Epithets are tricky to land, but an effective and subtle way to express a character's thoughts, emotions, and familiarity towards another character (or anything else they're using the epithet for).
I usually use epithets sparingly, since I want them to stand out. Sometimes, this logic is flipped: epithets are used when the names of the characters are being written too often.
So there could be a lot of "the triton" replacing "Gillion" when it feels like his name's been said way too much, maybe "the sharpshooter" for Jay, or "the thief" for Chip.
But I find that, when writing the third person limited perspective (which is typically my go-to), there are times where using very general, impersonal epithets can feel off-putting because the character's narrative voice breaks.
For example, say Chip is thinking about how much he and Gillion have changed since the beginning of their journey:
EX 1) Has it really only been a few months since his hand found Gillion's? Chip could've sworn he's already spent half of his life with Gillion, being dragged into adventures he never would've wanted, becoming someone he thought it impossible to be. Across from him now, a broad smile winds across Gillion's face, bold as the day he boarded the ship, but the blue-eyed man's shoulders rest looser than Chip's ever seen.
In this context, the epithet disrupts Chip's narrative voice because the point of the final sentence is to demonstrate how Gillion, while still maintaining characteristics that have simultaneously endeared and frustrated Chip since the first day, has changed throughout their journey. However, calling Gillion "the blue-eyed man" introduces a feeling of unfamiliarity to the voice, running counter to the point of the paragraph. It adds a detail that Chip isn't necessarily thinking about, or would find important in this moment. The language doesn't service his voice; his voice is strained with the burden of easing the language.
Another use of an epithet could be:
EX 2) Has it really only been a few months since his hand found the triton's? Chip could've sworn he's already spent half of his life with Gillion, being dragged into adventures he never would've wanted, becoming someone he thought it impossible to be. Across from him now, a broad smile winds across Gillion's face, bold as the day he boarded the ship, but his shoulders rest looser than Chip's ever seen.
By introducing Gillion as "the triton", the narrative voice (Chip's voice) introduces two impersonal, detached things to each other: "his hand" and "the triton". The time to which the narrative voice calls back to is a point where they are strangers to each other, so this makes sense. It also hints at what initially drives their misunderstandings of each other and their early conflicts.
Because Gillion is a triton of the Undersea, born and raised with a background so intensely different from Chip's, they constantly confused and clashed with each other.
Now, the paragraph starts with impersonality and unfamiliarity, then falls into using Gillion's name, demonstrating both through the literal reading of the text and the construction of language how their relationship and understanding of each other develops.
(I could also go on and on about how epithets are particularly powerful regarding Gillion. Obviously, he constantly introduces himself as the Champion of the Undersea and Hero of the Deep, along with a long list of titles that he himself forgets. Translating this characteristic into writing, specifically the writing of any given character's narrative voice regarding Gillion, is incredibly fun.)
The thing about Alien Stage that interests me the most is its unique exploration of dystopia. YA dystopian novels unravel the world through the likeable/understandable/relatable main character's perspective—the primary focus of the novels, while entrenched in the perspective of the beloved characters, becomes the world around them.
Hunger Games isn't titled after Katniss, even though we love her and are supposed to love her, because it's about the Hunger Games and the Capitol that enforces them. They spike up elements of current society and exaggerate them into horror, picking apart why exactly and how exactly these structures come to be.
However, the setting of Alien Stage doesn't really matter.
The named places and timeline only exist insofar as to explore the relationships between the characters. It doesn't matter how long it's been since humanity's extinction by the hands of the segyein so long as it's clear that there is no history of humanity for the main characters to access anymore. It doesn't matter where exactly Hyuna finds the rebel group she joins, and it doesn't matter in what factory the children from Alien Stage were made in.
Instead, the focal point of Alien Stage is the characters—and more specifically, the character dynamics.
The format of Alien Stage revolves around this idea: short MVs that focus on one or two characters at a time, sparse on details and timelines by design. We don't learn how Hyuna managed to infiltrate the rounds, it only matters that she would want to and be driven to do so due to her humanity.
Alien Stage picks apart how people express, share, celebrate, and lament their humanity when there is no structure or history of human society left to rely on.
