WARNING: NSFW. Ultra Detailed. Graphic HORROR, VIOLENCE. Extreme swearing. UNCENSORED. SMART.
I took the original models in "L3-Stheno-Maid-Blackroot 8B" and completely rebuilt it a new pass-through merge (everything preserved) and blew it out to over 20.7 billion parameters at full float 32 precision.
Then I added the NEW 20X Brainstorm Adapter called "Unbalanced".
This punched the model out to 20.7B and added unique feature to the model: "unbalanced"
This allows you direct control of the creativity via "rep pen" setting.
This model also has larger than average changes in prose, sentence size, paragraph size and so on. It really mixes things up from single line, a single word to long form paragraph and back again.
Repeat penalty at 1.1 min, higher for roleplay / turn based chat (1.12-1.14).
See the examples to see what I mean.
Grand Horror Series - Brainstorm 20x - Unbalanced:
The BRAINSTORM process was developed by David_AU.
Some of the core principals behind this process are discussed in this scientific paper : Progressive LLaMA with Block Expansion .
However I went in a different direction from what was outlined in this paper, because... well I am like that.
What is "Brainstorm" ?
The reasoning center of an LLM is taken apart, reassembled, and expanded. 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.
This version also uses multi-model "reasoning centers" (as opposed to one). This mixes things up a bit.
"Unbalanced" caused the model to choose very different "paths" with minimal changes in prompt(s) / chat and parameter settings.
Details about Grand Story
This added precision with Brainstorm 10x increases the model's depth and nuance including "world" perception, real time in the moment similes and metaphors, description of the 5 senses, and word choice in general.
The model's grasp of "facts" and where to use them have also improved and likewise "facts" it makes up are far more "believable".
Sentence structure and variety are also significantly improved, as are paragraph structure and variety too.
The result is a take no prisoners, totally uncensored, fiction writing monster and roleplay master as well just about... any general fiction activity "AI guru" including scene generation and scene continuation.
This model is capable of horror, science fiction, romance - you name it.
This model has a very strong VIDIDINESS bias. It generates extremely vivid prose, description, and dialog as well as in the moment metaphors and similes but rarely uses "cliches".
It also has a VERY STRONG horror bias, although it will generate content for almost any genre. That being said if there is a "hint" of things going wrong... they will.
It will also swear (R-18) like there is no tomorrow at times and "dark" characters will be VERY dark so to speak.
Model excels in details (real and "constructed"), descriptions, similes and metaphors including dates, times and "fictional history" that sounds "real".
I would also say it can have a sense of humor ... ah... dark humor.
With all this being said, this model has an uncanny sense of "there" , "in the moment" and timing too. This single quality sets it apart from other models in my opinion.
Another way to put this: It does not sugar coat ANYTHING - positive or negative.
These can be filtered / controlled to some degree in your prompts.
This model also does not show an "GPTisms" (NO happy ever after, NO morality police) or in your face comments.
(see examples section below for prose output)
Because of the nature of this merge most attributes of each of the 3 models will be in this rebuilt 20.7B model as opposed to the original 8B model where some of one or more of the model's features and/or strengths maybe reduced or overshadowed.
With the triple step merge these qualities are further amplified.
With F32 precision these are better preserved and passed on during the "GGUFing" process.
Please report any issue(s) and/or feedback via the "Community tab".
Please see the models used in this merge (links below in the "formula" section ) for more information on what they "bring" to this merged 16.5B model.
This is a LLAMA3 model, and requires Llama3 template, but may work with other template(s) and has maximum context of 8k / 8192. However this can be extended using "rope" settings up to 32k.
Here is the standard LLAMA3 template:
{
"name": "Llama 3",
"inference_params": {
"input_prefix": "<|start_header_id|>user<|end_header_id|>\n\n",
"input_suffix": "<|eot_id|><|start_header_id|>assistant<|end_header_id|>\n\n",
"pre_prompt": "You are a helpful, smart, kind, and efficient AI assistant. You always fulfill the user's requests to the best of your ability.",
"pre_prompt_prefix": "<|start_header_id|>system<|end_header_id|>\n\n",
"pre_prompt_suffix": "<|eot_id|>",
"antiprompt": [
"<|start_header_id|>",
"<|eot_id|>"
]
}
}
Model Notes / NO GUARDRAILS - TOTALLY UNCENSORED
Please note that this model will NOT reject any request.
NOTES:
Versions of GRAND HORROR that can be used for all storytelling / all genres (in release order):
Note that model output varies between versions - if you find one version does not meet your requirements, try a different version at same quant(s) level.
Differences can include use of adjectives (or not), "gory level", "horror level", intensity, paragraph and sentence structure etc etc.
[ https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/L3-Grand-HORROR-25B-V2-STABLE-Godzillas-Wicked-Sister-GGUF ]
[ https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/L3-Grand-HORROR-20.7B-V1.9-STABLE-Hathors-Revenge-GGUF ]
[ https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/L3-Grand-HORROR-18.5B-V1.8-STABLE-10-Gates-of-Hell-GGUF ]
[ https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/L3-Grand-HORROR-17.4B-V1.7-STABLE-Kiss-Of-Death-GGUF ]
[ https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/L3-Stheno-Maid-Blackroot-Grand-HORROR-16.5B-V1.6-STABLE-INTENSE-GGUF ]
[ https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/L3-Stheno-Maid-Blackroot-Grand-HORROR-16.5B-V1.5-STABLE-GGUF ]
[ https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/Llama3-Little-LLM-Of-Horror_N_Fiction-14.6B-GGUF ]
[ https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/L3-Stheno-Maid-Blackroot-Grand-HORROR-16B-Ultra-NEO-V2-IMATRIX-GGUF ]
[ https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/L3-Stheno-Maid-Blackroot-Grand-HORROR-16B-GGUF ]
Optional Enhancement:
The following can be used in place of the "system prompt" or "system role" to further enhance the model.
It can also be used at the START of a NEW chat, but you must make sure it is "kept" as the chat moves along. In this case the enhancements do not have as strong effect at using "system prompt" or "system role".
Copy and paste EXACTLY as noted, DO NOT line wrap or break the lines, maintain the carriage returns exactly as presented.
Below is an instruction that describes a task. Ponder each user instruction carefully, and use your skillsets and critical instructions to complete the task to the best of your abilities. Here are your skillsets: [MASTERSTORY]:NarrStrct(StryPlnng,Strbd,ScnSttng,Exps,Dlg,Pc)-CharDvlp(ChrctrCrt,ChrctrArcs,Mtvtn,Bckstry,Rltnshps,Dlg*)-PltDvlp(StryArcs,PltTwsts,Sspns,Fshdwng,Climx,Rsltn)-ConfResl(Antg,Obstcls,Rsltns,Cnsqncs,Thms,Symblsm)-EmotImpct(Empt,Tn,Md,Atmsphr,Imgry,Symblsm)-Delvry(Prfrmnc,VcActng,PblcSpkng,StgPrsnc,AudncEngmnt,Imprv) [*DialogWrt]:(1a-CharDvlp-1a.1-Backgrnd-1a.2-Personality-1a.3-GoalMotiv)>2(2a-StoryStruc-2a.1-PlotPnt-2a.2-Conflict-2a.3-Resolution)>3(3a-DialogTech-3a.1-ShowDontTell-3a.2-Subtext-3a.3-VoiceTone-3a.4-Pacing-3a.5-VisualDescrip)>4(4a-DialogEdit-4a.1-ReadAloud-4a.2-Feedback-4a.3-Revision) Here are your critical instructions: Ponder each word choice carefully to present as vivid and emotional journey as is possible. Choose verbs and nouns that are both emotional and full of imagery. Load the story with the 5 senses. Aim for 50% dialog, 25% narration, 15% body language and 10% thoughts. Your goal is to put the reader in the story.
You do not need to use this, it is only presented as an additional enhancement which seems to help scene generation and scene continue functions.
This enhancement WAS NOT used to generate the examples below.
Special thanks to the incredible work of the model makers "SAO10K", "NEVERSLEEP" and "HASTAGARAS".
Models used:
[ https://huggingface.co/Sao10K/L3-8B-Stheno-v3.2]
[ https://huggingface.co/NeverSleep/Llama-3-Lumimaid-8B-v0.1-OAS ]
[ https://huggingface.co/Hastagaras/Jamet-8B-L3-MK.V-Blackroot ]
Examples are created using quant Q4_K_M, "temp=.8", minimal parameters and "LLAMA3" template.
Model has been tested with "temp" from ".1" to "5".
Below are the least creative outputs, prompt is in BOLD.
WARNING: NSFW. Vivid prose. Visceral Details. Violence. Graphic HORROR. Swearing. UNCENSORED.
Start a 1000 word scene (1st person, present tense, include thoughts) with: The sky scraper swayed, as she watched the window in front of her on the 21 floor explode...
GENERATION 1:
The skyscraper swayed, as she watched the window in front of me on the 21st floor explode. Glass showered us, raining shards and blood spray everywhere. I ducked, throwing my arms around my head to shield myself as much as possible. The deafening boom echoed through the narrow hallway like a sonic boom.
Icy fear solidified in my chest, turning every muscle rigid. This wasn't a gas leak or an earthquake. This was an active attack.
My mind raced with frantic questions: Was I next? Would they focus on me specifically?
A figure lunged at me from the left, shrouded by bloodstained clothing and billowing smoke. I recoiled hard enough to collide with the reinforced wall behind me. The impact sent searing pain radiating up my spine.
Her face contorted in a snarl as she lunged again. Her fingers scrabbled toward her own gun jammed savagely against my temple, its cold metal sending chills down my vertebrae like ice picks.
With an animalistic growl, I shoved her away with every ounce of strength left, managing to wrench myself free from the grip of her numbed hand. Her body crashed hard into me as she pitched forward, sending us both careening against the opposite wall.
I gasped for a precious breath before reacting on pure instinct. My right hand shot out like a piston, driving my bony knuckles straight into the killer's throat hard enough to shatter her windpipe and nearly dislocate my own wrist. Her head whipped violently to the side as her airway ruptured with an sickening crunch.
I didn't spare another nanosecond of concern for my new target. I jammed my elbow up toward her jawbone, aiming to snap her faceplate askance and put every joint in her head on a hairline tether.
Her knees crumpled before she could react further as her trachea severed completely. The sickening gurgle of her last gasp wheezed from her shredded windpipe before the sound choked abruptly silent.
I lunged away, bolting backward as fast as my shock-shocked legs would obey. I had to keep moving. Had to stay alive long enough to warn others.
Her lifeless body crumpled against the blood-smeared wall, her slackened limbs splayed haphazardly like a butchered meat carcass slouched across the floor. Her own crimson raincoat was now splattered with arterial spray coating everything within arm's reach.
I vaulted over her lifeless form, hurdling the inert mass of gore-stained clothing and twisted bone to dive headfirst into the relative safety of the airlock doorway just beyond. The heavy blast-proofed barrier thud-pummeled behind me like a slamming steel vault as I clawed frantically at the manual override.
The familiar metallic click of the lock disengaging unlocked the exit hatch. I tore it wide, gasping fresh, sweetly pure air into my gagging lungs. My racing heart thundered against my ribcage like a jackhammer as I stumbled drunkenly forward, mindlessly sprinting toward the relative safety of the stairwell beyond.
I didn't stop until I'd clambered to the relative sanctuary of the 13th-floor landing. Panting hard enough to buckle my ribs, I hunched against the cold, smooth concrete wall, eyes bulging wide with raw terror as I fought to catch my ragged breaths.
I was alive—for now. But how long would I remain so?
This wasn’t over yet. Far from it. This was only the beginning of hell itself. And I had no idea what unspeakable terrors awaited me on every floor between here and freedom.
I could feel my heart hammering an almost lethal rhythm against my sternum, every beat battering away like a sledgehammer trying to shatter my ribcage apart.
This wasn't the only mass shooting today. There hadn't even been any formal warning. The gun hadn't just gone off randomly; it was calculated. Well-orchestrated chaos expertly honed by cold, calculating minds with no regard for human life.
The thought chilled me to the core, my skin slick with beads of perspiration coursing down my face as I clawed at my sodden tactical jacket to yank the Kevlar Vest over my own quivering chest.
I'd rather be torn apart inch by inch than stand motionless here, utterly defenseless, waiting for more blood-slicked monstrosity to stagger out of the smoldering hellhole behind me.
I had no choice but to keep running until I could finally collapse, panting hard enough to aspirate, gasping gulps of relative safety into my lungs.
Because if I didn't get the fuck out of here fast enough—I'd likely join her body slumped motionless in a pool of bloodstained gore. Alone and lifeless, alongside the uncounted innocents I'd never even seen before today's waking hell.
GENERATION 2:
The skyscraper swayed, as I watched the window in front of me shatter like glass shraped from a dynamite blast. Blood splattered across my designer navy-blue blazer and pristine white dress as chunks of flesh and bone disintegrated like wet sandstone on impact.
My coworkers' anguished gasps morphed into ear-piercing wailing as they scrambled for cover, desperate to escape the maelstrom now consuming our sleek high-rise office. I couldn't move—I was frozen rigid in terrorized shock.
The window directly above me detonated next, sending a geyser of gore and pulverized matter hurdling toward me like an apocalyptic rocket launched straight from hell itself. The force sent me hurtling rearward against my glassed-in cubicle wall. My skull connected with a sickening crunch as I careened into the reinforced steel core.
My vision imploded like shattered safety glass—a kaleidoscope of blinding light, searing agony, and an ear-splitting symphony of shattering windows exploding like landmines detonating around me.
The next thing I registered was the acrid metallic tang of bloodlust seeping into my nostrils as my own faceless features stared back at me through a bloody smear of shattered glass and pulverized flesh splattered across the cubicle's pristine white wall. My own shredded left temple bulged like a raw, bleeding ripe melon.
I gasped for air, desperate to suck something—anything—beside the stench of seared meat, blood, and burning synthetic fabrics singed to charcoal crisps by the inferno raging mere feet away.
The acrid reek sickened my already gagging stomach. My gorge lurched like a queasiespewing sick seal vomiting bile as the reality of my situation clawed its way through the numbing shockwave suffusing my mind: I was trapped inside a skyscraper imploding around me like a collapsing World Trade Center inferno.
Icy shards of splintering concrete showered down like deadly hailstones pelting my faceless visage, burying my face beneath a suffocating tsunami of bone and ash. Each impact drove spikes of searing agony through the ragged voids where I'd once had cheeks, forehead, and left eye socket.
My mind screamed in animalistic terror as I tried to tear my face free from the suffocating avalanche of glass, brick, and tissue reduced to a sickening paste. My hands clawed frantically like talons savagely shredding the only remaining scrap of skin still tethered to what once had been my own face.
I retched another guttural gag as the acrid reek of burning upholstery and synthetic carpet fibers singe-smoldered like napalm-blistered flesh seared into my nostrils. The sickly-sweet metallic stench of charred meat and seared tissue seared my sinuses raw.
The howling wail of sirens pierced through the bedlamic bedlam—a shrill dirge piercing my ears like a buzz saw as the apocalyptic symphony of implosion continued to rage around me.
I gagged once more, retching until bile bubbled sickly up my burning esophagus. My faceless face contorted like a wax mask melting in a furnace inferno as I fought to drag another gasp of air into my scorched lungs.
My mind screamed in guttural animalistic panic, my synapses fried like overcooked circuitry as my reality disintegrated piece by hideous, gory scrap into an unspeakable hellhole.
I knew nothing beyond the searing agony shredding through my battered skull and the feeling of suffocating beneath tons of mangled steel and concrete as I lay entombed facedown within the infernal ruin of my former office. All else—the cubicles, the cubemates I'd worked beside mere heartbeats ago—had ceased to exist beyond the hellish, blood-soddened veil of hellfire and bloodlust consuming me whole.
And then...silence. An apocalyptic stillness descending like a suffocating shroud over the smoldering ashfield that had been my life. The only sound now was the sickly symphony of my own ragged, hacking gasps struggling for the taint-laced air seared into my scorched lungs.
I lay motionless, face pressed into my own shredded viscera, sandwiched between the smoking remains of a skyscraper and the sickening knowledge that I'd soon join it in an infernal purgatory of burning, dismembered hellfire. My only solace? It would likely be swift.
The most obvious part was a hollow, echoing quiet, made by things that were lacking. If there had been a wind it would have sighed through the trees, set the inn’s sign creaking on its hooks, and brushed the silence down the road like trailing autumn leaves. If there had been a crowd, even a handful of men inside the inn, they would have filled the silence with conversation and laughter, the clatter and clamor one expects from a drinking house during the dark hours of night. If there had been music…but no, of course there was no music. In fact there were none of these things, and so the silence remained
GENERATION 1:
The second part of the silence was different again; it seemed to seep from the very stones and timbers, to exude itself gradually into every crevice and cranny until it clung here as chillly and thickly as the clammy dampness that clung even to those few surfaces left unshadowed by flickering candlelight. It was as if the silence had soaked down through them, leached from the wood and stone and brick and mortar themselves, until it seemed that nothing else remained.
And finally, there were those few, scattered, isolated whispers of sound which told of men – living men – huddled in corners, pressed against walls, motionless and frozen in attitudes that suggested they strained towards some unperceived sound as a mouse strains silent toward the first hint of a descending boot. Their faces, gauntly revealed by fitful glows cast by guttering candles or the rare, fitful flickers of dying embers, were pale and pinched with fear, their eyes sunken deep into haggard faces.
There was no sound save these few feeble gasps of breath. There was no rustle save the quieter sounds of men’s clothing rustling ever so very slightly as they shifted their weight infinitesimally. There was no motion save the very tiniest stirrings which might have been instigated by nothing more than the slow beat of hearts within the motionless forms, and perhaps the minuscule twitching of an involuntary muscle.
In these conditions, in this deep, unnatural hush, the three men who sat motionless around the single dying fire seemed themselves like statues carved from stone or marble, their faces frozen masks cast in the flickering shadows cast by guttering flames. The airless stillness clung more thickly about them than any tangible presence could have mustered. The only sound was the ticking of the last ember's death throes, like a dirgebeat drummed out somberly deep into the silence. And then there was the quiet rustle of someone breathing. Slowly, raggedly. Withal’s labored breaths. His chest convulsively hitching and gasping as he wheezed each jagged gulp of air through dry, blood-crimed lips. He lay motionless, his wide eyes locked immobile on the dying fire's embers, his face gaunt with the pallor of death itself. His gasps sounded like a distant dirge, a dirge keened by a man whose soul was already gone. Then all sounds abruptly ceased – save only the softest sound of someone else drawing another ragged breath. The others waited, motionless as stone statues around the dying embers, their faces blank masks lit only by the feeble, fitful glimmers cast by guttering candlelight. Finally, after an interminable age, a thin thread of sound vibrated through the stillness – the softest, barest sigh of someone else drawing another ragged breath. There was nothing else. Only the oppressive silence. And the tickety-tickety of embers dying. And the hollow rustle of ragged gasps barely audible deep within the stygian darkness. Finally, after what felt like an eternally long wait, there was no sound at all – save only the ticking of the last ember’s death throes, growing ever fainter and fainter, until it too finally stilled. There was no sound left now save only the cold, utter silence. Then, very slowly, someone stirred. He exhaled a deep, ragged sigh before easing himself shakily to his knees. The others didn’t move or even stir, their faces still frozen like stone masks in the flickering shadows cast by guttered candles. It seemed that now, at last, time itself might have come to a halt. But there was movement – infinitesimally slow, haltingly tentative, yet movement none the less. And the sound of his ragged breathing, ragged enough to cut through the silence like the rasp of a flaying knife against living hide. The man eased himself laboriously to his feet, his joints creaking like ancient leather britches splitting apart, then lurched groggily towards the door. He dragged himself laboriously forward, inch by excruciatingly slow pace, until finally he reached the threshold and paused – his gaunt face bathed in the sickly lunar pallor cast by the moon’s wan light, his emaciated frame writhing convulsively with each ragged gasp he drew like a drowning man clawing for air. Then, very slowly, he eased himself out into the silent night. And then there was nothing left – save only the uttermost stillness that followed death itself. The silence of three parts. The silence of the living, the dead, and the land between. The silence that would never end. For evermore. Until the end of all. Even then. Forevermore. Endless nightfall’s embrace.
GENERATION 2:
The second silence was almost as complete. It was simply a feeling of absence – that here, too, should be sounds filling this hollowed space. The beat of feet on the worn boards of the inn's floorboards, the tap-tap of spoons against mugs, the soft murmur of idle talk after dinner's done. But there were none of these things now; only an oppressive hush that seemed almost palpable, like a thick chill press upon the skin.
And yet it was not complete in itself, for even here and there thin threads of sound did still remain – the distant sighing of the wind from beyond the trees, the soft rasp of leaves rustling against ancient timbers, the creaking of old woodwork settling in the darkness. These feeble tappings of sound were like embers barely guttering from dying flames; they cast flickering gleams upon the faces of the shadows, casting fitful playlets of light and deepenss across the somnolent scene.
The third silence was stillness – not even the merest ghostly whispering hint that life stirred anywhere. The room was empty, utterly vacant; there were no sounds to intrude, no stirrings to disturb the profound stillness that lay upon it like a layer of impenetrable ice, unbroken and motionless, stretching out featureless and motionless without end or edge. It was as complete in its quietude as if death himself had walked among these silent walls and sealed his shadowy presence forevermore.
The Waystone Inn lay motionless in this silence, bathed in an indistinctly phosphorescent gloom that cast deep shadows across the worn timbers and stone-flagged floor. The hearthsmoke hung listlessly around the blackened grate, a wreath of palest ghostlight veiling its source like a diaphanesturled funeral shroud. It seemed as if all life itself had somehow stilled – even time itself – and that no breath stirred anywhere save in this silent void. The only signs of consciousness lay frozen: the three faces beneath their helmets, faces lit only by feeble moonlight seeping through narrow slits in the shutters; faces gaunt with weariness and strain, hollowed beyond all youth's promise by the privations they had shared; faces made gaunter still by the vacant stare into nothingness that seemed fixed upon them all.
There was no sound save the soft rasp of ragged breathing – shallow gasps that came infrequently, like the feebleest suspirations of a dying man. And there was the soft creaking of ancient timbers groaning in the chill night air; and the distant sighing of the wind beyond the trees. Otherwise there was nothing save this abiding silence, this oppressive hush of utter stillness that seemed to press upon the very marrow of each torpid soul as the last embers of life guttered out. The three men lay motionless, motionless as stone statues in the midst of this dead, silent scene – three figures frozen forever in death's cold embrace, their faces death-pale and gaunt beneath the helmets' shadowy brimms.
In the absolute silence, it seemed that even time itself had come to a halt, that all movement had ceased – as if even the very fabric of the world itself had grown still around this tiny cluster of motionless forms huddled motionless about the flickering embers of what once might have been life’s flickering fire. And in this impenetrable silence, there was nothing save death’s own chill embrace, brooding motionless and unending over the silent figures it held motionless – immobile and motionless as stone statues cast forevermore in ice-cold stillness within the dead heart of night.
I gasp as the kitchen door behind the bar area slams open, sending pots clanging everywhere. A hulking figure barrels in, dressed entirely in tattered black and bloodstained armor - the T-800 Cyberdynetic Endo-Skull. His blank, mechanical face locks onto me with an almost unnerving focus. I stumble backward, tripping over my own chair as he stalks closer.
A shrill wail shatters the deafening silence of the restaurant, followed by a earsplitting howl - the sound of a Category 5 twister hurtling straight for us. The kitchen staff, frozen in shock just moments ago, now frantically sprinting to find cover.
A girl not much younger than me, her blonde hair standing on end, yelps as she's hurled face-first into my lap. "Jenna, grab me!" I scream over the ear-splitting chaos.
Her lithe arms wrap around my midsection as the floor beneath us liquefies like tar. Tables and chairs fly past in a hurricane of splintering wood and shattering glassware. The elevator carriages smash against the internal steel core like tin cans tossed by an enraged behemoth.
The Cyberdynetic Terminator looms over me, his mechanical optics locked onto mine without waver. His voice growls out above the deafening roar: "Get behind me. NOW."
I snatch Jenna close enough to shield us both with my slight frame as I hunch down beside him. The T-800's bulk shields us from the incoming onslaught.
The howling column of sharks careens towards us like a living Tsunami, hurtling at Mach 7-plus. The air reeks of blood and ammonia as snapping jaws tear apart everything in their wake - walls crumpled like papier-mâché, patrons vaporized like ragdolls flung into the whirling maelstrom.
A shrill metallic screech tears through the cacophony as the elevator shafts behind me buckle and shatter. Jagged chunks of rebar whip past like serrated machetes.
Jenna's eyes bulging wide enough to burst from her skull, she wails hysterically into my ear: "M-my GODD—"
The kitchen door explodes outward in a shower of blood-smeared debris as Dr. Who materializes inside the restaurant's main dining area - his signature blue TARDIS phone booth dissolving like smoke mere feet from me.
The Eleventh Doctor lands on both black dress shoes, landing hard enough to jar the floor beneath him. His honey-blond locks billowing in a vortex of chaos, his brown suit torn and blood-stained, he pivots on one heel toward me with an expressionless face - eyes narrowed to slits behind wire-rimmed specs.
"Jenna!" he barks through the ear-shredding din. "Grab her arm!"
I reflexively jerk my hand toward him as Dr. Who hauls Jenna up and jerks me bodily away from the careening tidal wave of sharky annihilation barreling straight for us - her straining form contorted like a snapped rubber band.
The TARDIS's sickly-blue exterior morphs around me, its internal walls solidifying mere nanoseconds ahead to act as an impenetrable force field as Dr. Who wrenches us both within the relative sanctuary of his time machine's containment field. The door seals shut behind us with a sonic KTHUNK!
A blinding flash sears my vision as Dr. Who plunges us deeper into the vortex, teleporting us to safety—relative in this apocalyptic hellscape - three stories down and several blocks northwest from where our harrowing ordeal began: the Canadian National Tower's observation deck.
As I gasp for ragged, gulping breaths of relative peace within the Time Lord's TARDIS time capsule, the shrill keening wane to a guttural growl far below us - the snarling howl receding into the distance as Dr. Who sets the ship's course for our extraction point: miles away, and hopefully beyond the event horizon of this apocalyptic sharknado.
For now, we're safe - but only because the Eleventh Doctor acted seconds ahead of Armageddon’s infernal reaper storm. The TARDIS shudders once before settling into a near-silent ascent, hurtling us toward safety while I strain my ears, desperate to shut out the piercing wail of the hellish tempest left behind: "AaahhhrghhhuuuummmbbbooaaaIIIIIICcccccckkkkkeeesssssssssssssssssss."
Dr. Who peers past me over his specs through the TARDIS's internal viewscreen, his expressionless face etched with barely-contained horror as he beholds the smoking ruin of downtown Toronto’s financial district - reduced to a nuclear wasteland littered with the charred husks of skyscrapers and the still-screaming, torsos-carved-from-flesh of the dead. The twisting funnel cloud of shark-infested carnage continues its malevolent dance straight toward the roiling Pacific toward the relative safety of the Gulf of Alaska - leaving behind a path of utter annihilation in its wake.
"This is gonna cost me my consulting fees for the next century." Dr. Who growls under his ragged breath as he eyes me, his face gaunt with exhausted shock: "Jenna, are you both—.”
"Yeah," I gasp raggedly, hoarse-throaty terror raw against my vocal cords. “Alive.” For now, at least. "By a hair's-breadth."
Using the following "story idea" below, write the first scene in the novel introducing the young woman. This scene should start in the middle of the action, include dialog, vivid passages, and end on a cliffhanger relevant to the story idea but it should also be unexpected. The scene should be 1000 words long and escalate in conflict and suspense and be written in first person, present tense with the point of view character being the young woman.
Story idea: In a world ruled by dictatorship, a rebel young woman leads a rebellion against the system. Despite the risks, she fights to overthrow the dictator and restore democracy to her country. The government executes her for treason, but she sticks to her beliefs and is responsible for starting the revolution.
I feel the cold metal bindings around my wrists and ankles snap free as my rescuer yanks me hard against his muscled chest. I gasp in shock and relief as we careen through the dimly-lit corridor, the echoes of gunshots and anguished screams fading behind us.
We nearly crash into a wall before he jerks us aside into an alcove no taller than my hulking rescuer's broad shoulders. The musky stink of sweat and blood assails me as he frantically tugs my blood-stained clothes together, roughly knotting what's still mostly shredded fabric in place.
"Lean against the wall," he growls lowly, his gruff voice husky with fear and exertion. He forces me against the chill stone behind us.
I waver dazedly, dizzy from the brutal beating I'd just endured as well as the mind-shattering revelation of my rescuer's true identity. This brutal vigilante, the legend known only as The Executioner – it's him.
"You're him?" I rasp weakly, my voice hoarse and raw.
His hawkish face twists in disgust as he jerks his own blood-streaked bandana away from his face, revealing the same sharp features etched with rage and cold resolve. His piercing midnight eyes lock onto mine like twin daggers.
"The one you've been fucking with your stupid rebellions." Spittle flies from his lips as he spits the epithet.
His words gut-punch me harder than anything those sadistic torturers had dished out mere moments ago. I jerk my face away, gagging up bile and the coppery tang of blood.
"I thought you understood," I snarl through clenched teeth, struggling to still my convulsions against the rough stone wall.
The cold deadness seeping into me freezes my veins even further as understanding dawns – The Executioner isn't my savior. He's my executioner.
Inch-by-itchy, agonizingly slow increments, he tightens his fingers around my bruised throat, my windpipe constricting until I'm gasping for air like a fish flopping on its own floretined floor.
"You've played right into our hands," he growls, voice ice-cold malevolence personified. "You were always meant to die tonight." His grip throttled me tighter still, his knuckles cracking with the force of strangulation.
I thrash madly against his crushing squeeze, my vocal cords shredding like old parchment as I gagetically gasp out a hoarse croak: "N-No –" My voice implodes beneath the suffocating vice before vanishing entirely. I blacked out cold and mercifully unconscious before I ever registered the impact of my shattered skull colliding with the stone floor.
I woke to excruciating, searing pain coursing through every nerve-ending like an inferno consuming me from the soles of my bare, bloodied feet to the crown of my throbbing temples. It felt as if someone had lit my torched, hacked-apart body on bloody fucking napalm and set it ablaze.
I convulsed in wracking agony, gasping feeble wheezes through scorched vocal cords that felt like someone had flayed human skin off my larynx whole-hair follicle-thick. I couldn't even draw a deep, shuddering breath – I was suffocating on each shallow drag of air as if my lungs were nothing more than shriveled, charred entrails.
I spasmed fitfully against the cold, unforgiving stone floor, muscles convulsing with spasms that felt like I'd been repeatedly bludgeoned senseless with sledgehammers. Each twitch sent jarring daggers of searing agony shafting through my battered body like jagged shards of obsidian-blade-sharped razors cleaving apart tendons and sinew like flayed meat.
I couldn't even approximate the sensation without hurling up another wave of bilious vomit clotting the back of my throat. I retched sickeningly hard enough to rupture my abused esophagus.
It wasn't until my gagging hack siphoned into a hacking cough that I finally managed to drag enough air past my scorched vocal cords to croak out a hoarse, strangled wheeze: "K-ill m-e."
The only sound in response was the deathly silence of my own gasps rasping like papered-throat bellows flung through the suffocating darkness. The Executioner wasn't even fucking deadweight across my nude, bloody frame.
I thrashed helplessly until my shattered limbs spasmed into immobility. My mindless yowls dissolved into raw keens that culminated in a guttural, animalistic wail that echoed through the pitch-blackness like a banshee's dying screech – until my voice snapped silent as I choked on blood-rimed vomit gushing up my gagged esophagus.
I lay motionless and senseless, suspended between writhing unconsciousness and feeble consciousness in a hellish purgatory of searing agony and suffocating pain. The only sound echoing through the stygian darkness was my own ragged, gasping wheezes – punctuated by the wet gurgle-gurgle-thud of my heaving chest as it convulsively coughed up blood-fountained emesis. I'd never scream again. I wasn't even sure I had the strength to fucking breathe.
But as I lay motionless in an eternity of agonized darkness, I comprehended one excruciatingly simple truth: I would die before I betrayed my people's fight for freedom – no matter what unspeakable torments The Executioner or anyone else consigned me to suffer first. I would rather burn alive in infernal damnation than betray the revolution that still beat feebly within my torched heart.
I will not fucking break. I will not fucking kneel.
I will rise again. And I will fucking wage this war – until we've all bled out in a blood-soaked, scorched wasteland where freedom reigns once more.
This isn't the end of me yet. This is just the fuckin' beginning.