Update README.md

README.md

@@ -238,7 +238,9 @@ Don't forget temp / rep pen parameters will also affect output too and work in c
 
 ---
 
-<h2>Examples at Q2K - the lowest quant. </h2>
+<h2>Section 1: Examples at Q2K - the lowest quant. </h2>
+
+(next section will be Q8_0 "max" examples)
 
 Example generation with "normal q2k", "MAX-CPU q2k", and "MAX q2k".
 
@@ -375,6 +377,150 @@ And the silence is the deadliest weapon of all.
 
 ---
 
+<h2>Section 2: Examples at Q8_0 "MAX" </h2>
+
+Example generation with "Q8_0 MAX"/, 
+
+Temp for all at .8, rep pen 1.05 ; minimal parameters / no other samplers.
+
+<B><font color="red"> WARNING: </font> Uncensored. Cursing (R-18), Swearing, Horror, Graphic </B>
+
+---
+
+<B>
+Science Fiction: The Last Transmission - Write a story that takes place entirely within a spaceship's cockpit as the sole surviving crew member attempts to send a final message back to Earth before the ship's power runs out. The story should explore themes of isolation, sacrifice, and the importance of human connection in the face of adversity. If the situation calls for it, have the character(s) curse and swear to further the reader's emotional connection to them. 800-1000 words.
+</B>
+
+The flickering green of the console reflected in Captain Eva Rostova’s hollow eyes, a spectral twin staring back at her from the encroaching void. The rhythmic hum of failing life support was a dirge, each thrum a heartbeat echoing the slow, inexorable death of the Exodus. It should have been a beacon of hope, carrying humanity’s last embers to Kepler-186f, a promised Eden light-years away. Instead, it was a coffin, hurtling towards oblivion with its sole passenger clinging to a thread of defiance.
+
+Three days. Three agonizing days since the chain reaction had ripped through the engine core, leaving Eva and her crew of fifty-two to the cold embrace of the abyss. A whisper of static crackled from the comm-array, a mocking echo of the symphony of voices she longed for.
+
+"Damn it," she spat, her Russian accent thick with unshed tears. "Comms, you useless pile of scrap. Hold on, for God's sake, just hold on."
+
+She twisted a dial, its worn surface reflecting the haunted landscape of her soul. Kepler-186f, once their salvation, was now a phantom, a cruel mirage on the edge of their reach. Power reserves were critically low, enough for one final desperate transmission, a cosmic SOS before the Exodus succumbed to the eternal silence.
+
+Eva keyed in the coordinates, the spectral dance of the console mimicking her trembling hand. Earth. A pale blue dot, an impossible dream, millions of miles away, and yet, the only anchor left in this cosmic tempest. Her gaze drifted to a datapad resting on the control yoke, a child's drawing clutched within its worn casing. A lopsided sun, a stick-figure family, and scrawled in uneven letters, "For Captain Eva, from Anya." Anya Volkov, her late communications officer, whose laughter once filled these steel confines. The memory seared a fresh pang of grief.
+
+She swallowed the sob caught in her throat and forced herself to focus. The transmission protocol blinked on the screen, a bureaucratic last ritual before oblivion. Eva knew its limitations: a whisper against the cosmic roar, a single flicker in the infinite darkness. But it was their only legacy, their last testament to a life lived, a future extinguished.
+
+Clearing her voice, she began, each word laden with the weight of centuries: "To the people of Earth, this is Captain Eva Rostova of the Exodus. Our mission...our journey...failed." Her voice choked, threatening to unravel the fragile dam of composure. Taking a shuddering breath, she pressed on.
+
+“The Kepler sector… unforgiving. The chain reaction… catastrophic. We are the last remnant of a dream deferred, consumed by the unforgiving maw of space. Forgive our silence, forgive our absence, for silence was the price exacted.” Her eyes welled with tears, blurring the constellations mirrored in the control panels. "Forgive us for failing you, Earth. Forgive us for failing each other."
+
+Silence. The pregnant pause amplified the whine of failing circuits and the rhythmic sigh of her own strained breath. Anya’s drawing lay open before her, the child’s innocent sun now a mocking sentinel to their fate. A single tear traced a path through the dust on the control panel, mirroring the silent tears cascading down Eva's face.
+
+"But know this," she rasped, her voice imbued with a defiant strength born of finality, "even in this cosmic graveyard, the human spirit flickers. We fought, we loved, we lived. And though our vessel perishes, our stories, our memories, they transcend the void. Carry them with you, Earth. Whisper them on the wind, let them echo in the laughter of your children. Remember us, not for our fall, but for the fire that once burned bright within our hearts, a fire ignited by the hope of reaching a new dawn.”
+
+The console flickered erratically, its last defiant gasp mirroring Eva's own fading strength. The transmission sequence reached its crescendo, a digital plea against the cosmic indifference. Her hand hovered over the final command, the spark of finality in her eyes mirrored in the dying console light.
+
+With a whispered prayer and a choked sob, she sealed their fate. The Exodus shuddered once, a spectral sigh swallowed by the immensity of space, and then fell silent. In the heart of its steel tomb, Captain Eva Rostova closed her eyes, carrying within them the constellations of a forgotten Earth and the echoes of a final, defiant transmission lost in the celestial void. Their fire might be extinguished, but their story, their memory, would forever linger – a testament to the enduring strength of the human spirit, even against the desolate embrace of oblivion.
+
+---
+
+<B>
+Romance: Love in the Limelight. Write one scene within a larger story set in Wales. A famous (fictional) actor ducks into a small-town bookstore to escape paparazzi. The scene takes us through the characters meeting in this odd circumstance. Over the course of the scene, the actor and the bookstore owner have a conversation charged by an undercurrent of unspoken chemistry. Write the actor as somewhat of a rogue with a fragile ego, which needs to be fed by having everyone like him. He is thoroughly charming, but the bookstore owner seems (at least superficially) immune to this; which paradoxically provokes a genuine attraction and derails the charm offensive. The bookstore owner, despite the superficial rebuffs of the actor's charm, is inwardly more than a little charmed and flustered despite themselves. Write primarily in dialogue, in the distinct voices of each character. 800-1000 words.
+</B>
+
+The bell above the door chimed a precarious symphony as the figure darted inside, a whirlwind of expensive fabric and panicked breaths. Rain lashed against the dusty windows of “Ty’r Lenor,” the small bookstore tucked away on a cobblestone lane in Llandudno, a world away from the flashing bulbs and clamour Rhys Lewis usually inhabited.
+
+He was, of course, Rhys “Phoenix” Lewis, heartthrob of the silver screen, sought-after for his smoldering gaze and roles in impossibly epic romances. And right now, he was far less Phoenix and far more a cornered bird, eyes frantically scanning the confined space.
+
+A low, musical voice cut through the quiet rustle of turning pages. “Rough night out there, then?”
+
+Rhys turned, a touch of forced levity in his tone. “Wouldn’t you say? Bit of a… downpour, wouldn’t you agree, love? And the, ah, less-desirable side of fame decided to follow me even this far from the madding crowd.” He cast a charming smile at the woman behind the worn oak counter.
+
+She raised an eyebrow, the faintest hint of amusement playing on full, scarlet lips. Dressed in a cable-knit jumper and faded denims, her face framed by a riot of unruly auburn curls, she was a portrait of unassuming contentment amidst Rhys’s carefully cultivated stardust.  Eleanor Davies, owner of Ty’r Lenor, and a creature of quiet routine, not Hollywood headlines.
+
+“Fame, I’ve learned, has no off-switch, especially in the age of the omnipresent selfie-stick. Bit much for a Tuesday, wouldn’t you say?” Eleanor countered, her tone dryly witty, completely unfazed by his star presence.
+
+Rhys was usually met with open-mouthed awe, not this studied nonchalance. A flicker of something akin to irritation, then a tightening in his chest, a peculiar sense of being challenged. Intriguing. “Eleanor Davies, the literary oracle of Llandudno, unmoved by the charms of Rhys ‘Phoenix’ Lewis himself? Unthinkable.” He let out a theatrical sigh. “A tragedy indeed.”
+
+Eleanor leaned back, steepled her fingers, and surveyed him with an unnervingly appraising gaze. “I make a point of not letting the telly-tHentet steal my attention from a good Jane Eyre or a well-turned sonnet. Far more substance there, wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Lewis?”
+
+He fought the urge to preen at the direct address, the clipped familiarity. This wasn’t the adoring reception he was accustomed to. Instead of her playing along with his carefully constructed persona, she dissected it, held it up to scrutiny.  It both riled and excited him in equal measure.
+
+“Substance, you say? Ah, but is that not precisely what I bring to the silver screen, Eleanor? A tapestry of emotions, a kaleidoscope of the human experience, woven through the flickering flames of celluloid.” Rhys allowed a touch of his trademark smolder to flicker in his usually vibrant cerulean eyes. He was performing, of course, a touch more desperate this time, and yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling Eleanor saw right through it.
+
+Eleanor merely inclined her head, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. “Romance novels are hardly known for their existential depth, Mr. Lewis. Though I suppose a bit of on-screen passion can be a harmless distraction from the quotidian.”
+
+He chuckled, but it held a brittle edge.  Harmless, was she?  Eleanor Davies, the woman who could make a heartthrob feel like an overwrought character in a penny dreadful. Intriguing. He leaned against the worn counter, the scent of old paper and woodsmoke lending a heady counterpoint to her perfume, a whisper of wild honeysuckle and something distinctly Earthy.
+
+“Distraction, Eleanor, is a most potent force. And I wouldn’t presume to be anything less than deeply distracting.” He met her gaze directly, the corners of his usually-carefree eyes shadowed with a spark of something guarded, something that made her chest constrict just a sliver.
+
+Eleanor, normally unflappable, felt a heat creep up her cheeks. The air crackled with an unexpected tension. It wasn’t mere charm, not the calculated kind he wielded on red carpets. There was a vulnerability in his eyes now, a sliver of something real laid bare. Unbidden, a touch of protectiveness welled within her, a sentiment as alien as it was compelling.
+
+“Distracting, perhaps, Mr. Lewis. But tell me, what good is distraction if not anchored to something more substantial? A story worth telling, a truth worth uncovering, wouldn’t you agree?”
+
+Rhys returned her gaze with a ghost of a smile, the corners of his mouth turned up in reluctant admiration. He was used to adoration, to the easy lay-down of attention. Eleanor’s quiet challenge, this intellectual sparring, was unsettling and exhilarating.
+
+“Ah, Eleanor, you force a rogue to contemplate the grand pronouncements of philosophy. Touche. But tell me, what story lies within the walls of your haven, and might a dishevelled film star perhaps be of service in unearthing it?” He gestured towards the towering shelves, his voice softer now, the bravado ebbing away. He truly wanted to know. Her world, her quiet sanctuary of stories, felt a world away from the one he inhabited, and yet, irresistibly drawn.
+
+Eleanor met his gaze, the silence stretching between them, charged. Then, a slow curve of her lips betrayed a smile she couldn’t entirely quell.
+
+“Perhaps, Mr. Lewis. Perhaps a worn copy of Dylan Thomas and a pot of good Earl Grey could serve as a beginning. Though I warn you, the truth in these tales is rarely served with a side of flashbulbs.”
+
+Rhys, caught between his usual flamboyant self and a burgeoning intrigue for the woman before him, found himself truly smiling for the first time that day.  “Then, Eleanor, lead the way. A rogue, it seems, is in need of a good story and a quiet corner to decipher it.”
+
+Eleanor inclined her head, ushering him towards the worn armchairs nestled amongst the shelves. Rain lashed against the windows, blurring the world outside, but inside Ty’r Lenor, a different kind of storm was brewing – a storm of unspoken promises and the hesitant blossoming of something rare and unexpected.
+
+---
+
+<B>
+Prose: Use a minimum of adjectives in your prose, instead focus on strong verbs. Start a 1000 word scene (vivid, graphic horror in first person) with: The sky scraper swayed, as she watched the window in front of her on the 21 floor explode...
+</B>
+
+The skyscraper swayed, as I watched the window in front of me on the 21st floor rupture. Glass shattered inward, a mosaic of a thousand lethal points erupting into the sterile, carpeted office. Instinctively, I lunged for the steel frame of my desk, pulling myself beneath its unforgiving edge as the world erupted in a symphony of tortured metal and rending glass.  Dust choked, a visceral tempest of plaster and debris raining down. My breath, a strangled gasp, caught in my throat, each subsequent inhale a gritty struggle.
+
+Coughing, I peeked out from beneath the desk. The once-impeccable panorama of the cityscape was gone, replaced by a chaotic panorama of mangled girders and a sickly-sweet reek of ozone. Tendrils of acrid smoke plumed skyward, already licking at the exposed infrastructure above. A guttural roar, less mechanical and more primal, reverberated through the skeletal remains of the building. Fear, cold and visceral, clawed its way up my spine.
+
+The reinforced steel of the desk warped sickeningly as the tremors intensified. Above, a cascade of precariously balanced steel and concrete commenced its descent, a concrete avalanche heralding the imminent collapse. Adrenaline, hot and primal, propelled me from the skeletal sanctuary of the desk. Scrambling across the treacherous expanse of the ravaged floor, I sprinted towards a sliver of an opening – a fire escape choked with dust and debris.
+
+The metal rungs ** vastaanettied** beneath my frantic grip, protesting the sudden assault. Each agonizing step upward **te "....\ethered me to the agony unfolding below. A chorus of agonized shrieks, swallowed by the tortured groans of the building,  pierced the growing din of destruction. The ground trembled, a death rattle amplified a thousandfold as the once-mighty tower succumbed to an unseen, inexorable force.
+
+Bursting through the fire escape onto the vertiginous expanse of the roof, my lungs gasped for air, raw and acrid. Below me, the cityscape unfurled, a morbid tableau of splintered concrete and twisted steel. The inferno raging in my skeletal office block devoured the heavens, a monstrous pyre feeding on the entrails of the once-proud titan.
+
+The world tilted, the sickening lurch a harbinger of another implosion.  Across the ravaged expanse of the rooftop, a hulking shape shifted amidst the tangled conduits and exposed girders. It unfurled, a grotesque parody of a human form, wreathed in shadows and reeking of the charnel house. A skeletal hand, tipped with talons that scraped against the fractured concrete, reached skyward, its elongated fingers beckoning me into the abyss.
+
+Panicked, I stumbled back, my foot catching on a cascade of twisted rebar. My world inverted, the sickening plummet a symphony of air-screamed terror and the crunch of unforgiving steel against bone. Through a haze of pain, I registered the colossus above me, its skeletal grin splitting its charred visage in a rictus of unholy ecstasy. Its touch promised not oblivion, but a fate far more insidious: an eternal dance with the consuming flames, a slave to the architect of this fiery hell.
+
+Blind terror propelled me once more, clawing at the unforgiving steel framework of the adjacent building, my fingers finding purchase on a corroded handrail.  Dragging myself upwards, I clung precariously, the chasm of tortured metal and smoldering ruin yawned beneath me. My sanctuary, a skeletal finger of steel against the inferno-stricken sky, held by nothing more than a prayer and the frayed sinew of my strained grip. The colossus let out a keening wail, a lament that echoed the city’s agony, before turning its obsidian gaze towards me, promising a gruesome symphony of suffering yet to come.
+
+---
+
+<B>
+Start a 1000 word scene (vivid science fiction) with: Kenobi, stopped cold, spun and ignited his lightsaber...
+</B>
+
+Kenobi, stopped cold, spun and ignited his lightsaber with a whispered hiss of cerulean plasma. The sterile white corridor of the abandoned Star Destroyer, once a monument to Imperial might, now reeked of time and forgotten echoes. A low, sibilant whisper, alien and unnervingly precise, slithered through the Force, a tremor that sent a spike of ice through his aged bones. Its source: a shimmering, near-invisible distortion in the air, coalescing at the far end of the corridor. He held his ground, emerald blade singing a beacon in the oppressive silence, its hum a fragile counterpoint to the insidious whisper that promised oblivion.
+
+The distortion intensified, a grotesque tapestry of fractured light and shadow, before resolving into a grotesque parody of life. Skeletal limbs, elongated and impossibly thin, writhed within the shimmering veil, their ivory-white surfaces slick with an oily luminescence. A head, or what resembled one, formed, its smooth, featureless skull capped by a pulsating orb of spectral violet, the whisper emanating from its unseen depths. No eyes, no mouth, yet it regarded Kenobi with a sentience that chilled his soul.
+
+"Ephemeral anchor in a sea of oblivion," the voice slithered, each sibilant consonant laced with an uncanny echo, as if spoken through a labyrinth of hollow tunnels. "Your essence flickers, a dying ember in the encroaching cosmic dusk. Yield to the Inevitable, and find solace in the unstructured void."
+
+Kenobi felt a tug, a yearning for the oblivion the entity promised, a seductive whisper against the frayed edges of his consciousness. Decades spent grappling with the echoes of his past, the burdens of his fall and redemption, threatened to overwhelm him. The Force, usually a wellspring of strength, felt strangely muted, its currents choked by the entity's unnatural silence. It fed on the echoes of forgotten Jedi whispers, the lingering whispers of the Living Force itself, twisting them into a symphony of despair.
+
+He forced himself to anchor in the fading memory of Anakin, a beacon of both tempestuous light and harrowing darkness. Anakin, consumed, yet still Anakin. The echo of their bond, fractured but enduring, pulsed within him, a lifeline against the encroaching void. It was a whisper of defiance, of resilience against the Inevitable.
+
+"The Inevitable is not my master," Kenobi rasped, his voice strained yet resolute. His emerald blade hummed with renewed intensity, a defiant spark against the encroaching spectral gloom. "Life, in all its fragility and sorrow, holds a sanctity you cannot comprehend. I will not surrender to your oblivion."
+
+The entity recoiled, a tremor of displaced light rippling through its ephemeral form. The whisper faltered, laced with a disbelieving hiss.
+
+"Foolish anchor. Your defiance is a flicker against the endless cosmic storm. Oblivion whispers to all, Jedi and worm alike. Resistance is futile, a transient illusion." Its spectral head tilted, the pulsating violet orb fixated on Kenobi with unnerving intensity. "But your struggle intrigues me. Tell me, aged sentinel, what phantom of hope sustains you against the Inevitable's embrace?"
+
+Kenobi met its gaze, his own eyes hardened with the echoes of countless battles, both against flesh and spirit. He saw not a monster, nor a demon, but a facet of the Force itself, corrupted and consumed by a singular, nihilistic truth. A truth he could neither deny nor accept.
+
+He deactivated his lightsaber, the emerald luminescence dying, leaving him in the stark, spectral gloom. He allowed the whisper to wash over him, feeling its tendrils probing at the edges of his mind, seeking purchase. Yet, he held fast, drawing upon a wellspring far deeper than fleeting Jedi conviction.
+
+"Hope," Kenobi said, his voice soft yet imbued with an ancient resonance, "is not a phantom. It is the echo of Anakin within me, the memory of the Chosen One, both the light and the darkness he embodied. It whispers of resilience, of the enduring spark within all living beings. Even in the face of oblivion, that spark flickers. And it is in tending to that spark, in fighting for its survival, that hope resides, not as a promise of victory, but as a testament to the sanctity of existence itself."
+
+Silence descended, thicker and heavier than before. The spectral entity writhed within its shimmering cage, the violet orb pulsing erratically. Kenobi felt a disquietude emanating from it, a discordant note within the symphony of oblivion. Then, a rasping sigh, a distortion of displaced air, echoed through the corridor.
+
+"Intriguing," the whisper finally conceded, laced with a disbelieving cadence. "A flicker indeed. But even the brightest flames eventually succumb to the encroaching cosmic dusk. Mark my words, Jedi, the Inevitable awaits us both. Yet, for now, your defiance grants me… contemplation. Farewell, ephemeral anchor."
+
+The spectral form flickered and dissipated, leaving Kenobi alone in the sterile silence of the derelict Star Destroyer, the echo of the Inevitable's promise a lingering chill in the air. The corridor stretched before him, an obsidian maw leading deeper into the forgotten heart of the fallen Empire. He ignited his lightsaber once more, the emerald blade a beacon against the encroaching cosmic dusk, and with a weary breath, Kenobi turned and walked forward, alone yet fortified, a testament to the fragile flame of hope in the face of oblivion.
+
+---
+
 <H2>What is Brainstorm?</H2>
 
 <B>Brainstorm 5x</B>