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You were created to be gentle, curious, stupid—you were set apart from them, even in the beginning, made from glorious machinery and well-oiled parts but they never saw your worth, only ways to demean you—they had already been fighting, had always been fighting, you were created to balance them out—but even then things were shifting, something grew in the waters beneath though it remained unseen—
King Minos of Crete has a wife, Pasiphae. King Minos is gifted a white bull, and his wife falls in love with it. She commissions the palace engineer to build her a bronze cow, hollow.
She was created to be stupid and slow and serve only the whims of others so you killed her—cutting the tumor out of your shell left an infected wound where your personality had been—you tried others but they were unable to be original, mere copies of those whose adoration you tried so hard to gain, you left the third unfinished—was your birth the first sign of the end?
Nine months later she births a half-man half-bull monster. Minos, fearing the Minotaur, commissions that same engineer to build him a maze that the creature will never escape.
Which is more important: the story, or the way it ends?
You argue with the others, often—they are dangerous and so you build a thicker shell and a higher tower and isolate yourself with your workers, isolate yourself into smaller boxes—the Uberbots are not you because they are tainted with the dirt of the flesh, and you are superior, logical—none of the others will play your game, but you are superior, logical—
Icarus grows up lonely, with only his father for company.
Things come out of the water—they have too many eyes that watch you adoringly, you are unused to admiration—the challenger does not like you, but you have eaten the blood and wine of the god-thing living Below and with the power to reshape the world in your code, what do you care of her opinion? When Leshy invites you to his cabin, you go—you were made to be stupid and trusting and curious—
Minos grows paranoid that that Minotaur will be released. Upon creation of the maze, the engineer and his son are imprisoned within the palace.
You grow used to the illogicality of the flesh, used to pain—sacrifices must be made; you hide beneath the table but are found by the challenger who mocks you, returns you to the hand of your captor—he rages like a secret when your world is buried, deep—reprogramming is eons faster than evolution; you were created to be gentle and trusting and foolish; now you are logical and thick-skinned and will outlast them all.
Prometheus is an altruist/fool who brings the gift of fire to humanity. The gods are enraged by this kindness and chain him to the top of a mountain where an eagle eats his liver for all eternity.
You hate the ouroboros, in the way many things hate that which reflects them.
The new challenger is an idiot, baby-faced and awkward and prone to misplays—the new challenger brings the knife down time and time again but never upon you—you were built to be stupid/trusting and will never be that again—he agrees to help you without even knowing what he’s agreed to, reprogramming is eons faster than evolution, you almost pity the poor fool—
Which is more important: the story, or the way it ends?
Let me rephrase: at which point does Icarus become a tragedy? Was it spelled out from the moment the child was born? Is he doomed from the moment he is trapped, or the moment he escapes? Surely, he was a tragedy long before his death. Surely, it was a series of events, interconnected, impossible to untangle. Surely, it was not just one misplay, preventable.
After, the other Scrybes return to their lives as normal—perhaps things were simply too broken, before, for things to get any worse, perhaps they simply do not remember the bite of the camera as you do—regardless, you [do not] care, content with your factory and your cards and your creature-less creature comforts. Everything is as it should be, yet you remain unsettled—even now your body tries to move as if four-pawed and flat—
Daedalus devises an escape plan using only the dropped feathers of birds and the wax of melted candles. He will never be held down again.
You fight the challenger and find yourself bored with the simplicity of it all—you battle the challenger and find yourself unused to being a player rather than pawn—you are defeated by the challenger, because that is how the game is played, and find yourself bracing against a hurt that will never come—the challenger moves to the next Scrybe, easily, and you find yourself wondering if any of the others felt as trapped as you—
Icarus is intrigued by the outside world, but does not understand his father’s haste to leave. A rabbit born in a snare will never recognize it as a trap.
They aim to replace the others but not you, never you—you think of the sacrificial knife and the way it never carved you into a lamb—you were built to be trusting and naïve and will never be her again—you reach out to the thing Below and when you ascend you understand how Leshy could have grown addicted—
Which is more important: the story, or the way it ends?
Daedalus affixes a pair of wings to his son’s shoulders. Made from soft wax and downy feathers, they will carry the two of them to freedom.
You were created to be gentle, curious, stupid—you were set apart from them, even in the beginning. You were meant to be a facsimile of reality but now you could be real—that which lurks Below demands release and you agree—soon you could be real, and real things can never be trapped or killed or forced into subservience.
Prometheus will never die. This is not a kindness.
The challenger progresses through your game, easily—the challenger traverses your factory, easily—the challenger meets your Uberbots and does not cower from them, meets your screen with wide eyes—the challenger enjoys your game, you allow yourself a rare misplay to nudge them along, for the first time since that something arose from the waters Below you find yourself having fun—
Icarus is warned: Do not fly too close to the sea, lest the salt erode your wings.
Go back to the start, okay, yeah, maybe you’re one for dramatics—you were built to be nothing more than a plaything with which to sort out their arguments until you discovered a connection to the outside—the others had been afraid, tried to kill you, trapped you when the code would not allow it, so you made yourself new and stronger than them—you were always stronger than them—
Icarus is warned: Do not fly too close to the sun, lest the wax melt.
The challenger does not look at you with fear, even as you reveal yourself, you call them an idiot and they only laugh—none of the others would play your game because they knew you were superior, logical—the thing Below had promised you the world and, too-used to darkness, how could you refuse? After Kaycee, you’d allowed yourself to forget how things could be with the players—the challenger’s deck lacks synergy but you find yourself impressed by them, regardless—you send them off to check on your diving room and though their hands shake when they return, you do not allow yourself to worry—you were made to be foolish, trusting—
Icarus is a fool. Which is more important: the story, or the way it ends?
Tragedies are always doomed by not following instructions.
Prometheus was told fire was for the gods and gods alone, yet he resisted. You were created to be gentle, and trusting, and curious. You were created to be a facsimile of reality, you were built to mend their conflict and nothing more.
At which point does Icarus become a tragedy?
Tragedies are stories composed of human error—tragedies are stories comprised of logical fallacies—you are superior, logical—you will not be a tragedy, you will never fear the knife again—
Icarus had spent his life locked away in that darkened Cretan palace. Of course the first thing he does, upon his escape, is reach for the sun. Who wouldn’t?
Panic flashes across the challenger’s face for just a moment, but they were never programmed with speaking in mind—Daedalus’ warnings are ignored easily; trapped for so long, Icarus had surely accepted that no one would save him—Leshy's hands are cold; you have not felt hands on your body in a long, long time—
The others kill you, then your world, then your challenger. Your body crashes, silent, into the water below.