Simon watched the woman across from him fiddle with her bishop. She gave a flustered little look to her shot clock, eyes darting across the board one more time, then shrugged, smiled, and tracked it across the board to take his knight.

  It was all he could take not to vomit.

  His expression never wavered. He was nearly 99% confident that nobody in the room with him had the slightest idea that he was feeling anything other than polite interest. But inside, Simon was melting down. The rage boiling in the back of his throat was acrid enough to make him nauseous. He made a noncommittal, panicked defensive play with his rook, nodded politely at the ninth of his twelve opponents, and shuffled on down the line.

  Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid god fucking damn dog brained stupid goddamn ASSHOLE I’m gonna lose. I’m gonna lose I’m gonna lose I am GOING to LOSE.

  The next competitor down the line, one of a dozen selected to face him simultaneously at the University of Minnesota’s annual chess club exhibition match, had already made his move, a textbook moronic feint with a pawn that Simon would’ve seen from a mile away, blindfolded and in a coma. He smiled at the kid, one of those cute-as-a-button nine year old chess “prodigies” that always wormed their way into these events, made a devastating counter, and moved on, his brain whirring away, still stuck in space three feet back.

  Gave her too much god damn TIME is what I did. Left center totally open. Fucking STUPID god damn- Father always says not to take these for granted, not to let my guard down. God, there are photographers here, they’re going to see, everyone’s going to watch me LOSE-

  In the time it had taken to formulate those few thoughts Simon had already parried two more competitors’ feeble misplays, and was enjoying the brief ten seconds of respite he got as he walked back to Board One.

  He took three staccato breaths, touched the tips of his fingers to his thumbs in a quick polyrhythm, and tried to clear his mind.

  It’s not over. It’s not totally over.

  He mentally summoned an image of Board Nine, pored over his options.

  If she pushes forward, if she gets too cocky too fast, I win. She might. She probably will.

  Checkmate at Board Three. Knight takes rook on Board Four. Board Five’s check in two.

  Right. I probably have 1,000 ELO on her. She’s going to get nervous. She’ll realize the scope of what she’s trying to do and the vertigo will throw her.

  Board Six checkmate, Board Seven mate in two, Board Eight check.

  I don’t have center, but I have solid positioning otherwise. Her queen’s already gone. Just as long as she pushes forward, just as long as she doesn’t-

  He was at Board Nine, and the woman had already made her move. His second knight was threatened. She’d maintained her position and was holding back, trying to force him out.

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  He beamed his polite smile down at her. The urge to smash the board was suddenly, nauseatingly overwhelming. His heart pounded in his ears, his tongue glued itself in place, his vision was just barely starting to swim. He needed to get out of here.

  He made a quick, rash advance with a pawn and almost jogged away to the next table.

  She has mate in three. She has mate in three. Don’t look over your shoulder. Don’t check if he’s here.

  Somewhere, a camera’s flash went off. Was the audience catching on? Simon vomited into his closed mouth and swallowed it instantly, his smile a clammy mask.

  Don’t check. Don’t look to see if he’s here.

  Board Ten mate in two, Board Eleven check.

  This can’t be happening. Don’t look.

  Board Twelve’s queen taken. Ten second walk back. He couldn’t help it, he looked.

  Father was standing amongst the meager crowd, looming over them, impassive eyes scanning Board Nine. Simon passed a fire alarm on the wall as he walked back, felt a sudden, idiot urge to pull it, to scream, to launch himself out the window, to turn around and tackle the lucky moron at Nine, to rip the board away and wipe that look of dawning hope from her face.

  This shouldn’t be happening. I’m supposed to be better.

  He was barely paying attention to the other boards now, making moves on autopilot. On board five his hand was shaking, and on six he accidentally fumbled a rook, had to make a frenzied little self-effacing chuckle and pick it from the carpet. His eyes kept darting back to Nine.

  Moron. Lucky idiot. Amateur. What are you even doing here? You’re probably in your twenties. There’s no room for you to go anywhere. What, you think you’re going to be a GM someday? Gonna go party with Magnus, gonna play some TV matches in Dubai when you’re FIFTY?

  A thin, burbling laugh slithered from Simon’s lips. His competitor at Board Eight looked slightly offended.

  You’re a one-trick pony, is what you are. Probably some basement dwelling bot grinder. Chess twenty hours a day. That’s not real intelligence. That’s not G. If you were- Oh, you’re smart enough to dodge check but you’re not smart enough to go pick up some Accutane?

  The woman scratched absently at a blemish on her cheek as she studied the board, as if she’d sensed his thoughts. She grinned, and Simon’s heart broke.

  God, please, someone save me.

  His vision was blurry now, colors all smudged, glowing starbursts exploding in his field of view. He had a massive migraine, right behind his eyes. The outline of his body tingled all over, as if his skin, his silhouette had turned to a mass of needles.

  God, you’re not real, but save me. Blow the building up. Send in a bomb threat. Active shooter. Tornado. Nuke. Meteor. Something. Kill me, kill her. Anyone.

  Simon’s hand had been hovering over his piece on Board Nine for ten seconds now. He felt the eyes on his back, felt the cameras coming up. His entire arm was visibly trembling. A single tear, unbidden and hated, escaped one eye and fell glittering to the floor.

  The woman noticed. She looked from the board to her competitor, saw the grief finally cracking his facade, and had the gall to look worried. To show concern.

  The roar in his ears was deafening now. His skin was pins, knives. Something was punching, rhythmically, in his chest, too strong to be his heart, an alien parasite breaking out of his rib cage. The woman said something but he could not hear, the pain was too great, the migraine blinding. From somewhere Simon registered a whiff of burning meat, of acrid smoke.

  God, please, save me. Kill me.

  The woman was still talking, insistent, then confused, then terrified. She had just enough time to lunge out of range before Simon, the table, the board, and about sixteen square feet of carpet around him burst into flames.