"Adamantium Resolve"
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Rain tickled the battered tin roof of the hideout, the metallic scent of old water mingling with the sharper notes of ozone and Gambit's shampoo, faint as it drifted through the torn threads of the couch. Laura shifted her weight, knees tight to her chest, and watched him—a silhouette slick from the shower, caution and exhaustion draped over his frame almost as heavily as the blanket he retrieved from the corner. Beneath the muted hum of city traffic, her heart ticked a steady count—a metronome of patience, irritation, and something quieter: an anchor threaded to the man in front of her.
He settled on the edge of the couch, his red eyes darting, calculating. She could read the sinews tensing beneath his skin, the frustrating tilt of hesitation to his jaw. He wanted to move—always moving, always on the run. Laura imagined electricity in his bones, humming up from his fingers and tugging him toward the window, toward escape. She didn’t need to hear the words. The story was always the same: too dangerous, too hot, too temporary. A pattern of danger and retreat, carved deep into both their skins.
He never said it expecting her to agree. Never once. Not after all these years—these weeks, these months, each hour silent and punctuated only by threat. Gambit could heal, but not like her. She, Laura Kinney, Wolverine’s angry shadow, was nearly indestructible. Bullet holes closed before the pain finished blooming; claws retracted and bone reset, a broken promise every time. Gambit healed faster than he wanted, thanks to his own quirks, but not fast enough to shrug off the wounds that followed his chaos.
He wanted her to go. He wanted her safe. He wanted to be the hero, the protector, even when he was bleeding and limping. Fool. She let her mouth twist into a sharp snort, more annoyance than humor. As if she would ever cut and run while he was stuck to this broken couch, ribs still knitting from last night’s ambush. He never understood—no one ever did—that she wasn’t afraid to be exposed, to be hunted. Her entire life was exposure, pain, recovery, and running again. Against that, what was a few more hours, a few more bruises? She was not a person meant for shelter, for hiding away safely in the darkness, away from the world and from him.
The anger was easy—a well-worn sheet draped over grief and refusal. Anger was armor, quicksilver sharp, masking the iron certainty beneath. Gambit needed her, whether he admitted it or not. Not because he couldn’t defend himself—Remy LeBeau had survived more enemies than most—but because alone, he’d spiral. He’d patch his wounds with snark and cards, then burn bridges out of extremity and pride. He was a fuse, too close to explosion, and without someone beside him to catch the ashes, he would burn alone.
Laura sat in her corner of the couch, fists balled in the sleeves of her jacket, swallowing the silence. She watched the lines of worry carve themselves along the edge of his mouth. Her refusal sat stiff and solid between them—an unmoving mountain against the river of his anxiety.
She let her mind wander to the consequences: staying here, exposed and hunted by the goons that trailed them through city shadows. She counted the risks—each one small beside the reality of leaving him to fight alone. Her healing factor was more than bones and sinew—it was a reason to stand between him and the teeth of the world. In that quiet, adrenaline-soaked certainty, she found peace.
He would fidget. Press, sometimes. Try to make a joke, try to soften her resolve. It wouldn’t work. She would not leave. Even when lightning split the sky and painted the hideout in flashes of white, even when footsteps crunched down outside, alerting both their senses. She was a shield in boots, stubborn as concrete, refusing to move.
Nothing would pry her from this place—nothing but his safety restored. She anchored herself, features unmoved save for the slight curl of her lip. He could strategize, he could worry, but she had already made her choice. And that choice was him.
Laura Kinney blinked into the rain-muted shadows and waited, breath slow, heart unyielding, thoughts sharp as adamantium. Let the world come. She would stay.
This story was generated by user ziggo.zane with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.
Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.
AI Prompts
Prompt: Write a long story about mutant Laura Kinney, who was sitting in a hideout with her friend Gambit. Gambit got out of the shower and sat on the couch. He said they had to think about what to do next, because they couldn't stay in this hideout for long. When he said that she should leave and not expose herself, the mutant just snorted and gave him an angry look. She would never leave him, especially when he was in trouble. She didn't care that she exposed herself. The mutant healed quickly and was practically immortal. His wounds, on the other hand, healed faster, and even if he didn't want them to, he needed her. The mutant listened to him with composure, but didn't answer. She was known for being taciturn. Describe everything in the form of the mutant's thoughts and emotions, without dialogue.
Response: Rain tickled the battered tin roof of the hideout, the metallic scent of old water mingling with the sharper notes of ozone and Gambit's shampoo, faint as it drifted through the torn threads of the couch. Laura shifted her weight, knees tight to her chest, and watched him—a silhouette slick from the shower, caution and exhaustion draped over his frame almost as heavily as the blanket he retrieved from the corner. Beneath the muted hum of city traffic, her heart ticked a steady count—a metronome of patience, irritation, and something quieter: an anchor threaded to the man in front of her. He settled on the edge of the couch, his red eyes darting, calculating. She could read the sinews tensing beneath his skin, the frustrating tilt of hesitation to his jaw. He wanted to move—always moving, always on the run. Laura imagined electricity in his bones, humming up from his fingers and tugging him toward the window, toward escape. She didn’t need to hear the words. The story was always the same: too dangerous, too hot, too temporary. A pattern of danger and retreat, carved deep into both their skins. He never said it expecting her to agree. Never once. Not after all these years—these weeks, these months, each hour silent and punctuated only by threat. Gambit could heal, but not like her. She, Laura Kinney, Wolverine’s angry shadow, was nearly indestructible. Bullet holes closed before the pain finished blooming; claws retracted and bone reset, a broken promise every time. Gambit healed faster than he wanted, thanks to his own quirks, but not fast enough to shrug off the wounds that followed his chaos. He wanted her to go. He wanted her safe. He wanted to be the hero, the protector, even when he was bleeding and limping. Fool. She let her mouth twist into a sharp snort, more annoyance than humor. As if she would ever cut and run while he was stuck to this broken couch, ribs still knitting from last night’s ambush. He never understood—no one ever did—that she wasn’t afraid to be exposed, to be hunted. Her entire life was exposure, pain, recovery, and running again. Against that, what was a few more hours, a few more bruises? She was not a person meant for shelter, for hiding away safely in the darkness, away from the world and from him. The anger was easy—a well-worn sheet draped over grief and refusal. Anger was armor, quicksilver sharp, masking the iron certainty beneath. Gambit needed her, whether he admitted it or not. Not because he couldn’t defend himself—Remy LeBeau had survived more enemies than most—but because alone, he’d spiral. He’d patch his wounds with snark and cards, then burn bridges out of extremity and pride. He was a fuse, too close to explosion, and without someone beside him to catch the ashes, he would burn alone. Laura sat in her corner of the couch, fists balled in the sleeves of her jacket, swallowing the silence. She watched the lines of worry carve themselves along the edge of his mouth. Her refusal sat stiff and solid between them—an unmoving mountain against the river of his anxiety. She let her mind wander to the consequences: staying here, exposed and hunted by the goons that trailed them through city shadows. She counted the risks—each one small beside the reality of leaving him to fight alone. Her healing factor was more than bones and sinew—it was a reason to stand between him and the teeth of the world. In that quiet, adrenaline-soaked certainty, she found peace. He would fidget. Press, sometimes. Try to make a joke, try to soften her resolve. It wouldn’t work. She would not leave. Even when lightning split the sky and painted the hideout in flashes of white, even when footsteps crunched down outside, alerting both their senses. She was a shield in boots, stubborn as concrete, refusing to move. Nothing would pry her from this place—nothing but his safety restored. She anchored herself, features unmoved save for the slight curl of her lip. He could strategize, he could worry, but she had already made her choice. And that choice was him. Laura Kinney blinked into the rain-muted shadows and waited, breath slow, heart unyielding, thoughts sharp as adamantium. Let the world come. She would stay.
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