"The Howling City: A Tale of Survival in Madripoor"
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The air in Madripoor was thick, restless—a city gnawing on its own secrets. Each night, like a wound that refused to scab over, it bled neon and smoke. Elle felt its pulse in the soles of her boots, still scorched from running.
They slunk along Lowtown’s narrowest backstreets, Eva marching a pace ahead. All the stories Elle had heard about Madripoor were true. She could smell them: something like gun metal, sweet perfume, and rot.
“This is the one,” Eva hissed, stopping in front of a flickering sign in the shape of a toothy skull. “The Princess Bar. If anyone in this filthy city will help us, it’s him.”
Elle hesitated at the threshold, nausea fluttering inside her chest. She sensed the hungry eyes on her, the breathless hush that followed two strangers entering a predator’s den. Inside, the bar was low-lit and crowded, bodies hunched around tables of scarred wood, their faces hidden in shadow.
At the far end, a man hunched over his drink, his wild black hair unmistakable in silhouette. Eva nudged Elle forward.
“Go on. Ask him.”
Elle forced one foot, then another. The heavy air pressed against her lungs.
“Um—excuse me…?” Her voice barely left her throat.
The man didn’t look up, but Elle saw his nostrils flare. He took a slow sip from his glass, then spoke with a roughness that cut straight through her crowd-dampened courage.
“You two lost, darlin’? Or just plain stupid?”
His accent was hard to place, rough like gravel, weary as the city itself.
Elle’s hands trembled. She had rehearsed this. She clenched her jaw and pressed on. “My name is Elle. This is Eva. We… we need help. We’re being hunted. Please.”
Now he looked up, and she saw familiar amber eyes guttered with old pain and rage. Everything people said about Madripoor was true. Everything people whispered about Wolverine was truer.
He studied them, his gaze sharp and animal. “You make a habit outta beggin’ strangers?”
Eva’s voice was brittle. “If we didn’t need to, we wouldn’t be here.”
The bar filled with a prickle of tension. A man near the door spat on the floor. Behind the bar, a woman started cleaning a glass with exaggerated focus, her eyes tracking the exchange in the grimy mirror.
“I know who you are,” Elle said, steeling herself. “You’re supposed to look out for people like us. People in trouble.”
He snorted, then tossed back the rest of his whiskey. “Ain’t nobody in the world like me, bub.”
Elle tried to keep the fear from her voice. “We’re desperate. There are men after us—bad men. Please.”
Wolverine sighed, scraping his barstool back with a metallic shriek. “You got five seconds. Start talkin’.”
Elle did her best to condense the story—the secrets her father stole, the price on their heads, the shadows gliding through alleys behind them since their ferry had docked. She spilled it all, aware of every cold and cunning eye in the bar.
Wolverine listened, his hands folded as if in prayer. Then he muttered something under his breath and rose to his feet. “We move. Now.”
He didn’t wait for them to follow.
The city outside was even darker now. Eva clutched Elle’s arm as Wolverine led them through an impossible maze, winding past stalls selling knives and teeth and things Elle didn’t dare look at. The streetlights flickered blood red. The further they walked, the more Elle wondered if this was a rescue or just being shepherded to a new torment.
They ducked through a half-collapsed temple, scaling debris and skirting a sleeping pack of feral dogs. Finally, he vanished through a gap in a corrugated metal wall. Elle hesitated. Eva pushed her forward.
The inside was surprisingly meticulous: a battered futon, stacks of ancient books, a single bulb dangling overhead. Elle saw weapons laid out on a table, gleaming knives, and guns she’d only seen in nightmares. Wolverine locked the door behind them and loomed over the two girls.
“You wanna hide, you do exactly what I say. Nod if you understand.”
They nodded.
He grunted. “I’ll take first watch. Don’t touch my stuff.”
Eva slumped against the wall, gasping, while Elle stood in the wavering circle of lamplight, unable to stop trembling.
“Get some rest,” he said, his voice gentler, barely. “Nobody gets through me. Not tonight.”
#
Elle’s dreams were muddied and dark. She heard footsteps pacing the hideout, Wolverine’s silhouette hunched in the half-light, a predator at rest but never sleeping. And in her dreams, Madripoor kept changing shapes: a city made of blood, then teeth, then shadows wearing men’s faces.
She woke to the crackle of thunder and Wolverine’s rough whisper. “Up. Both of you. Trouble.”
Out the narrow window, she saw three silhouettes moving in the alley. Eva clutched Elle’s arm so hard her nails cut the skin.
Wolverine flipped the table, shoved them behind it. He withdrew something—a set of silver claws that shone even in the gloom. “Don’t make a sound.”
The door shuddered as something slammed against it. Elle could hear voices, slurred on local liquor, mixing with inhuman, guttural growls. Footsteps—then Wolverine’s voice, too quiet to overhear.
Something crashed through the metal. Gunshots crackled. Elle shrank into Eva, hands pressed over her mouth. She saw a shadow cross the floor; saw, just for an instant, the burning tips of Wolverine’s claws painting the room with sparks as he lunged.
A scream—then silence, broken by the gentle sound of rain against tin.
A minute later, Wolverine appeared by the table, blood arcing across his bare arms. “Stay quiet. Place ain’t safe no more. We go.”
He led them out, steering them deeper into darkness. The city moaned with sirens now, but no one came to help or to ask questions. The horror of Madripoor was that it never stopped; it only pressed in closer, shrinking every circle of safety until you could barely breathe.
#
For three more nights, Elle moved with Eva and Wolverine through the city’s underbelly. They slept in abandoned apartments and shops shuttered for years, trusting Wolverine’s nose and senses to keep them a step ahead of their pursuers. Every night, Elle dreamed of the blood-slicked laughter that haunted the alleys; every day, she watched Wolverine carve a space between them and horrors—human and otherwise.
He never asked why they ran. He never explained why he helped them. Some nights, he sat sharpening his claws and Elle thought she saw, flickering in his eyes, a memory of someone else he’d once tried to save.
On the last day, with the sun leaking grey through the smoke, Wolverine brought them to the docks. “Boat’s waiting. Head north. Cross the strait—keep running.”
Elle nodded, her gratitude thick in her throat. Eva hugged her fiercely from behind, and for a heartbeat, Elle wished she could stay. There was something in the bleak protection Wolverine offered, something that made her believe monsters could, just sometimes, fight for you.
“Thank you,” Elle managed, voice breaking.
Wolverine grunted. “Thank me by survivin’.”
As the boat chugged away from Madripoor, the island shrunk in the distance—the city of nightmares, howling and alive. Elle squeezed Eva’s hand and watched the sky bruise with dusk, remembering the bar, the claws, the glint of hope in the horror.
She knew she would never sleep soundly again. But she would survive.
Sometimes, that was enough.
This story was generated by user live.finezja 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 a girl named Elle who was taken to a bar on the villain island, Madripoor, by her ally Eva. Describe how Elle asked Wolverine for help and shelter in the bar, and he took them to his hideout in Madripoor.
Response: The air in Madripoor was thick, restless—a city gnawing on its own secrets. Each night, like a wound that refused to scab over, it bled neon and smoke. Elle felt its pulse in the soles of her boots, still scorched from running. They slunk along Lowtown’s narrowest backstreets, Eva marching a pace ahead. All the stories Elle had heard about Madripoor were true. She could smell them: something like gun metal, sweet perfume, and rot. “This is the one,” Eva hissed, stopping in front of a flickering sign in the shape of a toothy skull. “The Princess Bar. If anyone in this filthy city will help us, it’s him.” Elle hesitated at the threshold, nausea fluttering inside her chest. She sensed the hungry eyes on her, the breathless hush that followed two strangers entering a predator’s den. Inside, the bar was low-lit and crowded, bodies hunched around tables of scarred wood, their faces hidden in shadow. At the far end, a man hunched over his drink, his wild black hair unmistakable in silhouette. Eva nudged Elle forward. “Go on. Ask him.” Elle forced one foot, then another. The heavy air pressed against her lungs. “Um—excuse me…?” Her voice barely left her throat. The man didn’t look up, but Elle saw his nostrils flare. He took a slow sip from his glass, then spoke with a roughness that cut straight through her crowd-dampened courage. “You two lost, darlin’? Or just plain stupid?” His accent was hard to place, rough like gravel, weary as the city itself. Elle’s hands trembled. She had rehearsed this. She clenched her jaw and pressed on. “My name is Elle. This is Eva. We… we need help. We’re being hunted. Please.” Now he looked up, and she saw familiar amber eyes guttered with old pain and rage. Everything people said about Madripoor was true. Everything people whispered about Wolverine was truer. He studied them, his gaze sharp and animal. “You make a habit outta beggin’ strangers?” Eva’s voice was brittle. “If we didn’t need to, we wouldn’t be here.” The bar filled with a prickle of tension. A man near the door spat on the floor. Behind the bar, a woman started cleaning a glass with exaggerated focus, her eyes tracking the exchange in the grimy mirror. “I know who you are,” Elle said, steeling herself. “You’re supposed to look out for people like us. People in trouble.” He snorted, then tossed back the rest of his whiskey. “Ain’t nobody in the world like me, bub.” Elle tried to keep the fear from her voice. “We’re desperate. There are men after us—bad men. Please.” Wolverine sighed, scraping his barstool back with a metallic shriek. “You got five seconds. Start talkin’.” Elle did her best to condense the story—the secrets her father stole, the price on their heads, the shadows gliding through alleys behind them since their ferry had docked. She spilled it all, aware of every cold and cunning eye in the bar. Wolverine listened, his hands folded as if in prayer. Then he muttered something under his breath and rose to his feet. “We move. Now.” He didn’t wait for them to follow. The city outside was even darker now. Eva clutched Elle’s arm as Wolverine led them through an impossible maze, winding past stalls selling knives and teeth and things Elle didn’t dare look at. The streetlights flickered blood red. The further they walked, the more Elle wondered if this was a rescue or just being shepherded to a new torment. They ducked through a half-collapsed temple, scaling debris and skirting a sleeping pack of feral dogs. Finally, he vanished through a gap in a corrugated metal wall. Elle hesitated. Eva pushed her forward. The inside was surprisingly meticulous: a battered futon, stacks of ancient books, a single bulb dangling overhead. Elle saw weapons laid out on a table, gleaming knives, and guns she’d only seen in nightmares. Wolverine locked the door behind them and loomed over the two girls. “You wanna hide, you do exactly what I say. Nod if you understand.” They nodded. He grunted. “I’ll take first watch. Don’t touch my stuff.” Eva slumped against the wall, gasping, while Elle stood in the wavering circle of lamplight, unable to stop trembling. “Get some rest,” he said, his voice gentler, barely. “Nobody gets through me. Not tonight.” # Elle’s dreams were muddied and dark. She heard footsteps pacing the hideout, Wolverine’s silhouette hunched in the half-light, a predator at rest but never sleeping. And in her dreams, Madripoor kept changing shapes: a city made of blood, then teeth, then shadows wearing men’s faces. She woke to the crackle of thunder and Wolverine’s rough whisper. “Up. Both of you. Trouble.” Out the narrow window, she saw three silhouettes moving in the alley. Eva clutched Elle’s arm so hard her nails cut the skin. Wolverine flipped the table, shoved them behind it. He withdrew something—a set of silver claws that shone even in the gloom. “Don’t make a sound.” The door shuddered as something slammed against it. Elle could hear voices, slurred on local liquor, mixing with inhuman, guttural growls. Footsteps—then Wolverine’s voice, too quiet to overhear. Something crashed through the metal. Gunshots crackled. Elle shrank into Eva, hands pressed over her mouth. She saw a shadow cross the floor; saw, just for an instant, the burning tips of Wolverine’s claws painting the room with sparks as he lunged. A scream—then silence, broken by the gentle sound of rain against tin. A minute later, Wolverine appeared by the table, blood arcing across his bare arms. “Stay quiet. Place ain’t safe no more. We go.” He led them out, steering them deeper into darkness. The city moaned with sirens now, but no one came to help or to ask questions. The horror of Madripoor was that it never stopped; it only pressed in closer, shrinking every circle of safety until you could barely breathe. # For three more nights, Elle moved with Eva and Wolverine through the city’s underbelly. They slept in abandoned apartments and shops shuttered for years, trusting Wolverine’s nose and senses to keep them a step ahead of their pursuers. Every night, Elle dreamed of the blood-slicked laughter that haunted the alleys; every day, she watched Wolverine carve a space between them and horrors—human and otherwise. He never asked why they ran. He never explained why he helped them. Some nights, he sat sharpening his claws and Elle thought she saw, flickering in his eyes, a memory of someone else he’d once tried to save. On the last day, with the sun leaking grey through the smoke, Wolverine brought them to the docks. “Boat’s waiting. Head north. Cross the strait—keep running.” Elle nodded, her gratitude thick in her throat. Eva hugged her fiercely from behind, and for a heartbeat, Elle wished she could stay. There was something in the bleak protection Wolverine offered, something that made her believe monsters could, just sometimes, fight for you. “Thank you,” Elle managed, voice breaking. Wolverine grunted. “Thank me by survivin’.” As the boat chugged away from Madripoor, the island shrunk in the distance—the city of nightmares, howling and alive. Elle squeezed Eva’s hand and watched the sky bruise with dusk, remembering the bar, the claws, the glint of hope in the horror. She knew she would never sleep soundly again. But she would survive. Sometimes, that was enough.
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