Gabriel slides his black bishop to C8.

Did I miss something? I stare at the chess-board.

I didn't. He's slipping.

We've been playing a game nearly identical to the Williams vs. Komediekov match of 1982. Reykjavik, Iceland. The puffin capital of the world, according to Training Module 467A: Facts of the World.  One of my personal favorites, next to 22003D: Greek Drama and Epic Poetry.

Williams– young, arrogant and fully aware of how good he was - saw his prey limping after Komediekov moved that bishop to C8. Despite the grainy quality of the film you can see that uncertainty in Komediekov's eyes. Like a rock sinking to the pond-bottom and sending up clouds of mud.

On film, Komediekov made that move and then adjusted his tie-knot - an elegant double-windsor - with a hand likely covered in nervous sweat. A gallows look. The black-and-white footage brought it out more, I think.

It's hard to hide the moment when you realize things are slipping out of control.

Gabriel, however, doesn't seem to realize his position.  He's only thinking five moves ahead.  Another eight and his king will have a blade to his throat.

He used to be flawless. Things are different now. Only I didn't noticed how different until today.

Half his mouth is palsied from strokes. A numb, stony rictus. The other half smiles warmly. Thalia and Melpomene in the flesh.

"Did you know the kitchen staff gives me an extra fruit disk every night? Ever since I turned thirty.  Now that's something to look forward to.The ones with strawberries, Abraham.  Strawberries! You can't even taste that chalky protein goop."

He's 33. The oldest here. Nose-tube wrapped around his wheelchair's skirtrail. Green oxygen tank. Three pulmonary embolisms. Clots that travelled from legs to lungs like the plague arrows of Phoebus Apollo.

He survived.

I know about the fruit snacks. He's been my roommate for eight years.Each night I fall asleep to the subterranean hiss of his CPAP machine. I doubt I could get much rest without it anymore.

Something has finally let go inside his brain. I've seen others go through this, but this.....this feels so different.  I was fresh from Development-Phase when we were placed together. He taught me everything. Expectations. Unspoken rules.  How to be happy.

"Strawberry? You must have some really good friends in the kitchen."

His shoulders jerk up and down. Emphysemic laugh. Irises the grey of unsmelt ore. A homo-sapien variant, unlike my own burnt gold ones. He slaps the table in his laughing fit. By some miracle the chess pieces stay put.

"You want to know my secret, Abraham?  You wouldn't guess it in a million years."

Your coveted elder statesman status?" I ask.

A sly look-around. His head inches towards me over thinned-out ranks of pawns and royalty.

"I told the kitchen ladies I'm packing an eight-inch slab.  They think they can bribe me with extra food." Although it isn't necessary, he points down towards his crotch to convey the full meaning.

Taboo subject matter. The third edict of our community. Sexual Expression Leads to Aggression.They even put things in our food to keep those impulses under control.  Still our hormones always find a way.

I can't hold it in. My laugh sounds like the stupid bray of a barnyard creature on a Development-Phase toy.  What sound does the donkey make?  The sound of Abraham laughing....that's it.

Good thing no one hears.

The single Caretaker is busy flirting with a plain woman at the cafeteria counter. Even Gasper, sitting with his usual toadies, doesn't notice.

"We'll get in trouble!" I tell him.  "Privileges revoked.  Transgression therapy."

His eyes never stop twinkling.

Because one rule has already been broken, I decide to step on another.  Not their rules, but one of ours.

I have a couple standout talents. One is eavesdropping on my own kind.No one else could get away with it. Unlike humans, we can feel outside connections almost like a physical touch.  It's something we just don't do to each other, like stealing.

For some reason, however – miracle of genetic variation, I suppose - I was born different. A mental touch as light as a pickpocket working a busy street. No one knows I can do it. Not even Gabriel.

I suppose secrets are valuable here because we have so few.

A feeling like plant-runners pushes through my scalp and crossing the cold void of space. Next thing you know, I can see and feel the patchiness of Gabriel's thoughts. And it's much worse than I thought.

There's a sharpness to him, but there's also something about his brain that feels like a dull knife.  Logic circuits rusted. He's not even thinking five moves ahead.  More like three and playing the rest as textbook as he can.

I should move my pawn to B-9.  Set the slaughter in motion. But I can't. For some reason, my fingers are trembling when I switch the defensive position of my rook.  Three moves, and my own king is dead. Finished.  Given up the ghost.

I know exactly what I'm doing.

Another warm half-smile.  He sees the opening.  Thank goodness.

"Looks like I can still teach you a thing or two, Abraham.  You're bright, but you need to stick with me a few more years."

I hope he can last a few more years before he becomes a vegetable.  I understand the homo-sapien concept of friendship – at least in the ideal sense – and Gabriel fits that definition more than anyone else.

"What are you talking about, Gabe?  I've been lapping you for years."

We play out the rest of our game.  I make a big deal out of sighing in frustration.  In dramatic fashion, I tip my king over and watch him fall to the chessboard.

The noble death of a regent. I don't feel a sense of loss.  At least not about the game.

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NOTE TO READER: THIS IS UNFINISHED. YES, I'M GOING TO PAINT MORE OF ABRAHAM'S WORLD. I GOT A LOT OF WORK AHEAD OF ME.

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