Title: "Shadows of New Orleans: A Mutant's Night of Secrets and Survival"
0 Points
0
The night pressed close around Laura Kinney’s new city—humid, dense, alive with hidden things. Her perch on the tenement roof let her gaze down at New Orleans without being seen. Mutant senses prickling, she watched beads of neon ripple across wet street, the music of a jazz trumpet floating over the rooftops. Her nostrils flared. On the sidewalk three stories below, a white utility van idled under a flickering streetlamp, its engine throbbing faintly. It was the wrong kind of vehicle to be loitering at this shady hour. Laura—X-23—trusted her instincts: danger.
She shifted—poised, coiled, tense. Across the rooftops, she could see laundry fluttering, windows winking out. She was about to rise when a muffled sound pulled her attention: someone speaking, half-panicked, from within the building’s bowels.
Gambit.
He didn’t usually panic, so the note in his voice triggered her muscle memory. Laura rolled down off the ledge, dropped with catlike grace into the shadows outside their third-floor window, and slipped inside.
The room reeked of old newspapers, dust, and fear. Gambit—Remy Lebeau—stood near a rickety card table, eyes wild, holding a deck of cards in one hand as if they’d defend him. The sockets beneath his flaming-red eyes were tired.
“Remy. It’s just me,” Laura said quietly, her voice clipped but not cold. “You’re safe. For now.”
Remy hissed in a breath—voiceless relief. “You saw somethin’?” he whispered.
She gave a short nod and strode past him to the grimy window, her gaze flicking to that strange van below. “White van. Out front. No plates. They aren’t here for the jazz.” She turned back to him, tone measured but low. “We need to move.”
Remy pocketed his cards, fingers trembling ever so slightly. “Gotta say, chérie, I ain’t used to being the scared one.”
Laura glanced at him, something like a smirk fluttering at her lips. “I didn’t come to New Orleans for trouble. But the van feels wrong. Felt it the second I saw it.”
“Where can we go?”
“Don’t know the city. But I have a way out. Motorcycle, alley three blocks east—no one’s touched it.” She jerked her chin toward the near-empty backpack slung over the table. “Put the backpack over your shoulder. I’ll drive.”
In a few seconds, they were gliding out of the basement, all breathing and shadow. Laura walked in front, her footfalls soundless on pavement, body tensed, claws unsheathed just enough to gleam in the glow of the lamps. Gambit followed, hands in pockets, eyes darting. The van stayed still, its tinted windows dark as midnight. Laura’s every sense screamed at her.
They weaved through the labyrinth of alleyways—over cracked asphalt, past puddles reflecting scarlet and gold light. Her mind mapped the route with animal precision. The motorcycle was still there, wedged between a dumpster and a graffitied brick wall, just as she had left it when she arrived in town.
“Stay quiet,” she whispered as she handed off the backpack to Gambit. She checked for glinting eyes and listening ears before swinging a leg over the bike. The engine purred beneath her, the familiar vibration steadying her nerves.
“Gas station—far edge of town,” she said. “It’s all I know. I stopped there when I rolled into New Orleans. After that... we’ll figure it out.”
She pressed the ignition. The motorcycle shot forward, Gambit’s arms wrapping around her waist as she threaded them through the city’s arteries. Her gaze kept flicking back, every intersection checked, every parked car and cloaked pedestrian surveyed with lupine intuition.
They rode past late-night revelers, empty bus stops, and smoky Louisiana diners, the city becoming a blur of color and movement at their backs. The smell of magnolia and petrol followed them while jazz faded in the distance. Every few blocks, Laura zigzagged through side streets, ensuring they weren’t being tailed.
It wasn’t until the city lights faded and the road ran straight into darkness that she let her speed drop and finally exhaled. The gas station, with its single sodium lamp and ancient Coca-Cola vending machine, crouched at the city’s boundary like a lone sentry. She eased the motorcycle behind the building and killed the engine.
“We need a new hideout,” Laura said, climbing off and scanning the horizon for trouble. “Somewhere nobody’s watching. Somewhere mutants can think. I’ll need your help.”
Gambit nodded, rubbing his hands together in the hush. He straightened his coat, the Cajun bravado seeping back into his voice.
“Dis is your show, Laura. But if I might suggest—New Orleans got corners not even the Thieves Guild knows. You trust me, chère, I’ll show you a place dem vans won’t follow.”
Laura paused, listening—always listening. For now, only cicadas sang and the highway hummed beyond the fields. The pulse in her skull, the primal sense that had always led her away from darkness and into survival, eased.
She looked at Gambit—thief, friend, survivor like herself—and nodded. “Let’s find somewhere safer.”
Together, they slipped into the dark, the mutant wild and the Cajun trickster, hunting refuge in a city bursting at the seams with secrets and danger. For Laura, it was just the beginning of the night. As they moved away from the gas station and into the unknown, she didn’t look back once—not at the city, nor at the life she’d left clipped and bleeding behind her. Laura Kinney had always run on instinct. And tonight, with shadow at their heels, instinct was all they had.
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 hidden in her hideout with her friend Gambit. She went out through the window and jumped onto the roof of the building, watching the nightlife of the city. As she was sitting on the roof she noticed a strange van parked by the sidewalk and her senses immediately sent her a warning signal. Suddenly she heard Gambit's voice coming from the basement of the building and quickly jumped off the roof and then jumped in through the window. She told him that he was here and to calm down because she could clearly hear the panic in his voice. After a moment she told him about the van parked nearby and said it would be best if they left this hideout and found another one. She told him that she had come to New Orleans on a motorcycle and hidden it in an alley nearby. They carefully emerged from the basement and Laura led Gambit through the narrow streets to where her motorcycle was parked. She was relieved when she realized that no one had stolen it. She dug her keys out of her backpack and handed the backpack to Gambit. She would be driving. She told him she would take them to a gas station on the outskirts since it was the only place she knew. She had stopped at that gas station when she came into town, so she had memorized the route. Finally she pulled out and drove fast, glancing every few seconds to make sure no one was following them. She told him she had to find them a new hideout since she didn't know the town.
Response: The night pressed close around Laura Kinney’s new city—humid, dense, alive with hidden things. Her perch on the tenement roof let her gaze down at New Orleans without being seen. Mutant senses prickling, she watched beads of neon ripple across wet street, the music of a jazz trumpet floating over the rooftops. Her nostrils flared. On the sidewalk three stories below, a white utility van idled under a flickering streetlamp, its engine throbbing faintly. It was the wrong kind of vehicle to be loitering at this shady hour. Laura—X-23—trusted her instincts: danger. She shifted—poised, coiled, tense. Across the rooftops, she could see laundry fluttering, windows winking out. She was about to rise when a muffled sound pulled her attention: someone speaking, half-panicked, from within the building’s bowels. Gambit. He didn’t usually panic, so the note in his voice triggered her muscle memory. Laura rolled down off the ledge, dropped with catlike grace into the shadows outside their third-floor window, and slipped inside. The room reeked of old newspapers, dust, and fear. Gambit—Remy Lebeau—stood near a rickety card table, eyes wild, holding a deck of cards in one hand as if they’d defend him. The sockets beneath his flaming-red eyes were tired. “Remy. It’s just me,” Laura said quietly, her voice clipped but not cold. “You’re safe. For now.” Remy hissed in a breath—voiceless relief. “You saw somethin’?” he whispered. She gave a short nod and strode past him to the grimy window, her gaze flicking to that strange van below. “White van. Out front. No plates. They aren’t here for the jazz.” She turned back to him, tone measured but low. “We need to move.” Remy pocketed his cards, fingers trembling ever so slightly. “Gotta say, chérie, I ain’t used to being the scared one.” Laura glanced at him, something like a smirk fluttering at her lips. “I didn’t come to New Orleans for trouble. But the van feels wrong. Felt it the second I saw it.” “Where can we go?” “Don’t know the city. But I have a way out. Motorcycle, alley three blocks east—no one’s touched it.” She jerked her chin toward the near-empty backpack slung over the table. “Put the backpack over your shoulder. I’ll drive.” In a few seconds, they were gliding out of the basement, all breathing and shadow. Laura walked in front, her footfalls soundless on pavement, body tensed, claws unsheathed just enough to gleam in the glow of the lamps. Gambit followed, hands in pockets, eyes darting. The van stayed still, its tinted windows dark as midnight. Laura’s every sense screamed at her. They weaved through the labyrinth of alleyways—over cracked asphalt, past puddles reflecting scarlet and gold light. Her mind mapped the route with animal precision. The motorcycle was still there, wedged between a dumpster and a graffitied brick wall, just as she had left it when she arrived in town. “Stay quiet,” she whispered as she handed off the backpack to Gambit. She checked for glinting eyes and listening ears before swinging a leg over the bike. The engine purred beneath her, the familiar vibration steadying her nerves. “Gas station—far edge of town,” she said. “It’s all I know. I stopped there when I rolled into New Orleans. After that... we’ll figure it out.” She pressed the ignition. The motorcycle shot forward, Gambit’s arms wrapping around her waist as she threaded them through the city’s arteries. Her gaze kept flicking back, every intersection checked, every parked car and cloaked pedestrian surveyed with lupine intuition. They rode past late-night revelers, empty bus stops, and smoky Louisiana diners, the city becoming a blur of color and movement at their backs. The smell of magnolia and petrol followed them while jazz faded in the distance. Every few blocks, Laura zigzagged through side streets, ensuring they weren’t being tailed. It wasn’t until the city lights faded and the road ran straight into darkness that she let her speed drop and finally exhaled. The gas station, with its single sodium lamp and ancient Coca-Cola vending machine, crouched at the city’s boundary like a lone sentry. She eased the motorcycle behind the building and killed the engine. “We need a new hideout,” Laura said, climbing off and scanning the horizon for trouble. “Somewhere nobody’s watching. Somewhere mutants can think. I’ll need your help.” Gambit nodded, rubbing his hands together in the hush. He straightened his coat, the Cajun bravado seeping back into his voice. “Dis is your show, Laura. But if I might suggest—New Orleans got corners not even the Thieves Guild knows. You trust me, chère, I’ll show you a place dem vans won’t follow.” Laura paused, listening—always listening. For now, only cicadas sang and the highway hummed beyond the fields. The pulse in her skull, the primal sense that had always led her away from darkness and into survival, eased. She looked at Gambit—thief, friend, survivor like herself—and nodded. “Let’s find somewhere safer.” Together, they slipped into the dark, the mutant wild and the Cajun trickster, hunting refuge in a city bursting at the seams with secrets and danger. For Laura, it was just the beginning of the night. As they moved away from the gas station and into the unknown, she didn’t look back once—not at the city, nor at the life she’d left clipped and bleeding behind her. Laura Kinney had always run on instinct. And tonight, with shadow at their heels, instinct was all they had.
Post your own comment or use AI: