Laura Kinney pressed into the night air, fields of neon flickering against her olive-toned skin. She crouched on broken shingles at the edge of the roof, boots hugging the rusted gutter, and kept pale eyes trained on the battered white van under the sodium lamp. The world was alive around her with the scent of rain, fried food from a distant diner, and the human tang of sweat from inside the van. Four men—no, three, maybe a fourth further back. Her hands curled unconsciously, two adamantium claws itching under each knuckle.
Remy—Gambit—slept in the basement below, a rebel with sleep lines under his eyes and a price on his head. Laura had spent enough time with him to know his problems weren’t going away. They chased him through city after city, two steps behind and getting closer. But tonight, she was the shield between the storm and his dreams.
The men in the van might’ve been the ones after Remy—thugs employed by the desperate, filthy-rich, or simply bored—but she couldn’t be sure. So she watched, heart beating slow and measured, while the minutes dripped past and the city’s low murmur surrounded her. The urge to attack built inside her: leap down, blades bared, and end whatever threat they posed. But she forced her breathing deeper, cooled her anger like old Logan had taught her.
Too much blood already. And maybe just delivery guys running a late shift.
She stood, sliding a silent step backwards from the edge, and swung herself down the fire escape in two practiced movements. Her hood caught the wind, and she hunched closer, clandestine under the shadows. Down a rusted pipe, across a hand-sticky window ledge, and she was crouching at the basement window. She glanced once up at the van—the silhouette of someone smoking in the passenger seat, his heartbeat audible to her mutant ears—and slipped inside the narrow casement.
A chill welcomed her; the basement smelled of mildew and metal and the lingering ozone of Remy’s powers. Two sleeping bags on the floor, a shivering bulb overhead. She closed the window noiselessly behind her.
Remy was still asleep, his cards tucked under his pillow, a twist of his lips betraying dreams of dicey hands and lost fortunes.
Laura knelt beside him, brushing hair from her face. “Wake up.”
Remy came fluttering awake, pupils blown wide. “Chérie?”
“We’ve got company outside,” she whispered. “White van. Three or four men.”
Remy’s face sharpened, old weariness fleeing. “You think…”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” She sat back on her heels, watching him. “But we’re leaving. Now.”
He nodded, sliding up with agile silence, muscles coiling under his battered coat. “We could go through the front, make a run for the subway.”
“They’d see us,” Laura replied, voice iron-flat. She pointed at the corner near the heater, where bricks had decayed. “There’s a vent. Small, but we can get through. They can’t see it from the street.”
Remy grinned despite the tension. “You’re always two steps ahead, Wolverine.”
She shrugged. “Old habits.”
She stowed their few belongings—the playing cards, a cracked burner phone, and an envelope of cash. Gambit extended his power over a single card, charging it, just in case. Laura led the way, moving low and deliberate as they peeled away the metal plate covering the vent. Rust flaked onto her gloves.
Laura wiggled through first, her lean frame fitting into the claustrophobic duct, moving like a shadow. Behind her, Remy followed more awkwardly, cursing softly in Cajun French as he scraped a knee. She suppressed the ghost of a smile.
They stumbled into a trash-strewn alley lit by dying stars and the smudged moon. Garbage cans gleamed. The street’s hush felt dangerous—somewhere, a dog barked.
Laura paused, nose twitching. The men hadn’t picked up their trail yet.
“Gambit, left,” she whispered, and they sped into the maze of winding streets, each turn eating distance between themselves and danger. Remy jogged beside her, coat flaring, and Laura’s pulse pounded with the strange music of flight.
Two blocks past the van, Laura’s senses flared—heavy footsteps behind, voices muffled against the roar of an engine.
“They’re moving,” she said, pulling Gambit down a narrow avenue between tenements.
The city twisted around them: fire escapes stacked like iron ladders to nowhere, graffiti curling over the walls. Laura sniffed gasoline and gun oil—one of the men in the van was loading something, hurried and nervous.
Gambit ducked into a chain-link yard, beckoning her through a breach in the fence. “I know a way—this way! Short cut through old railway depot.”
They dashed through the darkness, over broken tracks gleaming with rain. A train’s horn howled, and Laura’s skin prickled as headlights swept through the junkyard’s skeletons. They kept moving, never hesitating, until a figure blocked their path ahead—a man, broad-shouldered, carrying a pistol but trying to look casual.
Laura hissed, claws sliding out with a metallic ring.
“Easy, kid,” Remy murmured, hands low but ready to charge his cards. “Let Gambit talk.”
The man leveled his pistol—a hesitation—then Laura lunged as he pulled the trigger. Time slowed. She felt the bullet graze her shoulder, a stinging warmth, and she knocked him aside. He stumbled, hitting the broken asphalt, and Laura stared him down, eyes gone cold.
“Who sent you?” she snapped, blood dripping down her sleeve.
He was young, frightened, and more mercenary than killer. Gambit loomed beside her, card glowing pink in his hand. The man stuttered, “Just a job—man named Dubois. You got—you got enemies.”
Gambit looked resigned. “Always do.”
Laura released the man but glared. “You don’t see us. You tell Dubois we’re gone.”
He nodded furiously and darted away, disappearing into the night.
Remy touched Laura’s wounded shoulder. “You alright, chère?”
“I’ll heal,” she said. “Keep moving.”
Together they made their way through the sleeping city, staying beneath the eaves, flitting from shadow to shadow. The sound of pursuit faded as they wound deeper into the labyrinth of alleys. By dawn, the first commuter trains screamed over the rails above their heads, and Laura and Remy rested atop a deserted roof.
The city turned rose gold with sunrise. Laura watched the horizon, senses alert, but for now they were alone. She wiped blood from her sleeve, but inside felt clear-headed, sharpened.
She wanted vengeance—wanted to rip the world’s threats apart and keep Remy safe. But she remembered tonight, how she chose the shadows instead.
There would always be more blood. But there could also be mercy.
As the day began, Laura Kinney let herself hope that, at least for now, she and Gambit had outrun the past.
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.
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 slipped 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
Response: Laura Kinney pressed into the night air, fields of neon flickering against her olive-toned skin. She crouched on broken shingles at the edge of the roof, boots hugging the rusted gutter, and kept pale eyes trained on the battered white van under the sodium lamp. The world was alive around her with the scent of rain, fried food from a distant diner, and the human tang of sweat from inside the van. Four men—no, three, maybe a fourth further back. Her hands curled unconsciously, two adamantium claws itching under each knuckle. Remy—Gambit—slept in the basement below, a rebel with sleep lines under his eyes and a price on his head. Laura had spent enough time with him to know his problems weren’t going away. They chased him through city after city, two steps behind and getting closer. But tonight, she was the shield between the storm and his dreams. The men in the van might’ve been the ones after Remy—thugs employed by the desperate, filthy-rich, or simply bored—but she couldn’t be sure. So she watched, heart beating slow and measured, while the minutes dripped past and the city’s low murmur surrounded her. The urge to attack built inside her: leap down, blades bared, and end whatever threat they posed. But she forced her breathing deeper, cooled her anger like old Logan had taught her. Too much blood already. And maybe just delivery guys running a late shift. She stood, sliding a silent step backwards from the edge, and swung herself down the fire escape in two practiced movements. Her hood caught the wind, and she hunched closer, clandestine under the shadows. Down a rusted pipe, across a hand-sticky window ledge, and she was crouching at the basement window. She glanced once up at the van—the silhouette of someone smoking in the passenger seat, his heartbeat audible to her mutant ears—and slipped inside the narrow casement. A chill welcomed her; the basement smelled of mildew and metal and the lingering ozone of Remy’s powers. Two sleeping bags on the floor, a shivering bulb overhead. She closed the window noiselessly behind her. Remy was still asleep, his cards tucked under his pillow, a twist of his lips betraying dreams of dicey hands and lost fortunes. Laura knelt beside him, brushing hair from her face. “Wake up.” Remy came fluttering awake, pupils blown wide. “Chérie?” “We’ve got company outside,” she whispered. “White van. Three or four men.” Remy’s face sharpened, old weariness fleeing. “You think…” “Maybe. Maybe not.” She sat back on her heels, watching him. “But we’re leaving. Now.” He nodded, sliding up with agile silence, muscles coiling under his battered coat. “We could go through the front, make a run for the subway.” “They’d see us,” Laura replied, voice iron-flat. She pointed at the corner near the heater, where bricks had decayed. “There’s a vent. Small, but we can get through. They can’t see it from the street.” Remy grinned despite the tension. “You’re always two steps ahead, Wolverine.” She shrugged. “Old habits.” She stowed their few belongings—the playing cards, a cracked burner phone, and an envelope of cash. Gambit extended his power over a single card, charging it, just in case. Laura led the way, moving low and deliberate as they peeled away the metal plate covering the vent. Rust flaked onto her gloves. Laura wiggled through first, her lean frame fitting into the claustrophobic duct, moving like a shadow. Behind her, Remy followed more awkwardly, cursing softly in Cajun French as he scraped a knee. She suppressed the ghost of a smile. They stumbled into a trash-strewn alley lit by dying stars and the smudged moon. Garbage cans gleamed. The street’s hush felt dangerous—somewhere, a dog barked. Laura paused, nose twitching. The men hadn’t picked up their trail yet. “Gambit, left,” she whispered, and they sped into the maze of winding streets, each turn eating distance between themselves and danger. Remy jogged beside her, coat flaring, and Laura’s pulse pounded with the strange music of flight. Two blocks past the van, Laura’s senses flared—heavy footsteps behind, voices muffled against the roar of an engine. “They’re moving,” she said, pulling Gambit down a narrow avenue between tenements. The city twisted around them: fire escapes stacked like iron ladders to nowhere, graffiti curling over the walls. Laura sniffed gasoline and gun oil—one of the men in the van was loading something, hurried and nervous. Gambit ducked into a chain-link yard, beckoning her through a breach in the fence. “I know a way—this way! Short cut through old railway depot.” They dashed through the darkness, over broken tracks gleaming with rain. A train’s horn howled, and Laura’s skin prickled as headlights swept through the junkyard’s skeletons. They kept moving, never hesitating, until a figure blocked their path ahead—a man, broad-shouldered, carrying a pistol but trying to look casual. Laura hissed, claws sliding out with a metallic ring. “Easy, kid,” Remy murmured, hands low but ready to charge his cards. “Let Gambit talk.” The man leveled his pistol—a hesitation—then Laura lunged as he pulled the trigger. Time slowed. She felt the bullet graze her shoulder, a stinging warmth, and she knocked him aside. He stumbled, hitting the broken asphalt, and Laura stared him down, eyes gone cold. “Who sent you?” she snapped, blood dripping down her sleeve. He was young, frightened, and more mercenary than killer. Gambit loomed beside her, card glowing pink in his hand. The man stuttered, “Just a job—man named Dubois. You got—you got enemies.” Gambit looked resigned. “Always do.” Laura released the man but glared. “You don’t see us. You tell Dubois we’re gone.” He nodded furiously and darted away, disappearing into the night. Remy touched Laura’s wounded shoulder. “You alright, chère?” “I’ll heal,” she said. “Keep moving.” Together they made their way through the sleeping city, staying beneath the eaves, flitting from shadow to shadow. The sound of pursuit faded as they wound deeper into the labyrinth of alleys. By dawn, the first commuter trains screamed over the rails above their heads, and Laura and Remy rested atop a deserted roof. The city turned rose gold with sunrise. Laura watched the horizon, senses alert, but for now they were alone. She wiped blood from her sleeve, but inside felt clear-headed, sharpened. She wanted vengeance—wanted to rip the world’s threats apart and keep Remy safe. But she remembered tonight, how she chose the shadows instead. There would always be more blood. But there could also be mercy. As the day began, Laura Kinney let herself hope that, at least for now, she and Gambit had outrun the past.
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