Title: Shadows of the Nightshade
0 Points
0
Rain wasn’t forecast, but a light drizzle spattered the city rooftops as Laura Kinney hunched on the edge of her hideout’s brick parapet, thighs tucked, arms crossed atop her knees. Her new clothes—the stolen combat pants cinched with a belt, a plain gray top—made her feel as invisible as she wanted. She watched neon from the Strip gaslight against the low sky, scattering electric pink and blue over puddles below. Somewhere, techno thudded. The city never slept.
Behind her, Gambit sprawled across her ratty hideout couch, dead to the world. He’d used up everything he had getting out of that death trap—Laura had barely made it in time with her claws and her practiced anger. She’d stitched his shallow wounds herself, swiped some whiskey from the bodega, and promised (through gritted teeth) to keep him out of clubs with names like The Serpent’s Tongue for at least a week.
A faint smile tugged her lips at the memory. Gambit always said he liked living dangerously. She did too—just in her own way.
She slipped a hand into her pocket, thumbed the folded clippings. Newspapers, yellowed and brittle from months in the closet, telling the same story in a dozen different ways: Missing girls. Police stumped. A club, the Nightshade, at the center.
Laura traced the memory of one headline: TEENS VANISH AT NIGHTSHADE. That club had come up last week, when she’d had to get Gambit away from a fool’s errand poker game. Her gut told her it wasn't fate; it was a thread. Mutants like her didn't believe in coincidence.
She watched headlights drift through wet streets. Her old life would’ve ordered, *Let it go, X-23. That’s not your mission.* She wasn’t under orders anymore. She was Laura Kinney, and something sharp in her wouldn’t let her ignore suffering when it prowled so close.
She crouched, didn’t move for a minute. Mutant senses filtered noises: tires, shouts, the drum of city heartbeats. The club would be crawling now, a flashpoint for whatever darkness festered inside it.
She turned, slid back into the room with practiced silence.
Gambit snored softly. His fingers twitched, hunting imaginary playing cards. She almost considered waking him. But Gambit was a half step behind tonight, and she had moves she was better at making alone.
The room smelled of antiseptic, wet socks, Gambit’s aftershave. She wrote a quick note:
**Gone to look into some missing persons. Don’t follow. —L**
She placed it on the kitchen counter where he’d see it, along with the Ace of Hearts she took from his deck, just for luck.
***
Ten minutes later, Laura scaled down the fire escape and blended with the city’s night crowd. The combat pants dragged a bit; she pulled up the legs, zipped her borrowed jacket higher. The Nightshade beckoned from a corner drenched in purple light, its sign flickering like a warning. Bouncers, thicker than the clichés, stood at steel doors.
She moved with purpose, shoulders squared. Being forgotten was her best weapon, so she wore boredom like a mask as she reached the door. Her fake ID was a marvel of Gambit’s chicanery; inside, the club was a fever pitch of bodies, sweat, and old cigarettes.
She prowled the floor. The mutant sense that served her best wasn’t smell or hearing, but the cold prickle at the neck: the sense of threat. She watched.
Bartender, nervous. Dancers, watching the exits, not the crowd. Girls in cheap jewelry. A door near the back—guarded, unmarked, staff only.
She bought a soda, sipped, mapped the mirrors. The bartender’s hands trembled. Laura caught a glimpse under the long sleeve—a raw bruise. She locked eyes with the bartender, slid a heavy tip onto the napkin, and said quietly, "I’m looking for Maya Hernandez."
The bartender blanched. At least the clippings got her name right.
"You shouldn’t be," the woman whispered.
Laura pressed her advantage, lowering her voice. "I’m not police. I’m here to help."
A fast, terrified glance at the back door.
"They take the girls through there," the bartender said, her breath ghosting over the rim of Laura’s glass. "Warehouse behind the club. Sometimes the truck is there. Not tonight though."
Laura nodded, thanked her, finished her soda.
Blending with a group blackberrying their phones, Laura made her way to the staff door, then pushed through before the guard could blink. Inside: a cramped hall, industrial tones. She let her claws slip from one hand—silent, three slivers of cold steel knuckle to fingertip.
There were voices, but low, cautious. Laura climbed a ladder to a mezzanine, went silent as smoke along the catwalk, and saw: two men talking with a pair of girls, maybe sixteen, shivering in tank tops.
Laura’s rage, so often a controlled thing, surged like a cut vein. *No time for fear,* she told herself. *You know how to fix this.*
She dropped like a shadow.
The confrontation barely lasted seconds. No one was faster than Laura Kinney. Her claws made their point; the men fled, blood trailing from shallow slashes—a warning, not a death sentence.
She knelt by the girls. "Maya?" One nodded, face blotched with fear.
"You’re safe now," Laura promised. "Come with me."
They moved. Laura guided them through the back hall, out into the alley. The city was close, vivid, ready to swallow them up again. She knew Gambit would say *You did good, chère*. She hoped he would sleep through a night for once.
She led the girls to her hideout, walked ahead to check if Gambit had woken. He had—sitting up, rubbing his eyes, looking bleary but alert.
"Where you been, petite?" he drawled, mustering a grin.
Laura let her claws slip away, face settling into something like peace for the first time that night.
"Saving people," she said simply, guiding the girls inside.
Gambit set to making cocoa, whistling off-key between his teeth.
Laura looked out the window, saw dawn blushing silver over the city, and felt something fierce and right inside her chest. For once, she didn’t have to hide who she was. And neither did the people she saved.
There was still more trouble brewing in the city—that she knew. But Laura Kinney was ready. And that darkness should learn to be afraid.
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. Gambit fell asleep and she went back to looking through the newspapers she found in her closet. She came across a few articles about human trafficking in one of the nightclubs and that interested her, she decided to look into it later, after dealing with Gambit's problem. She put the newspapers back in the closet and searched through the clothes in the closet, looking for something less colorful. Finally she found combat pants, a little too big for her, a gray top. It was definitely better than the colorful clothes she was wearing. She went to the shower and washed off the dirt from Gambit's rescue operation. When she got out of the shower Gambit was still asleep. She put on the clothes she had prepared earlier and turned off the light, then went out through the window and jumped onto the roof of the building, watching the nightlife of the city.
Response: Rain wasn’t forecast, but a light drizzle spattered the city rooftops as Laura Kinney hunched on the edge of her hideout’s brick parapet, thighs tucked, arms crossed atop her knees. Her new clothes—the stolen combat pants cinched with a belt, a plain gray top—made her feel as invisible as she wanted. She watched neon from the Strip gaslight against the low sky, scattering electric pink and blue over puddles below. Somewhere, techno thudded. The city never slept. Behind her, Gambit sprawled across her ratty hideout couch, dead to the world. He’d used up everything he had getting out of that death trap—Laura had barely made it in time with her claws and her practiced anger. She’d stitched his shallow wounds herself, swiped some whiskey from the bodega, and promised (through gritted teeth) to keep him out of clubs with names like The Serpent’s Tongue for at least a week. A faint smile tugged her lips at the memory. Gambit always said he liked living dangerously. She did too—just in her own way. She slipped a hand into her pocket, thumbed the folded clippings. Newspapers, yellowed and brittle from months in the closet, telling the same story in a dozen different ways: Missing girls. Police stumped. A club, the Nightshade, at the center. Laura traced the memory of one headline: TEENS VANISH AT NIGHTSHADE. That club had come up last week, when she’d had to get Gambit away from a fool’s errand poker game. Her gut told her it wasn't fate; it was a thread. Mutants like her didn't believe in coincidence. She watched headlights drift through wet streets. Her old life would’ve ordered, *Let it go, X-23. That’s not your mission.* She wasn’t under orders anymore. She was Laura Kinney, and something sharp in her wouldn’t let her ignore suffering when it prowled so close. She crouched, didn’t move for a minute. Mutant senses filtered noises: tires, shouts, the drum of city heartbeats. The club would be crawling now, a flashpoint for whatever darkness festered inside it. She turned, slid back into the room with practiced silence. Gambit snored softly. His fingers twitched, hunting imaginary playing cards. She almost considered waking him. But Gambit was a half step behind tonight, and she had moves she was better at making alone. The room smelled of antiseptic, wet socks, Gambit’s aftershave. She wrote a quick note: **Gone to look into some missing persons. Don’t follow. —L** She placed it on the kitchen counter where he’d see it, along with the Ace of Hearts she took from his deck, just for luck. *** Ten minutes later, Laura scaled down the fire escape and blended with the city’s night crowd. The combat pants dragged a bit; she pulled up the legs, zipped her borrowed jacket higher. The Nightshade beckoned from a corner drenched in purple light, its sign flickering like a warning. Bouncers, thicker than the clichés, stood at steel doors. She moved with purpose, shoulders squared. Being forgotten was her best weapon, so she wore boredom like a mask as she reached the door. Her fake ID was a marvel of Gambit’s chicanery; inside, the club was a fever pitch of bodies, sweat, and old cigarettes. She prowled the floor. The mutant sense that served her best wasn’t smell or hearing, but the cold prickle at the neck: the sense of threat. She watched. Bartender, nervous. Dancers, watching the exits, not the crowd. Girls in cheap jewelry. A door near the back—guarded, unmarked, staff only. She bought a soda, sipped, mapped the mirrors. The bartender’s hands trembled. Laura caught a glimpse under the long sleeve—a raw bruise. She locked eyes with the bartender, slid a heavy tip onto the napkin, and said quietly, "I’m looking for Maya Hernandez." The bartender blanched. At least the clippings got her name right. "You shouldn’t be," the woman whispered. Laura pressed her advantage, lowering her voice. "I’m not police. I’m here to help." A fast, terrified glance at the back door. "They take the girls through there," the bartender said, her breath ghosting over the rim of Laura’s glass. "Warehouse behind the club. Sometimes the truck is there. Not tonight though." Laura nodded, thanked her, finished her soda. Blending with a group blackberrying their phones, Laura made her way to the staff door, then pushed through before the guard could blink. Inside: a cramped hall, industrial tones. She let her claws slip from one hand—silent, three slivers of cold steel knuckle to fingertip. There were voices, but low, cautious. Laura climbed a ladder to a mezzanine, went silent as smoke along the catwalk, and saw: two men talking with a pair of girls, maybe sixteen, shivering in tank tops. Laura’s rage, so often a controlled thing, surged like a cut vein. *No time for fear,* she told herself. *You know how to fix this.* She dropped like a shadow. The confrontation barely lasted seconds. No one was faster than Laura Kinney. Her claws made their point; the men fled, blood trailing from shallow slashes—a warning, not a death sentence. She knelt by the girls. "Maya?" One nodded, face blotched with fear. "You’re safe now," Laura promised. "Come with me." They moved. Laura guided them through the back hall, out into the alley. The city was close, vivid, ready to swallow them up again. She knew Gambit would say *You did good, chère*. She hoped he would sleep through a night for once. She led the girls to her hideout, walked ahead to check if Gambit had woken. He had—sitting up, rubbing his eyes, looking bleary but alert. "Where you been, petite?" he drawled, mustering a grin. Laura let her claws slip away, face settling into something like peace for the first time that night. "Saving people," she said simply, guiding the girls inside. Gambit set to making cocoa, whistling off-key between his teeth. Laura looked out the window, saw dawn blushing silver over the city, and felt something fierce and right inside her chest. For once, she didn’t have to hide who she was. And neither did the people she saved. There was still more trouble brewing in the city—that she knew. But Laura Kinney was ready. And that darkness should learn to be afraid.
Post your own comment or use AI: