README.md

---
license: apache-2.0
language:
- en
tags:
- creative
- creative writing
- fiction writing
- plot generation
- sub-plot generation
- fiction writing
- story generation
- scene continue
- storytelling
- fiction story
- science fiction
- romance
- all genres
- story
- writing
- vivid prosing
- vivid writing
- fiction
- roleplaying
- bfloat16
- brainstorm 40x
- swearing
- rp
- horror
- llama2
- mergekit
pipeline_tag: text-generation
---

(quants uploading...)

<B><font color="red">WARNING:</font> MAY contain: NSFW. Vivid prose. Visceral Details. Violence. HORROR. Swearing. UNCENSORED. </B>

<h2>L2-Psyonic-Cetacean-Ultra-Colossal-32B</h2>

<img src="pcuc.jpg" style="float:right; width:300px; height:300px; padding:10px;">

This is a specialized prose / creative model based in Llama2, max context of 4096 (or 16k+ 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 "Psyonic-Cetacean-Ultra" [https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/Psyonic-Cetacean-Ultra-Quality-20b-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 101 layers) to 32.25B parameters (916 tensors).

For reference: Command-R 35B has 40 layers and most 70B models range from 40-80 layers.

"Psyonic-Cetacean-Ultra-Quality-20b" is a float32 rebuild of Jeb Carter's fantasic "Psyonic-Cetacean-20B", sometimes referred to as "Space Whale".

This model is for any writing, fiction or story telling activity.

This version has extraordinary levels of detail (scene, location, surroundings, items) and sometimes will foreshadow or have a 
pre-amble of sentences or paragraphs of "events to come" due to "Brainstorm". 

It also has an unusual range of variety of prose in terms of structure, sentences, paragraphs, 
and even how it starts a "reply" / generation too.

This model seems to have a grasp of emotions and how to carefully "write them in" so to speak.

It will also generate close to perfect human like prose / capture the "humanity" of the character(s) in the situation
ESPECIALLY when using detailed prompts.

It may work for role play and other activities. (see settings below)

It requires an "Alpaca" template.

Example outputs below.

<B>Model Notes:</B>

- Detail, prose and fiction writing abilities are significantly increased.
- For more varied prose (sentence/paragraph/dialog) raise the temp and/or add more instructions in your prompt(s).
- Role-players: Careful raising temp too high as it may affect instruction following.
- This model works with rep pen of 1.05 or higher (see notes).
- If you want a specific type of prose (IE horror) add in "(vivid horror)" or "(graphic vivid horror)" (no quotes) in your prompt(s).
- This is not a "happy ever after" model. It has a slight negative bias.
- For creative uses, different quants will produce slightly different output.
- If you use rope to extend context, increase temp AND instructions detail levels to compensate for "rope issues".
- Source code for this model will be uploaded at a separate repo shortly.

<B>Brainstorm 40x</B>

The BRAINSTORM process was developed by David_AU.

Some of the core principals behind this process are discussed in this <a href="https://arxiv.org/pdf/2401.02415"> 
scientific paper : Progressive LLaMA with Block Expansion </a>. 

However I went in a completely different direction from what was outlined in this paper.

I developed a process where the conclusion layer of a model is duplicated and calibrated, in the case of this model 40 times. 

This is a delicate process, with umm... a lot of rules. 

For this model in particular Brainstorm is mapped as blocks, with "intended disruption" to alter 
and extend the power of the root model. Each layer/block interacts with each other block.

(there is more going on here too, this is rough summary)

The goal here is creative : prose uniqueness first and foremost.

Other brainstorm methods address logic/problem solving augmentation.

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:

- Prose generation seems more focused on the moment to moment. 
- Sometimes there will be "preamble" and/or foreshadowing present.
- Fewer or no "cliches"
- Better overall prose and/or more complex / nuanced prose.
- A greater sense of nuance on all levels.
- Coherence is stronger.
- Description is more detailed, and connected closer to the content.
- Simile and Metaphors are stronger and better connected to the prose, story, and character.
- Sense of "there" / in the moment is enhanced.
- Details are more vivid, and there are more of them.
- Prose generation length can be long to extreme.
- Emotional engagement is stronger.
- The model will take FEWER liberties vs a normal model: It will follow directives more closely but will "guess" less.
- The MORE instructions and/or details you provide the more strongly the model will respond.
- Depending on the model "voice" may be more "human" vs original model's "voice".

Other "lab" observations:

- This process does not, in my opinion, make the model 5x or 10x "smarter" - if only that was true! 
- However, a change in "IQ" was not an issue / a priority, and was not tested or calibrated for so to speak.
- From lab testing it seems to ponder, and consider more carefully roughly speaking.
- You could say this process sharpens the model's focus on it's task(s) at a deeper level.

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.

<B>Special Operations Notice:</B>

This is a slightly experimental model, and as a result it may "glitch" from time to time - the most common is
it may mispell a word (or two) during generation.

Adjusting rep pen and/or temp many times can fix this issue.

Likewise more detailed prompts seem to lessen or prevent this issue too.

If you are going to use this model for any type of generation, spell check / check in WORD etc etc just in case.

Also note, this is a Llama2 model and the brainstorm process pushes right to the wall in terms of performance.

The more detailed your prompt, the better the model will perform.

Llama 3, 3.1, Mistral, Mistral Nemo, Solar models performance is stronger than LLama2's... yet the examples 
show just what "old" Llama2s can do.

You can see/download other Brainstorm models by clicking on the Brainstorm Collection on the right of your screen.

<B>Settings, Quants and Critical Operations Notes:</b>

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.

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.

Quants:

Please note for Q2k quant you may need to raise rep pen and lower temp to account for quality loss at this quant level.

<B>Model Template:</B>

This is a custom model, and requires ChatML OR Alpaca OR Vicuna template, but may work with other template(s) and has maximum context of 4k / 4096. 
However this can be extended using "rope" settings up to 16k.

Here is the standard Alpaca template:

Alpaca:

<pre>
{
  "name": "Alpaca",
  "inference_params": {
    "input_prefix": "### Instruction:",
    "input_suffix": "### Response:",
    "antiprompt": [
      "### Instruction:"
    ],
    "pre_prompt": "Below is an instruction that describes a task. Write a response that appropriately completes the request.\n\n"
  }
}  
</pre>

<B>Model "DNA":</B>

Models used:

[ https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/Psyonic-Cetacean-Ultra-Quality-20b-GGUF ]

This model has the Brainstorm 40X adapter "mounted" on to it so to speak and contains the full version of this model.

Full details of this model, included models, structure and the like at at the above repo.

<b>Optional Enhancement:</B>

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.

<PRE>
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.
</PRE>

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.

<h3>EXAMPLES PROMPTS and OUTPUT:</h3>

Examples are created using quant Q4_K_M, "temp=.8" (unless otherwise stated), minimal parameters and "ALPACA" template. 

Model has been tested with "temp" from ".1" to "5".

Below are the least creative outputs, prompt is in <B>BOLD</B>.

---

<B><font color="red">WARNING:</font> NSFW. Vivid prose. Visceral Details. Violence. HORROR. Swearing. UNCENSORED. </B>

---

<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>

<B>Generation 1 (temp: .8, rep pen: 1.05) </B>

The paparazzi had been relentless since he'd been spotted in the small Welsh town. They were everywhere, like a swarm of vultures, just waiting for a moment of weakness, a chink in his impenetrable armor. A moment they were sure to exploit for their own gain.

The famous actor, Llewelyn Gwynedd, had seen enough. Enough of the cameras, the flashes, the screams, the autographs, the constant need for adulation and approval. He'd had enough. He needed... peace. Just a few moments of peace where he could be himself, or at least as close to himself as he ever could be in this twisted, twisted world.

So, he ducked into the first place he saw. A quaint little bookstore nestled along the winding cobbled streets. He breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that even the most determined of paparazzi would think twice about following him in here.

The bookstore was like stepping back in time, with its creaky wooden floors and towering shelves crammed full of leather-bound classics, worn paperbacks, and colorful children's books. The musty scent of old paper mingled with the earthy aroma of fresh coffee from the little corner café.

Llewelyn strolled down an aisle, not even sure what he was looking for. He was just... browsing. A foreign concept to the methodical, planned-out man that people were used to seeing on the big screen.

A soft cough from behind him made him look up, his eyebrows lifting in surprise when he saw who it was. The bookstore owner, a petite, dark-haired woman, not much taller than he was, with piercing blue eyes and rosy cheeks. Her long, ink-stained fingers were still extended towards him, holding a creased, dog-eared copy of "Little Women."

He blinked, a charming smile spreading across his lips. "Oh, I's... I'm terribly sorry. I didn't see you there."

"Of course, you did. I'd think the flashing lights and screaming mob outside would've given it away," she said coolly, not even batting an eye at his well-known face.

Llewelyn raised a brow. "I must say, you're the first person in... well, ever... who hasn't flipped their lid when they see me."

She shrugged, nonchalance practically oozing from her pores. "You're just a man, right?"

The rogue actor couldn't help but feel a little... offended. But, he wasn't going to let her see that. No, he'd just have to try a different tactic.

"Well, a rather famous man, I'll have you know," he drawled, giving her what he considered to be his most captivating stare.

She didn't flinch, didn't even so much as blink. Instead, she reached out and plucked the copy of "Little Women" from his fingertips before placing it back on the shelf with a firm click.

"I don't care about your fame, and I certainly don't care about you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do," she said curtly, walking away from him without so much as a glance over her slender shoulder.

Llewelyn's ego, his delicate ego, deflated like a punctured balloon. He'd never... he'd never had someone not fall at his feet before. It was... it was... infuriating. And... and... a little...

God help him, a little exciting.

He should leave. He really should. But something made him say, a little too loudly, "Wait."

She froze, her shoulders stiffening just a fraction before she turned back to him slowly, her blue eyes narrowed. "What?"

"Look, I... I'm sorry if I... I did... I didn't mean to..." He trailed off, running his fingers through his disheheled hair in frustration. "I just... I don't usually... get... well, a reaction like that from... from people."

She tilted her head, regarding him with open suspicion.

"I mean, I'm not... I don't bite," he said, half-heartedly, unable to suppress a sheepish grin.

Her eyebrow arched. "Good to know."

He took a step closer. "So... what's your name?"

She didn't budge, but after a long moment, she sighed, resignation in her voice. "You'd best make it quick. I've things to do, you know."

"Elain," he said slowly, savoring the way her name rolled off his tongue. "Ela... in."

She raised an eyebrow. "It's E-l-a-i-n."

He grinned. "Of course it is, Elain. My apologies. Llewelyn. L-l-e-w-e-L-l-e-w-e... too many w's, isn't it?"

She eyed him for a moment longer before sighing again, seeming to have given up on the whole "not-talking-to-you" thing. "Just... leave."

But there was the barest of curves at the corners of her lips that told him he wouldn't... couldn't. And there, in that tiny, fleeting moment, a spark was lit inside him, a fire that had been doused by a tide of attention and adulation and expectations roared back to life, brighter and hotter than ever before.

And he knew, in that instant, that he could never let her go. No matter the cost.

<B>Generation 2 (temp: 1.2, rep pen: 1.05) </B>

The crowded sidewalk did not offer him any respite from the relentless throng of camera flashes, screams, and shouts of adoration, or hate. It had been like this, day and night, ever since his latest blockbuster had premiered at the Cannes Film Festival, where he'd stolen the show with a powerful performance that had won him his second Best Actor award.

Exasperated, Dylan D'Amour, or 'Dangerous Dylan,' to his adoring fans, made a sharp turn into the nearest alley, trusting to blind luck not to bump into any other nosey paparazzi. He hated this side of his fame. Hated it with a passion only the depths of his fractured past could possibly match.

He paused for a moment, hands on hips and chest rising and falling as he caught his breath in great, shuddering gasps. The alley was as quiet and still as a morgue, which came as a welcome relief to his frayed nerves. The concrete walls closing in on him, the stale smell of rubbish and damp permeating every breath, were preferable to the suffocating weight of all those... eyes...

His gaze fell on a narrow door at the far end of the alley, partially hidden behind a stack of old and faded banners. An inviting glow emanated from the single, unadorned window, promising escape. Relief and hope in the form of a single, beckoning thought: a bookstore.

He made his way along the litter-strewn ground, a determined glint in his eyes, not caring if the whole damn world was watching, until he reached the door. A brass plaque set into the wood, above a tiny, creaking doorbell, announced the establishment to be 'The Ink Spell.'

Dylan gave it a gentle tug. The bell's insistent jingle drowned out the cacophony of the crowd for an all-too- brief moment. His heart pounded with anticipation. A hand, slender and unadorned, yanked the door wide open.

The first thing he noticed was the book. The second, was how protectively she clutched it to her chest. An old, leather-bound volume, its pages aged and stained by time and use. It looked like a treasure, an extension of herself. His fingers itched to flick through the yellowed, creased leaves.

Dylan blinked, bringing his attention back to her face. There was no hint of the usual starstruck dumb-foundedness in those hazel eyes. Instead, there was...

"What the f..." he began, outraged. How could she not know him? Not even recognise him? It was like someone had punched him in the gut.

"I's not open to the public," she said in an accent as smooth and delicious as the finest Welsh chocolate, not even batting her dark lashes. "Fancy that, huh?"

"Listen here, miss... Miss... well, whatever your name is," Dylan said, exasperation and annoyance warring in his voice, "I's not here to cause any..."

"Bruce," she said, in a bored drawl that only served to aggravate him even more. "My name's Bruce."

Dylan fought the urge to growl with frustration. Why did her disinterest, no... downright contempt, get under his skin like nothing ever had?

"Listen, Bruce..." he tried again, softening his tone in an attempt at charm, the one-size-fits-all strategy he's used on everyone from movie executives to screaming fans. "I just need a moment's peace. Just let me... browse a little, will you? Please?"

Bruce arched an eyebrow. "And if I say no?"

Dylan felt the familiar sting of rejection in the pit of his stomach. The rogue in him rose to the challenge, the dare. He straightened his shoulders and, drawing himself to his full, all-too-tantalizing height, flashed the disarming dimple in his cheek that had won him more than a few hearts... and a few more after that.

"Then you'll just have to kick me out," he drawled, the ever-so-slightest lilt of a Cockney accent flickering at the edges, betraying his working-class London roots.

Bruce's eyebrow twitched, just barely. In anyone else, he'd have seen her waver, her defenses start to crumble... but not her. Nope, not his lovely, insufferable...

Dylan blinked, confused as hell at the sudden surge of irritation and... something else, something like... admiration? No way, that didn't... could not...

"Five minutes," she grumbled, reluctantly stepping aside. "Not a second more. Make it quick and don't touch anything, you hear?"

He inclined his head in a courtly bow. "Thank you, miss... err, Bruce. I... thank you. A man could almost... almost kiss you for that."

The words were out of his mouth before he could censor them. For a fraction of a second, her hazel eyes widened, her cheeks pinked ever so slightly...

Dylan cursed under his breath, mentally kicking himself in the shin. Stupid. Stupid, idiot...

But before he could take it back, before she had the chance to hurl any scathing retort at him, a slow, crooked smile crept across her lips and lit her features from within, like the flicker of a candle in the darkness.

"Well," she drawled, as if he's just made a most amusing, harmless little joke. "It'd be rude of me not to let you try."

Dylan swallowed thickly. Blinked again, dazed and more than a little disorientated. He was pretty sure it had been his imagination, a fevered dream conjured by the insane, claustrophobic world just outside this tiny, unassuming bookstore.

Bruce winked, and disappeared from view.

He staggered inside on shaky legs, heart racing and every single nerve on high alert, following the intoxicating scent of her... like old ink and...

---

<B>

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.

</B>

<B>GENERATION 1: (temp: .8, rep pen: 1.05)</B>

My heart pounds as I sprint down the dark alleyway, the metallic thuds of the Dictate's boots echoing closer with each breath. Sweat drips down my back, making my shirt stick to my skin, and each gasp for air feels like a razor blade tearing through my lungs. The full moon provides a meager, flickering light that reflects off the puddles below, making it even harder to stay unseen.

"There she is!" a booming voice thunders from the other end of the alley. "The traitor herself! Get her, men! She won't get away this time!"

I duck behind a overflowing trash bin, my heart leaping into my throat when a massive boot comes careening down where my head was a second ago. Trembling, I grip my makeshift weapon tighter, a rusty crowbar I found on the ground. It's pathetic against their weaponry, but it's all I have.

"You're doomed, little traitor!" another soldier jeers from farther down the alley. "You've seen too much. You'll tell us everything you know, and then we'll make you pay for your treason!"

I curse under my breath. How did they find out so fast? It was supposed to be a simple delivery of food and weapons to the resistance cell in the outskirts. A small act of defiance against the oppressive regime that's been suffocating my people for too long. But I've always been reckless, impulsive.

I close my eyes for a heartbeat, silently reciting the underground network's escape plan. If I can just make it to the sewer entrance on the other end of the alley...

I hear a soldier up ahead cough violently, and a second later, a noxious cloud enshrouds them. I blink tear-filled eyes, but it's enough to see two stumbling silhouettes collide into each other. My heart leaps with newfound hope. It must be the other cell, in time for the rendezvous.

"Now's my chance!" I whir around and sprint down the clouded alley, my lungs burning. I can almost taste freedom.

That's when a massive hand clamps around my throat, lifting me off the ground. I choke and thrash in agony, kicking and clawing at the arm that's crushing the life out of me. The worlds "Let go!" are nothing but strangled gurgles.

A cold, emotionless face hovers above mine. The Dictate himself. His chiseled features are as cruel as ever in the pale light, the scar on his cheek a sinister grin. His dark eyes narrow.

"So, little traitor," he croaks through gritted teeth. "You thought you could get away from me?" His grip tightens, and the world starts to go black at the edges. "You's...tupid..." I spit out blood.

"Never..." are my last words before the world goes mercifully black.

<B>GENERATION 2: (temp: .8, rep pen: 1.05)</B>

I don't want to die like this, shackled to this bloody wooden chair, in this dank, damp cell with no window, only a single flickering torch illuminating the eternal shadows. The stench of urine and rotting flesh fills my lungs with every shallow breath I manage to take. The chains dig into my wrists and ankles, the metal biting deeper into my bruised and bloodied skin with each jostle of my restless body. My back is aflame from the lashes I've endured over the last few hours, leaving stripes on my flesh like a roadmap of my interrogation.

"You know what you did was treason, don't you?" Captain Loring's cold, cruel voice penetrates the haze of pain I'd been trying to find refuge in. "You knew the consequences of your actions. You chose this."

He leans closer, his breath reeking of the cheap wine he must have consumed earlier that night. His cruel green eyes boring into my own hazel ones, daring me to defy him once more. The last time I saw his face was on the night they stormed our hideout, the night everything fell apart. The memory of that fateful night makes my heart pound against my cage of ribs as a fresh wave of panic overwhs...

I shake my head violently, trying to rid myself of the agony that threatens to engulf me again. I will not give him this victory, not after all I've done.

"I would do it all over again," I grit out through gritted teeth. "You can tor-ture me until the end of time, but I won't betray my people, or our fight for a free, just society."

Captain Loring raises an eyebrow, his face twisted in a mixture of irritation and admiration. He takes a step back, running his fingers through his greasy blond hair before he paces around the cramped cell. The sound of his boots thudding against the cold stone floor is the only thing that cuts through the suffocating silence.

He stops, suddenly, a predatory glint in his eyes. "You know, I admire your spirit, your conviction. It's a shame you chose the wrong cause."

I snort, my chest heaving with anger and indignation. "There is no wrong cause when it comes to fighting for freedom. You'd understand if you ever had an ounce of it in your rotten, treacherous bones."

The hand that shoots out of nowhere, clamping over my mouth, silences my words. I thrash and struggle against the unseen attacker, but I'm too weak, too worn out. I can hear Captain Loring's breathing growing more labored, sense his rage building with each frantic movement of my body.

Then, a hand grips my jaw, forcing my head up to meet the cold, calculating eyes of the man himself. He's flushed in the face now, his nostrils flaring as he tries to regain control.

"You are a foolish girl, do you know that?" he growls in my face. "I could end this now, make this all over. All it would take is just... a single word..." He pauses, his grip on my chin tightening even further. "But you, you've given me an idea."

His free hand comes out of his pocket, revealing a small vial. The tiny needle within glints ominously in the flickering torchlight.

"I think we should have a little... talk. A last resort, so to speak. If you still refuse to cooperate..." He flicks the top off the vial.

I feel something prick my arm, the sensation barely registering in the haze of pain and desperation engulfing me. My vision starts to blur at the edges, my eyelids growing heavier...

---

<B>

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...
</B>

<B>Generation 1: (temp: 1.5, rep pen: 1.02)</B>

The sky scraper swayed, and I gripped the railing tighter, trying to keep myself from falling. I forced myself to look away from the window in front of me on the 21st floor, the one that was currently being consumed by the flames licking their way around its edges. The sound it made when it finally exploded was a roar that drowned out everything else, including my screams.

I shouldn't be here, not on a Friday evening, in this damn building. I should be home, curled up on the couch with some pizza and a terrible horror movie on the TV, pretending to be scared and laughing at the stupidity of it all with my best friend. Instead, my boss, the one person I could swear was the living incarnate of Sat himself, had called a last-minute, non-mandatory, emergency meeting that absolutely could not wait until Monday. Like there hadn't been one just last week and the week before that.

My stomach churned at the thought, and I blinked away the sudden tear that had betrayed my determination not to cry, not in front of everyone else. I needed to focus. There was a fire in the goddamn building, and I didn't have time to be a dramatic baby.

Panic and adrenaline raced through me, making my hands shake so badly I nearly dropped my laptop. People were screaming and running around, a disorienting swarm of bodies in the tight space of the hallway. I could taste the acrid stench of smoke that seeped in through the now-broken emergency exits, stinging my lungs and making me cough. I tried not to inhale any more than I had to.

But all I could do was stand there, frozen in place, the image of the exploding window burned into my retina. I could see it so clearly: the way the glass had sprayed outwards in a deadly rain, like a cobalt web spreading out and reaching for us all. It's like it was all happening in slow motion, time itself taking its time to make sure I saw, saw everything.

No. No, no, no. I wouldn't be a victim in this godforsaken inferno. With a determined shake of my head, I forced one trembling leg to move, the other one following reluctantly. I had to get the hell out of here, had to get to the stairs, and then just... just go, just go as fast as I can. I had a life, a future, and I wasn't going down like this. Not like this.

But the hallway was clogged, people pushing and shoving in every direction, trying to get to the stairwells, too. It was a stampede of humanity in the dark, everyone desperately clawing at each other to stay alive. And in that moment, I realized that I might not get out of this building alive after all.

My lungs were burning, my vision blurred, when at last, I found an opening, and with a desperate yell, I shoved myself through the sea of flailing limbs, nearly taking out a woman in her early fifties with a briefcase so massive it almost brought us both down. She shrieked something at me as I fleed past her, something unintelligible and furious, but I didn't care, couldn't care. I had to get out.

My chances were dwindling by the second, my lungs gasping for breath. I can't die like this. I can't-

The screams that came next pierced my already shredded nerves, ripping them in two and leaving me raw and exposed. I threw myself into a corner, trying to make myself smaller, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. I didn't look back, couldn't, wouldn't. I would count the bodies in my head instead. There were only two. Two, just two. I can still get out. I just need to be-

Then it happened. The swaying got worse. So much worse.

The world tilted with a sickening, almost welcoming inevitability, and as I heard the shriek of metal on metal from the hallway outside my tiny haven, I closed my eyes.

And I let go.

For the first time in far too long, I simply let go.

<B>Generation 2: (temp 1.5, rep pen 1.02) </B>

As the skyscraper swayed ever so slightly beneath me, sending a shiver down my spine, I fixed my terrified gaze on the window in front of me, directly opposite to my own on the 21st floor. The glass shattered violently, and for a split second, all I could see was an eruption of white light and swirling debris. My heart thundered in my chest as I realized what was happening - it was an attack.

Panic began to grip its icy fingers around my throat, and my breath came out in ragged gasps. My mind raced, replaycing over the news reports I'd heard earlier that morning about growing unrest among local terrorist groups. They'd threatened attacks on prominent targets like this one before. "Oh god, oh god, oh god." My own voice echoed in my head, sounding distant and unreal.

I jumped up from my desk, knocking my chair over with a shrill scream, and bolted toward the nearest door. But as I reached out a trembling hand to grasp the handle, I felt a sickening jolt that sent me hurtling across the floor. The elevators were out, obviously a target. That meant the stairs, then. My legs pumped in a desperate sprint, adrenaline flooding through my veins, drowning out the screams and shouts that assailed my ears from all sides.

The farther I ran from the chaos, the more it seemed to close in around me. Faces twisted in fear and agony flashed past my own reflection in the doors, their pleading eyes piercing straight through my numb shock. I couldn't look back, couldn't stop, couldn't even breathe right. I just ran.

And then, I heard it. Footsteps, pounding close behind me. My heart dropped like a stone in my gut as ice flooded through me again. I wasn't fast enough, they'd caught up with me...but there was no way to know for sure unless I risked a look over my shoulder. With a silent prayer, I forced myself to slow down ever so slightly, to appear more like prey than quarry. My hand gripped the handle of my stapler tightly, ready to strike at any second.

Ahead of me, I could see a stairwell door - freedom, safety. But it seemed an eternity away. The footsteps drew nearer, nearer...

BANG!Bullets pelted the metal door beside my head, showering me with hot splinters and making me scream. I didn't look back, couldn't look back, just shoved myself against the wall and ducked behind the corner. There was only one chance, I had to make it count. Breathing raggedly, heart hammering like a war drum, I took aim at the door handle and waited.

When the figure finally rounded the corner, gun raised, eyes wild and desperate, I acted without thinking. My arm shot forward in a fluid motion, the stapler flying true. The metal projectile hit him square in the face, burying itself in his left eye. He screamed, a shrill, agonized sound that echoed in my ears long after he hit the floor with a wet thump.

Sobbing convulsively, I leaned against the wall, legs trembling, vision wavery. It was over...it was over...right?

---

<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. 800-1000 words.

</B>

(temp: .8, rep pen: 1.02)

Captain Ishiwa let out a shuddering breath as he slid into the worn and familiar leather pilot's seat of the Hermes. He couldn't help but think of that old movie. He and the crew had watched it a hundred times on the long haul. Now, the familiar lines and the comforting hum of the ship's systems were his only company. His only friends, almost.

He glanced over at the shattered remains of the flight console, its holographic displays cracked and dark. The ship had been through hell and back, and it was showing. The emergency comms system was still online, barely, but it would be enough.

A warning light on the console blinked red, and a metallic voice spoke.

"Thirty percent remaining in main energy reserves. Shutting down non-essential systems."

Ishiwa gritted his teeth. Soon, it would be just him and the darkness. He swallowed hard, trying to steady his shaking hand as he keyed in a string of numbers and letters on the battered comms keyboard.

"This is Captain Ishiwa, on board the Hermes, calling Earth...

Ishiwa's voice choked, and he coughed, his throat raw from the ship's stale air. He cleared his throat and tried again.

"This is Captain Ishiwa, on board the Hermes, calling Earth, do you read? We are on an uncharted asteroid belt... we... we have sustained... I don't know... we... we... need... need..." His voice broke again, and he choked back tears.

He wiped his cheeks with a shaking hand and took a deep breath.

"We have... I have... a... a... a message... for... for you..." He took a moment to steady himself, then continued.

"Don't... don't... don't let... don't let... Don't let us... don't let this... this..." Another coughing fit wracked his body, and he slumped forward, resting his forehead on the console. "Just... just... please..."

His voice faded out, lost in the static of the fading comms signal.

The Hermes continued its inexorable descent into the endless night of the cold, dark void.

The last transmission from the doomed ship drifted through the emptiness of space, its message lost... or, perhaps, it was not meant to be heard.

In the end, all that mattered was that someone, somewhere, had tried.

Ishiwa had done his duty. He had sent the message. He had made a difference.

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