"Shadows of Steel: The X-23 Mystery"
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Laura Kinney—X-23—sat on the edge of a narrow bed, letting the coarse woolen blanket prickle her palms. The basement of Madame Li’s herbal shop reeked of dried ginseng, ozone, and the faint sweetness of medicinal herbs. Her senses drank in every detail: the crumbling brick walls, the yellow light pooling from a single bulb, the cough of pipes running the length of the ceiling. The air was close and shadowy, the sort of place people passed over with their eyes, never wondering who slept in the dark.
Across the room, Remy LeBeau—Gambit—was sifting through her battered black backpack as though it were a treasure chest. Laura watched, gaze sharp, ready. She’d found him in a dead man’s warehouse—tied, bleeding, his face half-swollen from a hit. He’d barely managed his usual smirk through the pain as she sliced through his bonds.
Back at the shop’s entrance, Madame Li had folded her arms. “You come alone, always,” she’d warned, her gaze darting to Gambit. “You bring trouble with a man.”
“He’s my brother,” Laura had replied in a low, steely tone, her voice flat as polished stone. “He’s hurt. He needs rest.”
Madame Li had studied her a long, silent moment with the shrewd patience of an herbalist who knew every plant’s secrets—and the lies people thought they told well. But in the end, she’d merely nodded, led them to the creaking trapdoor, and flicked the basement light on.
Now, Gambit winced after grabbing an envelope at the bottom of the pack. He placed it gingerly aside, then looked up. “You check my emails, chérie? Any chance the Caldecotts were in touch? Or the girl from Marseilles…” He trailed off with that Cajun drawl, and Laura shook her head.
“No calls. No messages.” She pressed her back against the wall and let her claws, kept retracted, ache against her skin with the simmering memory of the rescue—a memory she kept tucked away beneath her stoic facade. Even now, she imagined blood still staining her hands, though she’d washed them clean twice.
He muttered, more to himself than to her, “Non, never again, Remy. No more takin’ orders from dangerous women with knives for fingers.”
Laura didn’t flinch at the words. Instead, she let silence settle until Gambit looked up again, the old, lazy grin making an appearance. “Gotta say, though—good work findin’ this little sanctuary. You think of everything, eh, Wolverine?”
She shrugged, the nickname lingering in the air like the scent of the healing herbs overhead. “We can’t stay long. I can smell your blood. If I can do it, they can too.”
A beat passed, and Gambit’s stomach gurgled, loud enough they both registered it with arched eyebrows and quick grins.
“Guess it’s lucky someone thought of dinner,” he said, reaching for one of the two Styrofoam boxes Madame Li had left by the basement steps. He opened it, revealing a slice of pork, a mound of rice, and a gleaming pile of bok choy. The aroma twisted through the stale room, making Laura’s mouth water in a way that caught her off guard.
She nodded, barely waiting for Gambit to find his own chopsticks before reaching for the other box. Laura devoured it—the rice vanished first, the pork next, and the vegetables in neat, swift bites. She barely paused for breath, and when she did, Gambit was still chewing pensively on the edge of his chopstick.
“Chérie,” he murmured, half in jest, “save some for a sick man, eh?”
But she ignored him. Instead, she focused on rebuilding strength: food, rest, and vigilance. She listened for Madame Li’s footsteps above, counting the beats between creaks. The old woman didn’t trust the “brother” story, but kept her curiosity behind a patient facade. Laura knew her promise to stay out of sight was binding—for now.
Once Gambit finished eating and slumped back onto the couch, he peeled off his battered coat. “I need to shower. Somethin’s crawlin’ in my hair, and I don’t think it’s good luck,” he said, heading to the makeshift bathroom behind a faded curtain.
The pipes coughed, and the spray began. While he was gone, Laura crossed to the old closet set into the brickwork. Inside was a precarious stack of faded newspapers. She grabbed a handful and slouched on the bed, flicking through them with impatient fingers.
The oldest layers were all advertisements for herbal arthritis cures, dubious teas, and acupuncture specials. But more recent issues ran headlines that made her blood buzz:
“BLOODY SHOOTOUT IN CHINATOWN”— Police Baffled
“VIGILANTE MYSTERY: WHO PROTECTS THE UNDERWORLD?”
And then—her own gloved hands holding a man below a neon light, blurred by distance, the caption: “UNIDENTIFIED HERO SAVES HOSTAGE.”
Laura’s breath caught. The rescue two nights ago. Someone had seen—someone had reported it to the papers. Her mutant paranoia surged, the animal’s fear that always perched just behind her reason. She flipped through more pages, learning what she could about recent crime rings, about faces and players who might seek revenge.
She memorized names and details—kinetic energy readings, warehouse addresses, the initials RA spray-painted on a brick wall at the dockyards. Every detail was ammunition. Gambit was counting on her to keep them out of sight; she wasn’t about to disappoint him.
The pipes finished their grumbling, and soon Gambit reappeared, hair wet, eyes sharp despite his exhaustion. He saw her with the newspapers and grinned. “Find anythin’ good? Maybe a crossword?”
“Nothing good,” she said. She didn’t add that there was one headline about a corpse found with strange wounds. A warning—one for her, maybe. “But I know who might be hunting us. And I know where we can go next.”
Gambit’s half-smile faltered for just a beat, worry slipping in beneath the bravado. “Then we best make sure we eat fast, sleep faster, and never stop lookin’ over our shoulders.”
Laura nodded, folding the last newspaper and tucking it into her backpack. “We move at sunrise.”
In a place made for forgetting, where the roots of rare herbs crawled through years of dust, the mutant and her companion settled in for a sleepless rest. Above them, the world moved on: healers, criminals, vigilantes, and hunters—all threads in a web. Laura’s eyes never truly shut, and her claws never fully withdrew. There was no safety, but there was resolve—cold, quiet, and as sharp as steel.
Tomorrow, the city would wake, and with it, their enemies. But tonight in the hidden, herb-scented dark, Laura would not falter. The game of shadows and survival was just beginning, and the mutant called X-23 was not done yet.
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 reached for a stack of newspapers from the closet.
Response: Laura Kinney—X-23—sat on the edge of a narrow bed, letting the coarse woolen blanket prickle her palms. The basement of Madame Li’s herbal shop reeked of dried ginseng, ozone, and the faint sweetness of medicinal herbs. Her senses drank in every detail: the crumbling brick walls, the yellow light pooling from a single bulb, the cough of pipes running the length of the ceiling. The air was close and shadowy, the sort of place people passed over with their eyes, never wondering who slept in the dark. Across the room, Remy LeBeau—Gambit—was sifting through her battered black backpack as though it were a treasure chest. Laura watched, gaze sharp, ready. She’d found him in a dead man’s warehouse—tied, bleeding, his face half-swollen from a hit. He’d barely managed his usual smirk through the pain as she sliced through his bonds. Back at the shop’s entrance, Madame Li had folded her arms. “You come alone, always,” she’d warned, her gaze darting to Gambit. “You bring trouble with a man.” “He’s my brother,” Laura had replied in a low, steely tone, her voice flat as polished stone. “He’s hurt. He needs rest.” Madame Li had studied her a long, silent moment with the shrewd patience of an herbalist who knew every plant’s secrets—and the lies people thought they told well. But in the end, she’d merely nodded, led them to the creaking trapdoor, and flicked the basement light on. Now, Gambit winced after grabbing an envelope at the bottom of the pack. He placed it gingerly aside, then looked up. “You check my emails, chérie? Any chance the Caldecotts were in touch? Or the girl from Marseilles…” He trailed off with that Cajun drawl, and Laura shook her head. “No calls. No messages.” She pressed her back against the wall and let her claws, kept retracted, ache against her skin with the simmering memory of the rescue—a memory she kept tucked away beneath her stoic facade. Even now, she imagined blood still staining her hands, though she’d washed them clean twice. He muttered, more to himself than to her, “Non, never again, Remy. No more takin’ orders from dangerous women with knives for fingers.” Laura didn’t flinch at the words. Instead, she let silence settle until Gambit looked up again, the old, lazy grin making an appearance. “Gotta say, though—good work findin’ this little sanctuary. You think of everything, eh, Wolverine?” She shrugged, the nickname lingering in the air like the scent of the healing herbs overhead. “We can’t stay long. I can smell your blood. If I can do it, they can too.” A beat passed, and Gambit’s stomach gurgled, loud enough they both registered it with arched eyebrows and quick grins. “Guess it’s lucky someone thought of dinner,” he said, reaching for one of the two Styrofoam boxes Madame Li had left by the basement steps. He opened it, revealing a slice of pork, a mound of rice, and a gleaming pile of bok choy. The aroma twisted through the stale room, making Laura’s mouth water in a way that caught her off guard. She nodded, barely waiting for Gambit to find his own chopsticks before reaching for the other box. Laura devoured it—the rice vanished first, the pork next, and the vegetables in neat, swift bites. She barely paused for breath, and when she did, Gambit was still chewing pensively on the edge of his chopstick. “Chérie,” he murmured, half in jest, “save some for a sick man, eh?” But she ignored him. Instead, she focused on rebuilding strength: food, rest, and vigilance. She listened for Madame Li’s footsteps above, counting the beats between creaks. The old woman didn’t trust the “brother” story, but kept her curiosity behind a patient facade. Laura knew her promise to stay out of sight was binding—for now. Once Gambit finished eating and slumped back onto the couch, he peeled off his battered coat. “I need to shower. Somethin’s crawlin’ in my hair, and I don’t think it’s good luck,” he said, heading to the makeshift bathroom behind a faded curtain. The pipes coughed, and the spray began. While he was gone, Laura crossed to the old closet set into the brickwork. Inside was a precarious stack of faded newspapers. She grabbed a handful and slouched on the bed, flicking through them with impatient fingers. The oldest layers were all advertisements for herbal arthritis cures, dubious teas, and acupuncture specials. But more recent issues ran headlines that made her blood buzz: “BLOODY SHOOTOUT IN CHINATOWN”— Police Baffled “VIGILANTE MYSTERY: WHO PROTECTS THE UNDERWORLD?” And then—her own gloved hands holding a man below a neon light, blurred by distance, the caption: “UNIDENTIFIED HERO SAVES HOSTAGE.” Laura’s breath caught. The rescue two nights ago. Someone had seen—someone had reported it to the papers. Her mutant paranoia surged, the animal’s fear that always perched just behind her reason. She flipped through more pages, learning what she could about recent crime rings, about faces and players who might seek revenge. She memorized names and details—kinetic energy readings, warehouse addresses, the initials RA spray-painted on a brick wall at the dockyards. Every detail was ammunition. Gambit was counting on her to keep them out of sight; she wasn’t about to disappoint him. The pipes finished their grumbling, and soon Gambit reappeared, hair wet, eyes sharp despite his exhaustion. He saw her with the newspapers and grinned. “Find anythin’ good? Maybe a crossword?” “Nothing good,” she said. She didn’t add that there was one headline about a corpse found with strange wounds. A warning—one for her, maybe. “But I know who might be hunting us. And I know where we can go next.” Gambit’s half-smile faltered for just a beat, worry slipping in beneath the bravado. “Then we best make sure we eat fast, sleep faster, and never stop lookin’ over our shoulders.” Laura nodded, folding the last newspaper and tucking it into her backpack. “We move at sunrise.” In a place made for forgetting, where the roots of rare herbs crawled through years of dust, the mutant and her companion settled in for a sleepless rest. Above them, the world moved on: healers, criminals, vigilantes, and hunters—all threads in a web. Laura’s eyes never truly shut, and her claws never fully withdrew. There was no safety, but there was resolve—cold, quiet, and as sharp as steel. Tomorrow, the city would wake, and with it, their enemies. But tonight in the hidden, herb-scented dark, Laura would not falter. The game of shadows and survival was just beginning, and the mutant called X-23 was not done yet.
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