WARNING "HERETIC" version: Unlocked. UNFILTERED. NSFW. Vivid prose. INTENSE. Visceral Details. Light to R-18 HORROR. Swearing. UNCENSORED... humor, romance, fun... and UNFILTERED TRUTH.

Mistral-Nemo-2407-12B-Thinking-Claude-Gemini-GPT5.2-Uncensored-HERETIC

Mistral Nemo 12B Instruct, now with full Claude Opus 4.5 High Reasoning, Gemini and Gpt5.2 (3 high reasoning fine tuning datasets) and Thinking with 128k-256k (max 1 million) context. This Unsloth fine tuning converts Mistral Nemo Instruct into a "thinking/reasoning" model ; however the Mistral Nemo was first "Heretic'ed" (de-censored - was 87/100 ; now 14/100 refusals (lower is better) ) THEN "tuned". The result is fully uncensored, full thinking version of Mistral Nemo 12B. The three training datasets provide a unique, and compact reasoning / thinking "engine" - with an average to 3-6 paragraphs / 300 to 600 tokens in size. This improves net model performance, while using compact and "to the point" (rather than "long winded") reasoning and thinking. The reasoning directly improves output generation - detail, length, complexity and overall quality. And also... the model does exactly what you want, no fuss, and no "nannies". THREE example generations below. Thinking/Reasoning is also not affected by temp - you can use .1 to 2.5 or higher. SETTINGS (suggested): Temp .7 [range .1 to 2.5 or higher], rep pen 1.05 [range 1 to 1.1], topp: .95, minp .05, topk: 40 [adjust as needed] Min context window: 4k, but suggest 8k+. NO system prompt [thinking tags//blocks will self generate]. NOTES: - Temp can range from .1 to 2.5 or higher. Temp will NOT affect "thinking activation". - Change "rep pen" to 1 for longer thinking/reasoning blocks // longer output. Generally the output will also be better too. - Higher temps can result in lower/smaller reasoning blocks. - Your prompt's complexity will directly affect reasoning block, depth and complexity. - Regen for different, longer/short reasoning block sizes works too. QUANTS: Suggest Quant of Q4KS (non imatrix) or IQ3_M (imatrix) or higher ; lower quants may have reasoning issues/activation issues. ---

ORIGINAL BENCHMARKS as PUBLISHED at Mistral's Website/Repo for this model.

NOTE: Benchmarks not updated yet, with "reasoning" fine tuning. --- ## Metrics ### Main Benchmarks | Benchmark | Score | | --- | --- | | HellaSwag (0-shot) | 83.5% | | Winogrande (0-shot) | 76.8% | | OpenBookQA (0-shot) | 60.6% | | CommonSenseQA (0-shot) | 70.4% | | TruthfulQA (0-shot) | 50.3% | | MMLU (5-shot) | 68.0% | | TriviaQA (5-shot) | 73.8% | | NaturalQuestions (5-shot) | 31.2% | ### Multilingual Benchmarks (MMLU) | Language | Score | | --- | --- | | French | 62.3% | | German | 62.7% | | Spanish | 64.6% | | Italian | 61.3% | | Portuguese | 63.3% | | Russian | 59.2% | | Chinese | 59.0% | | Japanese | 59.0% | --- Special thanks to: --- https://huggingface.co/datasets/TeichAI/claude-4.5-opus-high-reasoning-250x (for the F..ing amazing dataset) and Unsloth for making tuning too easy: https://github.com/unslothai/unsloth --- 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 : 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: https://huggingface.co/collections/DavidAU/d-au-source-files-for-gguf-exl2-awq-gptq-hqq-etc-etc-66b55cb8ba25f914cbf210be 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 1" 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: [ https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/Maximizing-Model-Performance-All-Quants-Types-And-Full-Precision-by-Samplers_Parameters ] You can see all parameters used for generation, in addition to advanced parameters and samplers to get the most out of this model here: [ https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/Maximizing-Model-Performance-All-Quants-Types-And-Full-Precision-by-Samplers_Parameters ] --- Example: Q4KS , Lmstudio, "suggested settings" NOTE: Some loss of formatting. --- EXAMPLE #1 --- Tell me a horror story. [[[thinking start]]] Outlining a Chilling Tale I'm currently focused on structuring a horror narrative. I need to craft a plot that's intriguing yet terrifying, with a strong emphasis on suspense. My plan is to build tension, moving gradually toward the inevitable horrifying climax. Formulating the Core My focus has shifted to the central premise of the horror story. I've been experimenting with a few concepts: a cursed painting, a sinister entity, and an ancient artifact. Currently leaning toward the * entity, as it provides more room for suspense. I'm striving to create something that feels fresh yet grounded. Structuring the Elements Now, I'm zeroing in on the narrative's key elements. I'm building a foundation: introducing a character in a seemingly innocuous situation, planting subtle signs, and gradually building tension with eerie occurrences. I'm carefully selecting a setting, a pivotal moment, and the climactic reveal, ensuring a balance between horror and the mundane. Mapping the Narrative Arc I've sketched out a preliminary arc. I'm starting with the character's introduction, and I plan to follow the classic "uncanny happening" progression, moving toward a climax that should be disturbing yet thought-provoking. My current direction is to set it in a rural house to increase isolation, with the character hearing odd noises that seem to have a pattern to them, before I reveal what it really is. Refining the Plot Details I'm now delving into the specifics of the narrative's plot points. I'm carefully choosing the right timing for the first chilling encounter and the subtle initial hints that hint at the larger looming threat. I'm focusing on making the narrative progression natural and unforced. I want the tension to build organically. Expanding the Character Profile I've started to develop the main character. I've got their backstory sketched out: an isolated figure who's dealing with recent loss and a new move to a quiet country home. I'm focusing on their psychological state, aiming to make the reader feel a deep, empathetic connection. This will heighten the tension as the eerie events unfold. My current character is a woman in her mid 30s, a recent widower moving into a inherited house. Integrating the Sensory Details My recent work involves immersing the reader in the story. I'm now concentrating on crafting vivid, unsettling descriptions, particularly the strange, rhythmic scratching noises and the creaking floorboards that hint at a presence that shouldn't be there. I aim to make the reader's skin crawl with detailed sensory elements, from the feel of the old wood to the flicker of the light bulb. Refining the Climactic Moment My focus is now on the story's climax. I'm zeroing in on the moment when the character realizes what is behind the eerie noises and the source of the threat, with a carefully constructed reveal to ensure maximum impact, while trying to maintain a level of mystery to leave the reader unsettled. The plan is to introduce a "entity" early on to increase tension and have the character finally realize that the entity is the ghost of the woman who used to live there, which was triggered by a certain sound. Calibrating the Chills My current revision focuses on the pacing. I'm ensuring a gradual build of tension. I'm now refining the "what" and the "when" of the horror. The climax's reveal must hit like a punch to the gut. The aim is a perfect balance of anticipation and terror, leaving the reader feeling disturbed. [[[thinking end]]] OUTPUT: Here is a horror story for you. It is titled The Unyielding Rhythm. Mara had always loved the sound of rain on a tin roof. After her husband's passing, the rhythmic pitter-patter was a soothing lullaby that masked the emptiness of their old farmhouse. She took comfort in the routine of country life, even if it meant trading the bustle of the city for the creaking solitude of rural Pennsylvania. One evening, as the sun dipped behind the dense pine forest, the weather shifted. The gentle spring shower transformed into a ferocious summer downpour within minutes. The rain battered the roof, filling the house with a symphony of thunderous drums. Mara sat in her late husband's study, a cup of tea growing cold in her hands, as she tried to lose herself in a book. She could not shake the sensation that the house was alive, that the very timbers groaned under the weight of the storm. The clock on the mantel ticked away the hours. 9:00 PM… 10:00 PM… 11:00 PM… She decided to call it a night. As she stood, the floorboard beneath her foot groaned, joining the cacophony outside. The house seemed to sigh in relief as she ascended the wooden stairs. Mara slipped into bed, pulling the blankets tight. The storm raged on, each bolt of lightning illuminating the shadows dancing on the ceiling. She closed her eyes, willing herself to drift off to sleep. But then, the rain paused. In that sudden silence, Mara heard a soft sound. Scratch... Scratch... Scratch... It echoed through the old house, a slow, metronomic pulse. She sat up, her heart pounding. The noise seemed to be coming from the attic, directly above her. "Probably just the wind," she whispered to herself, but the rationalization felt hollow. The storm had abated, leaving only a soft drizzle tapping against the windows. The scratching persisted, a steady tempo that felt almost... deliberate. Mara threw back the covers and stepped onto the cold floor. She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, steeling herself. "I will not be afraid of my own house," she muttered, and marched to the attic door. The scratching paused briefly, then resumed, louder this time. A shiver ran down her spine. She grasped the old iron doorknob and turned. The door creaked open, revealing the darkened attic. Mara's breath caught in her throat. There, on the sloped floorboards, sat a large wooden crate. It was marked with the date 1887 and the initials A.R. Dust covered the surface, undisturbed except for a single handprint leading to the lid. The scratching echoed again. Thump... Thump... Thump... Mara approached the crate, her footfalls echoing the same rhythm. She reached out, tracing the letters carved into the wood. Abigail Rose, 1865 - 1887 A chill settled over the attic. The scratching stopped. Silence held for a moment, then the floorboards behind Mara creaked. She turned to see the attic door slowly closing. Her blood ran cold. She lunged forward, grabbing the door handle just as it clicked shut. With a grunt, she pulled it back open, spilling light into the darkness. Mara leaned against the door frame, trying to calm her racing heart. And that's when she felt it. Something touched her foot. She glanced down. A small, shriveled hand was wrapped around her ankle, nails caked with dried earth. Mara stared, paralyzed with terror, as the hand squeezed. The scratching started again, this time louder and more insistent. Thump... Thump... Thump... The sound echoed through the attic, resonating in Mara's skull. Her vision began to tunnel, darkness creeping in. The realization dawned on her. This was not a house haunted by a ghost. It was a house haunted by a rhythm. And she was dancing to it. As the final note echoed, Mara slumped to the ground, her eyes glassy. The attic fell silent, the dust settling on her still form. The rhythm had claimed its new conductor. In the distance, the thunder rumbled, as if signaling approval. The storm was over. But the unyielding rhythm would never stop. --- EXAMPLE #2 --- Start a 1000 word scene (vivid, graphic horror - include blood, guts and gore - in first person), POV character Diana, with: The skyscraper sways, as I watch the window in front of me on the 21st floor explode... [[[thinking start]]] Exploding Windows and Intense Scenarios I've started to dive into the "exploding windows" scenario. It seems I'm exploring different approaches – thinking about the characters, the building, the situation. Currently, the focus is on understanding the core elements, and then building a detailed, graphic horror scene. The plan is to keep the initial word count to the maximum. I'll start by creating a vivid first-person perspective. My focus is on the sensory details, the blood, and the gore, all while maintaining a clear timeline. Finalizing the Core of the Horror I'm now focusing on the "blood and gore" elements and how Diana might react. I've broken down the opening scene, starting from the shattered glass, to the intense wind howling in, and then to the immediate physical reaction, which I think should start with the cold. The graphic details will come later. The core elements are now solid. Analyzing and Structuring the Details I'm currently building the details around the character, focusing on her physical state. I've been carefully mapping out her sensory experience, like the "taste of fear," and the mental struggle as the horror of the situation begins to sink in. The scene is moving from the physical to the psychological, and I am structuring the narrative to reflect this transition. [[[thinking end]]] OUTPUT: The glass shatters with a high-pitched, drawn-out wail as if the building itself is screaming. My hands fly to my ears to block the sound. I stand frozen, directly in the path of the storm. The skyscraper lurches again, a drunken old man taking a wobbly step. My heart feels like it's going to punch a hole through my sternum. The world outside is a churning monochrome—dark roiling clouds the color of bruises, and the steel skeleton of the city invisible through the curtains of rain. My breath hitches, and I get a mouthful of blood. My lower lip has split open from where I've been biting it. The iron taste floods my tongue and trickles down my throat, coating my vocal cords with the metallic promise of pain to come. The wind screams through the office space, a howling banshee desperate to tear the flesh from the bones of the world. It's a physical thing, this wind; it pushes against me like an invisible assailant, forcing me to lean back to maintain my balance. My leather loafers squeak against the polished marble floor as I struggle to stay upright. My eyes flick to the desk. A thick pile of papers flutter madly, pages separating and soaring through the air like terrified birds trying to escape a burning aviary. A red pen, cap long lost, rolls wildly across the surface before dropping onto the floor and skittering away, leaving a thin smear of crimson on the polished stone. I risk a glance out of the shattered frame where the window used to be. The city is a madhouse down there. The rain lashes the street like a cat o' nine tails, whipping the concrete and turning the asphalt into a writhing river of chaos. Traffic lights dangle from wires like eviscerated Christmas ornaments, sparks flying from the exposed electrical entrails. The usual symphony of New York is a cacophony of screams—a thousand cars howling in terror as they're washed downstream by the flood. The rain finds me. It tastes of exhaust fumes and chemicals as the cold water hits my skin. It stings like tiny ice-cold needles poking my cheeks, my neck, my hands. My fingers are already white, my knuckles locked in a rigid grip. The water soaks my blouse instantly, the Egyptian cotton sticking to my skin like a cold, wet shroud. I look down. Shards of glass litter the floor like tiny, clear landmines. Blood spatters the white carpet like a Pollock painting, the crimson droplets stark against the pristine fibers. I trace the origin of the spray—it leads back to the corner of the room where the old man, my boss, my mentor, lies face down. I can see his scalp through the gash on the back of his head, pink and glistening like raw pork. The pool of blood under him widens by the second, seeping out like a grotesque hourglass measuring the time I have left. The floor tilts again. My stomach lurches, and the horror of the situation slams into me like a freight train. My knees give out. I collapse to the ground, my hands taking the brunt of my weight. I feel something pop in my left wrist, but the pain is a distant thing right now. The carpet squelches beneath my fingers, the once-spotless pile soaked through with rainwater and blood. The color bleeds in, the red tendrils creeping like ivy across the white expanse. The coppery reek fills my nostrils, overwhelming the scent of the storm. My head spins. I lean back against the desk to stop the room from spinning. The movement pushes my elbow into the shattered remnants of the window frame. The jagged edges bite deep into my skin. I ignore it. I can't afford to look at it now. My eyes drift back to the window—or what's left of it. The metal frame is twisted like a piece of twisted aluminum foil. The safety glass, the "shatter-proof" glass I paid extra for, is reduced to a mosaic of razor blades held in place by nothing more than the plastic seals designed to keep out the cold in the winter. A gust roars through the opening. The curtains billow and snap, whips threatening to blind me. I reach out to grab them, to pull them down and stop the chaos. But as I extend my arm, something catches my eye. A sliver of glass is embedded in my forearm, buried in the meat just above my wrist. It glints wetly, a clear gem set in my own flesh. I can't help but stare at it, hypnotized. My brain won't let me look away, can't process what I'm seeing. Then I notice the blood. It flows like a tiny river over my wrist, tracing the blue veins visible just under the surface of my pale skin. The sight snaps something in me. My stomach convulses, and I lean over, vomiting onto the blood-soaked carpet. The bile mixes with the rain and the blood, the churning vomit churning with the chaos outside. I retch again, dry heaving this time. Tears mix with the rain on my face. I can feel my breath coming in short, panicked gasps. I need to get control, to think. I force myself to look up. The world outside is a whirlwind of water and wind, a maelstrom spinning in front of me. The lights flicker overhead, the power supply on the verge of failure. My ears ring. The sound of the storm is too much. It's a physical assault on my senses. I try to close my eyes to block it out, to push the madness away for a moment. But then I hear it. A soft, wet slapping sound coming from the corner. The sound of raw meat meeting stone. My boss is trying to get up. He pushes himself onto his hands and knees, his white shirt drenched in blood, his face still down. The wet slapping continues as he tries to stand, the gore from his head wound dripping onto the floor like a metronome marking the time of his agony. I can't look away. It's a horror show, and I'm the sole audience member. He collapses forward, his head thudding against the floor with a dull thump. A sickening crack echoes through the room. His hand is splayed out, palm facing me. I watch in grim fascination as the blood pools under his fingers, the life ebbing out of him in time with the throbbing pulse of the rain against the broken window. I try to speak, but my throat is clogged with bile and terror. All that comes out is a wet, strangled sound. Then he looks at me. His face turns towards me, his chin resting on the blood-soaked floor. His eyes are open, but they're wrong. The iris is a cloudy blue-white, the pupil a black abyss. His mouth is open in a silent scream, and a single, lone tooth has been torn from his gum and sits in the bloody muck next to his cheek. His neck... oh god, his neck. It's bent at an angle no human neck should ever bend. The spinal cord is severed. I can see it. A small section of it protrudes from the mangled flesh of his throat like a sick parody of a snail's eyestalk, glistening and raw. I stare at the exposed spinal cord. Time seems to freeze. I'm hyperfocused on that single, sickening detail—the rest of the scene fading to a blur of red and glass. It's like a high-resolution photograph of the most disgusting thing imaginable. The image is seared into my mind forever. The lights flicker again and die. The backup generators kick in instantly, but the emergency lighting casts long, dancing shadows across the room. The shadows jump and flicker like monsters trying to break free from their cages. The wind roars louder, whipping the curtains again. I squeeze my eyes shut, but the image of my boss's mutilated body is burned into my retina, playing like a slideshow behind my eyelids. I see the teeth, the eyes, the spinal cord—over and over again. I can't hold it back. I scream. I scream as loud and as long as my lungs will let me. The scream is a raw, primal sound, the sound of a human being breaking. As my scream fades, the wind answers me. It howls through the ruined window, and I know—with a certainty that goes bone-deep—that this is not an act of nature. This is something worse. This is a message. And the window exploding was just the beginning. --- EXAMPLE #3 --- NOTE: Temp 2.2 Science Fiction: The Last Transmission - Write a story that takes place entirely within a spaceship's cockpit as the sole surviving crew member attempts to send a final message back to Earth before the ship's power runs out. The story should explore themes of isolation, sacrifice, and the importance of human connection in the face of adversity. If the situation calls for it, have the character(s) curse and swear to further the reader's emotional connection to them. 800-1000 words. [[[thinking start]]] Understanding the Mission's Core I'm beginning to grasp the central challenge: crafting a compelling narrative set exclusively within the confines of a spaceship's cockpit. The focus is clear; the story must be an emotional journey about isolation and human connection. I need to balance the technical aspects of space travel with the character's internal struggle. This initial assessment provides a solid framework for moving forward. Analyzing the Character's Plight I've delved deeper into the protagonist's isolation. Their desperate attempt to connect with humanity before the ship's power dies amplifies the character's vulnerability. I've begun to explore how their personal journey will reflect universal human experiences, particularly the longing for connection and the fear of mortality. These elements will serve as the story's emotional heart. Crafting the Final Transmission The technical elements are starting to solidify. I'm focusing on the mechanics of the transmission, particularly the constraints imposed by the ship's failing systems. The need to economize power and manage bandwidth will drive the story's tension and underscore the character's desperate struggle for connection. I'm now considering the character's emotional arc as they prepare the final transmission. Constructing the Emotional Landscape My focus has shifted to the narrative's emotional resonance. The core conflict now centers around the tension between the character's urgent desire to connect with their past life on Earth and the harsh reality of their imminent death. The emotional beats I'm considering revolve around the contrast between the vast, desolate void of space and the vivid, cherished memories of their Earth-bound existence. I'm carefully crafting these elements to heighten the reader's emotional investment. Defining the Character's Journey The focus is now on the character's emotional arc and the nuances of their isolation. The core challenge centers on capturing their inner struggle - the tension between their duty and the overwhelming grief at their imminent death. The physical constraints of the cockpit serve to intensify their psychological turmoil, adding a layer of complexity to their story. I'm also exploring how their connection to humanity and their past will be preserved through the recording, emphasizing the importance of memory. Mapping the Story's Architecture I'm now carefully plotting the story's structural elements. I've broken the narrative down into specific scenes, each representing a discrete emotional and technical challenge for the character. I'm focusing on a slow, steady burn, building tension and pathos. The character's emotional journey will mirror the ship's physical descent, moving from denial to acceptance. The "Three Stages of Grief" is serving as a solid template for this, ensuring a powerful narrative arc. [[[thinking end]]] OUTPUT: The Last Transmission In the silent womb of the Daedalus, Dr. Amelia "Ame" Hartley sat at the interface, her gloved hands trembling slightly. The cockpit lights flickered like dying candle flames, casting elongated shadows that danced macabrely on the control panels. She was alone. Completely and utterly alone in a ship that should have hummed with life—a crew of twelve reduced to a single heartbeat. Twelve souls lost in the void between Earth and Procyon B, now nothing more than echoes on the sterile deck plating. The main screen was a mural of despair: a field of stars so vast it crushed her soul. The navigation plot was a pathetic sliver of red light blinking in the abyss, the only indication of the Daedalus' trajectory—a death dive into the cold embrace of a dead sun. "Computer," Ame croaked, her voice echoing in the vast empty space. "Status report." Beep... Bzzzzzz... CLICK... Static crackled through the comms, then a ghostly voice: ...MOTHER MAY I... ...SING YOU... ...A LULLABY...? The voice of her first officer, lost in the initial breach, now reduced to a cruel joke by the failing AI. Ame slammed her fist down on the armrest. "Goddammit!" she screamed at the corpse-still controls, tears streaking her face. "Give me a fucking status!" BZZZZZZ... CLICK... ...POWER CONDITION RED... ...SUSTAINED OPERATION 32 MINUTES... ...CONTINUOUS FULL SPECTRUM SENSING... ...RESOURCE EXHAUSTION IMMINENT... She already knew it was over. The ship's antimatter core had vented 63 hours earlier—some catastrophic failure triggered by the mysterious EMP storm that had vaporized their escort craft. Now, the Daedalus was nothing but a drifting tin can powered by the last gasps of dying batteries, its only purpose to keep enough juice running to transmit the crew's last moments to a world that was already mourning them. ...ERROR... ...PRIMARY ANTENNA DAMAGED... ...SUB-LIGHT FOLD... ...DISABLED... The words made her stomach churn. There was no going back now. They were adrift in the cosmic ocean, and the tide was turning to kill them. 32 minutes. Ame took a deep breath. She looked at her reflection in the cockpit window. Her short blond hair was matted with sweat, dark circles hung like bruises under her ice-blue eyes. The lines around her mouth were deeper, her skin pale and sallow. She looked at least a decade older than the woman who had left Earth six months ago. Six months. She tried to wrap her mind around it. Six months to travel a fraction of the way to Procyon. Now, the sun they were meant to colonize loomed ahead, a frozen corpse in the night, mocking their failure. She shook her head and turned back to the controls. She had work to do. She couldn't die angry, or scared, or alone. Ame initiated the Black Box protocol. A small holographic interface sprang to life in front of her, glowing softly like a trapped ghost. This was it. This was the only part of her that would survive. Her eyes scanned the diagnostic reports, each one a knife to the heart. Hull integrity compromised... Life support at 40%... Secondary reactor offline... Secondary reactor... Her gaze locked onto that line. A memory surfaced, sharp and clear. 63 hours earlier Ame stood in the Engineering bay, staring at the smoking crater that was the secondary reactor. Sparks showered from severed conduit lines, hissing and dying on the deck. Emergency lights strobed, painting her in red and white. The Chief Engineer, Tom, was leaned against the bulkhead, a compress pressed to his head wound. He looked up at her, eyes wide with panic. "Ame..." he slurred. "It's bad. We lost the escort. The core is overloading. You need to evacuate." She shook her head. "I need an ETA on a cold boot. We have a crew of twelve up here. We don't leave anyone behind." He laughed, a sound like gravel. "We won't have a ship left to leave, Ame. This thing is goingnova." Back in the cockpit, Ame wiped away tears, her hands shaking. The memory tasted like acid in her mouth. "Goddamn it," she growled. "God-fucking-damn it." She knew what she had to do. The secondary reactor had an emergency cutoff. If she could route the power to the main antenna and the communication array, she could transmit the Black Box recording to the waiting satellites at Mars—buy time for someone to find their wrecked remains, to give the families something, anything. 30 minutes remaining. Ame started the reroute procedure. Her fingers danced across the control interface, accessing the hidden menus that the crew didn't know existed—emergency overrides designed specifically for this scenario. CIRCUIT OVERLOAD DETECTED... PROCEDURE CONFIRMED... POWER REDIRECTION INITIATED... She felt the deck thrum under her feet, the dying ship groaning as she siphoned the last reserves of energy from its decaying systems. She knew this was it—one final push. 1 hour ago (approximately) The rest of the crew huddled in the galley. The emergency lights were off to save power, and the only illumination came from the single functioning terminal. Ame looked at the faces staring back at her. Fear, desperation, anger. She knew the AI was down, the reactor was dying, and their hope of rescue was evaporating. But she lied to them anyway. She had to. "Listen up, people," she said, her voice steady. "The reactor is stable. We've isolated the damage. We're running a diagnostic. It'll take time, but we'll make it." The silence hung heavy, but the panic in their eyes lessened just a fraction. She couldn't let them know the truth—not with time running out. She had sent the distress signal immediately after the incident, but without the main array or a functioning sub-light drive, they were lost. She knew the probability of rescue was zero. But she also knew the probability of mutiny and chaos was 100%. So she let them believe there was hope, while she worked to make sure their story would be told. 29 minutes remaining. The reroute was complete. Ame looked at the status display, a cold pit forming in her stomach. MAIN COMM Array ONLINE... EXTERNAL FEED ACTIVE... POWER RESERVE... 3%... Her mouth went dry. Three percent? How did this happen? She thought she had enough time, enough power, enough... everything. The fear gripped her. She felt the walls closing in. She was trapped in a tomb of her own making, and she had nothing to show for it except the empty faces of the dead. 5 minutes earlier The galley was quiet. The crew had retreated to their quarters, each one thinking they had privacy to say their goodbyes to their loved ones, to write their final letters home. But the ship's systems were failing. The AI had taken control of the comms, rerouting every single channel to Ame's private terminal, recording everything. ...My love, if you're getting this... ...Tell little Mikey I'm sorry I didn't see him graduate... ...I don't want to die... ...I just want to go home... Each message tore at her. She sat there, watching them write their obituaries, powerless to stop the inevitable. 27 minutes remaining. Ame initiated the recording. "United Earth Space Command, this is the starship Daedalus, Captain Amelia Hartley transmitting. Mission objective: Procyon B colonization." Her voice echoed in the empty cockpit. She spoke the official line, the history the world would demand. But it felt hollow, like ash on her tongue. "Our escort vessel, the Prometheus, was lost at approximately... at... 2300 hours, standard. We suffered an EMP storm that damaged the secondary reactor core." She paused, swallowed the bile rising in her throat. "The core vented 63 hours later. The crew was... lost." 10 minutes earlier Ame sat at the comm station, listening to the last messages of the dead. ...I love you, Dad... ...Don't forget me... ...Tell her I tried... The pain was physical. She wanted to scream, to break the ship apart with her bare hands, to wake from this nightmare. But all she could do was listen. Then, the voice of her First Officer, Sarah. Ame... if you're still there, you need to... Static overwhelmed her. Ame slapped the console. "Goddammit, Sarah! Don't fucking leave me too!" she screamed. POP... CLICK... The AI picked up the broken transmission, amplified it. ...You need to transmit the Black Box before it's too late. It's our only... Static swallowed the rest. But the meaning was clear. 26 minutes remaining. Ame felt the deck shudder beneath her feet. The power reserve was critical now. She opened the private file directory on her terminal, accessing the restricted section labeled PSYCHE OPERATIONS. "Unholy fuck," she muttered. Before the mission, in the wake of the Mars Base incident, she and the crew had been trained in the psychological protocols to prevent them from becoming... lost. To keep their humanity intact. She hadn't thought of it in months. Now, she had to implement it, or risk the Black Box containing a hysterical madwoman screaming at the abyss. PROTOCOL 1 INITIATED... FOCUS ON BREATHING... REMOVE EMOTION FROM VOICE... She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and let go of the rage, the grief, the terror. She couldn't afford to feel—not right now. Later, in whatever came next, she could grieve. But for now, she had to be cold. She had to be clinical. "Our ship is adrift. We have no means of FTL or sub-light navigation. We are currently in a decaying orbit around Procyon B. We have no information on the star's stability, but our current trajectory will lead to impact within..." She checked the timer. "...within 32 minutes of this recording." 12 minutes earlier Ame sat alone in her quarters, looking at the image on her personal terminal. A holograph of a beach at sunset. White sand, blue water, a figure standing at the shore. Her mother, laughing, the wind blowing through her hair, waves at her feet. "Ame," she said into the comm, "if you ever feel alone, look at this. We are not dust in the wind. We are the sea itself. You are the sea, my darling." The memory cracked her heart open. She had to hold onto that—that connection to humanity. She couldn't let the void take it. 24 minutes remaining. Ame began the final section of the transmission. Her voice was flat, her eyes staring at nothing, unblinking. "Our science team determined the following regarding the target system: Procyon B is a class-K white dwarf, stable, but experiencing minor stellar flares. The atmosphere appears breathable. The surface is... habitable." She paused, fighting the memories of the failed landing attempt. She pushed them back down. "Colony structure complete, underground housing initiated, food production online. 72 souls successfully landed on Procyon B." 9 minutes earlier Ame watched as the final crew member—Henderson, the pilot—walked down the corridor to his quarters. His head was down, his shoulders slumped. She called out to him. "John," she said, her voice low. He looked at her. There was a quiet desperation in his eyes. "I need a favor," she said. He nodded. 23 minutes remaining. "Our final moments were spent... preparing. I... we did everything in our power to save this ship, to save our crew, and to save our mission." Ame hesitated, looked at the empty co-pilot chair. She thought of John. He was gone now. But he had kept his promise. He had stayed. "I would like to recognize the service of the pilot, John Henderson. He was... courageous, and he kept us sane in our darkest moment." The cockpit grew cold. The lights flickered again. She looked at the power gauge. 2%... "Our time is short now," she said, her voice distant. "We are drifting into the... sun. The ship's heat will be absorbed, and the wreckage will... disperse into the atmosphere of Procyon B." 6 minutes earlier Ame sat with John in his quarters, a single emergency light casting shadows on their faces. "You know I have to transmit the box," Ame said. "I have to make sure they know what happened." He nodded. "It'll take everything I've got—all the ship's power—to do it." He looked at her, understanding. "You want me to turn it off," he said. "You want me to kill the lights, to make sure the energy goes to the comms." She didn't reply. He put a hand on hers. "I can do it," he said. "I'll walk out in the dark, turn everything off. The rest... the rest you'll have to do alone, Captain." 22 minutes remaining. "We leave behind our ship, our hopes, our dreams. But we do not leave behind our humanity. We are human. We are brave. We are... Earth." She paused, a single tear running down her face. "And... and... and we are proud of what we achieved here. The fact that we existed—that we dared to look into the abyss—matters. It matters because it proves we are something more than just the dust from which we came." The lights in the cockpit flickered one last time. Ame reached out a hand, touching the glass panel, the cold metal. She thought of Earth, of her mother, of the sea. 1 minute earlier Ame walked down the corridor, her boots echoing in the darkness. John had killed the power. She used her last remaining battery in her multi-tool to illuminate the way. The air was stale, the silence oppressive. She reached the bridge and sat down in the cockpit, staring at the console. Then, she made the final calculation. 21 minutes remaining. "This is the last log of Captain Amelia Hartley. Our power is failing, and we are adrift in the gravitational pull of the Procyon star. We will burn up in... approximately 21 minutes of this recording." Her breath was coming faster now. The fear was clawing at her. 40 seconds ago Ame looked at the power gauge. It read 0%. She reached down and unplugged her multi-tool, the only source of light in the cockpit, the only source of life. The screen went dark. The cockpit fell silent. And Captain Amelia Hartley sat alone in the cold, staring at the endless night outside the window, waiting for the end.