Beneath the City Shadows
0 Points
0
The night air still clung to my senses as I slipped through the darkened streets, Gambit’s weight a steady burden at my side. His steps were uneven, one arm slung over my shoulders for balance. Blood—his, not mine—spotted his coat, but he kept his head down. Not many people in this city would stop for a stranger, especially not one with eyes like mine and hands that always looked ready to kill.
We reached the herbal medicine shop by midnight. The windows glowed behind neatly arranged bottles. This was the place Cora had told me about, a safehouse beneath the ordinary: where scents of ginseng and old books masked the stench of desperation. Heading inside, I braced myself, pressing my claws back down into the skin of my hands. The owner stared hard when she saw Gambit, her lips becoming a flat line, suspicion flickering in her gaze.
I tried to look harmless, tried to soften my movements. She didn’t like men in her sanctuary; I could read that in her eyes. So I lied, easy—smoother than I wanted it to be, words tumbling out about a brother who’d fought too hard and needed a place to heal. I kept my voice steady and forced the right amount of worry into my expression. She watched me for a long moment. I stood taller than her, stronger, but she was the one with authority here. Finally she relented and gestured us down rickety wooden steps, into the belly of her shop and the basement beneath it.
Down there, the world shrank to low ceilings and a single bulb, humming nervously above a threadbare rug. The air was heavy with the scent of dried lavender and green tea, with a touch of rusty water from somewhere too far away to see. There was a battered couch, a bed pressed into the wall, and leftovers of past tenants—half read books, candle stubs, an old deck of cards.
Gambit let go of me and slouched onto the couch, wincing as he collapsed. He ran his hands through my backpack, rifling through packs of bandages, the switchblade I’d taken off a captor, and crumpled bills. He lingered on my phone, his fingers hovering over the screen, then just nodded absently. I dropped my own bag by the bed, shook my hair out, let my whole body unclench.
He mumbled under his breath, the cadence familiar: defiance, exhaustion. Something about not taking orders from dangerous women anymore. There was resignation in his voice—maybe a little dark amusement, too. He never sounded as invincible as he pretended to be. I caught myself listening just a beat longer than I meant to. Eventually, he looked up and met my eyes with something approaching gratitude—a rare thing from Remy LeBeau. He nodded at the safety of this hideout, a quiet acknowledgment I hadn’t failed him.
I shrugged, forcing my face still. I didn’t want to look relieved, didn’t want to show I cared. But I did. He was the only one I had.
The shop owner must have left food before we arrived. Styrofoam boxes, a note I didn’t bother to read. Gambit tore into his box with clumsy hands, the scent of garlic and chicken making my stomach clench. I hadn’t eaten all day; too busy laying out the rescue, memorizing blueprints and timings, counting footsteps in corridors that smelled like bleach and fear.
Hunger hit with a sudden sharpness. I grabbed the second box. Food—hot, spiced rice and vegetables, hunks of something that tasted good enough. I ignored utensils, eating with my hands, finishing it off before Gambit was even halfway done. Instinct drove me: I had to refuel or I’d be useless if someone found us again. I licked every bit from my fingers, the salt and oil and heat an anchor in the hazy half-light.
My head began to clear as I ate. Gambit slipped away quietly, clutching a change of clothes from my backpack. I heard the distant water pipes complain as he started the shower. The thrum of it, rhythmic and steady, drowned out most other sounds.
Now the basement felt smaller, the shadows longer. I noticed the stack of old newspapers in a closet. I dragged them out, flipping through their brittle pages. So many headlines about mutants—arrests, disappearances, “accidents” that were too clean to be coincidence. There were pictures grainy and blurred, panic in the faces of people caught on camera. I scoured them for familiar eyes, familiar scars, even as I told myself I wouldn’t find any. My name wasn’t on the front pages, thank whatever gods cared.
I sorted the papers into piles: Useful. Useless. Fragments of stories caught my attention—gang fights near the docks, a new drug in the sewers below the city, political protests swelling in the park. Swirling chaos, the world above churning with hate and fear, never suspecting people like us sat below, regrouping. Healing. Planning.
The hum of the shower slowed and stilled. I heard Gambit moving, humming something tuneless. I reached for another newspaper, my body finally relaxing. I would let myself rest—just until sunrise. I would count the seconds Gambit was safe, and be ready if anyone came. That was all I knew how to do.
At least for tonight, I told myself, we’d disappear beneath this city of strangers. As long as we needed. As long as it took.
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 the mutant X-23, who brought her friend Gambit to a hideout in a herbal medicine shop. The mutant freed him from his kidnappers and had to ensure their safety. When the shop owner saw that the mutant had come with a man, she was not pleased. But the mutant lied that Gambit was her brother and needed rest because he was injured. The shop owner agreed and led them to a hideout in the basement under the shop. When they entered the basement, Gambit sat on a couch and looked through the things in her backpack. When he asked if she had checked his emails and if anyone had called, the mutant shook her head and sat on the bed. She listened as Gambit mumbled something under his breath that he would no longer take orders from dangerous women. After a moment, he praised her for finding them a hideout, to which the mutant shrugged. She watched as Gambit reached for the Styrofoam boxes of food that the shop owner had left for them. The mutant immediately felt hungry when Gambit opened the box and began to eat. She nodded slightly and reached for the second box and began to eat. She was so hungry that she ate the entire contents faster than he did. When the man went to take a shower, the mutant for reached a stack of newspapers from the closet. Describe everything in the form of a mutant's thoughts without dialogues.
Response: The night air still clung to my senses as I slipped through the darkened streets, Gambit’s weight a steady burden at my side. His steps were uneven, one arm slung over my shoulders for balance. Blood—his, not mine—spotted his coat, but he kept his head down. Not many people in this city would stop for a stranger, especially not one with eyes like mine and hands that always looked ready to kill. We reached the herbal medicine shop by midnight. The windows glowed behind neatly arranged bottles. This was the place Cora had told me about, a safehouse beneath the ordinary: where scents of ginseng and old books masked the stench of desperation. Heading inside, I braced myself, pressing my claws back down into the skin of my hands. The owner stared hard when she saw Gambit, her lips becoming a flat line, suspicion flickering in her gaze. I tried to look harmless, tried to soften my movements. She didn’t like men in her sanctuary; I could read that in her eyes. So I lied, easy—smoother than I wanted it to be, words tumbling out about a brother who’d fought too hard and needed a place to heal. I kept my voice steady and forced the right amount of worry into my expression. She watched me for a long moment. I stood taller than her, stronger, but she was the one with authority here. Finally she relented and gestured us down rickety wooden steps, into the belly of her shop and the basement beneath it. Down there, the world shrank to low ceilings and a single bulb, humming nervously above a threadbare rug. The air was heavy with the scent of dried lavender and green tea, with a touch of rusty water from somewhere too far away to see. There was a battered couch, a bed pressed into the wall, and leftovers of past tenants—half read books, candle stubs, an old deck of cards. Gambit let go of me and slouched onto the couch, wincing as he collapsed. He ran his hands through my backpack, rifling through packs of bandages, the switchblade I’d taken off a captor, and crumpled bills. He lingered on my phone, his fingers hovering over the screen, then just nodded absently. I dropped my own bag by the bed, shook my hair out, let my whole body unclench. He mumbled under his breath, the cadence familiar: defiance, exhaustion. Something about not taking orders from dangerous women anymore. There was resignation in his voice—maybe a little dark amusement, too. He never sounded as invincible as he pretended to be. I caught myself listening just a beat longer than I meant to. Eventually, he looked up and met my eyes with something approaching gratitude—a rare thing from Remy LeBeau. He nodded at the safety of this hideout, a quiet acknowledgment I hadn’t failed him. I shrugged, forcing my face still. I didn’t want to look relieved, didn’t want to show I cared. But I did. He was the only one I had. The shop owner must have left food before we arrived. Styrofoam boxes, a note I didn’t bother to read. Gambit tore into his box with clumsy hands, the scent of garlic and chicken making my stomach clench. I hadn’t eaten all day; too busy laying out the rescue, memorizing blueprints and timings, counting footsteps in corridors that smelled like bleach and fear. Hunger hit with a sudden sharpness. I grabbed the second box. Food—hot, spiced rice and vegetables, hunks of something that tasted good enough. I ignored utensils, eating with my hands, finishing it off before Gambit was even halfway done. Instinct drove me: I had to refuel or I’d be useless if someone found us again. I licked every bit from my fingers, the salt and oil and heat an anchor in the hazy half-light. My head began to clear as I ate. Gambit slipped away quietly, clutching a change of clothes from my backpack. I heard the distant water pipes complain as he started the shower. The thrum of it, rhythmic and steady, drowned out most other sounds. Now the basement felt smaller, the shadows longer. I noticed the stack of old newspapers in a closet. I dragged them out, flipping through their brittle pages. So many headlines about mutants—arrests, disappearances, “accidents” that were too clean to be coincidence. There were pictures grainy and blurred, panic in the faces of people caught on camera. I scoured them for familiar eyes, familiar scars, even as I told myself I wouldn’t find any. My name wasn’t on the front pages, thank whatever gods cared. I sorted the papers into piles: Useful. Useless. Fragments of stories caught my attention—gang fights near the docks, a new drug in the sewers below the city, political protests swelling in the park. Swirling chaos, the world above churning with hate and fear, never suspecting people like us sat below, regrouping. Healing. Planning. The hum of the shower slowed and stilled. I heard Gambit moving, humming something tuneless. I reached for another newspaper, my body finally relaxing. I would let myself rest—just until sunrise. I would count the seconds Gambit was safe, and be ready if anyone came. That was all I knew how to do. At least for tonight, I told myself, we’d disappear beneath this city of strangers. As long as we needed. As long as it took.
Post your own comment or use AI: