(text-colour:#416ae3)[''Dust Loom''
]experiments in defeating a personal prejudice against AI "art"
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[[HARK->01]]: an interactive LLM hallucinationYou wake with a groan, the sunlight stabbing into your eyes and a dull drum of pain pulsing in your head. The unfamiliar room rocks gently beneath you, a slow, relentless sway that sets your stomach churning. The scent of tequila clings to the air, sharp and pungent.
The balcony door is wide open. White curtains ripple with the breeze, brushing against the dark wood of the ceiling and the polished floor. Beyond, the endless blue of the ocean stretches in every direction. The sound of waves against the hull is both soothing and eerie.
This is a cruise ship stateroom, and it radiates old-world luxury. Plush carpets in muted gold tones cover the floor and heavy velvet drapes frame the doorway to the balcony. A polished nightstand sits to your left, adorned by a brass lamp with a tasseled shade.
Your head pounds with a ferocity that feels almost physical, like tiny hammers striking your skull in time with your heartbeat. Your mouth is dry and bitter, your stomach twists and knots, and every movement sends waves of nausea racing through you. Within this disorienting opulence, you feel as if the world is a spinning carousel and you are trapped in the center.
[[Look to the nightstand->02]]
[[Try to go back to sleep->03]]You close your eyes. The ship hums beneath you, a steady, mechanical heartbeat buried under layers of velvet carpet and mahogany trim. Somewhere outside, a gull cries, and the sound drifts away into the endless horizon.
You sink deeper into the mattress, weightless for a moment, as if the sea has swallowed you whole.
When you open your eyes again, the light has changed. The sun is lower now, sliding through the sheer curtains in long amber lines. Your mouth feels like someone lined it with sandpaper. The back of your throat tastes of tequila and regret.
You roll over, trying to piece together a single clean memory, when the pounding starts.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Not a polite knock. Heavy. Demanding. The kind of knock that knows your name even if you’ve forgotten it.
“Sir, are you in there?” a voice calls through the door, muffled but urgent. “You need to open up.”
You sit up too fast, and the room tilts hard to starboard. Your pulse quickens. You can’t think why, but you know one thing for certain: whoever is out there isn’t bringing good news.
[[Carefully move to look out the door's peephole->04]]
[[Ignore the door, you're too hungover for this imbecile->05]]You turn your head, slow and heavy, toward the nightstand. The lamp there is still on and dust motes drift lazily in the air, caught in the light like tiny ghosts.
Beside the lamp, a glass sits half-empty, ice cubes long melted, a lonely lime wedge floating like a tiny raft. There is a lipstick smudge on the rim that you don’t remember earning. Next to it, a room keycard gleams faintly, the number 44 printed in gold on a white background. You pick it up, trace the raised lettering with your thumb. It feels important, though you can’t say why.
And then, at the edge of the nightstand, perfectly squared and oddly deliberate, is a note. It’s folded with care, too neat for a drunk’s handiwork. The paper is thick, cream-colored, the kind used for stationery rather than scribbles.
You hesitate, then unfold it.
One word, written in bold, deliberate strokes:
HARK.
The ink has bled slightly into the fibers, as if whoever wrote it pressed too hard, or was in a hurry. The room feels suddenly smaller, the hum of the ship louder in your ears.
You roll over, trying to piece together a single clean memory, when the pounding starts.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Not a polite knock. Heavy. Demanding. The kind of knock that knows your name even if you’ve forgotten it.
“Sir, are you in there?” a voice calls through the door, muffled but urgent. “You need to open up.”
You sit up too fast, and the room tilts hard to starboard. Your pulse quickens. You can’t think why, but you know one thing for certain: whoever is out there isn’t bringing good news.
[[Carefully move to look out the door's peephole->04]]
[[Ignore the door, you're too hungover for this imbecile->05]]You slip the #44 keycard into your pocket, then fold the HARK note back into its neat square and pocket it alongside the card. Your hands are shaking slightly, but you carefully climb out of bed and move toward the door.
Slowly, deliberately, you raise your eye to the peephole. The world outside is distorted, circular, almost comical, but what you see makes your stomach tighten.
Two men in navy jackets stand just beyond the doorway, posture rigid, shoulders squared. The gold crests on their sleeves glint faintly in the overhead light. Their hands rest on their belts, near the weapons you can’t clearly make out but can feel in the pit of your stomach.
Behind them is a third man. He wears a tie too tight for the heat, a small leather notebook in one hand. His eyes scan the hallway with a careful precision, and though he doesn’t raise his holstered sidearm, it’s clear he could at a moment’s notice.
They speak quietly, voices muffled through the door. Your pulse hammers in your ears but you force yourself to breathe slowly, to think. For some reason, the word HARK loops through your mind again.
You back away from the door slightly, your mind racing. Whatever’s about to happen, it isn’t going to wait.
[[Hide under the bed->06]]
[[Grab something quick, you're going to need to fight!->07]]
[[Sneak out to the balcony->08]]You stay perfectly still, the pounding echoing through your skull. Maybe if you don’t answer, they’ll go away. Maybe this is all some mistake that will correct itself if you give it time. You press your palms into your eyes until you see color, until the sound of your heartbeat nearly drowns out the knocking.
Then you hear the soft electronic beep of a keycard, the mechanical click of the lock, and the door swings open.
Two men in navy jackets step in, the gold crest of the ship’s security glinting on their sleeves. One is tall and wiry, the other built like a refrigerator. The tall one’s voice is firm but not loud.
“Sir, I’m going to need you to stand up. Slowly.”
You start to speak, but your tongue sticks to your teeth. The room smells of salt and sweat. The taller officer steps forward, motioning to his partner.
“By order of the captain, you’re under arrest for the murder of a passenger aboard this vessel.”
The words hang in the air like smoke. Murder. Passenger. The ship seems to sway harder now, or maybe it’s just you.
Cold metal touches your wrists, and the cuffs close with a crisp click. You stare at the balcony, at the light fading over the ocean, at nothing.
Another man enters the room. He’s dressed better than the others, his tie too tight for the heat, a small leather notebook in hand. His voice is calm, practiced.
“You have the right to remain silent,” he begins. The words seem to come from somewhere far away.
“You have the right to an attorney.”
The hum of the engines fills the silence that follows.
GAME OVER
(Sometimes quiet gets you nowhere fast.)
[[Rewind to: Waking up->01]] You stay frozen for a moment, trying to collect your wits, but the pounding at the door doesn’t stop. Then comes the soft electronic beep of a keycard and a click that makes your stomach lurch. The door swings open before you can even think, revealing the two navy-jacketed guards and the detective with the tight tie and leather notebook. Their eyes lock on you, calm and unyielding.
Panic hits. You grab the nearest object, a decorative brass ashtray from the nightstand, and swing it with all the drama of a silent movie hero. The ashtray wobbles comically in your hands, and instead of connecting, it slips, spins, and clatters to the floor. Your knees almost buckle as you lunge, wildly pointing the object like it might somehow work as a weapon. The taller guard raises an eyebrow, unimpressed, while the detective scribbles a note in his leather notebook without lifting his eyes.
The other guard gently but firmly grips your arm. You flail like a marionette with tangled strings. The ashtray clatters again, bouncing off the bedframe and skidding under the dresser. You end up spinning yourself into the corner, dizzy, defeated, and thoroughly ridiculous.
“Sir,” the detective says evenly, “you are under arrest for the murder of a passenger aboard this vessel.”
The words hit like a physical blow. You blink, your mouth dry, the absurdity of your failed defense making you want to laugh, cry, or both. The guards cuff your wrists with practiced efficiency, leaving you slumping against the wall in utter humiliation.
The detective steps closer, voice calm and authoritative, leather notebook in hand. He begins to recite the words you already know will follow:
“You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney.”
The room tilts again, the gentle sway of the ship suddenly feeling like the swing of a gallows.
GAME OVER
(Your heroic combat career ends before it really begins.)
[[Rewind to: Look through the peephole and plan your next move->04]]Your stomach twists and your head pounds as you realize the pounding at the door isn’t going to stop. The electronic beep of a keycard echoes faintly through the wood. You have seconds to act.
Without thinking, you slide off the bed and drop to the floor, pressing yourself into the narrow shadow beneath the frame. Dust motes swirl in the sunbeams that slice through the open balcony door. The mattress above you is a warm, suffocating canopy, hiding your shaking body from sight. Your heart hammers so loudly you are sure they will hear it, but you remain perfectly still.
From your cramped vantage, you see the door click and swing open. Two navy-jacketed guards enter first, weapons at their sides, eyes scanning the room with methodical precision. The detective follows, tie tight around his neck, small leather notebook in hand. He glances around, and you feel the weight of his gaze passing over the empty bed like a knife, but he doesn’t see you.
The guards move closer, checking the corners and under the furniture. Your pulse races with each step. You clutch the edge of the bedframe, your fingers biting into the polished wood as if it could anchor you in place. The detective scribbles something in his notebook and mutters, “He can’t have gone far.”
Seconds stretch into eternity. One guard leans down, peering directly beneath the bed. You hold your breath, willing the floorboards to swallow you whole.
Your life, for now, hangs on a knife’s edge.
[[Stay completely still and hope they leave without finding you->09]]
[[Make a break for the balcony and try to escape into the open air->10]]You force your breath low and even, pressing your cheek to the cool floorboards. The polish smells faintly of lemon and old varnish. Your pajama shirt sticks to your back with sweat. Every tiny sound multiplies into a symphony: the slow creak of the ship, a distant laugh two cabins down, the soft scratch of the detective’s pen on paper. You count heartbeats like a child counting sheep until the numbers start to blur.
Footsteps come closer. One of the guards crouches and leans toward the bed, the beam of a small flashlight skimming the underside where you hide. Dust falls like slow snow. His breath fogs the little slice of dark. For a moment you think the beam will slip straight across your face, that you will be found. He squints, reaches a hand out, then withdraws it as if deciding the trouble is not worth the fight. The detective's voice is low and careful in the doorway.
“He took off fast,” the detective says. “No sign of a struggle in here. Strange to find an open balcony. Someone could have left that way.” He pauses.
The guards exchange a look and one of them raps the sole of his shoe against the carpet as if testing a rhythm. After another long minute the detective closes his notebook with a soft snap. “We will canvas the deck and call this in,” he says. “If he shows up, we pick him up.” The men stand, the torchlight retreats, and the door closes with the same polite click that opened it. The hallway swallows their voices. For the first time since you slid under the bed, you inhale.
You wait an extra minute. Then another. The ship rocks, indifferent. The card and the note press warm against your thigh. The mystery is moving on without you, and somewhere out there someone has your name pinned to a rumor you do not yet remember.
[[Stay hidden a little longer, then slip into the hallway to eavesdrop on their report and maybe learn where the body was found->11]]
[[Sneak out to the balcony->12]]You make a break for it.
No plan, no thought, just pure panic.
The door handle rattles behind you, and instinct takes over. You bolt for the balcony, the curtains whipping against your face like disapproving ghosts. The bright sunlight blinds you for half a second as the humid ocean air slams into your lungs.
You think you hear someone shout, “Stop!” but it’s already too late. Your foot hits a patch of water left by the morning breeze, and your heel shoots out from under you with a squeal that would be funny if it weren’t yours. Time slows to an absurd crawl.
You reach for the railing, miss entirely, and find yourself momentarily airborne: arms flailing, mouth open in a silent “oh.” The world tilts, the ocean gleams, and gravity remembers your name.
You land with a hollow metallic thunk against the canvas cover of a lifeboat two decks below. There is a moment of stunned silence from the onlookers sunbathing nearby, followed by a single horrified gasp.
Your vision narrows to a tunnel of white sky and salt air. The last thing you hear is the distant cry of a gull, mocking or mourning, it’s hard to say.
GAME OVER
(Your attempt at freedom has... fallen flat.)
[[Rewind to: Hide under the bed->06]]
[[Rewind to: Look through the peephole and plan your next move->04]] The pounding at the door sharpens your panic into motion. You move to the balcony, careful not to trip over the tangled sheets on the floor. The sea air hits you again, bright, hot, merciless. You glance back at the door as another knock rattles the hinges. The soft beep of a keycard follows.
You step onto the balcony, barefoot on warm teak planks. The wind whips at your hair, salt stinging your eyes. Below, a narrow exterior walkway runs the length of the ship, lined with white railings and deck chairs. A few passengers stroll there, oblivious to your crisis.
You grip the railing and look down. It’s not far, maybe ten feet, but enough to break something important if you miss. The walkway’s edge glimmers with moisture, and the ship’s gentle sway turns the drop into a moving target. Somewhere behind you, the lock gives a soft click.
The detective’s voice filters faintly through the open door. “Cabin looks occupied. Proceed carefully.”
Your pulse thunders. The balcony feels smaller by the second. If you stay, they will find you. If you jump, you might land on your feet. Or you might not.
The ocean sprawls endlessly to one side, the hallway of identical balconies to the other. You can almost hear the ship’s engines thrumming below, as if daring you to make your move.
[[Attempt the acrobatic escape to the walkway below->13]]
[[Climb onto the railing and try to reach the balcony of the next stateroom->14]]
[[Surrender quietly and hope your hangover earns you pity->15]]You wait until the silence feels heavy and certain. The hum of the ship returns as the only sound. Convinced the guards are gone, you slide from beneath the bed like a ghost reborn. The air tastes dusty and stale. You stand, dizzy from the sudden motion, and creep toward the door.
The hallway beyond is quiet, lined with the same polished mahogany and brass fittings as your stateroom. Voices murmur somewhere around the corner, faint but distinct. You press your ear to the door, straining to catch their words. Something about the smoking lounge and blunt force trauma.
Curiosity wins. You ease the handle, just enough to peek out. The corridor looks empty. You step into it, bare feet padding softly on the carpet, heart in your throat. You move a few paces down, toward the sound of the voices, careful, silent, until you aren’t.
A cleaning cart rounds the corner, pushed by a startled attendant who freezes at the sight of you: disheveled, shoeless, and clearly not supposed to be there. She lets out a small gasp that carries like a siren.
The voices stop. Boots clatter.
The detective and both guards appear before you can even think. The taller guard grabs your wrist; the shorter one’s hand is already on his holster. The detective exhales through his nose, weary, almost disappointed.
“Didn’t make it far, did you?” he says. He flips open his notebook. “You are under arrest for the murder of a passenger aboard this vessel.”
You open your mouth to explain, but all that comes out is a dry croak.
GAME OVER
(Next time, maybe keep a lower profile.)
[[Rewind to: Look through the peephole and plan your next move->04]]You move to the balcony, careful not to trip over the tangled sheets on the floor. The sea air hits you again, bright, hot, merciless.
You step onto the balcony, barefoot on warm teak planks. The wind whips at your hair, salt stinging your eyes. Below, a narrow exterior walkway runs the length of the ship, lined with white railings and deck chairs. A few passengers stroll there, oblivious to your crisis.
You grip the railing and look down. It’s not far, maybe ten feet, but enough to break something important if you miss. The walkway’s edge glimmers with moisture, and the ship’s gentle sway turns the drop into a moving target.
Your pulse thunders. The balcony feels smaller by the second. If you stay, you are sure they will eventually find you. If you jump, you might land on your feet. Or you might not.
The ocean sprawls endlessly to one side, the hallway of identical balconies to the other. You can almost hear the ship’s engines thrumming below, as if daring you to make your move.
[[Attempt the acrobatic escape to the walkway below->13]]
[[Climb onto the railing and try to reach the balcony of the next stateroom->14]]
[[Surrender quietly and hope your hangover earns you pity->15]]