Title: Shadows of Betrayal
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Rain hissed from the awning above, making silver rivers thread the glassy black streets. The white van, boxy and unremarkable, rested under a jaundiced cone of light. On the rooftop, Laura Kinney lay flat against the gravel, chin on the back of her gloved hand, eyes narrowed beneath the edge of her hood. If ordinary people listened hard enough, they might have picked up the rumble of the city. But Laura was no ordinary person. From two stories up, she listened to the tremor of voices inside the van, caught the rotary whirr as the heat kicked on, and smelled the tang of gun oil. Three, maybe four men. Cigarettes and cheap aftershave.
She flexed the claws inside her fists, the urge to stalk and strike tight in her muscles. But no. She’d made promises, and she remembered every one of them as sharp as the deaths she’d delivered. Not tonight. No unnecessary blood tonight.
Still—the thought of Gambit, sprawled unconscious in a borrowed cot in the basement, made her jaw tighten. The men in the van could be after anyone. Maybe they waited for some fool with a briefcase, maybe they’d spotted her and Gambit duck into the old building, or maybe—the explanation Laura liked least—they were the ones who’d hunted Remy through East Harlem all week, hired muscle from someone he’d crossed in New Orleans or elsewhere.
She rose into a crouch, every sense stretched tight like cello wire. The van’s side doors never opened, and the men murmured low, edgy. Laura’s decision snapped: the safest route was to move, fast and unseen, while the hunters watched the front of the building and waited for their prey to walk into their jaws. She slid backward, silent, and dropped from the roof’s edge.
The rain made the landing slick, but her boots found purchase on the gutter pipe. Hand over hand, she swung herself down, boots kissing the brick. The men in the van might have night scopes, but from the angle and under the shadow, the basement window was invisible. Laura eased off her glove, cut the lock with a tip of a claw, and slipped through.
Inside, the rot of old water and concrete filled her nose, but she didn’t cough. Gambit’s heart beat slow and steady in the darkness—he was almost a dead man to most, were he not so skilled at escaping. She crept across the broken tiles, nudged his ankle with her foot.
He blinked awake, groggy but automatic, hand going for the deck of cards under his head.
“Ssssh,” Laura whispered. “We have to move.”
Remy LeBeau sat up, eyes red in the shadows but brain catching up fast. “How many?”
She twisted her fingers: four. Maybe three.
“Front’s watched,” he guessed.
In answer, Laura crossed to the window, squinting up at the haloed van. Even if the men expected a run, they’d watch the doors. The twisting warren of alleys and collapsed storefronts behind them, though—that would have to be their escape route.
A sudden scrape in the street—someone got out. She stilled, counting heartbeats. Two men, muffled by the rain, pattered toward the corner. They’d positioned themselves to cut off the street’s back alley.
“They’re spreading out,” Laura murmured. “If they’re after you, they won’t let you get far.”
Gambit reached for his jacket. “We split? Draw them off?”
She shook her head. “No. We stay low. Come.”
She led him through a narrow crawlway. She scented the air ahead—no one had been here in weeks. Laura and Remy moved in silence, shadow to shadow, dodging pillars and piles of crumbling brick. The memory of Gambit’s limp—the shrapnel wound he’d let fester too long—nagged at her.
Halfway through the corridor, a flashlight’s beam split the darkness beyond the window at their backs. Voices—French, gutter Cajun, but rougher.
“Was dat him? In th’ alley?”
“Didn’t see—can’t see a damn thing in this rain, man.”
She flicked her wrist, indicating for Gambit to freeze. One of the men was circling toward the side door, the other doubled back to the van. They were trying to flush them into the open.
Laura heard Gambit’s heart race, but he didn’t move. He trusted her. Despite how often his jobs had ended in betrayal, tonight he believed.
She scraped her claws lightly down the wall—a signal. Then, quietly, she whispered, “On three, when the next thunder comes.”
Seconds ticked. Then the sky ripped open and thunder rolled down from the clouds, drowning out sound. Laura sprang through the window, tumbling through glass and into the alley. Gambit threw himself after her. The shouts came then, but too late—a blast of gunfire, cracks in the dark. Bricks chipped. Remy’s cards flared, a red burning arc—and Laura yanked him down a side-path, through puddles, vaulting over trash, senses locked on the smell of city damp and burning gunpowder.
Behind them, footsteps thudded and curses echoed. The white van’s engine roared as the driver realized he’d been tricked, headlights veering to catch fleeing shadows. But Laura was already threading the labyrinth of side streets. The two of them ducked through a broken fence, then past a ruined church, then slipped between dumpsters behind a dishwater-lit diner. She stopped, pulling Remy behind her, pressing his back to the brick, both of their breath ragged.
“You did good, mon ami,” Remy whispered.
She flicked her hair back, rain streaking tracks down her face. “You’re lucky I was with you. Stay quiet.” A wary look, then a softened glance at his limp. “Come on. We’re not out yet.”
Laura led him through back alleys three blocks north. When the sirens finally screamed past—police closing in on a report of shots fired—the streets behind them teemed with confusion. The van drove away. Just two ghosts left behind, and the people inside would remember only the sense that something dangerous, something with claws, had slipped through their net.
At dawn, Laura and Gambit sat atop another roof, steam rising off their clothes in the sunrise. He lit a cigarette, passing her the pack; she shook her head. After a long moment, he said quietly, “You could have killed them.”
She exhaled, watching the city wake. “Yes. But I didn’t.”
Gambit nodded, a small smile lifting the edge of his lips. “You got the heart, girl. More’n you think.”
She didn’t answer. The day was new, but the world was full of shadows. Maybe she hadn’t added to their weight this time.
Some mysteries didn’t need violence to solve—just patience, sharp eyes in the dark, and an iron control over the monster inside. And, she thought, a friend who could trust you when everything else went to hell.
This story was generated by user dizzy.bizzy93 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 on the roof, watching a white van parked under a streetlight. With her heightened senses, she could tell that there were three or four men in the van. She wasn't sure if they were the bandits who were chasing her friend Gambit, who was currently sleeping in the basement of the building. Despite that, she wanted to attack them and deal with them. But she didn't want to risk killing innocent people. She had enough blood on her hands as it was. She jumped off the roof and slipped through the basement window. Laura knew that the bandits didn't have a good view of the basement window from the van, so she and Gambit could get out and disappear into the twisting streets
Response: Rain hissed from the awning above, making silver rivers thread the glassy black streets. The white van, boxy and unremarkable, rested under a jaundiced cone of light. On the rooftop, Laura Kinney lay flat against the gravel, chin on the back of her gloved hand, eyes narrowed beneath the edge of her hood. If ordinary people listened hard enough, they might have picked up the rumble of the city. But Laura was no ordinary person. From two stories up, she listened to the tremor of voices inside the van, caught the rotary whirr as the heat kicked on, and smelled the tang of gun oil. Three, maybe four men. Cigarettes and cheap aftershave. She flexed the claws inside her fists, the urge to stalk and strike tight in her muscles. But no. She’d made promises, and she remembered every one of them as sharp as the deaths she’d delivered. Not tonight. No unnecessary blood tonight. Still—the thought of Gambit, sprawled unconscious in a borrowed cot in the basement, made her jaw tighten. The men in the van could be after anyone. Maybe they waited for some fool with a briefcase, maybe they’d spotted her and Gambit duck into the old building, or maybe—the explanation Laura liked least—they were the ones who’d hunted Remy through East Harlem all week, hired muscle from someone he’d crossed in New Orleans or elsewhere. She rose into a crouch, every sense stretched tight like cello wire. The van’s side doors never opened, and the men murmured low, edgy. Laura’s decision snapped: the safest route was to move, fast and unseen, while the hunters watched the front of the building and waited for their prey to walk into their jaws. She slid backward, silent, and dropped from the roof’s edge. The rain made the landing slick, but her boots found purchase on the gutter pipe. Hand over hand, she swung herself down, boots kissing the brick. The men in the van might have night scopes, but from the angle and under the shadow, the basement window was invisible. Laura eased off her glove, cut the lock with a tip of a claw, and slipped through. Inside, the rot of old water and concrete filled her nose, but she didn’t cough. Gambit’s heart beat slow and steady in the darkness—he was almost a dead man to most, were he not so skilled at escaping. She crept across the broken tiles, nudged his ankle with her foot. He blinked awake, groggy but automatic, hand going for the deck of cards under his head. “Ssssh,” Laura whispered. “We have to move.” Remy LeBeau sat up, eyes red in the shadows but brain catching up fast. “How many?” She twisted her fingers: four. Maybe three. “Front’s watched,” he guessed. In answer, Laura crossed to the window, squinting up at the haloed van. Even if the men expected a run, they’d watch the doors. The twisting warren of alleys and collapsed storefronts behind them, though—that would have to be their escape route. A sudden scrape in the street—someone got out. She stilled, counting heartbeats. Two men, muffled by the rain, pattered toward the corner. They’d positioned themselves to cut off the street’s back alley. “They’re spreading out,” Laura murmured. “If they’re after you, they won’t let you get far.” Gambit reached for his jacket. “We split? Draw them off?” She shook her head. “No. We stay low. Come.” She led him through a narrow crawlway. She scented the air ahead—no one had been here in weeks. Laura and Remy moved in silence, shadow to shadow, dodging pillars and piles of crumbling brick. The memory of Gambit’s limp—the shrapnel wound he’d let fester too long—nagged at her. Halfway through the corridor, a flashlight’s beam split the darkness beyond the window at their backs. Voices—French, gutter Cajun, but rougher. “Was dat him? In th’ alley?” “Didn’t see—can’t see a damn thing in this rain, man.” She flicked her wrist, indicating for Gambit to freeze. One of the men was circling toward the side door, the other doubled back to the van. They were trying to flush them into the open. Laura heard Gambit’s heart race, but he didn’t move. He trusted her. Despite how often his jobs had ended in betrayal, tonight he believed. She scraped her claws lightly down the wall—a signal. Then, quietly, she whispered, “On three, when the next thunder comes.” Seconds ticked. Then the sky ripped open and thunder rolled down from the clouds, drowning out sound. Laura sprang through the window, tumbling through glass and into the alley. Gambit threw himself after her. The shouts came then, but too late—a blast of gunfire, cracks in the dark. Bricks chipped. Remy’s cards flared, a red burning arc—and Laura yanked him down a side-path, through puddles, vaulting over trash, senses locked on the smell of city damp and burning gunpowder. Behind them, footsteps thudded and curses echoed. The white van’s engine roared as the driver realized he’d been tricked, headlights veering to catch fleeing shadows. But Laura was already threading the labyrinth of side streets. The two of them ducked through a broken fence, then past a ruined church, then slipped between dumpsters behind a dishwater-lit diner. She stopped, pulling Remy behind her, pressing his back to the brick, both of their breath ragged. “You did good, mon ami,” Remy whispered. She flicked her hair back, rain streaking tracks down her face. “You’re lucky I was with you. Stay quiet.” A wary look, then a softened glance at his limp. “Come on. We’re not out yet.” Laura led him through back alleys three blocks north. When the sirens finally screamed past—police closing in on a report of shots fired—the streets behind them teemed with confusion. The van drove away. Just two ghosts left behind, and the people inside would remember only the sense that something dangerous, something with claws, had slipped through their net. At dawn, Laura and Gambit sat atop another roof, steam rising off their clothes in the sunrise. He lit a cigarette, passing her the pack; she shook her head. After a long moment, he said quietly, “You could have killed them.” She exhaled, watching the city wake. “Yes. But I didn’t.” Gambit nodded, a small smile lifting the edge of his lips. “You got the heart, girl. More’n you think.” She didn’t answer. The day was new, but the world was full of shadows. Maybe she hadn’t added to their weight this time. Some mysteries didn’t need violence to solve—just patience, sharp eyes in the dark, and an iron control over the monster inside. And, she thought, a friend who could trust you when everything else went to hell.
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