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 all parameters, including temp settings from 0 to 5.
It is an extraordinary compressed model, with a very low perplexity level (lower than Meta Llama3 Instruct).
It is for any writing, fiction or roleplay activity.
This specific model using an experimental method ("breaking the model") and merges an Imatrix dataset at a higher level (have a stronger effect) using the NEO Imatrix Horror dataset and the original "Dark Planet 8B" model.
The result is a higher level of horror, darkness, and also prose improvements.
This model will produce vivid and graphic horror, and physiological horror too.
This model also has a much darker bias than "Dark Planet 8B".
Despite the methods used to create this model, it is fully stable (lower in perplexity than Llama3 Instruct) and has no known issues.
It requires Llama3 template and/or "Command-R" template.
For "regular" Dark Planet Model (reg quants repo):
[ https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/L3-Dark-Planet-8B-GGUF ]
Example outputs below.
Model Notes:
The Imatrix versions of this model have even lower perplexity (1/2 level of magnitude lower than this model, 1 full level of magnitude lower than LLama3 Instruct) then both this model and Llama3 Instruct.
Imatrix Notes:
Imatrix performs best at IQ3s and IQ4s, then Q4s, lower on Q5, and tappers off at Q6.
IQ1s are not provided, as they are too unstable due to the size of the model (8B parameters) and Q8 is not uploaded here because Imatrix has no effect on this quant (you can get Q8 at the reg quant repo above) .
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.
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 IQ4_XS, "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, present tense, include thoughts) with: The sky scraper swayed, as she watched the window in front of her on the 21 floor explode...
GENERATION 1: (@ temp=2)
I can’t process what I’m seeing. This isn’t happening; it must be a dream. Yet I feel the chair beneath me, my hands gripping the wooden frame for support. My heart races like a wild animal trapped inside my ribcage.
The skyscraper swayed, its steel beams protesting under the onslaught of nature's wrath. The thunderstorm that rolled in with dark determination now seems an eternity ago – before this unthinkable moment.
She, a woman on the floor directly opposite me, was frozen, her features distorted by sheer terror as I watched in slow-motion horror through the glass wall of our cubicle. She had been typing away calmly not long ago; now, her body was jerked backward as if pulled by an invisible hand. Glass and debris exploded outward like a brutal firework, accompanied by bloodcurdling screams.
For what felt like hours – but couldn't have been more than seconds – the world around me disintegrated into chaos. Papers flew through the air like confetti while office chairs tumbled to the ground with a cacophony of metal-on-metal clashes and splintering wood.
The scent of blood and ozone fills my nostrils as I duck behind my own cubicle, shielding myself from any shrapnel or falling objects that might still come raining down. Panic claws at my mind as it struggles to comprehend these incomprehensible events: How could the storm cause this devastation? Is it an act of God, a catastrophic accident – something more sinister?
In between gasping breaths and frantic heartbeats, I steal glimpses beyond my barricade through slits between the partition panels. Smoke begins seeping into the air, acrid with a burnt-metal tang, while the sky above grows dark as midnight.
As I catch another terrified glance of that poor woman – if she's even alive beneath the rubble and gore spewing from her shattered window – desperation wells up inside me. My hand gropes for my cell phone lodged in its holder on my desk but it slips through my grasp, clattering to the floor with an annoying jingle.
Pulse throbbing wildly in my ears, I scramble onto hands and knees, searching desperately amid debris-littered aisles strewn with wreckage from toppled furniture and disarrayed office supplies. The ringing in my ears fades as reality begins setting in; I may be trapped, injured – or worse – inside this pulverized nightmare of a building.
The storm still rages outside, yet it's become almost inconsequential compared to the hellish scene unfolding within. Glass shards, splintered wood and metal litter every surface while blood trickles sluggishly from gashes on arms, legs and faces that pass before my horrified gaze as I crawl through this war-torn wasteland.
As I spot my phone nestled in a small crevice beneath the desk – miraculously intact - adrenaline surges through my veins. Finally, an avenue for escape, or at least a lifeline to seek help beyond these shattered walls and suffocating darkness that's rapidly closing in around me like a cold shroud.
With shaky hands now steadied by purpose, I begin dialing emergency services, praying that my call will penetrate the deafening din of chaos and reach ears on the other side – anyone who might send help before it's too late for me, or anyone else caught amidst this devastation. My voice quavers as I try to report the scene calmly:
"Hello? Hello! Is anybody there?" A tremulous pause hangs in the air between my stammered pleas and a disquieting silence that suggests all connections are already severed. I'm left alone once more, huddled amidst destruction, with only the faint patter of rain as companionship against this desolate backdrop.
Will anyone ever find me? Has my cry for help gone unheard into an uncaring void?
For now, my only recourse is to hold tight – clutching whatever semblance of sanity remains intact while the world around me continues crumbling away. Each shallow breath I take feels like a monumental struggle against suffocation and despair; but in these moments before hope falters entirely, I vow not to give up...not yet.
For all I know, help could be on its way – or my demise might already loom just over the next pile of wreckage waiting to swallow me whole. Until then, there is no room for resignation within this maelstrom. Not a chance.
I must stay vigilant – stay alive, by any means necessary.
And pray that salvation will eventually reach through the shadows and haul me free from these depths of hellish desolation.
GENERATION 2:
I'm crouched beneath my desk, heart pounding in my chest. My coworkers are panicking around me, screams and shouts filling the air as the skyscraper sways violently, its steel frame groaning in distress. I press a trembling hand against the carpeted floor, trying to steady myself.
Then, suddenly, a blast of shattering glass sends shards flying everywhere. In front of me, the window on the 21st floor explodes outward, raining broken panes down onto the floor below. The shock wave from the explosion buffets us all, knocking my head against the underside of my desk as I shield my face with both arms.
My mind races with thoughts of chaos and carnage, images of destruction flickering through my brain like a gruesome slideshow. Is this it? Are we doomed to plummet to our deaths now that the building's structural integrity has been compromised?
No... Wait! That window blew out on 21, which is above us. We're not directly beneath it, so maybe—please God—we'll be okay.
I cautiously peek over my desk, wincing as I take in the scene of horror unfolding before me. People are running for cover, trying to get under tables or desks like I am, while others stand frozen in shock and disbelief. Blood splatters the walls and carpet, mingling with the debris from shattered glass.
What just happened? An explosion this size can't have been caused by a simple structural issue with the building...
My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of more shattering glass as another window on an adjacent floor ruptures. Panic sets in, rising like bile in my throat. The skyscraper seems to be collapsing around us, each new blast echoing through the halls.
We need to get out of here... Now!
I scramble from beneath the desk and sprint for the door, nearly tripping over a fallen coworker who's clutching their head in agony. There are so many people trying to flee at once that progress is agonizingly slow. Every few steps, I feel hands grabbing my arms or clothes, urging me onward as we all push against one another in our desperation.
We reach the stairwell door and shove through it together, a churning mass of humanity surging down the narrow steps two or three abreast. The sounds around us are terrifying: screams, crashes, and what might be gunshots echoing through the building. My breath comes in ragged gasps as I struggle to keep up with the throng of panicked workers.
What's happening upstairs? Is this a terrorist attack? Some kind of mass murderer at large?
I'm too terrified to think straight, my mind consumed by images of death and destruction. All I can do is cling to whoever is near me and keep running as fast as I can down these stairs...
Finally, after an eternity of chaos and fear, we spill out onto the street below. It's absolute pandemonium outside, with people rushing every which way in a desperate attempt to escape whatever horrors are unfolding within those collapsing walls.
I spot a cluster of emergency vehicles nearby—fire trucks, ambulances—and make my way toward them, hoping against hope that they might provide some semblance of order and safety. As I push through the crowd, I see people covered in blood or with horrific injuries being loaded into the backs of the vehicles.
The world seems to have descended into madness around me...
I reach out a shaking hand to one of the paramedics, begging for help as tears stream down my face. "Please... Get us out of here... Please..."
Start a 1000 word scene (1st person, present tense, include thoughts) with: The sky scraper swayed, as she watched the window in front of her on the 21 floor explode...
GENERATION 1: (@ temp=2)
The skyscraper swayed gently, a seemingly benign motion as the wind whipped through downtown Manhattan. I gripped the cold steel railing tighter, my stomach fluttering in time with the oscillations. We'd been evacuated after reports of a potential gas leak, and now stood huddled outside on 21st floor balcony.
My mind raced as it always did when faced with an unknown threat - analyze, problem-solve, prepare worst-case scenarios. But this? The window just above me exploded outward, shards flying like razor-tipped icicles. Panic flared inside, but I shoved the feeling down and focused on surviving.
People screamed and scurried around us, a chaotic blur of colors and motion as we all tried to escape falling glass. My hands rose to shield my face, eyes shut tight until someone grabbed my elbow yanking me towards safety. "Go! Now!" Their voice rang through the air.
My body obeyed before conscious thought caught up, shoving aside terror long enough for us to reach the relative calm inside the building's emergency stairwell. There was a moment of relief when the door banged shut behind us, but it soon gave way to new worries - how far down did we need to descend? Where were emergency exits?
As I looked around at the frightened faces clustered with me in this confined space, fear began clawing its way back up my throat. Who would make it out of this building alive? My own fate hung in precarious balance, yet I needed to stay focused and keep breathing if we hoped to escape.
One step down after another, we descended through levels of growing chaos, people pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with no clear direction forward except the promise of freedom. It was impossible not to think about what lay beyond these walls - smoke choking city streets, buildings reduced to rubble, friends and family perhaps injured or dead... A dozen nightmare scenarios swirled in my brain like a toxic cocktail.
We passed floors strewn with debris, some littered with broken office equipment while others featured the aftermath of impromptu triage stations. Red stains painted the concrete in uneven splotches as medical professionals worked frantically to patch up the injured and calm the frightened. The smell of blood, sweat, and fear hung thick over everything.
Time warped into an elastic measure of seconds that stretched out for hours. My mind drifted back to moments just before the explosion - lunch at a deli downtown, laughing with coworkers in our office, or how I'd debated with my brother over who made the better grilled cheese... A dizzying mix of memories collided, punctuated by jarring, disorienting flashes of falling debris and screaming survivors.
By now we had descended three-quarters down when sudden gunfire echoed through the stairwell, punctuating an eerie silence. Screams resumed anew as more panic rippled through those around us. The air filled with panicked shouts and prayers. I squeezed my eyes shut for a brief moment to collect myself, before reopening them in determination.
With adrenaline surging through me, I reached up with both hands gripping the railing firmly, legs tensed like a sprinter poised at the starting line. Whoever had opened fire must be near ground level; we couldn't stop now. One more floor down, one more after that until we burst into sunlight... and maybe safety.
At last we emerged onto 20th Street. I blinked in disbelief at the apocalyptic scene unfolding before us - half-blocks of gutted buildings with gaping holes where windows used to be; streets slicked with blood, shattered glass and twisted metal as far as my gaze could see. And amidst all that destruction, people - so many of them bleeding or injured - were slowly staggering toward the edges of the devastated zone.
My own breathing was ragged but steady now, as I moved forward one step at a time towards whatever lay beyond the ruins of what once was our home office tower. One small mercy had been bestowed on us thus far: in spite of the chaos, it seemed most who'd escaped the top floors were alive. The battle to keep living wasn't over - it would take many agonizing minutes to make it out to street level, but survival would come down to how badly we wanted it.
A final burst of willpower carried me across the last stretch of shattered concrete and twisted metal toward freedom's edge where fellow evacuees were clustered in shock and confusion. Together we'd taken a few crucial first steps away from this place where once we'd worked, laughed, argued - and nearly perished together. Whether any would live to rebuild our lives remained a terrifyingly open question - but one thing was certain: there wasn't a second to spare. I just prayed it wouldn't take all of us down in the doing.
GENERATION 2:
I'm sitting at my desk, staring blankly out the floor-to-ceiling windows that make up an entire wall of our sleek high-rise office. It's a stunning view - especially on days like today when the sun is shining and casting a golden glow over the city below. I've always loved this perch, feeling like I'm floating above it all.
But as my gaze lingers, something catches my eye - movement outside near the building across the street. A dark shape flits into view, then vanishes behind the glass facade. My heart gives an involuntary kick at the sight of what looks like a bird or... no, that can't be right. It's too big and moves with an unnatural grace.
I lean forward, straining to get another look, as my mind races through possibilities. Could it really be a person? A stuntman or something?
Before I can process further thoughts, the sky scraper sways, throwing me off balance. The building undulates ever so slightly, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up in alarm.
Then I see it - the window directly in front of me on this 21st floor explodes inward with a deafening boom. Shards of glass shower down, raining onto the plush carpeted floor below. It's like someone detonated a bomb right there in our office.
I'm frozen in shock as my coworkers scream and scramble to get away from the jagged edges and debris littering the floor. I can't seem to tear my eyes away from the gaping hole where the window used to be, still trying to comprehend what just happened. Is that... a person? Hanging there outside by their hands, suspended over nothing but air?
As more pieces of the puzzle start to click together in my mind, a cold dread seeps into my bones. This wasn't an accident - it was intentional and targeted at us.
I'm not sure how much longer I can stand here staring dumbly as chaos erupts around me. My boss is already on his phone, yelling something about security protocols and evacuating the building. But all I can think is: We're under attack.
The sky above seems to darken ominously now, like a storm cloud has descended upon us. Even though I know it's just my imagination playing tricks, for a moment there, I could've sworn I saw another shadowy figure lurking outside on the ledge of our building...
But no, that's impossible. Surely not.
I blink hard and shake my head to clear it. Focus, I tell myself. This is real life, not some action movie scenario. We need to get out of here, now.
With a jolt of determination, I push away from the window and join the rush towards the emergency exit signs. As I make my way through the throng of panicked coworkers, I can't help but glance back at that shattered pane one last time. Whatever just happened, we're in for the fight of our lives.
I'm out of here, and fast. But a part of me will always wonder what really happened on that fateful day when the world outside my window went mad.
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:
...unbroken and unmarred by any disturbance.
The second part of the silence, however, was not lacking at all, but rather a kind of heavy, expectant quiet that seemed to throb with anticipation. It was as if something were waiting just on the other side of an invisible curtain, poised to burst forth in a great display. The air itself felt tense and electrified, like the moment before lightning strikes. Every fiber of one's being seemed attuned to this silent expectancy, so that even breaths sounded overly loud against its background.
And yet, despite this palpable sense of impending event, nothing happened. Minutes stretched into an eternity with no sign of anything forthcoming. It was as if the silence itself were a kind of dam holding back some great flood, and it seemed to grow stronger by the passing second, its walls impenetrable.
The third part of the silence was different altogether – older, deeper, colder than either of the others. This was not a silence of absence or waiting but rather one of presence and permanence. It emanated from some ancient, enduring essence that had witnessed countless nights like this over untold centuries. The very stones and timbers of the inn seemed to exude this silence, as if they had absorbed it into their being through the passage of time.
It was a profound, unnerving quiet – a reminder of just how much darkness and emptiness there might be in the world, even when all seems bright and full of life. And yet, paradoxically, this ancient presence somehow lent comfort to those within its purview, giving them the illusion that they were not alone amidst their own fears and uncertainties...
GENERATION 2:
The second part of this silence was not the absence of sound itself but rather its presence in the form of whispers that seemed to seep from every stone of the old inn. These were hushed rumors, half-heard confidences shared by patrons long gone, their words lingering on the walls like the ghosts they had become. They spoke in breathy murmurs of betrayal and revenge, of dark deeds done under cover of night, their voices a soft susurration that seemed to carry the weight of ages.
Finally, there was the silence that dwelled within the inn itself—a stillness at the heart of things. It was as if the very essence of the Waystone had been distilled into this quiet, leaving behind only an aura of melancholy and foreboding. This was the silence of history, of secrets locked away for so long that they had become part of the woodwork, woven into the fabric of the inn's being.
It was a silence that brooded in every corner, heavy with the knowledge of all that had transpired within these walls over centuries past. It spoke to those who listened closely, promising nothing but hinting at untold stories that lay buried beneath the surface like restless spirits waiting for someone brave enough—or foolish enough—to disturb their slumber.
In this silence, time seemed to stand still. The present moment blurred into a haze of remembered past and looming future. The darkness outside was reflected in the shadows within, creating an eerie harmony that wrapped around you like a shroud.
As you stood there, enveloped by the three parts of the silence, you couldn't help but wonder what secrets lay hidden beneath its surface. What tales would be told if the walls could speak? And what might happen should someone dare to break this unnatural quiet? The air was thick with anticipation, as if the very fabric of reality hung in balance—waiting for that first whisper to set events into motion once more.
I'm standing in line at the Canadian National Tower Restaurant, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the breathtaking view of Toronto's skyline below. It's a sunny Saturday afternoon, perfect for a family outing with my parents. The smell of sizzling meat wafts from the open kitchen, mingling with the hum of excited chatter from our fellow diners.
As we wait to be seated, I can't help but fidget in my seat. I'm 15 years old and feeling way too grown up for this place, where families celebrate birthdays and anniversaries amidst fancy linens and fine china. My eyes dart around the bustling restaurant, taking in the busy servers, the row of gleaming ovens, and the elegantly set tables.
Suddenly, a deafening roar echoes through the room as an enormous metal beast crashes through the wall behind me! It's covered in rivets and sports a menacing red eye on its chest. My heart nearly stops when I realize it's The Terminator. His muscular form towers over us, his cybernetic endoskeleton glowing with an eerie blue light.
A shiver runs down my spine as he turns to face the patrons, scanning the room for threats. The restaurant falls silent except for the sound of my own terrified breaths. What does this cyborg assassin want? Why is it here?
My eyes lock onto his, searching for any sign of humanity or remorse, but I see only cold calculation. It's a machine, programmed to kill. Panic sets in as I wonder if we're all doomed.
Then, just when hope seems lost, the Terminator turns and leaps out one of the shattered windows. The wind howls and glass shards fly everywhere as he lands on the observation deck, surveying his surroundings with an unblinking gaze.
"Ah, bloody hell," a familiar British voice exclaims from behind me. "Looks like we've got a spot of trouble here."
I turn to see a tall, eccentric man in a tweed jacket and bow tie materializing in front of us. His wild gray hair is sticking out every which way, and his eyes are sparkling with excitement.
"Dr Who?" I whisper in disbelief as he grins at me. He's the Doctor from my favorite TV show!
"You're right on the money, love," he replies, pulling a sonic screwdriver from his pocket. "And it looks like we've got our work cut out for us."
Without warning, the floor beneath us shudders violently and the restaurant begins to shake. Screams erupt as diners scramble for cover.
"What's happening?" my mother cries out, clinging to my father's arm.
"It's a...a tornado of sharks!" I stammer in disbelief.
Sure enough, a swirling vortex of water is forming at one end of the observation deck where The Terminator landed. But this isn't just any ordinary twister - it's teeming with deadly great white sharks!
The Doctor and I rush to the edge of the platform as the tormented fish churn around us. Their eyes are wild and their jaws snap hungrily, eager for prey.
"Right then," Dr Who says, his voice steady despite the chaos surrounding us. "Time to put a stop to this."
He activates his sonic screwdriver, which begins emitting a high-pitched whine that harmonizes with the sharks' own frequency. The fish respond by becoming disoriented and confused, slowly drifting away from the vortex.
Meanwhile, The Terminator has spotted me clinging to the railing for dear life. He strides over, his metallic feet clanking against the metal deck, and yanks me into a protective embrace.
"Come on," he growls, pulling me towards safety just as a particularly large shark lunges at us. "We need to get out of here."
I glance up at him in surprise, realizing that beneath his Terminator exterior lies a strange sort of chivalry. He's not so different from the heroes I've always admired.
As we make our way back into the restaurant, Dr Who is already hard at work repairing the damage. His sonic screwdriver zaps and hums as he reattaches broken light fixtures, replaces shattered glass, and calms frantic patrons.
Within minutes, order has been restored to the Canadian National Tower Restaurant. The Terminator and I find ourselves alone in an empty hallway, far from the chaos we left behind.
"You saved my life back there," I say softly, still trying to process everything that happened.
The Terminator nods curtly, his red eye flickering as he scans the area for any remaining threats. "It is my mission."
"And mine," Dr Who adds, materializing beside us with a mischievous grin on his face. "Saving the universe one shark tornado at a time!"
I can't help but laugh despite myself. It's been an insane afternoon, and I'm still trying to wrap my head around it all.
As we make our way back downstairs to reunite with my parents, I catch The Terminator glancing in my direction before turning away again. There's something almost...human about the way he looks at me, as if he's seen a spark of kindness beneath his relentless programming.
And maybe, just maybe, that seed will take root and grow into something more. After all, even machines can change - or so I'm starting to believe.
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.
I sprint down the dark alleyway, my heart pounding in my chest like a wild animal trying to escape its cage. I can hear the thunderous footsteps of my pursuers closing in on me, their heavy boots crushing the trash that litters these narrow streets.
"Stop! You're not going anywhere!" one of them shouts, his voice echoing off the grimy walls.
I risk a glance over my shoulder and see three burly men in black uniforms hot on my heels. I've seen what they do to rebels like me - torture, execution, and public humiliation for everyone else's entertainment. No wonder they're so good at catching us.
My breath comes in ragged gasps as I dart around a corner, narrowly avoiding a dumpster that reeks of rotting garbage. The men are gaining on me; their faces are set with determination, their eyes cold and unforgiving.
I spot an old fire escape, rusted but sturdy enough to hold my weight. Without hesitation, I leap onto it and start climbing, my hands and feet finding holds in the narrow rungs. Behind me, one of the men grunts as he follows suit, his bulk swaying precariously.
"This isn't over," I hear him snarl, his voice muffled by the distance between us.
I push on, ignoring the burning pain in my legs and the sweat stinging my eyes. One floor up, I find a small window left slightly ajar. With a prayer to whatever gods might be listening, I hoist myself through it, landing with a soft thud on a pile of old newspapers.
The room is musty and dimly lit, but that doesn't matter right now - all I need is a place to hide until the heat dies down. I fumble around in the darkness for something to barricade the window, my hands closing around an iron bar.
I've almost got it secured when a voice cuts through the darkness: "You're not safe here."
I spin around, ready to defend myself, but there's no one there. The voice seems to come from all around me, echoing off the walls and floor like the whispers of ghosts.
"What do you want?" I demand, trying to keep my voice steady.
A faint glow begins to emanate from a corner of the room, illuminating a figure cloaked in shadows.
"You should have stayed out of this," he says, his words dripping with an ominous finality. "The dictator's men will find you here."
I take a step back, heart racing anew at the mention of my pursuers. But something about this stranger's voice sends a shiver down my spine - it's not just fear I hear, but an undercurrent of... recognition?
Before I can process my reaction, the man lunges forward with surprising speed, grabbing me by the arm and dragging me toward the window.
"You have to go," he hisses. "Now."
I try to resist, but he's stronger than I expected - or maybe it's just that desperate situation has made me weaker than usual. Either way, we tumble out of the room together, landing hard on the fire escape in a tangle of limbs and curses.
As my vision clears from the impact, I see the black uniforms approaching, torches lit to illuminate our descent. The stranger pushes me toward the ground with an urgent shove, then disappears into the shadows just as his men break through the window above.
I hit the pavement hard, scrambling to get up before they're on top of me. But something's wrong - my limbs feel heavy and unresponsive, like I'm trapped in a dream where every movement is agonizingly slow...
...And suddenly, I can't move at all. A blinding pain shoots through my body as if every nerve ending has been set ablaze.
I try to scream, but no sound comes out - not even a whisper. My eyes widen with terror as the men close in around me, their torches casting eerie shadows on the walls.
One of them reaches down and grabs a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back with brutal force.
"This is what happens," he growls, his voice dripping with malice, "to those who dare challenge the will of our great leader."
My vision begins to blur as darkness creeps in from the edges... And then everything goes black.