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It was my evilest, cleverest, wickedest scheme yet, and I almost believed it wouldn’t fail.

Of course, my evil scheme was what more grounded commentators might call “sharing a hobby with a friend” or “going on a date with a girl I like,” but I’ve had years of experience ignoring such ignorant naysayers, treasonous dissidents, and audacious heretics. The fact that all my most vocal critics live inside my head gives me a lot of practice tuning out their complaints.

While it’s true that I’m madly in love with Sophia Lane, I hold no delusions about my chances of ever becoming her girlfriend. Sophia is, to put it succinctly, something of a human angel, and I’m more of a human trash pile. She graduated from college with top marks and put that big beautiful brain of hers to work immediately, while I dropped out of college halfway through and now I sleep on Sophie’s couch. She’s a beautiful blonde, I’m a shambling brunette. She wears skirts and cardigans, I wear jeans and hoodies. She helps cats and dogs for a living, I scam horny losers on the internet. Sophia Lane is a ray of sunshine as earnest as they come, and Rachel Emily is a goblin.

No, I don’t delude myself. The most I ever hope for is a few more moments of her time.

So our trip to the local game shop isn’t really a date, as much as I’d love to believe otherwise, and I’m quite happy to make the mental edit from “I want my closest friend to play my favorite trading card game with me” to “I want to get another hapless victim addicted to cardboard crack.” It’s basically the truth! Or at least, that’s what I tell myself.

At the store counter, Sophia looks askance at the shelves and shelves of colorful booster packs. “Are you sure about this, Rachel?” she asks me. “I’ve heard you rant about rarities in this game a dozen times, and you’ve shown me how bad the odds are for finding a specific card by random pull. Isn’t ‘buy singles’ the classic adage of the community? You won’t get your money’s worth doing it this way.”

“Ah, but what if I hit the jackpot?” I grin at my roommate with as much impishness as I can muster, knowing—or perhaps hoping—that she’ll take the bait.

“You could, but you’re far more likely not to. Statistically speaking, the vast majority of packs you open have to be a net loss for you in order for ‘winning pulls’ to have the value that they do. Otherwise the market would normalize closer to the sale value of the pack, pushing down those lucky outliers.” Sophie rattles off dry analysis with a genuine enthusiasm that I always find so charming. This isn’t even her area of expertise and she’s still primed to read the data.

“It’s true, it’s true. But there’s one thing you’re forgetting, my dear Sophia: I might lose every gamble and get stuck with a pile of worthless cardboard, but a whole bunch of those useless cards will have pretty girls printed on them. Now hit me, dealer!”

Sophia hands over her credit card with a put-upon sigh and a roll of the eyes, but there’s no real reluctance in the act itself. There never is. I chat up Liz at the register and point out the packs I want, all six from the same set. The box they’re in has the VisageCorp logo slapped on the front of it, and a bit of marketing copy proudly proclaims “A magical girl in every pack!”

I guess I should give you a bit of background while we’re here.

Ten years ago, the planet Jupiter vanished from the night sky. Two minutes later, the Jovians announced their presence on Earth by gifting magical powers to a thirteen-year-old girl. That teenage girl, the very first witch, turned the state of Texas into a smoking crater.

The Jovians reevaluated their approach. Nowadays they only recruit from adults, and the witches and magical girls they empower keep the collateral damage in check. Once humanity got over the collective shock of learning that magic is real and aliens have it, a Japanese virtual idol company jumped on the chance to add genuine magical girls to their roster. Militaries and humanitarian organizations followed suit.

That idol handler, VisageCorp, farms their girls out to whatever company can pay for them, making brand deals with everything from Nascar to Monster Energy. An appearance in one of the world’s most popular trading card games was inevitable.

When the receipt prints, I scoop up my spoils and hand the credit card back to Sophie. We sit down at the nearest table to peel open packs and rifle through the entrails. Every pack has a guaranteed magical girl inside, but the really high-value picks—the chase cards—are kept ultra-rare. The odds of me pulling a Pearl Princess or one of the Twilight Sisters are basically nonexistent.

That’s fine; the only magical girl I really want to see wouldn’t sign on with Visage even if they gave her a billion dollars. Well, no, she’d probably take the money and donate it all to charity, then do the contractual minimum before quitting.

Still, I love collecting. The sound of the wrapper foil crinkling as I rip open pack after pack is the sweetest of songs. The contents inside are less sweet, being mostly chaff and bulk that hits the market with high supply and low demand, but that’s expected from a draft booster. I sort the cards into piles with practiced precision. It’s been a while since I went to local events with any regularity, but I haven’t forgotten the habits I drilled into myself when I still had dreams of winning a tournament some day.

Sophia, seated across from me, eyes the sorting process with a focused interest that I recognize as the gears in her brain churning away. She glances at each pile of cards as I add to the stack, gaze darting across text and symbols, but she doesn’t ask what any of it means. She waits until I’m on my fifth pack before shifting forward, a hand beneath her chin, and beginning her interrogation.

“I’m curious what it is that you get, materially or psychologically, from opening packs instead of buying the cards directly. Is it just the chemical thrill of a metaphorical dice throw, or is there another appeal I’m not seeing?” There’s no judgment in her voice, only genuine curiosity.

I finish sorting the fifth batch of cards and take the sixth pack in hand, sensing an opportunity to play my usual mind games. I slow my pace for this last pack, opening the booster wrapper with unusual tenderness and care. “I’m never one to knock a bit of gambling, you know that, but you’re right that there’s more to it than just a bit of risk-induced excitement. Take this pack, for example: in teasing apart the foil that was so precisely printed and sealed, I destroy the beauty without to claim the beauty within. It was made for this, its artistic design destined for a death knell, and it goes to that end with pride and grace. It utters only the slightest of crinkled whimpers as I take its life.

“Ah, but inside, the treasures that it hid are revealed as false idols, their worth a fragile illusion sold by a wrapping now in tatters. In this, we see a familiar kind of yearning: the gap between one’s desire for wealth and the destitute reality that curses us all. We see it again in this pair of cards I lay side by side, near but never touching, as they dwell within the space between wanting and fulfillment. This too is yuri.”

Sophia squints at the cards in question. “That card’s a catapult and that’s some kind of glowing bog. How is any of that ‘yuri?’”

I rub my hands together with glee, fully prepared for this next question. “Imagine, if you will, a pair of girls called to war, kept together by sheer coincidence as they are tasked with pushing a catapult to the front lines of conflict. They know they might not survive, but they still hesitate to confess their deeply-held feelings for another, kept silent by fear of love unrequited. The catapult reaches swampland and finds it unsuited for traversal, like a pit trap waiting to swallow it whole, but is that relationship not also a forbidden love? The allure of the will-o-wisps as they dance above the waterline, those muddy black pools hiding a hundred years of secrets, where a machine that was built only to destroy may find itself nurturing the cycle of life through a brave yet ultimately meaningless sacrifice.” I pause for effect, then finish, “It’s yuri of absence, you uncultured swine. Read a book.”

Sophie raises an eyebrow. “So, I take it from the insults that you don’t want me to buy you another pack?”

My faux-indignant smugness immediately collapses and I flash Sophie my best doe eyes, quivering my lip for added failgirl energy. “I’m sorry,” I whine softly. “I’ve been such a bad girl. Please buy me another pack, miss.”

Sophia physically cringes and I score another victory point in my mental tally. “Oh god, never do that again. If you stop that right now and promise to never, ever do it again, I’ll buy you one of the fancy collector packs you kept eyeballing.”

“One week,” I haggle, switching to ruthless mercantilism just as swiftly as I’d adopted my last persona.

Sophie rolls her eyes at my shameless behavior, but I can see the corner of her mouth twitching with hidden mirth. “Fine, fine, deal. It’s not like you’d remember it for longer, anyhow.”

I rise from my chair and give her a big grin. “You’re the best sugar mommy a girl could ask for.”

Sophie follows me back to the register and threatens, “I will hide your gummies. I’ll stick them by my heater so they melt.”

I gasp. “You wouldn’t dare! And you don’t even know where they are!”

“Closet by the front door, third hanger from the left, stuffed into the right pocket of a jacket you never wear,” Sophia recites perfectly. “You know, where you always hide your food and drugs, you absolute human squirrel.”

“The victory is yours,” I hastily concede. “I beg of thee, my liege, spare the innocent intoxicants. Hey, look, boosters!”

One sale later, I open my first and only money card of the day. “Oh, hell yes! Look at this beauty,” I crow. The card in question is from a special rarity series that puts the Visage girls on existing high-value game pieces in an anime art style. This one features the Underworld Heiress, Memento, bullying Dusk of the Twilight Sisters. “This thing sells for easily a hundred bucks. The regular art for this card is just a dude coughing up coins, and these are two of the more popular streamers in Visage. I would know, I watch them a lot.”

Sophia examines the card and lets a frown touch her face for just a moment before forcing it away. “The idea of heroines agreeing to commodify themselves still feels wrong to me,” she admits, “but I’m glad they can live comfortably. So, are you going to sell the card?”

“Hell no! Look at the smug laughter of Memento as she plays the role of haughty social superior. Look at how Dusk is turning away from her, head in her hands, but through her fingers you can see the faintest ghost of a smile. Forget all that nonsense I spouted earlier, now this is yuri. Those two are incredibly good at yuri baiting and I am not immune.”

Sophia laughs, short and sweet, and suddenly the whole day is worth it. Her golden curls frame her face with an angelic beauty matched by her twinkling emerald eyes. Her smile lights up her whole face with radiant, glowing warmth. I could get so lost in that smile I’d forget to eat or drink, utterly enchanted by the light she emits. Every joke I tell, every false persona and rambling narrative, they’re all for moments like this one. For the chance to see Sophie smile.

Then a loathsome sound interrupts my precious moment and I want to scream and punch something. Sophie’s phone rings, and when she glances at the caller ID her face immediately falls. She steps away and takes the call, and just like that all my hopes for the afternoon are withering to rot and dust.

Sophie works as a vet tech at a non-profit, and among their team she’s far and away the most dedicated to her work, not to mention the best at it. Her supposed free hours are filled with calls just like this one, the clinic pulling her away to one crisis or another.

Or at least, that’s what she says. And hey, I’m sure a few of those calls really are about her vet work. But the rest are about fighting witches.

Sophia Lane’s big secret is that she’s one of those magical girls off saving lives and keeping our city safe from the ever-looming tide of darkness. As the heroine Strix Striga, she’s one of the most effective and respected magical girls in the entire city, maybe the entire state. Part of what makes her such a good heroine—no, such a good person—is that she can never resist helping someone in need, whether they asked for it or not. It’s one of those details about Sophie that makes her so lovable.

I think I might hate her for that.

She comes back with pain etched into every line of her face, and I already know what she’s going to say. “Rachel, I—”

“It’s an emergency,” I say quietly. “I get it.”

My roommate bites her lip, looking even more pained, but she nods. “I’m so sorry, I know you were excited about this. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. I’m sorry.”

“I’ll be fine,” I lie. “Your work is more important than a silly card game.” More important than me. “You’ve got lives to save, right?”

“Always,” she says, sounding utterly exhausted. Sophia always sounds tired when she gets those calls, but she never stops answering them. She’s making herself a saint, whispers my mind. A bleeding martyr. She’ll keep fighting until she gets herself killed saving some stupid innocent who doesn’t even know her real name, and then I’ll be alone again.

I ignore my inner voice and plaster a warm, encouraging smile on my face. “Hey, really, it’s okay. I’ll clean up here and find some lunch. Text me if you get back early, and if you don’t, no sweat. And… good luck.”

Relief floods her face, always more open and honest than mine. “Thank you for being so understanding, Rachel, now and all the other times. I really… I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

If only you knew. I wonder if you’d hate me, if you ever got to know the real me.

When I’m sure Sophie’s gone, I let it all wash over me. The anger boils in my veins and closes my hands into tight-clenched fists. I want to bang on the table and leave a dent, but I’m still too lucid to make such an obvious mistake. I grind my teeth, wishing for something to bite, but I’m too angry to get up and find food. What else do I want?

I glare holes into the piles of trading cards that I sorted for nothing. My ultimate scheme was to entice Sophia with the elegant mathematics of deck construction, explaining concepts like mana curves and the probabilities behind recommended ratios of mana sources to spells. I’m certain she would have loved it, the adorable nerd that she is. But now I’m left with a bunch of reminders that I’ll never really get to have time with her to myself, and it makes me want to set the cards on fire or drown them in a sink. I want to break something that’s mine.

But, these cards aren’t mine. Or, they are, but they’re also a gift from the only person I care about. Sophie bought these for me, casual as the gesture was, and I’m not so petty as to destroy something like that just to sate my irrational frustration. Not that I think she’d even notice if I did, with how little attention she has to spare for anything that’s not work or heroics.

My eyes are getting watery and I hate it, so I scrunch my eyes tight and force the tears away. I won’t cry over something this stupid, I won’t. I refuse. I can’t be that weak.

I force myself to do something productive and sweep all the card piles into a deck box I brought for the occasion, one I’d been hoping would hold a real deck built from my pack pulls. I shove the box of cards into my bag and sling the bag around my shoulder. I still feel like shit, but I have the wherewithal to ping the clinical side of my brain for assistance.

Emotional instability is amplified when I don’t take care of my physical needs. Inappropriately intense responses are a common consequence of insufficient sleep, nutrition, or hydration. Did I sleep enough last night? How many meals have I eaten since waking up, and does that number sound appropriate? Have I been drinking water?

The irritating string of therapy-speak and checklist items invades the forefront of my consciousness and I have the urge to bat it away, but half the point of this dumb technique is making me more aware of when my impulses are aberrant and being unduly influenced by chemical factors. The trick is useful, even if I find it annoying when I’m in the throes of that chemical influence, so I follow the checklist.

I made sure to get good sleep last night so that I’d be rested for today, and I’ve been sipping lemonade for the past half hour, but I haven’t actually eaten anything since breakfast and it’s just about noon. I was going to get lunch with Sophie after card games, but that’s not happening anymore. Knowing my luck, Sophie will probably be gone the whole day, so I guess I should probably just… go eat.

I step out of Troll Bridge Games and try my best to ignore the bleating screeches of people and cars. Forks is fairly mid-sized for Washington, falling distantly short of Seattle but beating out Bellevue and Everett after a whole lot of rapid development in the past two decades. The urban sprawl is a little much for me at times, but I’m never leaving so long as Sophie stays here. Besides, we’ve got the highest population of magical girls in the state.

Rainbow flashes in the distance mark the presence of magical girls doing what they do best: fending off their dark counterparts. Given the timing, that’s probably the fight that Sophie is on her way to join. A part of me wants to go watch it up close, even if it would be safer to go digging for a stream instead.

If I got really close, right up into the melee, maybe Strix Striga would be the one to save me. It would be crazy risky, and I might even die, but wouldn’t that be worth getting Sophia to pay attention to me? Maybe she’d even show me her secret identity, and I could be the girl she comes home to, like the Lena Luthor to her Supergirl. If all she really cares about is saving people, I just have to become another victim for her to save, right?

I cross another street without looking either way, and I’m so lost in my own thoughts that I almost don’t notice the black cat that crosses my path.

Now, when I say “black cat,” I should really be saying “purple cat,” because the black base of its fur is paired with tufts of bright purple along its chest, ears, and paws. The cat is collared, but the collar is really more like a bronze necklace engraved with what looks like a vase or jug. The cat’s eyes are glowing silver orbs with pinprick pupils of gold, and they’re staring right at me.

Jovian. That’s a Jovian. Why is a Jovian looking at me!?

The feline flicks its tail once, holding eye contact with me, and then it turns away and walks around a corner.

That’s one of the aliens that hands out magic powers. One of the otherworldly entities that creates magical girls and witches out of ordinary human women. And judging by its coloration, I’m guessing it’s more the type to make villainesses than heroines.

Sophia wouldn’t have been tempted. Sophia would never even consider chasing after one of the dark side Jovians to beg it for magic powers. But I was never as good as her.

I need what it can give me. I need magic.

It’s my best chance at making Sophia care about me.

I break into a sprint and chase after the cat. I veer around the corner it went behind and see it vanish into an alley. I race towards the alley, pushing my muscles to their very limit because I cannot let this chance slip away from me.

I step into the alleyway and skid to a halt as the ordinary city street opens up into an endless expanse of swirling stars and broken moons. The cat is waiting where the asphalt fractures into a thousand drifting particles, sitting calmly at the fraying edge of reality. The Jovian swishes its tail as it watches my careful approach. It tilts its head, still maintaining eye contact, and then it speaks in a high-pitched voice that straddles the line between creepy and cute.

“Rachel Emily. How would you like to become a witch?”

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