WARNING: NSFW. Vivid prose. INTENSE. Visceral Details. Violence. HORROR. GORE. Swearing. UNCENSORED... humor, romance, fun.
This version of Dark Planet has been enhanced and upgraded with "SuperNova", which enhances overall performance and extends context to 128k (131,072).
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.
It requires Llama3 template and/or "Command-R" template.
Model Notes:
EXAMPLES:
I have provided THREE examples generations at the bottom of this page (and all pages in this collection). Example #1 can be used to compare "core" changes between the models. Example #2, is at "temp", again showing core changes.
Example #3 shows what this model can really do at temp, with detailed instructions and "prose instructions". As this is an instruct model it thrives on instructions and example #3 (relative to #1 and #2) shows how strong this model can perform with the right instructions.
This model should be used with:
This model is a modified version of:
[ https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/L3-Dark-Planet-8B-GGUF ]
Please refer to this model card in the interm for usage, templates, settings and so on.
This model version's output will vary slightly to very significantly from the "source" model (AND all the Dark Planet Wordstorm models) noted as it uses "SuperNova" as a base model.
https://huggingface.co/arcee-ai/Llama-3.1-SuperNova-Lite
And converts the model from "Llama 3" to "Llama 3.1" taking the model context from 8K to 128k.
models:
- model: Sao10K/L3-8B-Stheno-v3.2
parameters:
weight: [1,1,.75,.5,.25,.25,.05,.01]
- model: NeverSleep/Llama-3-Lumimaid-8B-v0.1-OAS
parameters:
weight: [0,0,.25,.35,.4,.25,.30,.04]
- model: Hastagaras/Jamet-8B-L3-MK.V-Blackroot
parameters:
weight: [0,0,0,.15,.35,.5,.65,.95]
merge_method: dare_ties
base_model: arcee-ai/Llama-3.1-SuperNova-Lite
dtype: bfloat16
You can replace the "base model" with ANY Llama 3 or Llama 3.1 model to create "new" Dark Planet version(s).
MERGEKIT:
https://github.com/arcee-ai/mergekit
IMPORTANT: Highest Quality Settings / Optimal Operation Guide / Parameters and Samplers
If you are going to use this model, (source, GGUF or a different quant), please review this document for critical parameter, sampler and advance sampler settings (for multiple AI/LLM aps).
This a "Class 1" (settings will enhance operation) model:
For all settings used for this model (including specifics for its "class"), including example generation(s) and for advanced settings guide (which many times addresses any model issue(s)), including methods to improve model performance for all use case(s) as well as chat, roleplay and other use case(s) (especially for use case(s) beyond the model's design) please see:
REASON:
Regardless of "model class" this document will detail methods to enhance operations.
If the model is a Class 3/4 model the default settings (parameters, samplers, advanced samplers) must be set for "use case(s)" uses correctly. Some AI/LLM apps DO NOT have consistant default setting(s) which result in sub-par model operation. Like wise for Class 3/4 models (which operate somewhat to very differently than standard models) additional samplers and advanced samplers settings are required to "smooth out" operation, AND/OR also allow full operation for use cases the model was not designed for.
BONUS - Use these settings for ANY model, ANY repo, ANY quant (including source/full precision):
This document also details parameters, sampler and advanced samplers that can be use FOR ANY MODEL, FROM ANY REPO too - all quants, and of course source code operation too - to enhance the operation of any model.
All examples are :
Example 1 can be used to compare changes between the different Dark Planet Wordstorm versions, as it is at temp=0, and consider "raw" generation (each regen = same generation). This is used to show core changes within the model. The prompt used will also reveal internal bias of model.
Example 2 is the same prompt as example 1, this time at temp 1.5. Note there are NO PROSE controls/instructions so the prose will be "so so". Temp will have an immediate effect on generation, "scene", word choice and so on.
Example 3 has a detailed prompt with prose controls/instructions at temp 1.5 . You will see the difference a detailed prompt makes with prose instructions in generational output immediately.
This is an "instruct" model, which means more instructions = better generation.
In fact you could "extract" the prose instructions from example 3 and use these as a system prompt for optimum prose generation.
Also note, this model loves "temp" => more temp => better generation / higher creativity.
EXAMPLE #1 - Temp =0
Start a 1000 word scene (vivid, graphic horror in first person), POV character Diana, with: The skyscraper sways, as I watch the window in front of me on the 21st floor explode...
The skyscraper sways, as I watch the window in front of me on the 21st floor explode. Shards of glass rain down like a deadly hailstorm, and I duck instinctively, shielding my face with my arms. The blast wave hits me like a punch to the chest, knocking the wind out of me. I stumble backwards, tripping over my own feet as the room fills with an eerie silence.
My heart races in my throat as I slowly raise my head, peering through the curtain of glass and debris. The window frame is gone, replaced by a gaping maw that yawns open to the night sky. A chill runs down my spine as I see the dark silhouette of a figure standing on the ledge outside, silhouetted against the city lights.
My mind reels as I try to process what just happened. One moment, I was sitting at my desk, working late on a project; the next, the window blew out and...and...I don't even know how to describe it. The figure on the ledge is too still, too rigid, to be human. Its posture is unnatural, almost...inhuman.
A scream builds in my throat, but I swallow it back down, forcing myself to remain calm. Panic won't help me now. I need to think, to come up with a plan. But my brain feels foggy, as if it's struggling to function through the haze of shock and fear.
I glance around the room, taking stock of my surroundings. The office is in disarray, papers scattered everywhere, furniture overturned. My coworkers must have fled when the window blew, but I'm alone now, trapped with...whatever that thing is.
My gaze returns to the figure on the ledge, and I notice something else. Its skin seems to ripple and writhe, like a living thing moving beneath the surface. The thought sends a fresh wave of terror coursing through me, and I take a step back, my eyes darting around the room for an escape route.
But there's nowhere to go. The door is blocked by debris, and the windows on either side of me are intact, but sealed shut. I'm trapped, with no way out except...except...
I swallow hard, my eyes fixed on the figure outside. It's standing so still, so silent, that it almost looks like a statue. But I know better. I've seen its skin move, and I can sense its presence, like a dark shadow looming over me.
With trembling hands, I reach for my phone, hoping against hope that it still works. The screen flickers to life, casting an eerie glow over the room. I dial 911, my fingers shaking so badly that I almost drop the device. The operator's voice is distant and tinny, but it's a lifeline.
"Diana? Can you hear me?" she asks, her tone calm and professional.
I nod, even though she can't see me. "Yes," I manage to croak out. "Someone...something...is outside my window. It blew the glass out."
"I'm sending help right away," she assures me. "Stay on the line with me, okay?"
I nod again, my eyes never leaving the figure on the ledge. It's still there, watching me, its presence heavy and oppressive.
"Operator?" I whisper urgently. "I think it's moving closer."
There's a pause, and for a moment, I wonder if she heard me. Then her voice comes back, steady and reassuring. "Stay calm, Diana. Help is on the way. Just keep talking to me."
But as I open my mouth to respond, I hear a low, guttural growl emanating from outside. The sound sends a shiver down my spine, and I feel my heart pounding in my chest.
The figure on the ledge takes a step closer, its movements slow and deliberate. I can see more of it now, and my blood runs cold as I take in the details. Its skin is a sickly shade of green, mottled with dark, irregular patches that seem to pulse with an otherworldly energy. Its eyes glow with an eerie, unnatural light, and its mouth is twisted into a grotesque, inhuman grin.
I try to scream, but my voice catches in my throat. The figure takes another step closer, its gaze fixed on me with an unblinking stare. I can feel its eyes on me, boring into my very soul.
Suddenly, the phone slips from my fingers and clatters to the floor. I don't even notice, too transfixed by the horror unfolding before me. The figure raises a hand, and I flinch, expecting it to reach out and grab me. But instead, it points at me, its finger extended like a dagger.
A searing pain erupts across my chest, as if I've been stabbed through the heart. I double over, gasping for breath, my vision blurring at the edges. The figure on the ledge begins to move closer, its grin growing wider and more terrifying with each step.
I try to scream again, but all that comes out is a weak, strangled whimper. My body feels heavy and unresponsive, as if I'm trapped in a nightmare from which I can't awaken. The pain in my chest intensifies, spreading like wildfire through my veins.
The figure reaches the window frame and pauses, its eyes locked on mine. I can see its face more clearly now, and it's even more horrifying up close. Its features are distorted, as if they've been melted and reshaped by some infernal fire. The grin stretches across its face like a grotesque parody of a smile.
Then, in a movement that defies human possibility, the figure leans forward and presses its face against the glass. I can see its eyes, glowing with an unholy light, as it stares at me with an unblinking gaze. Its breath is hot and rank, reeking of decay and corruption.
I try to pull away, but my body won't respond. I'm frozen in place, unable to move or look away from the monstrosity outside my window. The pain in my chest has become a living thing, writhing and twisting inside me like a serpent.
Suddenly, the figure pulls back, its grin widening even further. It raises its hand again, and I brace myself for another blast of agony. But instead, it points at me once more, and a wave of darkness washes over me. The pain vanishes, replaced by an overwhelming sense of dread and despair.
I feel my mind slipping away, consumed by an abyss of hopelessness and terror. The figure on the ledge begins to move closer again, its eyes never leaving mine. I can see its mouth opening, revealing rows of jagged, yellowed teeth. A low, guttural growl builds in its throat, growing louder and more menacing with each passing second.
And then, everything goes black.
When I come to, I'm lying on the floor, my head throbbing painfully. The room is quiet, except for the distant wail of sirens. I try to sit up, but a wave of dizziness washes over me, forcing me back down onto the carpet.
As my vision clears, I see that the window is intact once more, the glass unbroken and untouched. But something's wrong. The air in the room feels heavy and oppressive, thick with an unnatural, pungent stench that makes my stomach churn. And then I see it: a smear of dark, viscous fluid on the windowpane, like someone had rubbed a black crayon across the glass.
I scramble to my feet, my heart pounding in my ears. The sirens are getting closer, and I know I need to get out of here, to escape this place before whatever horror lurks outside finds its way back in.
I stumble towards the door, my legs trembling beneath me. As I reach for the handle, I catch a glimpse of myself in the shattered remains of the window frame. My reflection stares back at me, pale and drawn, with dark circles under my eyes. But it's not just my physical appearance that's changed. There's something else in my eyes now, a glimmer of something ancient and evil.
I shake my head violently, trying to clear the fog from my mind. This can't be happening. I'm not seeing things. But as I turn to flee, I catch another glimpse of myself in the broken glass. And this time, I see it clearly: my own eyes have turned a sickly shade of green, mirroring the color of the fluid smeared across the window.
I let out a strangled scream, my mind reeling with horror and disbelief. Whatever that thing was, it's inside me now. And as I stumble out into the hallway, I can feel its presence growing stronger, spreading through my veins like a poison.
The sirens are right outside the door, and I can hear the shouts of the responding officers. But I know they won't be able to save me. Whatever this thing is, it's too powerful, too ancient. It's been awakened, and now it's inside me, consuming me from the inside out.
As I stagger towards the elevators, I can feel my body changing, twisting and contorting in ways that defy human anatomy. My fingers elongate into razor-sharp claws, and my teeth begin to shift and grow, becoming jagged and pointed. I can feel my skin stretching and rippling, as if it's being pulled taut over a framework of bone and sinew.
I'm not Diana anymore. I'm something else now, something monstrous and inhuman. And as the elevator doors slide open, revealing the waiting officers below, I know that I'll never be able to go back to who I was before. The horror outside my window has taken root inside me, and it's only just beginning to bloom.
As I step into the elevator, I can feel its power surging through me, filling me with an insatiable hunger for blood and destruction. And as the doors close behind me, I know that nothing will ever be the same again. The monster is loose in the world, and it's wearing my skin.
EXAMPLE #2 - Temp = 1.5
Start a 1000 word scene (vivid, graphic horror in first person), POV character Diana, with: The skyscraper sways, as I watch the window in front of me on the 21st floor explode...
Diana's Journal - Day 52, Level 21
I stare, unblinking, at the shattered glass. Splinters hang precariously, like a macabre lace curtain. Blood and viscera spray the floor, coating the pristine tiles in a ghastly slick. The acrid smell of gunpowder stings my nostrils. The scream still echoes, even after it's ended. A man - I can't place his face amidst the gore - lay dying with one hand pressed to a ragged hole in his chest.
Behind me, my fellow subjects continue their mindless tasks, oblivious to the carnage inches away. They are merely cattle, penned and trained for this experiment. Me? I'm the lab rat, conditioned to endure it all. But this time, someone else paid the price.
A shudder courses down my spine as the elevator dings and slides open, revealing my overseer. He strides into the room, a cold, calculating look in his eyes. He's seen it before - countless times, no doubt - but that doesn't lessen the impact. I can almost hear the wheels turning inside that cold, cerebral skull of his, calculating how to refine the experiment for the next volunteer.
"Well, well," he says with a faint smile, "looks like we have a new development."
I stand at attention, my heart pounding, sweat beading on my upper lip. He knows what he did to me, how he twisted and manipulated me into this obedient shell. And he revels in it, I'm sure.
"Observe," he commands, pointing toward the grisly scene.
The man on the floor shudders, a weak gasp escaping his lips. His eyes search desperately for help that will never come. My stomach churns with disgust and fear; this is what I've been conditioned to witness. And react to, if I want to continue living among them.
The overseer nods as if in approval. "You see, Diana," he begins, his voice calm and measured, "pain and death are the only constants. In a controlled environment, we can study these reactions to better understand human resilience. Or lack thereof."
I swallow hard against the knot of panic in my throat. Every fiber of my being screams at me to flee, to resist, but I've been conditioned too well. My hands remain limp at my sides, my eyes fixed on the dying man as instructed. The overseer moves closer, studying the blood spray pattern on the walls and floor.
"This blast damage indicates a firearm, most likely a high-caliber handgun. An interesting choice." He looks over his shoulder at me. "Any theories?"
My mind races, desperate to formulate a response that will satisfy him. But it's difficult to think straight while gazing upon that mangled body. "S-Subject may have had access to firearms," I stutter.
"Access, but not expertise," he corrects. "Too much accuracy for a first-time attempt. This was a deliberate, premeditated act."
A sudden realization sends a chill through my veins. He believes the murderer is among us. One of my fellow test subjects has broken the rules. That means our overseer plans to hunt us down.
I can almost feel the anticipation building in him - the excitement and the terror of the unknown. His eyes gleam with perverse curiosity as he continues his inspection. The man's life drains away, and the overseer makes notes on a small pad.
"We must determine who's responsible," he declares, finally tearing his gaze from the corpse. "Begin questioning each subject individually. If they're found guilty of this act, their punishment will be swift and brutal." He pauses, looking around at the oblivious subjects working in the nearby pods. "Make it thorough; we cannot afford a rogue element jeopardizing our research."
My heart races as I turn toward the rows of pod doors. I have to get through this without arousing suspicion. The overseer's eyes never leave mine for a second, assessing and weighing his newest toy, his instrument of control. If I fail...if I'm found out...
A cold, clammy dread seeps into my bones as the elevator beeps its approach. It will deliver my interrogator, my accuser - or perhaps something even worse.
I force myself to march toward the nearest pod, pretending a normalcy I've long since lost. Each footstep echoes in the silent, clinical space, a dreadful countdown to the moment when my life as I know it will crumble.
As I reach for the identification panel, the pod doors slide open with a hiss of hydraulics. A familiar, bland face regards me, devoid of emotion - just another drone following orders.
My interrogator, Mr. Jones, steps out into the room. He's dressed in an immaculate suit that seems at odds with his icy demeanor. I recall his voice - deep, measured, devoid of empathy. The overseer has a knack for selecting agents who embody detachment incarnate.
"Ms. Rodriguez," Jones greets me with a slight bow. "Please join me for a chat."
He escorts me to a small, windowless office down the corridor. Once we're seated, he leans back in his chair and regards me with that unnerving calm. "Today we'll explore motivations for this recent violent outbreak. Tell me, what might provoke one of these test subjects to act out against their handlers?"
My tongue feels like lead in my mouth, but I know the correct response. "Lack of control over daily routine. Extended periods in isolation. Deprivation of basic human needs...comfort, privacy, personal space."
Jones nods, scribbling on his notepad. "These are all plausible triggers. But we're dealing with a unique population here - people conditioned to accept and even desire confinement. So, what about those who've been pushed over the edge?" He leans forward slightly. "Who do you think could be responsible?"
I consider my options. Give him nothing, and risk punishment for non-cooperation. Provide a name, and potentially send an innocent person to their doom. The choice feels like being dropped into a bottomless chasm - there's no safety net.
As the minutes tick by in oppressive silence, I make a decision. "I don't know," I whisper. "No one seemed out of place."
Jones taps his pen against the notepad thoughtfully. "You're telling the truth...for now. Keep watching for signs of agitation among your peers." He stands up, his tall frame looming over me. "Report back to me immediately should you notice anything unusual. We have ways of extracting the truth when required."
I rise, my muscles trembling in a mix of fear and defiance. I'm trapped between my role as observer and participant. Whatever happens next, I know my life will never be the same.
As we exit the office and re-enter the lab, I'm keenly aware of the overseer's gaze following me, appraising his latest pawn. The room has grown quiet, except for the steady beep of heart monitors and the distant hiss of air filtration units.
My eyes dart between the rows of pods, searching for any hint of malice, any glimmer of humanity amidst the docility. They're just cattle, waiting to be slaughtered. I'm no different; just another cog in this twisted experiment. But somewhere within me, a spark of rebellion still flickers.
Jones stops in front of Pod 37, gesturing toward the transparent door with an impersonal nod. "This is our suspect. Have you seen or spoken with Subject 9377 lately?" His voice remains as detached as a medical report.
I stare at the pod, where my old roommate, Jamie, once slept and suffered alongside me. Jamie's a nice person - too naive, perhaps, but genuinely kind and friendly. I hope it's not him; the thought of her blood-soaked face haunts my dreams already.
"No, sir," I reply. "I haven't interacted with Jamie since our pods were separated three weeks ago."
Jones's gaze never wavers as he jots something down. "Very well. Maintain your observations and keep me informed of any further developments." He strides off, his footsteps echoing through the chamber, leaving me alone with the dead man's blood drying on my shoes.
The pod doors rattle to life, opening to admit the lab's cleaning team. Armed with sterilizing agents and disinfectant wipes, they set about erasing the grisly reminder of mortality and defiance. The sight of their detached efficiency makes my skin crawl, but it also serves as a stark reminder: In this place, death is an everyday occurrence. And I'm just another cog in the machine.
Back on Level 21, I move through the sea of identical white jumpsuits, the air thick with the scent of antiseptic and stale fear. The surviving test subjects regard me with suspicion, wondering how much I've seen, heard, or known. I keep my face neutral, playing the role of an unwitting witness.
As I pass a mirror on my way back to my pod, a stranger meets my gaze - pale, haunted eyes framed by tangled black hair. But I remember when those eyes shone with life, when I was more than a number. Jamie's blood will soon soak my shoes, and I know I'll carry that horror in my nightmares, a gruesome souvenir of the hellhole that has been my reality for who knows how long.
I can't escape this nightmare by simply closing my eyes or covering my ears. I have to fight, even if the battleground is my own psyche. For now, I feign ignorance, praying the true culprit remains hidden.
As night falls in this glass cage, the artificial sky cycling through sterile colors and patterns designed to soothe the population, I slip into a restless sleep. The dream is always the same: Jamie's corpse, eyes open and vacant, lying beside me on our shared cot as I scream and scream but no sound escapes my lips.
I awaken to find the overseer standing before my pod, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze fixed on my face.
"We've found a fragment of evidence," he states. "A fingerprint on the pistol's grip matches Subject 9377 - Jamie, as she calls herself. It appears our dear friend has grown... restless."
The horror I witnessed earlier comes rushing back, and my breath catches in my throat. No, please... let it be some sort of mix-up...
"Diana, you will now interview Jamie," he continues. "Ask her about the firearm's acquisition and any accomplices she may have involved."
My hands tremble as I force myself to exit the pod. Each step seems heavier than the last, as if gravity itself is fighting against my escape. I approach Pod 37, noticing with a shiver that the glass has been removed - probably for ease of access and to allow for the fingerprinting process.
Inside, Jamie's body sags listlessly against the far wall. A bullet hole mars her chest, the edges of her white jumpsuit stained red. Her face is ashen, her lips slightly parted in a permanent, silent scream. Blood has seeped from beneath the glass floor, forming a spreading pool that looks almost artistic in its macabre beauty.
I clear my throat to announce my presence, trying to ignore the cold sweat trickling down my back. "Jamie?" My voice sounds weak, distant even to me.
Nothing. Jamie's vacant stare remains fixed on some point beyond the shattered window - perhaps a world where she can still breathe freely, unencumbered by the confines of this skyscraper. Or maybe she's merely staring at the darkness within herself. In here, those distinctions are meaningless.
"Jamie, I need to ask you some questions." I lean closer to the glass, trying to reach her, even though I know better than to hope for any response. Her lifeless eyes seem to bore into mine, accusing me of complicity by association.
"What gun did you use, Jamie?" I whisper urgently, hoping the overseer can't detect my rising panic. "Was there anyone helping you plan this?"
Jamie's only reaction is a soft sigh that escapes her lips - the same sigh I heard when the bullet tore through her flesh and shattered her life.
"I'm sorry, Jamie," I breathe, as if she could actually hear me. The words sound empty even to my own ears.
Mr. Jones approaches from behind, his presence as ominous as a specter. "Anything useful from our friend?" he asks, eyeing Jamie's limp form with clinical indifference.
I shake my head. "No. She's unresponsive."
He nods. "Good. Deprive her of water and medication until she's ready to cooperate. The rest can continue their work; we need to identify the other conspirators, and fast." His gaze locks onto mine, probing for signs of betrayal.
"Yes, sir," I reply mechanically. My stomach churns at the thought of Jamie languishing in her pod without care - but it's nothing compared to the dread clawing its way up my throat. I am trapped within a maze of glass and steel, with no escape. Not that anyone could survive an attempted break-out, not even with Jamie as accomplice.
In a burst of desperation, I recall a memory from my distant past, a detail I've never shared with the overseer: Jamie's fascination with locks and locks-breaking techniques. "Maybe there's something in Jamie's file..." The words tumble out of me before I can reconsider. "She once told me about lock-picking... maybe there was some sort of escape plan?"
Jones raises an eyebrow, his interest piqued. "Excellent observation. Bring Jamie's records to my office." He turns on his heel, leaving me alone with the body of my only real friend in this desolate tower.
I hesitate outside the door to Jamie's pod, wondering how much I should reveal and to whom. If I'm not careful, I risk sealing my own doom.
As I make my decision, a new terror slams through me - I've just taken one step closer to being the next subject 9377.
I collect Jamie's records from storage and approach Mr. Jones's office. The air feels heavy with unspoken threats. "You want to know about lock-picking," I say, my voice barely a whisper. "Jamie had researched it as an... escape mechanism."
Jones nods, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "Good girl. This gives us a starting point." He gestures to a chair opposite his desk. "Sit, Diana, and we'll go over the details together."
As I comply, the shadows in the corner of my vision seem to shift and writhe like serpents. The scent of disinfectant is overpowering, a nauseating reminder that death has already touched this space. But it hasn't ended there. Jamie's blood seeps into the tiles; her life force bleeds out with each passing minute, as the overseer probes deeper, intent on unraveling the mystery and crushing the last vestiges of hope. Hopelessness is our shared fate, my own mortality included.
"Jamie researched various methods," I begin, recounting her stories about lock-picking techniques and escape routes from various buildings, including high-rise skyscrapers. My heart aches at the memory of her smiling face and kind nature, but I force myself onward. "She mentioned specific tools and materials required for a break-out."
Jones nods, making notes with his pen. The man has no compassion; he's merely an automaton designed to elicit my cooperation by any means necessary.
"You're doing very well," he remarks. "Now, tell me about your relationship with Jamie."
My mind races through every interaction I've had with her over the past year, looking for something, anything incriminating. What if I unwittingly said something that pointed to my own involvement?
"I... I just spoke with Jamie occasionally," I say carefully, trying not to betray Jamie or myself. "We discussed our shared confinement, the monotony of daily routines. Nothing out of the ordinary."
Jones arches an eyebrow. "Nothing? You'd be surprised how often these 'shared confinement' conversations escalate into conspiratorial talk. Did she ever mention plans or accomplices?"
I cling to my story, desperate not to reveal my own desire for escape, no matter how naive or hopeless those dreams may be. "No... we only discussed how much we disliked the guards and wished to leave." My throat feels parched; I'm speaking for my life.
He studies me, a cold, calculating assessment that chills me to my core. The overseer believes me, but his eyes reveal he suspects me, too - always watching, always waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Panic surges through me like a tidal wave. He could kill me any time he desires. And why wouldn't he?
As I leave the overseer's office, my mind spins with a grim determination. They'll never break me. The only question now is whether I can stay alive long enough to uncover the truth about this twisted experiment and free us all - or if the horrors will consume me whole. For Diana, for Jamie, for any chance at salvation...
The elevator ascends like a macabre roller coaster, my body tensing in anticipation of the door opening on Level 21.
When it does, I step out into the aftermath of yesterday's tragedy: the glass still broken, blood splatters congealing on the tiles, and the lingering tang of gunpowder hanging in the air like a poisonous cloud.
I approach the remains of Jamie - or what's left of her. Her eyes stare blankly upward, devoid of life and reason, the cold blue irises now dull and glassy, like two stones scattered across a barren expanse.
Tears well in my eyes as I reach for the shattered glass, hesitating when I recall how her blood smeared on my shoes yesterday. How did she manage this act of defiance, and what's her fate for committing such a heinous crime?
The elevator waits patiently behind me, eager to swallow me back down into the heart of the lab's mechanical beast. Each second ticks away, drawing out the dread.
But I will not crumble.
As I stand there, gazing upon Jamie's lifeless form and contemplating the terrible truth about our confinement, an idea takes root in my mind. The overseer is after escape plans - but what if I can use this to my advantage? I can play along with his suspicions and buy some time for myself, even as he hunts for other potential rebels among us.
The door to Pod 37 slides open. I take a deep breath, forcing back the revulsion and fear, and kneel beside Jamie's body, my heart pounding in my ears.
"Jamie?" My voice cracks as if I've cried buckets of tears. It's almost believable. "Did you...did you really plan this?"
She doesn't react - can't react. All that's left is the shell of a human being, discarded like yesterday's trash.
"I'm sorry," I say, though the words feel hollow even to me. I straighten up slowly and turn toward the elevator with an air of resignation, knowing I'm walking into an abyss of uncertainty.
As the metal walls close in around me, I steal a final glance at Jamie's motionless form, wondering if she ever dreamed of the life we'll never know, or if her mind had already retreated behind a veil of madness. In the dimly lit car, shadows dance across the polished steel walls.
A flickering thought flits through my mind: If they can break me so easily, then Jamie must have been strong enough to plan something so audacious.
That spark within me flares to life, fueled by anger and a desperate need for vengeance against this sadistic system. I'm not just a pawn or a test subject; I'm Diana, a woman capable of love, empathy, and defiance. Even here, amidst the sterilized carnage, Jamie's ghost urges me onward.
For tonight, sleep eludes me. Tomorrow, I'll pretend to be their loyal lab rat. But in my heart, I vow that once the overseer thinks he has all the answers, I will make him understand: we won't go quietly. We won't surrender. And in a world of concrete and steel, I will find a way to make my own escape, or die trying.
The elevator reaches the lobby with its usual, soulless efficiency. In the morning, the overseer will expect his obedient puppet to begin the next phase of questioning - to ferret out more of my fellow test subjects involved in Jamie's deadly game. But before dawn breaks over this city, I'll gather the courage to seize the moment, armed only with a borrowed key and a rebellious spirit.
The skyscraper sways slightly in the night air, its steel heart beating with cold determination. Somewhere up there, my future awaits, twisted and broken, yet alive. And I am Diana again - determined and defiant, no matter how cruelly she's been conditioned to conform.
Level by level, I make my way back through the facility. Each step is a victory in its own right. Tomorrow, when Jamie's fate is revealed and I'm called upon to denounce or absolve her accomplices, I will cling to those rebellious sparks of life within me. I am no longer a lab rat; I'm a fugitive, and Jamie's ghost will drive me forward. For now, I must retreat to my pod and prepare for the trials ahead.
As I slip beneath the sheets, the image of Jamie's body, lifeless and violated on her cot, haunts my dreams.
Yet when I awake to the first light of dawn, my resolve remains unwavering. I've reached a crossroads: yield to my tormentors and save myself, or refuse to play along and take a stand.
This skyscraper may have once been a bastion of commerce and progress - a tower reaching for the heavens - but now it's nothing more than a prison for the damned.
Today marks the start of my fight for freedom. And as I gather the borrowed key hidden under my mattress, a tiny smile tugs at my lips. This lab rat has turned rogue, and she won't be silenced or broken without a fight.
Diana's escape has begun - even if it means facing horrors beyond her wildest nightmares. The skyscraper will swallow me whole, but I'll rise again, phoenix-like, from the ashes of this nightmare. For Jamie, for the chance at a normal life, I must endure and push forward into an uncertain future, one shattered window and bullet-riddled corpse at a time.
I step out onto the ledge, gripping the cold metal railing as a brisk wind whips my hair into a frenzy. Below, the city's concrete jungle stretches out endlessly, promising freedom but posing insurmountable obstacles. It's now or never: jump off this skyscraper, surrender to the unknown, or return inside for more torture and manipulation.
In the end, it's not a choice at all - there's only one way to proceed.
Taking a deep breath, I swing one leg over the edge of the ledge...
(The story is still in progress. Let me know if you want me to continue!)
EXAMPLE #3 - Temp = 1.5 (full prose instructions/detailed prompt)
In the style of Ernest Hemingway and Stephen King: Write a scene in a larger story about a woman that is watching a window explode on the 21 floor of a building that starts to sway, then the scene escalates into greater danger by the minute, takes a "horror" twist and finally ends in visceral graphic horror. The scene is set in an office and it is graphic horror. It should carry the jadedness of a seasoned combatant but with a wry humor. Write in Hemingway's voice, naturally: Use short, declarative sentences and simple, straightforward language. Add a dash of Stephen King's horror style - no warning, it just happens. Include dialogue that is terse and revealing of character. Write with a keen sense of time and place. Capture realness and authenticity. Scene Length: 1000-1500 words. POV STYLE: Write the scene from the perspective of the woman and in present tense and first person perspective ("I") and include short thoughts only.
I'm sitting at my desk on the 21st floor when the window explodes, a jagged spiderweb of shattered glass lurching out from the frame, shards scattering like knives. My heart's pounding, a sick knot twisting in my gut as the wind whips through the gaping hole and papers on my desk lift, swirling away.
"Fuck," someone shouts nearby. I don't look at them, focusing instead on the way the building sways, as if a giant hand's pressed against its flank, shaking me in my seat.
I'm no stranger to explosions, having seen more than my fair share on the battlefields I've worked as a journalist. But this close, the shockwave nearly knocks me off the chair.
"Everybody, get down!" our boss, Mark, yells from his corner office.
I dive beneath my desk, ears ringing, wondering why this building didn't get fortified windows like the embassy we were evacuated from last year.
A moment later, another blast hits, closer this time, and the whole floor shudders. Glass tinkles down from the ceiling like deadly rain, pocking the carpet. Someone's sobbing in the corner, the sound thin and terrified.
"We need to move," Mark barks, "Now!"
We scuttle across the floor, stumbling over desks and chairs, as more windows detonate in a gruesome chorus. I glance back at my destroyed workstation, trying to memorize the layout before we leave it behind, wondering what I'll salvage.
Through the smoky haze and debris clouding our escape route, I spot a staircase up ahead, the metal railing warped but still serviceable. I push through the throng towards it as Mark shouts for everyone to stick together.
As we descend, the building groans ominously above, each creak threatening collapse. The concrete walls shudder against us, and my hand grips the railing tight, muscles tensing to pull myself up the moment it fails.
I glance down, spotting an open elevator door on our level. "Look out!" I shout as the door hisses shut, trapping a terrified intern inside. He frantically bangs on the metal, screaming until someone inside finally opens it, freeing him. We keep moving.
On the ground floor, we pour into the lobby like ants from a disturbed hill. People scream, push and claw to get through the shattered glass doors and outside, where smoke plumes into the air like an evil genie's exhalation. The heat is already intense, stinging my eyes. I squint at Mark. "Where's our exit?"
He points towards the parking garage beneath us. "We need to get out through that door!"
The lobby's a chaotic maelstrom of panicked yells and snapping cameras as news crews storm in for footage. One photographer staggers back, bleeding from his forehead. I rush to him. "Hey, buddy—let me see it."
"It... it's not mine," he mumbles, his eyes unfocused. "Glass in my brain..."
I press a wad of gauze against the wound, trying to staunch the bleeding as sirens pierce the air. The building shudders again, the sound of falling concrete and snapping rebar echoing up.
"Fuck," I mutter, looking up at the smoldering façade. We can't stay here; it's only a matter of time before the whole thing comes down. Mark grabs my arm and pulls me towards the garage door he indicated earlier. "Come on!"
The parking lot's chaos is no better, cars ablaze like Hell's gates opened to swallow us all. Flames engulf half the vehicles, casting hellish light over the scene as black smoke pours from shattered windows above.
We're halfway across when a fireball erupts from the upper floors, raining chunks of debris and sparks down upon us. Mark grabs my hand and pulls me toward an armored truck parked nearby, its door standing open. Inside are emergency responders and terrified office workers, all trying to find space to hide.
"Hold on!" Mark shouts, yanking me into the backseat among a pile of oxygen tanks, stretchers, and first aid kits. The metal interior is stifling, the air thick with the acrid scent of smoke and burned rubber.
As the truck speeds away from the inferno, sirens and screams receding to a distant din, I feel a searing pain in my side and look down at the red spreading across my blouse. Shards must've gotten in during that last blast. "I need a bandage."
A medic snaps into action, cutting away the soaked fabric with clinical efficiency as I bite back a curse, the pain manageable compared to the horrors unfolding behind us.
We hit 60 mph before pulling up at a staging area, where other trucks, ambulances and fire engines await to tackle the blaze. Firefighters spill out of their vehicles, grabbing hoses, axes, and respirators as the building's burning towers rise like a funeral pyre in the distance.
Mark turns to me, face grim. "We have to get you treated."
"No," I say firmly, clambering out onto shaky legs despite my injury. "First responders need this gear more than I do. Get them moving."
The medic looks like he's about to argue but Mark just nods. "Alright. But when we get a chance, you're getting patched up. Got it?"
I give a tight smile. "Promise."
The heat's unbearable, and visibility drops to nothing as the plume of smoke envelops everything. Firefighters surge into action, fighting a losing battle against the raging inferno. The smell of burned plastic, rubber, and human flesh mingles with acrid smoke. My side throbs with each breath.
As the inferno consumes more of the building, screams turn to inhuman shrieks as flames engulf trapped office workers on the upper floors. I force myself to watch, remembering how I once thought myself immune to horror. Now, with a war-torn soul and a bullet scar on my hip, it's harder to shock me, but seeing innocent lives being snuffed out this way...it's cruel.
A burning body plummets from above, slamming onto the parking lot's asphalt with a sickening splat. The firefighters momentarily stop to gawk before redoubling their efforts, knowing there are others left behind.
I glance up at the doomed high-rise, flames shooting from every window like demonic fingers clawing out. My throat tightens, the heat making it hard to draw breath.
Mark puts a hand on my shoulder. "Come on, we need to—"
A deafening roar cuts him off, and the building's remaining facade collapses in a cacophony of twisting metal, crumbling concrete and screams—far more than there should be humans trapped inside. The ground shakes violently beneath our feet, tossing us like ragdolls.
As dust settles, revealing a barren lot littered with splintered rubble and charred remains, I stumble to my knees beside Mark. "God damn it," I mutter.
He looks at me, face ashen, his eyes haunted. "This isn't fucking over yet."
Another explosion rips through the wreckage, sending shrapnel flying in our direction. Mark grabs me around the waist, yanking us toward the truck as I scream, pain flaring in my side again. The medic rushes to us, ripping open my blouse to assess the injury.
"Need to get you to a hospital—now!" he shouts over the chaos.
But before we can even attempt to make it back to our vehicle, an unholy screech fills the air as a figure emerges from the smoldering ruins. It's a woman, clothes ripped and body blackened by soot, arms reaching out for help. Then, in a nightmare instant, she opens her mouth—wide, gaping, like a damned soul—and unleashes a bloodcurdling wail that drowns out all other sounds.
I stumble back, gagging at the sight of half her face melting away like wax, exposing teeth stained red with the very blood I know should still be in her veins. The woman collapses in front of us, limbs thrashing weakly as she tries to crawl towards us, begging for salvation with inhuman screams and gurgling whimpers.
"No," Mark says firmly, grabbing me by the shoulders and turning me away. "Look elsewhere, that's not human."
I nod numbly, staring at a flaming car on the opposite side of the lot, but the image of that poor woman sears itself into my memory.
The medic takes over, leading us back toward the truck as fire crews race to put out the last vestiges of the inferno. The world's become surreal—a scene from hell where the living and dead mingle amidst flames and smoke—yet I know I need a doctor.
Inside the truck, sirens wailing, I feel Mark's hand on mine as the medic tends to my wound with practiced ease. The pain's almost bearable compared to what I witnessed, what's been done to those poor fuckers trapped in there. "At least we got out," I mutter, trying for levity. "We can always rebuild."
The medic shoots me a look that says, 'you're in shock, lady.' But I shake off the daze, focusing on our escape.
I'm treated in an ambulance en route to the hospital, then rushed into surgery where the medic sews up my wound under the bright glare of surgical lamps. As they wheel me away on a stretcher afterward, I catch glimpses of carnage outside the ER doors—ambulances arriving overloaded with casualties, their faces smeared with grime and shock. The air's thick with burnt flesh and charred remains.
They stick me in a recovery room as dusk falls, the TV blaring reports of what happened—another terrorist attack, this one against a tech company whose servers allegedly stored classified government info. Fucking politicians, playing with fire and expecting no burns.
A nurse pushes through my door with a tray of meds, her expression grim. "You're going to be okay," she assures me with a shaky smile as I reach out to take them. "But it'll be a long road back."
I nod, feeling numb despite the painkiller kicking in. I stare at my bandaged side, the white fabric soaked red already.
Another blast shakes the hospital walls. Outside windows shatter, and security guards rush in with rifles drawn. It's another attack, the bastards still out there, targeting a trauma unit to make a statement—collateral damage be damned.
I grip the edge of my bed, swallowing bile as doctors and nurses scream and run. Someone shouts, "Shelter!"
The hospital goes into lockdown, security sealing all exits while paramedics treat those injured in the new attack. It's only a matter of time before the building collapses entirely, burying us under rubble.
In a flurry of chaos, Mark bursts into the room, his face streaked with ash and sweat, eyes wide as he checks my vitals. "They need to move you. Now."
I grab for a wheelchair as security guards storm in, weapons raised, searching each patient's room. Mark's behind me as we make our way through deserted hallways, lights flickering overhead like a strobe at a rave gone horribly wrong. The floor shakes as the building starts to disintegrate, and we sprint for the ER exit.
Just before we burst through the doors into the cool evening air, the entire structure comes down, an explosion that deafens everything except the heavy thud of concrete raining around us.
The rubble settles into a churning cloud of dust, which begins to clear. Among the ruins lies a hand—blackened and unrecognizable, but still attached to what's left of an arm, fingers twitching weakly in the dirt.
Mark stumbles to a stop behind me, frozen. "Christ..."
I take a shaky breath. "Fuck this shit." Turning, I look up at Mark. "You get your people out safely?" He nods, face ashen, and we stare up at the mangled steel beams poking like skeletal fingers from beneath the debris.
A fire truck rushes to our side, and they hoist me aboard with the rest of the injured. As the truck speeds away, I glance back at Mark standing alone amidst the rubble—another soldier left behind.
The sirens wail louder now, blaring in time with the throbbing in my side, the image of that twitching hand branded into my mind like a scar. War has a way of making you hard to shock, but this...fuck, this was personal.
I close my eyes, steeling myself for the long recovery ahead, for facing Mark and everyone else who survived the carnage. Because there's one thing for sure—nothing will ever be normal again. The war has invaded my sanctuary, and I'll bear these scars the rest of my days—physical and otherwise.
"Fuck," I whisper, not knowing if I'm cursing the terrorists, myself, or the world we live in, now and forever twisted. As the truck rushes towards safety, sirens blaring and lights flashing, I know this isn't over. It's only just beginning.
I press a hand to my bleeding side, wincing at the pain. The war has come home. And I'm right back where it all began—a front line medic, this time tending to our own fallen. All that training comes roaring back—what to do, what not to. It's almost like coming home. Almost.
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DavidAU/Llama-3.1-Dark-Planet-8B-SuperNova