"Shadows of Justice"
0 Points
0
The small apartment on the third floor wasn’t much of a hideout, but Laura Kinney—Wolverine’s clone, known on the street as X-23—made do. She was sharp-jawed and slight, with hair cut to practical length and nerves tight enough to hear every drip from the broken kitchen faucet. Gambit, sprawled out snoring across the threadbare sofa, was a mess and a half—but he was her mess, for now, after she’d yanked him out of a jam with the Assassins Guild.
Laura’s fingers finished rifling through the yellowed stack of newspapers in the closet, dust smearing on the tips of her gloves. The oldest, from a few weeks ago, caught her eye: "Nightglow Club Investigated in Human Trafficking Ring." She scanned black-and-white photos of scowling bouncers and club-goers, eyes drawn to the names and addresses. Something crawled under her skin at the idea—helpless girls, locked behind neon and steel, preyed on by men who thought they wouldn’t be missed. Laura folded the article, slipping it into her pocket, a thought burrowing into her resolve: after Gambit’s problem was handled, she’d come back for this.
The riotous, secondhand Mardi Gras shirt Gambit had thrust at her earlier was uncomfortable enough to make her eyes hurt. She sorted through the closet, making quick, silent work of it. Dusty combat pants—too baggy, but she rolled the ankles and cinched the waist. A gray top, faded from too much sunlight in too many windows. Sensible. Camouflage, of a sort, among shadows and crowds.
She ducked into the tiny shower and let water trace streaks through the dirt left by their flight from Gambit’s pursuers. Blood, hers and theirs, ran down the drain. Steam curled up and, briefly, her reflection in the wet mirror looked peaceful.
When she stepped out, toes quiet on the peeling linoleum, Gambit was still sprawled on the couch. The steady rise and fall of his chest under a threadbare blanket, his coat thrown over the armrest, offer more comfort than Laura would admit. She dressed quickly, pocketed the newspaper, then crossed the room—soft steps—flicking the light off. She moved to the window, opened it with a practiced creak, and let herself drop nimbly onto the fire escape before hauling up to the rooftop.
New Orleans by night was an animal Laura only half-knew—full of noise and color, a river city thrumming with secrets. She perched with her knees to her chin, letting the wind skim her hair, drinking in the scents—the iron tang of rusty gutters, the sweet burn of spilled whiskey, and the sharp sourness of fear.
The van caught her attention right away. Parked too close, all its windows tinted, idling under a sputtering streetlamp. Her mutant senses prickled, hackles up like a feral cat. A silhouette shifted in the driver’s seat, slow and deliberate, and she caught the glint of an earpiece in the creature’s ear.
Laura’s claws itched beneath the skin of her hands. She tracked the van for several minutes, senses keening, until a sudden sound snapped her guard: Gambit’s voice, thin and panicked, echoing up through the slatted grates of the building’s basement.
She barely remembered jumping down—her boots silent on the gutter, then rebounding to the window ledge and through, to land in the hallway. Gambit was already halfway up the stairs when she landed before him, hands wild and hair sticking up from sleep.
“You’re here,” she breathed, steadying him with a palm on his chest. “Slow down—breath. I heard you. I heard everything.”
“That van,” he gasped, face shadowed with fear. “You saw it? I told you, chere, the Guild follows me—”
“Not the Guild,” Laura interrupted, voice cool and firm. “Different smell. Different feel. Someone’s hunting. We need to move.”
Gambit slouched against the wall, hands twitching as though itching for a deck of cards, eyes darting toward the boarded-up window.
She cupped his face—gently, a rare blessing—and forced him to look at her. “Listen. I have a motorcycle hidden two blocks over. We'll take the alleyways. I’m not going to let you get caught.”
He let out a shuddering breath and, for a moment, was still.
“Always got an escape plan, don’t you?” he managed a crooked smile, but his hands still shook.
“Always,” she answered.
As they moved to the back of the apartment, she glanced at the closet. The human trafficking article burned in her mind—a debt she’d pay another day. For now, her claws were for Gambit, for the moment, for escape.
Together, they slipped into the night, careful and quiet. The city pulsed around them—predators and prey. And somewhere, girls waited to be saved, and Laura swore to herself—the hunt would end soon. But not tonight.
Tonight, her whole world was a friend in need, the taste of danger, and the promise of justice hiding in the dark.
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 said it would be best if they left this hideout and found another one. She told him that she had come to New Orleans on a motorcycle and hidden it in an alley nearby.
Response: The small apartment on the third floor wasn’t much of a hideout, but Laura Kinney—Wolverine’s clone, known on the street as X-23—made do. She was sharp-jawed and slight, with hair cut to practical length and nerves tight enough to hear every drip from the broken kitchen faucet. Gambit, sprawled out snoring across the threadbare sofa, was a mess and a half—but he was her mess, for now, after she’d yanked him out of a jam with the Assassins Guild. Laura’s fingers finished rifling through the yellowed stack of newspapers in the closet, dust smearing on the tips of her gloves. The oldest, from a few weeks ago, caught her eye: "Nightglow Club Investigated in Human Trafficking Ring." She scanned black-and-white photos of scowling bouncers and club-goers, eyes drawn to the names and addresses. Something crawled under her skin at the idea—helpless girls, locked behind neon and steel, preyed on by men who thought they wouldn’t be missed. Laura folded the article, slipping it into her pocket, a thought burrowing into her resolve: after Gambit’s problem was handled, she’d come back for this. The riotous, secondhand Mardi Gras shirt Gambit had thrust at her earlier was uncomfortable enough to make her eyes hurt. She sorted through the closet, making quick, silent work of it. Dusty combat pants—too baggy, but she rolled the ankles and cinched the waist. A gray top, faded from too much sunlight in too many windows. Sensible. Camouflage, of a sort, among shadows and crowds. She ducked into the tiny shower and let water trace streaks through the dirt left by their flight from Gambit’s pursuers. Blood, hers and theirs, ran down the drain. Steam curled up and, briefly, her reflection in the wet mirror looked peaceful. When she stepped out, toes quiet on the peeling linoleum, Gambit was still sprawled on the couch. The steady rise and fall of his chest under a threadbare blanket, his coat thrown over the armrest, offer more comfort than Laura would admit. She dressed quickly, pocketed the newspaper, then crossed the room—soft steps—flicking the light off. She moved to the window, opened it with a practiced creak, and let herself drop nimbly onto the fire escape before hauling up to the rooftop. New Orleans by night was an animal Laura only half-knew—full of noise and color, a river city thrumming with secrets. She perched with her knees to her chin, letting the wind skim her hair, drinking in the scents—the iron tang of rusty gutters, the sweet burn of spilled whiskey, and the sharp sourness of fear. The van caught her attention right away. Parked too close, all its windows tinted, idling under a sputtering streetlamp. Her mutant senses prickled, hackles up like a feral cat. A silhouette shifted in the driver’s seat, slow and deliberate, and she caught the glint of an earpiece in the creature’s ear. Laura’s claws itched beneath the skin of her hands. She tracked the van for several minutes, senses keening, until a sudden sound snapped her guard: Gambit’s voice, thin and panicked, echoing up through the slatted grates of the building’s basement. She barely remembered jumping down—her boots silent on the gutter, then rebounding to the window ledge and through, to land in the hallway. Gambit was already halfway up the stairs when she landed before him, hands wild and hair sticking up from sleep. “You’re here,” she breathed, steadying him with a palm on his chest. “Slow down—breath. I heard you. I heard everything.” “That van,” he gasped, face shadowed with fear. “You saw it? I told you, chere, the Guild follows me—” “Not the Guild,” Laura interrupted, voice cool and firm. “Different smell. Different feel. Someone’s hunting. We need to move.” Gambit slouched against the wall, hands twitching as though itching for a deck of cards, eyes darting toward the boarded-up window. She cupped his face—gently, a rare blessing—and forced him to look at her. “Listen. I have a motorcycle hidden two blocks over. We'll take the alleyways. I’m not going to let you get caught.” He let out a shuddering breath and, for a moment, was still. “Always got an escape plan, don’t you?” he managed a crooked smile, but his hands still shook. “Always,” she answered. As they moved to the back of the apartment, she glanced at the closet. The human trafficking article burned in her mind—a debt she’d pay another day. For now, her claws were for Gambit, for the moment, for escape. Together, they slipped into the night, careful and quiet. The city pulsed around them—predators and prey. And somewhere, girls waited to be saved, and Laura swore to herself—the hunt would end soon. But not tonight. Tonight, her whole world was a friend in need, the taste of danger, and the promise of justice hiding in the dark.
Post your own comment or use AI: