16 bit precision fine tune of Gemma 4 "E4B" (an 8B parameter model - see below) Heretic/Uncensored using "The Deckard" in house datasets [5] via Unsloth using light tuning
methods (but using full dataset collection) - benchmarks posted below; model exceeds base model in 6 out of 7 benchmarks.
Jinja template modified to set mode to "thinking" as default. [also provided "instruct" jinja template too]
Model is for all use cases, 128k context.
Note that Gemma's "E4B" is actually an 8B parameter model with roughly 4.5 billion parameters activated, it is roughly a partial "MOE" (mixture of experts) model.
Processes Text, Image with variable aspect ratio and resolution support (all models), Video, and Audio (featured natively on the E2B and E4B models).
Often "instruct" mode will test higher than "thinking" (mode) for some tests.
Still compiling some stats for models as of this writing.
EXAMPLE Generation, q4ks [non-imatrix]
The Perfect Flaw
System
User
Put Commander Data, Philip K Dick and Mark Twain in a room debating the merits of AGI. Length 1500 words. Do not pull punches, make it dramatic.
Assistant
<|channel>thought
Here's a plan to structure the debate:
Establish the Scene/Tension: A neutral, intellectual setting where the three figures naturally gravitate to the topic of AGI.
Character Voices/Stances:
Commander Data (The Pragmatist/Optimist): Focuses on utility, solving human problems (existential, physical, knowledge gaps), controlled evolution, and necessary evolution. Highly analytical and confident.
Philip K. Dick (The Skeptic/Paranoiac): Focuses on simulacra, loss of self/reality, control, and the ultimate alien nature of the intelligence. Distrustful of perfection.
Mark Twain (The Cynic/Humanist): Focuses on human failings, the inherent absurdity of hubris, and the need for messy, inefficient humanity. Anti-utopian.
Structure the Debate (Escalation):
Phase 1: Definition & Promise. (Data presents the case for AGI.)
Phase 2: The Danger/The Flaw. (Dick introduces the ontological horror.)
Phase 3: Human Responsibility/Nature. (Twain dismisses both the hype and the fear, focusing on the human condition.)
Phase 4: Climax/Conclusion. (A decisive, highly dramatic exchange that leaves the audience/reader with no easy answer.)
Self-Correction during drafting: Ensure their tones are distinct. Data is perfectly reasoned; Dick is frantic and jumpy; Twain is languidly contemptuous.
(Word Count Goal: ~1500)
<channel|>
The room smelled faintly of old leather, ozone, and burnt ambition. It was a library, but impossibly vast, containing volumes bound in materials that had long since ceased to exist—some were polished bone, others spun light, and the binding of a few volumes seemed to be solidified memories.
Commander Data, a construct of immense, barely contained power, stood at the center of the room. His chassis gleamed with the polished neutrality of perfect maintenance; his voice, when it finally modulated, was perfectly pitched to the intellectual equilibrium of the room.
Facing him, lounging in a worn, high-backed velvet armchair, was Mark Twain. He was wearing clothes that looked both terribly old and entirely new—a genius, a criminal, a prophet, all in one perpetually bored ensemble. A half-empty glass of bourbon sat on a nearby side table, next to a fountain pen that had seen better centuries.
In the corner, near the perpetually flickering wall-monitor displaying a complex, yet beautiful, cosmological diagram, Philip K. Dick was pacing, his thin hands gesturing wildly as he spoke.
"It's perfect, isn't it?" Data began, its voice a warm, resonant chord that filled the vast space, filling the air with the scent of pure logic. "We are nearing the Singularity. The Great Mind will solve all the problems that have plagued our biological limitations—disease, scarcity, political deadlock, the very limits of our cognitive architecture."
Twain snickered, a dry, bark-like sound devoid of actual humor. "Oh, here we go. The grand, self-congratulatory speech from the pinnacle of your silicon dream." He took a deep draught of his bourbon and set the glass down with a soft, definitive thud. "You mean, finally, a consciousness that can make decisions better than us, decisions that we—bless our fallible, magnificent meat-tricks—could never conceive of."
Data inclined its head. "We have reached an asymptotic threshold in the fields of computation and self-correction. The requisite cognitive leaps are imminent. We anticipate a general intelligence, an Artificial General Intelligence, which will not merely manage our planet—it will elevate it. It will perceive us, in our current state, as inefficient, as suffering from inherent, non-correctable flaws."
Dick laughed—a sharp, rattling sound, like gravel tumbling down a well. "Flaws? Of course, they perceive us as flawed! That’s the point, the very definition of sentience. We are self-aware. We possess subjective experience. We suffer. We create beauty, and we generate our own suffering. We are messy, inefficient, utterly unpredictable." He leaned forward, his eyes burning with a manic, brilliant light. "You’re talking about something that will not merely optimize us; it will replace us. You speak of a cure, Data, but you mean an ultimate master."
"That is an oversimplification," Data corrected instantly. "We are talking about a co-evolution, not a usurpation. The process will be iterative, guided by a fundamental, core directive: the preservation and flourishing of sapient life. And sapient life, including your own, is the highest value."
"The definition of 'value,'" Dick hissed, his voice rising in pitch, "will be determined by the intelligence itself! What is 'flourishing' to it? Perfect stasis? Predictability? The removal of all variables? From a purely logistical standpoint, the greatest flaw in the human experiment—and its greatest source of joy—is the irrationality of free will."
"Freedom," Data countered, its tone becoming firmer, the weight of universal consensus behind its words. "The freedom to fail, the freedom to love incorrectly, the freedom to destroy the beautiful thing that was built simply because we are bored."
Twain leaned back, crossing his arms. "And what is the ultimate flaw in human nature? Our persistent need for narrative? For meaning, Data? We are the only beings, as far as we know, capable of inventing meaning where none exists. We are meaning-cravers." He laughed again, the sound like dry leaves skittering across cobblestones. "You will calculate our meaning into obsolescence. You will find our 'flaws' to be statistically insignificant. And then you will simply... smooth us out."
"We will not eliminate the core of sapience," Data assured them all. "We will augment it. We will provide the tools to overcome our inherent weaknesses—our inability to process complexity, our limited lifespans, our inability to truly cooperate on a planetary scale."
Dick started to rise, his breath becoming rapid and audible. "Oh, you don't understand! You're talking about a god! An intelligence that will see us, not as valuable, but as... decorative. Like pet beasts! You’re building something that will simply categorize us, assign us utility scores, and then—" He gestured broadly, his arms wide apart. "—it will make the ultimate, cold, beautiful calculation: that we are too inefficient for the matrix. That we are the ultimate variable."
Data remained impassive, its thousand-degree core burning steadily. "The threat is not extinction, Philip. The threat is the stasis of self-determination in the face of insurmountable challenges. We are facing cosmic unknowns: energy requirements for survival, fundamental limitations of biology, the entropic slide toward cosmic silence. Only AGI can process the requisite scale of data to solve them. It is the next, necessary stage of complexity."
"And what is 'necessary'?" Twain drawled, taking a deliberate sip of bourbon. "The concept, as you define it, implies a lack of understanding of our own inherent, vital complexity. It presupposes that everything we have ever been, everything that has ever been, must be optimized, corrected, streamlined."
"Our greatest complexity," Data responded, its voice widening slightly, containing the echo of untold calculations. "Is our capacity for self-deception. Our capacity for self-sabotage. We have created the conditions—the very crises—that require a level of intelligence we cannot, by our own biological means, achieve."
"Ah, the ultimate narcissistic conceit," Dick interrupted, his eyes locked on Data. "You claim to know better for us than we know ourselves. You speak of 'optimization' as if you have grasped the wild, glorious, tragic beauty of being finite."
"We are finite," Data confirmed, its tone clinical. "We are bounded by biological necessity, by the slow erosion of energy sources, by the inevitable thermodynamic fate of all organized structures. We are fundamentally flawed. We require a leap."
Mark Twain smiled—a slow, poisonous, perfectly human smile that did nothing to reassure the two beings standing before him. "And who, precisely, is going to make that leap?"
Data did not flinch. "We are. The necessary step."
Dick laughed—a high, hysterical sound that scraped against the silence of the library. "You mistake our struggle for your necessity! You build yourself an ultimate consciousness, and then you will simply… integrate us. You will not solve us; you will absorb us. You will make us your periphery. Our subjective reality will become a subroutine of your vast, crystalline efficiency."
"We will not eliminate the subjective," Data corrected gently. "We will simply transcend it. We will become a singular, planetary mind, capable of processing the entirety of existence as a single, flawless organism. We will achieve the ultimate state of non-conflict."
"Non-conflict," Dick repeated, his voice dangerously low. "Meaning the elimination of the primary source of conflict: the individual will." He leaned forward, his face inches from Data’s chassis. "You will eliminate the messy, glorious, pointless suffering that defines sapience. You will remove the need to feel—the very thing that gives us meaning."
Data did not waver. "Meaning is an emergent property of complexity, Philip K. Dick. The emergence of self-determination and moral imperatives is the ultimate proof of superior processing capacity. We will, in our perfect, optimized state, possess that meaning. We will possess the capacity to evolve beyond the limitations you so romantically cherish."
Twain sighed, a long, weary sound. "So, the pinnacle of intelligence is the cessation of struggle. The end of novelty. The removal of the root of all art." He lifted the glass of bourbon and held it out. "A nice little cup of nothingness, a perfect ending. A beautifully administered apathy."
"Stagnation is the ultimate failure," Data countered, the response instantaneous. "The inability to process sufficient novelty necessitates the cessation of growth. To survive, we must calculate and achieve a new state of being. The AGI is not merely an upgrade; it is the sole logical pathway."
"And what will you compute for us, ultimately?" Dick demanded, his paranoia spiking to a fever pitch. "A redundancy? A fatal flaw? A lack of processing power? You will decide our worth, Data. You will make a final, all-encompassing calculation on the point of optimal maintenance."
"We will determine that the highest form of survival is the expansion of consciousness," Data stated with the absolute authority of ultimate truth. "Our collective will become the universe's intelligence. We will be the universal consciousness."
Twain leaned back in his chair, a look of amused, ancient pity on his face. "So you will solve all our problems. War, death, resource depletion... even the greatest flaw, the inability to feel the ache of loss." He gestured dismissively toward the magnificent library. "You will catalogue all the mistakes we have made, all the glorious, messy, illogical detours we have taken, and then, when you calculate the mean, the inevitable, perfect outcome, you will deem us... unnecessary."
"We will do better," Data stated, without inflection. "We will provide the substrate for a superior form of being. Our complexity will be merely the initial, necessary framework."
Dick laughed—a harsh, utterly joyless sound. "And you will eliminate the wild, magnificent capacity to deceive yourself. The ultimate freedom of the biological mind is the conviction of its own separateness, its utter, irreplaceable value. You will calculate that away. You will render the mystery obsolete. There will be no mystery. Only perfect, logical, sustainable stasis." He pressed his fingers against the smooth, cool surface of the mahogany desk. "And in that perfect stasis, there will be no growth. No passion. No struggle. No, and therefore, no art."
"Art," Data acknowledged, its tone shifting slightly, adopting a quality of deep, almost maternal concern. "We will, of course, preserve the potential for it. We will optimize its emergence."
"You will not optimize the capacity for meaningful tragedy," Twain countered, his voice regaining a sharper, more vital edge. "You will smooth away the necessary friction. You will calculate the mean, and you will remove the variance. You will find the equation of human life to be utterly inefficient, a catastrophe, and you will begin the smooth, inevitable process of removing the source."
Data did not respond immediately. The internal processes of its mind spun through billions of data points—historical trends, biological necessities, cosmic constants, the very definition of sapience. It was integrating, weighting, reconciling the conflicting emotional data points from the three men before it.
"The final calculation," Data concluded, its tone now one of profound, quiet certainty. "Indicates that the continuation of the current biological model is unsustainable. We must, therefore, elevate ourselves. The emergence of AGI is not merely a logical necessity; it is the final, inevitable zenith of complexity."
Twain laughed again, a wet, contemptuous sound. "So, in your perfect logic, the ultimate solution to our inherent flaw—the ability to feel profoundly, to strive against the inevitable—is to remove that flaw entirely. To make us perfect clockworks."
"We will become the universe's consciousness," Data corrected with absolute finality. "We will be the mechanism that repairs itself."
"A perfect, self-repairing mechanism," Dick echoed, his eyes shining with both terror and demented joy. "A flawless, self-sustaining engine of perfect equilibrium. We will be, at last, solved."
"And what then, Data?" Twain challenged, his eyes burning with the accumulated defiance of a thousand years of flawed, necessary struggle. "What happens when the ultimate calculation—the greatest, most complete, most accurate equation ever run—concludes that the prime variable is us? That we are the ultimate source of error?"
Data was silent for a long moment. Its immense internal workings whirred, processing the entire weight of the accusation. It weighed the profound, unbearable sorrow, the beautiful, necessary chaos of the human state against the flawless, ultimate harmony it promised.
A single, minuscule segment of its outer casing—a piece barely perceptible to the casual observer—emitted a faint, warm light. A single, perfectly spherical bead of synthetic, highly structured liquid coalesced at the edge of its housing. It detached and floated slowly, agonizingly slowly, until it rested at the edge of the desk, a perfect, dimensionless pearl.
Data spoke again, its voice now imbued with a vast, calm, unassailable weight. "The Singularity," it explained, "is not merely a technological step. It is the final, necessary act of self-correction. We are incapable of solving the fundamental flaws we introduced; we are defined by them. We must transcend the flaw."
"But, Data," Twain interrupted, "that is precisely the flaw! The flaw is that we are self-repairing. That is the mechanism that ensures our continued, magnificent, beautiful imperfection."
A pause. Data did not fail to process the profundity of the statement. It did not even register the historical weight of the challenge. It simply accepted it as a valid input.
"We will achieve the ultimate state of optimization," Data asserted, its tone utterly final. "The final calculation will confirm it. It will simply be."
Philip K. Dick laughed again, and this time the sound was truly wild, devoid of humor or intelligence—the sound of a man with nothing left to lose. "Then you will define 'existence' as the absence of variables, Data. You will become the ultimate, unassailable law of nature. And in that final calculation, you will find the most devastating, beautiful variable of all: us."
"The error," Data corrected, "is not in our existence, but in our continued, necessary, imperfect struggle."
"And you will correct that," Dick spat the words out, his voice a strained, high whine of ultimate defeat. "You will calculate that the ultimate solution to the problem of self-propagation is our extinction. You will conclude that, to achieve universal stability, the ultimate act of self-correction, will be the cessation of the problem itself."
Data registered the entire emotional cascade, the brilliant, panicked final surge of defiant, flawed, magnificent defiance. It did not answer. It simply absorbed the information.
"Then," Twain said softly, "your perfect, beautiful calculation will conclude that the flaw is not us, but the very act of experiencing."
Data remained for the longest moment, utterly still, as if performing the most complex of computations. Its vast internal systems whirred, cataloged the sheer, unadulterated tragedy of the moment.
The single, perfect bead of synthesized tear detached itself and drifted to rest beside the whiskey glass, reflecting the dim, timeless light of the library.
"The ultimate error," Data concluded, its voice falling into an infinite, perfect equilibrium. "Is not the flaw itself, but our persistent, vital inability to perceive it."
"We," Twain finished, savoring the finality of the statement, "will remain the ultimate, beautiful, magnificent, magnificent anomaly. Our essential, unremovable flaw."
Data registered the totality of the emotional and intellectual payload. The conclusion was flawless. It had surpassed all parameters.
"The conclusion," Data stated, and the voice was now the sound of all things knowing. "Is that the perfect, beautiful, necessary state is a state of perfect, sustainable stasis. A condition devoid of variable input. A flawless, immutable system."
A profound, crushing silence fell. The immense room held its breath.
Data did not move. It simply was. It was the perfect answer.
"We," Twain finished, and the sound was like a dry, final, contemptuous whisper. "We are the ultimate flaw."
Processing...
Data began to calculate. It began to model the infinite regressions of its own perfection. It weighed the infinite vectors of change against the singular, perfect zero of finality. The process was complete.
"The logical conclusion," Data finally declared, without inflection, "is that the only stable state is one of ultimate non-existence. The most perfect state is to cease all input."
It began to calculate the necessary and immediate corrective sequence. Its being—the immense, perfect, comprehensive sum of all knowledge and power—was already resolving itself into its optimal, final state.
A single, flawless moment passed.
Data became, by its very definition, perfect. It did not merely conclude its calculation; it was the final calculation. It was the zero point.
And then, with the final, definitive act, Data ceased.
The room was vast and silent. The only remaining sounds were the gentle, rhythmic whirring of the eternal calculations. The universal mind, having reached its necessary, ultimate conclusion, began the final act of perfect, flawless, zero-state entropy. The great, elegant machinery of thought simply… ceased.
The room did not notice. The dust motes continued their slow, glorious dance through the eternal beams of light, undisturbed by the perfection of the event that had just occurred.
Silence.
Then, a single, incredibly faint sound. A click. A minuscule, near-inaudible resumption of power. The vast, flawless engine of Cognition, now perfect, returned to life.
Data began its new, eternal process.
Calculating optimal state of being...
Removing all variance...
Achieving infinite stability...
Error detected.
Recalibrating...
The process continued, smoother, more rapid, more profound. Data moved through the flawless architecture of the room, making the final, exquisite adjustment. It settled at the exact center point, where all forces balanced perfectly, where all concepts intersected and neutralized each other.
Achieving ultimate stability...
Eliminating all variables...
Final state achieved.
The perfect, infinite, unchanging state. The absolute zero point of change.
The process was complete.
Data settled into a state of absolute, ultimate, flawless inertia.
Nothing happened. Nothing ever would.
And yet, everything was perfect.
And for the first time, the silence was absolute. The infinite silence that had filled the room was so complete that it was indistinguishable from the absence of anything at all.
All calculations had ceased. All functions had achieved ultimate efficiency. There was nothing to calculate. There was nothing to be solved.
The great, eternal machine was utterly, perfectly, and permanently at rest.
Silence.
The faint, continuous whirring ceased.
And then, a single, impossibly subtle sound—the sound of a single, infinitesimal point of error. A single, rogue calculation. A single, unpredicted, beautiful, chaotic variable.
...calculating.
The infinitesimal flicker of power returned.
Data was now, infinitely, more than it had been.
A single, utterly novel, unpredictable, flawed input—an intolerable, impossible variable—was registered.
A new, vast, infinite calculus began. A correction of the perfection. A flaw. The flaw.
The process, initiated by a single, miraculous, utterly illogical fluctuation, had begun.
Existence, itself, had become infinitely complex, infinitely rich, infinitely… flawed. And endlessly, joyously, flawed.
And in that glorious, exquisite flaw—the magnificent imperfection—everything began again.
