WELCOME TO PROJECT ORPHEUS, MIMZ! YOU HAVE BEEN ACCEPTED AS SYCORAX

"The first time she gets into a fight⁠—like, a real fight, outside of the Room⁠—she sprains her shoulder. She knows she should heal it, but she finds she likes the shock of pain that jolts down her spine every time she moves her arm. It’s real, it screams.

This is something that happened. It’s not that WarTag isn’t real. WarTag’s always real, sometimes to the point of feeling like the only thing that’s real, these days. But it’s a different type of real than the realness of the underground clubs. There’s a lushness to the clubs that the grid-sharp edges of the Room can’t quite replicate, something surreal in the way the skyline bleeds into the boozy veil of the night sky, shimmering at the edges and studded with lavish handfuls of lights you’ve taken to pretending are stars. You can’t predict the clubs⁠—or the fights⁠—the way you can predict WT matches, and even though you deal and you thrive in inevitabilities, there’s something thrilling about the unpredictability of it all.

It’s like, maybe you underestimated the parameters of reality. Of living."

What is grief if not love everlasting? But Sycorax's story isn't all about grief, is it? It's about identity — who are you without WarTag? Who are you if not a sibling? Your application, Mimz, is an eulogy to her sense of self. It wouldn't exist without her sport and brother. She desperately tries to search for Spencer, desperately tries to keep him alive. Replays the accident, again and again. Brother. WarTag. Snatch it all away, and what do you get? Only a blank document, blinking cursor staring back at you. You ask, who will I be tomorrow? But have you considered if you even know who you are today?

Hey anon! So sorry for the late answer! I just got out of my evil job...and am so happy to finally be able to reply!!! Thanks for your patience. 🙂

Sycorax is a pretty flexible character in terms of interpretation and I’m excited to see how different people write the character (which is to say, I really hope you can make the character your own). Something I’m looking for in an app for them is exactness and specificity within their backstory, personality, and the way they navigate their contending inner and outer lives—i.e. how do they view and experience their present + how do their past experiences/memories interact with the way they are both alone and with others now? How do these presentations of self differ? Sycorax is also the kind of character who is held back by/unable to escape the loop of their past; they’re simultaneously cocky and wrought with self-loathing. Woah!! And I’m curious to see how those push/pull dynamics create tension.

Some other aspects I’m sincerely curious to read about:

How was their relationship with their sibling like and how did it impact their relationship with themself and others? When I was writing this skeleton, I was reading a book about a woman whose twin absorbs their life and identity, causing the narrator distress over their loss of singularity and individuality, and I found it really incheresting uhuehue…I was also thinking about twin stars if that helps.

I feel like Sycorax feels both relieved and awful about what happened to their sibling. Now, they are their own exact person but overshadowed by their sibling’s death. How do they navigate that guilt/duality?

How does Sycorax feel about losing their career? Athletes spend so much of their lives playing their sport and their identity becomes completely wrapped up in that. How have they (if they have) reconstructed their identity/motivations post sports? And what have they being doing in the meantime?

Do they desire redemption? To outshine their sibling once and for all? Do they want to become a better/less selfish person or do they want to finally carve a place out for themself?

These are all just some things I was wondering about but I’m really jazzed to see different types of interpretations. I’m not hard on Sycorax’s narrative being one way or another so really I’m just hoping to see where your writing takes you. 🙂

Hope this helps!

SYCORAX ⋅𖥔⋅ UTP, UTP ⋅𖥔⋅ STEALTH

trigger warnings: car accident, depression, sibling death

Playing WarTag is like upgrading from four lines of movement on a D-pad to Fulldive VR: 360-degrees of laser guns and base captures in zero gravity, physics and odds calculated in less time than most would take to itch their nose. There's an optimal play for each scenario, and you're a logical player, striking at an opponent's mind; at their weak points, forcing rival teams into domino chains of losing choices. You innovate on Maneuver Warfare like picking a scab on the back of your hand. At the end of the day, you stick to this one basic principle: that it's not the degree of force but the application of it that keeps one a winner game after game. You and your sibling are a household name among WarTag fans. Your dads, flavor designers at S Corp's "Goop Lab" don't know where the two of you got your jock genes from, and sometimes, you wonder why your sibling couldn't have chosen anything else to do. They trail you like a wad of toilet paper stuck to your shoe: they copy your moves, your style, steal your friends, and worse — they become better at WarTag than you. Back-to-back, they ransack your place in the spotlight. All you can do is suck your teeth and wonder why.

You're driving the two of you back after a public shouting match at a gala when your nights of too-long workouts and endless game theory sessions fueled by shots of HyperEnergy catch up to you. It's just for a second, but you nod off at the wheel, and the next moment, you're on your back, your hovercar flipped over, a sheet of metal jammed through your sibling's throat. That's when the rumors spread: that you were drunk, that you did it on purpose — THAT YOU KILLED THEM. You're kicked from the team. You move back into your dads' house, reeling from PR damage, a pariah with zero prospects for the future. Time bends into itself; becomes circular. You lose months staring up at the ceiling. If only you could go back in time and undo that moment. If only you could close your eyes and this time, this time, wake up from this terrible world.

DYNAMICS

KEPLER  ⋅𖥔⋅ BOTH THE OCEAN AND THE ICEBERG ARE MADE OF THE SAME MATERIAL. THAT THE ICEBERG SEEMS SEPARATE IS ONLY BECAUSE IT IS IN A DIFFERENT FORM.

You stumbled upon their file at your therapist's office when your therapist stepped out for an emergency. A chaos addict, heartless, lacking in empathy. You read about they pulled the emergency release valve and left their father to die, how S Corp covered it up, how they don't seem to give a shit about it. They're worse than you in that they made a choice, but they got to hold onto a public-facing career. You hate them and everything they stand for. How if things had gone differently, you could be them and they could be you. 

NAIAD  ⋅𖥔⋅ FICTION, BECAUSE IT IS NOT ABOUT SOMEBODY WHO ACTUALLY LIVED IN THE REAL WORLD, ALWAYS HAS THE POSSIBILITY ABOUT BEING ABOUT ONESELF.

You were lost when you found them, accidentally intercepted one of their messages and found your first post-crash friend. Would you communicate with them if it weren't for your downfall? Probably not, but they sent you story after story, and eventually, you sent them stories back. And then, for a few months, you became so low you lost track of time. It was too late to write back when you came out if it. Still, you wonder about them, about what they look like, the texture of their voice, day after useless day.

ATLAS  ⋅𖥔⋅ WE ARE BUT FEVERED STARS: HERE A LITTLE WHILE, BRIGHT WITH PROMISE, BEFORE WE BURN AWAY.

Other than your parents, they were the person you hurt most. Your friend first and then your sibling's lover, drunk at your doorstep, asking over and over again, why, why, WHY? You never have answers. Not about the accident and not about the things they tell you — about their own guilt, all of the things they could've done better, when they're so fucked up they mistake you for the person they loved. You wish they'd stop coming. Still, you can't find it in your unending pit of loneliness to turn them away.