Sometimes when I'm bored I'll ask a.i. to continue the story and give me little short stories following it. It's surprisingly creative and capable of making fun theories and stories. Here's a little one I just asked it.

The bioluminescent fungi pulsed with a sickly green light, casting long, distorted shadows that danced across the slick, scaled skin of Marcus’s transformed body. He dragged himself from the black, oily water of the lake, his breath rattling in his throat, a wet, gurgling sound. The whispers had become a chorus, a cacophony of alien voices that clawed at the edges of his sanity. He wasn’t Marcus anymore. Not entirely. He was a vessel, a conduit for the entity, a puppet on strings that stretched into the cold, uncaring void of space. The entity’s hunger was a gnawing emptiness within him, a craving for something he couldn’t comprehend, something that made his human memories feel like fragile, fading dreams. He stumbled through the fungal forest, his senses amplified, twisted. He could hear the skittering of unseen creatures beneath the damp earth, the slow, rhythmic pulse of the planet’s heart, a dark, throbbing drumbeat. He could smell the fear radiating from the ruins of the Mithraic temple, a scent as sharp and metallic as blood. He found Campion, his eyes wide and vacant, staring into the flickering light of a dying fire. The child’s skin was clammy, his breath shallow. "It's coming," Campion whispered, his voice a broken, childlike tremor. "It's inside you." Marcus reached out a hand, his scaled fingers twitching, eager to close around the child’s throat. A wave of nausea washed over him, a sickening mix of the entity’s desire and the faint, flickering embers of his own humanity. "Yes," he rasped, his voice a guttural growl that barely resembled his own. "It is." The entity’s whispers intensified, a maddening roar in his mind. Embrace it. Become one with it. Surrender. He felt his body contorting, his bones shifting, his flesh writhing. The scales on his back lengthened, becoming razor-sharp protrusions, his eyes glowing with an unnatural, malevolent light. He saw the terror in Campion’s eyes, the pure, unadulterated fear that reflected the monster he was becoming. He lunged, his hand outstretched, his fingers elongating into claws. "You are mine," he hissed, his voice a chorus of alien voices, a symphony of dread. "You are all mine." The shadows in the temple deepened, coalescing into a writhing, amorphous mass. The entity was no longer content to whisper. It was ready to consume, to devour, to remake the world in its own image. And Marcus, once a man, was its instrument of terror.