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Suite du fil

#WritersCoffeeClub #WCC 2503.17 2/2— Does alcohol intake influence your writing?

A Pink Squirrel is actually a low alcohol drink. Lots of sugar, though. Spent a little over two hours revising on a super-difficult topic chapter† that I expected would take four, and wouldn't publish until morning.

Conclusion: No Effect! (I don't like feeling inebriated, in any case, so maybe not a fair experiment?)

I'll take the question another way. Does alcohol intake influence story plot lines?

Occasionally. It has its place, but other than a glass of wine at a state dinner or sipping an apricot cordial being courted by a gorgeous guy, usually not that much. The largest part alcohol played was a chapter in Reluctant Moon.

I've been watching Korean dramas recently, where drinking, drunk Koreans revealing secrets, and alcohol rituals play a significant role in almost every series. So... I thought, Why not? I wanted to make certain points with a gay older man SC and the soon to be college student male MC who is currently being tutored by him. This follows the man and his partner breaking up, making a scene at their campgrounds. He makes a point of wanting to get drunk, but the MC won't let him... Until the older man volunteers to teach him how to drink with a woman. Needless to say, much juicy dialogue and repartee follows, and things like holding the bottle to show the label, how to turn your face drinking the soju, and even how to do a "Love Shot." Later, the college student ends up with his twin sister, but that's another subject altogether.

—————
† Chapter 17, completed, is here: eldritch.cafe/@sfwrtr/11418190

[Author retains copyright (c)2025 R.S.]

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Eldritch CaféRS, Author, Novelist, Prosaist (@sfwrtr@eldritch.cafe)Content warning: #Writever 2503.18 17/ — Abortion CW: Abortion
A répondu dans un fil de discussion

@Priyajsridhar

A2. The old cliche is that writers produce better art when they suffer. Writers today say that it’s the opposite, that we do better work when we’re happy. What do you think? #Writephant

I'll take that as emotional / spiritual / empathic / secular pain. In a sense, to write I have to experience something that drives me to that extreme that I can overcome my inner censor to cry out and yell. As a feminist writer, today more so than usual. I'm not only talking about the topic I'm about to write a chapter on and am procrastinating by writing this reply, but also the world we are living in. I don't think I'd be writing so fervently on my #RSMarsNeededWomen web-novel were feminism and tolerance, and the people who benefit, NOT under unmitigated attack. In a sense, I'm suffering, and that's driving me onward.

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#WritersCoffeeClub #WCC 2503.16 — What word or phrase do you tend to overuse?

And. But. Was.

The first two because I don't always master the long sentence flow of Grammar B and and-but run-ons in Grammar A signal the need to moderate sentence rhythm.

Was? Active writing is better than passive writing, or rather, when when I actively use verbs to push a story along, passive writing suddenly stands out as slow and colorless.

[Author retains copyright (c)2025 R.S.]

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#PennedPossibilities 616 — Name a bizarre and hyper-specific detail that you know about one of your characters but is completely irrelevant to the story.

[The meeting of the two Reluctant Moon MCs is mentioned in the book, but the irrelevant detail is the prejudice he felt.—RS]

Streak had thought he'd heard his little sister cry out. He ran to find her. When he'd found the kids making fun of a girl in the neighborhood playground, some kicking mockingly at her, he almost joined in.

She was a daemon girl! Black as tar, with neither feathers nor wings. What was she doing invading a poor day angel neighborhood? To break things? Steal things? Had she come to demonstrate her daemonic superiority as his mother always claimed her type did? To rub their noses in it? Mother repeated it again and again: her kind were ugly in face and ugly in deed (though she employed one or two). She had the horns of a bull! Pointy, upturned. She cowered, and he believed she hid a cow face. He believed enough to stomp in, to help kick her out of the neighorhood.

But she cried.

(Just like a day angel would.)

And she was a girl.

(No wings, but she was slight and little and... Cute.)

You didn't do things like this to a girl!

(School taught that, and he believed everything his teachers taught about women and how men had to treat them, too.)

In the end, he yelled and screamed and flapped his wings (he was a big boy) and scared the other kids away. He scared the daemon, too, but she clung to him shivering, thanking him...

...and his life changed. She was named Thorn Rose.

[Author retains copyright (c)2025 R.S.]

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Suite du fil

2503.24 /16 — Work #Writever #Mars #SpaceOpera

"I've made new friends," May Ri's little girl said brightly over vid-downlink, waving her favorite, worse-for-wear, pink pony toy. "I'm fine." Dozens of nisei girls and boys bounced and hopped behind her to greet Marisela's mother. The image stuttered. An echo group worked furiously on a maker to build a new sats before they lost them all. Marisela added, in a barely quieter child's whisper, "The other fathers are real mean meanies—"

"Not my Dadie," said a 10 Mars-year-old girl, but otherwise nodded. The kids housed, realizing en masse it was secret stuff.

Marisela finished, whispering, "—the moms keep everyone here so they can watch over us." (In the crèche domes.) Louder, "Momie, tell everyone we're really friends with the Onēsanue? Please!"

"We are," May Ri affirmed, to which the kids cheered.

May Ri felt her gut wrench. When she'd suggested Marisela accompany Randy on assignment, it had been a battle. He wasn't against training the girl, or thought that a girl would be denied a man's job.

No.

Former Director Ezekiel Stan had won election as Dome Manager at South Elysian Township. Elected solely by the men. Women hadn't voted, at all—had been intimidated, everyone figured—despite being 2/3rds of the population thanks to the growing number of widows.

The man who'd tried to rape her eight years ago had recovered his health, and marginal power. She muttered under her breath, "Should've left him in vac."

No wonder Randy kept being assigned to arbitrate disputes at Elysian, especially between spouses! Stan professed to be Decath, and was blessed by the minister on Deimosbase. Hypocrites! It made the remaining Directors waver.

Reportedly, the man didn't remember "the accident." Secretary Īto, Reina's mother, had seen the vids. She'd kept Randy's marriage details and all vid out of the public record. Privacy. He might not know who May Ri was. What Īto didn't know, since Stan's management kept vac-safe control, was how the Elysian nisei and mothers fared, other than the contact Randy was allowed arbitrating between spouses, or interviewing chaperoned women. EM Mars Corp had a Decath charter; protecting propriety was interpreted as Elysian's right.

In the end, it was the ugly face of Mars that Marisela might inherit that made the choice for them. With her father, ten suits, and weeks of training others, Marisela would work "teaching" suit safety to "help" qualify nisei who had the knack at Elysium City.

All near Marisela's age had the knack, and the desire. Management excluded girls, though.

"...I just teach the girls in the crèche domes with the spare suit. No dadies." Marisela tittered evilly.

"...Yesterday, Rufus' twin Raquel went outside."

"...Ran out of boys today. Nobody's checking the visors! Can't men count?"

"...The girls won the boy-girl soccer game."

On day 17, May Ri's call failed at their regular time. Management restricted in-base addresses to the office, which made her call back later. When she got, "Routine Maintenance. Call back tomorrow," she ran shaking to Reina, who spooked worse. Secretary Īto sent a cargoon from Gale crater.

They might never get the full story, and Elysium couldn't (wouldn't?) find the culprit...

Lured outside at dusk, a man in an enviro suit stabbed Randy multiply, then slashed Marisela, ripping her suit before running. Safety drills triumphed over panic as the girl glued herself—wound then suit—then glued Randy's worst injuries as he went unconscious. Leaking too much air, she got him in an emergency balloon, then dragged him unsure he lived, crying, blaming herself having fun, to the dome. A comms-down didn't apply to inter-suit channels, only range. When Raquel, practicing with her brother, answered, the mothers smuggled them through the docks. That she sat on her father to apply pressure had staunched the bleeding. First aid stabilized him, barely. The cargoon arrived late night; with comms down, they walked in, demanding resupply. Suit comm alerted them and they sent a medic. By early morning, the men on the cargoon smuggled 6 women, 21 nisei, and the two out.

Reina jumped ahead of Marisela's mother, grabbing the child, hugging her crying, while the slightly dazed girl (May Ri could tell) comforted the Onēsanue. Other nisei—and the new nisei, one waving a pink pony toy—all piled on, giving their hero support, allowing May Ri to tend to Randy who'd never completely recover.

Stan raged about nobody reporting in for treatment, found no evidence, claimed no witnesses, lied saying it was fabricated, and manipulated.

It felt like a turning point. May Ri saw old power grasping to control women. She vowed to help the nisei change that. #RSMarsNeededWomen 16

[Author retains copyright (c)2025 R.S.]

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#PennedPossibilities 615 — What is the best time of day for you to write? (Early or late morning, midday, afternoon, or nighttime?)

Any time I'm well rested, but that almost never happens. I've in my mind that early morning I'd get in the four hours a day, the four days a week, I did when I was young, but I've tried for almost a year now to wake reasonably early and the closest I've gotten is when I wake at 3 am with a story rattling around in my obviously empty skull preventing me from sleeping unless I write it RIGHT NOW.

Thus the not "well rested" bit.

C'est la vie.

[Author retains copyright (c)2025 R.S.]

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#ScribesAndMakers #TTMD 16 Mar 25 @saposcat CW: Seriously out there

I'll admit being at first thrown by the present tense of Blivy, thinking it an excerpt not a blurb, but the language caught me up. Refocusing, I've reread it a few times. The blurb seems like an interesting concept, bringing two different people together in separate narrative threads and, if I get this right, a third person/thread by a narratively unnamed author who might be telling another story through margin notes. Not sure whether to think that's creepy, a leak from a parallel fantasy world, a monk escaped from a monastery who can't help himself, or a pesky student willing to deface a former library book to get a report done. Maybe not the later... you did say "not published." Maybe the author is kid, or someone locked away crying for help? Sorry. Ahem!

Could you clarify how you're going to handle this making the resulting book feel written in? What's the philosophy of your choice versus straightforward narrative? Is it maybe a mystery to find where Waldo is hiding? More background would be interesting. What about presenting a few paragraph excerpt?

In any case, I can relate. While I find myself completely unable to write in a paper book, and barely in workbooks meant to be filled it, I have a character who's always writing in them. She has a rainbow of gel pens and highlighters, will fill margins, writing around corners, even drawing sketches or little flowers. She's first caught writing in books writing in a 500 year old thaumaturgy book, with someone later remarking what she wrote was more useful. I'm intrigued what you're up to.

[Author retains copyright (c)2025 R.S.]

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#PennedPossibilities 614 — SC POV: What is one phrase that you would really like to hear right now?

[SC:] It's wonderful and horribly embarrassing but I've got a crush on my new friend. She saved my life, but then I saved hers in a return, so maybe it's the intensity of that fateful 24 hours. I've only been with men before, even went to the trouble of flying tandem with the bad boy in high school to get him. Somehow she's different, so entirely smarter than me that it isn't funny, but oh so sexy and patient when she teaches a nobody like me things. Hormones don't lie, they just torment you! I know what I feel, and I don't flapping care that I've never felt this way before.

Unfortunately, she's got boyfriends. Two! They're rather important personages, despite being men—and for political reasons she's stated she's pregnant by one of them, but not by which. I think she's making it up, but I wasn't there. Worse, she's gushed about reconciling with her childhood sweetheart (okay, that had been a flapping mess) in that special way that says she's got further plans for the man, and I know for a fact that she's been eyeing her former teammate from the mob, the one I watched her give a kiss that could melt a mountain of ice. It helped melt my heart! I so want to be him, any of them, but I'm missing sir parts.

I'm going from being circumspect to stumbling over my words in an instant. I keep pretending the accidental contract is accidental, or misconstrued. Worse, as her bodyguard in training, I'm around her all the time and am sometime hands-on. I feel like I am going to explode!

[Author writes:] If I ever write this sequel to the story the SC was developed in, it may be from her POV. I don't think it will ruin much to say that if the SC were simply to ask, the words she'd hear might really surprise her.

[Author retains copyright (c)2025 R.S.]

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#ScribesAndMakers 2503.15 — How's your goal going? Is there anything you would like help with?

I have written and posted a chapter on Mastodon each day for 15 days, so I'm really surprising myself. Seventeen days, seventeen installments to go. I wonder if Charles Dickens felt this way? A few were late, so I did two the next day. Today's installment (eldritch.cafe/@sfwrtr/11416875) has the MC taking her 8-year-old on her first Mars walk, wearing the spacesuit she'd crafted for her daughter. The slice-of-life interlude with her monkey-like girl climbing a solar array is heart warming, as is her greeting her father who'd been away three months, saying rather precocious things. My goal is to write good gender fiction, and the main character suggesting her daughter be trained for men's work comes naturally in the situation I've built up to with foreshadowing over past chapters. #RSMarsNeedWomen

About all I can ask for as help is that the writing challenge prompts keep coming! They've helped me keep focused and disciplined. They act as carrots for completing a day's work. It takes 1-2 hours to write the 800 words, and 4-5 hours to revise it. Feels like a full time job...

[Author retains copyright (c)2025 R.S.]

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Eldritch CaféRS, Author, Novelist, Prosaist (@sfwrtr@eldritch.cafe)> 2503.28 /15 — Feather #Writever #Mars #SpaceOpera Today May Ri tested. Things she invented. A daughter she gave birth to. The Meadowbrook rickshaw climbed the sandy hill strewn with rocks, the huge hoop wheels and isolated suspension rolling over obstacles with aplomb. She drove the tractor legs with her reins, to minimize jostling the cart, and got to the solar array minutes earlier than by taking the road compressed into the Martian regolith. Marisela hopped out instantly, rolled upon landing to her feet, and rushed the blue and black panels. Though shy, she had taken to suit-qualification... like a duckling to water—a phrase the 4 Mars-year-old wouldn't understand, but her mother did. She stopped before touching, looked expectantly at her mother, her eyes gleaming in the coming sunset inside her glare-free helmet. May Ri's maker v3.2 made spacesuits, something they'd had to import from Earth—Mars was never meant to be isolated from EM Mars Corp. Bankruptcy changed things, maker manufacturing locks only making it worse. At May Ri's nod, her daughter climbed the array, giggling, full of energy. Mars-refined metal platforms were simple tech, even gimbaled ones; the array wasn't fragile, only the sweepers and cables. Marisela had trained and given promises. She was an inspector! The girl's suit was a first production suit, and the only one sized for a child. Colonial planners hadn't thought through the implications of *kids.* May Ri patted the emergency balloon as she vaulted out of the tall cart and plopped down on the sand. "What about this?" Her monkey girl pointed out a bent wire feather wiper over a windblown deposit of red five aisles in. May Ri noted it on the wrist-mounted book plate. The regolith crunched under her shoes. The wind whistled faintly, mixing with the hum of the comm. A massive dust devil spun in the distance, which was why they were here—not for testing the cart, tractor legs, or the pink-striped Mars-green suit her daughter wore. Danger of a planetary dust storm was no joke. With a doubled population and dome construction, array efficiency was paramount; the anti-static feathers were her idea to replace fans. Men prospected for Thorium, but aeolian monzonite deposits were rare. Finding the mineral deposits on metallic 16 Psyche proved difficult, but the effort searching for them and the *Robinson Crusoe* disaster had brought them the dented maker her echo group dissected. At the slow orbital speed required for an asteroid, the ship had flipped and disintegrated, leaving rather gruesome remains of the men and partially intact machinery scattered over kilometers cratered metallic rock. May Ri felt proud of her maker derivative. V4.1 had built a compact thorium reactor prototype (another restricted device). In a dust year, a working reactor would prevent starvation. Mars grit and dust clung to everything, compromising moving parts. Together the two identified five repairables and reattached a cable. In the dusk, illuminated by bluish noctilucent clouds, May Ri drove the cart along the "paved" road. Marisela swayed and hummed happily to herself. At their dome, May Li got her chance at exuberance: Randy had returned days early. She jumped into his arms, but knocked him over. Marisela said surprisingly dryly, "Momie's going to be making funny noises tonight." She quickly hid behind May Li's legs when she stood, peering apprehensively with green eyes as Randy smiled at her. It had been three months since his last visit, a lifetime ago to a kid. Taking a deep breath, May Ri knelt and and pointed at her daughter. "This is Marisela, a brave little girl who today completed her first Mars surface expedition in a plus-plus fashion, the first suit-qualified girl to do that, helping her mother at the Array." Randy scooted over. Pointing at him, she said, "This is Randolf, an illustrious Martian arbitrator and HR wunderkind, an all around loving fellow, and your Dadie." He reached out a hand. Marisela's reddened face screwed up in an expression May Ri couldn't predict, but when she reached out her little hand to his big one, she burst into wild giggles. They shook in the handshake ritual *du jour,* laughing, before she warned, "Momie loves you, so you keep her happy." Martian nisei, besides being hoppy little frogs, were surprisingly open. Precocious. They had no Decath ministers to shame them, girls and boys lived and slept communally most days, and fathers were absent. Nobody bothered—or had time—to teach gender roles, so no nisei acted as either. May Ri approved. *Which meant...!* "Marisela is suit-qualified. Take her on your next assignment to teach her your job." With ever fewer men, Mars needed women doing men's work. #RSMarsNeededWomen 15 [Author retains copyright (c)2025 R.S.] #BoostingIsSharing #gender #fiction #writer #author #sf #sff #sciencefiction #writing #writingcommunity #writersOfMastodon #writers #RSstory #microfiction #flashfiction #tootfic #smallstory
Suite du fil

2503.28 /15 — Feather #Writever #Mars #SpaceOpera

Today May Ri tested. Things she invented. A daughter she gave birth to.

The Meadowbrook rickshaw climbed the sandy hill strewn with rocks, the huge hoop wheels and isolated suspension rolling over obstacles with aplomb. She drove the tractor legs with her reins, to minimize jostling the cart, and got to the solar array minutes earlier than by taking the road compressed into the Martian regolith.

Marisela hopped out instantly, rolled upon landing to her feet, and rushed the blue and black panels. Though shy, she had taken to suit-qualification... like a duckling to water—a phrase the 4 Mars-year-old wouldn't understand, but her mother did. She stopped before touching, looked expectantly at her mother, her eyes gleaming in the coming sunset inside her glare-free helmet. May Ri's maker v3.2 made spacesuits, something they'd had to import from Earth—Mars was never meant to be isolated from EM Mars Corp. Bankruptcy changed things, maker manufacturing locks only making it worse.

At May Ri's nod, her daughter climbed the array, giggling, full of energy. Mars-refined metal platforms were simple tech, even gimbaled ones; the array wasn't fragile, only the sweepers and cables. Marisela had trained and given promises.

She was an inspector!

The girl's suit was a first production suit, and the only one sized for a child. Colonial planners hadn't thought through the implications of kids. May Ri patted the emergency balloon as she vaulted out of the tall cart and plopped down on the sand.

"What about this?" Her monkey girl pointed out a bent wire feather wiper over a windblown deposit of red five aisles in. May Ri noted it on the wrist-mounted book plate. The regolith crunched under her shoes. The wind whistled faintly, mixing with the hum of the comm. A massive dust devil spun in the distance, which was why they were here—not for testing the cart, tractor legs, or the pink-striped Mars-green suit her daughter wore.

Danger of a planetary dust storm was no joke. With a doubled population and dome construction, array efficiency was paramount; the anti-static feathers were her idea to replace fans.

Men prospected for Thorium, but aeolian monzonite deposits were rare. Finding the mineral deposits on 16 Psyche proved difficult, but the effort searching for them and the Robinson Crusoe disaster had brought them the dented maker her echo group dissected. At the slow orbital speed required for an asteroid, the ship had flipped and disintegrated, leaving rather gruesome remains of the men and partially intact machinery scattered over kilometers of cratered rusty metallic rock.

May Ri felt proud of her maker derivative. V4.1 had built a compact thorium reactor prototype (another restricted device). In a dust year, a working reactor would prevent starvation.

Mars grit and dust clung to everything, compromising moving parts. Together the two identified five repairables and reattached a cable. In the dusk, illuminated by bluish noctilucent clouds, May Ri drove the cart along the "paved" road. Marisela swayed and hummed happily to herself.

At their dome, May Ri got her chance at exuberance: Randy had returned days early. She jumped into his arms, but knocked him over.

Marisela said surprisingly dryly, "Momie's going to be making funny noises tonight." She quickly hid behind May Li's legs when she stood, peering apprehensively with green eyes as Randy smiled at her. It had been three months since his last visit, a lifetime ago to a kid.

Taking a deep breath, May Ri knelt and and pointed at her daughter. "This is Marisela, a brave little girl who today completed her first Mars surface expedition in a plus-plus fashion, the first suit-qualified girl to do that, helping her mother at the Array."

Randy scooted over. Pointing at him, she said, "This is Randolf, an illustrious Martian arbitrator and HR wunderkind, an all around loving fellow, and your Dadie."

He reached out a hand.

Marisela's reddened face screwed up in an expression May Ri couldn't predict, but when she reached out her little hand to his big one, she burst into wild giggles. They shook in the handshake ritual du jour, laughing, before she warned, "Momie loves you, so you keep her happy."

Martian nisei, besides being hoppy little frogs, were surprisingly open. Precocious. They had no Decath ministers to shame them, girls and boys lived and slept communally most days, and fathers were absent. Nobody bothered—or had time—to teach gender roles, so no nisei acted as either.

May Ri approved. Which meant...!

"Marisela is suit-qualified. Take her on your next assignment to teach her your job." With ever fewer men, Mars needed women doing men's work. #RSMarsNeededWomen 15

[Author retains copyright (c)2025 R.S.]

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🚀 Our 18th annual game design challenge has launched!

💬 Topic: #Communication

📆 Submit ideas by March 24th

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⭐ Critiques for all Finalists

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Details, rules, communication resources at the contest website.

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A bright purple background. Other colors are teal, red, and orange. The fonts and colors have a retro-style from the 1980s. Communication Games. The 18th Annual Life.Love. Game Design Challenge. www.Communicating.Games At top-center is an 80s-style casette tape with masking tape. On the masking tape is written '18th Annnual Game Design Challenge'.
Communication GamesCommunication Games Contest WebsiteThe 2025 Life.Love. Game Design Challenge theme is communication. Submit a communication game pitch by March 24th.

#WordWeavers 2503.15 — If your SC found a wallet full of money, what would they do with it?

It feels like I am dodging the question by stating that the society does not have a concept of bank notes, thus no billfolds or wallets. Instead, things like IDs are typically made out of copper, etched to show a diffraction pattern, and lacquered heavily so they don't rub against bare skin—and worn on a lanyard. The characters often refer to money as "coin" because it is, and they keep that in a coin pouch.

Bolt, if she were to find the lanyard, would turn it in, or find the person if they were part of her cohort. Because of the nature of the clothing in this extremely hot climate era, things like coin pouches are visible and tend to be considered an accessory or an ornament, are sometimes distinctive, and not too rarely custom. If she found one, she might know to whom it belonged and would attempt to return it. If she found a generic specimen, it might be a different story. She has always had a difficult life, and if the chances of it being found immediately by the owner are low, she would have no qualms taking it. "Life is both skill and chance," people often say, "The successful cultivate the former and accept the latter." (They don't have the concept of good or bad fortune, supernatural help, or luck.)

[Author retains copyright (c)2025 R.S.]

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#WritersCoffeeClub #WCC 2503.14 — What new themes are you currently exploring?

Not sure if it's a theme or not, but in Mars Needed Women I'm exploring what happens when a world of endpoint religio-fascist nations run by squabbling oligarchs who value loyalty over brains meet a no-nonsense brainy woman (a Martian colonist) who's been pushed too far too often by too many men, who's unwilling to play the old male-power-dominance game, who's unwilling to play by any the rules if it means saving her daughters and all the children born on Mars.

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#WordWeavers 2503.14 — Antagonist POV: Do you want to be perceived as “good?”

Want? As in feeding my ego? I'm mature enough that I don't need that. It depends on the task and what happens if I fail. Do people die if I fail? Usually, I don't care then if people perceive me as good or bad, only that I keep people from dying. If being perceived as good helps me in my goals, I work at it. I'll literally charm the clothes off them and [NSFW] if it helps. Regardless, it's human nature to not like other people getting in the way of their need for power. There's always someone who doesn't like the way I run things, the peace I maintain. Bear in mind, I didn't want to be perceived as good when I invaded the dragon lands and occupied their northern prefecture, simply effective.

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