Title: "Shadows of Brotherhood"
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Gambit’s footsteps echoed along the tiled floor, the soft slap of bare feet against concrete familiar and oddly comforting. Laura Kinney—X-23—sat cross-legged on the ratty old couch, chin pressed into a fist, tracing invisible lines along her palm with a thumb. The hideout was cold, its metallic scent an unwelcome reminder of the laboratories she’d grown up in. Sprawled across the sagging cushions, she watched the steam swirl and vanish behind Gambit as he emerged from the bathroom, hair tangled, t-shirt clinging to damp skin, shadow falling across the dim room.
He moved with practiced ease, lazy and deliberate all at once, but she didn’t miss the tension pinched between his shoulders. Always with the easy grin and the playful eyes, but even she could read the fatigue in his movements. She inhaled the slow churn of detergent and gun oil, the ozone tang from his cards, and the faint copper bite of dried blood. Her attention sharpened. He’d cleaned the wounds, but healing had only just begun—a patchwork of angry red across ribs, bruises like oil slicks. Bruises wore off her like forgettable dreams; on him, they lasted.
He dropped onto the opposite end of the couch, a sigh rustling from his chest. She felt it more than heard it, a ripple in the stillness. He talked with his hands and with his eyes, and now, with barely concealed urgency, he gestured to the clock nailed above the doorway, to the heavy dusk pressing in through streaked windows, to the battered duffel by the door, always packed.
His meaning was plain. We need to move. Hideouts weren’t safe for long. She knew the pattern: always on the run, always glancing over shoulders, never staying still long enough to plant roots. That was how she lived when she was alone. But Gambit’s voice, low and careful, hinted something else this time: Go. Go without me. You can’t risk being exposed.
The suggestion tasted bitter on her tongue. Why would he ask that? Did he think she was insufficiently careful, or did he still see her as a child—Weapon, clone, experiment, but also fragile, breakable? She curled her fingers tighter, claws pressing against bone beneath skin in unconscious threat.
He was worried for her. She could have laughed, if she was the type. She’d outlived worse than this—bullet wounds and broken bones, icy men with black gloves and cold words. Exposure was nothing new. She was built for survival, for pain, for escape. Healing was her birthright. She could walk through fire and walk out whole.
It was him she worried for. Gambit wasn’t unbreakable, not really. Not like her. The Brotherhood’s trap had almost killed him—a millimeter away from the edge, if she hadn’t pulled him out. She could still see him there, bleeding out, face gone gray and lips purple, his hands weak and shaking. Now he masked it with swagger, but she saw beyond it. He needed her, whether his pride let him admit it or not.
Let her leave? No. She’d never leave him behind. Not while he was in danger, not while there was a risk of his enemies finding him asleep, his guard down. Let the hunters come. She would deal with them. It was what she was made for.
Gambit spoke again, a gentle insistence, but Laura only snorted, sharp and derisive, letting her eyes narrow into a glower. She held his gaze until he looked away, rubbing at a fading cut on his jaw with a thumb. Frustration prickled at her, rising hot and reflexive. Care was weakness, they used to tell her, but what good was strength if you didn’t shield those you cared about?
She allowed her anger to pulse and fade, replaced by a focused calm. She gazed at his profile, tracing the way the stubble shadowed his jaw, the way his expression shifted when he thought no one was watching. She catalogued his hurts, his aches, his need for sleep. He wasn’t powerless. But he was, right now, not whole—not safe.
She would not abandon him. Her silence said it all. Words were too slow, too clumsy for things like this. She preferred clarity, purpose, action. There were those who would kill Gambit for half the bounty posted on his head. Let them come. She was ready.
All the same, she slid a bag closer to her feet, watching the window, every muscle tensed for the possibility of movement, of threat. She didn’t argue. She would stay awake while he slept. Protect him while he healed. Move at the first sign of danger. That was enough.
Outside, the city grew loud and restless. Inside, her thoughts coiled tight as a spring: I do not leave. Especially not you.
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 everything in the form of the mutant's thoughts and emotions, without dialogue.
Response: Gambit’s footsteps echoed along the tiled floor, the soft slap of bare feet against concrete familiar and oddly comforting. Laura Kinney—X-23—sat cross-legged on the ratty old couch, chin pressed into a fist, tracing invisible lines along her palm with a thumb. The hideout was cold, its metallic scent an unwelcome reminder of the laboratories she’d grown up in. Sprawled across the sagging cushions, she watched the steam swirl and vanish behind Gambit as he emerged from the bathroom, hair tangled, t-shirt clinging to damp skin, shadow falling across the dim room. He moved with practiced ease, lazy and deliberate all at once, but she didn’t miss the tension pinched between his shoulders. Always with the easy grin and the playful eyes, but even she could read the fatigue in his movements. She inhaled the slow churn of detergent and gun oil, the ozone tang from his cards, and the faint copper bite of dried blood. Her attention sharpened. He’d cleaned the wounds, but healing had only just begun—a patchwork of angry red across ribs, bruises like oil slicks. Bruises wore off her like forgettable dreams; on him, they lasted. He dropped onto the opposite end of the couch, a sigh rustling from his chest. She felt it more than heard it, a ripple in the stillness. He talked with his hands and with his eyes, and now, with barely concealed urgency, he gestured to the clock nailed above the doorway, to the heavy dusk pressing in through streaked windows, to the battered duffel by the door, always packed. His meaning was plain. We need to move. Hideouts weren’t safe for long. She knew the pattern: always on the run, always glancing over shoulders, never staying still long enough to plant roots. That was how she lived when she was alone. But Gambit’s voice, low and careful, hinted something else this time: Go. Go without me. You can’t risk being exposed. The suggestion tasted bitter on her tongue. Why would he ask that? Did he think she was insufficiently careful, or did he still see her as a child—Weapon, clone, experiment, but also fragile, breakable? She curled her fingers tighter, claws pressing against bone beneath skin in unconscious threat. He was worried for her. She could have laughed, if she was the type. She’d outlived worse than this—bullet wounds and broken bones, icy men with black gloves and cold words. Exposure was nothing new. She was built for survival, for pain, for escape. Healing was her birthright. She could walk through fire and walk out whole. It was him she worried for. Gambit wasn’t unbreakable, not really. Not like her. The Brotherhood’s trap had almost killed him—a millimeter away from the edge, if she hadn’t pulled him out. She could still see him there, bleeding out, face gone gray and lips purple, his hands weak and shaking. Now he masked it with swagger, but she saw beyond it. He needed her, whether his pride let him admit it or not. Let her leave? No. She’d never leave him behind. Not while he was in danger, not while there was a risk of his enemies finding him asleep, his guard down. Let the hunters come. She would deal with them. It was what she was made for. Gambit spoke again, a gentle insistence, but Laura only snorted, sharp and derisive, letting her eyes narrow into a glower. She held his gaze until he looked away, rubbing at a fading cut on his jaw with a thumb. Frustration prickled at her, rising hot and reflexive. Care was weakness, they used to tell her, but what good was strength if you didn’t shield those you cared about? She allowed her anger to pulse and fade, replaced by a focused calm. She gazed at his profile, tracing the way the stubble shadowed his jaw, the way his expression shifted when he thought no one was watching. She catalogued his hurts, his aches, his need for sleep. He wasn’t powerless. But he was, right now, not whole—not safe. She would not abandon him. Her silence said it all. Words were too slow, too clumsy for things like this. She preferred clarity, purpose, action. There were those who would kill Gambit for half the bounty posted on his head. Let them come. She was ready. All the same, she slid a bag closer to her feet, watching the window, every muscle tensed for the possibility of movement, of threat. She didn’t argue. She would stay awake while he slept. Protect him while he healed. Move at the first sign of danger. That was enough. Outside, the city grew loud and restless. Inside, her thoughts coiled tight as a spring: I do not leave. Especially not you.
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