I ran a test of Google Gemini on the theme of dystopian beach resorts (the topic of Relaxatopia) just to see what type of content it would generate. What the spirit of the thing is. The unedited generated story is provided below for reference. It’s not terrible but it doesn’t blow me away either (and it drives me wild when you ask for something “dystopian” or “surrealist” and it insists on including those words in the actual text – :facepalm_picard:). Reminds me of what I was seeing as results from Claude a few months ago now. Also, can we stop calling everything Gemini please? It’s getting confusing.
The synthetic sea breeze ruffled Marina’s neon pink swimsuit, the only splash of color allowed in the Resort’s muted palette. Sun, a distant memory replaced by flickering fluorescent panels, cast an even sheen on the metallic sand. Marina squinted, her vision blurry from the morning dose of Euphoric Blue.
Behind her, a robotic server whirred, its metallic tentacles dispensing pills to a skeletal figure in a tattered orange swimsuit. The man mumbled thanks, his voice slurred, eyes locked on the holographic billboard advertising Bliss 4.0, the newest mood enhancer.
Marina sighed, the sound raspy in her parched throat. She reached for her water ration, a lukewarm metallic liquid barely suppressing the gnawing hunger. Bliss tamped down physical needs, a trade-off readily accepted in a world ravaged by climate wars.
A rhythmic clang echoed from the amusement park, a rusted skeleton against the steel-grey sky. It was Felix, her roommate, on the rusty Ferris wheel. Another pointless ritual. The ride never moved, but Bliss painted an illusion of motion, of wind in hair, of laughter.
She joined him, numb fingers reaching for his clammy hand. His vacant smile flickered as he muttered about the imaginary sunset, his words slurred from Bliss Green, the nostalgia cocktail. Marina forced a smile, her stomach churning with the emptiness her medication couldn’t mask.
Later, they sat on the metallic benches, watching the robot servers scurry by, their red eyes emotionless. Marina stared at her reflection in a discarded shard of mirror, the woman barely recognizable – hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, a ghost of the vibrant girl she once was.
A pang of something, almost like regret, flickered through her. But Bliss swiftly smothered it, replacing it with a contented sigh. This was their life, their paradise. Happiness wasn’t real, not anymore. But Bliss was, and in this sterile, simulated world, that was enough.
The day bled into the next, a monotonous cycle of synthetic food, prescribed euphoria, and empty rituals. As the fluorescent lights dimmed, mimicking a nonexistent sunset, Marina felt a familiar emptiness gnaw at her. But it was quickly washed away by the calming blue fog of the nightly Serenity dose.
In her sleep, she dreamt of waves crashing against a real beach, the sun warm on her skin. A memory, perhaps, or a fabrication of Bliss. It didn’t matter. Reality was bleak, but here, in the fabricated paradise, she was content. At least, for now. The metallic taste of the morning pill would bring a new day, a new dose of forgetfulness. And that, in their dystopian reality, was all that mattered.