**Shadows of the Big Easy: A Mutant's Escape**
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Laura Kinney crouched on the roof, knees bent, muscles taut beneath her dark hoodie. Cool midnight air pressed against her face as she watched the veins of downtown New Orleans pulse with ivory and neon. The city sparkled—a thousand lights burning in the humid dark. With one gloved hand, she twirled a loose strand of raven hair behind her ear, hyperaware of every sound and scent drifting up from the street.
Behind her mask of controlled breathing and feline poise, Laura’s senses were in overdrive. A jazz beat rolled out of a bar two blocks away, mixing with the sizzle of grilled shrimp and the sweet, cloying smell of gardenias blooming somewhere below. But there was something else—something discordant that prickled her senses. She narrowed her green eyes, zeroing in on the anomaly: a plain white van idling beneath a sputtering streetlamp in the shadow of worn brick warehouses.
Her fingertips flexed reflexively as old memories surged—anguish, desperation, and the cold certainty of pursuit. That van wasn’t delivering groceries.
Somewhere deep in the building, muffled but clear, she heard Gambit’s voice. Even through layers of cement and insulation, his bayou drawl carried tension like lightning in a Southern storm. Laura dropped to all fours and eased back from the rooftop ledge.
**“They here, chère? Y’feelin’ that too, yeah?”** Gambit called, his voice trembling.
Moving with practiced silence, Laura leapt down, catching the rusted fire escape and letting herself drop the remaining two stories to an open window. She landed in the small, makeshift kitchen of their safehouse—a squat building painted faded blue-gray, already shrouded in warnings scrawled in faded French. Gambit stood in the doorframe, eyes wide, cards crackling with faint pink energy.
She held up a hand. “Calm down. I can hear your heart beating from the roof.” Her tone, measured and gravelly, cut through the tension.
Gambit grimaced and looked away. “Chère, I don’ like—”
“There’s a van parked by the sidewalk. No markings. No lights, no music. Smells like ozone and fear.”
He blinked furiously, squeezing the ace of spades until it glowed. “Could be anyone. Could be no one at all.”
Laura watched him quietly, letting the silence stretch. She knew that Gambit—Remy Lebeau to the wary and the world—had once thrived on uncertainty. But something about these nights had changed him. Maybe he was running out of luck.
“We can’t stay here.” She rolled her shoulders, feeling the weight of responsibility settle once again on the old wounds of her past. “We’re exposed. We move tonight.”
Remy nodded, sliding the glowing card into his sleeve. “You got wheels?”
A hint of a smirk flitted across Laura’s lips—fleeting, but real. “Motorcycle. North alley, five blocks over. I stashed it when we arrived.”
He grinned, trying for lightness. “Girl after my own heart.”
They packed fast—Laura with a battered rucksack, Gambit with his endless assortment of cards and locks. She stopped, peering through the cracked blinds. The van hadn’t moved, but she watched the twitch of a figure inside, glimpsed only in the reflection of a chrome bumper across the street. They’d waited long enough.
“Basement door,” she whispered. “Out back. Stay low.”
Remy slid ahead, his footsteps barely a whisper. Laura followed, every step perfectly measured, her claws—two on each hand, one on each foot—half-extended beneath leather gloves. Her mind raced: How had they been found so quickly? Was it the scent trail, the flickering residue of psychic distress? Or just dumb luck?
In the basement, the scent of mold and old machinery was overpowered by another, sharper odor—adrenaline and weapon oil. That van wasn’t alone. She halted, signaling Remy with a stiff hand. They waited, hearts stuttering in the dark, listening for footfalls or broken glass.
Finally, she edged open the door. No sign of movement. The alley stretched away in shadows, broken by a flicker of distant headlights. Gambit moved first, his lean form blending with the shadows. Laura followed, every step a calculated gamble as they wound through stacks of broken crates and upturned beer bottles.
Ahead, her motorcycle gleamed dully under the haze of a broken security lamp—a battered Yamaha with Louisiana plates. She swung a leg over the saddle, feeling the engine shift beneath her as she turned the key. Gambit settled in behind her, hands finding her waist instinctively.
She grinned despite herself, the thrill of velocity creeping in past the dread. Behind them, shouts split the midnight fog, followed by the sharp crack of a gunshot. Laura revved the engine, tires squealing as they peeled into the night, ducking low as the glowing skyline of New Orleans flickered past in lurid flashes.
They’d be ghosts before the hounds of the city could sniff them out again.
Remy’s voice, tight but full of faith, drifted against her ear. “Where to, chère?”
“Out of the Quarter. Across the river. I know a place.”
She leaned into the curve, claws digging gently into the handlebars. Mutants. Outcasts. Survivors. The night was thick with danger, but Laura cut through the darkness like a wild animal—never caught, never broken, and always one step ahead.
And with Gambit at her back, she was already planning their next adventure.
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. She 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: Laura Kinney crouched on the roof, knees bent, muscles taut beneath her dark hoodie. Cool midnight air pressed against her face as she watched the veins of downtown New Orleans pulse with ivory and neon. The city sparkled—a thousand lights burning in the humid dark. With one gloved hand, she twirled a loose strand of raven hair behind her ear, hyperaware of every sound and scent drifting up from the street. Behind her mask of controlled breathing and feline poise, Laura’s senses were in overdrive. A jazz beat rolled out of a bar two blocks away, mixing with the sizzle of grilled shrimp and the sweet, cloying smell of gardenias blooming somewhere below. But there was something else—something discordant that prickled her senses. She narrowed her green eyes, zeroing in on the anomaly: a plain white van idling beneath a sputtering streetlamp in the shadow of worn brick warehouses. Her fingertips flexed reflexively as old memories surged—anguish, desperation, and the cold certainty of pursuit. That van wasn’t delivering groceries. Somewhere deep in the building, muffled but clear, she heard Gambit’s voice. Even through layers of cement and insulation, his bayou drawl carried tension like lightning in a Southern storm. Laura dropped to all fours and eased back from the rooftop ledge. **“They here, chère? Y’feelin’ that too, yeah?”** Gambit called, his voice trembling. Moving with practiced silence, Laura leapt down, catching the rusted fire escape and letting herself drop the remaining two stories to an open window. She landed in the small, makeshift kitchen of their safehouse—a squat building painted faded blue-gray, already shrouded in warnings scrawled in faded French. Gambit stood in the doorframe, eyes wide, cards crackling with faint pink energy. She held up a hand. “Calm down. I can hear your heart beating from the roof.” Her tone, measured and gravelly, cut through the tension. Gambit grimaced and looked away. “Chère, I don’ like—” “There’s a van parked by the sidewalk. No markings. No lights, no music. Smells like ozone and fear.” He blinked furiously, squeezing the ace of spades until it glowed. “Could be anyone. Could be no one at all.” Laura watched him quietly, letting the silence stretch. She knew that Gambit—Remy Lebeau to the wary and the world—had once thrived on uncertainty. But something about these nights had changed him. Maybe he was running out of luck. “We can’t stay here.” She rolled her shoulders, feeling the weight of responsibility settle once again on the old wounds of her past. “We’re exposed. We move tonight.” Remy nodded, sliding the glowing card into his sleeve. “You got wheels?” A hint of a smirk flitted across Laura’s lips—fleeting, but real. “Motorcycle. North alley, five blocks over. I stashed it when we arrived.” He grinned, trying for lightness. “Girl after my own heart.” They packed fast—Laura with a battered rucksack, Gambit with his endless assortment of cards and locks. She stopped, peering through the cracked blinds. The van hadn’t moved, but she watched the twitch of a figure inside, glimpsed only in the reflection of a chrome bumper across the street. They’d waited long enough. “Basement door,” she whispered. “Out back. Stay low.” Remy slid ahead, his footsteps barely a whisper. Laura followed, every step perfectly measured, her claws—two on each hand, one on each foot—half-extended beneath leather gloves. Her mind raced: How had they been found so quickly? Was it the scent trail, the flickering residue of psychic distress? Or just dumb luck? In the basement, the scent of mold and old machinery was overpowered by another, sharper odor—adrenaline and weapon oil. That van wasn’t alone. She halted, signaling Remy with a stiff hand. They waited, hearts stuttering in the dark, listening for footfalls or broken glass. Finally, she edged open the door. No sign of movement. The alley stretched away in shadows, broken by a flicker of distant headlights. Gambit moved first, his lean form blending with the shadows. Laura followed, every step a calculated gamble as they wound through stacks of broken crates and upturned beer bottles. Ahead, her motorcycle gleamed dully under the haze of a broken security lamp—a battered Yamaha with Louisiana plates. She swung a leg over the saddle, feeling the engine shift beneath her as she turned the key. Gambit settled in behind her, hands finding her waist instinctively. She grinned despite herself, the thrill of velocity creeping in past the dread. Behind them, shouts split the midnight fog, followed by the sharp crack of a gunshot. Laura revved the engine, tires squealing as they peeled into the night, ducking low as the glowing skyline of New Orleans flickered past in lurid flashes. They’d be ghosts before the hounds of the city could sniff them out again. Remy’s voice, tight but full of faith, drifted against her ear. “Where to, chère?” “Out of the Quarter. Across the river. I know a place.” She leaned into the curve, claws digging gently into the handlebars. Mutants. Outcasts. Survivors. The night was thick with danger, but Laura cut through the darkness like a wild animal—never caught, never broken, and always one step ahead. And with Gambit at her back, she was already planning their next adventure.
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