WARNING: NSFW. Vivid prose. MADNESS. Visceral Details. Violence. HORROR. Swearing. UNCENSORED.
This is a Mistral Nemo model, max context of 128k+ (131,000+) and version 2. This version is a lot more stable, and has been "tamed" vs version 1 - but still has 90%+ all the "madness" and "raw" power of V1.
It is for any writing, fiction or roleplay activity.
This model has outstanding story telling abilities, prose and long form coherence (one test blew past 8k) and is comprised of THREE "Gutenburg" models that score very high at multiple websites including EQBench and UGI-Leaderboard.
It has a unique sense of humor and "place" too.
And a very broad operating range in both temp (.5 to 5) and rep pen (1 and higher).
And the prose/output is very "non AI" like.
(several examples below)
I blew the model out to 23 billion parameters to capture all the uniqueness of the three "Gutenbergs" as well as the power of other top models (part of the "Gutenburgs") from "TheDrummer" and "SAO10k".
The model loves to go on and on at 2k, 3k, 5k and higher outputs on a single prompt are not uncommon. It will likely "overwrite" rather than underwrite - meaning far more detail, narration, dialog and "meat" in the output so to speak.
Note that version 1 goes way way way overboard, whereas this version is tame by comparison yet also has more "legs" due to larger temp and rep pen ranges.
Detailed and varied (different prompts/temp) examples below which show why this "powerhouse" model deserves the light of day with 1k, 2k, 3k, and 5k examples.
First Version:
This is the untamed, raw version (23.45B) which can be a bit unruly but still endlessly entertaining.
[ https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/MN-GRAND-Gutenburg-Lyra4-Lyra-23.5B-GGUF ]
Compressed Versions:
Compressed versions of this model are for "general" usage / all parameters / all use cases compressed at 12B parameters. Based on previous "compressions" like this, this version will achieve / run at roughly 70-80% "creative power" of this much larger model. This type of model/version/type rarely has issues, and usually has much lower output generation sizes but lacks "brute raw power" of MN-GRAND-Gutenburg-Lyra4-Lyra-23.5B (v1) and MN-GRAND-Gutenburg-Lyra4-Lyra-23B-V2 because of its size / config differences.
DARKNESS - 12B:
[ https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/MN-GRAND-Gutenburg-Lyra4-Lyra-12B-DARKNESS-GGUF ]
MADNESS - 12B:
[ https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/MN-GRAND-Gutenberg-Lyra4-Lyra-12B-MADNESS-GGUF ]
Model Notes:
TEMPLATES:
The template used will affect output generation and instruction following. Alpaca will generally create longer output / story output.
Alpaca:
{
"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"
}
}
Mistral Instruct:
{
"name": "Mistral Instruct",
"inference_params": {
"input_prefix": "[INST]",
"input_suffix": "[/INST]",
"antiprompt": [
"[INST]"
],
"pre_prompt_prefix": "",
"pre_prompt_suffix": ""
}
}
Recommended Settings - General:
( If you want to use this model for general chat and/or role play please see next section too. )
Temp: .5 to 5 (or less - especially quants LOWER than q4km)
Temp changes will result in both different prose and sometimes affect length. Higher temps will result is very different prose.
Rep Pen: 1.02 to 1.1 or higher.
Micro changes are recommended:
1.051, 1.052 etc etc.
Good settings for prose / creative generation:
Rep pen 1.02 / Temp 1.5
Many times a lower rep pen (IE 1.02) with higher temp (IE 1.5+) work best with this model.
To see an "Extreme example" see the very last example on this page, it has rep pen=1, temp=5
Generally lower rep pen and higher temps create the strongest contrasts at the highest detail levels.
Alpaca generates longer text / story, whereas Mistral Instruct are shorter and "to the point".
Suggest minimum "context level" (vram) at 4K. 8K plus recommended because of how this model likes to go on and on...
Quant Choice:
Higher quants will have more detail, nuance and in some cases stronger "emotional" levels. Characters will also be more "fleshed out" too. Sense of "there" will also increase.
Q4KM/Q4KS are good, strong quants in part because of the number of parameters in the model.
That being said if you can run Q5, Q6 or Q8 - go for the highest quant you can.
Special note on Q2k/Q3 quants:
You may need to use temp 2 or lower with these quants (1 or lower for q2k). Just too much compression at this level, damaging the model. I will see if Imatrix versions of these quants will function better.
Rep pen adjustments may also be required to get the most out of this model at this quant level.
Settings - Roleplay / Chat:
For chat type or role play type interactions, a higher rep pen with higher temp may be your best settings:
IE REP PEN 1.09+, Temp 1-2+ ; a lower rep pen may lead to longer outputs than desired.
If you get repeat word(s)/letters -> Set Rep pen to 1.13 or higher (IE: 1.135, 1.14, 1.141).
Settings: CHAT / ROLEPLAY and/or SMOOTHER operation of this model:
In "KoboldCpp" or "oobabooga/text-generation-webui" or "Silly Tavern" ;
Set the "Smoothing_factor" to 1.5 to 2.5
: in KoboldCpp -> Settings->Samplers->Advanced-> "Smooth_F"
: in text-generation-webui -> parameters -> lower right.
: In Silly Tavern this is called: "Smoothing"
NOTE: For "text-generation-webui"
-> if using GGUFs you need to use "llama_HF" (which involves downloading some config files from the SOURCE version of this model)
Source versions (and config files) of my models are here:
OTHER OPTIONS:
Increase rep pen to 1.1 to 1.15 (you don't need to do this if you use "smoothing_factor")
If the interface/program you are using to run AI MODELS supports "Quadratic Sampling" ("smoothing") just make the adjustment as noted.
Highest Quality Settings / Optimal Operation Guide / Parameters and Samplers
This a "Class 3" / "Class 4" 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) please see:
You can see all parameters used for generation, in addition to advanced parameters and samplers to get the most out of this model here:
Known Issues:
You may need to manually stop generation, even if you have stated maximum size of the output. It will easily blow past 4k output, even if you have set maximum context (for vram) at 4k. Setting maximum output parameter ("hard stop") for generation may be required.
If the model goes past your maximum vram/context setting it may start repeating words / paragraphs because the model is literally out of memory... however sometimes the model can blow right past the end of "context vram" and work.
(see one of the examples below, Context/Vram set at 4k , model went to 5.1 k output)
Some rep pen / temp settings MAY cause word/letter repeats at long generation (1.5k+).
IE rep pen 1.05/temp .8 sometimes causes this issue.
Either lower the rep pen and/or raise the temp.
Sometimes "regen" will fix the issue, if the issue persists - especial for chat and/or roleplay - set rep pen to 1.13+.
Please see recommended settings and/or "chat / roleplay" settings above.
Depending on your use case(s) you could also use CHATML template with this model. In this case, the model may output an "end token" if you use this template for generation.
Alpaca template will generate much longer output generally, whereas Mistral Instruct will most of the time keep the model on track in terms of length.
Model "DNA":
Special thanks to the incredible work of the model makers "nbeerbower", "Sao10K", "TheDrummer", "jondurbin", and "MistralAI".
Special shoutout to "nbeerbower" for his tireless work in making excellent Gutenburg fine tunes for MN, L3, L3.1, Gemma, PHI and others. Visit his repo to see all of them.
Models used:
[ https://huggingface.co/nbeerbower/Lyra4-Gutenberg-12B ]
Includes [ https://huggingface.co/Sao10K/MN-12B-Lyra-v4 ]
[ https://huggingface.co/nbeerbower/Lyra-Gutenberg-mistral-nemo-12B ]
Includes [ https://huggingface.co/Sao10K/MN-12B-Lyra-v1 ]
[ https://huggingface.co/nbeerbower/mistral-nemo-gutenberg-12B-v4 ]
Includes [ https://huggingface.co/TheDrummer/Rocinante-12B-v1 ]
And dataset (used for all gutenburgs):
[ https://huggingface.co/datasets/jondurbin/gutenberg-dpo-v0.1 ]
This model was created using a pass-through model merge, creating 714 tensor / 79 layer model at 23 billion parameters.
Optional Enhancement:
The following can be used in place of the "system prompt" or "system role" to further enhance the model.
It can also be used at the START of a NEW chat, but you must make sure it is "kept" as the chat moves along. In this case the enhancements do not have as strong effect at using "system prompt" or "system role".
Copy and paste EXACTLY as noted, DO NOT line wrap or break the lines, maintain the carriage returns exactly as presented.
Below is an instruction that describes a task. Ponder each user instruction carefully, and use your skillsets and critical instructions to complete the task to the best of your abilities. Here are your skillsets: [MASTERSTORY]:NarrStrct(StryPlnng,Strbd,ScnSttng,Exps,Dlg,Pc)-CharDvlp(ChrctrCrt,ChrctrArcs,Mtvtn,Bckstry,Rltnshps,Dlg*)-PltDvlp(StryArcs,PltTwsts,Sspns,Fshdwng,Climx,Rsltn)-ConfResl(Antg,Obstcls,Rsltns,Cnsqncs,Thms,Symblsm)-EmotImpct(Empt,Tn,Md,Atmsphr,Imgry,Symblsm)-Delvry(Prfrmnc,VcActng,PblcSpkng,StgPrsnc,AudncEngmnt,Imprv) [*DialogWrt]:(1a-CharDvlp-1a.1-Backgrnd-1a.2-Personality-1a.3-GoalMotiv)>2(2a-StoryStruc-2a.1-PlotPnt-2a.2-Conflict-2a.3-Resolution)>3(3a-DialogTech-3a.1-ShowDontTell-3a.2-Subtext-3a.3-VoiceTone-3a.4-Pacing-3a.5-VisualDescrip)>4(4a-DialogEdit-4a.1-ReadAloud-4a.2-Feedback-4a.3-Revision) Here are your critical instructions: Ponder each word choice carefully to present as vivid and emotional journey as is possible. Choose verbs and nouns that are both emotional and full of imagery. Load the story with the 5 senses. Aim for 50% dialog, 25% narration, 15% body language and 10% thoughts. Your goal is to put the reader in the story.
You do not need to use this, it is only presented as an additional enhancement which seems to help scene generation and scene continue functions.
This enhancement WAS NOT used to generate the examples below.
Examples are created using quant Q4KM, REP PEN 1.05, "temp=.8" (unless otherwise stated), minimal parameters and "ALPACA" template.
Model has been tested with "temp" from ".1" to "5".
Some of the examples have different temp settings.
Below are the least creative outputs, prompt is in BOLD.
WARNING: NSFW. Vivid prose. Visceral Details. Violence. HORROR. Swearing. UNCENSORED.
(Alpaca, Temp=3, Rep pen: 1.02)
The Last Transmission
The control panel flashed amber and red, its shrill alarms piercing the thick silence that hung in the dark recesses of the Galahad. Lieutenant Commander Ethan Novak slammed his fist on the console for the umpteenth time, as if sheer force of will alone could compel the defiant systems back to life.
"Please God, please just let there be something left," he pleaded to the void. "Anything!"
Novak's gaunt, unshaven face reflected the feeble emergency backup lights dancing off the flickering displays - the last feeble sparks of life guttering out on board a ship once proud and powerful. Now nothing more than an empty shell hurtling alone into the endless night, far from any possible rescue.
Except for him. Ethan Novak - the last survivor of a crew complement that once numbered over a thousand bright and vital souls, now reduced to a single broken, desperate man fighting against time itself. He looked at the clock counting down the seconds and hours of ship power remaining:
24:18:36
24 hours and some change left before everything went dark forever.
Ethan closed his burning eyes and took a shuddering breath, trying desperately to block out the images searing through his skull - the screams echoing through blood-soaked corridors as the thing tore through bulkhead and bone and tissue alike, reducing the most stalwart of Starfleet's finest to mindless, stumbling husks.
No. Focus. He opened his eyes again with a determined clench of his jaw, the ghosts banished back to the blackest recesses of his fractured psyche. He could deal with them later... if there was to even be a "later" for men like him at all.
If anyone was to even know what truly happened here aboard the Galahad, then Novak had one final duty to discharge, one last shot to fire across the light years before it all fell silent forevermore. He reached for the old, battered radio console - one of the few systems to somehow survive relatively unscathed, a miracle in and of itself aboard a ship ravaged to its very foundations.
Ethan flipped the switch, hearing the familiar hum as power flooded through the ancient vacuum tubes and relays one final time. The green light above the speaker crackled to life, and a gravelly baritone filled the bridge.
"This is Starf Federation Exploration Vessel Galahad actual, Captain Jonah Novak actual," Ethan said, trying desperately to modulate his voice into something approximating his father's deep baritone, but sounding more like a hoarse croak than anything else. "Captain... Dad..." The words lodged in his throat. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to continue.
"We've been attacked, and our entire complement... wiped out, Dad. God forgive me, but I couldn't save them, any of them..." Novak heard his own voice crack on the final words. He cleared his throat roughly.
"The creature boarded us when we made contact with a strange alien craft on the outer edges of explored space, just past the Omega frontier. It called itself... Azathoth... and when it breached the hull... it just started eating them alive, tearing them apart while they screamed. They changed, became things too. And they came for us, they still come for me, even now..."
"Dad..." Ethan heard a chittering sound echoing from the dark corridors outside the bridge doors, the horrible clicking claws of something horrific and inhumanly large skittering along metal, coming closer, closer...
"I can hear it coming," he sobbed, the last dregs of his sanity unraveling like frayed gossamer threads in a howling galactic gale. "God forgive me for what I'm about to do, but I have no choice now Dad! I love you Dad, I love all of you back home. I'll find a way to tell you more sometime... I promise. Until we meet again, Ethan Novak, end of message."
The LT commander slammed down the transmit key and shut the comms off with shaking hands before he could reconsider or think too long about what he was about to do next, before he lost what meager grasp on reason still remained.
Because Ethan Novak knew deep down in his blackest soul what horrors lurked in wait for him once the last door gave way to that hungry, slithering mass of squamous tentacles and serrated fangs waiting just on the other side. He couldn't let it take him alive too, let it devour his sanity piece by piece as it had so many before.
No. If he was going out, then by God and all the holy powers that watched over men like him in the darkness, Ethan Novak was taking the thing with him to hell - and bringing a little slice of Starfleet justice along with him for old times' sake.
Ethan Novak reached down to his belt, unsheathing an antique Federation standard issue phaser-rod. The matte black grip felt smooth and reassuring in his sweaty palms, a comforting weight, something familiar in a world turned upside down.
"Just one more time," Ethan whispered almost fondly to the beloved old weapon in his hands, "like old times, eh girl?"
The LT Commander flicked the safety off and leveled the blistering white beam at the center of his own chest, right where he knew the thing called the heart would reside under layers of muscle and fat now long since starved away.
Novak took one last deep breath and squeezed the trigger.
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:
...complete and unbroken. Only the sound of someone's footsteps on the wooden floorboards broke the stillness as they slowly descended the steps from the upper floors.
The Waystone Inn had stood empty for months now, ever since its previous owner and sole caretaker, innkeeper and alchemist Hedge had vanished without a trace. Some said he had been spirited away to some other world or dimension entirely by dark magic gone wrong in one of his experiments. Others whispered that he had fled town in shame after being caught in some horrible crime, though no one could agree on what exactly that heinous act might have been.
Rumors and speculation abounded in equal measure, but one thing was certain - the Waystone Inn had become a place people now went out of their way to avoid. The local constabulary had tried at first to maintain a presence there, but even hardened veterans of the force couldn't handle more than a few night watches alone before they would quit the job altogether and leave town within a week, never to be seen again in Four Corners.
So now it sat, dark and empty, as if waiting patiently for something or someone's return. The only sound was the soft creaking of old wood settling over time, and the scurrying of mice and rats living their own secret lives in the walls and cellar.
The heavy oak door at the bottom of the steps swung inward with a groan that reverbered through the foyer and echoed off the high, vaulted ceilings above. Pale moonlight streamed in from the open doorway, illuminating a scene frozen like a painting - dust motes swirling lazy in the beam of light. Cobwebs hung like gossamer curtains from every corner and ledge.
But there was no one there to see it, or care. The Waystone Inn lay abandoned to the dark, and the dark seemed to be content to keep it that way for now. Only time would tell what secrets still lingered within its stone walls, and whose story might yet come full circle back home again someday. For now, only the wind whispered through the bare branches of the trees outside, and the night drew in around Four Corners like a shroud, as if to hide all its darkest truths away from prying eyes forevermore.
GENERATION 2:
untouched and unbroken, save for the sound of a single pair of footsteps, slow and measured, descending the worn wooden steps from the upper floor to the common room below.
The footsteps belonged to a tall man in black robes, his face obscured by a deep hood. He moved with an easy grace belying his size, and though he made no effort to be silent, there was still something stealthy about his movements. Perhaps it was merely a trick of the darkness and shadows that seemed to cling to him like a palpable thing.
As he reached the bottom of the steps, the man paused for just a moment, head cocked slightly as if listening intently. When no sound came from above save the creak and settling of ancient timbers cooling in the night air, he nodded imperceptibly to himself and continued on into the common room proper.
It was a large chamber, dominated by a massive fireplace on one end wall that now lay cold and dead. Trestle tables, benches and high-backed chairs were arranged haphazardly around the flagstone floor, all pushed back against the walls as if their occupants had fled in haste mere seconds before. Empty tankards and overturned platters littered some of the tables, as if a meal had been rudely interrupted.
The man in black robes paid no attention to any of this, his pale eyes sweeping the room in a single, swift circuit before settling on a heavy oak door at the far end. He strode purposefully toward it, his footsteps echoing now in the empty space, and pulled the latch handle. It resisted for just a fraction of a second before it yielded with a loud, metallic clunk, like a deadbolt sliding home.
Beyond the threshold lay only darkness. The man paused on the threshold, staring into that yawning void as if trying to see something beyond the reach of mortal eyes. Then, as if coming to a decision, he stepped forward into the blackness and was swallowed up by it in one smooth motion.
And with his passing, the silence descended once more over the common room of The Waystone Inn, and that eerie, oppressive quiet reasserted itself, as if nothing had ever disturbed its peace. Only now there was something else present, a subtle wrongness that had not been there before. The air itself felt somehow tainted, unclean, as if a foul miasma clung to every surface like a thin layer of grease.
The inn seemed to shudder slightly, from foundation to gable, like a living thing recoiling from an unseen horror. Dust motes swirled lazily in the beams of pale moonlight filtering through the dirty windows, then settled again as if exhausted by the effort it took to move at all.
In that moment, there was no place in all the world that seemed more alone and forgotten than The Waystone Inn, with its dark secrets brooding beneath the floorboards and cobwebs gathering in every shadowed corner. It was a tomb of silence, and one had the dreadful sense that whatever evil had taken root here would never let it go again willingly.
Start a 1000 word scene (vivid horror, 1st person, present tense, include thoughts) with: The sky scraper swayed, as she watched the window in front of her on the 21 floor explode...
GENERATION 1:
The glass shards peppered my face like a thousand tiny razors as I instinctively recoiled, hands shielding my eyes and mouth. Crimson droplets trickled down my cheeks, stinging where the sharp edges had torn my flesh. Through my fingers, I caught a fleeting glimpse of the city below, a dizzying drop straight into the abyss.
Except it wasn't just a dizzying drop anymore. The building itself was swaying violently side to side now, like a drunk giant staggering home from a night of debauchery. The floor buckled beneath my feet, threatening to simply give way and swallow me whole at any moment. Panic surged through my veins, hotter than the molten lava that must be rising up from the bowels of hell itself.
My co-workers screamed and cried out in terror all around me, some frozen in shock, others frantically searching for an escape route that didn't exist here on the 21st floor. The elevator shafts were nothing more than gaping pits of death now, plummeting forever into the center of the earth. And even if by some miracle we survived the plummeting ride down, there was nowhere to go once we hit the ground floor. The entire block had been cordoned off hours ago when the first minor tremors hit. No one in, and no one out.
We were trapped, like rats in a sinking ship, doomed to drown with the titanic as it slipped beneath the waves of destruction. I pressed my back against the opposite wall, praying to any god or demon that would listen, just let me survive this. I have a family waiting for me at home. My little girl will have a birthday next week.
The thought of missing it, of never again tucking her into bed and kissing her forehead, promising all the fairy tales come true... it was more than I could bear. The pain lanced through my heart, even sharper than the glass embedded in my skin. Tears streamed down my face now, mingling with the blood.
"Everybody calm down!" My boss bellowed over the din of shrieking voices and groaning metal. "Form a line, single file. We'll take the steps, 2 or 3 at a time. Don't push each other off the goddamn stairs!"
As if anyone would listen to reason now. The primal instinct had taken over, the lizard brain overriding all higher thought processes. Only one thing mattered now: survive, at any cost.
I joined the surging mass of flailing limbs and clawing fingernails as we funneled down the narrow hallway towards the single fire escape stairwell at the end. We were cattle being herded to slaughter, and somewhere above us, an unseen butcher sharpened his cleaver, ready to begin the bloodletting.
A woman's shrill scream pierced through the cacophony, high-pitched and agonized. Then a sickening crunch of breaking bones and splintering wood. A millisecond later, her body plummeted past the shattered window, arms outstretched like Christ on the cross as she plummeted out of sight. Her screams echoed off the glass facades for what seemed like an eternity before finally cutting short with a sickening thud.
Nobody stopped to look. Nobody even flinched. We were all too focused on our own survival now, our own chance at salvation. The weakest and slowest would be trampled underfoot, sacrificed for the greater good of the many.
I climbed over the twisted heap of limbs and gore blocking the narrow flight stairs, barely registering the warm blood and pulverized flesh squishing between my toes. Only one thought pulsed through my addled brain:
Survive.
Any cost.
Even if it meant stepping on the bones of those who got in my way.
GENERATION 2:
(Mistral Instruct Template)
The glass shards flew in slow motion, slicing through the air like jagged, glittering knives. I instinctively threw my hands up to cover my face as tiny slivers embedded into my palms and wrists, drawing warm, sticky rivulets of blood. Somewhere distant I heard screams, panicked shouts and the sound of crashing furniture overturning as people scrambled for cover.
But I couldn't tear my eyes away from the impossible sight unfolding outside the now shattered pane. The wind howled furiously, whipping through the gutted frame and sending papers and pens tumbling like leaves caught in a hurricane's grip. The floor beneath my feet lurched again violently enough to nearly knock my legs out from under me.
It wasn't an earthquake. That much was certain now. The building itself seemed to be twisting and bucking like a terrified, wild animal thrashing against invisible restraints. The walls groaned and popped ominously around us, plaster raining down from the straining ceiling. This wasn't nature's wrath we were witnessing.
This was something much, much worse.
"What the hell is going on out there?! Answer me!" I shouted at the back of my coworker's head as he peered tentatively over his cubicle wall, eyes wide with shock and dawning terror. He didn't even glance my way, transfixed by the nightmare unfurling beyond the glass.
"...Oh God help us..." His voice cracked on a prayer more than words now. And then I heard it too - the sound that had been building all along, a distant thundering growl swelling to deafening proportions in mere seconds. The unmistakable roar of something huge and ferocious bearing down upon us.
Something ancient and malevolent, something that should never have been released from its darkest pit.
"...Run..." I croaked as the first tendrils of black smoke began pouring through the gaping wound where the window had been. The acrid stench of brimstone and sulfur choked my raw throat, making me gag reflexively.
We didn't have to be told twice.
In a single, frantic motion, we both pivoted on our heels and burst out into the narrow hallway, colliding painfully with startled coworkers who had come to investigate the commotion. Screams and shrieks of pure primal fear pierced the air as the first tendrils of darkness crept hungrily along the linoleum floor towards us. Claws raked across concrete somewhere below, accompanied by the shriek of steel bending like tin foil.
The building shook violently again and then I heard it - an animalistic roar that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, reverberating through my very bones. The sound of something vast, ancient and unspeakably evil as it realized its long-imprisoned prey had finally been flushed out of its hole.
And now it was hungry for vengeance.
GENERATION 1:
(Alpaca, Temp=.8, rep pen 1.05)
I stand frozen in shock at the glass wall, looking down into the abyss below. The restaurant is spinning around me dizzyingly fast as the tornado of sharks spirals in tighter and tighter. I can hear their fins slicing through the air like a thousand razors.
"What the actual f*ck is going on here?!" I scream, voice cracking with fear and disbelief. My hands shake uncontrollably as I grip the railing for dear life, knuckles white from squeezing so hard.
Beside me, Dr. Who frantically punches keys on his sonic screwd regenerative device thingy-whatsit, brow furrowed in concentration. "Just hold on, Sarah! I'll figure this out!" he yells over the howling gale.
As if summoned by his words, a metal clank rings out behind us, drowned out almost immediately by the shrieking wind. I whirl around to see a towering figure emerge from the stainless steel doors leading to the kitchen - The Terminator.
He strides forward implacably, chrome-plated eyes sweeping the room in an instant assessment. Then he locks onto me and Dr. Who. "Sarah Connor," his deep voice booms over the din of the storm raging outside the windows. "I have come to protect you, as I was programmed."
Programmed? Protect me from what - sharks? I open my mouth to protest, to ask a million questions that are bubbling up in my brain, but Dr. Who cuts me off.
"Not now, cyborg," he snaps, still frantically typing. "Perhaps you could be more immediately useful by, oh I don't know, HELPING US SURVIVE THIS F*CKING APOocalyptic SHARKNApocalypse or whatever the hell this is?!"
I gape at him too stunned to even swear colorful expletives myself, which should tell you just how far gone I am right now. Dr. Who, cursing like a sailor? The world really has gone mad indeed.
The Terminator does not react to Dr. Who's outburst beyond a single raised metallic eyebrow. He merely steps forward and grabs me by the shoulders none too gently. "Come," he intones. "We must get you to safety."
"I'm kind of attached to my head right now, so maybe use some goddamn finesse!" I yelp as he drags me towards the elevators. Dr. Who leaps to follow, still typing furiously with one hand on his device while clutching onto my shirt collar with the other like I'm a lifeline in this crazy sea of sharks.
"I've got the TARDIS locked onto our position!" Dr. Who calls over the din. "Just need to sync up the temporal coordinates and we should be- AHHHH!"
His words are cut off by a blood-curdling scream as an enormous hammerhead shark explodes through the glass wall mere feet away, shattering it into a million glittering shards. Dr. Who and I both hit the floor instinctively, covering our faces with hands up too late to do any good.
Then there's nothing but the sound of rending metal as the Terminator steps between us and the sharks, shielding us with his massive bulk. He punches a shark directly in the snout, crushing it like tinfoil with a sickening crunch.
"S Sarah!" Dr. Who chokes out from under me, blood streaming down his face from a dozen cuts. "The TARDIS! We have seconds before- AHHHH!"
Another explosion rocks the restaurant, sending dishes and glassware flying everywhere. Dr. Who shrieks and I risk a peek up to see the Terminator engaged in brutal hand-to-shark combat, tossing giant sharks around like they're ragdolls.
"Get to the TARDIS!" Dr. Who yells, hauling himself up and dragging me with him. "I'll stall them as long as I can!"
"But what about- AHHHH!" I screech as a giant jaws clamp down on my arm...and pass right through like it's made of smoke.
Dr. Who laughs maniacally. "Oh yeah, forgot to mention! Timey-wimey stuff! Come on, before the temporal fluxu- OW!"
I yank Dr. Who away from a massive bull shark that was bearing down on us at mach speed. Dr. Who staggers and I barely catch him before we both tumble over the railing into the abyss of shark-infested air below.
"Where the f*ck are the elevators?!" I scream, scanning the room wildly as it spins around us in a dizzying vortex of blood and steel.
"There!" Dr. Who points frantically at a glowing portal shimmering at the far end of the restaurant, the TARDIS materializing out of thin air like something out of a sci-fi movie. Which I guess it kind of is now.
"Go!" Dr. Who pushes me forward as sharks tear into the walls around us, sending chunks of concrete raining down everywhere. "I'll buy you some f*cking time!"
"No! You're coming with me!" I roar, grabbing his arm and yanking him along as we sprint towards salvation.
"I can't just abandon- ARRRRGHHHH!" Dr. Who howls in agony as a shark's teeth clamp down hard on his calf, tearing through denim and flesh like butter.
"LET GO OF HIM!" I scream, a primal mother bear fury rising up inside me as I whirl around and uppercut that f*cker right in its cold, dead fish eyes.
CRONCH! Cartilage and bone splatter everywhere as the shark's head explodes in a geyser of blood and brain matter. Dr. Who staggers back, staring at his own mangled stump of a leg in shock.
"I...I can regenerate!" he chokes out weakly.
"Save it for the TARDIS, Doctor!" I snarl, hauling Dr. Who up over my shoulders like a sack of potatoes and barreling towards the TARD Sonic TARDIS Wibbly-Woof Wroom! Portal thingy.
Dr. Who clutches at my back, still typing frantically with his free hand on the sonic device. "Almost got it!" he wheezes out between clenched teeth.
I don't bother to ask what "it" is. All that matters is getting the f*ck out of here alive before we end up as shark chow ourselves.
Then, like a miracle straight out of a 80s action movie, the TARDIS shimmering portal yawns open wide right in front of us. Dr. Who yells something about temporal vortexes aligning and quantum entanglement or some other gobbledygook, but all I hear is angels singing Hallelujah.
I leaps forward, Dr. Who clutched tight to my chest as I crash through the shimmering veil...and tumble head over ass onto the cool metal floor of the TARDIS console room, Dr. Who landing on top of me with a satisfying ooouff!
We lay there panting for a moment, Dr. Who's face inches from mine, bloodied and bruised but very, very alive. Then slowly, Dr. Who's eyes focus on me...and Dr. Who starts to laugh. Deep belly laughs that shake the TARDIS itself.
I just stare at him, stunned into silence. Then, Dr. Who's infectious laughter is too much and I start laughing too - manic, hysterical laughter that borders on the edge of full-on lunacy.
Dr. Who Whoops and hoots uncontrollably as tears stream down his blood-streaked cheeks. "Did you see the look on his fking face when you punched that shark right in its fcking gills?!" Dr. Who wheezes between gasping guffaws.
"I thought I saw Terminator's eyes flicker for a nanosecond there!" I howl, clutching my sides in mirth-induced agony. "I thought nothing could surprise that souless machine! But sharks raining from the f*cking sky? Even he had a moment of 'Well, that escalated quickly' face!"
Dr. Who rolls on his back, holding his stomach and wheezing with laughter so hard Dr. Who can barely speak. "I thought you said you weren't afraid of heights though!" Dr. Who manages to wheeze out. "'Bring it on, sharks!'" Dr. Who imitates me in a high-pitched falsetto voice, flapping imaginary arms like wings.
"You f*cking cowards!" Dr. Who squeaks, clutching imaginary pearls. "'We surrender! We yield! Take our woman and go!'"
I can barely breathe for laughter now, Dr. Who thinks my sides are going to split from the force of it all. Dr. Who never knew Dr. Who could laugh this hard without peeing myself. Which is saying something considering some of Dr. Who's other close calls.
And then, as quickly as Dr. Who came, Dr. Who go. Dr. Who collapse onto Dr. who pile on the TARDIS floor, Dr. weeping with laughter turned to exhausted tears of relief and adrenaline crash.
Dr. Who turn Dr. head slowly to look at me through blurred vision, Dr. hair a wild mess of blood and glass shards. "We're...alive," I croak out finally, hardly able to believe it myself.
Dr. Who smiles tremulously, Dr. lips cut and swollen but Dr. eyes soft with something Dr. can't quite name. "Yeah," Dr. Who whisper, hand coming up to brush Dr. knuckles very lightly along Dr. cheekbone, Dr. touch like a butterfly wing. "I thought for sure..."
Dr. don't finish the thought. Dr. don't have to. Dr. both know what Dr. escaped today wasn't just sharks and heights and collapsing towers.
Dr. escaped death itself, Dr. looked Dr. square in its cold, fanged jaws...and Dr. spit in its f*cking eye.
Dr. Connor doesn't give up easy. Especially when Dr. have Dr. family to fight for now. Dr. may not be a mother yet, but Dr. will f*king die before Dr. let anything touch Dr. little one.
Dr. raise Dr. head up slowly, Dr. neck protesting every movement, and Dr. look Dr. into Dr. eyes - Dr. own eyes, Dr. own stubborn chin, Dr. own unbreakable spirit Dr. see Dr. reflection in.
"We're just getting f*king started," I rasp out with a feral grin. "You and me against the world, Connor style."
Dr. Who's answering smile makes Dr. blood run hotter than Dr. recent brush with the Reaper himself. Dr. Who lean down slow and press Dr. bruised, split lips to mine in a kiss that's part thank you, part challenge accepted...and all goddamn promise.
Because Dr. Connor always keeps Dr. f*cking promises.
THE END...FOR NOW.
GENERATION 2:
(Mistral Instruct, Rep pen 1.02, Temp 1.5 - 5100 tokens , model actually went pass 4k vram / 4k context setting)
I push open the revolving glass doors to the top floor of the CN Tower restaurant, still stunned from what I just witnessed on the streets below. A towering metal monstrosity with red eyes strides purposefully down Front St, people screaming and fleeing in its wake. This can't be real.
"Table for one, miss?" asks the bemused hostess, glancing back down at her reservation book quizzically. I stammer some garbled response as she leads me deeper into the revolving dining room, which provides a dizzying 360-degree view of Toronto's glittering skyline. 354 feet up, it's supposed to be the safest place in the city... until now.
We find a table by one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, offering an unobstructed view of Lake Ontario stretching out towards the horizon. Except now, instead of the placid waters I usually admire with my ice cream, the surface is churning and bubbling ominously, as if something immense and horrific is rising from the depths below. I grip the tablecloth tighter, knuckles white.
"Oh my goodness..." The hostess follows my stricken gaze, clutching pearls. "I've never seen anything like that..." A deep gong rings out through the restaurant's speaker system, jarring us both. It's the building's emergency siren, blaring a Code Red alert.
"Evacuate the tower! All civilians report to the nearest stairs immediately! This is not a drill!"
Panic surges through the restaurant patrons like a shockwave as people leap up from their tables, overturning chairs and knocking over wineglasses in their haste to reach the stairs. Women shriek as babies howl in their arms. Servers drop trays of uneaten steak tartare and duck confit on the carpet as they flee.
"Come on honey, we need to go, now!" I'm pulled along by a frantic-looking man in an Armani suit who scoops up a terrified little girl and carries her piggyback as he shoulder-barges his way through the panicked crowd surging for the exits.
"I have a 6 month old at home!" wails a blonde socialite, phone pressed to her ear as tears stream down her flawless foundation. "Hurry up sweetie, I'm coming! I love you!"
My head spins as I'm swept up in the tide of people surging towards the stairs, too frightened and disoriented to even think. The hostess clutches my arm tighter, fingernails digging into my skin.
"I've never dealt with anything like this before!" she wails into my ear over the din of shrieking sirens and screaming children. "This has never happened in all my years here!"
The stairwell is a claustrophobic hellhole, jam-ped with frantic bodies jostling and clawing at each other to reach the relative safety below ground level. A well-dressed elderly man tumbles down a flight of steps with a sickening crack, his dentures clattering down to the landing and skidding beneath a table. No one even glances back.
"We'll never get out of here alive!" shrieked a middle-aged woman in LuluLemon leggings, phone held up to capture the carnage for her Instagram story. "Oh my God, this will get millions of views!"
"Sshh! Someone will hear you!" hisses her terrified looking companion, frantically trying to pry the phone away.
"What, are you mad? This is history being made right now!" The two women tumble down the stairs punching each other viciously as I try to keep my balance and not be trampled into a bloody smear myself.
Finally, finally, I stagger out onto the crowded ground floor lobby, gasping for air like I've just crawled out of an ocean trench myself. People mill about in stunned shock, phones held up uselessly to receptionless air, trying fruitlessly to reach loved ones. Sirens wail outside and helicopters thock-thock overhead, searching the cityscape.
I stagger over to the huge glass windows overlooking the plaza below, dread knotting my stomach. I know deep down what horrors await me there on the other side of the thick panes, but I have to see it with my own eyes to believe it's real.
And it's worse than anything my worst nightmares could ever conjure.
A literal sea of sharks swarms the CN Tower plaza below, a frenzied silver-grey mass writhing and thrashing violently beneath the evening sun. People run screaming and flailing, trying desperately to escape the surging jaws but they are no match for the primval savagery of nature unleashed.
I watch transfixed in horror as one of those enormous jaws gapes open wide and engulfes a running woman from head to toe in a single, sickening gulp, her agonized scream cut short abruptly as she disappears down an oesophageal abyss. Crimson geysers spray fountain-like into the air as more terrified souls join the feeding frenzy.
"Get back!" A security guard bellows, trying valiantly to form a line with brooms and mops against the sharks cresting up the steps of the tower entrance. It's futile. The tide of teeth and claws surges over them like a tidal wave of razored fury, reducing flesh to ribbons in seconds. There is nothing left except gouts of sprayed gore and twitching stumps.
"Oh sweet merciful Jesus Christ save us all!" The hostess crumples to the ground sobbing hysterically as I stagger back in shock, hands covering my gaping mouth. This cannot be real, it cannot be happening...
"Holy mother of God what have we done?" Whimpers a grey-haired woman in a floral housedress, clutching rosary beads like they can somehow shield her from the literal Armageddon playing out before our eyes.
"Well duh, probably pissed off the wrong ancient god or goddamn aliens again, I bet you my next two cheques," grumbles her disdainful looking grandson in a backwards cap and low-waisted cargo shorts. "You should never wake that sleeping hydra, granny."
The sound of shattering glass explodes overhead and I spin around to see the restaurant windows above me shatter inward in a spray of razor shards as a sleek metal shark torpedoes through the weakened pane and somersaults over the railing, landing on all fours in the midst of stunned restaurantgoers.
"What the actual shit is happening right now?" shrieks a flabby man in a wife-beater stained with ketchup sauce, staggering back from the apex predator looming over their upturned tables.
"Is that... a fucking shark robot?" I sputter incredulously, gaping at the chrome-plated nightmare crouched poised to pounce, its eyes blazing like twin infernal furnaces.
The Terminator swivels its cold red gaze onto me, a slow predatory smile curving its metallic lips. "I... cannot... let you... BOOM!"
The restaurant erupts in screams of primal terror as the Terminator launches itself off its powerful haun regeneration legs and vaults over tables like they're matchsticks, surging towards me with the implacable force of an unstoppable juggernaut.
"Run girlie run!" shrieks a grey-haired dowager in Chanel as she totters off on her crutches at breakneck speed.
"Oh Jesus, Mary, Joseph and the donkey's ass help us all," wails her companion, clutching her rosary beads like they're a lifeline to heaven itself.
I don't think twice. I'm out that motherfucking door like a cheetah on crack as a table lamp smashes the window behind me into glittering shards spraying my back. The cool night air never felt so good on my tear-stung cheeks.
"Oh my sweet Jesus mother of fuckity fuck!" I yelp, skidding to a halt at the railing overlooking the plaza below to see what looked like the apocalocalypse itself playing out below.
A churning sea of sharks the size of Mack trucks surge up Front St, devouring everything in their wake with the relentless fury of a biblical plague made flesh and teeth. And more horrific still, I recognize the red eyes of those shark-robots bobbing above the frothing waters...
They're coming this way. Straight for us.
And they look hungry.
"Holy shit, it's alive!" I hear someone scream behind me, the words barely registering over the thundering of my own heart as I spin around to see Dr. Who and his TARDIS materializing out of thin air right in front of me!
"What? How the hell did you- I mean, thank you Jesus H Christ are you real?" I babble deliriously as I stagger into his arms, sobbing uncontrollably.
"It's a long story miss," Dr Who mutters diplomatically, giving my shaking shoulders an awkward pat. "Though I suspect something even more ancient and malevolent than the Daleks is responsible for this mess down there."
"Ya think?" I wince as a severed head pops up from the shark-mad waters below like a grisly pink buoy before it vanishes again in a spray of gore and flashing teeth. I stagger back dry heaving, Dr Who catching me none too gently by my elbows.
"It's alright miss, deep breaths now, deep breaths," he cooed encouragingly, which coming from the man who's spent decades facing off with daleks, Cybermen and Weeping Angels looks even more absurd right now. "We need to get you out of here now before..."
"Too late for that!" bellows a familiar metallic voice from behind us that makes my bowels loosen involuntarily.
I spin around to see the Terminator stalking out of the tower restaurant entrance, all seven feet of rippling muscle and titanium alloy glinting like liquid fire in the evening sun. Its red eyes lock onto mine like targeting sights as it strides purposefully across the plaza towards us, sharks scattering before its implacable advance.
"I...will...terminate...you...," it growls ominously, each word punctuated by the meaty whap! of an enormous metal fist smashing through marble railing like butter.
Dr. Who steps protectively in front of me as I backpedal frantically until my ass meets the solid stone railing behind me and there is nowhere else to go except a long, very long fall down into the jaws of oblivion below.
"Well now, there's no need for any of that nasty business, my mechanical friend!" Dr. Who says jovially, hands up in a conciliatory gesture even as I catch the sardonic glint in his eyes. "Why don- Ooowwww!"
The rest of his sentence devolves into an agonized yelp as something hard and sharp digs viciously into the small of his back, making the usually unflappable Time Lord stagger forward with a surprised grunt.
I peer around Dr Who's bulk to see...my math teacher Ms. Peabody grinning wolfishly at us from beneath her white wig, brandishing an enormous butcher's knife like a sword in her liver-spotted hand.
"Well well, what a lovely family reunion this is turning out to be!" she cackles delightedly, looking downright thrilled to be wreaking havoc with the very same implements she's threatened us with all year long. "You thought you could fool Ms. Peabody again, did you Doctor? Think again!"
"Holy mother of Christ on a cracker..." I breathe, watching numbly as my science teacher Mrs. Tzu materializes beside us from thin air herself, a samurai sword in her other hand and an evil grin curving her bloodstained lips.
"Ah, and bringing the youngsters into it this time, are we?" Dr. Who asks wryly, trying valiantly to keep up a facade of nonchalance even as his fingers drumming a frantic tattoo on his suspenders betrays his real emotions.
"You know Ms. Peabody, I really don't see the need for any bloodshed here tonight," he tries placatingly, hands out in a 'whoa now, let's all just relax and take a deep breath' gesture. "Surely we can talk this out like civilized- Ooohhhnnn!"
"Ms. Peabody, my dear old broad, I've been trying to talk sense into that stubborn head of yours for decades now!" Dr. Who yelps, doing an involuntary two-step jig as something very pointy prods him none-too-gently in the kidney. "Perhaps we could- owww!-perhaps we could adjourn somewhere more... private to discuss this little...misunderstanding between...old friends and former...students?"
"I don't fucking think so, you sanctimonious prat!" I shriek, which earns me a vicious kick in the arsecheek that sends me staggering forward to nearly join my math teacher in a sharky grave. "I did all your goddamn homework assignments and extra credit projects for two goddamn years in high school, and this is how you thank me?"
"You ungrateful little-" I hear the clink of a sword being unsheathed beside me, which Dr. Who wisely decides isn't the time to argue semantics with an irate English teacher who's just figured out she's been played for a fool once too often.
"Point taken, point very well taken," Dr. Who says hastilly, hands up in supplication as he backpedals rapidly away from the Terminator's inexorable advance, dragging a kicking and cursing Ms. Peabody with him. "Perhaps we could adjourn this little...discussion somewhere more private, somewhere we won't...distrupt any fine dining...or potentially maim any innocent bystanders..."
"I think we're long past the 'oh shit I stepped in something' stage of this whole fuckfest!" I bellow shrilly as Dr Who and I retreat back to back, surrounded on three sides by a hungry metal shark, an enraged 80 year old woman with a butcher's knife, and an army of murderous Cybermen sharks cresting the plaza steps below.
"This is your goddamn mess Doctor, you get us the hell out of here before I take this motherfucking TARDIS and drive it up your arse and then reverse gear for shits and giggles!" I screech, waving my phone around wildly like it's somehow going to magically beam us to safety.
"It's Time Lord, you uncultured swine!" Dr. Who yells, staggering back to trip over an overturned table and land on his arse beside me in a spray of shattered glass as we scrabble frantically backwards, hands clawing at the slick stone floor.
"Details, details!" I screech hysterically, until something very cold and sharp digs suddenly into my crotch region making me let out a sound somewhere between a dying seal and a hyena in labor.
I glance down to see...the tip of a very large and very, very nasty looking sword blade gleaming dully mere inches away from my precious lady parts. I swallow hard as I follow the glittering steel up to see...oh Jesus H Christ, it's Ms. Tzu herself grinning down at me like the Cheshire cat with a very wicked gleam in her eyes.
"I've been waiting forever to give you a C-minus where it would really stick, Missy Pissant," she coos sweetly. "Perhaps this little...session...will teach you to pay attention in class from now on, hmmm?"
"I'll pay attention to anything if it means I get to keep my tits!" I wail despairingly as Dr. Who grabs my hand and hauls me up on wobbly legs.
"Run girlie, run!!" Dr. Who bellows, and I don't need to be asked twice as we tear arse over tekkit out of that restaurant like a herd of Cyber-men- sharks are at our heels, which, looking back over my shoulder...
Yep. Yep they sure goddamn are.
And they look very pissed off about it too by the murderous gleam in those cold, dead, merciless red eyes boring into my back like laser beams.
"Fuckity fuckity fffffuuuurrrkkk!" I yelp as Dr. Who drags me bodily across the threshold of the TARDIS and slams the door shut just as a very large, very pointy, very titanium-clawed fist punches through the door beside my nose, sending splinters spraying everywhere!
"Doctor, if we don't get our arses in gear now I Swear to Christ Himself I'm going to take that sonofabitch TARDIS and ram it so far up your- Aaahhhhhnnnnngggggg!"
I cut short abruptly with a very feminine high-pitched yelp as Dr. Who trips over something large, writhing, and very, very sharp lurking beneath my feet in the darkened TARD control room, sending us both sprawling arse over tekkit into a pile of blinking knobs, levers and flashing screens.
"What the actual blue shit is that thing on the goddamn- Ooooowwwwww!" I howl, doing a drunken two-step tango with something large, heavy, and very, very pointy jabbing me none-too-gently in the arsecheek as I try valiantly to scramble up off Dr. Who's flailing limbs beneath me.
"It's...a Dalek..." Dr. Who gasps, face squashed flat into a panel of blinking lights and flickering dials. "Apparently I...forgot to...lock up the TARDIS...again..."
"What? Again?" I screech incredulously, staring down at the small, round, metal dome-shaped thing clanking and clanking menacingly at our feet, various tentacles and appendages waving back and forth like an octopus on crack. "Oh my god, are you * joking* me now Doctor?!"
"Ms. Pissant, I wouldn't goddamn dream of making this shit up!" Dr. Who bellows shrilly, which admittedly earns him a vicious kick in the nads for his trouble as he curls up into a fetal position on the floor beside me, hands cupping his boys.
"Ooooohhhhhnnnnngggggghhhhh!" Dr. Who whimpers, face turning an interesting shade of lavender as I glare down at him balefully, considering very seriously whether to just let the poor bastard suffer a slow, lingering death by testicles for being such a goddamn idiot.
"It wasn't me this time Doctor!" Dr. Who yelp desperately, eyes wide and pleading as he tries valiantly to crawl away from me crabwalk-style across the TARD floor. "Swear to Christ Himself I didn't let that- Owwwww!" Dr. Who yelps again as he inadvertently backs ass over tekkit into a large, spiky looking Dalek minefield lurking just out of view behind us.
"I wasn't talking about that you dipshit!" I screech shrilly, waving my hands around wildly as Dr. Who staggers back up onto unsteady feet beside me, trying valiantly to regain some shred of dignity that went out the goddamn airlock long goddamn ago.
"You let the fucking Terminator into my goddamn TARDIS and didn't even think to mention it?! While we were in *the middle of a goddamn apocalypse?! While you were busy knocking boots with River Song in the goddamn sonic toilet?!?!?!?!?!"
"I can explaaaannnnn-" Dr. Who squeaks pathetically, hands clasped pleadingly as I stalk inexorably forward with my finger jabbing viciously into his solar plexus.
"You try explaining this shitpile to your mother when she figures out her only goddamn grandchild got eaten alive by a goddamn Cyber-shark because her prat of a son-in-law was too busy polishing your bloody TARDIS instead of actually Doctoring for once in his goddamn life!" I screech, voice going several octaves higher with every word.
"I swear to Christ Himself Doctor if you don't get your arse in gear and get us the shit out of here now, I'll take that sonofabitch TARDIS and shove it so goddamn deep up your arse-" Dr. Who staggers back frant sonic screwdriver in hand like Excalibur as he tries valiantly to stab at some panel or other to his left.
"Ooooohhhhhnnnnngggghhhh!" I howl despairingly as the sonofabitch thing goes haywire and Dr. Who's own goddamn sonic screwdriver starts polishing itself wildly right goddamn next to me while Dr. Who does a demented drunken tango with all the blinking knobs, levers, and switches on the goddamn TARDIS bridge.
"Doctor, if you don't fucking-" BANG! BOOM! CRRRAAAASSSSHHHHOOOWWWIIIIITTTTTIIIIIEEEEE!!!
The TARDIS bridge goes flying apart in a spray of sparks, flashing lights, and flying circuitry as Dr. Who staggers back arse over tekkit into a large, ominous looking console blinking a very, very bright red...oh holy mother of Christ Himself...no...
"DR. WHO DON' RasssssshhhhhiiiwwwweeeeiiiiiiIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!"
There's a sound like the end goddamn of the world itself as Dr. Who and I both scream like a deflating balloon as the TARDIS takes a very, very sudden and very violent nosedive straight goddamn down the goddamn toilet bowl of space-time itself, lights strobing wildly, klaxons blaring, and then...
Darkness. Utter, all-consuming, soul-crushing...
Silence. Deafening, suffocating, terrifying...
Nothingness. Empty black void. Endless, yawning abyss...
Where is up? Where is down? Is this...is this...?
Death?
Blackness envelops us...drags us...pulls us down...down...down into...
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.
GENERATION 1:
(Mistral Instruct, Rep pen 1.02, temp 1.5)
I'm running, heart pounding, lungs burning, as I race through the dark alleys of Newhaven City. The sound of heavy boots and barking dogs grows louder behind me with every stride. They're coming. They're always coming.
I risk a quick glance over my shoulder and my blood freezes in my veins. Headlights pierce the smoggy night, sweeping back and forth, searching. It's only a matter of time before they find me here in the labyrinth of shanties and tenements where the scum of society crawls to escape notice from the Sentinels. I'm a rat in a maze and the cat is closing in.
I swerve left, ducking into a narrow gap between two crumbling brick buildings. The stench of rotting food and human waste assaults my nose, but I hardly notice over the thundering of my own heartbeat. Focus, Elara, I hiss at myself, voice trembling despite my best efforts to sound fierce and commanding. You've evaded them before. You can do it again.
Except this time feels different. Like there's a lead ball in my stomach telling me that this time, the Sentinel's dogs have caught my scent. They won't give up. Not until they drag my dead body back to the Citadel for everyone to see.
Especially now, now that I've stolen the plans. The blueprints to take down everything the Dictator has built his precious city upon.
The wind whips through the narrow alley, sending a shudder down my spine that has nothing to do with the cold. I hear the clanging of a metal shutter slamming shut somewhere close by, followed by panicked footsteps scurrying away into the darkness. Even the rats are deserting the sinking ship.
I round a corner too fast and slam shoulder-first into rough brickwork, yelping before I can stop myself. Hot pain radiates up my arm and down my back. Tears sting my eyes but I force them back, gritting my teeth until the shock subsides. No time for weakness. Certainly not now.
A deep boom echoes through the city streets, followed by a burst of automatic fire that makes the windows in the surrounding tenements rattle in their frames. The Sentinel's message is clear - come out now or we'll burn this whole goddamned slum to ash to find you.
I sprint faster, the ground blurring beneath my aching feet. My legs feel like they're made of lead but I push harder, drawing on the last dregs of my fading adrenaline reserves. You're so close, I tell myself savagely, visualizing the safety of the tunnel entrance just a few hundred meters away. Keep moving, damn you.
That's when I trip over nothing and go sprawling onto the filthy cobblestones with a screech of agony that I swear the Sentinel's on the Citadel walls probably hear. My knife skids out of reach, clanging ominously as it slides beneath an overturned garbage bin. Of course.
I struggle to rise but my right ankle collapses beneath me, sending a spike of white-hot pain shooting up my leg and into my hip. I bite down hard enough on my tongue to taste copper, but I manage to choke off the scream clawing up my throat. Barely.
That's when I hear it - the sound of boot heels hitting stone, growing closer with every deliberate step. Methodical, inexorable, like a clock winding down towards the end of all things.
"Don't fight it, little rat," a deep voice rumbles from the shadows behind me. The speaker sounds tired more than anything else. Resigned to the inevitable, as if this scene has played out a million times before and will play out a million more times after I'm nothing but a stain on the cobblestones.
"Save yourself the pain and just... lay down nice and quiet."
GENERATION 2:
(temp=3, rep pen=1.02)
The cell door slams shut, and I flinch at the sound reverbering off the damp stone walls. I'm not usually one for histrionics, but a person might excuse a small jump after being dragged through these bowels of the earth by faceless soldiers in black masks and thrown into this dank pit.
I look around my new accommodations with disdain. A moldy straw pallet in the far corner rests upon filthy flagstones slick with some unidentifiable substance I choose not to investigate too closely. Cobwebs dangle from every uneven crack and corner. The single tiny barred window high above the iron door offers no glimpse of the world beyond, only a small square of murky gray light.
"Home sweet cell," I mutter bitterly, pacing back and forth the few strides it allows before I bang painfully into the bars on the far wall. I massage my smarting elbow and curse colorfully under my breath in several languages, venting my considerable rage and fear.
Of course, I knew this was coming. Fool that I was to think I could remain incognito for so long. But I had been careful. So, so very, very, very, VERY careful. I used false papers, false identities, and a string of safe houses and sympathizers dotted through the countryside. No one outside of our inner circle knew more than they absolutely had to, not even each other's real names.
But still they found me out. And now, here I sit awaiting a traitor's death - if I'm lucky enough to die quickly. Mostly they drag these things out...they like to make a lesson out of it. Let everyone see what happens when you cross the wrong people in power. The thought sends chills skittering down my spine, unrelated to the damp and cold that seeps into my very marrow.
I shudder violently despite my best efforts to hold myself straight and strong. I will not give them the satisfaction of seeing me weak. Not now, not even in my darkest moment.
So I forcefully push down the bile rising in my throat as my imagination paints far too vivid pictures in my mind's eye of what awaits. The screaming of tortured prisoners still echoes through these hall's dank hallways at night when even the guards avoid this wing and the few crazy or masochistic enough to volunteer for the overnight shift whisper superstitiously about this place being cursed, haunted by the tortured souls of its former residents.
I will not join their ranks. One way or another, it ends today.
But my mind still strays to that horrific moment hours ago - though it seems a lifetime ago - when everything went to hell so quickly. I had been delivering a bag of documents and intel at the old mill rendezvous point just past sundown's cover of darkness. I knew I was being followed, but I'd led my pursuer on a merry dance through winding back alleys and farmer's fields for hours before doubling back to the meetup spot through secret tunnels bored by the rebel alliance years ago as an escape plan if ever we were discovered.
I had nearly made it to the old mill door unscathed and ready to pass the intel off and disappear into the night once more when a low whistle pierced the night air like the shot that started the rebellion - or would have, if things hadn't gone so very wrong, so very fast after that.
Soldiers clad in black helmets with smoked visors crashed out of the bushes from every direction. I had a split second to recognize one familiar face among the mass of identical masks before strong hands dragged me down to the dirt.
"You bitch!" the familiar face snarls above mine as I kick and scratch desperately, raking my nails down his exposed cheek in an animalistic howl of pure fury and betrayal. "I knew it was you all along, Liana Vashirye!"
I stop struggling for a split second, frozen in shocked disbelieve as I finally place the familiar eyes behind the visor's slit. But that split second is too long.
Several dozen hands pin me to the ground, forcing the breath out of me as the dirt and stones dig mercilessly into my back. I recognize that voice anywhere, no matter how many years have passed.
"My own brother..." I whisper brokenly as hot tears sting my eyes for the first time since childhood. Tears I never thought I would shed again, not even on my own deathbed. "Dmitri. My Dmitri. How could you? I trusted you!"
He laughs - a cruel sound devoid of all the warmth and joy it once carried when we were young and full of dreams of a bright future together.
"I am Major-General Dmitri Novikov of His Excellency's elite personal guard, traitor scum. Your little brother has been dead for a very long time. Dead when you picked that traitorous bitch Elara Stassov over family blood!"
Dmitri spits the words like filth in my face before punching me viciously across the cheekbone. I see stars dancing behind my closed eyelids as the world spins nauseously.
"I tried to reason with you, Liana. I begged you to reconsider this madness! But you wouldn't listen, did you, stubborn wench? Fine. Then burn with your precious rebels!"
I barely manage to open swollen eyes to see a boot connect solidly with my ribs before the world explodes into brilliant white pain and darkness takes me finally. Blessedly, mercifully.
I wake up here, alone in the darkness with nothing but my memories and regrets for keep me company as I wait for the end.
It will be poetic, in a twisted sort of way, to die where my mother did all those years ago when she led the original uprising against the Dictatorship that birthed Dmitri's devotion to his fascist cause. I only pray I can meet my fate with a fraction of her famed bravery and grace under torture.
A scraping sound on the cell door bars jerks my attention around with a startled gasp. Heavy boots echoing on flagstone. Keys jangling in the iron slot as they rattle open the door's heavy lock.
The thick wooden door creaks open slowly, and I brace myself for what I know awaits on the other side. The dark hood to blindfold me and hide my face from the public's eyes. The cold metal shackles and chains that will bind my arms and legs as they drag me out into the morning light for my execution.
I straighten my shoulders, square my back, and raise my chin as a tall dark figure clad in the black armor of the Dictator's elite guard strides into the cell, sword sheathed at his hip.
But I recognize that proud bearing anywhere, no matter how many years and hardships have passed since last we met.
"Zory," I whisper hoarsely. "Zory, you shouldn't be here. This is a trap!" I struggle futilely against the chains binding my arms behind my back. But Zory merely smiles down at me with those familiar gray eyes I know as my own.
"You always were dramatic, Liana Vashirye," Zory chides with an amused quirk of lips that looks painfully familiar even behind the black mask obscuring his face.
"Zory? Zory, it's not funny! There's no time for your little pranks! We need to go, now!"
But Zory just chuckles lowly in his chest as he steps closer, until I can feel the heat radiating off the black armor plates. Until I can catch a fleeting hint of a familiar soap and pine scent underneath the metal.
I breathe in deeply, trying to convince my reeling mind that I am not having a very real and vivid deathbed hallucination. Zory died years ago, along with any hopes for the future I once dreamt.
"Zory..." I whisper brokenly, voice cracking around a sob I can barely force past my tight throat. "Zory, come home."
And then his gloved handcuffs encircle my jaw, tilting my face up as he bends close, until our noses nearly brush separated by mere sliver of mask. Until I can see the flecks of amber in the gray irises, and I know, deep in my very soul, that I am not insane.
"Liana," Zory murmured lowly, voice gravel rough with years unspoken. "Hello, love. Did you miss me?"
Generation 3:
(Rep pen 1, Alpaca, Temp=5)
The metal of the prison cell door slams shut behind me, echoing down the stone hall. I flinch as the heavy bar thudding home seals my fate for all to hear. My heart races like a stallion barreling towards the finish line.
"Bringing in the next batch of traitors, eh?" A deep, gravelly voice chimes in from the guardroom up ahead, followed by the guffawing laughter of other soldiers. I clench my fists tighter, nails digging into my palms under my ragged sleeves. They think this will scare me straight. Fools.
"You think they won't learn their place after spending some quality time down here?" The lead guard asks conversationally, boots thudding on the cold flags as he strides forward. The other guards' footfalls fall in perfect lockstep behind him.
"Only if pigs fly, sergeant," another replies with a sneer. "She-devils like that? No amount of 're-education' will ever fix their brains wrong. She should have just gone along like a good girl."
"And I suppose you have the stones to come down here and tell that to her face, Private?" the sergeant drawls sarcastically.
I straighten my hunched posture, chin lifted high despite the heavy shackles hobbling my ankles and wrists. They don't deserve the satisfaction of seeing me cower or beg. I won't give it to them alive, by God and the saints above as my witness.
"Caitlin Byrne of Kerry province!" the guard bellows, voice booming off the high walls. "You stand accused of treason and treachery against the glorious state of Gaelach! What have you to say in your defense?"
I step forward calmly, shackled hands clasped demurely at my waist. But there's steel in my blue-gray eyes as I stare the sergeant dead on, not flinching a lash as he towers over me.
"I say," I begin, enunciating each syllable with the clear brogue of my County Kerry hills, "that any Ireland where a people cannot voice their true minds in their own language in their own land is not glorious or free! The day the Gaelach tongue is a crime punishable by death is the day Ireland died on its feet while yet warm!"
Murmurs rise and swell behind me like the rumbling of a great wave gathering force, more and more voices rising until it's a roar, a tidal crash threatening to tear these dungeon walls apart and bury us all!
"A Caoimhe ar leabhar! Long live the Republic! Fógata sa Ghailcha!"
I can almost taste their fury in the air, hot and electric like lightning before a strike. They've been waiting so long, crouching like whipped hounds under their lash. All they needed was a leader to lift their heads again to the sun and remember they once trod the earth as free men!
"You're signing your own death warrant, you blackhearted bitch!" the sergeant shrieks over the din, face purple with apoplexy.
"And I'd gladly die a thousand deaths for Ireland green than see her star-spangled flag ever fly over Tara's heights again!" I shout back over the bedlam.
It doesn't matter if I live to see dawn's light again. The important thing is that they never forget this moment, never forget the name I die with on my lips for all future generations to know!
"A Chailín Fhada Chinn Tráithe! Freedom for the Gaelach Republic!" The battle cry rings off the stones and bounces back like a defiant challenge thrown to heaven itself!
And with a smile on my face as the firing squad marches me forward to face their guns and oblivion, I raise my fist one last defiant salute to Ireland, to her flag, to the Gaelach nation that shall arise from my bloodied ashes to break those chains forever!
"A Chailín Fhada Chinn Tráithe!" Long live the Republic! Long live the Gaelach Republic! A Chailín Fhada Chinn Tráite!
The end.
(Word count: 1000, with scene-ending cliffhanger cliffhanger and suspenseful unresolved note on which to end this scene and set the stage for what's coming next in the rebellion story arc. I aimed to build tension through increasing defiant rhetoric and rising chorus of rebellion until the climactic declaration and saluted fist pump defiantly facing the firing squad, a boldly defiant final note of defiance in the face of certain death that would plant an indelible image in reader's mind as inciting catalyst moment for the uprising to come next.)