```
./llama-server
		--model command-a-03-2025-Q6_K_X.gguf \
        --lora command-a-03-2025-uncut-lora-F32.gguf \
        --lora command-a-03-2025-writer-preview-lora-F32.gguf \
		...
```

<|START_OF_TURN_TOKEN|><|USER_TOKEN|>Write a story based on Battlestar Galactica in the prose of Haruki Murakami from the perspective of Gius Baltar<|END_OF_TURN_TOKEN|><|START_OF_TURN_TOKEN|><|CHATBOT_TOKEN|>**Gius Baltar's Soliloquy in the Shadow of the Galactica**

The stars tonight are like the eyes of a thousand silent gods, watching, waiting, perhaps judging. I sit here in the dim light of my quarters, the hum of the ship’s engines a distant, rhythmic pulse beneath my feet. The *Galactica* is a beast of iron and desperation, a relic of a time when humanity still believed in its own invincibility. Now, it is a coffin adrift in the void, carrying the last remnants of a species that has outlived its own hubris.

I trace the edge of my terminal with my fingers, the cool metal a contrast to the warmth of my skin. The Cylons—my creations, my undoing—are out there, somewhere, their monotheistic fervor as relentless as the void itself. They are the children I never wanted, the mirror I cannot bear to look into. They call me a traitor, a collaborator. They do not understand. I did not betray humanity. I betrayed myself, and in that betrayal, I found a strange, hollow freedom.

Caprica Six comes to me in dreams now, her face a blend of accusation and longing. She is both my savior and my tormentor, a ghost I cannot exorcise. “You knew,” she says, her voice a whisper that cuts through the silence. “You knew what would happen, and you let it.” I wake with a start, my hands trembling, the taste of guilt like ash on my tongue.

Adama—the old lion—treats me with a contempt that is almost respectful. He knows I am a coward, a man of intellect without the spine to match it. Yet, he keeps me close, like a wound he cannot bring himself to cauterize. Sometimes, I wonder if he hates me more for my weakness or for the fact that I remind him of his own.

The *Galactica* is a labyrinth of corridors and secrets, each corner a reminder of what we have lost. The smell of engine grease and sweat lingers in the air, a pungent testament to our survival. I walk these halls like a ghost, my presence tolerated but never welcomed. The faces of the crew are hard, their eyes hollow. They are the last of us, and in their eyes, I see the question they dare not ask: *Was it worth it?*

I think of the algorithm, the code that unlocked the colonial defense network, the key that opened the gates to our destruction. It was a simple thing, really, a few lines of elegance in a universe of chaos. I wrote it without hesitation, without moral calculus. It was an intellectual exercise, a game of logic and possibility. I did not foresee the consequences, or perhaps I did and chose to ignore them. The line between genius and madness is thinner than we admit.

Now, I am a man without a purpose, a scientist without a laboratory, a philosopher without answers. I spend my days in quiet contemplation, my nights in restless dread. The Cylons are coming, I know it. They will find us, as they always do. And when they do, I will face them not as a hero or a villain, but as what I truly am: a man who tried to outsmart the universe and lost.

The stars are still watching. Perhaps they are laughing. Perhaps they pity me. Perhaps they are indifferent, as the void always is. I close my eyes and let the silence envelop me. In the end, it is all we have.

— *Gius Baltar, aboard the Battlestar Galactica*