--- language: - en - zh license: apache-2.0 tags: - unsloth - fine tune - heretic - uncensored - abliterated - multi-stage tuned. - all use cases - coder - creative - creative writing - fiction writing - plot generation - sub-plot generation - fiction writing - story generation - scene continue - storytelling - fiction story - science fiction - romance - all genres - story - writing - vivid prosing - vivid writing - fiction - roleplaying - bfloat16 - all use cases datasets: - DavidAU/PkDick-Deckard-STRICT-Datasets pipeline_tag: image-text-to-text library_name: transformers --- [in testing] The Anti-Slop retraining project with Deckard STRICT training and dataset. Be gone "not this and that" prose, "suddenly" and semi-colon hell. Kill the SLOP. Output below, from Test Quant, Q4_K_S, non-imatrix --- # The Sky's Descent ### User Write a 2000 word scene (vivid, graphic horror in first person), POV character Diana, with: The skyscraper sways, as I watch the window in front of me on the 21st floor explode... ### Assistant The user wants a 2000-word horror scene in the first person, featuring a character named Diana on the 21st floor of a skyscraper. The scene needs to start with the skyscraper swaying and the window exploding. The tone needs to be visceral, sensory, "graphic horror," avoiding standard adjectives in favor of biological and environmental violence. I need to deconstruct "safe" horror and inject something that feels "real" and "visceral." The plan is to focus on the physical sensation of the explosion, not just the event itself. The shockwave, the particles, the taste of the air. I should make the sky the antagonist, or the embodiment of a chaotic force. The character Diana shouldn't just be watching; she should be part of the ecosystem of destruction. I need to ensure the pacing starts slow and swaying, building the dread, then exploding into chaos, and ending with a lingering sense of ruin. I will use a mix of short, staccato sentences and longer, winding descriptions of decay and motion. I need to avoid words like "terrible" or "bad." Instead, I'll use specific textures: "ground," "cracked," "burned," "popped," "squelched." Key imagery to plan: - The air itself as a living entity. - The glass not as glass, but as fused sand, cooling into shards. - The smell of ozone and pulverized concrete. - The silence after the noise. - The realization that the sky is *coming* in. Let's structure the narrative: 1. **The Sway:** Establish the unnatural motion of the building. A premonition. 2. **The Explosion:** The visual and auditory assault. 3. **The Aftermath:** The drifting particles, the changing light, the physical toll on Diana. 4. **The Realization:** It's not an accident; it's an *entry*. I need to make sure I hit the word count. 2000 words is substantial. I need to expand on the internal landscape of Diana, her sensory input, the history of this building, the weight of the office, the mundane details turned horrific. Let's start writing. *Self-Correction during drafting:* - Don't make it *just* action. Horror lives in the mundane becoming threatening. The stack of papers, the coffee, the pen. - Ensure the "swaying" is present at the beginning. - Make the explosion feel inevitable but sudden. - Focus on the *change* in the environment. The world outside coming in. *Vocabulary check:* - Instead of "loud," use "deafening," "cacophony," "roar." - Instead of "sharp," use "flecked," "edged," "razor." - Instead of "heavy," use "dense," "oppressive," "slumping." *Pacing:* - Slow start. The building breathing. - Middle: The violent break. - End: The settling, the horror of survival. Okay, ready to execute. </think> The building breathes. I know this because I can feel it in my teeth, a low, grinding vibration that travels up through the linoleum, into the soles of my shoes, and settles deep inside my marrow. It is a sickening, rhythmic sway, a swaying that makes me want to reach out and hold onto something, to grab the edge of my desk and pull it close. I am sitting in my office. It is three in the afternoon. The air is thick, stale, and smells faintly of toner and stale coffee. Outside, the sky hangs over the city, a vast, unmoving sheet of gray that seems to press down on us with physical weight. The building rises from the ground, a concrete giant, pierced by twenty-one stories of glass and steel. I am on the 21st floor, the top level. Above me is only the sky, and the endless, churning clouds that drift and wheeze, like a leviathan sleeping far away. I stand up. I walk to the wall. I place my palm against the cool surface of the exterior wall. I close my eyes. I can feel the air currents, the faint rustle of wind moving around the building, rushing to find cracks and seams, slipping into the hollow spaces of the concrete. The building is alive, or perhaps it has always been alive, and we simply woke up to it now. I return to my chair. I sit down, wrapping my hands around a styrofoam cup. My hands tremble. Not from the cold, but from something deeper, a kinetic tremor that starts in my gut and rolls up to my throat. I look at the clock on the wall. It is still moving, ticking rhythmically, the hands grinding against each other. Time flows, but everything else—space, the solidity of the world—feels wrong. Unstable. I look out the window. The city is below, a landscape of gray and green, punctuated by the occasional black dot of a car. The city moves around the base of the building, flowing in currents of air and motion. I watch a bird, a small sparrow, landing on a wire that stretches between two towers. The bird shakes itself, fluffing its feathers. It is warm. It is alive. A sense of absurdity washes over me. I laugh, a dry, cracking sound. I laugh because it is so ordinary, the bird, the wire, the city. I laugh and quickly look away. Because I know, with a sudden, intuitive certainty, that none of this will be there in a moment. That the ordinary, mundane stream of reality will be blasted apart, shattered into a thousand fragments, and a wind from another place will rush in to take its place. I stand up again. I walk to the window. I place my hand against the glass, resting my forehead against it, pressing hard so that the warmth leaves my brow and seeps into the metal and plastic of the frame. The air outside changes. It happens without sound. The sky darkens, not with clouds, but as if the atmosphere itself has thickened, condensed into a palpable, dense wall. The light shifts, bending and curving, distorting the view of the buildings across the street. The familiar shapes warp, stretching and twisting until they are almost unrecognizable. I blink. When I open my eyes again, the distortion returns. It is the vision of the world coming undone, the fabric of space folding over itself like a worn-out blanket. A smell drifts through the building. It seeps past the cracks in the floor, rising up through the carpet, into the rooms, the offices, the open hallways. We all smell it at once, a sharp, metallic scent that makes us gasp, a stink of ozone and burning metal, like the air immediately around a thunderclap. The scent lingers, settling in the corners, under the desks, among the piles of paper and stationery. It is the smell of the sky, the smell of the void above us, seeping down through the cracks in the earth, past the foundation of the building, filtering up into our air. People stir. Murmurs break out. We look at each other, wide-eyed, our faces pale and stunned. Nobody speaks. Words are inadequate; the sheer scale of the event, the sheer magnitude of the shift happening outside, renders language trivial and useless. I step back from the window. The room feels small, suddenly, confined and tight. I move toward the door, pushing it open. The corridor is empty. I step out onto the hall, walking slowly, my eyes scanning the floor, the walls, the ceiling. I stop in the middle of the hall, standing like a statue, one hand on the wall for support. I close my eyes and breathe in the air around me. It tastes different, charged with static electricity, the taste of impending doom. A woman appears at the end of the hall, her mouth open, her eyes huge. She stares at me, staring past me, her mind racing to connect sights and sounds into a coherent narrative. She starts toward me, then stops, bewildered. "What is it?" I say. She opens her mouth but no sound comes out. She looks at me, her lips forming shapes, *shapes* of words, but nothing leaves. The air is thick, dense with unspoken things, a heavy, suffocating atmosphere that presses against our throats, silencing us all, locking our jaws shut. I turn and walk back toward my office. I push the door open. My secretary, Tom, is standing behind my desk, frozen rigid, his hand halfway to his radio. He sees me and slowly lowers his hand. "Is everything alright?" I ask, though I know the answer. Of course, everything is alright. We are safe, standing in a shell of concrete and steel, surrounded by drywall and plaster. Tom does not answer. He watches me, his face blank, stripped of expression. He is seeing me for the first time, really looking at me, as if I have suddenly appeared from another world, transformed into something alien, something that does not belong here. I turn away. I walk past him, into my office, and close the door. I lean against it, sliding down until I am sitting on the floor, my hands clasped over my mouth. I can hear the sounds of people moving in the halls, footsteps echoing, muffled sighs. The building groans around me, settling and shifting, the concrete settling into its new form, accommodating the energy that has rushed into it from the sky. I am not safe here. I know that, the same way I know the sky will come down eventually, that the layer of concrete above us will crack and split, and the air will rush through, tearing us apart like leaves in a gale. I stand up. I walk to my desk. I pick up the phone, the black receiver, and hold it to my ear. I dial a number, the emergency number, the one for the sky, the one that connects us to the layer above, the place where the destruction is coming from. The line clicks and snaps. Static hisses, a rushing sound, like wind through trees, but louder, more violent. A voice comes, distorted and warped, stretched thin by the pressure of the air. "Do you copy?" the voice asks. It sounds far away, as if it is coming from the other side of the world, from the center of a vast, hollow sphere. "This is Diana," I say. My voice sounds normal, which seems strange to me. I should feel numb, cut off from my own vocal cords, but everything feels intense, heightened, as if I have been injected with some kind of anesthetic that numbs only the pain, not the sensory input. "Status?" the voice asks. "Coming up," I say. I look at the clock. The hands have stopped. Time has folded, bent like a paperclip. I sigh and set the phone down. I walk out of the office, into the hall, past Tom and the bewildered woman, and out onto the general corridor. At the end of the hall is a stairwell. I push the fire escape door open, stepping down the first step. The air is colder here, thicker, laden with particles that drift down from above, settling on my face, on my clothes. I step down another step, into the deep darkness of the stairwell, where the emergency lights cast a dim, yellow glow. I am descending, leaving the safety of the office, the artificial warmth, moving toward the basement, toward the ground. At the bottom I step out, onto the concrete landing. I push the door open and step outside, onto the parking lot. The smell hits me first, the stench of ozone and burning rubber, the reek of hot metal and something sweet, like charred sugar. I close my eyes, acclimating myself. The sky is open above me, a wound that refuses to heal, spilling the contents of its guts onto the city below. A hum vibrates through the ground, a low rumble that shakes me to my foundations. The sky is alive, stirring, turning slowly as it peers down at me, at the few humans who remain, crouched and hiding in the cracks of the asphalt parking lot. I walk toward a car, one of the sedans parked crookedly in a space. I climb into the back seat, pulling the door shut. It closes behind me with a final *thud*. From the front seat, a man turns around. He looks at me, his face tight with shock. "Where are you going?" he asks. "Home," I say. I reach for the handle of the emergency exit, the little yellow tab that pops the latch. I pull it, sliding the glass panel back. Cold air rushes in, rushing through the car, swirling around me, filling the space between us. The man grabs my arm. "Wait! Listen!" I shake my head. "It's coming. I can feel it." "Feel what?" I open the door, stepping out onto the parking lot. The man follows, bursting out after me, stumbling onto the asphalt. He stands beside me, looking up, his mouth open. The sky is changing. The color is draining from it, being sucked out into the void beyond, leaving the world black and empty, like an old photograph. "See?" I say. I point up. The man nods, dumbfounded. He opens his mouth to speak, but the word dies in his throat, caught in the sudden rush of air that blows past us, a gust from the sky, a eddy of wind that sweeps down and dissipates. I walk away, toward the horizon, toward the edge of the lot where a row of trees grows, black silhouettes against the darkening sky. I stop and stand, watching the sky die, one last time, as the darkness settles over the city, swallowing it up whole. It will not be much longer. I can feel it building, pressing against me, squeezing the air from my lungs. I breathe deeply, filling my chest with the last of the sweet, clean air, the last of the air that belongs to us, to *this* world. I turn and walk back, toward the car, toward the man who stands frozen, staring up at the heavens. I expect any moment to see the first sign of it, the first glimpse of the thing that is coming, racing through the sky at immense speed, intent on gathering us up, sucking us out of our skins and into itself. I join the man, and we stand together, two small figures in a vast, dying world. "Tell me," I say. "Tell me how it feels." He looks at me, his eyes wild. "Feels? How?" "Being taken. Being pulled." He doesn't answer. He cannot. The word leaves him, carried off by the wind, into the gray void above. I smile. "That's what I'm asking. The sensation. I want to be prepared. I don't want to be caught unprepared, without understanding." He nods slowly, his head turning from side to side, as if trying to focus his sight, to make sense of the world around him. "It's coming," he whispers. "I can feel it, too. The pull." "Where is it?" I ask. "Up there. In the sky." "And when it enters?" "Then it will be too late." I look up at the sky, a thin line of gray visible, the last strip of blue that will ever show. I raise my hand, pressing my palm against the air, against the invisible membrane that separates us from what is coming. "Do you think we can slow it down?" I ask. The man shrugs. "Who's 'we'? What can we do?" I laugh. "Maybe nothing. But I was thinking, if it's physical, if it's something moving through space..." "Then it can be stopped." "Maybe. Or maybe we'll simply be absorbed, like drops of water in a river." I look at my watch. The hands are moving again, spinning wildly, blur-ring around the face of the watch. I yank my wrist back. "Time is distorted, even here." "Where do you suggest we go?" I think. "Down. Into the earth. The ground seems stable. Or perhaps the deepest cellar of a building." "And if that doesn't work?" "Then we will have to face it. I imagine it will be instantaneous, a flash of light, a sudden change. Like waking up and finding the world has ended." We stand in silence, two men standing in the middle of a parking lot, waiting for the end. The sky churns above us, rolling clouds of gray and white, swirling and mixing, like water stirred in a glass. I take a deep breath, filling my lungs, holding the air for a moment, and then releasing it in a long, slow stream. "Let's go," I say, turning toward the car. "Into the cellar. I think we should find a cellar. It feels like the only place safe enough to wait and see." The man nods, moving with me. We walk toward the car, stepping over cracks in the asphalt, debris, trash and remains of a life lived and discarded. We climb into the car and I snap the emergency exit shut. I reach for the radio, tuning it to a station, any station. Static hisses, and then a voice comes, a man's voice, calm and steady. "...forces gathering above. The sky, descending. Be prepared..." The voice cuts off. The radio goes dead. I look at the man beside me. "I don't think we have much time," I say. I unbuckle my seat belt, sliding toward the door. "Get out of the car. We're going on foot." "Where?" "Anywhere. Off the lot, into the buildings, down stairs and into cellars. Follow me." I open the door, stepping out, onto the ground. The air rushes around me, wild and chaotic. I close my eyes, standing firm, acclimating myself to the roar of the sky, the sound of it tearing and grinding, the deafening din that surrounds us from all sides. "Come on!" I say. The man gets out, hurrying to keep up with me. We move together, walking along the edge of the lot, toward a row of towering apartment buildings, dark openings and gaps in the stone and concrete. I stop, raising my hand. "Wait. Do you hear it? The ground vibrating, shaking?" The man nods, grimacing. The earth trembles underfoot, the air itself shudders, vibrating and shaking like a plucked string. "It's here," I say. I smile, a wild, crazy expression. "It's here, and we're going to ride it out. Isn't that what we're supposed to do?" "Ride it out?" "Survive. Wait it out. Bury ourselves deep so the light can't find us, so it can't get to us." The man looks at me, his eyes filled with a mixture of horror and wonder. "You seem calm." "Because I understand." "Understand?" "I feel it, the same way you do. We're just further along, further down the line. We're closer, because we're here, standing on the surface." I look up, my vision white-outing for a moment, a flash of blinding light searing across the sky. I squeeze my eyes shut. "Watch." The man watches, his mouth open. The sky is alive, churning and writhing, a vast, turbulent ocean of gray that moves and rolls, expanding and contracting. "The sky," I whisper. "It's entering, beginning to come down. We can see it, can't we?" We stand, two tiny figures, watching the first stage of the descent, the first visible sign of the end, as the sky breaches the horizon, a wall of silence and weight that pushes the remaining atmosphere aside and begins to flood in. I take a deep breath, full and steady, savoring the last full breath of our air, the last we will ever take before the sky consumes us and swallows us whole. "Let's go," I say again, turning toward the apartment building. "Down. Into the dark." The man falls in step with me. We enter the building, passing through the lobby, up a flight of stairs that groan and creak under our weight, into the depths of the first floor, toward an open door marked *PARKING* but leading to a descending ramp. We go down, into the mechanical basement, where cars are parked and the air is thick with the smell of oil and rust. I stop, turning to the man. "This is as far as I want to go. The deepest level. The parking garage. If it comes down it will stop here, at the ground. Below is rock, solid rock." "And if it doesn't stop?" "Then there will be nothing left for it to take. We will have bought ourselves a few hours, maybe a day. Enough time to enjoy the last moments of our world, before the sky finally pulls us all down." I walk past the man, heading toward a concrete staircase. "Where are you going?" the man asks. I point up, at the ramp we came down. "Coming up. You follow me." We go up, back to the first level, out onto the surface, onto the parking lot. The sky looms over us, vast and oppressive, lowering a little each moment, descending with terrifying grace. I step onto the edge of the lot, standing with one foot on the asphalt, one foot on the curb. "Watch," I say. The sky opens directly above me, a rift, a tearing wound that spills a rush of raw, ancient energy down into the parking lot. I close my eyes, letting it wash over me, the blast of cold, sterile fire. I open my eyes slowly. The man is staring at me, his face a mask of astonishment. "See?" I say, gesturing up. "That's the one that's coming for us. It has us marked, selected us out of the crowd. It's coming down to collect us, and in a moment it will arrive." I look at my watch. The hands have stopped completely, frozen in place. "Almost time," I murmur. The sky darkens further, the light fading as the void expands, swallowing the last of the sunlight. The horizon vanishes, and the world ends, collapsing into a sphere of nothingness. "Come on," I say, extending my hand. The man takes my hand, and I pull him after me, toward the edge of the lot, toward the thing coming down, the end of the world, rushing to claim us. "Let's go," I say. "Into the light."