Day 2: Helena (Strategic Considerations)

Day 2 sees you having breakfast at Rebekah’s for another planning session. There’s a knock at the door just after ten. You’re halfway through your toast when Rebekah looks up from her war board of color-coded post-its and spreadsheets.

“That’ll be Helena,” she says, already rising.

You open the door. Helena Vasquez is standing there in bike shorts, a zip-up cropped hoodie, and lip gloss that catches the morning sun. She's chewing gum with slow precision and holding her phone like it's the leash to your attention.

“Hi Daddy,” she coos, chewing her gum like it’s flavored with porn tropes.

You stare at her.

She giggles, stepping inside. “Too much?”

You glance at Rebekah.

“Sign the damn contract,” Rebekah says, holding it out without even saying hello.

Helena sighs, the character dropping like a cloak. “Fine, fine. Worth a shot.”

She reads the page quickly, eyebrows ticking up at the precision. “You wrote this?”

Rebekah shrugs. “You’re technically a **** for the week, but only to complete tasks that further our challenge wins. You don’t get to fold laundry and pretend it’s submission.”

Helena snorts, signs. “Fine. Task me, mistress.”

You sit forward chuckling as the two strong women goad each other. “Do you know Delilah Zheng by any chance?”

Helena nods, suddenly much more alert. “Yes. We served on the residence committee last year. She’s sharp. Weirdly soft-spoken. Smells like ginger tea and judgment.”

Rebekah cuts in. “Figured as much. You two move in similar circles. She’s a target this week. We were going to play the blowjob card.”

Helena immediately shakes her head. “Nope. Not a chance. You want to be the guy she did that for? She’ll never give you a second of leverage. She trades in courtesy and plausible deniability. Blowjob? Too transactional. Too easy to throw in her face.”

You can’t resist. “ ‘In her face’? Did you really say that?”

Rebekah sighs as she looks at you. Her glare makes it seem like she’s annoyed with a child.

“So what, then?” you ask.

Helena taps her temple. “Something unexpected. Something taboo enough to rattle her out of diplomat mode—but that she still controls.” She flips through the spreadsheet Rebekah printed, glancing at your deck. “Anal.”

You blink. “Seriously? She won’t go for a blowjob but she’d do anal?”

“Trust me,” Helena says. “It’s the only high-yield card that lets her take control without looking like she wanted to. She gets to decide if, when, how, and you don’t get to brag. Perfect for her image.”

Rebekah tilts her head, calculating. “You think you can set it up?”

“Give me two days.” Helena smirks. “I’ll plant the seed. If she doesn’t bite, you’re out a few compliments and some well-timed listening.”

Rebekah still looks skeptical, but the gamer in her won’t throw away a tactical edge. “Fine. Two days. But I’m logging this.”

“I’m guessing you log everything,” Helena says sweetly, then turns to you. “Good luck prepping. If she says yes, you’re going to need it.”

She’s gone before you think to ask what that means. Rebekah’s already writing three new contingencies. She seems disgruntled and you can guess why. She makes her plans, plots her course and in all likelihood hates it when someone else forces that to change. But Helena seems like an excellent way to get access to Delilah, and Rebekah wouldn’t be the strategist she is if she ignored a resource like that. At least it’s progress, and possibly a plan.

You’re crossing the campus quad in the late afternoon, stomach still unsettled from Rebekah’s soy-chicken stir fry. Heat lingers, but it’s not oppressive—just enough to slow the world down. You’re not thinking of much. You’re mostly trying not to.

Then you hear laughter. Sharp, genuine. A real laugh—not the social kind. You glance toward the sound, and that’s when you see her.

Sabine Moreau.

Rolling casually through the sunlit courtyard, chatting with a student you vaguely recognize from some campus meeting. She’s wearing a crimson tank top, sunglasses pushed up like she couldn’t be bothered to care how cool she looks, and cutoff jeans that reveal firm thighs and the bronze arcs of her carbon-fiber braces. Her wheelchair isn’t hospital-issue; it’s sleek, fitted, part of her like a leather jacket would be on someone else. She flicks a wheel with an idle hand gesture while talking, relaxed and animated.

You stop walking. You don’t mean to. Your body just… pauses. You hadn’t pictured her like this.

Hell, you hadn’t pictured her at all. Not properly. Just… a checkbox.

“Professor’s niece.”

“Wheelchair user.”

“Jennie.”

“Anal.”

You’d let the card define the woman. And suddenly, here she is—alive. Present. Attractive. Laughing like she owns the sun.

You swallow.

Rebekah’s beside you before you realize it, sipping something iced and expensive. She follows your gaze without comment, then flicks her eyes toward you. You don’t look at her, but you can feel her watching.

The laugh rings out again.

Sabine leans back in her chair slightly, lifts her arms behind her head in an **** stretch. Her tank rides up a little. She’s tanned. Toned. Not helpless. Not hiding. Not yours to define. Not asking for anything except maybe more of whatever that guy she’s with just said.

You look away. Guilt sours your throat.

“You okay?” Rebekah asks, finally.

You nod. “Yeah.”

She doesn't press. She doesn’t have to. The pause is already filed away, added to her mental flowchart of tells. You start walking again. Rebekah doesn’t say a word.

Behind you, the laughter fades into the courtyard heat. But it doesn’t leave you. You remember what Freya had said. Talk to her before you assume. Inside, you feel a conflict burning.

It’s just past nine when you come back from a walk around the block. You had no real destination, just needing to enjoy the chill of the evening air. You’re gone for an hour before heading back to Rebekah’s house, somewhere you’ve been staying more and more this last week. There’s a faint light is on in the dining room.

You pause in the hallway. Rebekah’s there. She’s alone, hair up in a loose knot now, one leg tucked beneath her, laptop open in front of her like always. The screen’s glowing softly against her face. But she’s not typing. Not scrolling. Not multitasking. She’s just staring.

You step closer—quiet as you can. You’re not sure why.

The window’s open a crack. A breeze is moving the blinds. Her coffee's long gone cold, untouched since dinner.

On the screen is the player leaderboard. You recognize it instantly. Each of you ranked by total score, with the weekly and cycle gains too. The odds and favorability ratings also line up on the screen. Your name’s there. Proudly on top of the heap in total score and cycle gains. It even shows your popularity is at 95%. The straight flush clearly made you the man to deal with. Rebekah’s cursor is hovering next to your name but not clicking anything. Not opening stats. Just… holding.

Then she does something that surprises you. She closes the window. Her spreadsheets vanish. A new tab slides forward like muscle memory.

It's a photo. You blink.

You didn’t mean to look. You wouldn’t have, if you’d known.

It’s an old picture, low-res, probably from a flip phone. Rebekah’s younger—high school maybe. No tattoos yet. Hair different. She’s smiling awkwardly at the camera. Not performing. Not curating. Just smiling.

There’s a guy next to her. A brother? A boyfriend? He’s cropped halfway out, but his arm’s over her shoulder. She’s holding something in her hands—some kind of trophy. A chess queen in gold forms the stand. She’s holding it like it doesn’t matter.

She looks proud. But tired.

Rebekah exhales. Not loud. Not theatrical. Just… tired. She moves the mouse again. Closes the tab. Reopens the spreadsheets. The warboard. The real game.

You step back, carefully, before she notices you. Give her the privacy you accidentally stole. Because you’ve never seen her like that before. ****. Real. Divorced from her win-at-all-costs gamer girl persona. In that picture she had seemed so different, a gamer, yes and obviously skilled. But it was just one part of her, and not the most important. You’re not sure what to do with that.

Evening settles in. Rebekah’s buried in her laptop again, spreadsheet tabs multiplying like spores. Helena's off chasing leads. You've got three cards in play, one on hold, and what feels like the weight of a semester's worth of pressure aimed squarely at your chest.

You close your notebook. You've done the math. The points add up. The strategy is sound for this week, but you’re still struggling with your thoughts about Sabine. Sure, in public she seemed a vision of strength and joy, but you know how shitty the world can be and you don’t want to be the one who makes her see that yet again.

“Talk to her before you assume,” said Freya.

You sigh. Why does it feel like everythigs slipping? Like your very soul is just sand in an hour glass.

“I’m gonna head back to the dorm,” you tell Rebekah. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Back in your phone you mull over what’s going on. Your fingers hover over your phone a moment. Then, almost without thinking, you open the group chat for active players. Most of it is memes, brag posts, bad innuendos. But tonight you don’t feel like being clever.

You type:

"Does anyone else feel like this game is messing with them?"

You stare at it. No emoji. No irony. No clever twist. Just the question.

You hit send.

Then you turn your screen off and leave it face-down on the table.