Title: Echoes of Shadows
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The familiar chime above the door of the herbal shop echoed with a note of suspicion, but she pushed through, steeling herself. Gambit limped behind her, blood still drying at the corner of his jaw, eyes burning with battered pride and old bruises. The shop's scent, all bitter roots and mossy dried petals, was sharp on the tongue, settling like something half-remembered just at the edges of her mind.
She felt the owner’s gaze crawl over her, hard as brick, sharper when it took in Gambit’s battered presence. The proprietor’s mouth set in a thin, pale line—a silent reprimand. Women came alone here, brought secrets, never men. She kept her claws sheathed and her lies straight, pressing them into the air like bandages: He’s my brother. He's injured, and we need a place to rest.
Displeasure still edged the shop owner’s steps, but she led them through racks of jars filled with brown roots and shredded leaves, down creaking stairs to the sanctuary hidden beneath the earth. The air thickened as they descended—less sweet, more honest. Here, the smell of earth blunted everything.
Gambit eased down onto the battered couch with a careless sprawl, wincing only slightly. His movements were slow, calculated to mask the true depth of his pain. She let him root through her backpack—searching for the phone, she imagined, for messages, for a connection to that other life that had tried to swallow him whole. He was always seeking lines of escape, always looking for a window, even buried under city blocks of stone and herb and silence. When he caught her gaze, the question in his eyes was plaintive: had she checked his emails, his calls, the thin strand of hope that someone in his tangled net might have noticed his absence? She shook her head. The device was silent, no rescue party thundered at the door, no coded message in cyberspace.
She settled on the narrow bed, knees pulled to her chest, trying to anchor herself in the roughness of the shabby quilt, the familiar burn in the pit of her belly. Gambit’s voice drifted, a mumble half-swallowed by the heavy silence, something about dangerous women and decisions he’d regret. She let it pass. Regrets were blood running slick down empty alleys in the night. Regrets were bullets rattling cages. He was alive, and the scent of his bruised skin registered as relief more than anything else.
A faint nod, her small admission of his shaky praise for her tactics—for this subterranean safety. She had always been good at finding cracks to hide in, burrows in the city rot. Survival was her truest talent, not what they had cut into her bones.
The Styrofoam containers waited on the battered table, sweat gathering on their lids. Food. The hunger hit her fast and sharp, curling her insides tighter than the bandages across her own wounds. Gambit tucked into his meal, wolfish, but even his speed couldn’t match her. She ate like she was afraid the food might vanish—or she might. She kept her eyes on the box until every last grain of greasy rice and shredded chicken was gone. Not a drop wasted. Survival in every bite.
He vanished to the shower, the sound of water rattling pipes into the hollow dark. For a moment, she let herself relax, her muscles unwinding like bandages slowly uncoiling after a battle. The room seemed quieter with just her breath and the distant drumming of city feet on the floor above. She stood, moving toward the closet, the wooden doors grumbling as she pulled them open.
Inside, the ancient stack of newspapers loomed. Obsolete world sketched in faded ink and dead headlines. She reached for them, hands still shaking, needing the distraction, the routine. The stories in these yellowed sheets might reveal patterns—missing persons, shifting alliances, the pulse of the world above while she and Gambit crouched here in the dark. Stories were always there, in words or wounds.
She read while the water thundered and the herbal shop shuddered around her, alert for danger in print or plumbing. Every headline a potential threat. Every word a map of the world she wasn’t supposed to belong to. She listened for the stop of the shower, for the return of Gambit’s shuffling footsteps, but for now, she let the silence wrap her—an old, thin coat hardly keeping out the cold. Her world was always this: half-hidden, half-starved, waiting for what would come next.
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 the mutant X-23, who brought her friend Gambit to a hideout in a herbal medicine shop. The mutant freed him from his kidnappers and had to ensure their safety. When the shop owner saw that the mutant had come with a man, she was not pleased. But the mutant lied that Gambit was her brother and needed rest because he was injured. The shop owner agreed and led them to a hideout in the basement under the shop. When they entered the basement, Gambit sat on a couch and looked through the things in her backpack. When he asked if she had checked his emails and if anyone had called, the mutant shook her head and sat on the bed. She listened as Gambit mumbled something under his breath that he would no longer take orders from dangerous women. After a moment, he praised her for finding them a hideout, to which the mutant shrugged. She watched as Gambit reached for the Styrofoam boxes of food that the shop owner had left for them. The mutant immediately felt hungry when Gambit opened the box and began to eat. She nodded slightly and reached for the second box and began to eat. She was so hungry that she ate the entire contents faster than he did. When the man went to take a shower, the mutant for reached a stack of newspapers from the closet. Describe everything in the form of a mutant's thoughts without dialogue
Response: The familiar chime above the door of the herbal shop echoed with a note of suspicion, but she pushed through, steeling herself. Gambit limped behind her, blood still drying at the corner of his jaw, eyes burning with battered pride and old bruises. The shop's scent, all bitter roots and mossy dried petals, was sharp on the tongue, settling like something half-remembered just at the edges of her mind. She felt the owner’s gaze crawl over her, hard as brick, sharper when it took in Gambit’s battered presence. The proprietor’s mouth set in a thin, pale line—a silent reprimand. Women came alone here, brought secrets, never men. She kept her claws sheathed and her lies straight, pressing them into the air like bandages: He’s my brother. He's injured, and we need a place to rest. Displeasure still edged the shop owner’s steps, but she led them through racks of jars filled with brown roots and shredded leaves, down creaking stairs to the sanctuary hidden beneath the earth. The air thickened as they descended—less sweet, more honest. Here, the smell of earth blunted everything. Gambit eased down onto the battered couch with a careless sprawl, wincing only slightly. His movements were slow, calculated to mask the true depth of his pain. She let him root through her backpack—searching for the phone, she imagined, for messages, for a connection to that other life that had tried to swallow him whole. He was always seeking lines of escape, always looking for a window, even buried under city blocks of stone and herb and silence. When he caught her gaze, the question in his eyes was plaintive: had she checked his emails, his calls, the thin strand of hope that someone in his tangled net might have noticed his absence? She shook her head. The device was silent, no rescue party thundered at the door, no coded message in cyberspace. She settled on the narrow bed, knees pulled to her chest, trying to anchor herself in the roughness of the shabby quilt, the familiar burn in the pit of her belly. Gambit’s voice drifted, a mumble half-swallowed by the heavy silence, something about dangerous women and decisions he’d regret. She let it pass. Regrets were blood running slick down empty alleys in the night. Regrets were bullets rattling cages. He was alive, and the scent of his bruised skin registered as relief more than anything else. A faint nod, her small admission of his shaky praise for her tactics—for this subterranean safety. She had always been good at finding cracks to hide in, burrows in the city rot. Survival was her truest talent, not what they had cut into her bones. The Styrofoam containers waited on the battered table, sweat gathering on their lids. Food. The hunger hit her fast and sharp, curling her insides tighter than the bandages across her own wounds. Gambit tucked into his meal, wolfish, but even his speed couldn’t match her. She ate like she was afraid the food might vanish—or she might. She kept her eyes on the box until every last grain of greasy rice and shredded chicken was gone. Not a drop wasted. Survival in every bite. He vanished to the shower, the sound of water rattling pipes into the hollow dark. For a moment, she let herself relax, her muscles unwinding like bandages slowly uncoiling after a battle. The room seemed quieter with just her breath and the distant drumming of city feet on the floor above. She stood, moving toward the closet, the wooden doors grumbling as she pulled them open. Inside, the ancient stack of newspapers loomed. Obsolete world sketched in faded ink and dead headlines. She reached for them, hands still shaking, needing the distraction, the routine. The stories in these yellowed sheets might reveal patterns—missing persons, shifting alliances, the pulse of the world above while she and Gambit crouched here in the dark. Stories were always there, in words or wounds. She read while the water thundered and the herbal shop shuddered around her, alert for danger in print or plumbing. Every headline a potential threat. Every word a map of the world she wasn’t supposed to belong to. She listened for the stop of the shower, for the return of Gambit’s shuffling footsteps, but for now, she let the silence wrap her—an old, thin coat hardly keeping out the cold. Her world was always this: half-hidden, half-starved, waiting for what would come next.
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