**Claws in the Shadows: Laura Kinney's Hunt for Justice**
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Laura Kinney moved through the shadows with effortless certainty. On the cracked tiles above Gambit’s rented hideout, the city sprawled before her—electric and alive, wind brushing damp hair against her neck. The starlight caught on the edge of her claws, retracted now but humming just beneath the skin. Somewhere below the endless neon, predators waited for nightfall to do its ugly work.
Inside, Remy LeBeau lay sprawled on a threadbare mattress. She’d rescued him only hours before; the men chasing him had been unremarkable but persistent, just enough to tire him, but not enough to truly frighten Laura. Gambit, for his part, had called her a “little life saver. Mon ange.” Now, his dreams jostled the silence, and his snores rumbled in the otherwise silent safehouse.
Laura paced. The colorful, borrowed X-men gear hung from her frame, reminding her too much of their old headquarters, too much of all the people she’d lost or disappointed. She slipped to the battered closet, rummaging through its contents. A pile of newspapers rustled beneath ill-fitting coats and disco-era sequined jackets—a bad habit Gambit had picked up in his years on the move, collecting mementos and never looking back.
She sat, cross-legged, with the crumpled newsprint. A half-dozen dates past relevance, but one black-and-white headline caught her eye:
**NIGHTCLUB RAID: HUMAN TRAFFICKING SUSPECTED—POLICE BAFFLED**
She traced the lines with a finger, piecing together the loose facts: missing girls, late-night pickups, a club called The SilverAxe on the north side—nobody talking, no leads. There were photographs too, of weary-eyed officers, and in the background, the edgy contours of neon lighting and smoke trails.
Laura looked for more, finding three more articles. Same club. Same pattern. Always the same neighborhood. She folded the papers and tucked them away carefully—she could handle this later, after sorting out Gambit’s problem, whatever that truly was.
In the closet’s depths, a pair of black combat pants surfaced, large enough to need a rolled waistband, paired with a gray tank top that reeked of mothballs rather than Gambit’s cologne. She discarded her X-men jacket and faded tights—too bright, too conspicuous—and padded to the shower. Hot water slid away the city’s grime and blood, a quiet relief as she closed her eyes and listened to nothing but her heartbeat and the distant rumble of distant cars.
When she stepped out, her reflection—a slight figure, pale scars gleaming dully, green-blue eyes narrowed and sharp—felt more herself. Gambit was still out cold. She slipped into her new clothes, turned off the only lamp, and opened the rickety window.
Cool air bit her skin as she leapt to the adjacent rooftop, crouched low, and scanned the streets below. The buildings were tired, their bricks weeping age and sorrow. In the glow of a broken streetlamp, a white van idled by the sidewalk, paint flaking, windows smoked-obscure. She tasted something foul in the air—too sweet, chemical, the kind of scent you knew to avoid.
Every instinct screamed at her: watch, listen—predator’s patience, not prey. She tensed, muscles coiled, and measured each breath. Even above, she could pick up the subtle footsteps and low-pitched murmurs—three, maybe four men in the van.
That’s when she heard Remy’s voice, crumbling through the floorboards and rising from the basement window, small and panicked:
“Laura! S’il te plaît—Laura, où t’es?”
His voice was all edge and tension, the kind that carried the real risk of bringing trouble to their doorstep.
In less than a second, Laura dropped from the roof, catching the third-story ledge with silent precision and slipping in through the barely-ajar window. She landed on cat’s feet in the darkness, stalking toward Remy, who looked wild-eyed, sheets tangled about him.
She put a hand to his shoulder, steady and strong. “Remy. I’m here.” Her voice was a whisper, firm as iron. “Calm down. Take a deep breath.”
He blinked up at her, sweat on his brow. “Dreamed you were gone, chérie. Thought they found us—”
“They haven’t,” Laura said quietly. “But there’s a van outside. Right now. Men in it. Something’s wrong.”
Remy swore in Cajun French, but Laura cut him off, relaying what she’d seen, her suspicions about the van. His gaze grew sharper.
“You think it’s them?”
She nodded, motioning for silence. They killed the light, listening as the van door slid open—a soft metallic scrape echoing in the alley.
She moved to the window, barely lifting the curtain. Two men exited the van, bulky where it mattered, moving like they weren’t worried about being seen.
“Traffickers,” Laura said. “Or something close.”
“Guess you wanna check out that club story sooner than planned, eh?” Remy’s tone was dry, but his hands were tight on his pack of cards.
She planned their next move, words coming easily.
“They’re looking for someone. Might be us. Or someone else.”
Remy’s face turned grave. “If it’s the clubs, the traffickers don’t take to mutants. Don’t care who you are—if you’re trouble, they want you gone. But if you’re a girl, especially…”
His voice trailed off, and Laura’s jaw tightened. “I know.”
She outlined her plan—she would follow the men in the van, shadow them as only she could. Gambit would keep to the shadows, making ready for a quick exit if things turned sour. He wanted to argue, but the set of her shoulders told him better.
With a careful glance, Laura fitted a small comm-device in her ear. She holstered the knife she’d borrowed from Remy before climbing back out the window into the night.
She moved over rooftops, the city’s pulse beneath her feet. Below, the van’s men stalked, city creatures bred for the darkness—but Laura was born for something deeper. She watched as they circled a shabby tenement, lingered in the alley, and one of them produced a heavy ring of keys. They were inside the building moments later.
She waited, listening to their footsteps, heart steady. It was the same building from the article’s background—a side door to The SilverAxe nightclub. A chill ran through her.
Her path was set. She would not let them disappear, would not let the girls disappear, not tonight.
“She’s already on the hunt,” Gambit whispered to himself in the dark. “God help the monsters who cross her.”
But Laura Kinney didn't rely on prayers. She hunted for answers, for retribution, for hope—a wild thing, a shadow in the neon, and for once, she let her instincts off the leash.
She dropped into the black and followed the van, ready for whatever nightmare waited inside the SilverAxe. And this time, if the darkness gave no quarter, neither would she.
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 hidden in her hideout with her friend Gambit. Gambit fell asleep and she was reading the newspapers looking through the newspapers she found in closet. She came across a few articles about human trafficking in one of the nightclubs and that interested her, she decided to look into it later, after dealing with Gambit's problem. She put the newspapers back in the closet and searched through the clothes in the closet, looking for something less colorful. Finally she found combat pants, a little too big for her, a gray top. It was definitely better than the colorful clothes she was wearing. She went to the shower and washed off the dirt from Gambit's rescue operation. When she got out of the shower Gambit was still asleep. She put on the clothes she had prepared earlier and turned off the light, then went out through the window and jumped onto the roof of the building, watching the nightlife of the city. As she was sitting on the roof she noticed a strange van parked by the sidewalk and her senses immediately sent her a warning signal. Suddenly she heard Gambit's voice coming from the basement of the building and quickly jumped off the roof and then jumped in through the window. She told him that he was here and to calm down because she could clearly hear the panic in his voice. After a moment she told him about the van parked nearby and her suspicions.
Response: Laura Kinney moved through the shadows with effortless certainty. On the cracked tiles above Gambit’s rented hideout, the city sprawled before her—electric and alive, wind brushing damp hair against her neck. The starlight caught on the edge of her claws, retracted now but humming just beneath the skin. Somewhere below the endless neon, predators waited for nightfall to do its ugly work. Inside, Remy LeBeau lay sprawled on a threadbare mattress. She’d rescued him only hours before; the men chasing him had been unremarkable but persistent, just enough to tire him, but not enough to truly frighten Laura. Gambit, for his part, had called her a “little life saver. Mon ange.” Now, his dreams jostled the silence, and his snores rumbled in the otherwise silent safehouse. Laura paced. The colorful, borrowed X-men gear hung from her frame, reminding her too much of their old headquarters, too much of all the people she’d lost or disappointed. She slipped to the battered closet, rummaging through its contents. A pile of newspapers rustled beneath ill-fitting coats and disco-era sequined jackets—a bad habit Gambit had picked up in his years on the move, collecting mementos and never looking back. She sat, cross-legged, with the crumpled newsprint. A half-dozen dates past relevance, but one black-and-white headline caught her eye: **NIGHTCLUB RAID: HUMAN TRAFFICKING SUSPECTED—POLICE BAFFLED** She traced the lines with a finger, piecing together the loose facts: missing girls, late-night pickups, a club called The SilverAxe on the north side—nobody talking, no leads. There were photographs too, of weary-eyed officers, and in the background, the edgy contours of neon lighting and smoke trails. Laura looked for more, finding three more articles. Same club. Same pattern. Always the same neighborhood. She folded the papers and tucked them away carefully—she could handle this later, after sorting out Gambit’s problem, whatever that truly was. In the closet’s depths, a pair of black combat pants surfaced, large enough to need a rolled waistband, paired with a gray tank top that reeked of mothballs rather than Gambit’s cologne. She discarded her X-men jacket and faded tights—too bright, too conspicuous—and padded to the shower. Hot water slid away the city’s grime and blood, a quiet relief as she closed her eyes and listened to nothing but her heartbeat and the distant rumble of distant cars. When she stepped out, her reflection—a slight figure, pale scars gleaming dully, green-blue eyes narrowed and sharp—felt more herself. Gambit was still out cold. She slipped into her new clothes, turned off the only lamp, and opened the rickety window. Cool air bit her skin as she leapt to the adjacent rooftop, crouched low, and scanned the streets below. The buildings were tired, their bricks weeping age and sorrow. In the glow of a broken streetlamp, a white van idled by the sidewalk, paint flaking, windows smoked-obscure. She tasted something foul in the air—too sweet, chemical, the kind of scent you knew to avoid. Every instinct screamed at her: watch, listen—predator’s patience, not prey. She tensed, muscles coiled, and measured each breath. Even above, she could pick up the subtle footsteps and low-pitched murmurs—three, maybe four men in the van. That’s when she heard Remy’s voice, crumbling through the floorboards and rising from the basement window, small and panicked: “Laura! S’il te plaît—Laura, où t’es?” His voice was all edge and tension, the kind that carried the real risk of bringing trouble to their doorstep. In less than a second, Laura dropped from the roof, catching the third-story ledge with silent precision and slipping in through the barely-ajar window. She landed on cat’s feet in the darkness, stalking toward Remy, who looked wild-eyed, sheets tangled about him. She put a hand to his shoulder, steady and strong. “Remy. I’m here.” Her voice was a whisper, firm as iron. “Calm down. Take a deep breath.” He blinked up at her, sweat on his brow. “Dreamed you were gone, chérie. Thought they found us—” “They haven’t,” Laura said quietly. “But there’s a van outside. Right now. Men in it. Something’s wrong.” Remy swore in Cajun French, but Laura cut him off, relaying what she’d seen, her suspicions about the van. His gaze grew sharper. “You think it’s them?” She nodded, motioning for silence. They killed the light, listening as the van door slid open—a soft metallic scrape echoing in the alley. She moved to the window, barely lifting the curtain. Two men exited the van, bulky where it mattered, moving like they weren’t worried about being seen. “Traffickers,” Laura said. “Or something close.” “Guess you wanna check out that club story sooner than planned, eh?” Remy’s tone was dry, but his hands were tight on his pack of cards. She planned their next move, words coming easily. “They’re looking for someone. Might be us. Or someone else.” Remy’s face turned grave. “If it’s the clubs, the traffickers don’t take to mutants. Don’t care who you are—if you’re trouble, they want you gone. But if you’re a girl, especially…” His voice trailed off, and Laura’s jaw tightened. “I know.” She outlined her plan—she would follow the men in the van, shadow them as only she could. Gambit would keep to the shadows, making ready for a quick exit if things turned sour. He wanted to argue, but the set of her shoulders told him better. With a careful glance, Laura fitted a small comm-device in her ear. She holstered the knife she’d borrowed from Remy before climbing back out the window into the night. She moved over rooftops, the city’s pulse beneath her feet. Below, the van’s men stalked, city creatures bred for the darkness—but Laura was born for something deeper. She watched as they circled a shabby tenement, lingered in the alley, and one of them produced a heavy ring of keys. They were inside the building moments later. She waited, listening to their footsteps, heart steady. It was the same building from the article’s background—a side door to The SilverAxe nightclub. A chill ran through her. Her path was set. She would not let them disappear, would not let the girls disappear, not tonight. “She’s already on the hunt,” Gambit whispered to himself in the dark. “God help the monsters who cross her.” But Laura Kinney didn't rely on prayers. She hunted for answers, for retribution, for hope—a wild thing, a shadow in the neon, and for once, she let her instincts off the leash. She dropped into the black and followed the van, ready for whatever nightmare waited inside the SilverAxe. And this time, if the darkness gave no quarter, neither would she.
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