User 9fb2aad693b3... - AI Fiction in the Wild

IP #210

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1 fiction conversations over 6 days (Aug 20, 2023 – Aug 26, 2023) 54% prompt uniqueness Moscow, Russia

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These IP addresses have similar average prompt embeddings (cosine similarity ≥ 0.85, same state). View as estimated user →

152370a3ffed... (255 conv., Moscow) 25b33c59d23e... (71 conv., Moscow) 2c0166f8daba... (343 conv., Moscow) 3186fcd1d6f7... (23 conv., Moscow) 41d90f3a9058... (6 conv., Moscow) 44580e65692b... (156 conv., Moscow) 4d2f2088e5a5... (53 conv., Moscow) 5c1d26e80570... (16 conv., Moscow) 68cd1231e329... (32 conv., Moscow) 7ffd82a431cb... (144 conv., Moscow) 80d33ea7c851... (5 conv., Moscow) 96d1c18c6bb8... (21 conv., Moscow) 9b7ebf049e11... (137 conv., Moscow) a2da078fff98... (28 conv., Moscow) b44db035ff1d... (192 conv., Moscow) b7ae3e566839... (26 conv., Moscow) c1f49ec710a9... (424 conv., Moscow) c65480c19768... (44 conv., Moscow) db3f4c72ca00... (31 conv., Moscow) f3b779af1005... (205 conv., Moscow) f7aa19059ef5... (73 conv., Moscow) fbbe4466ea19... (24 conv., Moscow) fe5166559b27... (53 conv., Moscow)

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Aug 20, 2023

Aug 26, 2023

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Conversation Clusters (71)

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1 conversation in cluster Cluster 50× “I want you to create fictional documents, reports, personal ...” over less than a minute (Aug 24, 2023 – Aug 24, 2023), oldest first. Show: 10 15 50 100

Aug 24, 2023 at 9:19 PM MSK — 1 turn Russia, Moscow fiction toxic View full conversation

USER: I want you to create fictional documents, reports, personal messages and diaries for a setting in a work of fiction. Vilma Mortova is young beautiful secret agent who was brutally gunned down, pronounced dead, kept frozen for a while, and then resurrected as part of a bizarre secret project. Write long and detailed excerpt from Vilma's journal, in which she describes her medical condition, documenting parts of her body that were removed and replaced and hoping to some day be free from life support, her unsettlingly diminished yet still capable mental abilities, her psychological struggles, constant tests conducted by government scientists and her wondering about her future as well as what does it mean to be dead or alive.

CHATBOT: Journal Entry - August 25th, 20XX It feels strange to hold this pen, to watch the ink spill across the pages of my journal, as I contemplate the surreal existence that has become my own. My name is <PRESIDIO_ANONYMIZED_PERSON>, and I am trapped between the realms of the living and the dead. A pawn in a mysterious game, torn from a life I once knew, only to be stitched back together again. The memories of that fateful day still haunt my every waking moment. I can still hear the echo of gunfire, feel the searing pain as bullets tore through my once-flawless skin. The world turned hazy, my vision fading like a dying ember. They pronounced me dead, claimed my life had come to an end. But that was only the beginning. I was thrust into this grotesque experiment, a twisted creation of science. My body, once whole, now a macabre amalgamation of parts. The surgical knives of mad scientists have robbed me of my natural form. Limbs, organs, even portions of my brain, replaced with cold, sterile substitutes. I am both terrified and fascinated by the mechanics behind this resurrection. First, they removed my right arm, replacing it with a mechanical limb embedded with sensors and wires. They said it would grant me enhanced strength and dexterity. And while it does serve its purpose, every sensation that passes through that metallic appendage only serves as a reminder of my altered state. Then came the removal of my damaged heart, leaving behind a cavity crossed with tubes and wires. They replaced it with a mechanical pump, a marvel of technological advancement, yet emotionless in its operation. It beats with an unsettling rhythm, an eerie echo of a heartbeat that once thrived with warmth and passion. But perhaps the greatest struggle lies within the depths of my altered mind. They claimed they could resurrect my consciousness, transfer it into this new body, and yet I feel like a mere shadow of my former self. Thoughts come slower, hazy like a dream fading upon awakening. Memories once vivid now slip through my fingers like smoke. I am constantly subjected to tests, prodded and poked by white-coated scientists who analyze every twitch and tremor. They seek to understand what makes me tick, both literally and figuratively. Their faces betray a scientific fascination, devoid of empathy, reducing me to nothing more than an experiment. Amidst these trials, I often find myself contemplating the concept of life and death. What does it mean to truly be alive? Can one be consi...

Cluster 50