*I would like to say that this is technically not a game. It is, however set within the universe that the other Slave Games are, and will hopefully cater to the same audience. I will consider changing the series name, though I don't know what to call it.*
It is said by many that Helen can only really come to life with marble.
"And these women are called the Caryatids, women charged to hold the world on their heads. The male equivalent would be that of Atlas. Remember please do not touch the pieces."
She adored the look it gave to a sculpture, in its youth a smooth surface unblemished by the flittering colours beneath, in age a sombre dullness that survived the rise and fall of empires. Surely all would agree it was the most superior form of artistic expression, more stoic than the canvas, more enduring than the word, more magnificent than even the physique of a bodybuilder or pornstar.
Was it little wonder then that she ended up studying history of art?
That other academics, her parents included, disagreed with her obsession sat ill in her stomach, but she was glad in the end that the rift between her and her family drove her to fly halfway round the world to escape them. On her graduation she basically fled to be amongst her beloved marbles. A gap year travelling Britain, Rome, Greece, soon extended itself to a second. She paid her way first through a donation page, then by offering amateur tours around museums, and finally as a softcore porn model posing in the nude. Her speciality was imitating statues.
Then suddenly, as the second year of ignoring her parent's calls began a third, she got the dream job of a lifetime.
She almost couldn't believe the job advert when she first saw it. One of her fans had actually sent her the link, and at first it seemed like a scam. Why would the museum want her to submit her proportions and height? Eventually she shrugged and put in some numbers that were as close as she could remember. After all, she would never forgive herself if she passed up the opportunity.
She and a few other young educated women were selected for interview and to her delight she was one of five of them selected to become tourguides around the newly-opened Acropolis museum.
And that, now clad in her few-sizes-too small (she should have paid more attention to the application after-all) white shirt, pencil skirt, and cute little glasses, was how a twenty-four year old woman was living her dream in Athens.
"The five you see here are the real. The Parthenon and Erechtheion as you can see out the window are being repaired and restored and so the ones you can see up there are in fact replicas. While some argue that repairing it will diminish its value, Greece and the Museum are going to great lengths to make sure that any restorations or replicas are as true to the original as possible."
She had a good rapport with the other girls guiding visitors round the museum. Each of them served primarily by request of tour groups rather than as a permanent service, meaning that rarely did they see each other even in passing in the museum offices, Helen also spent quite a bit of her time helping with the renovations up at the Acropolis. Despite that they would often organise a girls night out on the town, so they weren't distant.
So it was a shock when, four month ago, one of the girls just dropped off the radar, no social media, nothing, and the Museum director told them she'd decided to return home.
"The restoration is projected to last another fifteen years and is funded in part by your ticket price. Without these contributions these renovations could not continue. That concludes our tour, thank you."
More confusingly was that the other girls just sort of dropped off, one by one, as the months went by, even though their contracts all ran for a full year. None of them ever announced the plans. Cassandra even told Helen that she was planning to stay at least another six months. Of course, more young women were hired to fill the gaps, and soon Helen was the lone woman left of the original cohort.
She clacked her modest heels through the staff door, the curator had asked her to come have a quick chat at the end of her day. She stepped in through his office and greeted the stodgy but kind old man.
"Thank for coming in Helen, if you would like to take a seat, and would you like a drink? Water?"
She gladly accepted in the summer heat.
"As you know your contract runs for another five months, but the museum would like to say that we're very pleased with your performance so far, and with our recent hires we'd like to offer you a position as a supervisor. This would be in addition to your..."
She felt giddy with excitement as she took another sip to hide her joy.
"...and would also be a permanent and fixed position, with correspondingly more rigid rules, but I can attest that while restrictive they can be rewarding. We would like to offer a salary increase of..."
She took a few more gulps, still feeling the heat of the early afternoon, perhaps she was more dehydrated than she had first realised.
"-elen. Helen? Are you okay, you don't look well."
"Yeah," she fumbled with the bottle trying to take another gulp. "I'm okay, I'm just... a little...the water tastes funny."
"Oh that's wonderful."
On second thought, she didn't feel to good.
"...worried I hadn't given you a high enough dose..."
She couldn't hear another word as she slipped forwards onto the desk and into unconsciousness.
When she awoke it was dark, whether from time or environment she would not learn, as for as soon as she stirred and made to glance about, she heard a crack and a sharp sting down her spine, like strong static. She scrabbled to try to get up.
"Stay where you are. Close your eyes." A male voice said from the darkness behind her.
It took another electric shock to persuade her of the seriousness of the speaker. A third was required to stop her from reaching to rub the painful spots.
"Stay perfectly still."
She did so, and no further shocks arrived. As she slowly recovered she began to feel her body again. First the overwhelming feeling of lingering pain, then the cool air on her skin as she realised she was naked, then the dry taste from sleeping with an open mouth. And a throbbing heat coming from the back of her neck.
Seconds, then minutes, passed without any further words or strikes. Helen began to shiver from fear and cold, staying perfectly still curled in the foetal position. After a while she built up the courage again to try something, anything.
"Where am I?" she asked the darkness.
"Do not talk," it replied after a long pause, but even as she winced in fear, did not strike her.
"Why am I here?"
"Do not talk or you will be shocked."
Time passed, slowly, trapped in the fear of her own mind. She kept thinking that she could take the pain, that she was going to stand up and fight back, that she was going to escape. A moment later she would mentally shrink back in terror of punishments unknown. She kept expecting to wake up in her bed having overcome a night-terror, but no matter what she couldn't overcome her barriers and move.
Soon she began to drift into a feverish cold dream, but as her breathing slowed and she reached the precipice the voice yelled "Do not sleep." She was careful to stay alert after that.
She didn't know how long she had been lying there for. Hours? Days? Seconds? She tried counting her heartbeat but kept losing count around a thousand.
Did anyone know she was missing yet?
Was this what had happened to the others?
What came next?
"You have been still for one hour. You may move. You may open your eyes. Do not talk."
She finally freed from paralysis to find herself exactly the same place as before. A darkened room, four walls, a ceiling, and a floor. Tentatively, scared of getting shocked again, she carefully looked around in light of the single dim spotlight in the ceiling above.
The walls were rough concrete poured quickly, marred by a series of circular black glass inlays. The floor was smoother, cold like the air, and marked only by three concentric squares of white in the centre, the smallest she could have stood within, the second she could kneel in, the third would fit her lying head to toe. In one wall was the object of her greatest attention however; the millimetre wide outline of a door. The door. And it had no handle. A vent in the ceiling blew in warm air.
