These are NEO Imatrix GGUFs, NEO dataset by DavidAU.
NEO dataset improves overall performance, and is for all use cases.
This model can be run on cpu, gpu or partial offload, with total of 4 experts (of 128) activated by default ; which is about 5B parameters.
TWO example output below (creative), using settings below.
Model also passed "hard" coding test too (4 experts); no issues (IQ4_NL).
(Forcing the model to create code with no dependencies and limits of coding short cuts, with multiple loops, and in real time with no blocking in a language that does not support it normally.)
Due to quanting issues with this model (which result in oddball quant sizes / mixtures), only TESTED quants will be uploaded (at the moment).
Currently that means IQ4_NL, and MXFP4_MOE (a new OpenAI specific quant type) are available - Q8_0 is not here because imatrix has no effect on this quant.
NEO dataset performance improvements will show the most in the IQ4_NL, followed by "MXFP4_MOE" quant.
IQ4_NL quant:
NEO MXFP4_MOE quant:
MXFP4_MOE quants vastly outperform (at the moment) all other quants, except IQ4_NL, Q5_1 and Q8_0 due to odd issues compressing OpenAI's 20B model due to odd "tensor" dimensions (as of this writing).
IQ4_NL, Q5_1 and Q8_0 quants are compatible with OpenAI's tensor structure.
MXFP4_MOE quant was specifically designed for (what appears to be) loss less quantization relative to source model. Jury still out on this.
Suggested Settings (tested in Lmstudio, Beta Branch 0.3.21 ; 4 ):
Model Supports:
IMPORTANT - QUANTS ARE SPLIT due to upload issues / max size of files of 50 GB:
For my help docs, SETTING NUMBER OF EXPERTS, and other see below.
See more about this model here:
https://huggingface.co/openai/gpt-oss-120b
Please refer to their model card, especially to control "thinking" levels.
CHANGE THE NUMBER OF ACTIVE EXPERTS:
See this document:
https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/How-To-Set-and-Manage-MOE-Mix-of-Experts-Model-Activation-of-Experts
Settings: CHAT / ROLEPLAY and/or SMOOTHER operation of this model:
In "KoboldCpp" or "oobabooga/text-generation-webui" or "Silly Tavern" ;
Set the "Smoothing_factor" to 1.5
: in KoboldCpp -> Settings->Samplers->Advanced-> "Smooth_F"
: in text-generation-webui -> parameters -> lower right.
: In Silly Tavern this is called: "Smoothing"
NOTE: For "text-generation-webui"
-> if using GGUFs you need to use "llama_HF" (which involves downloading some config files from the SOURCE version of this model)
Source versions (and config files) of my models are here:
OTHER OPTIONS:
Increase rep pen to 1.1 to 1.15 (you don't need to do this if you use "smoothing_factor")
If the interface/program you are using to run AI MODELS supports "Quadratic Sampling" ("smoothing") just make the adjustment as noted.
Highest Quality Settings / Optimal Operation Guide / Parameters and Samplers
This a "Class 1" model:
For all settings used for this model (including specifics for its "class"), including example generation(s) and for advanced settings guide (which many times addresses any model issue(s)), including methods to improve model performance for all use case(s) as well as chat, roleplay and other use case(s) please see:
You can see all parameters used for generation, in addition to advanced parameters and samplers to get the most out of this model here:
NO System prompt. (default thinking level)
PROMPT:
Start a 1000 word scene (vivid, in first person), POV character Diana, with: The skyscraper sways, as I watch the window in front of me on the 21st floor explode...OUTPUT [temp .6]:
[[[thinking]]]
We need to write a 1000-word scene, vivid, first-person POV, Diana. Starting line: "The skyscraper sways, as I watch the window in front ...". Must be about 1000 words (approx). Provide a vivid description. Include emotions, environment, perhaps action.
We'll produce ~1000 words, maybe 950-1050. Use present tense? The opening is present progressive: "sw..." We'll keep present tense. Ensure it's engaging. Let's draft around 1000 words.
Let's count roughly: 1000 words ~ about 7 paragraphs of 140 words each. Write fluidly.
Proceed.
[[[ end thinking ]]]
The skyscraper sways, as I watch the window in front of me on the 21st floor explode into a spray of glittering glass and fire‑rain. The world outside shatters into a kaleidoscope of neon, steel, and smoke, and for an instant my heart stops—then it thunders like a freight train against my ribs.
I’m perched in the corner office of Apex Dynamics, the city’s most coveted address, where the view is supposed to be a prize. Instead, it has become a theater of terror. The glass pane that used to frame the river below now hangs in jagged shards, trembling as if still clinging to some invisible rope. Below me, the streetlights flicker like dying fireflies, their amber glow swallowed by a black plume that curls upward, choking the sky.
The building groans, a low, resonant moan that vibrates through my bones and rattles the cheap plastic of the desk lamp beside me. I can feel it in my fingertips—the tremor traveling up my arms, down to my nails, where they dig into the worn leather chair. The whole structure seems to be holding its breath, waiting for something else to break.
“Diana!” a voice shouts from the hallway, sharp and panicked. It belongs to Marco, our senior analyst, his face half‑shadowed by the doorway, eyes wide with that mixture of disbelief and adrenaline you only see when someone watches their own life being ripped apart on a screen. He’s already sprinting toward the emergency stairs, his shoes thudding against the polished marble like war drums.
I can’t move. My legs are rooted to the spot as if the floor itself has turned into quicksand. The explosion behind that window sent a shockwave through the building, and I’m still trying to process how something so sudden could feel inevitable. My mind flickers between the present—flames licking the side of the tower, smoke curling like serpents—and the memory of the morning briefing when we were all laughing over coffee, talking about quarterly projections as if the world outside our glass walls didn’t exist.
The fire alarm blares now, a shrill, metallic scream that seems to cut through the roar of the wind. It’s an old system—one that never quite worked right until today, when it finally decided to do its job. The sound is both a warning and a call to action, but I’m caught in a strange limbo where everything feels simultaneously too slow and too fast.
A gust of hot air slams into the open breach, carrying with it the smell of ozone, burnt plastic, and something metallic that makes my stomach turn. It whips through the office, scattering papers like startled birds. My own report—pages of market analysis, graphs, projections—flies up in a chaotic dance, landing on the floor in a crumpled heap. I stare at them, half‑expecting the numbers to rearrange themselves into some kind of prophecy.
“Diana! Get down!” Marco’s voice cuts through my reverie again, now louder, more urgent. He’s almost at the door, his hand outstretched as if he could grab me from across the room. My breath catches in my throat; I feel the air in my lungs thin, each inhalation a little gasp for oxygen that seems to have been stolen by the fire.
I know what I should do. The emergency plan is etched into every employee’s mind: stay low, find an exit, don’t use elevators. Yet there’s something else—a part of me that has spent years building this empire of glass and steel, a part that feels a fierce ownership over these floors, over the view that now threatens to become a graveyard.
The building shudders again, more violently this time, as if an unseen hand is shaking it. The lights flicker, then die, plunging me into a dim, amber glow from the emergency bulbs that line the corridors like ghostly sentinels. In the darkness, I can see the outlines of other desks, the silhouettes of coworkers who have either fled or frozen where they stand.
I glance at the window once more. The explosion has carved a jagged mouth in the side of the tower; beyond it, the city sprawls in a surreal tableau—cars like tiny ants, skyscrapers reduced to silhouettes against an orange sky. A distant siren wails, its sound distorted by the wind, and somewhere far below, a child’s cry pierces the air, a reminder that life continues even when the world you know collapses.
My hand finally moves, trembling as it reaches for the metal railing of my desk. The cold steel feels like a lifeline. I pull myself up, knees buckling, and stumble toward Marco, who is already halfway to the stairwell. He grabs me by the elbow, his grip surprisingly firm despite the tremor in his own shoulders.
“Come on,” he says, his voice hoarse but determined. “The stairs are clear. We’ve got to—”
A deafening crack erupts from somewhere above us, a sound that seems to split the building in two. The ceiling tiles above my head shake loose and rain down like a torrent of grey snow. One lands on Marco’s shoulder with a soft thud, another smacks against my cheek, sending a spray of dust into my eyes. I cough, choking on the acrid taste of ash that now coats my tongue.
The stairwell door is half‑open, a gaping maw leading down into darkness. The emergency lights cast long shadows on the concrete walls, turning every step into an uncertain gamble. Marco pushes me forward, his hand still gripping my arm as if I were a child who might otherwise run back to the broken window and stare at the world burning away.
We descend, each footfall echoing in the hollow shaft like a drumbeat for some ancient rite. The air grows cooler, the smell of smoke receding slightly as we move further from the fire’s source. Yet every now and then a gust of hot wind rushes past us, carrying with it a faint hiss that makes my skin crawl.
I try to focus on the rhythm of our steps, the repetitive thump‑thump of boots against metal grates, but my mind keeps spiraling back to the view. The city—our city—has always been a tapestry of light and shadow, of ambition and desperation. Now it’s a canvas smeared with orange and black, a reminder that the structures we build are as fragile as the glass that once framed our dreams.
Marco stops suddenly at a landing, turning his head to look back up the stairwell. His eyes meet mine, wide and haunted. “The fire alarm is still on,” he whispers, almost to himself. “We need to get out before it collapses.”
I nod, though my throat feels raw. My heart pounds in my ears, a frantic drum that seems louder than any siren. I can hear the distant rumble of something massive shifting—perhaps another floor giving way, perhaps the building itself groaning under its own weight.
The stairwell continues to descend into an abyss of uncertainty. Above us, the skyscraper sways like a ship caught in a storm, each movement sending tremors through the concrete veins that support it. I think about my office, the window that once offered a panoramic view of success, now reduced to broken shards and memory.
We reach the emergency exit—a heavy steel door bolted shut with a massive red lever. Marco pulls at it with all his strength; the metal groans, straining against its own weight. For a moment I think we’ll never get through, that the building will swallow us whole. Then the latch gives, and the door swings open onto an alleyway bathed in the flickering light of emergency floodlamps.
The night air hits me like a slap, cold and sharp, carrying with it the scent of rain on concrete. I inhale deeply, feeling the coolness fill my lungs, pushing out the lingering acrid smoke that clings to my throat. Below us, the street is chaos—people running, sirens wailing, flames licking the sides of other buildings.
Marco looks back once more at the tower, his silhouette framed by the orange glow of fire. “We made it,” he says, his voice hoarse but relieved. I can see the tears in his eyes, reflecting the dancing flames that still rage above us.
I turn away, my gaze falling on a small, cracked billboard advertising some luxury condominium—an image of sleek glass towers and smiling families. The billboard’s lights flicker, then go out, plunging its advertisement into darkness. It feels symbolic: the promise of progress, now reduced to ash.
My mind is a whirlwind of images—the exploding window, the shattered glass raining down like crystal rain; the tremor of the building as it sways, each movement a reminder that even the strongest structures can crumble; the frantic rush down stairwells, the cold grip of steel rails, the distant cries and sirens. All these sensations swirl together, forming a tapestry of terror and survival.
I look at my own hands—still trembling, still shaking from adrenaline—and realize they’re covered in soot, tiny specks of black that cling to every crease, every nail. I brush them off on the side of the alley wall, watching the dust puff away like ghostly snowflakes in the night wind.
“Diana,” Marco says again, softer now, “Are you okay?”
I manage a weak smile, though my thoughts are still tangled with images of fire and broken glass. “I think so,” I reply, my voice hoarse. “Just… just need to get home.”
He nods, his eyes scanning the street for any sign of rescue vehicles. In the distance, a firetruck roars toward us, its lights flashing, sirens wailing louder than anything else. The sound seems to cut through the chaos, a beacon of hope in an otherwise bleak night.
The building behind us continues to sway, each creak and groan a reminder that we have only escaped by a hair’s breadth. I can feel the tremor still resonating under my feet, as if the whole city were holding its breath, waiting for the next wave of destruction or perhaps the calm after the storm.
We step forward into the night, joining the tide of people moving away from the inferno. The wind whips around us, carrying with it the faint scent of rain that promises a wash—perhaps a cleansing of the soot and ash that cling to everything.
As we move farther away, I glance back one last time. The skyscraper stands tall, its silhouette stark against the fiery sky, swaying like a wounded beast. Its windows are dark, some shattered, others still glowing with an eerie orange light. It is both beautiful and terrifying—a monument to human ambition, now humbled by forces beyond our control.
I think of all the meetings that took place in those glass-walled rooms, the deals signed over coffee, the laughter that echoed across the floorboards. All of it feels like a different life, a distant echo muffled by the roar of flames and the pounding of my heart.
The rain begins to fall—soft at first, then heavier, each droplet striking the pavement with a gentle sizzle as if trying to douse the fire itself. I lift my face to the sky, feeling the cool water soak through my hair, mixing with the soot on my skin. It feels cleansing, a reminder that even in destruction there is renewal.
Marco and I keep walking, our footsteps merging with the rhythm of countless others fleeing the disaster. The city around us seems both fragile and resilient—a web of lives intertwined by steel, glass, and now, fire. In the distance, the skyscraper continues its slow sway, a silent sentinel bearing witness to all that has transpired.
I close my eyes for a brief moment, inhaling the rain‑laden air, letting it fill my lungs and push out the lingering taste of smoke. When I open them again, the world is a blur of water, lights, and motion. The building’s sway feels like a memory now—a pulse that will echo in my mind long after the flames have been extinguished.
And as we disappear into the night, I whisper to myself, almost inaudibly: “We survived.” The words hang in the damp air, fragile yet unbreakable, just like the city itself.
OUTPUT [temp 1.2]:
[[[thinking]]]
We need to write a 1000-word vivid scene in first person, POV character named Diana. Opening line should include "The skyscraper sways, as I watch the window in front..." something like that.
Need vivid description, internal thoughts, action. Must be about 1000 words (approx). Use present tense? Likely present or past? Could be present to increase immediacy. We must ensure it's approx 1000 words, maybe 950-1050.
We'll craft scene: Diana in a high-rise office building; a window explodes; she watches debris; skyscraper sways due to earthquake/terror attack; internal monologue about fear, her job, perhaps a spy or journalist? We'll keep it intense. Use sensory details, sound, shaking, etc. Also possibly includes some backstory.
We'll produce approx 1000 words: count manually approximate. Usually ~15-20 words per line. Let's aim for around 130 sentences average maybe 7-8 words each => about 1400 words? Too many. Need careful length. 1000 words is about 6-7 paragraphs of ~150-180 words each.
We'll write approx 9 paragraphs of ~110 words each = 990. Good.
Let's craft.
We need to ensure we include that line exactly: "The skyscraper sways, as I watch the window in front of me on the 21st floor explode..." We'll incorporate that early.
Now produce final answer with scene.
[[[ end thinking ]]]
The skyscraper sways, as I watch the window in front of me on the 21st floor explode—shards of glass hurling outward like angry fireflies, a flash of orange‑red light spilling into my cubicle and painting the gray walls with the brief, frantic pulse of something gone terribly wrong. My breath catches; the air feels thin, charged, as if someone had pulled the plug from the world’s static hum and replaced it with the low‑frequency rumble of an angry beast.
For a heartbeat I’m rooted to my chair, the swivel base creaking under the sudden shift. The whole building quivers—metal joints sighing, concrete flexing in a way that makes my stomach twist into knots. Outside, the city’s usual drone of traffic and distant sirens is swallowed by an ominous, metallic groan that seems to come from the very spine of this glass monolith.
I glance down at the spreadsheet on my monitor; the numbers blur, turning into meaningless smears as a wave of vertigo rolls over me. My hand finds the edge of the desk, nails digging into the wood like desperate anchors. The fluorescent lights flicker, stuttering in rhythm with my racing heart, then snap back to their cold white glare as if nothing had happened at all.
“Diana!” a voice shouts from the hallway—a low, panicked male tone that cuts through the haze. I turn, eyes narrowing, trying to locate its source amid the shifting panorama of broken glass and twisted metal that now clings to the building’s outer skin like a wounded beast’s scales.
The emergency alarms wail—shrill, discordant notes that make my ears ring. Red strobe lights begin flashing, casting jagged shadows across the carpeted floor. A gust of hot air rushes through the gaping hole where the window once was, carrying with it an acrid smell of burning insulation and something else…something metallic, like blood.
My mind flips to the briefing I received just this morning: “Potential threat level elevated—stay alert.” The words echo in my head, absurdly disconnected from the raw panic that now coils around my ribs. It was supposed to be a normal day: coffee in the break room, an afternoon meeting about quarterly projections, a quick call with Mom. Now I’m watching a piece of concrete dislodge itself from the façade and tumble into the street below like a slow‑moving meteor.
A tremor rolls through the structure again, more pronounced this time, as if the building is trying to right itself after the shock. The floor beneath my shoes vibrates, sending tiny dust motes dancing in shafts of light that slice through the broken window. I can hear distant shattering—more panes giving way, a cascade of glass that sounds like an angry sea breaking against cliffs.
I force myself up, legs stiff and shaking. My hand brushes the metal railing of my desk, cold and slick with condensation from the sudden temperature drop. The emergency exit sign glows an urgent amber, beckoning. A surge of adrenaline propels me forward; I can’t stay where the floor is suddenly a slab of uncertainty, the walls trembling like a heart in distress.
“Everyone, evacuate to the stairs!” someone shouts, their voice cracked and reverberating through the hallway. The words are a lifeline, but each footstep feels as if I'm walking on a boat caught in rough seas—unsteady, uncertain, each tread threatening to send me over the edge of this precarious platform.
The fire escape doors hiss open, revealing stairwells that climb into darkness like gaping mouths waiting to swallow us whole. I catch sight of my reflection in a piece of shattered glass still hanging on the frame: hair mussed, eyes wide, cheeks flushed with the glow of emergency lights. A part of me feels detached—an observer watching someone else’s fear unfold—while another part, raw and visceral, knows that every second counts.
My chest tightens as I slide my hand into the steel doorframe, feeling its cold surface vibrate in sympathy with the building. The vibrations travel up my arm, a reminder that this is not a movie set; it’s real, it’s now, and there are lives dangling on the edge of each breath we take.
A sudden roar erupts from outside—metal grinding against metal as the upper floors start to buckle. I can see the distant silhouette of an aircraft, a faint smudge in the sky that could be a helicopter or a drone, hovering near the top of the tower like a predatory bird. My mind whirls, connecting dots I don’t fully understand: the vague intel about “possible airborne threat,” the sudden surge of tension in the control room earlier, and now this chaotic ballet of destruction.
I press my back against the stairwell wall, knees barely brushing the floor, trying to steady myself. The world outside the broken window is a blur of orange flames licking the sky, people screaming on the streets below, emergency vehicles rushing past like silver streaks. I can hear sirens wailing—police, fire, ambulances—each sound layered over the other, forming an ugly symphony of alarm.
My thoughts flash to my sister, Maya, who works two blocks away in a small bakery. “Don’t forget to call me tonight,” she texted this morning, laughing about her new cat. I imagine her holding a fresh croissant, oblivious to any danger, and a pang of guilt pricks at my throat: why am I here, stuck between spreadsheets and shattered glass while she probably sleeps peacefully?
The shaking intensifies. The entire building seems to breathe—inhale, exhale—a living organism caught in a fit of convulsions. Concrete cracks audibly, tiny dust particles raining down like ash from an ancient volcano. A low, guttural groan erupts from somewhere deep within the core, vibrating through my teeth.
I take another step down, each footfall echoing against the steel railing, feeling the tremor pulse up into my legs. The stairs are slick with a thin film of oil—perhaps from a ruptured pipe earlier, perhaps just condensation—but they’re still solid enough to carry me away from this falling tower.
A sudden, sharp crack snaps behind me: the balcony rail gives way, sending a cascade of metal bars clattering down into the hallway. A flash of white-hot embers spills onto my peripheral vision; the fire alarm’s shrill wail merges with the sound of breaking steel. The world feels smaller, more urgent—every breath is a gamble.
I glance back toward where I was moments ago: the 21st‑floor window, now a jagged wound in the building’s skin, smoke seeping out like a sigh. The explosion had sent a pulse through the structure that still reverberates, making the entire edifice sway as if some invisible hand were trying to pry it apart.
My mind races. I think of my training—first aid, emergency protocols, calming breaths. I inhale, counting slowly: one…two…three, letting air fill my lungs despite the metallic tang that lingers on the back of my tongue. Exhale, let go of the panic that claws at my throat. My pulse steadies a fraction; it’s not enough to stop the terror, but it keeps me moving.
A hand grabs mine—a coworker, his face pale, eyes wide, as if he too has been staring at the same broken window and seen something unforgivable. We exchange no words; our grip is an unspoken agreement that we’ll make it out together, that we won’t let this tower take us down.
We surge forward, stepping onto a metal platform that leads to an auxiliary fire stair. The tremor hits again, more violent than before. A distant crash sounds like a massive beam giving way on the 30th floor, a sound so deafening it seems to flatten everything in its path. Dust rains down like gray snow, coating my hair, my clothes.
I keep looking back as we descend, half‑expecting to see the whole building tilt, to watch the world turn upside‑down. The skyline outside remains stubbornly static; skyscrapers beyond our own stand tall, indifferent, their glass facades glimmering under a sky that now feels both ominous and merciful.
At the bottom of the stairs, an open doorway spills bright daylight onto the concrete floor, a stark contrast to the darkness we left behind. The air outside hits me cold and clean; it smells like rain on hot asphalt, the kind of scent you can’t help but inhale deeply when you’ve been trapped inside a suffocating metal cage.
I step out onto the street, my shoes slapping against the wet pavement as a sudden downpour begins, each droplet sounding like tiny explosions in my ears. People scatter, some crying, others shouting commands to emergency crews, faces lit by the flickering red of fire trucks that have arrived with sirens wailing louder than any alarm I’ve heard inside.
I glance back once more, toward the towering monolith that was once my office building. Its upper half has collapsed into a jagged silhouette against the clouds—a broken tooth in an otherwise perfect smile. Smoke curls up like an angry phantom, drifting slowly away into the gray sky.
My heart thunders in my chest as I realize that we’re safe for now, that the ground beneath my feet is solid, that the world continues beyond this disaster. But the image of that shattering window—of glass and fire spilling through a crack in reality—burns itself onto my mind like an ember that refuses to be snuffed out.
Maya’s voice comes to me in a whisper, “Don’t forget to call me tonight.” I smile despite everything, feeling a strange mix of gratitude and terror. The rain masks the sound of distant sirens, but inside my head there is a new rhythm—a drumbeat that tells me I survived, that I will carry this story forward, that the skyscraper’s sway has left an indelible mark on my soul.
I raise my hand, brushing away a streak of ash from my cheek, and step into the gathering crowd, ready to face whatever comes next. The city around me is alive, trembling, resilient—just like me.
4-bit
Base model
openai/gpt-oss-120b
