays that way.”

AU in which Adler - on the run from the CIA - goes undercover as a competitive chess player where he is made to play a match against a ghost from his past in front of a live studio audience.

In the spirit of respecting those who have yet to play Black Ops 6 (it has only been a week since its release as of this post) this fic will be spoiler free. So go ahead and read to your hearts content 😊

song recommendation (this song slaps ok and for some reason in my head it fits really well don't come @ me lmao) :

Russell Adler

Moscow, Union of Social Socialist Republics

20 March 1990 - 10:00 MSK

Seated at the back of the state-provided saloon car, Adler watched as the huge crowd gathered consisting of the media, adoring fans and curious onlookers alike appeared in the horizon, the once small black blob was now becoming discernibly larger as the vehicle drew closer to its destination. Retrieving a cigarette and his zippo from inside his suit, Adler rolled down the window on his side before lighting the nicotine stick and taking a long drag from it, watching the evidence of his vice float out into the open and vanish from sight.

The speedy little devil that was the maroon coloured automobile sped down the remainder of a seemingly vacant highway before making a sharp right turn, parking itself right before the end of the pavement in what only could be described as in a cartoonish fashion. Opposite stood a building sporting gothic style architecture and right above the pair of twin wooden doors that marked the entrance was a huge banner with the Cyrillic Words ‘Annual Soviet Chess Championship, Moscow’ accompanied by the silhouette icon of a knight chess piece. As soon as he opened the door and stepped out onto the red carpet the flash photography and videographers came into full swing, all of which he had expected at such an event. He was however pleasantly surprised by the cordiality of everyone else around - not once had any member of the public rushed up to him in an attempt to take a photo or sign an autograph. For that Adler was grateful, as the last thing he needed as an rogue agent was close up pictures of his face taken for the world to see. He had changed his aviators and hairstyle in a fashion that he would still be unrecognisable in pictures and videos taken from afar, but any closer and he ran the risk of being identified.

Though he never liked any of the countries behind the iron curtain (for more than just ideological reasons) he was begrudgingly grateful for the match to be taking place in Moscow of all places. Had it been Hollywood or any other western country it would have been a completely different story, and it would have been much harder for him to remain inconspicuous for long given the strong alliance the authorities had with the United States.

Adler made his way into the building with haste and after a quick pat down was escorted by a member of staff to a nearby sitting room to wait for his registration to be confirmed. In this building he was no longer Russell Adler, the framed CIA operative but Lev Balashov, a former KGB agent and aspiring holder of the ranking of Candidate Master in his hobby of competitive chess. Adler only knew of his existence thanks to Belikov, whom he contacted before entry into Moscow. Despite the former's defection, Belikov still knew people on the inside and not only managed to arrange the necessary papers to get Adler into the country, but also gave the former clandestine officer the profile of the man he was to replace.

“Why him of all people?”

“Because my friend, Balashov is a notorious recluse. Only a handful of people have seen his face and they will most definitely not be present at the tournament because he has beaten them all to get to where he currently is.”

“And you are certain that she will be there.”

“Most certainly. Her injuries post Solovestky were serious, so I reckon she is currently taking a much needed break from the field.”

Adler was rudely pulled away from his trip down memory lane upon hearing a member of staff at the door of his assigned dressing room calling out his alias name.

“Mr Balashov? The tournament you are scheduled to participate in will begin in 90 minutes.”

Adler nodded in acknowledgement and after requesting for a cup of coffee, proceeded to light another cigarette as soon as the staff member’s back was turned. He allowed his mind to drift back to her; he had always wondered how she had been doing after all those years. He remembered the surprise he felt upon realising that she had survived what was supposed to be a fatal shot - one which he justified to himself was done out of mercy. It had been sheer luck that she had not gone insane already after being exposed to the many rounds of MK-Ultra, and figured that it was only a matter of time before that would come to fruition.

No doubt she will be livid upon seeing his face again, but for the sake of the free world he was willing to take the brunt of her anger.

Adler chuckled mirthlessly to himself as the familiar smell of arabica wafted into the room. There was no longer a point in reminiscing about what could have been or the many questions he had repeatedly asked the imaginary figment of her in his head - for now he has the privilege of hearing the answers to all his unanswered questions straight from the horse's mouth.

When it was time, Adler was escorted out of the dressing room and backstage where he was made to listen to what seemed to be the announcer presenting the current tournament lineup of the day in Russian through a set of thick curtains. As soon as he heard his alias name being announced he stepped forward and into the limelight in front of the adoring crowd. Giving a half-hearted wave, Adler made his way to his designated seat, where the nameplate “L. Balashov” was placed facing the audience, along with a small table red coloured flag of the Soviet Union. In the centre of the ornate wooden table that was to serve as the mental battlefield for the next few hours lay a wooden chess set, pieces already put into place.

Another round of applause now sounded and from the opposite end of the stage came his opponent - a Miss Yelizaveta Ivlev. Dressed in a simple dark blue dress and a pair of pearl-studded earrings, Ivlev walked across the stage with a small smile, waving her hand towards the audience cheerfully. She then turned to her side with the intention of greeting her opponent when she realised who it was. Adler noted that Ivlev was careful not to let any shock show on her face and the only indicator she gave as to knowing his true identity was the small drop to her beautiful smile, perhaps in part due to the sheer number of cameras around recording both players' first encounter with each other.

Ivlev’s eyes flicked downwards to look at her opponent's name plate. “Mr Balashov. A pleasure meeting you.” She simply nodded her head, tone slightly harsher than normally how an introduction should entail. “The pleasure is all mine.” replied Adler, playing along.

Once both players took to their respective seats, Ivlev picked up the black velvet pouch that sat inconspicuously towards the right side of their shared table right next to the Fischer clock. Shaking it slightly, she allowed its contents to drop into the palm of her hand: a single coin.

“Heads or tails?”

“Heads.” Adler now watched as the rounded object flipped in midair and landed once again into the safety of her palm. “Looks like you get to pick the colour, Mr Balashov.”

Adler’s eyes now flipped back to the chessboard with disinterest. “I don’t mind keeping it the way it is now.”

“Very good.” Ivlev now turned her head and made eye contact with a member of staff, nodding her head as she did so. This prompted the staff member to walk over to their table, giving it a quick once over before walking over to a giant board - in which a replica of the current chessboard configuration has been made - and writing down the names of both players in the blackboard above.

White – L. Balashov

Black – Y. Ivlev

“Shall we begin?” Ivlev’s voice prompted Adler to once again focus on the woman currently sitting in front of him bearing a deceptively neutral look on her face. Adler did not respond, choosing to proffer out a hand to her instead which she accepted.

For a third time, a round of applause thundered around the auditorium. But Adler wasn’t paying attention to any of it, for his eyes were currently on his actual prize - the sole reason why he was here in the first place.

Truth to be told, sitting in this auditorium, Adler felt like a fish out of water - and it has been a while since he had experienced such a feeling. Though he played the game occasionally and knew the basic rules and moves, he knew that he was widely unprepared to be playing in such a professional environment. Still, he has come too far to fail now - he will achieve his objective by hook or by crook.

Despite his limited understanding of the game, Adler knew that being able to take control of the middle was vital for eventual victory - the player that controls the centre has the best vantage attack point on the rest of their opponents pieces. With this in mind, Adler’s opening move was to move his pawn to d4. Ivlev responded by moving her knight to F6. Seeing her motive, he pushed another of his pawns to c4. Where is she going with this? Seemingly unfazed, Ivlev simply moved her pawn to e6. She really is that insistent on wanting my d4 pawn huh. Adler now brought forward his knight to c3 in hopes that it would deter his opponent from their current objective but instead what it did was embolden Ivlev to bring forward her bishop to b4, effectively not only threatening his knight (and in turn the king) but also preventing Adler from taking control of the centre by moving his one of his other pawns from e2 to e4.

It took a while for Adler to realise what Ivlev had just done: the Nimzo-Indian defence. In his rush to control the centre, not only had he given away his strategy early on, but placed Ivlev in a position to not only develop her pieces earlier but also play them aggressively should she so choose, possibly gaining potential control over the centre as the game progresses on.

“Interesting that you didn’t open using the queen’s gambit.” Ivlev suddenly remarked, possibly in response to Adler’s surprise. “You are a habitual gambler, no? And very apt at giving away your pawns when needed. Frankly I’m quite surprised to see you here. I thought you were all brawn and no brains, just like the CIA lapdog you once formerly were.” Ivlev’s voice could only be fittingly described as a sheet of ice - calm on the surface, but arguably emotionally tumultuous underneath.

“Formerly?” Adler raised an eyebrow as he moved another one of his pawns to a3. As Ivlev focused on her next move Adler waved his hand up in the air, making a motion with his hand for a cigarette. “What makes you say that?”

“I might be physically out of the field, but it doesn’t mean I am out of the loop information wise.” Ivlev now tutted as she moved her bishop to take his pawn. “Also, you are not as subtle as you think you are.”

Their conversation came to a temporary halt with the arrival of said item - a cigar surprisingly - balancing precariously along its edges of an unused ashtray. “You mind?” asked Adler rhetorically as he placed the item between his lips, flicking the cap of the provided zippo open. Ivlev simply snorted back in amusement, shaking her head. Taking a much needed drag of nicotine, he now moved his own pawn to take Ivlev’s bishop. “It seems that word travels fast. Either that or you have been keeping tabs on me….Bell.” Adler saw the woman’s composure break slightly at the mention of that name, her body physically tensing up.

“Don’t test your luck here, Russell Adler. We are being live streamed for the whole of the Soviet Union to see; I could unmask your identity right here and you will be arrested by the KGB within a few minutes.” Sensing the man’s scepticism, Bell elaborated. “The USSR has changed over these past 10 years - especially since our little stunt in the Lubyanka Building. Now with some of the Eastern Bloc Republics expressing disillusionment, the Motherland is ramping up efforts to keep the collectivist culture and ideology alive.”

Adler hummed in acquiescence. “So why didn’t you do that from the very beginning?” he now asked, to which Bell elected not to respond.

The game dragged on for longer than expected. The silence in the room changed from being comforting to suffocating, save the occasional cough from a spectator and the constant ticking of the Fischer clock near his right elbow. From the corner of his eye Adler watched some of the moderators and judges fidget in their seats as did some members of the audience, who by his standards were doing rather well in keeping their impatience at bay given the games seemingly lack of progress.

Though not one to always practise what he preached, Adler could appreciate the art of patience - many years of being in intelligence taught him the value of it. Besides, it was good to exercise that brain of his once in a while - even if admittedly he would have preferred being out in the field shooting at something or someone instead.

“Why did you shoot me at Solovetsky, Adler?” Bell asked abruptly, eyes never leaving the board or the pieces before them. Ah, the inevitable question that needs to be answered. Adler opened his mouth to respond, but realised that the words he had rehearsed in his head were now stuck at the back of his throat. Did he actually want to tell her the truth? Was there even a point in lying at this stage regarding all that happened 10 years ago? “And please don’t lie, that would be extremely low of you to do so. The least you owe me is the truth in that regard.”

“I don’t owe you jack shit, Bell. I did what I had to do for my country.”

“The country that now turned its back on you when you were clearly framed?”

“So you believe that I’m innocent.” Adler saw an opportunity to deflect and gladly took it. Bell simply laughed in response. “Russell Adler, willing traitor of the CIA in exchange for blood money? Not your style, and certainly not your modus operandi.” Bell moved another of her pieces and like clockwork pressed down the button on her side, folding her hands on the table before her afterwards. “Humour me, Adler. You clearly want something from me - that’s why you are here playing a chess game for the past 3 hours, no?”

Adler took a puff of what was now his 5th cigar, tapping it at its end as more black flakes dropped into the ever growing pile of grey in the middle of the ashtray before setting it down in favour of moving his piece. “It was supposed to be a mercy kill.” There, this was as close to the truth as he could master. When one lies on a regular basis as part of the job requirement, suddenly telling the truth becomes a tall order indeed.

“Who did you take me for, A chained up dog? One you can just simply get rid of as soon as the work gets done? Even the process of euthanasia has rules and guidelines and doing that with your reasoning fails the eligibility criteria!” Bell took a deep breath in, before her calm mask of composure returned once more. “Give me one good reason why I should work with you now after what you have done.”

“I don’t have to. Clearly your handlers see a mutually beneficial outcome by us working together: if not you would not be up here with me right now.” Adler smirked. “Your handlers are the two men seated at your 4 o'clock, are they not? I’m frankly surprised Perseus took you back after all the shit that went down, how we thwarted their plans and all.”

“I’m frankly quite surprised too. And grateful.” Adler could hear from her voice that the sentiments were genuine. “Враг моего врага - мой друг”.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Their previous campaign against Perseus in the 80s must have set them back quite a bit; to the point that they feel threatened by simply the presence of another prominent paramilitary group. But why Perseus and this particular group are antagonistic towards one another is something that Adler mentally stored in his head as needing to be further investigated upon.

“Now that we are on the same page, I’m going to give you a code phrase that you must keep to yourself until the time comes.” Directing his attention back from the room to the chessboard before him, Adler now raised a hand to make his move. On the opposite side of the stage from where the pair were seated one of the staff members near the giant board, upon placing down a pair of binoculars, reached for the cutout of a white bishop and moved it diagonally upwards - replacing the position of the black rook before it.

The audience visibly stirred.

“I understand.” was all Adler simply responded with ease. He could easily read between the lines, and he knew that a cornered animal is always a dangerous one - not that he was currently in the position to corner them any further anyway. The subconscious weight he had been carrying left him both physically and mentally. With his objective now fulfilled, he could finally fully focus on playing regularly just as he was sure Balashov would have if the latter were currently in his shoes.

After another tedious hour of nothing but back and forths, the match was eventually brought to a standstill and declared inconclusive by the panel of judges present. Despite the outcome of the match not being significant Adler, it was mostly out of professional pride that he refused to withdraw after getting what he needed - besides, It would have been the same thing the real Balashov would have done after all.

As soon as the panel made the results of their judgements known, the media personnel, who were no doubt restless and itching to move after the tiresome four hour long match, seemingly leapt up from their seats like people possessed and approached both players with their endless barrage of questions. This was promptly ignored by both Bell and Adler as they made their way backstage unscathed thanks to the diligence of the security personnel present.

“Stay here.” Adler broke the silence between them as he led Bell into his dressing room, closing the door behind him and he swept the room for cameras. Once he determined that they were not being watched, he opened his bag and from it revealed a nondescript looking file which he passed to Bell promptly. “Everything you and your handlers need to know about the organisation I am tracking is here. I’m presuming your handlers would know more about them though than I, given Perseus’s implied history with them.”

The woman opened the folder and stared at the papers inside unimpressed. “There’s nothing much to go on.”

“I know. They are very good at infiltration; I believe they have multiple moles in the CIA. Elusive fuckers, they have already dug their claws in deep which is how they were able to produce fake irrefutable evidence of my so-called betrayal. Mason and Hudson are dead because of them.”

Bell’s face fell slightly. She wasn’t Hudson’s biggest fan, but she and Mason did share an amicable relationship. The latter was someone she actually enjoyed having conversations with, so it was sad to know of his fate. “Mason has a son right? What’s going to happen to him?”

Adler looked up at Bell grimly. “I don’t know. I can only hope he will be well cared for by the state, or whoever Mason had placed as the next of kin.” The duo continued to look at each other, either side seemingly hesitant for the conversation to continue or their time together to end for that manner. Perhaps they knew that they eventually needed to discuss what happened at Solovetsky and both sides are reluctant to bring that up; or maybe because this is the first time they have seen each other face to face in five years, and the feeling of seeing someone who had attempted to brainwash you (Bell) or was a ghost from your past (Adler) standing in the same room as you in the flesh was simply…overwhelming.

Luckily for Adler, the awkward silence was eventually broken when Bell’s phone rang. Adler watched as the woman removed a flip phone from her pocket and answered it with much haste - a call from her handlers, no doubt.

“ I’m currently in contact with him, he’s passed me a file with the information we need. Are you sure - yes, Comrade, at once.” Bell placed the phone back into her pocket. “Change of plans. You are coming with me.” Adler raised an eyebrow in genuine surprise. “What do your handlers want with me?”

Bell shrugged. “I will go get my purse from my dressing room; they said to meet us outside in five.” And with those words, Adler watched the once timid and non-verbal woman now exited the dressing room with her head held high. Feeling the man’s gaze on her, Bell turned around abruptly once more with a gaze which sent an involuntary shiver down the older man's spine.

“C’mon Adler, don’t dawdle. After all, we've got a job to do.”

#ao3 fanfic #call of duty #call of duty black ops 6 #russell adler #call of duty fanfic #bell call of duty #No spoilers in this one I promise #💉: we've got a job to do #Spotify #spoiler free #russell adler x bell #cod black ops cold war

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