Title: Shadows of Survival
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Rain was coming down in sheets, splattering against the faded sign above the herbal medicine shop. Laura pushed her damp hood off her brow as she pressed one gloved hand against Gambit’s elbow, half-dragging him through the battered door. He was bruised, battered—less so than he could’ve been, but more than he’d ever willingly admit. She’d torn him free of those low-rent Quebecois mercenaries two hours ago, leaving broken bones and the reek of ozone in her wake. No one followed. But Laura knew better than most: safety was an illusion, and even the best illusions could shatter.
Inside, the air was thick with the aroma of camphor and ginger and faint traces of ginseng. Laura kept her head low, chin tucked. The woman behind the counter—a sharp-eyed shopkeeper with wiry hair—froze when Laura entered. Suspicion flashed in those dark, clever eyes. Laura could almost smell it. Unaccompanied, Laura would have breezed through, but now she dragged a bleeding, exhausted man in her wake. The shopkeeper’s stare was knife-blade cold.
Laura’s mind flicked through options: fight, flee, persuade. Her hands itched, claws tingling beneath skin, but instead she lowered her eyes and channeled the deadliest weapon she had: a lie. She mumbled out a story, words sweet and shaky—he’s my brother, he’s hurt, please, please—let him rest. The woman hesitated, distrust warring with pity, then nodded once. Downstairs, she said. Hands waved, keys clinked. Laura watched every movement, every breath.
The sound of the trapdoor unlocking was thick and ancient. She helped Gambit lower himself—slow, clumsy, more pain than he’d ever own up to. The basement was small but dry, with a threadbare couch, a bed too short for broad-shouldered men, stacks of yellowed newspapers, and the heavy sweetness of dried herbs hanging in woven nets. The door closed behind them, a muffled clang. They were alone—at least for now.
Gambit slouched onto the couch, grumbling. He rifled through the battered backpack Laura had kept safe during the rescue—petty things, their importance more sentimental than practical, reminders of better times for a man used to loss. Laura stayed on the edge of the bed, senses tuned for danger. She tasted metallic blood—his, not hers—still fresh under her nails. No footsteps on the boards above. Safe, for now.
Gambit fumbled, asking after emails, calls. Laura hadn’t checked—didn’t care. Her world was pared to the present: sights, sounds, and the cold pulse of survival. She watched him, watched the steadiness in his shaking hands as he muttered private oaths about dangerous women and fingered the bruises beneath his jacket. Laura’s life had been built on taking orders, and being the order others feared to take. She understood his bitterness down to the marrow.
Minutes ticked on, tension bleeding out slow and syrupy. Gambit sighed—a rare sound of honesty—and gave her a tired look, faint praise curling on his lips for finding them this bolt-hole. Laura shrugged one shoulder: it wasn’t skill, only practice. Hiding was easy, surviving was harder.
The shopkeeper left provisions. Two Styrofoam boxes, plain and almost comfortingly anonymous. Gambit opened his immediately, the scent wafting into the dusty light—sticky rice, shreds of pork, wilted greens, and hardboiled eggs split clean down the middle. Laura’s stomach twisted, remembering hunger: the gnawing ache behind her ribcage, as reliable as her claws. She reached for the second box, blinked at the steam, and set to eating. She finished before Gambit did, devouring each bite as if it was her last. In her experience, it just might be. She licked her fingers, savoring the taste of salt and sauce and something gentle and warm that softened the ache in her chest. Even a killer needed comfort.
Gambit peeled himself off the couch after eating and shuffled toward the curtained-off shower stall in the corner. The pipes rattled—a thin, tinny noise that punctured the silence. Laura stretched, rolling her tired muscles, and glanced toward the closet. Inside: old blankets, and above them a stack of newspapers. She gathered them and brought them to the bed—something to fill the silence, something to occupy her hands and eyes while she waited for her pulse to settle.
She flipped through headlines and pages, scanning for mention of mutants, kidnappings, trouble. Nothing yet. Black-and-white photos blurred before her eyes. Articles about lost dogs, earth tremors, city council arguments. For a moment, she let herself imagine normalcy. Maybe someone else’s life, lived day after day in small places. She could almost feel the weight of sleep beckoning, heavy and slow and unfamiliar. But she wouldn’t give in—not yet.
Above her, footsteps creaked across the floorboards. She could smell the fear in the shopkeeper’s sweat, the anxiety in every halting tread. Outside, rain spat at the window. Here, encased in the roots of the city, Laura kept vigil—listening to Gambit’s muttering behind the shower curtain, the hum of the pipes, the soothing rustle of old newsprint. Even in the hollow quiet, she didn’t relax. Not fully. Not ever.
But for tonight, here in the herbal shop’s hidden basement, the hunt had ended—for now. She was X-23, survivor, soldier, sister-for-hire. The world above would wait. Here, it was just the darkness, and her friend’s breathing, and the steady thrum of her heartbeat in the shelter of strangers.
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: Rain was coming down in sheets, splattering against the faded sign above the herbal medicine shop. Laura pushed her damp hood off her brow as she pressed one gloved hand against Gambit’s elbow, half-dragging him through the battered door. He was bruised, battered—less so than he could’ve been, but more than he’d ever willingly admit. She’d torn him free of those low-rent Quebecois mercenaries two hours ago, leaving broken bones and the reek of ozone in her wake. No one followed. But Laura knew better than most: safety was an illusion, and even the best illusions could shatter. Inside, the air was thick with the aroma of camphor and ginger and faint traces of ginseng. Laura kept her head low, chin tucked. The woman behind the counter—a sharp-eyed shopkeeper with wiry hair—froze when Laura entered. Suspicion flashed in those dark, clever eyes. Laura could almost smell it. Unaccompanied, Laura would have breezed through, but now she dragged a bleeding, exhausted man in her wake. The shopkeeper’s stare was knife-blade cold. Laura’s mind flicked through options: fight, flee, persuade. Her hands itched, claws tingling beneath skin, but instead she lowered her eyes and channeled the deadliest weapon she had: a lie. She mumbled out a story, words sweet and shaky—he’s my brother, he’s hurt, please, please—let him rest. The woman hesitated, distrust warring with pity, then nodded once. Downstairs, she said. Hands waved, keys clinked. Laura watched every movement, every breath. The sound of the trapdoor unlocking was thick and ancient. She helped Gambit lower himself—slow, clumsy, more pain than he’d ever own up to. The basement was small but dry, with a threadbare couch, a bed too short for broad-shouldered men, stacks of yellowed newspapers, and the heavy sweetness of dried herbs hanging in woven nets. The door closed behind them, a muffled clang. They were alone—at least for now. Gambit slouched onto the couch, grumbling. He rifled through the battered backpack Laura had kept safe during the rescue—petty things, their importance more sentimental than practical, reminders of better times for a man used to loss. Laura stayed on the edge of the bed, senses tuned for danger. She tasted metallic blood—his, not hers—still fresh under her nails. No footsteps on the boards above. Safe, for now. Gambit fumbled, asking after emails, calls. Laura hadn’t checked—didn’t care. Her world was pared to the present: sights, sounds, and the cold pulse of survival. She watched him, watched the steadiness in his shaking hands as he muttered private oaths about dangerous women and fingered the bruises beneath his jacket. Laura’s life had been built on taking orders, and being the order others feared to take. She understood his bitterness down to the marrow. Minutes ticked on, tension bleeding out slow and syrupy. Gambit sighed—a rare sound of honesty—and gave her a tired look, faint praise curling on his lips for finding them this bolt-hole. Laura shrugged one shoulder: it wasn’t skill, only practice. Hiding was easy, surviving was harder. The shopkeeper left provisions. Two Styrofoam boxes, plain and almost comfortingly anonymous. Gambit opened his immediately, the scent wafting into the dusty light—sticky rice, shreds of pork, wilted greens, and hardboiled eggs split clean down the middle. Laura’s stomach twisted, remembering hunger: the gnawing ache behind her ribcage, as reliable as her claws. She reached for the second box, blinked at the steam, and set to eating. She finished before Gambit did, devouring each bite as if it was her last. In her experience, it just might be. She licked her fingers, savoring the taste of salt and sauce and something gentle and warm that softened the ache in her chest. Even a killer needed comfort. Gambit peeled himself off the couch after eating and shuffled toward the curtained-off shower stall in the corner. The pipes rattled—a thin, tinny noise that punctured the silence. Laura stretched, rolling her tired muscles, and glanced toward the closet. Inside: old blankets, and above them a stack of newspapers. She gathered them and brought them to the bed—something to fill the silence, something to occupy her hands and eyes while she waited for her pulse to settle. She flipped through headlines and pages, scanning for mention of mutants, kidnappings, trouble. Nothing yet. Black-and-white photos blurred before her eyes. Articles about lost dogs, earth tremors, city council arguments. For a moment, she let herself imagine normalcy. Maybe someone else’s life, lived day after day in small places. She could almost feel the weight of sleep beckoning, heavy and slow and unfamiliar. But she wouldn’t give in—not yet. Above her, footsteps creaked across the floorboards. She could smell the fear in the shopkeeper’s sweat, the anxiety in every halting tread. Outside, rain spat at the window. Here, encased in the roots of the city, Laura kept vigil—listening to Gambit’s muttering behind the shower curtain, the hum of the pipes, the soothing rustle of old newsprint. Even in the hollow quiet, she didn’t relax. Not fully. Not ever. But for tonight, here in the herbal shop’s hidden basement, the hunt had ended—for now. She was X-23, survivor, soldier, sister-for-hire. The world above would wait. Here, it was just the darkness, and her friend’s breathing, and the steady thrum of her heartbeat in the shelter of strangers.
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