"The Shadowed Hollow: A Tale of Loyalty and Survival"
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The clock on the cracked cement wall blinked its tired red digits: half-past four. In the half-dark, Laura Kinney stretched her arms overhead and flexed her fingers. They tingled, the old anticipation of violence stirring in her blood and nerves. She forced herself to be still, though every muscle urged movement—a residual edge after the running, the hiding, the fighting.
She listened. Pipes rattled above, sending dusty tremors through the thin ceiling of the hideout: a narrow basement behind a pawn shop, its brick walls lined with shelves of old, forgotten stock. Gambit’s boots thudded to the floorboards behind the battered white curtain that marked off the “bathroom.” The faint tang of steam and hotel soap muddied the air.
He crossed the small room and collapsed onto the lumpy couch, still buttoning the cuffs of his black shirt, leaving a trail of heat in the space. She could feel his gaze flicker in her direction—that perennial sense of worry that hovered around his shoulder, puckering the space between his eyebrows. He thought the walls were closing in. He wasn’t wrong. These places, windowless and cluttered, never lasted. Not with the heat on them, not with the way they drew trouble like moths to a flame; not with the list of names after theirs that could be next.
She heard his worry, not in words, but in the way his breath caught and the way he fidgeted, unable to be still. He wanted her to leave, to run—he didn’t say it outright, but she heard it, clear as day. His anxiety prickled at her skin. She snorted quietly, lips curling in almost a sneer, enough that he stopped mid-sentence and leveled that usual half-grin, as if teasing could soften what he was really asking.
He’d forget, sometimes, that she wasn’t delicate. That she could not break, not permanently. Death was a dull ache, something bored into marrow—temporary. She would mend. She always had. He, on the other hand, had bones that broke and healed, not instant, not like hers, and lately, it seemed, more wounds than she remembered. The thought of him torn open again, battered and left for her to fix—her jaw clenched. He was reckless, but she wouldn’t let him be alone with it, not now.
She focused on the scratchy blanket on the armchair she’d claimed. The room was cool, a metallic chill crawling up through the concrete. She pulled her knees to her chest and watched the light fade through the cracks around the basement door. Somewhere upstairs, the sound of keys jangled. The doorknob rattled. Laura’s hand twitched; instinct, muscle memory—her claws stayed retracted, almost reluctantly.
The owner—soft, brown, perpetually hesitant in her stance—descended the stairs as she did every night. Laura recognized the subtle shuffle, the smell of groceries in bags. At five precisely, the woman gave her daily update: closing up, tomorrow morning ten sharp, have a good night, see you then. Polite. Kind. Like none of this chaos ever seeped down to the basement.
Laura watched her leave, the metal door shutting again with a groan, the bolt scraping. Safe, for now. She assessed the room, taking in every shadow, every possible exit, every pile of supplies that could hide a weapon or a trap, old habits refusing to fade. She watched Gambit check his phone—his face shadowed by thoughts he didn’t voice. He glanced up.
A question hung between them, silent, insistent—what would she do? What did she want? She had labeled these moments “worrying time,” when his eyes clouded and his voice went soft. But decisions, for her, rarely felt like decisions at all. She would lose ground before she left him. There was no scenario where she ran, not when he was slowed by wounds, not when his hands were tight around his phone, checking the seams of this hideout for hope and a way out.
He muttered something about sleep. She watched him settle, the tension leaking out of his frame as he stretched out and let himself rest. She fought against the old urge to check his pulse, to assure herself that his breathing was even and strong.
She scrolled through his phone, scanning messages and warnings, schedules and maps—her eyes cataloging every threat, each route out, each coded name standing for an ally or enemy. She didn’t let herself wonder if she belonged to either group.
The night crept in. Her own fatigue gnawed at the edge of her mind, dull but persistent. Sleep was bait, a lure she rarely bit, but tonight she let herself drift, senses half-alert, clawed fingers inches from danger. There was no future where she left him; no fear of exposure could outweigh loyalty earned in blood, in pain, in survival.
She kept her promise, silent and solid. He would rest. She would watch. They would wait for morning and decide their next move together.
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 sitting in a hideout with her friend Gambit. Gambit got out of the shower and sat on the couch. He said they had to think about what to do next, because they couldn't stay in this hideout for long. When he said that she should leave and not expose herself, the mutant just snorted and gave him an angry look. She would never leave him, especially when he was in trouble. She didn't care that she exposed herself. The mutant healed quickly and was practically immortal. His wounds, on the other hand, healed faster, and even if he didn't want them to, he needed her. The mutant listened to him with composure, but didn't answer. She was known for being taciturn. Describe how the owner of the store came to the basement at 5 p.m. and told them that she was closing the store and tomorrow it would be at 10 a.m., and then she wished them good night and left. Gambit asked her if she had thought about what she would do, then said she was going to sleep and to check his cell phone. The mutant nodded and told him firmly not to think she would leave him now and to rest and gather his strength. Describe everything in the form of the mutant's thoughts and emotions, without dialogue.
Response: The clock on the cracked cement wall blinked its tired red digits: half-past four. In the half-dark, Laura Kinney stretched her arms overhead and flexed her fingers. They tingled, the old anticipation of violence stirring in her blood and nerves. She forced herself to be still, though every muscle urged movement—a residual edge after the running, the hiding, the fighting. She listened. Pipes rattled above, sending dusty tremors through the thin ceiling of the hideout: a narrow basement behind a pawn shop, its brick walls lined with shelves of old, forgotten stock. Gambit’s boots thudded to the floorboards behind the battered white curtain that marked off the “bathroom.” The faint tang of steam and hotel soap muddied the air. He crossed the small room and collapsed onto the lumpy couch, still buttoning the cuffs of his black shirt, leaving a trail of heat in the space. She could feel his gaze flicker in her direction—that perennial sense of worry that hovered around his shoulder, puckering the space between his eyebrows. He thought the walls were closing in. He wasn’t wrong. These places, windowless and cluttered, never lasted. Not with the heat on them, not with the way they drew trouble like moths to a flame; not with the list of names after theirs that could be next. She heard his worry, not in words, but in the way his breath caught and the way he fidgeted, unable to be still. He wanted her to leave, to run—he didn’t say it outright, but she heard it, clear as day. His anxiety prickled at her skin. She snorted quietly, lips curling in almost a sneer, enough that he stopped mid-sentence and leveled that usual half-grin, as if teasing could soften what he was really asking. He’d forget, sometimes, that she wasn’t delicate. That she could not break, not permanently. Death was a dull ache, something bored into marrow—temporary. She would mend. She always had. He, on the other hand, had bones that broke and healed, not instant, not like hers, and lately, it seemed, more wounds than she remembered. The thought of him torn open again, battered and left for her to fix—her jaw clenched. He was reckless, but she wouldn’t let him be alone with it, not now. She focused on the scratchy blanket on the armchair she’d claimed. The room was cool, a metallic chill crawling up through the concrete. She pulled her knees to her chest and watched the light fade through the cracks around the basement door. Somewhere upstairs, the sound of keys jangled. The doorknob rattled. Laura’s hand twitched; instinct, muscle memory—her claws stayed retracted, almost reluctantly. The owner—soft, brown, perpetually hesitant in her stance—descended the stairs as she did every night. Laura recognized the subtle shuffle, the smell of groceries in bags. At five precisely, the woman gave her daily update: closing up, tomorrow morning ten sharp, have a good night, see you then. Polite. Kind. Like none of this chaos ever seeped down to the basement. Laura watched her leave, the metal door shutting again with a groan, the bolt scraping. Safe, for now. She assessed the room, taking in every shadow, every possible exit, every pile of supplies that could hide a weapon or a trap, old habits refusing to fade. She watched Gambit check his phone—his face shadowed by thoughts he didn’t voice. He glanced up. A question hung between them, silent, insistent—what would she do? What did she want? She had labeled these moments “worrying time,” when his eyes clouded and his voice went soft. But decisions, for her, rarely felt like decisions at all. She would lose ground before she left him. There was no scenario where she ran, not when he was slowed by wounds, not when his hands were tight around his phone, checking the seams of this hideout for hope and a way out. He muttered something about sleep. She watched him settle, the tension leaking out of his frame as he stretched out and let himself rest. She fought against the old urge to check his pulse, to assure herself that his breathing was even and strong. She scrolled through his phone, scanning messages and warnings, schedules and maps—her eyes cataloging every threat, each route out, each coded name standing for an ally or enemy. She didn’t let herself wonder if she belonged to either group. The night crept in. Her own fatigue gnawed at the edge of her mind, dull but persistent. Sleep was bait, a lure she rarely bit, but tonight she let herself drift, senses half-alert, clawed fingers inches from danger. There was no future where she left him; no fear of exposure could outweigh loyalty earned in blood, in pain, in survival. She kept her promise, silent and solid. He would rest. She would watch. They would wait for morning and decide their next move together.
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