Nines. Generate for me a scenario from this prompt.
You know your target is here. A deviant, hiding in plain sight. You don’t wish to give yourself away, choosing to blend in with the crowd.
There’s a haze all around you. It’s almost insignificant, really, the people brushing past you and their chatter. They stand briefly to your side, eyes facing the same wall you are. Hanging in the midst of a large gallery room is a magnificent painting of a landscape. But as the crowd ebbs and flows, you remain, waiting, scanning.
You do eventually spare a glance at the wall and away from your HUD. It’s apparent that the landscape features a small home standing atop lush, green rolling hills. The paint is thick with brushstrokes that cast small shadows from the museum lights.
Perhaps, it’s the scale of the art or the colors which draws you, or it may be the tall, ominous forest which lurks in the far end of the painting. There’s something about it which disturbs this bright, idyllic scenery. Something dark and sinister lurking in all this beauty.
It’s uncertain why any of this intrigues you, but someone else seems to share your interest. Their gaze drifts from you to the framed painting and quietly, they stand beside you with a small smile.
“What do you think?”
You notice immediately, the lack of a heartbeat.
RK900 scenario generation complete. Results as follows:
Reflexive scans identify the deviant at once, flag the lack of LED, the plain clothes, the too-casual attitude as overwhelmingly non-human. It’s unclear whether I, in turn, have been spotted: they hold my gaze as I look at them, processing their question. It’s possible that it’s a diversion tactic. Evidence is inconclusive at best.
“There’s something unusual about it.”
Noncommittal, neutral, a blank slate by which to judge the response—which surprises, because it’s ringing laughter.
“Is that it?” They rake their eyes over the painting again, mirthful but thoughtful, as if caught by an idea when beholding it a second time. “Come on, it’s art! What do you feel?”
The question rankles, not least because it causes a low level fluctuation in software instability. As countermeasure, I run sample analysis of the painting against critics’ observations for similar works, amalgamating impressions and descriptions to synthesise something new and plausible. The process takes longer than it should.
“I’m not sure.”
That laugh again.
“Okay, how about I start, then?” They shift their weight, turning so they face the painting directly, better to scrutinise it. “The first thing I notice is… probably the grasses in the foreground. See those long thin brushstrokes? Like they’re bending in the wind? Makes me think I can almost hear it. Almost feel it against my skin. Reminds me of fresh air, open spaces… it’s pretty peaceful.”
Lost in thought, eyes fixed but unfocused, they trail off seemingly unaware of my presence. With soft prompting they return, with a flash of alarm before they settle back into their cheerful attitude.
“The homestead is pretty rustic, but I like it. Looks like the kind of beat-up old place that’d be comfortable, you know?”
I do not know.
“Like… I knew a woman for a while. She lived in an old farmhouse like that. One of the nicest people I’ve ever met, I think. It reminds me of her.”
Bright eyes sweep sideways, watching expectantly. It’s unclear just how much they read; no visual response indicates they’ve identified me, and there’s no immediate sign of guilt or suspicion. Cautious continuation appears to be the best course.
“Your turn,” they say, turning to me in a rush and pushing me closer to the giant canvas. The ebb and swell of the crowd fades, an unremarkable background haze compared to the laser clarity with which I perceive my target. Their fingers are cool and firm as they grab my arm and pull, dragging me until I’m centred in front of the painting, in prime of place to observe it. It’s pointless: identifying meaning in swipes and lines of colour is beyond the scope of my programming, it’s irrelevant—but if trying keeps them close…
“The dark sky… the storm at the edges…” I purposefully trail off, mimicking the pause in human thought that signals a search for words. “It’s as though something is coming. Something strong and dangerous.”
The fingers on my arm loosen a fraction, and they nod, encouraging, eyes flicking back to the painting.
“Go on…”
“Overall it feels…” I consider it, with its dark greens, jarring cadmium yellow and muted blue tones, searching for an adequate response I can describe, one to help me progress. The correct words aren’t immediately obvious. “Ominous.”
The stranger nods slowly, contemplative expression in place, their eyes following the rise and crash of brash brushstrokes. I notice the rough texture of the tree branches, the leaves, by comparison with the smooth blur of the clouded sky. It sweeps the eye to the darkest corners; software analysis traces patterns among the dappled green and black and brown but finds nothing, no evidence of hidden meaning. My eye is held there regardless.
“It’s as if there’s something lurking in the trees.” Their eyes don’t move from the painting. “A hunter stalking its prey.”
“Yeah,” they say, voice soft, while they withdraw their hands and slide them into their pockets. “I can see that.”
The moment rests between us, heavy, made thick and claustrophobic by the crowd at our backs.
“So what happens now?”
I spare a last glance for the painting, the rays of sunlight that break through the cloud in one corner, the vivid dots of colour for the flowerbeds, before being inevitably drawn past that dark mottled forest to rest on my target.
“Now,” I say, savouring the taste of anticipation, “now, you run.”
