X-Men: Catalyst

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as Elaine hurried down the clean corridor of Section D, her footsteps echoing off the polished floors. The blue pastry box felt awkward in her hands, a splash of color against the clinical whites and grays of the facility. She'd spent extra time picking out the perfect cake – chocolate with buttercream frosting, decorated with little race cars. It was probably silly, but she wanted to make this day special.

"Evening, Dr. Earhart," Peterson said, pulling up his tablet with practiced efficiency. "Need to log your visit, even at this hour." His fingers hovered over the screen, waiting. The bureaucracy never slept, not even in a place like this. Dr. Sterling's protocols were absolute – every movement and every interaction was documented in triplicate.

Elaine adjusted her grip on the box, trying not to let her irritation show. "It's Clark's birthday. Thought he deserved something special."

Williams, the newer guard, frowned. "Clark?" He glanced at his colleague, then back at his own tablet. "Don't see any Clark in the system."

"She means Subject EV-305," Peterson cut in, his voice carrying that detachment that made Elaine's jaw clench. He eyed the cake box with something between amusement and disdain. "Lucky little lab rat, getting special treatment."

Elaine felt heat rise in her cheeks but kept her voice steady. "He's a child, Peterson. A human child." The words came out sharper than she'd intended, but she was tired of this conversation, tired of having it over and over with different people wearing the same dismissive expressions.

"Protocol is protocol, Doctor," Williams said, clearly trying to smooth things over. He tapped something into his tablet. "Purpose of visit: Subject evaluation and... dietary provision?" He looked up at her hopefully.

"Close enough," Elaine muttered, already moving past them as the second set of doors slid open with a pneumatic hiss. Behind her, she could hear Peterson muttering something to Williams, probably another lecture about maintaining professional distance.

The observation room beyond was massive, easily fifty feet across, with one-way mirrors lining the upper walls and monitoring equipment humming quietly in the corners. In the center of it all, bathed in the warm light of carefully calibrated lamps designed to mimic natural sunlight, sat Clark.

The boy – and he was a boy, no matter what designation they gave him – was sprawled on his stomach on the padded floor, pushing a well-worn toy car back and forth. He was making engine noises under his breath, lost in his own world. His dark hair had grown out again; they'd need to schedule another trim soon. At six years old, he looked like any other child you might see at a park or shopping mall, except for the monitoring bracelet on his wrist and the way his eyes sometimes caught the light at odd angles.

Looking at him now, Elaine felt the familiar ache in her chest. They could dress it up in scientific language, call it observation and research, but at the end of the day, they were keeping a child in a box. Even if it was a very large, very expensive box.

She pushed the thought aside and put on her brightest smile. "Hey, birthday boy! Look what I brought you!"

Clark's head snapped up at her voice, the toy car forgotten. His eyes went wide at the sight of the blue box, lighting up with an almost electric intensity Elaine noted, as tiny spots of bioluminescence flickered in his irises. He scrambled to his feet with the uncoordinated enthusiasm only a six-year-old could muster.

"A CAKE!" He bounced on his toes, hands clasped together in excitement. The monitoring bracelet on his wrist blinked faster, keeping pace with his elevated heart rate. "Is it really for me?"

Elaine carefully set the box down on the small table they sometimes used for his cognitive tests. "Hold on there, speedy," she said, catching him gently by the shoulders as he made a dive for the box. "We have to do this properly. Birthday cakes come with traditions, remember?" She extracted a small package of candles from her lab coat pocket – she'd had to get special clearance for matches.

"Like in the stories?" Clark asked, watching intently as she arranged six small candles in a circle atop the frosting. His head tilted to the side, a gesture she'd noticed he made whenever he was processing new information. "The ones about normal kids?"

The question made her heart twist, but she kept her voice light. "Exactly like those." She struck a match, and Clark gasped softly as she lit each candle. The small flames cast dancing shadows across his fascinated face. "Now, you make a wish – but don't tell anyone what it is, that's very important – and then blow out all the candles at once."

Clark's brow furrowed in concentration. "A wish? Like... anything I want?"

She ran her fingers through his hair. "Anything at all, sweetheart. That's the birthday magic."

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then took a deep breath and blew. The candles flickered out, and his face split into a grin. Without waiting for permission, he swiped a finger through the frosting and popped it in his mouth.

"Oh wow!" His eyes went wide again. "This is way better than the stories! It's so... so..." He searched for the word, then settled on, "Real!" He dug in with more enthusiasm, frosting already smeared across his chin. "Birthdays are amazing! Can we do this every year?"

Elaine pulled out a tissue to wipe his face, using the moment to compose herself. "Of course we can. October 22nd – that's your special day now. Don't forget it, okay?"

"October 22nd," Clark repeated solemnly, then immediately ruined the effect by giggling as she caught a spot of frosting on his nose. "I promise I'll remember!"

She watched him attack the cake with gusto, his joy so genuine it almost made her forget where they were. Almost made her forget about the cameras recording every moment, the sensors monitoring his every reaction, the reports she'd have to file about his responses to normal childhood experiences. Almost made her forget that this moment of happiness was, in its own way, just another data point in someone else's experiment.

Elaine watched Clark devour his cake, each enthusiastic bite punctuated by little hums of joy, and something shifted inside her. The weight of years of compromise, of telling herself she was doing the right thing by staying, by trying to make his cage more comfortable, suddenly became unbearable. She'd been so careful, so cautious, using her own abilities only when necessary – to ease his pain after particularly brutal tests, to soften the edges of trauma, always telling herself it was for his protection. But inaction was its own form of complicity, and she was tired of playing it safe.

She knelt beside him, chocolate crumbs scattered across the floor between them. "Hey, Clark?" Her voice was soft. "I never told you why I picked that name for you, did I?"

He shook his head, licking frosting from his fingers in a heartbreakingly ordinary gesture. "Uh-uh. Is it a special name?"

"Very special." She smiled, feeling tears threatening at the corners of her eyes. "It's from these old comics I used to read. There was this hero – he looked human, but he was different. Special. He could do amazing things, but what made him truly super wasn't his powers. It was his heart. His kindness." She brushed a crumb from his cheek. "Just like you."

Clark's eyes lit up, tiny sparks of blue dancing in his pupils. "A superhero? That's so cool!" He bounced on his toes, then paused, catching something in her expression. "Dr. Elaine? Are you okay?"

She felt the familiar tingle as her powers surfaced, the slight metallic taste in her mouth that always accompanied their use. Above them, the security cameras sparked and died, one by one. The monitoring bracelet on Clark's wrist went dark with a soft click. She could already hear the commotion starting outside – they'd notice the failures soon if they hadn't already.

"The world out there is scary, Clark," she said, kneeling to meet his eyes. "But it's also beautiful and full of wonders. And you deserve to see it all, not just read about it in stories." Her hands trembled slightly as she cupped his face. "You deserve so much better than this room."

Confusion clouded his features. "I don't understand. What's happening?"

The first bang on the door made him jump, but she held it shut with a thought, reinforcing the locks. The alarm klaxons began to wail, their red emergency lights casting strange shadows across Clark's worried face.

"I'm going to help you forget this place," she said, her voice cracking slightly. "All the tests, all the fear, all the names they called you. But not who you are. Never who you are." Her eyes began to glow as she reached for his mind, familiar pathways opening before her. She'd done this so many times before, always taking away just enough to make it bearable. This time would be different. This time she'd take it all.

The pounding on the door grew more insistent. She could hear voices shouting, and the heavy thud of gear as security assembled. They had maybe minutes.

"You're such a kind boy, Clark," she whispered, tears rolling down her cheeks as she began the process. "You've always been such a kind, brave boy. Promise me you'll stay that way?" Memories began to fade from his mind like photographs left in the sun – the rooms, the endless tests, the guards who never used his name. She left the core of him untouched: his laugh, his curiosity, his gentle heart. She even left the cake, his first real birthday. But everything else, including herself, she carefully buried.

"Mom..." Clark's voice was confused, and distant, as his eyes began to flutter. "I feel... strange..."

She caught him as he slumped forward, cradling him close one last time as the door began to buckle under the assault from outside. In a few moments, she would have to fight her way out of here, would have to make sure he got somewhere safe, somewhere far from this place. But for now, she just held him, this boy she'd come to love as her own, and whispered, "Happy birthday, Clark. Time to fly."