"Shadows of Betrayal"
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Laura Kinney landed on the concrete floor of the basement without a sound, shoes barely scuffing the dust by the window well. The room was thick with the stale tang of industrial cleaners and cold sweat—the latter courtesy of Remy LeBeau, curled uneasily in his sleep atop a cot by the furnace.
She padded over, pressed a gloved finger to his shoulder, and whispered, “Wake up. We have to move.”
Remy’s red eyes flickered open, pupils dilated wide in the gloom. “Chère? What—?”
“Sssh,” Laura said. “White van, four men, probably armed. Parked under the streetlight since midnight. They’re watching the building. I don’t know if they’re yours, but I’m not waiting to find out.”
Remy’s lips pulled into the beginnings of a smirk, but his right hand crept toward his battered satchel. “And here I thought you’d let me sleep the night through.”
“I don’t take chances,” she said, already unlatching the rickety window. “Come.”
The window ejected with a rusty squeak. She stiffened, scenting the night—rain on cement, distant automobile exhaust, and the tang of gun oil. She listened for telltale movement from the van, but heard only engines idling, the hum of radios, one voice in mid-laugh—the bandits were bored, distracted. Good.
Laura slid out first, rolled into the overgrown weeds outside the wall, and reached up for Remy. He followed, surprisingly light, and she led him like a shadow between dumpsters and wire fences, every nerve tuned to the possibility of being seen.
Her motorcycle was waiting behind a shuttered deli, still draped under a plastic tarp. Laura uncovered it quickly and mounted up, flicking her hand for Remy to climb on. He did so with practiced ease, arms wrapping once around her waist.
“You sure we’re not just running into another trap?” he muttered in her ear, warily scanning the alleyway.
“You brought them here, Gambit. You get us out.” She started the engine, and the two of them roared into the sleeping streets.
***
Laura circled away from the main avenue, doubling back twice before heading south, taking side roads she’d noted before dusk. Gambit pressed into her, smelling faintly of sweat and ozone, head turning constantly as if to catch glimpses of invisible pursuers.
The gas station was nearly abandoned, save for a weary man mopping inside and the silent yellow halos of sodium lamps. Laura pulled around the rear, killed the headlight, and swung off. Gambit stretched, flexing a cramp from his hand.
“Alright, petite. What now? You got a plan besides runnin’?” he asked, voice loose but eyes sharp.
Laura was silent, gaze sweeping the lazy highway, ears straining for the crunch of tires. “No plan. Not here. I don’t know the city. You do. That’s why I broke you out of that cartel safehouse, remember? You were supposed to have contacts—not just enemies.”
Gambit grinned, cocky, but Laura saw the tremor in his fingers, the quick dart of his eyes. “I know some people. The trick’s findin’ which ones aren’t just gonna sell me out.”
“You’d better make up your mind fast,” Laura said, voice flat. “We can’t stay long. That van might have tracked us. I could—” She curled her fist, claws aching beneath her skin, “—take them out. But if they’re not your pursuers, if they’re just in the wrong place…”
Gambit was quiet for a beat, chewing on the moment. “You don’t want more blood,” he said quietly.
“No,” Laura agreed. “Not tonight.”
Gambit cupped a hand to his chin, considering. “I got a safehouse—used to be my uncle’s. If he’s not inside already, it’s empty. But it’s close, and only two folks in this city know ‘bout it. The one who hates me is currently in prison.”
Laura nodded. “Then that’s where we go. But we split up for the last leg. I’ll watch your back.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll handle myself.”
Remy didn’t argue, just jerked his chin toward the parking lot. “There’s a fence line behind that sign. Goes straight through a gap in the old rail yard. Shortcut. You bringin’ the bike?”
Laura shook her head. “Too loud.”
Gambit hesitated, then touched her arm lightly. “Merci, X-23. For not leavin’ me behind. Or… cuttin’ throats.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Laura said. “If this goes bad, get as far away from me as you can.”
***
They split up, darting into the whispering dark. Laura shadowed Remy from a distance, gliding over gravel and trash, hyperalert to the city’s midnight voices: barking dogs, fluttering pigeons, somewhere the far-off clap of police sirens.
The van never appeared, but Laura couldn’t shake the knowledge that she’d been made. Once, she fancied she saw headlights slip past parallel streets, never quite close, but always lingering—hunters scenting prey.
The safehouse was buried beneath a burnt-out row house, down metal stairs to a bolted sub-basement. Gambit’s knock was a soft, syncopated rhythm, echoed by silence. No one home. Laura scanned the block, then followed him inside.
Old musty air, faded linoleum, and the faint hint of home-cooked gumbo—ghosts, now. Gambit was all business, rigging a brace of tripwires at the door and checking the ancient landline.
“Tomorrow,” he said, voice low, “I’ll find out who owns that van. If we’re lucky, my contact owes me a favor, not a knife in the ribs.”
Laura cleaned her claws with a rag, the blood—hers, not theirs—still drying beneath her nails. “If you call them, use my name. X-23. Maybe they’ll be afraid enough to listen.”
Gambit chuckled, dropping to the battered sofa. “You’re good, chère. Even better than the stories say.”
Laura took the single battered chair, back to the door, eyes never leaving the night. She felt the mysteries pressing in from every side: the men in the van, whoever had sold Remit out, the trail of corpses she’d left—lines on a map, all drawing closer.
But for now, there was only the city humming around them and the long vigil against the dark.
Tomorrow, the game would start again. And Laura would be ready—claws retracted, senses sharp, every nerve haunted but alive.
This story was generated by user dizzy.bizzy93 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 on the roof, watching a white van parked under a streetlight. With her heightened senses, she could tell that there were three or four men in the van. She wasn't sure if they were the bandits who were chasing her friend Gambit, who was currently sleeping in the basement of the building. Despite that, she wanted to attack them and deal with them. But she didn't want to risk killing innocent people. She had enough blood on her hands as it was. She jumped off the roof and fell through the basement window. Laura knew that the bandits didn't have a good view of the basement window from the van, so she and Gambit could get out and disappear into the twisting streets. She took him to her motorcycle hidden in one of the alleys, and then they both got on the bike and drove off. Laura drove them to the gas station where she stopped when she came to town. She parked her motorcycle behind the building and looked at Gambit. She told him that now it was up to him to find them a new hideout, because she didn't know the city and he surely knew someone who could help him without wanting to kill him.
Response: Laura Kinney landed on the concrete floor of the basement without a sound, shoes barely scuffing the dust by the window well. The room was thick with the stale tang of industrial cleaners and cold sweat—the latter courtesy of Remy LeBeau, curled uneasily in his sleep atop a cot by the furnace. She padded over, pressed a gloved finger to his shoulder, and whispered, “Wake up. We have to move.” Remy’s red eyes flickered open, pupils dilated wide in the gloom. “Chère? What—?” “Sssh,” Laura said. “White van, four men, probably armed. Parked under the streetlight since midnight. They’re watching the building. I don’t know if they’re yours, but I’m not waiting to find out.” Remy’s lips pulled into the beginnings of a smirk, but his right hand crept toward his battered satchel. “And here I thought you’d let me sleep the night through.” “I don’t take chances,” she said, already unlatching the rickety window. “Come.” The window ejected with a rusty squeak. She stiffened, scenting the night—rain on cement, distant automobile exhaust, and the tang of gun oil. She listened for telltale movement from the van, but heard only engines idling, the hum of radios, one voice in mid-laugh—the bandits were bored, distracted. Good. Laura slid out first, rolled into the overgrown weeds outside the wall, and reached up for Remy. He followed, surprisingly light, and she led him like a shadow between dumpsters and wire fences, every nerve tuned to the possibility of being seen. Her motorcycle was waiting behind a shuttered deli, still draped under a plastic tarp. Laura uncovered it quickly and mounted up, flicking her hand for Remy to climb on. He did so with practiced ease, arms wrapping once around her waist. “You sure we’re not just running into another trap?” he muttered in her ear, warily scanning the alleyway. “You brought them here, Gambit. You get us out.” She started the engine, and the two of them roared into the sleeping streets. *** Laura circled away from the main avenue, doubling back twice before heading south, taking side roads she’d noted before dusk. Gambit pressed into her, smelling faintly of sweat and ozone, head turning constantly as if to catch glimpses of invisible pursuers. The gas station was nearly abandoned, save for a weary man mopping inside and the silent yellow halos of sodium lamps. Laura pulled around the rear, killed the headlight, and swung off. Gambit stretched, flexing a cramp from his hand. “Alright, petite. What now? You got a plan besides runnin’?” he asked, voice loose but eyes sharp. Laura was silent, gaze sweeping the lazy highway, ears straining for the crunch of tires. “No plan. Not here. I don’t know the city. You do. That’s why I broke you out of that cartel safehouse, remember? You were supposed to have contacts—not just enemies.” Gambit grinned, cocky, but Laura saw the tremor in his fingers, the quick dart of his eyes. “I know some people. The trick’s findin’ which ones aren’t just gonna sell me out.” “You’d better make up your mind fast,” Laura said, voice flat. “We can’t stay long. That van might have tracked us. I could—” She curled her fist, claws aching beneath her skin, “—take them out. But if they’re not your pursuers, if they’re just in the wrong place…” Gambit was quiet for a beat, chewing on the moment. “You don’t want more blood,” he said quietly. “No,” Laura agreed. “Not tonight.” Gambit cupped a hand to his chin, considering. “I got a safehouse—used to be my uncle’s. If he’s not inside already, it’s empty. But it’s close, and only two folks in this city know ‘bout it. The one who hates me is currently in prison.” Laura nodded. “Then that’s where we go. But we split up for the last leg. I’ll watch your back.” “What about you?” “I’ll handle myself.” Remy didn’t argue, just jerked his chin toward the parking lot. “There’s a fence line behind that sign. Goes straight through a gap in the old rail yard. Shortcut. You bringin’ the bike?” Laura shook her head. “Too loud.” Gambit hesitated, then touched her arm lightly. “Merci, X-23. For not leavin’ me behind. Or… cuttin’ throats.” “Don’t thank me yet,” Laura said. “If this goes bad, get as far away from me as you can.” *** They split up, darting into the whispering dark. Laura shadowed Remy from a distance, gliding over gravel and trash, hyperalert to the city’s midnight voices: barking dogs, fluttering pigeons, somewhere the far-off clap of police sirens. The van never appeared, but Laura couldn’t shake the knowledge that she’d been made. Once, she fancied she saw headlights slip past parallel streets, never quite close, but always lingering—hunters scenting prey. The safehouse was buried beneath a burnt-out row house, down metal stairs to a bolted sub-basement. Gambit’s knock was a soft, syncopated rhythm, echoed by silence. No one home. Laura scanned the block, then followed him inside. Old musty air, faded linoleum, and the faint hint of home-cooked gumbo—ghosts, now. Gambit was all business, rigging a brace of tripwires at the door and checking the ancient landline. “Tomorrow,” he said, voice low, “I’ll find out who owns that van. If we’re lucky, my contact owes me a favor, not a knife in the ribs.” Laura cleaned her claws with a rag, the blood—hers, not theirs—still drying beneath her nails. “If you call them, use my name. X-23. Maybe they’ll be afraid enough to listen.” Gambit chuckled, dropping to the battered sofa. “You’re good, chère. Even better than the stories say.” Laura took the single battered chair, back to the door, eyes never leaving the night. She felt the mysteries pressing in from every side: the men in the van, whoever had sold Remit out, the trail of corpses she’d left—lines on a map, all drawing closer. But for now, there was only the city humming around them and the long vigil against the dark. Tomorrow, the game would start again. And Laura would be ready—claws retracted, senses sharp, every nerve haunted but alive.
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