"The Unwavering Resolve of X-23"
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The hideout was never truly quiet. Even when darkness fell and the store above locked its doors, Laura Kinney could hear everything—the rhythmic hum of fluorescent tubes, the rattling breath of old pipes, the world pressing in through thin cement walls. The scrape of Gambit’s boots as he padded out of the shower tugged her senses back to the moment. Water dripped from his hair, tracing a dark line along his collarbone to where his towel clung loose and awkward. He tossed himself onto the stuttering old couch beside her, its springs sighing beneath his weight, and reached for his cards—always his cards.
Every muscle in Laura’s body felt poised, tight. She watched him—Remy, her friend, the reckless shadow she had chosen, or perhaps been chosen by. He spoke in the low warning tone he always reserved for the times when plans were running thin and their luck was running out. He wanted her to go. To keep herself safe, because the world would never stop coming for mutants like her, for troubled souls like him. His wounds healed faster when she was around, even if he refused to admit how much he depended on her stubborn endurance, her claws, her devotion.
Laura snorted—an unvarnished dismissal she knew he would understand. Leave? That was never an option. Not for her. Her mind flickered with images: the close calls of the past weeks, blood on linoleum, the angry flash of Remy’s eyes when pain lanced through him and he tried to mask it with jokes. She healed; she always would. Bullets, knives, fire—they couldn’t keep her down, no matter how much damage she took. But him? He was vulnerable, in a way she was not, and that made the decision simple.
He must have known she wouldn’t go, but still he tried. Always protecting, always hiding behind that Cajun smile, as if she hadn’t seen the truth a hundred times already. She didn’t bother to answer, letting her calm demeanor and silence say everything. Remy would understand—he always did, somehow.
At 5 p.m. exactly, the creak of old wood warned her before the door to the basement opened. Mrs. Habib, the shopkeeper, shuffled down the stairs in her sensible shoes and thick cardigan. Her voice reached them: closing for the night, opening again at ten, wish them well. Laura watched with a clinical calm as the woman left, the clatter of the lock clicking above reassuring her that their hiding place would hold for one more night. Mrs. Habib’s kindness stung a little. The old woman suspected they were fugitives, but she minded her own business, offering shelter and warmth to two strangers anyway.
As the echoes of the closing shop faded, Gambit’s shoulders sagged. He asked her—what now? What was her plan? His words hung in the musty air as he fished for his phone, another habit as rooted as his accent. Laura adjusted her position against the wall, reviewing the variables, the routes and risks, her thoughts running fast and sharp. She could run scenarios all night, could calculate threats and exits. But never a scenario in which she left him. Not now, not after everything.
She nodded, the gesture firm as iron. There was refusal in the set of her jaw, the unwavering certainty that he needed her, whether he liked it or not. Let him rest, recover, try again tomorrow. She would keep watch. As his eyes fluttered closed and his breathing slowed, she let her mind roam just beyond the boundaries of the hideout. Whatever tomorrow brought—Sentinels, hunters, the stirring threat behind every corner—it didn’t matter.
She would not retreat. Shadows clung to her shoulders, the steel of her claws a silent promise. Immortal as anyone could be, an anchor against the world’s cruelty, a shield for a friend. In this dusty, hidden place, loyalty was her answer, more eloquent than any words. And as the city’s noises faded, replaced by the gentle pulse of Remy’s slowing heart and the pulse of her own certainty, Laura watched over the room—silent, patient, resolute.
She was X-23. She did not run. Not now, not ever.
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 hideout was never truly quiet. Even when darkness fell and the store above locked its doors, Laura Kinney could hear everything—the rhythmic hum of fluorescent tubes, the rattling breath of old pipes, the world pressing in through thin cement walls. The scrape of Gambit’s boots as he padded out of the shower tugged her senses back to the moment. Water dripped from his hair, tracing a dark line along his collarbone to where his towel clung loose and awkward. He tossed himself onto the stuttering old couch beside her, its springs sighing beneath his weight, and reached for his cards—always his cards. Every muscle in Laura’s body felt poised, tight. She watched him—Remy, her friend, the reckless shadow she had chosen, or perhaps been chosen by. He spoke in the low warning tone he always reserved for the times when plans were running thin and their luck was running out. He wanted her to go. To keep herself safe, because the world would never stop coming for mutants like her, for troubled souls like him. His wounds healed faster when she was around, even if he refused to admit how much he depended on her stubborn endurance, her claws, her devotion. Laura snorted—an unvarnished dismissal she knew he would understand. Leave? That was never an option. Not for her. Her mind flickered with images: the close calls of the past weeks, blood on linoleum, the angry flash of Remy’s eyes when pain lanced through him and he tried to mask it with jokes. She healed; she always would. Bullets, knives, fire—they couldn’t keep her down, no matter how much damage she took. But him? He was vulnerable, in a way she was not, and that made the decision simple. He must have known she wouldn’t go, but still he tried. Always protecting, always hiding behind that Cajun smile, as if she hadn’t seen the truth a hundred times already. She didn’t bother to answer, letting her calm demeanor and silence say everything. Remy would understand—he always did, somehow. At 5 p.m. exactly, the creak of old wood warned her before the door to the basement opened. Mrs. Habib, the shopkeeper, shuffled down the stairs in her sensible shoes and thick cardigan. Her voice reached them: closing for the night, opening again at ten, wish them well. Laura watched with a clinical calm as the woman left, the clatter of the lock clicking above reassuring her that their hiding place would hold for one more night. Mrs. Habib’s kindness stung a little. The old woman suspected they were fugitives, but she minded her own business, offering shelter and warmth to two strangers anyway. As the echoes of the closing shop faded, Gambit’s shoulders sagged. He asked her—what now? What was her plan? His words hung in the musty air as he fished for his phone, another habit as rooted as his accent. Laura adjusted her position against the wall, reviewing the variables, the routes and risks, her thoughts running fast and sharp. She could run scenarios all night, could calculate threats and exits. But never a scenario in which she left him. Not now, not after everything. She nodded, the gesture firm as iron. There was refusal in the set of her jaw, the unwavering certainty that he needed her, whether he liked it or not. Let him rest, recover, try again tomorrow. She would keep watch. As his eyes fluttered closed and his breathing slowed, she let her mind roam just beyond the boundaries of the hideout. Whatever tomorrow brought—Sentinels, hunters, the stirring threat behind every corner—it didn’t matter. She would not retreat. Shadows clung to her shoulders, the steel of her claws a silent promise. Immortal as anyone could be, an anchor against the world’s cruelty, a shield for a friend. In this dusty, hidden place, loyalty was her answer, more eloquent than any words. And as the city’s noises faded, replaced by the gentle pulse of Remy’s slowing heart and the pulse of her own certainty, Laura watched over the room—silent, patient, resolute. She was X-23. She did not run. Not now, not ever.
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