Title: "Shadows of Trust"
0 Points
0
Rainwater streaked the dusty windshield, mingling with smudges and old palm prints — evidence this car wasn’t truly hers, wasn’t truly anyone’s except the fools she’d relieved it from. The engine made a ticking sound every third mile that kept pace with the tap-tap of her thumb on the steering wheel, a tempo reflecting the weightless edge of escape. Laura Kinney’s nostrils stung with the lingering tang of gun oil, gasoline, sweat, leather polish — all the distinctive notes of bandits she’d gutted her way through to free her only ally.
Gambit sat beside her: his scent, always a strange cocktail of spice and smoke and city refuse, had an edge of injury and pent-up adrenaline now. She could hear his ragged heartbeat as if the space between them was inches instead of feet. Underneath, his breathing was forced, thick with pain he was trying to hide. He’d never admit it, but she didn’t need him to.
Every new city had its unique panic and perfume: salt tang from the ocean, sharp notes of diesel, street food frying, pulse of neon, ancient rot leaking from unpaid gutters. Her heightened senses soaked it all in, filing it; a thousand details, the risk calculations weaving through her mind as the coastline glittered ahead. The car had to disappear before anyone noticed them. Gambit suggested a clothing store — her senses understood before he even gestured, the offhand tightness in his voice revealing nerves. He always dressed well, a little too flashy, not built for running. They both needed to vanish into new versions of themselves.
She picked out for herself jeans and a dark hoodie, blending colors and textures that felt invisible. For him: loose cotton for dressing wounds, nondescript enough to shed his flamboyant past self. When she caught his eye in the mirror, his lopsided smirk met only her impassive stare. Her face rarely told more than she wanted, and today she wanted to be nobody at all.
The car knifed through fog to a dead end, its journey finished. She’d abandoned it clean, wiped it down, thrown away any trace that might link them. Gambit complained with his body as they walked — favoring his right side, silent hiss when his ribs grazed her elbow. The city’s heart thudded all around, and behind them the car quietly vanished into their past trouble. Ahead: the herbalist’s, a place built on trust and traded secrets. She reached for comfort in routine, every step rehearsed, his lagging gait setting alarm bells in her gut. Still, she pressed onward.
Inside the herbalist’s, warmth pressed against her skin, thick with old herbs and liniments. The owner’s eyes cut through her, then narrowed further at Gambit. Male, outsider, trouble. She registered each detail: the flexed jaw, darting gaze, hand hovering near the alarm button. But when she loosed her own version of pleading, controlled and steady, the owner relented. Called Gambit her brother, gave them shelter. She’d taken what she needed from the world for him. Now she needed a favor for him, too.
Downstairs, the basement was dark, carved from stone and secrets, lined with crates and bunk beds. She dropped the shopping bag, watcher now instead of actor as Gambit slumped onto cot, clutching his side. His voice, always melodic and sly, sounded bruised — concern pressed against worry as he tried to urge her away. Her mouth tightened; past and future ghosts brushed her memory. She understood why he’d want to deal alone. People she cared about always tried to keep her clear of trouble — and it had only gotten them dead or worse.
She listened, absorbing every word, his fear for her, his warnings couched in stories and old wounds. Her body tensed, sharp lines along her jaw. She was many things — weapon, shadow, something less than whole — but never someone who abandoned her own. Gambit, brash idiot though he was, mattered. She’d never leave him to face threats alone. Her healing factor might close wounds, but it couldn’t fix the emptiness of loss. Better she was cut and bruised at his side than left untouched and alone.
Silence was her answer, ever more potent than words. Her face, schooled by violence and survival, barely shifted: a flicker of disdain at his attempt to push her away, a slight roll of her eyes at his stubborn gallantry, a too-tight press of lips as old pain brushed too close. She let him speak because it helped him, though it changed nothing. She had decided: she would help, no matter his misgivings, no matter the risks.
Between them, history burned brighter than any argument. The city’s heart pounded above, but down here, in the half-light between hiding and hope, she carved out a private truth. She was not anyone’s pawn, not the silence men forced on weapons, nor the shadow they left behind to mourn them. She was the one who stayed, listened, fought, and would not be abandoned or abandon in turn.
In the end, as Gambit’s voice faded to breathless exhaustion, she met his eyes. She offered him the only promise she’d ever kept: I’m here. Whatever came next, she would not run. Her choices belonged to her alone. The world would have to get used to it.
This story was generated by user vereena93 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 very long story about how a mutant Laura Kinney with heightened senses and a healing factor was driving in a car stolen from bandits with her friend Gambit, whom she had freed. When they reached the coast of the city, her friend told her to stop at a clothing store and they bought some clothes. Then the woman abandoned the car and they went on foot to the hideout. When they went inside, the owner of the herbalist's didn't seem happy that the mutant had brought a man, but explained to her that he was her brother and needed help and needed to rest. Finally, the herbalist agreed and let the mutant's friend stay. They went down to the basement, which was their hideout. When her friend started talking, the mutant just listened and sometimes reacted to his words with grimaces. She listened as he said that she shouldn't get involved. But she just ignored him. she will do whatever she wants anyway. She made her own choices and she would never leave him alone with his problems. She was known for being quiet and didn't like to talk much. Describe it in the form of a mutant's thoughts and feelings without any dialogues.
Response: Rainwater streaked the dusty windshield, mingling with smudges and old palm prints — evidence this car wasn’t truly hers, wasn’t truly anyone’s except the fools she’d relieved it from. The engine made a ticking sound every third mile that kept pace with the tap-tap of her thumb on the steering wheel, a tempo reflecting the weightless edge of escape. Laura Kinney’s nostrils stung with the lingering tang of gun oil, gasoline, sweat, leather polish — all the distinctive notes of bandits she’d gutted her way through to free her only ally. Gambit sat beside her: his scent, always a strange cocktail of spice and smoke and city refuse, had an edge of injury and pent-up adrenaline now. She could hear his ragged heartbeat as if the space between them was inches instead of feet. Underneath, his breathing was forced, thick with pain he was trying to hide. He’d never admit it, but she didn’t need him to. Every new city had its unique panic and perfume: salt tang from the ocean, sharp notes of diesel, street food frying, pulse of neon, ancient rot leaking from unpaid gutters. Her heightened senses soaked it all in, filing it; a thousand details, the risk calculations weaving through her mind as the coastline glittered ahead. The car had to disappear before anyone noticed them. Gambit suggested a clothing store — her senses understood before he even gestured, the offhand tightness in his voice revealing nerves. He always dressed well, a little too flashy, not built for running. They both needed to vanish into new versions of themselves. She picked out for herself jeans and a dark hoodie, blending colors and textures that felt invisible. For him: loose cotton for dressing wounds, nondescript enough to shed his flamboyant past self. When she caught his eye in the mirror, his lopsided smirk met only her impassive stare. Her face rarely told more than she wanted, and today she wanted to be nobody at all. The car knifed through fog to a dead end, its journey finished. She’d abandoned it clean, wiped it down, thrown away any trace that might link them. Gambit complained with his body as they walked — favoring his right side, silent hiss when his ribs grazed her elbow. The city’s heart thudded all around, and behind them the car quietly vanished into their past trouble. Ahead: the herbalist’s, a place built on trust and traded secrets. She reached for comfort in routine, every step rehearsed, his lagging gait setting alarm bells in her gut. Still, she pressed onward. Inside the herbalist’s, warmth pressed against her skin, thick with old herbs and liniments. The owner’s eyes cut through her, then narrowed further at Gambit. Male, outsider, trouble. She registered each detail: the flexed jaw, darting gaze, hand hovering near the alarm button. But when she loosed her own version of pleading, controlled and steady, the owner relented. Called Gambit her brother, gave them shelter. She’d taken what she needed from the world for him. Now she needed a favor for him, too. Downstairs, the basement was dark, carved from stone and secrets, lined with crates and bunk beds. She dropped the shopping bag, watcher now instead of actor as Gambit slumped onto cot, clutching his side. His voice, always melodic and sly, sounded bruised — concern pressed against worry as he tried to urge her away. Her mouth tightened; past and future ghosts brushed her memory. She understood why he’d want to deal alone. People she cared about always tried to keep her clear of trouble — and it had only gotten them dead or worse. She listened, absorbing every word, his fear for her, his warnings couched in stories and old wounds. Her body tensed, sharp lines along her jaw. She was many things — weapon, shadow, something less than whole — but never someone who abandoned her own. Gambit, brash idiot though he was, mattered. She’d never leave him to face threats alone. Her healing factor might close wounds, but it couldn’t fix the emptiness of loss. Better she was cut and bruised at his side than left untouched and alone. Silence was her answer, ever more potent than words. Her face, schooled by violence and survival, barely shifted: a flicker of disdain at his attempt to push her away, a slight roll of her eyes at his stubborn gallantry, a too-tight press of lips as old pain brushed too close. She let him speak because it helped him, though it changed nothing. She had decided: she would help, no matter his misgivings, no matter the risks. Between them, history burned brighter than any argument. The city’s heart pounded above, but down here, in the half-light between hiding and hope, she carved out a private truth. She was not anyone’s pawn, not the silence men forced on weapons, nor the shadow they left behind to mourn them. She was the one who stayed, listened, fought, and would not be abandoned or abandon in turn. In the end, as Gambit’s voice faded to breathless exhaustion, she met his eyes. She offered him the only promise she’d ever kept: I’m here. Whatever came next, she would not run. Her choices belonged to her alone. The world would have to get used to it.
Post your own comment or use AI: