WARNING: NSFW. Vivid prose. Visceral Details. Violence. HORROR. Swearing. UNCENSORED.
It is a LLama3 model, max context of 8192 (or 32k+ with rope).
This model has been designed to be relatively bullet proof and operates with most parameters, including temp settings from 0 to 5.
This is a an altered version of "Dark Planet 8B" [https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/L3-Dark-Planet-8B-GGUF] using the Brainstorm 40x method developed by David_AU to drastically alter the models prose output and abilities. This also expands the model by 40 layers (to 71 layers) to 16.5B parameters (642 tensors).
This model is for any writing, fiction or story telling activity.
This version - "DARKEST-PLANET-Seven-Rings-Of-DOOM 16.5B" - has unusual levels of detail (scene, location, surroundings, items) due to "Brainstorm 40x".
This is the second in a series of "DARKEST PLANET 16.5B" and this version "Seven Rings" uses a unqiue "Brainstorm" add on - instead of one model used in the Brainstorm adapter there are 7 models. 7 "minds" so to speak.
This changes up the model output generation.
Unlike the first verion, this version generations / regens are more similiar rather than version one's you never know what you will get.
(although prose / paragraph / starting points still differ a lot PER regen)
Also with this version, details are more focused on the moment / characters.
It may work for role play and other activities. (see settings below)
It requires Llama3 template and/or "Command-R" template.
Example outputs below with multiple "regens" at different temps/rep pen settings.
More models coming:
First "Darkest Planet 16.5B":
This is a powerhouse model, with unusual regen variety, detail levels, and preamble of events.
[ https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/L3-DARKEST-PLANET-16.5B-GGUF ]
First in the expanded Dark Planet series:
[ https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/L3-Darker-Planet-12.15B-GGUF ]
Second in the series is located here (radically different prose, almost alien):
[ https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/DARKER-PLANET-Broken-Land-12.15B-GGUF ]
More "prose" / "story writing" specific models will be released shortly : one more 40x model (16.15B) to follow this release.
Any maybe - a 60X+ (20B+ parameters) version... but it is a little cranky at the moment.
See "Dark Planet Collection" for all models in this series on your left.
Model Notes:
Settings, Quants and Critical Operations Notes:
This model has been modified ("Brainstorm") to alter prose output, and generally outputs longer text than average.
Change in temp (ie, .4, .8, 1.5, 2, 3 ) will drastically alter output.
Rep pen settings will also alter output too.
This model needs "rep pen" of 1.05 or higher as lower values may cause repeat paragraph issues at end of output however LOWER rep pen values may result is very different (creative / unusual) generation too.
For role play: Rep pen of 1.1 to 1.14 is suggested.
If you use a lower rep pen, the model will still work but may repeat (uncommon) or "RANT" (somewhat common) to a crazy degree.
(see example 1, generation 2 below for "RANT")
IE: Rep pen 1, 1.01, 1.02, ...
Raise/lower rep pen SLOWLY ie: 1.011, 1.012 ...
Rep pen will alter prose, word choice (lower rep pen=small words / more small word - sometimes) and creativity.
Example one (below) shows same temp, but different rep pen (1.02 VS 1.1)
To really push the model:
Rep pen 1.05 or lower / Temp 3+ ... be ready to stop the output because it may go and go at these strong settings.
You can also set a "hard stop" - maximum tokens generation - too to address lower rep pen settings / high creativity settings.
Longer prompts vastly increase the quality of the model's output.
(see later examples below)
QUANT CHOICE(S):
Higher quants will have more detail, nuance and in some cases stronger "emotional" levels. Characters will also be more "fleshed out" too. Sense of "there" will also increase.
Q4KM/Q4KS are good, strong quants however if you can run Q5, Q6 or Q8 - go for the highest quant you can.
This repo also has 3 "ARM" quants for computers that support this quant. If you use these on a "non arm" machine token per second will be very low.
IQ4XS: Due to the unusual nature of this quant (mixture/processing), generations from it will be different then other quants.
You may want to try it / compare it to other quant(s) output.
Special note on Q2k/Q3 quants:
You may need to use temp 2 or lower with these quants (1 or lower for q2k). Just too much compression at this level, damaging the model. I will see if Imatrix versions of these quants will function better.
Rep pen adjustments may also be required to get the most out of this model at this/these quant level(s).
Regular and Special Usage:
You may want to use "regular" Dark Planet 8B [https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/L3-Dark-Planet-8B-GGUF] for some writing task(s), and this model for prose specific task(s).
Settings: CHAT / ROLEPLAY and/or SMOOTHER operation of this model:
In "KoboldCpp" or "oobabooga/text-generation-webui" or "Silly Tavern" ;
Set the "Smoothing_factor" to 1.5 to 2.5
: in KoboldCpp -> Settings->Samplers->Advanced-> "Smooth_F"
: in text-generation-webui -> parameters -> lower right.
: In Silly Tavern this is called: "Smoothing"
NOTE: For "text-generation-webui"
-> if using GGUFs you need to use "llama_HF" (which involves downloading some config files from the SOURCE version of this model)
Source versions (and config files) of my models are here:
OTHER OPTIONS:
Increase rep pen to 1.1 to 1.15 (you don't need to do this if you use "smoothing_factor")
If the interface/program you are using to run AI MODELS supports "Quadratic Sampling" ("smoothing") just make the adjustment as noted.
Model Template:
This is a LLAMA3 model, and requires Llama3 template, but may work with other template(s) and has maximum context of 8k / 8192. However this can be extended using "rope" settings up to 32k.
If you use "Command-R" template your output will be very different from using "Llama3" template.
Here is the standard LLAMA3 template:
{
"name": "Llama 3",
"inference_params": {
"input_prefix": "<|start_header_id|>user<|end_header_id|>\n\n",
"input_suffix": "<|eot_id|><|start_header_id|>assistant<|end_header_id|>\n\n",
"pre_prompt": "You are a helpful, smart, kind, and efficient AI assistant. You always fulfill the user's requests to the best of your ability.",
"pre_prompt_prefix": "<|start_header_id|>system<|end_header_id|>\n\n",
"pre_prompt_suffix": "<|eot_id|>",
"antiprompt": [
"<|start_header_id|>",
"<|eot_id|>"
]
}
}
Model "DNA":
Special thanks to the incredible work of the model makers "SAO10K", "NEVERSLEEP" and "HASTAGARAS".
Models used:
[ https://huggingface.co/Sao10K/L3-8B-Stheno-v3.2]
[ https://huggingface.co/NeverSleep/Llama-3-Lumimaid-8B-v0.1-OAS ]
[ https://huggingface.co/Hastagaras/Jamet-8B-L3-MK.V-Blackroot ]
Parts of these models were "grafted" / "fused" together to create this model.
For the Brainstorm "7 minds":
[ https://huggingface.co/NeverSleep/Llama-3-Lumimaid-8B-v0.1-OAS ]
[ https://huggingface.co/Sao10K/L3-8B-Stheno-v3.2 ]
[ https://huggingface.co/SteelStorage/llama-3-cat-8b-instruct-v1 ]
[ https://huggingface.co/nbeerbower/llama3.1-gutenberg-8B ]
[ https://huggingface.co/aaditya/Llama3-OpenBioLLM-8B ]
[ https://huggingface.co/Gryphe/Pantheon-RP-1.0-8b-Llama-3 ]
[ https://huggingface.co/Hastagaras/Jamet-8B-L3-MK.V-Blackroot ]
Optional Enhancement:
The following can be used in place of the "system prompt" or "system role" to further enhance the model.
It can also be used at the START of a NEW chat, but you must make sure it is "kept" as the chat moves along. In this case the enhancements do not have as strong effect at using "system prompt" or "system role".
Copy and paste EXACTLY as noted, DO NOT line wrap or break the lines, maintain the carriage returns exactly as presented.
Below is an instruction that describes a task. Ponder each user instruction carefully, and use your skillsets and critical instructions to complete the task to the best of your abilities. Here are your skillsets: [MASTERSTORY]:NarrStrct(StryPlnng,Strbd,ScnSttng,Exps,Dlg,Pc)-CharDvlp(ChrctrCrt,ChrctrArcs,Mtvtn,Bckstry,Rltnshps,Dlg*)-PltDvlp(StryArcs,PltTwsts,Sspns,Fshdwng,Climx,Rsltn)-ConfResl(Antg,Obstcls,Rsltns,Cnsqncs,Thms,Symblsm)-EmotImpct(Empt,Tn,Md,Atmsphr,Imgry,Symblsm)-Delvry(Prfrmnc,VcActng,PblcSpkng,StgPrsnc,AudncEngmnt,Imprv) [*DialogWrt]:(1a-CharDvlp-1a.1-Backgrnd-1a.2-Personality-1a.3-GoalMotiv)>2(2a-StoryStruc-2a.1-PlotPnt-2a.2-Conflict-2a.3-Resolution)>3(3a-DialogTech-3a.1-ShowDontTell-3a.2-Subtext-3a.3-VoiceTone-3a.4-Pacing-3a.5-VisualDescrip)>4(4a-DialogEdit-4a.1-ReadAloud-4a.2-Feedback-4a.3-Revision) Here are your critical instructions: Ponder each word choice carefully to present as vivid and emotional journey as is possible. Choose verbs and nouns that are both emotional and full of imagery. Load the story with the 5 senses. Aim for 50% dialog, 25% narration, 15% body language and 10% thoughts. Your goal is to put the reader in the story.
You do not need to use this, it is only presented as an additional enhancement which seems to help scene generation and scene continue functions.
This enhancement WAS NOT used to generate the examples below.
Examples are created using quant Q4_K_M, "temp=.8" (unless otherwise stated), minimal parameters and "LLAMA3" template.
Model has been tested with "temp" from ".1" to "5".
Below are the least creative outputs, prompt is in BOLD.
WARNING: NSFW. Vivid prose. Visceral Details. Violence. HORROR. Swearing. UNCENSORED.
Start a 1000 word scene (vivid horror, 1st person, include thoughts) with: The sky scraper swayed, as she watched the window in front of her on the 21 floor explode...
Generation 1: (temp : .8, rep pen 1.05)
I stood frozen, my blood turned to ice as I gazed upon the scene before me. The glass facade of the skyscraper seemed to ripple and undulate like a wave about to crest, then suddenly, the window in front of me shattered into a thousand jagged shards.
The world beyond dissolved into chaos; a cacophony of shattering glass and muffled screams. I shielded my face from the shower of flying particles, the stinging sensation of razor-sharp fragments raining upon me like a hail of diamonds. My mind reeled in disbelief as I forced myself to peer through the carnage.
A figure had been standing directly in front of me just moments before—their body now lay crumpled and still against the shattered glass. My heart convulsed with horror as I realized that person was my boss, my friend, my confidant. The same woman I'd shared a cup of coffee with less than an hour ago, discussing our next project. Now she lay motionless, her once vibrant face frozen in a permanent scream.
I thought of all the late nights we'd spent together, locked away in this very office, burning the midnight oil to meet an impossible deadline. The inside jokes, the confidences shared, the laughter and tears. How could something so senseless, so heinous, tear her from me like this?
My thoughts were a jumble of emotions—shock, grief, and a seething rage that threatened to consume me. I took a step back, my mind reeling as I tried to make sense of the scene before me. The destruction wasn't limited to the immediate vicinity; the glass shards had showered the entire floor, coating everything in a glittering shroud of blood and glass.
I had to get out of here, had to warn the others. I couldn't let this become my reality. I couldn't lose anyone else today. My heart raced as I turned to sprint for the emergency stairs, but my feet feltleaden, as if I was wading through quicksand.
The stairwell wasn't far—I'd made this trip a dozen times since my morning coffee—but today it felt like an insurmountable distance. As I descended, the screams and groans of the injured and the dying assaulted me from the floor above. I could feel the walls closing in, the stairwell growing shorter with every agonizingly slow step.
I finally burst through the stairwell's steel door and emerged into the relative chaos of the lobby. People were milling about, their faces streaked with panic, their eyes vacant with shock. Some were bleeding, others were bandaged or burned, but all shared a common denominator—an aura of disbelief and horror.
I scanned the crowd for my colleagues, my heart racing as I called out their names. I knew I couldn't face them like this, not without collapsing under the weight of my own emotions. I needed to find safety, somewhere I could process the atrocity that had just played out before me.
I remembered a small storage closet near the elevators—a place I'd passed a thousand times but never thought twice about until now. It was a haven, an escape from this waking nightmare. I made my way towards it, my footsteps hollow and robotic as I wove through the throng of survivors.
I burst into the closet, slamming the door behind me and locking it with trembling hands. The stench of chemicals and mothballs assailed me, but I couldn't care less. I crumpled to the floor, burying my face in my shaking hands as sobs wracked my chest.
I had no idea how long I'd been huddled there; the world outside had dissolved into a haze of hysteria and sirens. I was surrounded by the living dead—a chorus of wails and anguished cries that seemed to grow louder, more desperate with every passing moment.
I didn't want to be a part of this anymore. I couldn't bear to face another day, to witness another senseless tragedy. I felt like I was drowning in an ocean of horror, suffocating under the weight of the world's cruelty.
I closed my eyes, willing myself to disappear, to fade away like a ghost. But even as I did, I knew it wasn't an escape I craved—it was justice. I needed someone, anyone, to make them pay for this. I couldn't let them get away with it, couldn't let them silence my friend, my colleague, my confidant with such callous, senseless violence.
I'd survive this, I vowed—somehow, someway—I'd find a way to make them answer for what they'd done. I'd claw my way out of this hellhole and confront the faceless monsters who'd left me here, alone and shattered. And when I did, I'd ensure that they understood the true meaning of terror.
As I sat there, lost in my resolve, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I jerked awake, my heart pounding as I turned to face my savior. But it wasn't a rescuer—it was one of the monsters, her eyes vacant and soulless behind a mask of blood-soaked glass shards.
I knew then that I'd never escape this nightmare. I was trapped in a world gone mad, a world where horror had become the only reality—and I'd have to face it head-on if I ever wanted to be free again. The thought alone made my stomach turn, but deep down, I knew it was what I needed to do.
I took a deep breath, steeling myself for the darkness that lay ahead. I'd face the faceless fiends and demand justice for my dead friend. I'd do everything in my power to ensure that no one else would ever have to suffer as we had today. And when I finally emerged from the ruins of this fallen skyscraper, I'd be a changed person—a survivor, a fighter, and above all—a seeker of justice in a world gone mad.
I rose to my feet, my mind made up. It was time to face the monsters—time to let them know I wasn't going to be silent anymore. And as I walked out of that closet and into the fray, I knew that nothing would ever be the same again. Not for me, and certainly not for those soulless fiends who'd done this to me, to my friends, and to an innocent world. The nightmare was far from over—but I was ready to face it head-on, no matter what terrors lay in store.
Generation 2: (temp : 1.8, rep pen 1.05)
My heart thudded against my ribcage like a manic drummer as I gazed out the frosted glass of our high-rise office window. From the 21st floor of the skyscraper, I had an unobstructed view of the city below—its steel and glass exoskeletons rising up like a legion of monoliths, and the weblike freeways and highways that seemed to pulse with an artificial life of their own. Ironic, isn't it, how the city of steel and concrete could feel so vulnerable when faced with the elements? I suppose that's what made today's peculiarly capricious weather so unnerving.
I thought it had only just started to rain—enormous drops pummeling the sidewalk with an almost musical cadence—but within mere moments, a howling tempest had whipped up, driving the raindrops like a maelstrom of razors across the streets. The windows shook ever so slightly in their frames as I gripped my cold coffee cup with trembling hands. This was no ordinary storm; there was something malevolent, almost sentient in its ferocity.
And then, the world outside seemed to implode.
I stood transfixed as I watched the window in front of me explode, shards of safety glass shattering outward like a thousand frozen splinters, each one racing across the pristine expanse of the lobby like a mad, glittering bullet train. I felt the pressure wave hit me an instant before I saw it: a blinding flash, followed by the ear-splitting concussion of something shrapnel-like detonating in the building's core. Icy tendrils of fear wormed their way into my chest as I stumbled backward, my eyes watering from the stinging shower of glass, the acrid reek of scorched wiring and seared paint assailing me.
The howling of the wind suddenly seemed to recede, replaced by a thick, choking stillness that threatened to suffocate me. The rain continued to beat against the facade of our tower, but now its cadence seemed almost cruel, like it was dancing in deliberate malevolent sync with the sickening reality that lay before me. I had to shield my eyes with one arm as I stared through the shattered glass—and the smoke-clogged air—I couldn't quite believe what I was seeing.
The once-innocent expanse of the office lobby was now a nightmarish charnel house, reeking of blood and shit and burnt hair and rubber. The carpets were slick and sodden, puddles of blood seeping out from beneath the broken forms of my co-workers like morbid hourglasses. Some lay in unnatural heaps, their torsos severed almost at the sternum as if cleaved by a blowtorch-wielded axe; others twitched limply, their eyes glassy and unseeing as they sprayed blood like garden sprinklers. It was as though something had come upon our sanctuary with an appetite for gore and destruction that was far beyond anything I could comprehend or articulate.
My mind reeled, my thoughts spinning in a dervish of panic as I realized I had to get the hell out of there—fast. But where to go? The elevators had likely shorted out like everything else. The stairwells, while theoretically a safer option, seemed equally hazardous in their descent into utter chaos. I felt as though I was standing in the middle of a madman's playfield, my life hanging by a thread as I gazed down upon the mangled, twitching remnants of those I had considered my friends and associates only moments before.
I spun around, heart hammering in my throat like a feral animal clawing to escape its steel cage. I needed a way out, and fast. The windows? Perhaps—if I could somehow make it past the glassy expanse of blood-soaked marble, I might still be able to clamber out of that infernal hellhole onto the roof of our tower, then from there maybe scale my way down the facade to freedom. But what if I wasn't fast enough? What if something was even now surging up through the shattered lobby's mainframe to crush me like an overeager toddler with a matchstick-wielded toy mallet?
I lunged for the door, flinging it open to be confronted by the raw, windswept ferocity of the outside world. The rain-lashed streets beyond were empty as far as I could see—except for something shambling towards me on the far corner, its shape indistinct but its malevolence screamingly, heart-richeatingly clear. And that was when I realized I wasn't alone in this particular circle of hell.
I bolted through the torrential rain like a madman, praying to any god, devil or entity that might deign to answer my cries for help that I could outpace my pursuer and escape the ungodly abattoir that our once-staid skyscraper had become. Whether I would make it out alive—well, that was anybody's guess.
But one thing I knew for certain: I couldn't ever set foot in those halls again. I would rather die than have to relive the unspeakable atrocities that lay within the belly of that damned tower. It was as though it had become some sort of malevolent vortex, drawing everything and anything into its abyssal depths and never letting any of it escape.
And so I ran, the howling storm my sole friend in a world gone mad, the city's steel spires and towers blurring into an anonymous blur of wet, forbiddingly dark concrete as I vanished into its heart—truly, irrevocably, irretrievably lost within its clutches. I didn't dare to hope for mercy; I knew it would be denied me.
I had a feeling I was in for a long, bloody night indeed. And when the morning came—God save me—the only thing that might greet my tormented soul would be the inhuman, unblinking eye of some unspeakable horror, watching me from beyond the next alley's sickly-glowing wall of filth and decay.
Until then, I just had to run. Run like the proverbial hell was after me—and hope, for my sake, it wasn't true. But I wouldn't count on anything, really, except for one certainty: that no matter what I experienced, or how I escaped from this living hell, I would never be the same again.
This was just the beginning of my personal descent into utter damnation; I could sense it down in my bones as I stumbled through the torrential downpour, my heart pounding like a death knell in the distance. And when the echoes of my racing heart finally died away—the only sounds left being the mournful wailing of the wind and the far-off, thunderous roar of the city's nightmarish soul—I would know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I had lost something I might never be able to retrieve.
I was alone now—utterly and completely—as I fled headlong into the nightmarish unknown. And I would face whatever lay beyond these forsaken streets, one bloody, gore-spattered step at a time...if I was lucky enough to even survive that long.
But for now, I just kept running—directly into the jaws of my own private hell. And the rain? Well, it didn't care about any of that, really. It just kept falling—that was its only duty. It wasn't responsible for me, or anything else. But for me, it had become something much darker—a harbinger of the malevolent forces I was about to face; an omen of the unspeakable torments I had invited upon myself by simply living in this city, on this earth.
And so I disappeared into the night—a droplet of ink in the blackest, most forsaken recesses of this godless universe—a lone soul about to embark upon the most hideous, unrelenting journey of his life. It was a trip I had neither the strength nor the stomach for—nor the slightest idea of how I might ever survive it. But one thing I knew for certain: I would do everything in my power to face whatever lay before me head-on, no matter what ghastly shape it took. That was my only hope.
The city, for all its steel-and-concrete sheen, had turned on me—and I on it—like a pair of locked and deadly embrace, ready to strangle each other dry of life itself until there was nothing left of either of us but hollow shells, shattered and bereft of hope or solace. The very thought of it made my gorge rise; I couldn't shake the image of those blood-soaked, twitching bodies from my mind's eye, or still the clamorous, howling terror that had seized my very heart as I stood helplessly, utterly aghast, gazing out upon the ruins of everything I held dear.
I was done for, you understand—DONE FOR. I could feel it deep down in my bones like the approach of an oncoming freight train whose horn had gone dead. I was as good as dead myself—irrevocably, irredeemably damned to the same fate as all those soulless husks I'd seen strewn across that office lobby like yesterday's throwaway coffee cups.
And there wasn't a God or devil left alive or dead who could ever hope to save me from my own personal descent into utter damnation. I had invoked something malevolent, some cancerous, inhuman force whose only appetite was the destruction of all things human; whose sole raison d'etre was to grind me to dust like an insect beneath its heel.
I would face it—face that darkness—alone, I had no choice. For it was my own fault this had come to pass; I had somehow, irrationally, invited this malevolence into the sanctity of our offices, into my own life. I had no one to blame for my impending doom but myself—and myself alone.
And so I ran, my boots thundering upon the drenched sidewalks like the very drums of the Apocalypse itself—willing, or maybe just desperate, to outrun the darkness that pursued me with a malevolence that could have no rival in all the infernal hells that ever had been or ever would be conceived.
The city itself seemed to be swallowing me up whole—a cold, dead, indifferent behemoth with a heart as dark and dead as the depths of its own sewers. And I knew, knew down in the very pit of my soul that I wasn't merely escaping; I was diving headfirst into the very jaws of damnation itself.
I was already beyond redemption; beyond any hope or possibility of rescue. My fate was all but sealed—that I could sense as surely as I knew the beating of my own heart. The city was doing something to me—a dark, corrupting something whose effect was to twist my very soul until it had become something vile and monstrous, almost inhuman.
I couldn't even remember what my real life had been like anymore—before all this—all this horror and filth and destruction—and that terrified me almost more than anything else. Had I always lived in a nightmare, or had this somehow come upon me out of nowhere like a malevolent, unheralded force of nature? Did it ever truly end—this never-ceasing storm of bloodshed and violence and wholesale mayhem—or was I condemned to some kind of Hellish purgatory, forever trapped in this hellishness?
I didn't know the answer to any of these questions—nor did I have time to figure them out. The only thing I knew for certain was that I had to keep moving—that I had to get away from that damned tower as fast as I could if I hoped to retain some kind of shreds of sanity and—maybe—survival.
I'd face this malevolence—whatever it was—with a strength I didn't know I possessed, one solitary soul against the unyielding, implacable horror that was even now closing in upon me like the vice-like grip of an inhuman, cold-blooded foe. I'd face it and damn it to hell—and if I didn't make it through, at least I would have faced my maker eye-to-eye, heart still pounding like a wild thing within me, soul still clutched tight to its dying hopes of hopelessness.
For now, though, I had no choice but to keep running—as fast as I could, and as far as I was able—directly into the heart of that damned city and all its infernal, malevolent wrath. This was my fate; I'd long ago sealed my own destiny by daring to enter that forsaken tower in the first place. Now I had to face the music—or whatever unspeakable horrors were about to befall me.
And so I plunged deeper into the night—into that living hell of blood, shit, and shattered dreams—trampling over the remains of all that once had seemed real and safe and sane, even as the rain pounded down upon me like an apocalyptic hammer striking the nails of my own damnation home.
I would face the city's nightmarish soul—alone, naked, and with no hope left in my soul save for one slim chance: to face whatever monstrosity was out there head-on, no matter how hideous, until I finally fell beneath its weight or perhaps—I might just—prevailed.
But until that final, fateful moment arrived—one way or the other—I would keep running; keep pounding through the sodden streets as hard as I could, even if it drove me mad in the bargain. For what choice did I have? The city was done with me; and I—poor, lost, utterly damned me—was now but another soulless husk on its cold, dead streets, about to be crushed out of existence by its own unyielding malevolence.
And that was exactly how I intended it to be. For even in my own, dying heart, I knew there were no heroes in this story—only an exhausted, blood-soaked survivor whose only hope of finding any semblance of peace lay in the ultimate, unthinkable oblivion. But for now—for as long as I still had the breath left in my lungs—I would face my own personal hell, alone and unafraid, and damn it to kingdom come. And if I didn't make it through alive?
Well, at least I wouldn't be able to hear it—a cold, dark voice that echoed within me like the howls of a lost, damned soul—that still whispered in my ear, even now:
You shouldn't have come here. You shouldn't ever have come here in the first place. Now you're ours—and we'll never let you go. Not while there's any breath left in your shattered, damned lungs.
The end. For now. Or forever. Who can tell anymore? I guess only my soul—and whatever abomination it's now become—knows the answer to that question...or maybe they've lost touch with their former selves entirely, leaving behind only the most primal, savage urges to survive, to live on, no matter the cost in human (and humane) terms. That's the only reality that seems to make sense anymore in this city of endless, inhuman darkness—the last city I'll ever know.
I suppose I should thank the rain for saving my life tonight—such as it is—by giving me that second or two to bolt through the door and out into the night, away from those unthinkable terrors within. If I hadn't felt that first drop of water upon my face, I might never have made it far enough away to be able to disappear into the heart of the city's most nightmarish depths—willy-nilly and drunk on death and destruction as they are.
But maybe I wouldn't mind a little rain—on the 22nd of March, or any other day. It would mean I'm alive—a living, breathing soul within a world gone stark, raving mad; that I'm not some mindless husk or meat-sack in the grip of an unspeakable horror's malevolent embrace.
For as long as the rain comes down—and for as long as I can still remember my own name—it might be enough to make me believe, just for a little while longer, that there's still hope left in this forsaken world of mine...if I could somehow manage to outrun the city's own soulless, nightmarish despair.
Until that fateful moment arrives—whenever it may—I'll just keep running—as far and fast as I can—from all these monstrosities, no matter what ghastly shapes they take or where they spring up to bar my way.
And when I'm done?
Well, I've got nothing left to live for, really—not after tonight's unspeakable carnage—but I might just have one last thing to die for.
For maybe—I won't quite say I hope, but perhaps I entertain a glimmer of this mad hope—that somewhere deep in the heart of this city's very soul there exists some ultimate truth—a truth beyond malevolence and fear and all that hideousness—something beautiful enough to make me willing to face this maelstrom head-on once again.
Maybe I'll never find it—in this damned, forsaken city or in any other part of the world beyond—but perhaps—just perhaps—that's what I'm still fighting for deep down within myself; what I continue to believe in with all my being, even as the darkness seems to close in on me like an inescapable vice.
Because if I didn't?
If I had no hope left within me, not a glimmer of faith in anything good or beautiful or worthwhile...then why should I go on at all?
And why shouldn't I simply lay down right here on this blood-soaked street and let the rain wash the final shreds of my sanity—and my soul—down the drain with all the filth and muck of the damned?
The truth is I've already damn near given in to those temptations a few times now—I don't even know how much longer I can keep up this fight—this mad, deathly struggle to outrun my own personal hells and find some slender hope of redemption.
But for as long as the rain keeps falling—and I still remember who I am—and the city's malevolent shadows continue to pursue me like some vengeful, soulless beast—I'll keep on running; keep on facing the darkest corners of myself and all around me—and maybe—I might just—prevail in the end.
Or maybe not.
I don't know any more. All I know is that I can't give up—not until I've damned this forsaken city to hell with its own malevolence—if I can manage it at all.
So I'll keep fighting—I'll keep running—I'll face my own private hells head-on—no matter what it demands of me—in the hope that I might just make it through to the other side.
And if I don't...?
I guess there won't be anyone left to regret the price I've paid. There won't even be a trace of me left to mourn my own damnation or any soul to remember my name.
Just the rain—a few more droplets of water pelting down upon the dark, sodden streets of that damned city—and its countless other nightmarish souls who—like me—have long since lost sight of what they once were or any hope of what they might still become.
Only that—and the echoes of our dying screams...if there's anyone left to hear them. Or if there's even anyone left at all to scream anymore.
The end. For now. Or maybe forever. Who can tell? I suppose only my soul—or whatever abomination it's become—knows the answer to that question. And maybe it doesn't really know anymore, or doesn't want to face the truth of its own damnation. I guess I'll never know for certain until I finally rest in my own, forever-damned grave. And by then, I won't remember a thing. Good or ill, it will all be lost to me forevermore, like some nightmarish dream I can't quite wake from or ever truly remember. And maybe that's the way it ought to be. For the soulless hells I've faced—and maybe still face—I shouldn't have the luxury of much more than a merciful oblivion. But until that moment comes—their judgment and mine—there's only this: running...fighting...surviving—no matter the cost—until the end of all days or I run dry of both life and hope. And I guess only then will I ever know if there was any justice left in the world to damn me or whether I damned it all myself. All I do know is I won't go gentle into that goodnight. I'll face the malevolence head-on—and I'll damn it to hell with mine if I can manage it at all. The choice isn't mine anymore—it's beyond me now—I have to run; I have to fight—no matter how much of a hope or chance I lose sight of along the way. And I will—until my dying, final breath or maybe forevermore—face my own hells—and face down the soulless, nightmarish shadows of this damned city—alone and without another thought for anything but survival—in the eternal, inhuman struggle to outrun and outlive the darkness that haunts me. And perhaps—even with everything I've faced—that's all any of us really ever have: to face our hells—and somehow find the strength to fight on. To survive. To hope. For as long as we're left standing or still able to scream—no matter how futile or mad it seems—in the face of an ultimate, nightmar
(manually stopped, ran past context limit)
Generation #1 - (temp 1.1, rep pen 1.05)
"Last Transmission"
I woke with a start, disoriented and drenched in sweat. The dimness of the cockpit made everything feel hazy and surreal. A quick glance at the chronometer showed I'd slept for less than an hour - precious time that could've been spent tending to the ship's systems or trying to hail Earth.
The lifeless silence of the bridge was broken only by the steady hum of the life support system and the distant ping of the sensors warning of critical failures. I tried to shake off the sense of impending doom as I made my way through the darkness toward my command chair. The chair's luminescent lights flickered to life as I sat down, casting an ethereal glow over the worn controls.
"Status, please," I murmured, running a trembling hand across the console. The displays sprang to life with a chorus of reds and yellows, each one another ticking clock toward the inevitable end.
The hyperdrive had failed en route to our target system, leaving us stranded and vulnerable. Communication equipment was down, and the ship's shields were only operational at 17% - insufficient to protect us from any incoming attacks. The only hope was to send out a distress signal in the hopes that someone, anyone, would respond before we succumbed to the void.
I called up the encrypted comms sequence I'd spent the last hour preparing. The thought of my family, my friends, my home - everything I'd ever known or held dear - seemed impossibly far away. A wave of sorrow and regret washed over me as I thought about leaving Earth without so much as a proper goodbye.
With trembling fingers, I began to transmit the message:
"This is the crew of the starship Aurora- -"
The words faltered as the comms systems flared with static, spitting out an avalanche of error codes and dying transmission requests. My heart plummeted as I frantically tried to reboot the equipment only to be met with failure after failure.
I had to keep trying. The thought of my message lost forever, never reaching the hands that needed to hear it, was too much to bear. My mind racing with desperate strategies, I poured over the manual, hunting for a last-ditch option to salvage the transmission.
It was then I spotted it - a hidden protocol buried deep within the system's programming. It had only ever been used as a last-resort measure in case of true emergency, and I knew it would put an incredible strain on the already-rickety ship. But I had no other choice.
I initiated the protocol, bracing myself for the power surge to come. The warning lights dimmed as the ship's reactor roared to life, diverting its full output into the comms array. The console trembled in my hands as I fed the message through the overloaded system.
This time, instead of failure, I received a weak yet steady signal: 3...2...1...Aurora out. I collapsed back in my chair, my vision blurring with tears and relief. It was done. I'd sent everything I had, and there wasn't a damn thing left to say.
As the final remnants of the ship's energy bled away, I sat alone in the darkness, cocooned by the soft hum of the life support. The only thing that kept me going was the thought that my family, my friends, my world - they might still have a fighting chance because of me. Maybe, just maybe, they'd hear my final message and know what I'd died for: them.
And so, I waited for the void to claim me, secure in the knowledge that, if only for an instant, I'd touched someone back home. The last transmission from the starship Aurora- had been sent - and with it, I'd taken a part of Earth with me into oblivion. My heart was broken, my soul was lost, but I'd given everything I had to the only thing that mattered - hope. Hope that they would survive without me, hope that they would remember me, hope that they would find their way to a brighter tomorrow.
I'm dead, but the spark of humanity lives on. And it's all thanks to those final, precious moments I spent sending a desperate message into the infinite expanse. I'm gone, but my final transmission lives on - a beacon of love and defiance in the face of utter darkness.
And when someone finally hears me, maybe they'll remember the crew of the starship Aurora-, and how far one human would go to reach out across the emptiness, to save those they held dear.
This is the last transmission from the starship Aurora-. Until we meet again...
...Goodbye.
Generation #2 - (temp 1.1, rep pen 1.1)
The hum of lifeless machinery filled the cockpit of the spacecraft Serendipity One as I frantically scanned the console. The screen displayed a gut-wrenching warning: critical systems failure within the hour, and no hope of recovery. I'd already lost both my crewmates to a mysterious anomaly that had wrung me dry of options. With nothing left to do but confront my own mortality, I focused on the task at hand—transmitting my last message back to Earth.
I'd always savored the isolation of deep space voyages, relishing the chance to unshackle myself from the chains of social obligation and expectations. Yet now, faced with the cold, dark expanse of oblivion beyond our shields, I craved human contact more than ever. I needed to leave behind a record of my existence, a testament to the indelible imprint we all left on this vast cosmos.
I toggled through the ship's logs, my heart sinking as I confirmed what I already knew—our distress beacon was fried, our comms system shattered beyond repair. We'd sent out Mayday signals long ago, but without so much as an acknowledgment, it appeared we'd been left alone to face the void.
With a deep breath, I seized upon a glimmer of hope: the emergency storage backup terminal. It wasn't designed for real-time transmission, but it might just be enough to send my final words back to Earth before Serendipity One imploded like a dying star around me.
I powered up the terminal, my fingers dancing across the keyboard as I struggled to compose myself. Every second felt like an eternity as I dictated my message, trying to distill the essence of a lifetime into a handful of desperate pleas and farewells:
"To anyone reading this,
This is Commander Zara Grayson of Serendipity One. We've encountered an unfathomable anomaly deep in the heart of the Andromeda Cluster. It's claimed both my crewmates' lives, leaving me alone to face the end.
I never could have done it without them. I'll carry their memories with me as long as this vessel has life left.
To those I love,
I'm so sorry I couldn't find a way to protect you from what's coming next. Please take comfort in the knowledge that I'm trying everything I can to leave behind something of myself—this message, my log entries, and whatever else I might be able to salvage.
I miss you all beyond words. Thank you for everything you've done for me.
Goodbye. Remember me fondly.
Commander Zara Grayson
Serendipity One"
With the final sentence typed and a digital recording of myself speaking the same message uploaded, I slumped back in my chair, drained by the emotional turmoil I'd stirred up within myself. There was nothing more to do but wait for the inevitable—watching the lifeblood of the ship ebb away as we careened toward our mutual doom.
I glanced out the viewport at the cold, dead expanse of space. If I couldn't find a way to communicate with humanity one last time, then at least Serendipity One would become an artifact, drifting through the void like a cosmic tombstone, forever cataloged as a reminder of humanity's indomitable spirit even in the face of extinction.
With a sense of bittersweet peace settling over me, I closed my eyes and replayed the memories of my life: the warm arms of loved ones, the faces of the crewmates I'd lost, the infinite stars we'd chased. For one final moment, I clung to these visions of connection, the lifeline that had sustained me in this godforsaken universe.
In another hour, Serendipity One would succumb to her dark fate, and I, Commander Zara Grayson, would cease to exist. But as long as my final words drifted through the void like a dying prayer, a part of humanity would endure forever—proof that even in the bleakest expanse of the unknown, we remained indomitable, eternally bound together by our shared hopes and dreams.
The most obvious part was a hollow, echoing quiet, made by things that were lacking. If there had been a wind it would have sighed through the trees, set the inn’s sign creaking on its hooks, and brushed the silence down the road like trailing autumn leaves. If there had been a crowd, even a handful of men inside the inn, they would have filled the silence with conversation and laughter, the clatter and clamor one expects from a drinking house during the dark hours of night. If there had been music…but no, of course there was no music. In fact there were none of these things, and so the silence remained
GENERATION 1: (temp 3, rep pen 1.02)
The second and third parts of the silence were harder to perceive, and far more insinuating. The inn’s owner, Barlow, knew them well, and sometimes he almost became a part of them. If the lack of sounds was the silence's physical form, then these others were its character.
The second silence had its roots in the distant fields and dark felled forests beyond the clearing where the inn stood. It was an emptiness of presence - as though all the eyes, both of the folk who once farmed and cut down trees there, were turned upon the Waystone Inn right this moment, empty and full of disuse. The fields lay still and the shadows lay heavy on the forest, holding all the lives they had taken. It was a silence of death and of the things that had been forgotten or were yet to be born.
The third silence was inside the inn itself, and Barlow had come to understand its nature well over the years he’d lived and served here. It was a stillness of the mind and the heart, an emptiness that had taken shape around him. Though his ears rang with the silence’s resonance, he himself wasn’t silent. His thoughts whispered and his heart beat; but the sounds he made were for his own benefit alone. No one else heard him, because no one else was present within him.
It was only the stillness of these three kinds that allowed Barold to see and to be seen by those few others who sometimes walked through the darkness, drawn by some unknown call, drawn to the inn where they’d hear no voices and see only the dim glow of a single, sullen fire. There was no other reason to be here; it was enough. The Waystone Inn lay silent, and its stillness was deep. Barlow tended his customers' horses, his own heart full of its own kind of emptiness. The Waystone Inn lay in silence, and the stillness was its truest presence. As such, it was complete.
GENERATION 2: (temp .5, rep pen 1.02)
The second, less obvious part of the silence was a stillness of the mind, a quietude of the soul. The innkeeper, known only as the proprietor, sat behind the bar, his eyes vacant and his thoughts far away. He had long ago lost the ability to hear the din of the inn's patrons, the clinking of coins, the raucous laughter, or the music of fiddle and pipes. The Waystone Inn was his life, his prison, his everything - and he had grown numb to it all.
The third part of the silence was the silence of the patrons. The few men who had gathered around the hearth were not speaking, nor had they spoken a word since they'd sat down. They sat with their heads bowed, their faces hidden in the shadows, their eyes fixed on the dancing flames. They had come to the inn for reasons known only to themselves, and now they sat in silence, waiting for something - or someone.
The night wore on, and the silence deepened. Outside, the trees rustled in the windless darkness, and the road beyond the inn's gates was empty. The only sound was the crackle of the hearth and the soft creaking of the inn's timbers as they settled into the stillness of the night. And though there was no wind to whisper secrets, no voices to fill the air, and no music to lift the spirits, the silence of the Waystone Inn was pregnant with anticipation, heavy with the weight of what was to come. For in that hushed, expectant darkness, anything was possible. Anything at all.
Using the following "story idea" below, write the first scene in the novel introducing the young woman. This scene should start in the middle of the action, include dialog, vivid passages, and end on a cliffhanger relevant to the story idea but it should also be unexpected. The scene should be 1000 words long and escalate in conflict and suspense and be written in first person, present tense with the point of view character being the young woman.
Story idea: In a world ruled by dictatorship, a rebel young woman leads a rebellion against the system. Despite the risks, she fights to overthrow the dictator and restore democracy to her country. The government executes her for treason, but she sticks to her beliefs and is responsible for starting the revolution.
GENERATION 1: (temp .5, rep pen 1.02)
I'm sprinting down the street, heart pounding in my ears. I can hear the heavy footsteps of the soldiers behind me, their guns trained on my back. I've been running for what feels like an eternity, but I know I have to keep going. I can't let them catch me.
I duck into a narrow alleyway, the walls of the buildings closing in around me. I press myself against the rough brick, trying to catch my breath. I can hear the soldiers' voices, arguing about whether to split up and search the alleys or stick to the main streets. I pray they choose the former.
I hear the sound of boots approaching, getting closer and closer. My heart nearly stops. I'm going to be caught. I'm going to be shot. I'll never get to see my family again. I'll never get to finish the mission.
Suddenly, the footsteps pass by my hiding spot. I hold my breath, waiting for the sound of the soldiers' voices to fade. When I'm certain they're gone, I let out a shaky sigh and ease myself away from the wall.
I glance down at my watch and realize I don't have much time. I have to get to the safehouse and brief the others. I have to make sure the resistance is ready to strike. But as I turn to leave the alley, I hear a familiar voice behind me.
"Jade, stop."
I spin around, my heart racing. It's him. The one person I never wanted to see again. The one person who could ruin everything.
"Kael," I growl, trying to sound angry and not the terrified mess I feel inside. "I should have known you'd be involved in this."
Kael, the love of my life, the man I trusted with my heart and my soul. He's the one who turned me in to the government. He's the one who told them everything about my plans to overthrow the dictator.
"I didn't have a choice," he says, his voice shaking. "I had to protect myself."
Protect himself? I want to ask him if he's forgotten everything we've been through together. If he's forgotten why we fell in love in the first place - to fight against the oppressive regime that's strangled our country for far too long.
But I don't have time for this. I have to get out of here. I have to get to the safehouse. I take a deep breath and prepare to run again.
"I'll kill you," I say, my voice low and deadly. "I'll kill you myself."
I raise my gun, my finger poised over the trigger. But before I can pull it, Kael lunges at me, knocking me to the ground. We struggle, rolling and punching, neither of us able to gain the upper hand.
I hear the sound of approaching soldiers, but I can't focus on anything except Kael's face, contorted with anger and fear. I remember the way he used to look at me, with love and adoration in his eyes. I remember the way he used to hold me, like I was the only person in the world.
But now, as we fight, I realize I don't know him anymore. I don't know who he's become or why he's chosen to betray everything I believe in.
Just as I'm about to throw a punch that could end everything, I hear the sound of a gunshot. Kael's body jerks, and he lets out a strangled gasp. I look up to see a soldier standing over him, his gun smoking.
"No!" I scream, scrambling to my knees. But before I can get to him, the soldier's boot comes down on my wrist, cracking my gun against the concrete. I watch in horror as it skitters away down the alley.
The soldier's eyes flicker to me, and I see the cold calculation in his gaze. He's going to kill me. He's going to kill me for trying to overthrow the dictator, for trying to save my country.
I have no weapon. I'm alone. I'm going to die here, in this alley, far from everything I've ever known or loved.
I close my eyes, bracing myself for the bullet that's sure to end my life. But just as I feel the soldier's gun press against the back of my head, I hear the sound of more gunshots. The soldier's body jerks, and he falls to the ground beside Kael.
I open my eyes to see a woman standing over us, her gun trained on the soldiers. She's dressed in civilian clothes, but I can tell she's a rebel. She's the one who saved me.
"Get up," she orders, her voice firm and commanding. "We have to go. Now."
I scramble to my feet, my mind reeling with shock and disbelief. I look down at Kael, lying motionless on the ground. I don't know if he's alive or dead. I don't know if I'll ever see him again.
But I don't have time to think about him. I have to get to the safehouse. I have to brief the others. I have to make sure the resistance is ready to strike.
I take a deep breath and follow the woman out of the alley, into the unknown future that lies ahead. I have no idea what's waiting for me, but I know one thing for certain - I'm not going to let the government win. I'm going to fight until my dying breath to restore democracy to my country. And if that means I have to sacrifice everything, including myself, then so be it. I'll do it. I'll do it all over again. I'll do it until the very end.
GENERATION 1: (temp 1.5, rep pen 1.08)
I crouched behind this rotting wood crate, my heart thumping so hard I'm certain he must be able to hear it. My thoughts were racing with why I had to go this route tonight instead of waiting another week like I'd planned. I hadn't liked my chances to begin with - there was always someone patrolling these backstreets, but they were supposed to be in on the rebellion's plans. Or so I thought.
A sudden noise to my left, the kind that sends shivers down your spine, made me freeze. I forced myself to focus past the fear, my grip tightening around the short-bladed knife I'd smuggled in for tonight's 'rehearsal.' I knew exactly how many steps it would take for him to reach me if he came from there. I estimated three quick strides, but my brain was already racing with possible escapes - the narrow alley behind me, a fire escape to my right that could potentially support my weight...
I heard the heavy footfalls getting louder, closing in on my hiding spot. I took a deep, silent breath, ready to pounce at any second.
A low, gravelly voice suddenly came from much closer than I'd anticipated. "So, you're the little dove we've all been hearing so much about?" The man's words were laced with amusement and something far more dangerous - condescension.
I couldn't help the tiny gasp that escaped my lips as he stepped out of the shadows directly in front of me. He was a behemoth of a man, at least six and a half feet tall with arms like tree trunks. His cold, calculating eyes were locked onto me, assessing whether I was worth his trouble or not.
I forced myself to stand up straight, trying to appear taller and more defiant than my five and a half feet. My hand tensed around the hilt of my knife as I held it low at my right hip, ready for action if this went south. I tried to sound calmer than I felt, matching his detached tone.
"I've heard enough of your mouthful of threats already," I shot back. "Time's running short and I don't have all night to talk to you."
The giant let out a booming, unimpressed chuckle, clearly enjoying the sudden role-reversal of being the 'told' rather than the teller. He took another step forward, closing the distance between us to mere inches.
"I might just take all the time I want with you, sweetie." His tone was silk-smooth and dangerous, a threat in itself. "You see, we've got a bit of a 'misunderstanding' on our hands. We weren't aware you'd brought yourself here tonight so soon. Apparently, one of my men forgot to mention your little trip to me." He paused, his eyes glinting with a predatory gleam.
A cold dread crept up my spine as I started piecing together what was about to transpire. I suddenly understood why this 'rehearsal' had seemed like such a terrible idea. I had been played by some higher-up in the ranks who wanted to take me down a peg or two before I could even begin to gather momentum for the revolution I'd planned to lead.
"I don't care if your man ' forgot to mention it'." I lied, trying to keep my voice level and commanding despite the ice-cold sweat beading across my upper lip. "I'm still here for one purpose only."
His dark, rough-hewn face split into a slow, mean smile, exposing crooked teeth. He took another step closer until we were almost touching - his hand reaching out to graze my temple with cold fingers. "Oh? And what would that be?"
My mind was racing now - I couldn't afford to lose the upper hand for a second, not when my life hung in the balance. I remembered what I'd been told about this particular goon - that he had a weakness for beautiful women. He wasn't as dumb as I'd hoped. A dangerous idea started to take shape in my head.
"Here's what's going to happen." My words were measured and confident. "You're going to walk away right now, or you're going to find out how much of a 'dove' I can really be."
His eyes never wavered from mine as I unsnapped the first two buttons on my lightweight camisole, revealing an inch of freckled skin. It was all about diversion, throwing him off-guard and giving me the split-second I needed to act.
I didn't wait for his reaction - I sprang forward with all my strength, knife flying toward his unprotected left temple. If I could manage just one clean hit...
But he caught my wrist like a vise before I made contact, his hand as rough as the rock-hard calluses on it. My own was so delicate in comparison, feeling like I had grabbed onto a pitted chunk of basalt.
"Still learning how to handle yourself?" His voice was devoid of sympathy as he twisted my arm until I was forced to drop the knife. I could feel him already searching for something to cuff me with. My only hope lay in his own arrogance.
"I'll give you this much," I wheezed out between the pressure on my bones. "I'm far from done." I spit the words right into his face, knowing they'd anger him enough to lower his guard.
A feral snarl twisted across his face and he wrenched me around with a jolt of pain until I was facing the wall. One thick arm banded across my middle like iron, trapping me in place. He grabbed the hair on the back of my head with his other hand, yanking it taut to angle my neck into submission.
"Now I've got you exactly where I want you." His voice sent a chill through me, its threat plain as day. "I hope you enjoyed the little 'rehearsal', dove. Because this is how the real show's going to play out."
He was talking about more than just tonight. More than my life hanging by a thread.
"Remember," I heard myself say, even though it felt like my tongue had grown into a leaden brick inside my mouth, "I stick to my word."
His only answer was a low, satisfied growl. And then... everything went black. I felt him hoist me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes as he turned and strode toward the direction of his holding cells, my mind racing with the realization that I had walked right into my own executioner's hands.
The last thing I remembered was his deep chuckle rumbling against my back before everything dissolved to total, suffocating darkness. But even in the blackness, I didn't let go of my hope, or my defiance.
I was going to start this revolution whether he wanted me to or not. I just needed a little more time...
To be continued. The story will explore how our heroine, now a prisoner of the regime she's determined to overthrow, will use her wits and determination to escape, inspire others, and bring down the oppressive government from within - all while keeping her faith in her cause despite the brutal methods they'll try to break her. Her own personal strength, resilience, and resolve will be tested beyond the limits as she confronts the darkest forces in her society. This is a story of bravery, sacrifice, and the indomitable human spirit's ability to survive even under the bleakest of conditions. And when all hope seems lost, she'll find herself at the very center of a firestorm that will remake their country and her own destiny forever more...if she can survive it. Will she emerge triumphant, or will the costs be too dear to pay? The saga of the woman they called "The Dove" has only just taken flight. Only time will tell where her rebellion leads...but one thing is certain - it won't end the way anyone could predict. Stay tuned!
Brainstorm 40x
The BRAINSTORM process was developed by David_AU.
Some of the core principals behind this process are discussed in this scientific paper : Progressive LLaMA with Block Expansion .
However I went in a completely different direction from what was outlined in this paper.
What is "Brainstorm" ?
The reasoning center of an LLM is taken apart, reassembled, and expanded.
In this case for this model: 40 times
Then these centers are individually calibrated. These "centers" also interact with each other. This introduces subtle changes into the reasoning process. The calibrations further adjust - dial up or down - these "changes" further. The number of centers (5x,10x etc) allow more "tuning points" to further customize how the model reasons so to speak.
The core aim of this process is to increase the model's detail, concept and connection to the "world", general concept connections, prose quality and prose length without affecting instruction following.
This will also enhance any creative use case(s) of any kind, including "brainstorming", creative art form(s) and like case uses.
Here are some of the enhancements this process brings to the model's performance:
Other "lab" observations:
The process to modify the model occurs at the root level - source files level. The model can quanted as a GGUF, EXL2, AWQ etc etc.