"Tangled Shadows: The Pursuit of Gambit"
0 Points
0
Laura Kinney crouched on the edge of the tarpaper roof, her muscles wound taut as steel cable. Night air washed over her—thick with the city’s sweat and grit—and her sharp eyes were locked onto the silent street below. She’d been up here for hours, watching the white panel van idling underneath the flickering glow of a busted sodium lamp.
She listened, bone-deep, to the hum and pulse of danger. Four hearts beat in the van. She caught snatches of their voices—gruff, menacing—though they thought their muffled tones hid them from the world. She didn’t hear Gambit’s name, but the stench coming off them—old gun oil, adrenaline, cigarette smoke—was the same stink she’d smelled chasing them through alleys a week ago.
They wanted her friend. They wanted Remy LeBeau.
She squeezed her hands. The urge to leap down and deal with the hunters—permanently—buzzed along her claws, but Laura forced herself to stay. She wasn’t an animal. Not anymore. The violence inside her, so easy to release, was a tempting song, but she wouldn’t kill unless she had to.
She drew a careful breath, sifting through the air. Gambit was safe for now—unconscious but breathing steady, in the cool darkness of the basement below her feet. The bandits didn’t have a direct line of sight on the battered window down there.
Time for an exit.
Laura dropped from the rooftop to a shadowed ledge, then let herself slip feet-first down to the ground, silent as a knife sliding from its sheath. She padded along the wall, eyes on the van. The men inside argued, oblivious to the world outside the glare of the streetlight.
The alley was a labyrinth of broken crates and sagging wire fences. Mist slithered in from the river, hiding her as she knelt at the smeared basement window. She flexed her fingers—felt the claws humming just under her skin.
"Remy," she whispered.
The shape on the cot stirred. Gambit opened his good eye—bloodshot but alert. "Ma chérie," he rasped. "You see our friends out there?"
She nodded, crawling through the window, landing lightly beside him. "Four. Unmarked van."
"They find us?"
"They’re watching. Not sure if it’s us, but better not risk it." She tugged him upright. "Time to go."
Gambit grunted, pushing himself to his feet with grimace and a joke. "Long as we don’t take the elevator, I’m ready."
Laura helped him through the window. Once outside, they ducked back into darkness, the building between them and their pursuers. Laura’s mind ran calculations. If she and Remy stuck together, they were slow. Split up, double the chance one of them escaped. But Gambit was wounded. She made the call—lead him, fast and quiet, through the city’s veins.
She did not avoid the streets out of fear. She avoided them because she knew how to become invisible in a city like this.
They cut through the alley, staying low behind trash bins and walls, weaving a ragged path through fire escapes and puddles. Laura felt the men’s gaze like lamp-light—knew the van would circle, searching once they were missed. She caught the stink of sweat, leather, cheap cologne in the wind: the bandits were on foot now, closing in.
She sensed them at her back—four men fanning in a wide line. One had a shotgun, another a revolver, the third reeked of old whiskey and steel. The fourth—the leader, she guessed—moved with a chill patience, like a snake waiting to strike.
"Keep moving," she breathed to Gambit.
He grinned, limping. "Remind me t’never cross you, cher. Your hospitality’s rougher than a N’awlins swamp."
They slipped into a maze of buildings where the city became a fever dream: corrugated iron, cable shadows, high chain-link fences. Laura pressed herself into a doorway as footsteps rattled by—they were close, too close.
She put herself between the hunters and Gambit.
The leader’s scent—a cold, subtle tang—crept up. She inhaled, tensing.
"Come on out," the man called, voice rasping over broken glass. "Hand us the thief, and nobody has to get hurt."
Gambit leaned against the wall, palming a card—his trick for emergencies. Laura felt her claws twitch. Not yet, she warned herself. She wanted to find another way.
"Guess they mean me, yeah?" Remy muttered.
"They aren’t getting you," Laura replied.
More footsteps. She felt the men moving in. Shots rang out—close, slamming into brick overhead. Concrete splattered. Gambit cursed, ducking low.
Laura moved.
She slipped from the shadows, catching the gunman with the shotgun before he could raise it. Her hand snapped his arm back, disarming him, dropping him hard against his knees. Before he could cry out, she threw him into a heap of crates.
A revolver barked—a whistle past her face. Laura rolled, claws out, shearing the steel barrel in half. The gunman yelped, clutching his ruined weapon.
"Run!" she hissed to Gambit.
Remy obeyed, sprinting for the far fence. Laura dodged right, leading the rest of the bandits away. Three chased, firing wild, tearing up sheet metal and missing by inches.
She pivoted, snatched a rusted pipe off the ground, and slammed it into a knee. The man crumpled. Another came at her with a knife; she twisted his wrist, disarmed him, and let him fall to the pavement, groaning.
She cornered the leader in a blind alley. He pointed his gun at her, hands shaking. "Stay back," he snarled.
She let her claws extend—two, not three. A warning.
The man shivered. "What are you?"
"Someone who’s tired of running," she said softly.
The man blanched, tossed the gun down, and ran.
Laura stood in the aftermath—city sounds returning, distant and muffled, like waves on a stormy shore. No blood. No deadly wounds. She felt the pressure ease off her heart.
She found Gambit at the far end of the alley, grinning despite the bruise spreading on his temple. "Knew you’d show those boys a thing or two," he said.
She shook her head, somehow amused. "Let’s keep moving."
And they did. They faded into the city—a girl with claws, a man who made cards explode, threading the labyrinth together.
Laura finally let herself breathe. The bandits weren’t dead; they’d think twice before coming after Gambit again. She savored the victory—not in the fight, but in the mercy.
Under her skin, the claws receded. For tonight, the wolf slept. And Laura Kinney—X-23, the weapon who’d been made to kill—moved through the city as a shadow, bearing her friend onwards to their next adventure.
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 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 crouched on the edge of the tarpaper roof, her muscles wound taut as steel cable. Night air washed over her—thick with the city’s sweat and grit—and her sharp eyes were locked onto the silent street below. She’d been up here for hours, watching the white panel van idling underneath the flickering glow of a busted sodium lamp. She listened, bone-deep, to the hum and pulse of danger. Four hearts beat in the van. She caught snatches of their voices—gruff, menacing—though they thought their muffled tones hid them from the world. She didn’t hear Gambit’s name, but the stench coming off them—old gun oil, adrenaline, cigarette smoke—was the same stink she’d smelled chasing them through alleys a week ago. They wanted her friend. They wanted Remy LeBeau. She squeezed her hands. The urge to leap down and deal with the hunters—permanently—buzzed along her claws, but Laura forced herself to stay. She wasn’t an animal. Not anymore. The violence inside her, so easy to release, was a tempting song, but she wouldn’t kill unless she had to. She drew a careful breath, sifting through the air. Gambit was safe for now—unconscious but breathing steady, in the cool darkness of the basement below her feet. The bandits didn’t have a direct line of sight on the battered window down there. Time for an exit. Laura dropped from the rooftop to a shadowed ledge, then let herself slip feet-first down to the ground, silent as a knife sliding from its sheath. She padded along the wall, eyes on the van. The men inside argued, oblivious to the world outside the glare of the streetlight. The alley was a labyrinth of broken crates and sagging wire fences. Mist slithered in from the river, hiding her as she knelt at the smeared basement window. She flexed her fingers—felt the claws humming just under her skin. "Remy," she whispered. The shape on the cot stirred. Gambit opened his good eye—bloodshot but alert. "Ma chérie," he rasped. "You see our friends out there?" She nodded, crawling through the window, landing lightly beside him. "Four. Unmarked van." "They find us?" "They’re watching. Not sure if it’s us, but better not risk it." She tugged him upright. "Time to go." Gambit grunted, pushing himself to his feet with grimace and a joke. "Long as we don’t take the elevator, I’m ready." Laura helped him through the window. Once outside, they ducked back into darkness, the building between them and their pursuers. Laura’s mind ran calculations. If she and Remy stuck together, they were slow. Split up, double the chance one of them escaped. But Gambit was wounded. She made the call—lead him, fast and quiet, through the city’s veins. She did not avoid the streets out of fear. She avoided them because she knew how to become invisible in a city like this. They cut through the alley, staying low behind trash bins and walls, weaving a ragged path through fire escapes and puddles. Laura felt the men’s gaze like lamp-light—knew the van would circle, searching once they were missed. She caught the stink of sweat, leather, cheap cologne in the wind: the bandits were on foot now, closing in. She sensed them at her back—four men fanning in a wide line. One had a shotgun, another a revolver, the third reeked of old whiskey and steel. The fourth—the leader, she guessed—moved with a chill patience, like a snake waiting to strike. "Keep moving," she breathed to Gambit. He grinned, limping. "Remind me t’never cross you, cher. Your hospitality’s rougher than a N’awlins swamp." They slipped into a maze of buildings where the city became a fever dream: corrugated iron, cable shadows, high chain-link fences. Laura pressed herself into a doorway as footsteps rattled by—they were close, too close. She put herself between the hunters and Gambit. The leader’s scent—a cold, subtle tang—crept up. She inhaled, tensing. "Come on out," the man called, voice rasping over broken glass. "Hand us the thief, and nobody has to get hurt." Gambit leaned against the wall, palming a card—his trick for emergencies. Laura felt her claws twitch. Not yet, she warned herself. She wanted to find another way. "Guess they mean me, yeah?" Remy muttered. "They aren’t getting you," Laura replied. More footsteps. She felt the men moving in. Shots rang out—close, slamming into brick overhead. Concrete splattered. Gambit cursed, ducking low. Laura moved. She slipped from the shadows, catching the gunman with the shotgun before he could raise it. Her hand snapped his arm back, disarming him, dropping him hard against his knees. Before he could cry out, she threw him into a heap of crates. A revolver barked—a whistle past her face. Laura rolled, claws out, shearing the steel barrel in half. The gunman yelped, clutching his ruined weapon. "Run!" she hissed to Gambit. Remy obeyed, sprinting for the far fence. Laura dodged right, leading the rest of the bandits away. Three chased, firing wild, tearing up sheet metal and missing by inches. She pivoted, snatched a rusted pipe off the ground, and slammed it into a knee. The man crumpled. Another came at her with a knife; she twisted his wrist, disarmed him, and let him fall to the pavement, groaning. She cornered the leader in a blind alley. He pointed his gun at her, hands shaking. "Stay back," he snarled. She let her claws extend—two, not three. A warning. The man shivered. "What are you?" "Someone who’s tired of running," she said softly. The man blanched, tossed the gun down, and ran. Laura stood in the aftermath—city sounds returning, distant and muffled, like waves on a stormy shore. No blood. No deadly wounds. She felt the pressure ease off her heart. She found Gambit at the far end of the alley, grinning despite the bruise spreading on his temple. "Knew you’d show those boys a thing or two," he said. She shook her head, somehow amused. "Let’s keep moving." And they did. They faded into the city—a girl with claws, a man who made cards explode, threading the labyrinth together. Laura finally let herself breathe. The bandits weren’t dead; they’d think twice before coming after Gambit again. She savored the victory—not in the fight, but in the mercy. Under her skin, the claws receded. For tonight, the wolf slept. And Laura Kinney—X-23, the weapon who’d been made to kill—moved through the city as a shadow, bearing her friend onwards to their next adventure.
Post your own comment or use AI: