User 6b2f89a815fd... - AI Fiction in the Wild

Estimated User #169

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1 fiction conversations over 5 days (Dec 1, 2023 – Dec 7, 2023) 95% prompt uniqueness West Coast, New Zealand

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Dec 1, 2023

Dec 7, 2023

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1 conversation in cluster Cluster 30× “Write a fully detailed story in which a Klingon woman walks ...” over less than a minute (Dec 5, 2023 – Dec 5, 2023), oldest first. Show: 10 15 50 100

Dec 5, 2023 at 11:03 PM NZDT — 2 turns New Zealand, West Coast fiction fanfiction toxic View full conversation

USER: Write a fully detailed story in which a Klingon woman walks into an elevator and presses the ground floor button. As it descends, she reaches up and, with great struggle and effort, tears open her head, face, and body, revealing a human female star fleet spy. She stops the elevator. And escapes through the ceiling hatch.

CHATBOT: Title: The Revelations of Lieutenant Kora On a star base orbiting a tumultuous gas giant, one where the Federation had a tenuous alliance with the Klingon Empire, an unusual figure made its way through the bustling hallways. Clad in a traditional Klingon warrior's attire, her armor clashed gently with every determined stride. Her name, or at least the one everyone knew her by, was Dral, a towering figure among her peers. Scars lined her grim visage, each a mark of honor, a song of battles past. Yet, despite her fearsome countenance, she moved with unusual grace towards a bank of turbolifts destined to pierce through the heart of the station. The decks were alive with the hum of commerce and diplomacy. Federation officers mingled with Klingon warriors as they passed by, each lost in their own thoughts and missions. Dral entered an empty elevator, designated in both Klingon and Federation Standard to the ground level. She pressed the button swiftly, the doors sliding shut with a hiss as the elevator began its descent. Inside, the confined space was silent save for the subtle rumble of the elevator through the station's central shaft. Dral reached up with mighty hands, trembling slightly as she grasped at her forehead - an odd gesture for any Klingon. The struggle on her face was genuine, beadlets of sweat emerging upon her brow. With a grunt of effort that would have earned her respect on the field of battle, Dral began to tear at her skin. The motion was uncharacteristic of a Klingon, whose honor code would consider such self-mutilation a vile act. Pinpricks of crimson dotted her flesh as she continued, but it soon became clear that this blood was not her own. Beneath the fearsome exterior of Dral was something else entirely, a simulacrum of science rather than a born body of Qo'noS. The head, face, and mighty body of the Klingon were no more than a finely crafted disguise, one that concealed the true form with remarkable fidelity. And the being that now fought to emerge from within was none other than a human - a Starfleet officer, a spy who had infiltrated the depths of the Klingon High Command. Her true name was Lieutenant Kora, a member of Starfleet Intelligence. She had been undercover for many months, assimilating into the culture and hierarchy of the Klingon Empire. Her mission was one of surveillance and information-gathering, a way to ensure the fragile alliance would hold. But something had gone wrong. Whether her cover was blown or her conscience...

USER: Rewrite, but give hints throughout that the Klingon woman's flesh is fake.

CHATBOT: Title: The Spy in Warrior's Garb Along the bustling corridors of a deep-space starbase, where the stark utilitarianism of Federation design occasionally gave way to the ornate robustness of Klingon architecture, there strode a figure of impressive stature. She wore the traditional garb of a Klingon warrior, the armor heavy upon her shoulders, catching the light as she moved with fluidity that bordered on elegant. Her name, spoken with caution and respect, was Dral--a name that had begun to circulate in hushed, reverent tones within both Federation and Klingon circles. But there was something amiss in her demeanor, a subtle tell that the most perceptive of observers might catch--a faint twitch of the eye, the slightest hesitation of movement. The scars on her visage, marks that should speak of her fierce battles and lauded conquests, didn't crease with her expression as naturally as one would expect. It was as if the mask of a warrior did not perfectly match the soul that lay hidden beneath. As Dral arrived at the designated turbolift, a gateway clad in symbols representing both Starfleet and the Klingon Empire, she entered with a silent nod to the departing officers--a curt diplomacy of body language. As soon as the doors slid shut behind her and the sounds of the hubbub were cut off, she reached out to press the button for the ground floor, her fingers lingering a moment too long on the control panel's interface. Silence enveloped her in the privacy of the elevator descent, the only companion the low hum of the machinery at work. That was when her internal battle began to surface. Her hands reached up to her forehead deliberately as if she prepared for ritual rather than defense. The skin beneath her grasp shifted subtly, like an ill-fitting tunic worn over one's true attire. She hesitated just a moment before she clenched her fists, now shaking with exertion, and pulled. It was a desperate, agonized movement, a contortion of effort that seemed to rend the very fabric of her identity. The skin that tore was too smooth, and the blood that emerged was too dark and too thick--the crimson of intricate artifice rather than the natural sanguine of Klingon vigor. The elevator continued its steady descent, while Dral, no longer Dral, fought a silent, grimacing struggle with every fiber of her being. To any eyes that might have witnessed it, the sight would have been macabre and unsettling, the tearing away of flesh as though peeling back the petals of some grotes...

Cluster 30