Title: Shadows of Madripoor
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The neon sign outside the Princess Bar flickered like a dying heartbeat, hissing blue into the misty Madripoor dusk. Elle hesitated on the threshold, the humid air thick with tension, sweat, and secrets. She didn’t belong here. She never would. She clutched Eva’s arm as bikers and hustlers pushed past, their faces more shadow than flesh.
“It’s not so bad. Stick close,” Eva whispered, her dark eyes flitting to the corners of the alley. Eva was always calm, always knew the back doors, passwords, escape routes. She was the only reason Elle was still alive.
Elle’s heart hammered. Madripoor wasn’t a city; it was an animal—sharp, feral, gnawing on whatever wandered too near. And they were prey.
The inside of the bar was even worse. Electric green lights pulsed above a haze of cigars, bottles slammed, and conversations hunched low and gnawing. The smell of rum, blood, and gun oil tangled her senses.
Eva guided her to a table near the back, where the shadows were thickest. “I hear he comes here sometimes,” Eva muttered. “The Canadian. Hard to miss. We ask him; he helps us. Or he hurts us. Ready?”
Elle tried to answer, but her voice was a bottled scream. She managed a nod, clutching her old canvas backpack—the only thing she owned that the local gangs hadn’t stolen.
Madripoor’s Princess Bar was the city’s worst-kept secret: the watering hole for the city’s worst. But tonight, the stories—whispered through alleys and jostling ferries—were true. He was here.
At the far end of the counter slouched a man who could have been a nightmare or a guardian angel. Hair dark and wild, jaw flecked with five o’clock shadow, hands big as bear paws around a sweating beer mug. Eyes like worn steel and old pain. Wolverine.
Eva nudged Elle with her elbow. “Talk to him.”
Elle’s feet felt like stone but somehow, she crossed the distance. The barstool beside him groaned as she sat.
He glanced sideways, gruff. “Kid. This ain’t a place for people like you.”
She couldn’t look at him, couldn’t look away. “I know who you are. Please. We need help.” The words fell out trembling, broken. “There’s a man—he’s after us. Dr. Leong. The one who worked for Tiger’s Claw. He wants me for his experiments.” She pressed her knuckles to her temple where the scar still ached.
Wolverine didn’t move, didn’t blink. In that heartbeat, Elle saw every story about him—mercenary, hero, killer—might be true at once.
Eva appeared behind her, tense. “We just need somewhere safe, for a night. Then we can vanish, like always.”
Wolverine took a slow pull from his beer and let silence settle thick as oil. “Doc Leong, huh. He’s got claws sharper than mine, but no heart. Madripoor’s full of folks like him.”
He stood, looming, but his voice was low. “Grab your stuff. Don’t look at anybody. We’re leaving.”
The word “leaving” was so electric, Elle almost wept. They followed him, weaving through shifting bodies—the enforcers in dark suits, the women with venomous smiles, the bought-off bouncers—out a battered side door.
Alleys in Madripoor were maps of misery. They wound through dripping pipes, backlit by red lanterns. Trash moldered under foot, and distant gunshots followed them like hounds.
Wolverine moved like someone who’d hunted and been hunted a thousand times. He kept them in the darkest corners, up a crumbling fire escape, across sagging laundry wires, until they reached a door camouflaged in rust and rot.
He popped the lock with a knife from his boot and ushered them inside.
Wolverine’s hideout was cramped and spare—a flop of scavenged blankets, battered kitchen, battered couch. Sheets tacked over every window. It smelled like leather and rain and sweat.
He handed Elle a mug of water, the first kindness in weeks that didn’t cost anything.
“You can stay. As long as you need.” He tossed a gun to Eva. “You know how to use that?”
Eva grinned, checking the magazine. “Better than most.”
Elle sat on the couch, knees drawn up, and stared at Wolverine’s back as he watched the street through a peel of curtain. He was still, but in his stillness was a promise—of violence, of protection.
Outside, Madripoor howled and bled and connived.
Inside, for one night, Elle drew a breath without fear. She didn’t know what tomorrow would bring: maybe a new monster, maybe an old ghost. But for tonight, Eva was at her side, and Wolverine was at the door.
And Madripoor, for once, would have to wait.
This story was generated by user live.finezja 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 a girl named Elle who was taken to a bar on the villain island, Madripoor, by her ally Eva. Describe how Elle asked Wolverine for help and shelter in the bar, and he took them to his hideout in Madripoor.
Response: The neon sign outside the Princess Bar flickered like a dying heartbeat, hissing blue into the misty Madripoor dusk. Elle hesitated on the threshold, the humid air thick with tension, sweat, and secrets. She didn’t belong here. She never would. She clutched Eva’s arm as bikers and hustlers pushed past, their faces more shadow than flesh. “It’s not so bad. Stick close,” Eva whispered, her dark eyes flitting to the corners of the alley. Eva was always calm, always knew the back doors, passwords, escape routes. She was the only reason Elle was still alive. Elle’s heart hammered. Madripoor wasn’t a city; it was an animal—sharp, feral, gnawing on whatever wandered too near. And they were prey. The inside of the bar was even worse. Electric green lights pulsed above a haze of cigars, bottles slammed, and conversations hunched low and gnawing. The smell of rum, blood, and gun oil tangled her senses. Eva guided her to a table near the back, where the shadows were thickest. “I hear he comes here sometimes,” Eva muttered. “The Canadian. Hard to miss. We ask him; he helps us. Or he hurts us. Ready?” Elle tried to answer, but her voice was a bottled scream. She managed a nod, clutching her old canvas backpack—the only thing she owned that the local gangs hadn’t stolen. Madripoor’s Princess Bar was the city’s worst-kept secret: the watering hole for the city’s worst. But tonight, the stories—whispered through alleys and jostling ferries—were true. He was here. At the far end of the counter slouched a man who could have been a nightmare or a guardian angel. Hair dark and wild, jaw flecked with five o’clock shadow, hands big as bear paws around a sweating beer mug. Eyes like worn steel and old pain. Wolverine. Eva nudged Elle with her elbow. “Talk to him.” Elle’s feet felt like stone but somehow, she crossed the distance. The barstool beside him groaned as she sat. He glanced sideways, gruff. “Kid. This ain’t a place for people like you.” She couldn’t look at him, couldn’t look away. “I know who you are. Please. We need help.” The words fell out trembling, broken. “There’s a man—he’s after us. Dr. Leong. The one who worked for Tiger’s Claw. He wants me for his experiments.” She pressed her knuckles to her temple where the scar still ached. Wolverine didn’t move, didn’t blink. In that heartbeat, Elle saw every story about him—mercenary, hero, killer—might be true at once. Eva appeared behind her, tense. “We just need somewhere safe, for a night. Then we can vanish, like always.” Wolverine took a slow pull from his beer and let silence settle thick as oil. “Doc Leong, huh. He’s got claws sharper than mine, but no heart. Madripoor’s full of folks like him.” He stood, looming, but his voice was low. “Grab your stuff. Don’t look at anybody. We’re leaving.” The word “leaving” was so electric, Elle almost wept. They followed him, weaving through shifting bodies—the enforcers in dark suits, the women with venomous smiles, the bought-off bouncers—out a battered side door. Alleys in Madripoor were maps of misery. They wound through dripping pipes, backlit by red lanterns. Trash moldered under foot, and distant gunshots followed them like hounds. Wolverine moved like someone who’d hunted and been hunted a thousand times. He kept them in the darkest corners, up a crumbling fire escape, across sagging laundry wires, until they reached a door camouflaged in rust and rot. He popped the lock with a knife from his boot and ushered them inside. Wolverine’s hideout was cramped and spare—a flop of scavenged blankets, battered kitchen, battered couch. Sheets tacked over every window. It smelled like leather and rain and sweat. He handed Elle a mug of water, the first kindness in weeks that didn’t cost anything. “You can stay. As long as you need.” He tossed a gun to Eva. “You know how to use that?” Eva grinned, checking the magazine. “Better than most.” Elle sat on the couch, knees drawn up, and stared at Wolverine’s back as he watched the street through a peel of curtain. He was still, but in his stillness was a promise—of violence, of protection. Outside, Madripoor howled and bled and connived. Inside, for one night, Elle drew a breath without fear. She didn’t know what tomorrow would bring: maybe a new monster, maybe an old ghost. But for tonight, Eva was at her side, and Wolverine was at the door. And Madripoor, for once, would have to wait.
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