X-Men: Catalyst

Clark Earhart… Earhart.

The name rattled around in his head like a loose bolt in an old engine, never quite tightening, never quite fitting. Clark sat in his usual corner booth at Bell's Diner, a plate of half-eaten fries in front of him. He pushed one through a smear of ketchup, watching it leave a trail like a tiny plow carving through red dirt. He stared at it, unblinking, as if the answer to some unspoken question might rise from the plate.

Earhart.

It was his name, sure, but it never felt like his. Not really. It was like trying on someone else's boots—close enough to walk in, but never comfortable. He'd been doing this for years, muttering it under his breath, testing it out like a word in a language he didn't quite speak. Clark Earhart. Clark. Earhart. Sometimes, if he said it enough, he could almost convince himself it belonged to him. Almost. But there was always that nagging feeling, like a splinter buried deep under his skin. Something missing. Something hidden. A fog he couldn't quite see through, no matter how hard he squinted.

The orphanage counselor had called it a "repressed memory." Trauma, she said, could do that to a person. Lock things away, bury them so deep even the owner of the mind couldn't find them. Clark had nodded along, pretending to understand. Maybe it was better not to dig too deep.

"Don't tell me you're turnin' your nose up at my fries now, honey."

Mrs. Bell's voice cut through his thoughts like a warm knife through butter. She stood by the table, her apron dusted with flour, her hands resting on her hips like she was about to scold him for something. Her Southern drawl was thick as molasses, sweet and slow, the kind of voice that made you feel like you were home even if you weren't.

Clark blinked, pulling himself back to the present. He looked down at the fries, now cold and forgotten, and forced a smile. "Oh, no, the fries are perfect. Just got lost in my head for a minute there." He shoved a handful into his mouth, chewing quickly to prove his point. The salt hit his tongue, sharp and familiar, and for a moment, the fog in his head cleared.

Mrs. Bell let out a dramatic sigh, pressing a hand to her chest like she'd just survived a near-death experience. "Lord have mercy, you had me worried there for a second. If my best regular started turnin' his nose up at my fries, I'd have to hang up my apron and close up shop. Ain't no comin' back from that kinda betrayal."

Clark chuckled, the sound low and easy. "Don't worry, Misses Bell. Your fries are still the best in Louisiana. Maybe even the whole country. If there's better out there, I sure haven't found it."

She laughed. "Well, ain't you just the sweetest thing," she said, giving him a playful swat with her dish towel. "But don't go tellin' my husband that. His ego's big enough as it is."

"Too late," Clark shot back, grinning. "I already told him last week. Said his burgers were almost as good as your fries."

Mrs. Bell shook her head, her eyes twinkling. "Oh, you're trouble, Clark Earhart. Pure trouble." She turned to refill a customer's coffee, calling over her shoulder, "You keep talkin' like that, and I might just adopt you myself."

Clark watched her go, his smile fading as the fog crept back in. He finished the rest of his fries in silence, the taste of salt and grease grounding him in the moment. When he was done, he left a twenty on the table—enough to cover the meal and then some. He wasn't rich, not by a long shot, but he always made sure to tip well. Places like Bell's Diner were rare, and people like Mrs. Bell even rarer.

As he stood to leave, Mr. Bell poked his head out from the kitchen, his bald head gleaming under the lights. "Hey, Clark! You comin' by Friday? Got somethin' new I'm cookin' up. Gonna blow your mind."

Clark paused at the door, one hand on the handle. "Wouldn't miss it," he said, flashing a grin. "But if it's better than the fries, I might have to start callin' you a wizard."

Mr. Bell laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that echoed through the diner. "You just wait, kid. Friday's gonna change your life. I'm talkin' flavor so good, it'll make you forget your own name."

Clark's grin faltered for just a second, but he recovered quickly. "Guess I'll have to see it to believe it," he said, pushing the door open.

"Friday, Clark!" Mr. Bell called after him. "Don't you forget!"

"Wouldn't dream of it," Clark replied, stepping out into the warm Louisiana air his mind was already elsewhere, drifting back to that fog, that name, that feeling of something just out of reach.

Clark Earhart.

He said it one more time, just to see how it felt. It didn't feel any different.

Maybe it never would.

Clark walked through the streets of West Monroe, his phone clutched in one hand, the screen lighting up with a text from his coworker. Shift's done. Your turn. He sighed, shoving the phone into his pocket. The city was quiet this time of day, the kind of quiet that felt like a held breath. West Monroe wasn't much—a small city that clung to its Southern charm like a fading memory—but it was home. For now, at least.

He made his way toward the bookstore, his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. The air carried the faint scent of magnolias and fried food from the diner a few blocks over. Clark had somehow managed to carve out a decent life here. A nice little apartment, a job that didn't make him want to tear his hair out, and neighbors who mostly left him alone. It wasn't perfect, but it was his.

As he turned the corner, the quiet was shattered by the sound of yelling. Up ahead, a small crowd had gathered around a man standing on a wooden crate, his voice booming like thunder. The preacher—or whatever he was—wore a suit that looked like it had seen better days, his face red with exertion as he waved a battered Bible in the air.

"Mutants!" he shouted, spittle flying from his lips. "They are not of God's creation! They are abominations, creatures of the devil, masquerading as men and women! Beware, for they walk among us! They could be your neighbors, your friends, even your family! The end times are upon us, and the mutants are the harbingers of destruction!"

Clark stopped in his tracks, his jaw tightening. Ever since that accident in New York—the one involving a mutant—hate had been on the rise. It didn't matter that the reports called it an accident, that the mutant in question had been trying to help. People needed someone to blame, and mutants were an easy target.

The crowd murmured, a mix of curiosity and unease. Some nodded along, their faces grim. Others looked uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot like they wanted to leave but didn't dare. Clark scanned the faces, his stomach churning. He recognized a few—regulars from the bookstore, a guy who worked at the hardware store down the street. Good people, mostly. Or at least, he'd thought they were.

The preacher's voice rose to a fever pitch. "Repent! Cast out the abominations among you! The Lord will not suffer the wicked to live!"

Clark's hands clenched into fists at his sides. He wasn't a fighter—never had been—but something about the man's words made his blood boil. Maybe it was the way he spat mutant like it was a curse. Maybe it was the way the crowd ate it up, their fear turning into something uglier. Whatever it was, Clark couldn't just walk away.

"Hey!" he called out, his voice cutting through the preacher's tirade. The man paused, his eyes narrowing as they landed on Clark. The crowd turned too, their gazes curious, wary.

Clark crossed his arms, tilting his head with a smirk. "Ain't you been sayin' the end times are comin' for, what, a decade now? So what is it, old man? Is it comin', or do you just want more money from these folks?"

The crowd broke into small laughter, the tension breaking. Even a few of the preacher's supporters chuckled, though they tried to hide it. The man's face turned an even deeper shade of red, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

"You mock the word of God, boy?" he finally spat, pointing a trembling finger at Clark. "You'll burn for this!"

Clark shrugged, his smirk widening. "Guess I'll see you there, then."

The crowd laughed again, louder this time, and Clark took the opportunity to slip away, his heart pounding in his chest. He didn't look back, but he could feel the preacher's glare burning into his back. It wasn't until he turned the corner that he let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

"Idiot," he muttered under his breath, though he wasn't sure if he meant the preacher or himself. He hadn't planned on saying anything—hadn't planned on drawing attention to himself at all. But sometimes, the words just came out. Sometimes, he couldn't help himself.

He glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting to see the preacher or one of his followers trailing him. But the street was empty, the only sound was the distant hum of traffic and the rustle of leaves in the breeze. Clark shoved his hands back into his pockets and kept walking.

Mutants. Demons. End times. It was all nonsense, of course. But nonsense had a way of spreading, especially when people were scared.

Clark shook his head, trying to push the thoughts away. He had a shift to get to, a life to live. He couldn't afford to get caught up in someone else's paranoia.

But as he walked, the preacher's words echoed in his mind, refusing to be silenced.

They could be your neighbors, your friends, even your family.

Clark's steps slowed, his chest tightening. He glanced down at his hands, half-expecting to see something—anything—that would mark him as different. But they were just hands. Normal hands.

Clark sighed as he finally reached the library. The building loomed ahead, its old brick facade bathed in the warm glow of the streetlights. The sign above the door read West Monroe 24-Hour Library, the letters faded but still legible. It wasn't much to look at from the outside, but inside, it was a sanctuary. Clark pushed the door open, the bell above it jingling softly.

He clocked in at the front desk, whistling a tune under his breath. The library was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt alive. The faint scent of old paper and wood polish filled the air, familiar and comforting. Jake, his coworker, was slumped in a chair behind the desk, looking like he'd just survived a marathon. When he saw Clark, he practically leaped to his feet, relief washing over his face.

"You have no idea how happy I am to see you," Jake said, running a hand through his messy hair. He looked like he hadn't slept in days.

Clark raised an eyebrow, setting his bag down on the counter. "Happy to see you too, buddy. But damn, you look like you got run over by a truck. What's got you so beat?"

Jake let out a tired laugh, clapping a hand on Clark's shoulder. "Sorry, dude. Just… today's been a lot. But hey, you're here now, so I'm out." He patted Clark's shoulder before gesturing vaguely toward the back of the library. "Good luck with inventory."

Clark followed Jake's gaze and froze. Stacks of boxes were piled high in the corner, their tops barely visible. "You've got to be kidding me," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "How many boxes are there?"

Jake shrugged, already halfway to the door. "Enough to keep you busy for a while. Have fun!"

"Right…" Clark said, dragging out the word as Jake disappeared into the night. He stared at the boxes for a moment, then slapped his cheeks lightly. "Alright, Earhart. Let's get to work."

He pulled his headphones out of his bag, slipping them over his ears and queuing up a playlist. He grabbed a box cutter and got to work, slicing through tape and unpacking books with efficiency. It was monotonous work, but Clark didn't mind. There was something almost meditative about it, the rhythm of the task matching the rhythm of the music.

Hours passed, the stacks of boxes slowly shrinking as Clark worked his way through them. By the time he was done, his back ached and his hands were sore, but he felt a strange sense of satisfaction. He sank into the chair behind the desk, propping his feet up and letting out a long breath.

This wasn't your typical library. It was open 24/7, a fact that had raised more than a few eyebrows when the owner first proposed the idea. But the man had been adamant. "Knowledge shouldn't have a curfew," he'd said. "If someone wants to read at 3 a.m., who are we to stop them?" Clark had liked the idea from the start. It was unconventional, sure, but it felt right. And besides, it made for an easy job. Most nights were quiet, just him and the books, and that was exactly how he liked it.

He hummed along to the music as he wandered through the aisles, running his fingers along the spines of the books. The library was a maze of stories, each one waiting to be discovered. Clark loved that about this place—the endless possibilities, the way you could lose yourself in someone else's world for a while. He pulled a book off the shelf, flipping through the pages absently when the sound of the door opening caught his attention.

He made his way back to the front desk, his footsteps soft against the floor. A young girl stood inside, her hoodie pulled up over her head, her hands stuffed into the pockets. She couldn't have been more than twelve or thirteen, her face pale and her eyes downcast. Clark checked his phone—almost 11 p.m.

"Aren't you a little young to be out this late?" he asked, pulling off his headphones and setting them on the desk. His voice was gentle, but there was an edge of concern underneath. The girl didn't answer, just shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her gaze fixed on the floor.

Clark leaned against the desk, studying her. "You okay, kid? You need something? A book, maybe?"

Still, she said nothing, her silence heavy and unnerving. Clark frowned, his instincts kicking in. Something about this felt off.

"Hey," he said, his voice softer now. "You don't have to talk if you don't want to. But if you're in trouble, I can help. Okay?"

The girl finally looked up, her eyes meeting his for the briefest of moments before darting away again. There was something in her expression—fear, maybe, or desperation. Clark couldn't quite put his finger on it, but it made his chest tighten.

"You're safe here," he said. "Whatever's going on, you're safe."

The girl didn't respond, but she didn't leave either. She just stood there, a shadow in the dim light of the library.

Heavy footsteps echoed outside, sharp and deliberate, cutting through the quiet hum of the library. Clark froze, his hand hovering over the desk phone. Before he could react, the girl bolted from her spot, her sneakers squeaking against the polished floor as she darted behind the desk. She crouched low, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps, her wide eyes locked on Clark's.

"Hey, wait—" Clark started, but the words died in his throat as the door swung open.

Two figures stepped inside, their presence immediately filling the room with an oppressive weight. The first was tall and broad-shouldered, his muscular frame straining against the fabric of his black jacket. The second was shorter but no less imposing, his movements sharp and calculated. Both wore sleek black masks that covered their entire faces, the material smooth and featureless except for faint, almost imperceptible grooves that caught the light.

Clark's heart pounded in his chest, but he forced himself to stay calm. He straightened up, his hands resting on the desk in what he hoped was a casual, non-threatening gesture. "How can I help you?" he asked, his voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

The taller one stepped forward, his boots thudding against the floor. "I think you know how," he said, his voice low and gruff, like gravel grinding underfoot.

Clark glanced down at the girl, who was now trembling behind the desk, her small hands clutching the edge of the counter. His mind raced, trying to piece together what was happening, but the pieces didn't fit. Who were these guys? What did they want with the girl?

He looked back at the masked men, his jaw tightening. "Yeah, no idea what you're talking about," he said, his tone firm but measured. "If you've got a problem, we can take it up with the cops." He reached for the phone, his fingers brushing the receiver.

Before he could lift it, a black tendril shot out from the shorter man's hand, moving faster than Clark's eyes could follow. It slammed into the phone, crushing it into a mangled heap of plastic and wires. The sound was deafening in the quiet library, and Clark flinched, his hand jerking back instinctively.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath.