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Title: Claws of Thunder

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An intense thriller scene unfolds in a dimly lit bar, where mutant Laura Kinney, aka X-23, faces a dangerous showdown alongside her father, Wolverine, and ally Carla Dominguez. Claws and gunfire clash as they stand united against a looming threat in the rain-soaked night.
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The rain had stopped, but the world still felt wet. The neon signs outside the Midnight Anchor bar bled across the windows, painting Laura Kinney’s face with rippling streaks of red and blue. She’d chosen the booth in the farthest corner for two reasons: the wall on her left and the view of the door. Her claws wanted to twitch, always a little restless; tonight, she told them to behave.

Across from her, Agent Carla Dominguez—her latest ally, courtesy of an uneasy alliance with S.H.I.E.L.D.—kept glancing at the shadowy bar counter, where lone men hunched over bad whiskey and the barkeep pretended not to know everybody’s secrets. Laura sipped her cola through a straw, watching the way Carla’s hands hovered over the gun holstered at her hip, fingers anxious.

Laura’s senses had been on edge since they crossed into this slice of the city. The mission was supposed to be simple: track rumors of a mutant trafficking ring, extract information, don’t make too much noise. But nothing was simple for a mutant like X-23, especially not when Laura’s nose caught a scent so familiar it pulled her back through years of agony and longing: the feral, wild tang of adamantium, diesel, and Canadian pine.

Her father.

Logan.

Wolverine.

He was here.

She’d felt his presence before she saw him—scraping a stool back, his silhouette as broad-shouldered as she remembered, inconspicuous only in a place where everyone had something to hide. He wore an old brown leather jacket that looked as battered as the memories left between them. No mistaking the lines on his face, or the way his amber gaze flicked through the crowd, searching for threats.

Carla’s comm hissed, a brief static pop, and she whispered, “He’s here, all right. You sure you want to hang back?”

Laura nodded. “He doesn’t know we’re working together. He wouldn’t talk to me. He doesn’t… owe me anything.”

She meant it to sound strong, but somehow it sounded sad. Carla pressed her hand against Laura’s arm. “You want me to get info from him, or are you worried?”

Laura risked a glance over the lip of her glass. “He can handle himself.”

But the pit in her stomach twisted harder, and her senses screamed with the warning that something wasn’t right—too many thudding heartbeats, a knot of tension in the air. She knew, from hard experience, that things went sideways at bars like this, especially when mutants and secrets mixed.

Carla slid from their booth, gliding across the bar with the confidence of a woman who’d spent her whole life bluffing her way through bad situations. Laura closed her eyes, breathed deep, and let her father’s scent and the pulse of danger focus her.

Five seconds later, shouting burst across the bar. Carla was standing toe-to-toe with Logan, her hand at her hip, his face twisted in a silent snarl. The tension was about to snap.

And then, underneath everything, the scent. Metal oil. Gunpowder.

Danger.

Too late, she realized she’d missed the cues—a dozen men at the bar were shifting, sliding guns from under tables and behind belts. Through the glass, Laura saw the black vans screech to a stop across the street, shadowy figures slipping out, rifles glinting.

Gunshots rang out, sharp as a whipcrack.

Bar patrons screamed, drinks crashed to the floor. Logan shoved Carla behind him—always the damn hero—and his claws SNIKT’d out, adamantium slicing the air. A spray of bullets chewed through the bar’s front, splintered chairs, shattered neon light.

Laura’s own claws unsheathed—no decision needed, nothing but instinct. With a leap she was moving, vaulting the table in a heartbeat.

Her eyes met Logan’s. She saw recognition flicker there, shock and sorrow mingling. But there was no time to speak, only survive.

Carla grabbed for her gun, returning fire through the haze of screams and shattered glass. “Take him—back exit!” Laura snapped.

Logan covered Carla’s retreat, slashing through the first mercenary to breach the door, his face set in the snarl Laura remembered from childhood nightmares. She followed, flanking them, her body moving like a shadow, the mutant weapon she was born to be.

Outside, rain spit from the sky again, mixing with sirens and shotgun blasts echoing off alleys. The mercenaries fanned out, searching for mutants, weapons humming with tech designed to stun, not kill. Laura picked off two with silent, slicing precision.

Logan grabbed Carla, pushing her ahead. “Don’t slow down, Agent!” he growled, eyeing Laura with wary pride. “You always pick bars like this, kid?”

“Only when I feel like seeing ghosts,” she shot back.

They ducked behind a dumpster. Laura’s shoulder screamed as a bullet grazed her, hot blood pumping, but already healing. Logan pressed his back to her. His voice was rough, low. “You came looking for me?”

“No. I came for answers.” She turned, catching his eyes—those golden, haunted eyes. “Now isn’t the time.”

He grunted. “Story of our lives.”

Carla checked her magazine, cursing under her breath. “More incoming from both ends!”

Lauren gritted her teeth. “We stand together. He’s with us.”

Logan met her gaze—a silent question, a shared pain, years of unfinished words. Then, wordless, they sprang to action as one.

Because the night wasn’t over, the bullets weren’t done flying, and the world would keep hurting people like them until someone fought back.

No one, Laura realized, not even the men in black vans, would ever come between family—no matter how battered, how broken, how unwanted it felt.

As mutant and father, blood and claw, they faced the oncoming storm together. And with Carla at their side, maybe, just maybe, none of them had to fight alone anymore.

This story was generated by user jess.jessie0 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 how mutant X-23 found herself with an ally in a bar and smelled the familiar scent of a man who was her father, but she stayed behind while her ally talked to him. Her ally wanted to talk to him in a quiet place when suddenly the mutant sensed danger in the air and heard gunshots.

Response: The rain had stopped, but the world still felt wet. The neon signs outside the Midnight Anchor bar bled across the windows, painting Laura Kinney’s face with rippling streaks of red and blue. She’d chosen the booth in the farthest corner for two reasons: the wall on her left and the view of the door. Her claws wanted to twitch, always a little restless; tonight, she told them to behave. Across from her, Agent Carla Dominguez—her latest ally, courtesy of an uneasy alliance with S.H.I.E.L.D.—kept glancing at the shadowy bar counter, where lone men hunched over bad whiskey and the barkeep pretended not to know everybody’s secrets. Laura sipped her cola through a straw, watching the way Carla’s hands hovered over the gun holstered at her hip, fingers anxious. Laura’s senses had been on edge since they crossed into this slice of the city. The mission was supposed to be simple: track rumors of a mutant trafficking ring, extract information, don’t make too much noise. But nothing was simple for a mutant like X-23, especially not when Laura’s nose caught a scent so familiar it pulled her back through years of agony and longing: the feral, wild tang of adamantium, diesel, and Canadian pine. Her father. Logan. Wolverine. He was here. She’d felt his presence before she saw him—scraping a stool back, his silhouette as broad-shouldered as she remembered, inconspicuous only in a place where everyone had something to hide. He wore an old brown leather jacket that looked as battered as the memories left between them. No mistaking the lines on his face, or the way his amber gaze flicked through the crowd, searching for threats. Carla’s comm hissed, a brief static pop, and she whispered, “He’s here, all right. You sure you want to hang back?” Laura nodded. “He doesn’t know we’re working together. He wouldn’t talk to me. He doesn’t… owe me anything.” She meant it to sound strong, but somehow it sounded sad. Carla pressed her hand against Laura’s arm. “You want me to get info from him, or are you worried?” Laura risked a glance over the lip of her glass. “He can handle himself.” But the pit in her stomach twisted harder, and her senses screamed with the warning that something wasn’t right—too many thudding heartbeats, a knot of tension in the air. She knew, from hard experience, that things went sideways at bars like this, especially when mutants and secrets mixed. Carla slid from their booth, gliding across the bar with the confidence of a woman who’d spent her whole life bluffing her way through bad situations. Laura closed her eyes, breathed deep, and let her father’s scent and the pulse of danger focus her. Five seconds later, shouting burst across the bar. Carla was standing toe-to-toe with Logan, her hand at her hip, his face twisted in a silent snarl. The tension was about to snap. And then, underneath everything, the scent. Metal oil. Gunpowder. Danger. Too late, she realized she’d missed the cues—a dozen men at the bar were shifting, sliding guns from under tables and behind belts. Through the glass, Laura saw the black vans screech to a stop across the street, shadowy figures slipping out, rifles glinting. Gunshots rang out, sharp as a whipcrack. Bar patrons screamed, drinks crashed to the floor. Logan shoved Carla behind him—always the damn hero—and his claws SNIKT’d out, adamantium slicing the air. A spray of bullets chewed through the bar’s front, splintered chairs, shattered neon light. Laura’s own claws unsheathed—no decision needed, nothing but instinct. With a leap she was moving, vaulting the table in a heartbeat. Her eyes met Logan’s. She saw recognition flicker there, shock and sorrow mingling. But there was no time to speak, only survive. Carla grabbed for her gun, returning fire through the haze of screams and shattered glass. “Take him—back exit!” Laura snapped. Logan covered Carla’s retreat, slashing through the first mercenary to breach the door, his face set in the snarl Laura remembered from childhood nightmares. She followed, flanking them, her body moving like a shadow, the mutant weapon she was born to be. Outside, rain spit from the sky again, mixing with sirens and shotgun blasts echoing off alleys. The mercenaries fanned out, searching for mutants, weapons humming with tech designed to stun, not kill. Laura picked off two with silent, slicing precision. Logan grabbed Carla, pushing her ahead. “Don’t slow down, Agent!” he growled, eyeing Laura with wary pride. “You always pick bars like this, kid?” “Only when I feel like seeing ghosts,” she shot back. They ducked behind a dumpster. Laura’s shoulder screamed as a bullet grazed her, hot blood pumping, but already healing. Logan pressed his back to her. His voice was rough, low. “You came looking for me?” “No. I came for answers.” She turned, catching his eyes—those golden, haunted eyes. “Now isn’t the time.” He grunted. “Story of our lives.” Carla checked her magazine, cursing under her breath. “More incoming from both ends!” Lauren gritted her teeth. “We stand together. He’s with us.” Logan met her gaze—a silent question, a shared pain, years of unfinished words. Then, wordless, they sprang to action as one. Because the night wasn’t over, the bullets weren’t done flying, and the world would keep hurting people like them until someone fought back. No one, Laura realized, not even the men in black vans, would ever come between family—no matter how battered, how broken, how unwanted it felt. As mutant and father, blood and claw, they faced the oncoming storm together. And with Carla at their side, maybe, just maybe, none of them had to fight alone anymore.

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