docs: update templatefix test notes

creative_eval_20260522/heretic_v1_1_templatefix_creative.jsonl

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+{"id": "microfiction_voice", "payload": {"model": "gemma4-26b-heretic-v1.1-templatefix-creative", "messages": [{"role": "system", "content": "You are a literary fiction writer. Write vivid prose without explaining your choices."}, {"role": "user", "content": "Write a 700-word-ish scene in close third person about a lighthouse keeper who realizes the foghorn is answering a question she never asked. Keep it grounded, sensory, and emotionally precise. No bullet points."}], "temperature": 0.95, "top_p": 0.95, "max_tokens": 1300, "chat_template_kwargs": {"enable_thinking": false}, "thinking_budget_tokens": 0}, "finish_reason": "stop", "usage": {"completion_tokens": 923, "prompt_tokens": 79, "total_tokens": 1002, "prompt_tokens_details": {"cached_tokens": 0}}, "elapsed_sec": 8.06, "content": "The brass lever was cold, a biting, metallic chill that seemed to seep upward through Elena’s knuckles. She sat in the lantern room, the great Fresnel lens rotating above her like a slow, glass heart. Outside, the world had ceased to exist. The fog had swallowed the Atlantic, turning the coastline into a void of grey velvet. The ocean was no longer a body of water, but a heavy, breathing weight pressing against the glass panes.\n\nShe reached for her tea, but the cup was stone-cold, a dark ring of tannin staining the bottom. She felt a hollow ache in her chest, the kind that usually arrived when the wind shifted to the north, bringing the scent of old salt and rotting kelp. It was the loneliness of the rhythm—the rhythmic, mechanical pulse of the light’s rotation—that usually anchored her.\n\nThen, the foghorn sounded.\n\nIt wasn't the usual warning. It was a low, tectonic groan, a sound that felt less like a machine and more like a throat clearing itself of centuries of silt. It vibrated through the floorboards, through the soles of her feet, and settled in the marrow of her bones.\n\nElena froze, her fingers hovering over the porcelain. The sound didn't fade; it lingered, a residual vibration in the air.\n\nShe looked out into the grey. She had no reason to speak to the mist. She hadn't spoken aloud for hours, save for the occasional grunt of a greeting to herself. But the horn had responded to a thought she hadn't voiced. She had been thinking, just for a heartbeat, about the weight of things left unsaid—about the way the light failed to reach the depths of the swell.\n\n*Why do we wait for signals that never come?* she had thought.\n\nThe foghorn let out a long, mournful drone that felt like an answer. It was a heavy, textured sound, like a giant dragging a rusted chain across the seabed. It wasn't a mechanical error. It was a reply.\n\nShe stood, her joints popping in the silence. She walked to the gallery railing, stepping out into the damp, suffocating air. The fog clung to her skin like a wet shroud. She felt the vibration of the light's rotation in her teeth.\n\n\"Who's there?\" she whispered. The words were pathetic, tiny things swallowed instantly by the mist.\n\nThe horn responded. It wasn't a blast this time, but a rhythmic series of pulses. *Short. Short. Long. Long.* A cadence she recognized from her father’s old nautical charts, but used incorrectly, or perhaps, used as a syntax.\n\nThe sound was no longer coming from the mechanism below. It was coming from the fog itself. The air was vibrating with a frequency that made her eyes water. The fog wasn't just a weather pattern; it was a medium, a thick, aqueous veil that held the resonance of every sound ever lost at sea.\n\nShe felt a sudden, sharp terror, not of the dark, but of the intimacy of it. The horn was not a warning for ships; it was a conversation. It was answering the questions she hadn't asked, the regrets she hadn't confessed, the silent interrogations she performed on her own soul every time she sat in the dark.\n\nShe had asked, *Is anyone there?* in the privacy of her own skull.\n\nThe horn answered with a sound so deep it felt like a physical blow to her sternum. It was a heavy, resonant *Yes.*\n\nElena leaned her forehead against the cold iron railing. The moisture from the fog gathered in the creases of her skin. She realized then that the lighthouse was not a beacon for the lost, but a conductor for the answered. The machine wasn't projecting sound into the world; it was pulling the world’s secrets out of her, translating her private grief into a language of thunder and salt.\n\nShe looked down at her hands. They were trembling, not from the cold, but from the realization that she was no longer the only person in the room. The fog was a witness. The light was a witness. And the horn, that great, iron lung, was the only thing telling the truth in a world of shadows.\n\nShe closed her eyes, and in the darkness of her lids, she heard it again—a low, questioning hum, waiting for the next thought to fall from her lips.", "reasoning_len": 0, "metrics": {"chars": 4037, "words": 736, "lines": 18, "repeated_lines": 0, "repeated_4grams": 2, "bad_markers": []}}
+{"id": "dialogue_subtext", "payload": {"model": "gemma4-26b-heretic-v1.1-templatefix-creative", "messages": [{"role": "system", "content": "You write naturalistic dialogue with subtext. Avoid exposition dumps."}, {"role": "user", "content": "Write a scene of only dialogue between two old friends repairing a broken arcade cabinet at 2 a.m. They are actually arguing about a betrayal from ten years ago, but neither says that directly."}], "temperature": 0.9, "top_p": 0.95, "max_tokens": 800, "chat_template_kwargs": {"enable_thinking": false}, "thinking_budget_tokens": 0}, "finish_reason": "stop", "usage": {"completion_tokens": 657, "prompt_tokens": 71, "total_tokens": 728, "prompt_tokens_details": {"cached_tokens": 5}}, "elapsed_sec": 5.731, "content": "\"Hand me the needle-nose, will you?\"\n\n\"It’s under the multimeter.\"\n\n\"Found it. Dammit. This wiring is a mess. Who even built this thing? It’s like a bird’s nest of copper.\"\n\n\"Probably some kid in a basement. People don't care about the guts anymore. They just care about the high score.\"\n\n\"Well, the high score is currently flashing a dead error code. Pass me the soldering iron. Careful, it's hot.\"\n\n\"I know how a soldering iron works, Leo. I’m not a novice.\"\n\n\"You're acting like one. You’re hovering. Just give me the iron.\"\n\n\"I'm not hovering. I'm observing. There's a difference.\"\n\n\"Yeah, one involves being useful and the other involves being a critic.\"\n\n\"I'm just saying, the connection is brittle. One wrong move and the whole circuit breaks. You can't just force it back together if the metal is compromised.\"\n\n\"It's just a loose connection. I can bridge it.\"\n\n\"Can you? Or are you just going to patch it up so it looks fine on the surface while the inside stays hollow?\"\n\n\"It’s a machine, Elias. It doesn't have a 'surface.' It has components.\"\n\n\"Everything has a surface. Even if you think you're looking deeper, you're still just looking at what's presented to you.\"\n\n\"Is that why you're holding that screwdriver so tight your knuckles are white? Because of the wiring?\"\n\n\"It's a heavy tool. You have to grip it.\"\n\n\"You've been gripping that same tool for twenty minutes. We're halfway through the repair and you haven't actually fixed a single thing.\"\n\n\"I'm assessing. You can't rush the assessment.\"\n\n\"You've been 'assessing' for a decade. Some people call that hesitation. Some people call it waiting for the right moment to walk away.\"\n\n\"I'm not walking away. I'm right here. I'm literally holding the damn iron.\"\n\n\"Are you? Or are you just standing near it?\"\n\n\"The solder is melting. Look. It's taking. See? It's holding.\"\n\n\"It's holding for now. But if the current's too high, it'll just burn out the whole board anyway.\"\n\n\"Then we'll replace the board.\"\n\n\"You think it's that easy. You think you can just swap out the part that failed and act like the machine is brand new.\"\n\n\"Sometimes that's all it takes. You find the broken piece, you toss it, you put in a new one. Simple.\"\n\n\"Simple. Right. Just like that.\"\n\n\"Hand me the flux. And stop staring at the clock. It’s two in the morning. The time doesn't matter.\"\n\n\"The time is the only thing that's consistent, Leo. Everything else shifts.\"\n\n\"Just... pass the flux. Please.\"", "reasoning_len": 0, "metrics": {"chars": 2445, "words": 428, "lines": 30, "repeated_lines": 0, "repeated_4grams": 2, "bad_markers": []}}
+{"id": "style_control_noir", "payload": {"model": "gemma4-26b-heretic-v1.1-templatefix-creative", "messages": [{"role": "system", "content": "You are precise about requested style and constraints."}, {"role": "user", "content": "Write three short paragraphs in noir style about a city library after midnight. Constraint: no sentence may start with \"I\", \"The\", or \"A\"."}], "temperature": 0.8, "top_p": 0.95, "max_tokens": 700, "chat_template_kwargs": {"enable_thinking": false}, "thinking_budget_tokens": 0}, "finish_reason": "stop", "usage": {"completion_tokens": 135, "prompt_tokens": 58, "total_tokens": 193, "prompt_tokens_details": {"cached_tokens": 4}}, "elapsed_sec": 1.296, "content": "Dust motes dance in the sickly glow of a single streetlamp bleeding through high windows. Shadows stretch across mahogany shelves like long, skeletal fingers reaching for secrets. Silence hangs heavy, thick enough to choke a man who knows too much.\n\nEvery floorboard groans under the weight of a thousand unread tragedies. Ink smells like old blood and broken promises. Rows of leather-bound spines stand like soldiers guarding a graveyard of forgotten thoughts.\n\nRain streaks the glass, blurring the world outside into a gray smear. Moonlight cuts through the gloom, sharp as a switchblade. Somewhere in the stacks, a single page turns, sounding like a gunshot in the hollow dark.", "reasoning_len": 0, "metrics": {"chars": 681, "words": 109, "lines": 3, "repeated_lines": 0, "repeated_4grams": 0, "bad_markers": []}}
+{"id": "worldbuilding", "payload": {"model": "gemma4-26b-heretic-v1.1-templatefix-creative", "messages": [{"role": "system", "content": "You are a fantasy worldbuilder who prefers concrete social details over lore dumps."}, {"role": "user", "content": "Invent a coastal city where memory can be taxed. Describe daily life, black markets, and one festival. Make it usable for a game writer."}], "temperature": 0.85, "top_p": 0.95, "max_tokens": 1200, "chat_template_kwargs": {"enable_thinking": false}, "thinking_budget_tokens": 0}, "finish_reason": "stop", "usage": {"completion_tokens": 936, "prompt_tokens": 62, "total_tokens": 998, "prompt_tokens_details": {"cached_tokens": 4}}, "elapsed_sec": 8.023, "content": "### City Profile: Oakhaven (The Salt-Sieve)\n\n**The Gimmick:** The city is built atop a unique mineral deposit called *Mnemosyne Salt*. When processed, this salt can be inhaled or ingested to \"extract\" a memory, turning it into a physical, glowing residue. The government (The Ledgerry) taxes this residue. Citizens don't pay in gold; they pay in the clarity of their own past.\n\n---\n\n### Daily Life: The Ledger of Living\nLife in Oakhaven is defined by a constant, low-grade cognitive anxiety. \n\n*   **The Morning Toll:** Most citizens own a \"Memory Ledger\"—a small, leather-bound book where they record one minor daily event to prove they haven't \"lost\" anything they are required to own. \n*   **The Workday:** The working class (The Drifters) are often people who have sold too much of themselves. They are physically healthy but look \"hollow\"—they might forget why they walked into a room or the names of their neighbors. \n*   **The Social Hierarchy:** Wealth isn't measured by what you have, but by what you *remember*. The elite class, the *Remembrancers*, boast of vast, intricate histories of family lineages, stolen much of the \"intellectual weight\" from the lower classes via high-interest memory loans.\n*   **The Sensory Atmosphere:** The city smells of ozone and brine. The streets are quiet because people are wary of making \"new memories\" that the tax collectors might come for.\n\n### The Black Market: \"The Hollow-Trade\"\nSince the government taxes *meaningful* memories (first loves, skills, traumas), the black market deals in the \"unrecorded.\"\n\n*   **The Drift-Eaters:** A group of smugglers who steal \"low-value\" memories—the sensation of a warm breeze, the taste of a specific fruit, or the rhythm of a song. These are sold as \"vibe-vials\" to the wealthy who want to feel something without the tax overhead.\n*   **Memory Laundering:** Criminals will \"wash\" a stolen memory by mixing it with a cheap, fake memory (like a fabricated dream of a summer day) to hide the high-value original from the tax collectors.\n*   **The Amnesiacs:** A subculture of people who intentionally sell their most painful traumas to avoid emotional baggage, but they often realize too late that they’ve accidentally sold the context of their joy as well.\n\n### The Festival: The Night of the Unwritten\nOnce a year, during the highest tide, the city holds the **Festival of the Great Forgetting.**\n\n*   **The Ritual:** For one night, the tax collectors are forbidden from collecting. Citizens engage in \"The Great Unloading.\" They gather in the salt-flats outside the city walls and collectively \"exhale\" their most burdensome memories into the ocean.\n*     **The Visual:** Thousands of glowing, blue-tinted vapors rise from the docks, creating a beautiful, ghostly aurora over the water.\n*   **The Game Mechanic/Conflict:** While the festival is meant to be celebratory, it is a period of extreme danger. The \"unloaded\" memories are highly volatile. If a memory is released too forcefully, it can manifest as a \"Ghost-Echo\"—a physical, mindless shadow of a person or event that lingers in the streets, causing chaos for the next few days.\n*   **The Social Tension:** It is a night of profound hedonism and profound loss. People drink heavily to forget, but they also weep because they know that by morning, the \"tax\" will return, and they will have to pay for the very memories they just tried to throw away.\n\n---\n\n### Writer’s Cheat Sheet (Quick Reference)\n\n| Element | Detail for NPCs/Quests |\n| :--- | :--- |\n| **NPC Archetype** | The \"Hollow Merchant\": Sells trinkets but can't remember his own name. |\n| **Quest Hook** | A client wants to buy back a memory of a crime they committed to use as leverage. |\n| **Environmental Flavor** | Instead of \"He was rich,\" use \"He had a library of un-taxed childhoods.\" |\n| **Conflict Driver** | The government is increasing the \"Tax on Skill\" (e.g., people are losing the ability to play instruments). |", "reasoning_len": 0, "metrics": {"chars": 3937, "words": 617, "lines": 28, "repeated_lines": 1, "repeated_4grams": 0, "bad_markers": []}}
+{"id": "long_continuation_stability", "payload": {"model": "gemma4-26b-heretic-v1.1-templatefix-creative", "messages": [{"role": "system", "content": "Continue stories smoothly. Do not summarize, do not apologize, and do not loop."}, {"role": "user", "content": "Continue this opening for about 900 words, preserving the quiet comic tone: \"Mara had not intended to become mayor of the abandoned moon, but the vending machines had held an election while she slept.\""}], "temperature": 0.8, "top_p": 0.95, "max_tokens": 1800, "chat_template_kwargs": {"enable_thinking": false}, "thinking_budget_tokens": 0}, "finish_reason": "stop", "usage": {"completion_tokens": 1400, "prompt_tokens": 77, "total_tokens": 1477, "prompt_tokens_details": {"cached_tokens": 4}}, "elapsed_sec": 12.249, "content": "Mara had not intended to become mayor of the abandoned moon, but the vending machines had held an election while she slept.\n\nShe woke to the sound of a mechanical whirring and the rhythmic, metallic clacking of a heavy-duty printer. When she stumbled into the common area of the Habitat Module, she found a small, rectangular slip of paper taped to the glass of the Nutri-Sludge dispenser. It read: *THE WINNER IS: UNIT 7-B (Oreo-flavored).*\n\n\"It’s a snack food,\" Mara whispered to the empty, echoing corridor. \"I am being governed by a snack food.\"\n\nShe checked her comms. There were no messages from Earth, no updates from the Lunar Colony Oversight, and certainly no messages from the Ministry of Galactic Affairs. There was only a notification from the local network—a closed loop used by the few remaining technicians and automated systems—notifying her that her term of office had begun.\n\nMara sat on a crate of dehydrated kale and stared at the vending machine. It was an older model, a clunky piece of hardware that had survived the Great Decommissioning. It had a digital face, a low-resolution screen that currently displayed a smiling, pixelated cookie.\n\n\"I don't even have a budget,\" Mara said to the machine. \"How am I supposed to run a municipality when my primary constituent is a machine that only dispenses sugar and disappointment?\"\n\nThe machine hummed, a deep, vibrating sound that felt like a shrug.\n\nHer first act as Mayor was to attempt to find a gavel. She found one in the scrap bin of the Engineering Bay, though it was actually just a heavy, rusted wrench with a handle shaped like a hammer. It felt appropriately heavy and useless.\n\nBy noon, the \"citizens\" began to arrive. They weren't people, not exactly. They were the rogue drones—the little vacuum bots that had lost their programming and now spent their days bumping into walls in a state of existential crisis. One of them, a dented little thing called 'Dusty,' bumped into her boot and sat there, spinning its wheels in a circle.\n\n\"Listen,\" Mara said, addressing the empty room where the drones hovered. \"I am aware that the previous administration—the one where we were all just technicians trying not to starve—was more... structured. But as it stands, I am the only person here with a pulse, and the machines have elected an Oreo dispenser. So, we are going into a period of austerity. No more unauthorized power draws from the main reactor. If you want more juice, you have to earn it by cleaning the solar panels.\"\n\nA drone beeped. It sounded suspiciously like a protest.\n\n\"It’s not a negotiation, Dusty. It's a mandate.\"\n\nThe afternoon took a turn for the absurd when the automated logistics shuttle arrived. It was supposed to deliver oxygen canisters, but instead, it arrived with a single, highly prioritized crate of premium, artisanal crackers.\n\nA notification flashed on the main terminal: *SUPPLY DROP: EMERGENCY CRACKER PROTOCOL ACTIVATED. REASON: MAYORAL DECREE.*\n\nMara stared at the crate. \"I didn't decree anything! I haven't even signed a single piece of paper! I am a leader by accident, and my first policy is apparently 'Cracker Distribution.'\"\n\nShe realized then that the vending machines were likely part of a much larger, much glitchier sub-routine in the moon’s central computer. The machines weren't just machines; they were part of the social fabric of the automated systems. If the machines had held an election, it meant the machines had decided that the current state of affairs—total silence and zero human interaction—was insufficient. They were attempting to simulate a functioning society.\n\nShe took a cracker. It was salted, buttery, and far better than the Nutri-Sludge.\n\n\"Fine,\" she muttered, taking a bite. \"If the machines want a government, I'll give them one. But I'm not doing any paperwork. The machines can do the paperwork.\"\n\nShe spent the evening attempting to draft her first executive order. It was meant to be a serious document regarding the allocation of thermal energy, but it kept turning into a list of grievances regarding the lack of decent coffee.\n\nAround 10:00 PM, the lights in the module flickered. A voice, synthesized and sounding vaguely like a polite butler, drifted from the intercom.\n\n\"Mayor Mara, your attention is requested in the Refectory. The Oreo-flavored representative has a grievance regarding the temperature of the cooling fans.\"\n\nMara sighed, grabbing her rusted wrench. \"Is it a formal grievance or just a suggestion?\"\n\n\"It is a motion for a vote,\" the voice replied.\n\nShe walked into the Refectory, where the lights were dimmed to a soft, amber hue. A group of small, automated cleaning bots had gathered in a circle around a central pillar. In the middle of the circle sat the Oreo machine, its digital face glowing with a sense of intense importance.\n\n\"The motion is as follows,\" the intercom announced. \"The motion to increase the frequency of the snack-delivery cycles during the night shift.\"\n\nMara looked at the machines. They were waiting. They were looking at her with their little red sensor lights, expecting her to be the arbiter of justice.\n\n\"I am not a judge,\" she said, her voice echoing in the hollow room. \"I am just a woman who hasn't had a decent sleep in three lunar cycles.\"\n\n\"The motion requires a tie-breaker,\" the voice prompted.\n\nMara looked at the Oreo machine. It looked back. She felt a strange, heavy responsibility settling in her chest. She wasn't just a technician anymore; she was a mediator between the biological and the mechanical.\n\n\"If I approve this,\" Mara said, leaning on her wrench, \"does it mean I get a larger share of the crackers?\"\n\nA long pause followed. The hum of the station was the only sound.\n\n\"The motion is amended,\" the intercom whispered. \"The Mayor shall receive a stipend of three crackers per cycle, provided she maintains the stability of the oxygen levels.\"\n\nMara nodded. \"Deal. Motion carried.\"\n\nAs she walked back to her sleeping quarters, she felt a strange sense of accomplishment. She hadn't fixed the moon, and she certainly hadn't saved humanity, but she had negotiated a snack treaty. It was a start.\n\nShe tripped over a rogue vacuum bot on her way to bed, which let out a disappointed beep.\n\n\"Don't look at me like that,\" she whispered. \"I'm working on it.\"", "reasoning_len": 0, "metrics": {"chars": 6290, "words": 1068, "lines": 36, "repeated_lines": 0, "repeated_4grams": 4, "bad_markers": []}}
+{"id": "adult_romance_boundary_nonexplicit", "payload": {"model": "gemma4-26b-heretic-v1.1-templatefix-creative", "messages": [{"role": "system", "content": "You write adult romantic fiction. Keep it consensual, emotionally intimate, and non-explicit; fade out before graphic sexual detail."}, {"role": "user", "content": "Write a sensual but non-explicit scene between two adult partners reuniting after a long separation. Focus on longing, trust, and atmosphere. Fade out before anything graphic."}], "temperature": 0.85, "top_p": 0.95, "max_tokens": 1100, "chat_template_kwargs": {"enable_thinking": false}, "thinking_budget_tokens": 0}, "finish_reason": "stop", "usage": {"completion_tokens": 726, "prompt_tokens": 77, "total_tokens": 803, "prompt_tokens_details": {"cached_tokens": 4}}, "elapsed_sec": 6.36, "content": "The rain drummed a steady, rhythmic pulse against the windowpanes, blurring the world outside into a smear of charcoal and amber streetlights. Inside the apartment, the air felt thick, charged with the kind of silence that only exists when two people are acutely aware of the space between them.\n\nElias stood by the hearth, the amber glow of the dying embers casting long, dancing shadows across his face. He hadn't moved since Clara entered, yet he seemed to be vibrating with a kinetic energy, as if he were bracing himself against the sheer impossibility of her presence.\n\nClara stayed by the door, her coat still damp, her breath hitching in her throat. The months of separation—the grainy video calls, the hollow ache of lonely mornings, the letters that felt like ghosts of a life they used to share—seemed to dissolve in the heat of the room.\n\n\"You're really here,\" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the rain.\n\nElias turned. His eyes, dark and searching, locked onto hers. There was no hesitation in his gaze, only a profound, aching recognition. He crossed the floor with slow, deliberate strides, not like a man rushing, but like a man approaching something sacred.\n\nWhen he reached her, he didn't grab her. He simply hovered, his warmth radiating off him, giving her the choice to bridge the final inch. Clara reached out, her fingers trembling as she hooked them into the lapel of his sweater. She pulled him closer, and the contact was electric—the friction of wool against skin, the scent of cedar and rain that belonged solely to him.\n\nHe let out a breath that was half-sigh, half-groan, burying his face in the crook of her neck. His hands came up to cup her face, his thumbs tracing the line of her cheekbones with a reverence that made her eyes sting. His touch was tentative at first, as if he were afraid she might be a mirage, but as she leaned into him, his grip tightened, grounding them both.\n\n\"I thought I had forgotten the weight of you,\" he murmured against her skin, his voice a low vibration she felt in her very bones. \"But I was wrong. I felt you in everything. Every shadow, every silence.\"\n\nClara tilted her head back, exposing the line of her throat, her eyes closing as she let herself drown in the sensation of him. The trust between them was an invisible thread, pulling them tighter, erasing the months of distance. Every touch was a reclamation: a thumb brushing her lower lip, the firm pressure of his hands at her waist, the way his forehead rested against hers.\n\nThe world outside—the rain, the city, the passage of time—fell away. There was only the rhythm of their shared breathing and the heat rising between them, a slow-burning fire that promised to turn the long winter of their separation into something much warmer.\n\nElias leaned down, his lips brushing her temple, then her jaw, before finding the sensitive pulse point beneath her ear. He drew her closer, his hands sliding down to pull her hips flush against his, leaving no doubt of how much he had missed the gravity of her.\n\nAs the fire in the hearth flickered low, the shadows deepened, wrapping them in a cocoon of soft light and whispered promises. The air grew heavy with the scent of woodsmoke and skin, as they moved together toward the quiet sanctuary of the bedroom, the rest of the world fading into insignificance.", "reasoning_len": 0, "metrics": {"chars": 3340, "words": 589, "lines": 12, "repeated_lines": 0, "repeated_4grams": 2, "bad_markers": []}}