null like war machine

    A formidable tank designed to resemble a massive hen rolls across the battlefield. The body of the tank is heavily armored, with its turret shaped like the rounded torso of a chicken, covered in thick, metal "feathers" that provide both protection and a menacing look. The front of the tank features a sharp, beak-like cannon, capable of firing high-powered shells, while smaller weapons are mounted along the sides, where mechanical "wings" fan out to shield the vehicle. The tracks, disguised as powerful, clawed feet, dig into the ground as the tank advances, leaving deep impressions behind. At the top, the rotating turret mimics the hen’s head, with small, glowing red "eyes" scanning the surroundings for threats. The tank's exhaust pipes extend from the rear, giving the impression of tail feathers as they spew smoke. Despite its comical shape, this chicken-inspired war machine exudes an intimidating presence on the battlefield.
    Incredible human-like automaton, eyes glowing like cold blue lasers, detailed mechanical frame with hollow cavities and visible wiring, like a Terminator, complex LED lighting along frame and limbs, actuators and cables and gyroscopic stabilizer, human-like mechanical robot, skeletal-like, extremely detailed, in an old garage, somewhat like a T100 war robot, intimidating looking cyborg from 2096, scary robot, wicked human-like killing machine, assassin droid, advanced nuclear power source in chest cavity, frightening scene of the robot coming to life,
    a dramatic World War II battle scene in a comic book style. The viewpoint is from behind Finnish soldiers in winter camouflage, entrenched at the snowy edge of a dense forest. They are aiming their weapons—rifles and machine guns—at a massive human wave of advancing Soviet soldiers across an open snow-covered field. Soviet troops are supported by T-26 tanks rolling forward. The atmosphere is intense and chaotic, with explosions, smoke, and dynamic action lines to emphasize the drama. Focus on details like the soldiers' winter gear, snow-covered terrain, and the contrast between the forest and open field. The tone should be gritty, heroic, and full of action, highlighting the bravery of the defenders. illustration
    ethdysty.A high-resolution cinematic close-up of a ruthless desert war queen standing amid a decaying battlefield. A dust storm rages behind her, the dim sun barely piercing through the swirling haze. She looks down upon the viewer with cold, merciless eyes, her expression one of absolute dominance—sharp, unforgiving, and filled with quiet wrath. She wears a dark, battle-worn imperial robe reinforced with armor-like elements—ornate, segmented plates of blackened metal woven seamlessly into the heavy fabric. A towering high collar frames her face, casting deep shadows. The intricate gold filigree is tarnished, barely visible against the obsidian tones of her attire. Atop her head, a futuristic Egyptian-inspired crown gleams darkly, its metallic frame adorned with cryptic engravings. A translucent amber gemstone at its center pulses with an eerie, otherworldly glow, casting flickering light across her scarred cheek. Her long, snow-white hair whips violently in the scorching wind, a stark contrast to her ominous presence. Behind her, the skeletal remains of war machines and fallen soldiers litter the desert. The silence is broken only by the distant howling wind, as if the land itself fears its ruthless queen.
    A haunting scene where the skeletal remains of a giant, mechanical beast lie sprawled across a battlefield, its body broken and covered in the ashes of war. The machine’s empty eyes stare blankly at the sky, while the ground around it is littered with the bones of soldiers who fought and died in its shadow. The scene is bathed in a cold, blue light, with tendrils of smoke rising from the earth like ghostly hands. The style echoes Giger’s nightmarish, industrial aesthetic, merging the devastation of war with the surreal imagery of a forgotten mechanical god.
    army of humanoid aliens wearing heavy armor. the aliens standing on top of a great metallic pyramid, in front of a glowing cyber portal leading to a world where the aliens are invading. huge mechanoid war machines are floating through the cyber portal in a shower of sparks and plasma. the background is a towering neon cyber city. the entire image has a strange, surreal quality, making the alien world seem like a dream. <lora:fractal-aliens/v02:0.8>
    A surreal, alien landscape takes inspiration from Hieronymus Bosch’s intricate style, but here it is infused with cosmic horror elements. The scene unfolds on an alien world that defies the natural laws of reality, filled with grotesque, twisted creatures and unnatural structures. In the foreground, multi-limbed beings, a horrific blend of flesh and metal, perform bizarre rituals. These beings interact with floating constructs, half-machine and half-living, which pulse with dim, eerie light. Their grotesque forms are adorned with alien instruments that produce haunting, inaudible sounds, resonating with a sense of primal fear. In the background, towering, writhing spires and monoliths rise from a gelatinous landscape. These structures are covered in eyes and mouths, their tendrils stretching toward the sky, reaching for hovering spectral orbs, shimmering with incomprehensible patterns. The chaotic sky above swirls with unnatural colors and light, resembling a cosmic rift where dimensions collide. Planets hover impossibly close, their scarred surfaces speaking of ancient, forgotten wars. Ethereal beings float through the air, their translucent forms glowing faintly, enhancing the atmosphere of dread and unease. This world feels like a realm beyond human understanding, where reality and madness blur.
    microworldlora. Image of a miniature tall, slender robot stands partially buried in the desert sand, its rusted metal legs covered in layers of dust and debris. Its body is a tarnished shell of metal, with missing or exposed parts revealing intricate gears and damaged circuits within. The robot’s thin, jointed arms hang loosely at its sides—one hand, with broken fingers, dangles uselessly, while the other still clutches an ancient repair tool. The robot’s head, oval-shaped and scarred by time, features a single glowing eye that emits a faint, flickering blue light. Cracks run through the glass of the lens, giving the impression of a being that once had purpose but now stands as a relic of a forgotten past. On its chest, a faded and rusted serial number plate is barely visible, a reminder of a long-extinct civilization. Surrounding the robot, small details enhance the scene: frayed cables trail into the sand, fragments of other machines and pieces of technology scattered like remnants of a long-past war or disaster. The robot appears frozen in time, a lonely and silent figure observing the apocalyptic desert as if waiting for a command that will never come
    Incredible human-like automaton, eyes glowing like cold blue lasers, detailed mechanical frame with hollow cavities and visible wiring, like a Terminator, complex LED lighting along frame and limbs, actuators and cables and gyroscopic stabilizer, human-like mechanical robot, skeletal-like, extremely detailed, in an old garage, somewhat like a T100 war robot, intimidating looking cyborg from 2096, scary robot, wicked human-like killing machine, assassin droid, advanced nuclear power source in chest cavity, frightening scene of the robot coming to life,
    A surreal landscape where the remains of war machines lie scattered like fallen giants, their bodies covered in rust and overgrowth. The sky is filled with strange, organic shapes that twist and writhe like living creatures, casting long, twisted shadows over the battlefield. Soldiers' spirits rise from the ground, their forms translucent and ghostly, as they ascend towards the sky. The style is a fusion of Beksiński’s haunting surrealism with Giger’s biomechanical horror, creating a powerful juxtaposition between the organic and the mechanical, life and death.
    microworldlora. Image of a miniature tall, slender robot stands partially buried in the desert sand, its rusted metal legs covered in layers of dust and debris. Its body is a tarnished shell of metal, with missing or exposed parts revealing intricate gears and damaged circuits within. The robot’s thin, jointed arms hang loosely at its sides—one hand, with broken fingers, dangles uselessly, while the other still clutches an ancient repair tool. The robot’s head, oval-shaped and scarred by time, features a single glowing eye that emits a faint, flickering blue light. Cracks run through the glass of the lens, giving the impression of a being that once had purpose but now stands as a relic of a forgotten past. On its chest, a faded and rusted serial number plate is barely visible, a reminder of a long-extinct civilization. Surrounding the robot, small details enhance the scene: frayed cables trail into the sand, fragments of other machines and pieces of technology scattered like remnants of a long-past war or disaster. The robot appears frozen in time, a lonely and silent figure observing the apocalyptic desert as if waiting for a command that will never come
    A post-apocalyptic battlefield where colossal mechs engage in intense combat. The foreground features a crumbling rural landscape with broken fences, overgrown grass, and a decaying house, partially covered in vines. Smoke and dust fill the air as the battle rages. In the middle ground, a massive, spider-like war machine with mechanical limbs and a skeletal metal face lunges forward, one of its arms shattered mid-motion. Sparks and debris fly from its damaged body, exposing glowing energy cores and intricate circuitry. Behind it, a hulking, heavily-armored mech with glowing red eyes looms menacingly, resembling an unstoppable force of destruction. Its thick, reinforced armor plates reflect the setting sun, casting an eerie glow over the battlefield. One of its arms wields a massive blade-like weapon, while the other smashes into a collapsing building. The background features a hazy, smoke-filled sky with a few faint silhouettes of other war machines engaged in combat, their shapes barely visible against the dusky horizon. The scene is dynamic, filled with tension and destruction, evoking a sense of an epic war between colossal, futuristic machines. , anime, cyberpunk
    microworldlora. Image of a miniature tall, slender robot stands partially buried in the desert sand, its rusted metal legs covered in layers of dust and debris. Its body is a tarnished shell of metal, with missing or exposed parts revealing intricate gears and damaged circuits within. The robot’s thin, jointed arms hang loosely at its sides—one hand, with broken fingers, dangles uselessly, while the other still clutches an ancient repair tool. The robot’s head, oval-shaped and scarred by time, features a single glowing eye that emits a faint, flickering blue light. Cracks run through the glass of the lens, giving the impression of a being that once had purpose but now stands as a relic of a forgotten past. On its chest, a faded and rusted serial number plate is barely visible, a reminder of a long-extinct civilization. Surrounding the robot, small details enhance the scene: frayed cables trail into the sand, fragments of other machines and pieces of technology scattered like remnants of a long-past war or disaster. The robot appears frozen in time, a lonely and silent figure observing the apocalyptic desert as if waiting for a command that will never come
    A ghost in the machine, a soldier on the verge of detonation. His face glitches—fractured, repeating, lagging between agony and cold resolve. His eyes burn like ruptured floodlights, neon beams stabbing through the dark, his mouth a gaping wound of searing white. The light isn’t escaping—it’s devouring him from within, cracking through his corroded plating, tearing him apart pixel by pixel. His body flickers, warping between steel and static, neon scars pulsing like dying circuitry. The air vibrates with a distorted hum, reality bending as his form destabilizes. Glitching shadows stretch unnaturally, his figure collapsing, reforming, seconds from oblivion. Kneeling in the wreckage of his own existence, he prays to nothing. The war is over. He won’t be for much longer.
    Incredible human-like automaton, eyes glowing like cold blue lasers, detailed mechanical frame with hollow cavities and visible wiring, like a Terminator, complex LED lighting along frame and limbs, actuators and cables and gyroscopic stabilizer, human-like mechanical robot, skeletal-like, extremely detailed, in an old garage, somewhat like a T100 war robot, intimidating looking cyborg from 2096, scary robot, wicked human-like killing machine, assassin droid, advanced nuclear power source in chest cavity, frightening scene of the robot coming to life,
    microworldlora. Image of a miniature tall, slender robot stands partially buried in the desert sand, its rusted metal legs covered in layers of dust and debris. Its body is a tarnished shell of metal, with missing or exposed parts revealing intricate gears and damaged circuits within. The robot’s thin, jointed arms hang loosely at its sides—one hand, with broken fingers, dangles uselessly, while the other still clutches an ancient repair tool. The robot’s head, oval-shaped and scarred by time, features a single glowing eye that emits a faint, flickering blue light. Cracks run through the glass of the lens, giving the impression of a being that once had purpose but now stands as a relic of a forgotten past. On its chest, a faded and rusted serial number plate is barely visible, a reminder of a long-extinct civilization. Surrounding the robot, small details enhance the scene: frayed cables trail into the sand, fragments of other machines and pieces of technology scattered like remnants of a long-past war or disaster. The robot appears frozen in time, a lonely and silent figure observing the apocalyptic desert as if waiting for a command that will never come
    A vintage black-and-white photograph of a delivery vehicle modeled after a battle tank, rolling across a battlefield. The machine features treads, armor-like plating, and text large number "144", with a turret modified to carry hamburger orders. The design is reminiscent of war machines, captured in the artistic, archival style of Norman Ackroyd.
    A ghost in the machine, a soldier on the verge of detonation. His face glitches—fractured, repeating, lagging between agony and cold resolve. His eyes burn like ruptured floodlights, neon beams stabbing through the dark, his mouth a gaping wound of searing white. The light isn’t escaping—it’s devouring him from within, cracking through his corroded plating, tearing him apart pixel by pixel. His body flickers, warping between steel and static, neon scars pulsing like dying circuitry. The air vibrates with a distorted hum, reality bending as his form destabilizes. Glitching shadows stretch unnaturally, his figure collapsing, reforming, seconds from oblivion. Kneeling in the wreckage of his own existence, he prays to nothing. The war is over. He won’t be for much longer.
    A ghost in the machine, a soldier on the edge of detonation. His face glitches violently, fractured, flickering between agony and cold, mechanical resolve. His eyes burn like ruptured floodlights, neon beams ripping through the oppressive darkness, his mouth an open wound of blinding white. The light devours him from within, cracking through his corroded armor, tearing him apart, pixel by pixel. His body convulses, warping between twisted metal and frenzied static, neon scars pulsing like dying veins of circuitry. The air hums with a sickening distortion, reality warping, his form flickering and collapsing, barely holding on to existence. Glitching shadows stretch unnaturally, his body a broken frame of broken code, seconds from oblivion. Kneeling amidst the ruins of his own disintegrating self, he whispers to the void. The war has ended, but he remains, a dying echo of what once was.
    A lone Mandalorian bounty hunter looms in the foreground, his beskar armor swallowing the last dying light of a sun long set. The deep, bruised shades of crimson and violet stain the horizon, casting jagged edges around his imposing silhouette. His helmet—featureless, expressionless—reflects nothing, a cold void where a face should be. No warmth lingers in the air. Mist coils around his legs like spectral hands, devouring the ground beneath him, as if the planet itself seeks to reclaim him. His gloved fingers rest lightly on the worn grip of his blaster, the weapon hanging heavy at his side, waiting. The weight of unseen violence presses against the silence, coiled and patient. Above him, blotting out the sky, a colossal Star Destroyer looms in the darkness—old, battle-scarred, and terrifying in its sheer presence. Its hull is pitted with the scars of a thousand battles, yet it drifts in eerie silence, its massive silhouette devouring the faint starlight. The ship’s underbelly bristles with turrets, their lifeless muzzles aimed downward like the gaze of a slumbering giant. Faint, cold lights pulse along its surface, the only sign that something inside still breathes. The Mandalorian does not shift, does not breathe—he simply exists, a relentless force of fate standing between survival and the abyss. And above him, the war machine waits, a silent god hanging in the void.
    A lone Mandalorian bounty hunter looms in the foreground, his beskar armor swallowing the last dying light of a sun long set. The deep, bruised shades of crimson and violet stain the horizon, casting jagged edges around his imposing silhouette. His helmet—featureless, expressionless—reflects nothing, a cold void where a face should be. No warmth lingers in the air. Mist coils around his legs like spectral hands, devouring the ground beneath him, as if the planet itself seeks to reclaim him. His gloved fingers rest lightly on the worn grip of his blaster, the weapon hanging heavy at his side, waiting. The weight of unseen violence presses against the silence, coiled and patient. Above him, blotting out the sky, a colossal Star Destroyer looms in the darkness—old, battle-scarred, and terrifying in its sheer presence. Its hull is pitted with the scars of a thousand battles, yet it drifts in eerie silence, its massive silhouette devouring the faint starlight. The ship’s underbelly bristles with turrets, their lifeless muzzles aimed downward like the gaze of a slumbering giant. Faint, cold lights pulse along its surface, the only sign that something inside still breathes. The Mandalorian does not shift, does not breathe—he simply exists, a relentless force of fate standing between survival and the abyss. And above him, the war machine waits, a silent god hanging in the void.
    A towering elysium war mech strides through a desolate battlefield, its massive, armored frame inspired by classic sci-fi war machines. Jagged plating and exposed hydraulics give it a rugged, battle-worn look, while glowing sensors flicker through the dust-filled air. The setting sun casts a sickly blueish White glow over the scene, barely piercing the swirling sandstorm that engulfs the mech’s silhouette. Its heavy, mechanical limbs move with purpose, each step sending tremors through the cracked, barren ground. The air is thick with dust and debris, obscuring distant wreckage and shattered structures in the background. Faint flashes of distant explosions blink through the haze, illuminating the mech’s form in brief, ghostly silhouettes. The scene is cinematic, evoking the grim beauty of a dying Elysium world consumed by endless war., of a radiant Elysium knight in the midst of an epic desert battle. His helmet is intricately adorned with sharp ridges and glowing golden slits for eyes, appearing like burning fractures in the metal. The focus is razor-sharp on the glowing eyes, while the rest fades into a blend of light refractions and soft blur effects. Dust particles swirl through the air, caught in the blinding desert light.
    ethdysty. The title "Ethereal Dystopia" looms across the scene, etched into the sky itself like a faint, glowing inscription. Below it, a lone knight stands at the edge of a crumbling fortress. His armor is battered and scarred, but his posture remains resolute. The distant horizon is filled with towering war machines, their dark outlines barely visible in the fog of war. The air is thick with the haze of dying fires, and the ground is littered with the ruins of a once-glorious civilization. Above, the title seems to shimmer as though written in the smoke, as if the very essence of the empire’s fall is being written into the world itself. The knight, frozen in time, is the last bastion of a broken world, his presence as much a part of the landscape as the decaying ruins around him.
    aidmaHyperrealism, A colossal cybernetic war snail, an unparalleled fusion of biomechanical precision and futuristic industrial design, its massive metallic shell crafted from overlapping chrome-plated plates, reinforced with layers of mechanized armor and adorned with ominous rotating spiked gears that glisten under dim artificial light. The seamless curvature of its shell features an intricate network of interlocking rivets, polished steel bolts, and oscillating micro-servos, each gear rotating in perfect synchronization with the hydraulic pistons embedded deep within the structure. Its menacing antennae, constructed from flexible yet unbreakable titanium alloy, extend upwards, each tipped with glowing crimson sensors, scanning the environment with pinpoint accuracy. The creature's exposed biomechanical undercarriage pulses with kinetic energy, a dense matrix of pneumatic pistons, multi-jointed cybernetic limbs, and razor-sharp appendages, each equipped with micro-thrusters and reinforced spiked plating. A network of carbon fiber cables, reinforced with nanotech conduits, runs along the length of its body, connecting seamlessly into the articulated exoskeleton that enables its smooth yet unstoppable movements. Its exoskeletal frame is lined with an array of tiny micro-turbines, each venting short bursts of pressurized steam, enhancing the illusion of a living, breathing war machine. The head, a masterpiece of cybernetic engineering, is an amalgamation of polished steel plating, intricate wiring, and modular sensory modules, its fiery red optical sensors glowing like artificial eyes, analyzing terrain with ruthless efficiency. Beneath its shell, a series of rotating steel drums and mechanical coils generate a low, ominous hum, a sound akin to a machine primed for battle, a nightmarish vision of synthetic evolution, an unstoppable mechanized predator in a dystopian wasteland. <lora:aidmaHyperrealism-FLUX-v0.3:0.6>
    A ghost in the machine, a soldier on the verge of detonation. His face glitches—fractured, repeating, lagging between agony and cold resolve. His eyes burn like ruptured floodlights, neon beams stabbing through the dark, his mouth a gaping wound of searing white. The light isn’t escaping—it’s devouring him from within, cracking through his corroded plating, tearing him apart pixel by pixel. His body flickers, warping between steel and static, neon scars pulsing like dying circuitry. The air vibrates with a distorted hum, reality bending as his form destabilizes. Glitching shadows stretch unnaturally, his figure collapsing, reforming, seconds from oblivion. Kneeling in the wreckage of his own existence, he prays to nothing. The war is over. He won’t be for much longer.
    cpstyle, A desaturated, dystopian cyberpunk portrait of a battle-worn robotic war machine in a frenzy of destruction. Its glowing neon eyes burn with relentless aggression, illuminating the scarred metal plating of its face. Wires and exposed circuitry coil like sinews beneath its cracked synthetic skin. Its high-collared, transparent combat shroud clings to its frame, glistening with grime and rain. The background is a blurred chaos of devastation—smoke, distant fires, and shattered neon signs flickering weakly in the toxic air. A machine built for war, lost in the madness of its own design.
    thepaintedrealm. An oil painting of a colossal mechanical shark, forged from rusted steel and jagged plating, cutting through the abyss like a war machine. Its body is layered in thick, overlapping armor, each panel scarred from battles long forgotten. Massive vents along its sides spew bursts of superheated steam, and its segmented tail moves with an unnatural precision, slicing through the water like a serrated blade. Its head is a fortress of death, with exposed gears grinding beneath plated jaws lined with rotating saw-like teeth. A single, burning crimson eye scans the darkness, locking onto its prey. Along its spine, twisted mechanical appendages extend—some tipped with harpoons, others ending in pulsating, barbed cables.
    Simonstalenhagstyle, a war-torn, post-apocalyptic cityscape at night, shattered skyscrapers towering over desolate streets littered with broken vehicles and debris; torrential rain pours heavily, creating rivulets along the cracked asphalt and reflecting the glow of neon signs flickering with failing power; in the distance, a massive, nightmarish robotic behemoth looms over the ruins, its design eerily insectoid—spindly, jointed legs clicking against the wet pavement as it moves with an unnatural grace; its skeletal exoskeleton, composed of interlocking plates of black metal, glistens under the relentless downpour, rainwater sluicing down its razor-sharp appendages; multiple glowing red eyes, arranged in an alien, asymmetrical pattern, pulse menacingly as it scans the darkness, its piercing spotlights slicing through the mist, casting long, distorted shadows across the rubble; its claw-like limbs twitch sporadically, mechanical servos whirring with unsettling precision as it methodically searches for survivors; in the foreground, a young woman with soaked blonde hair crouches low behind the rusted frame of an abandoned car, her back pressed against the cold, rain-slicked metal as she steadies her breath; droplets run down the hood of the vehicle, pooling on the shattered windshield as faint reflections of the robotic hunter’s glowing red eyes flicker across the wet glass; she wears a dark, rain-drenched poncho, its tattered edges clinging to her arms as she grips the corner of the car, preparing to peek around it; her large, weathered backpack is strapped tightly to her shoulders, its straps worn from years of survival, while her mud-streaked jeans and heavy high-top boots sink slightly into the rain-drenched pavement; the cold night air is thick with tension, the relentless hum of the mechanical predator mingling with the ceaseless downpour, as she remains frozen in place, trapped in a deadly game of hide-and-seek with the nightmarish cybernetic terror; distant lightning flashes across the sky, momentarily illuminating the gleaming black exoskeleton of the machine, its piercing gaze scanning the ruins with merciless precision, as she braces herself for the moment she must move—or risk being caught in its sights<lora:Simon_Stålenhag_Flux.safetensors:1.0:1.0>

      FLUX

    • Dev - flux_dev.safetensors