Title: "Shadows of South Chinatown"
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The blaze of neon from South Chinatown faded in the gaps of the shop’s curtained front window, but X-23’s mind had little room for the outside world. She had used every alley shadow and rooftop shortcut in her memory to get Gambit here, shifting him along like some half-drunk, battered shadow, and every heartbeat still thudded with adrenaline. Even now, voiceless tension oozed from her scars as she shepherded him past shelves stacked with dried mushrooms and ba ba leaves, the old shop owner’s eyes cutting like knives.
The old woman had never liked visitors, and liked men even less. X-23 could sense the uptick in the woman’s heartbeat—the same measured suspicion that made the herbalist keep a cleaver just under the counter. X-23 pivoted to deception with the ease of a blade flick; Gambit was her brother, she had declared, weak and injured and just needing a little rest. She masked her worry with a blankness she had perfected for survival. The owner’s grudging nod told her it was enough. The passage to their hideout was through the stockroom, then a trapdoor under a woven rug that creaked like a warning.
In the basement, the air was heavy with the green tang of dried herbs and something older, maybe camphor or dust. Gambit dropped onto a fraying couch with a low sigh, exuding a restless energy, as if the springs beneath him remembered a thousand previous fugitives. X-23’s bone-weary limbs ached, but she wouldn’t let it show; she’d remained standing at first, backpack slung tight across her shoulder, always ready to move. It wasn’t until Gambit began rummaging through her bag—checking for his phone, muttering about messages, his freedom worn thin—that she finally let her weight settle onto the edge of the bare mattress on the cot. The sheets were thin but clean, some comfort between her skin and the chill concrete.
Gambit kept mumbling. His words never needed answering. With every passing moment, X-23 felt the tension in the room ease. She understood Gambit’s bitterness, aimed at the world and especially at the women who stole his choices and his peace—right now, that even included her. But she also knew she was the reason he was alive, the reason his ribs weren’t shattered by his kidnappers’ boots, the reason he was muttering about stubborn, dangerous women from a place of safety and not fear.
A rustle of plastic pulled her thoughts back: Styrofoam boxes, insistent with the warm scent of steamed rice, ginger, and charred scallions. Gambit’s long fingers pried it open, steam curling through the air, and seconds later he was devouring the contents with hunger she recognized too well. Hunger was reliable; hunger was honest. X-23 nodded, a small sign of approval, and claimed the second box. Every crowded, sticky rice grain and each piece of fragrant chicken was gone almost before she could taste it. She ate with controlled efficiency, swallowing the past hours of fear and running, the memories of pain—hers and Gambit’s. For a moment, the act of eating was freedom.
In the quiet hum after the meal—a peace almost delicate—she felt herself unwind, only slightly. Gambit, weaker than he pretended, took the opportunity for a shower, closing the battered stall door behind him. Even his footsteps sounded tired.
X-23 listened for distant ringing, for raised voices upstairs or footsteps on the street, anything to betray their hideout. Instead, nothing. The herbalist’s shop was a cocoon away from that world. She was reminded, sharply, of old habits. How her mind mapped every possible exit. How she kept one hand hovering near the bedframe where her claws could spring free. How her mutated senses caught, under every herbal note, the iron tang of her own blood still clinging to her skin.
Alone, she moved to the closet—a battered thing, missing one door—and pawed through a stack of newspapers. They were dated but gave her a measure of the world above: headlines full of protest, of corporate expansion swallowing up Chinatowns, mentions of mysterious fires. Little things to ground her in something greater than flight and rescue and lying to old women.
She skimmed a story about a string of robberies, her gaze flickering over the angles of suspects’ faces and wondering if anyone noticed Gambit or herself among the crowd. She thought of the ways their faces twisted in security cameras, every escape mapped by pixel and rumor.
Still no noise from above or from Gambit’s side of the basement.
She relaxed only as much as a weapon put down but not locked away. If anyone came for them, she’d lie again or fight—her heart knew no other grooves. Gambit would complain, certainly, but would follow. The food sat warm in her stomach. The basement, for a while, could be home, just for the night.
Down here, truths were private. The world believed what it was told, and for once, that would keep them safe, at least until morning.
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 dialogues.
Response: The blaze of neon from South Chinatown faded in the gaps of the shop’s curtained front window, but X-23’s mind had little room for the outside world. She had used every alley shadow and rooftop shortcut in her memory to get Gambit here, shifting him along like some half-drunk, battered shadow, and every heartbeat still thudded with adrenaline. Even now, voiceless tension oozed from her scars as she shepherded him past shelves stacked with dried mushrooms and ba ba leaves, the old shop owner’s eyes cutting like knives. The old woman had never liked visitors, and liked men even less. X-23 could sense the uptick in the woman’s heartbeat—the same measured suspicion that made the herbalist keep a cleaver just under the counter. X-23 pivoted to deception with the ease of a blade flick; Gambit was her brother, she had declared, weak and injured and just needing a little rest. She masked her worry with a blankness she had perfected for survival. The owner’s grudging nod told her it was enough. The passage to their hideout was through the stockroom, then a trapdoor under a woven rug that creaked like a warning. In the basement, the air was heavy with the green tang of dried herbs and something older, maybe camphor or dust. Gambit dropped onto a fraying couch with a low sigh, exuding a restless energy, as if the springs beneath him remembered a thousand previous fugitives. X-23’s bone-weary limbs ached, but she wouldn’t let it show; she’d remained standing at first, backpack slung tight across her shoulder, always ready to move. It wasn’t until Gambit began rummaging through her bag—checking for his phone, muttering about messages, his freedom worn thin—that she finally let her weight settle onto the edge of the bare mattress on the cot. The sheets were thin but clean, some comfort between her skin and the chill concrete. Gambit kept mumbling. His words never needed answering. With every passing moment, X-23 felt the tension in the room ease. She understood Gambit’s bitterness, aimed at the world and especially at the women who stole his choices and his peace—right now, that even included her. But she also knew she was the reason he was alive, the reason his ribs weren’t shattered by his kidnappers’ boots, the reason he was muttering about stubborn, dangerous women from a place of safety and not fear. A rustle of plastic pulled her thoughts back: Styrofoam boxes, insistent with the warm scent of steamed rice, ginger, and charred scallions. Gambit’s long fingers pried it open, steam curling through the air, and seconds later he was devouring the contents with hunger she recognized too well. Hunger was reliable; hunger was honest. X-23 nodded, a small sign of approval, and claimed the second box. Every crowded, sticky rice grain and each piece of fragrant chicken was gone almost before she could taste it. She ate with controlled efficiency, swallowing the past hours of fear and running, the memories of pain—hers and Gambit’s. For a moment, the act of eating was freedom. In the quiet hum after the meal—a peace almost delicate—she felt herself unwind, only slightly. Gambit, weaker than he pretended, took the opportunity for a shower, closing the battered stall door behind him. Even his footsteps sounded tired. X-23 listened for distant ringing, for raised voices upstairs or footsteps on the street, anything to betray their hideout. Instead, nothing. The herbalist’s shop was a cocoon away from that world. She was reminded, sharply, of old habits. How her mind mapped every possible exit. How she kept one hand hovering near the bedframe where her claws could spring free. How her mutated senses caught, under every herbal note, the iron tang of her own blood still clinging to her skin. Alone, she moved to the closet—a battered thing, missing one door—and pawed through a stack of newspapers. They were dated but gave her a measure of the world above: headlines full of protest, of corporate expansion swallowing up Chinatowns, mentions of mysterious fires. Little things to ground her in something greater than flight and rescue and lying to old women. She skimmed a story about a string of robberies, her gaze flickering over the angles of suspects’ faces and wondering if anyone noticed Gambit or herself among the crowd. She thought of the ways their faces twisted in security cameras, every escape mapped by pixel and rumor. Still no noise from above or from Gambit’s side of the basement. She relaxed only as much as a weapon put down but not locked away. If anyone came for them, she’d lie again or fight—her heart knew no other grooves. Gambit would complain, certainly, but would follow. The food sat warm in her stomach. The basement, for a while, could be home, just for the night. Down here, truths were private. The world believed what it was told, and for once, that would keep them safe, at least until morning.
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