X-Men: Catalyst

The adrenaline was finally wearing off as they tore through the night, reality settling in. King of Rock thundered through the speakers of the "borrowed" Chrysler, Run-DMC's lyrics about crown-wearing kings feeling ironically appropriate given how thoroughly they'd just demolished a public library. Dutch—if that was even his real name—drummed his fingers against the steering wheel with casual precision, like this was just another Tuesday night for him. Despite the fight, his long black coat showed few wrinkles, and his hair remained perfectly in place. The man looked more like he was coming from a business meeting than a superhuman throwdown.

Clark twisted in his seat to check on Harper again. The girl they'd nearly died protecting was curled up in the back seat, her small frame swimming in Dutch's spare coat. She caught his eye and managed a tired smile, her head still bobbing to the music. The blue sparks had faded from her eyes, leaving them a deep brown that looked too old for her childish face. At least she wasn't shaking anymore.

"Shouldn't we have..." Clark paused, trying to find a diplomatic way to phrase it. His ribs ached with every breath, a reminder of just how close they'd come to losing. "I don't know, waited for the police? Given a statement? Something besides grand theft auto and fleeing the scene?"

Dutch's laugh was sharp and without humor. "Yeah, let me just explain to the fine officers of the law why I'm carrying enough illegal hardware to start a minor war." He took a corner faster than was strictly necessary, the tires squealing in protest. "Besides, our two friends back there? They're the type that doesn't stick around for questioning. Trust me, by the time the boys in blue show up, there won't be anything left but property damage and unanswered questions."

Clark ran a hand through his hair, grimacing at the dried blood that flaked off. "So what you're saying is, we're fugitives now. Great. Fantastic. This is exactly how I planned to spend my Tuesday night."

"Relax, library boy." Dutch's smirk was visible in the flash of passing streetlights. "No face, no case. Those masked bastards aren't exactly going to file a police report about how they got their asses handed to them while trying to kidnap a kid. Far as anyone knows, it was just some random superpowered dust-up. Happens more often than you'd think these days."

The casual way he said it made Clark's stomach turn. "That's not exactly comforting. So what's the actual plan here? Because right now it feels like we're just driving around waiting for someone to notice the car we stole."

"Good question." Dutch's tone was infuriatingly cheerful.

Clark stared at him for a long moment, the pieces clicking together. "You don't have a plan, do you?" The words came out flat, more statement than question. "We just fought off two superpowered attackers and stole a car, and you don't have any idea what happens next?"

"Oh, I had a plan." Dutch's expression shifted to something harder, more calculating. "Originally, I was going to grab the little bird and disappear into the wind. Quick and clean." He glanced in the rearview mirror, catching Harper's eye. "But our spark plug back there seems to trust you more than me at the moment. And given what you pulled off back there..." He whistled low, genuinely impressed. "Let's just say the plan's undergone some recent revisions."

Clark felt Harper lean forward between the seats, her voice small but steady. "Those men... they'll keep coming, won't they?"

Dutch's expression softened just a fraction. "Yeah, kiddo. They will. But hey—that's why you've got us now. One moderately competent gunman and a librarian who apparently moonlights as a human tesla coil." He flashed her a reassuring grin in the mirror. "We'll figure something out."

"Great," Clark muttered, slumping back in his seat. "That's really reassuring coming from the guy who thought driving a car through a wall was a solid entrance strategy."

"Hey, it worked, didn't it?" Dutch's grin widened. "Sometimes the best plans are the ones you make up as you go along. Speaking of which..." He yanked the wheel hard, taking them down a darker side street. "Might want to hold onto something. I think we've got company."

The motorcycle's engine growled through the night like a stalking predator, its single headlight cutting through the darkness as it pulled alongside them. Clark tensed at the sight of two riders, his mind flashing back to the masked men at the library. But these two were different—the shorter man piloting the bike had a distinctly wild air about him, while his passenger seemed almost casual in his relaxed grip on the rider's shoulders. The driver made a circular motion with his hand, gesturing for Dutch to roll down his window.

Dutch's hand moved to his pistol with practiced ease, fingers wrapping around the grip before recognition flickered across his face. "Ah, hell," he muttered, returning the weapon to the dashboard with a disgusted flick. "Of all the nights..." He punched the window control with more force than necessary, the glass sliding down with a soft whine.

"Friend of yours?" Clark asked, watching as blue energy unconsciously flickered between his fingers. The events at the library had awakened something in him, and now it seemed to respond to every hint of threat.

"Hardly." Dutch's voice dripped with annoyed familiarity reserved for persistent debt collectors or particularly stubborn ex-partners. He guided the car toward the shoulder, gravel crunching under the tires. "Though I'm piecing together why he's here. Should've known he'd be mixed up in this somehow." He jerked his thumb toward Clark and Harper. "Pretty sure he's here for you two."

"What do you mean?" Harper's voice wavered slightly, the trauma of the night's events still raw. The surrounding air began to crackle with nervous energy, tiny arcs of electricity dancing between her fingertips.

Clark's eyes flared brilliant blue in response, power thrumming through him. The car's interior lit up with the combined glow of their abilities, casting everything in an ethereal light. The radio squealed with interference, Run-DMC dissolving into static.

"Easy there, sparklers." Dutch raised both hands in a placating gesture, a cigarette already dangling from his lips. The flame of his lighter cast sharp shadows across his face as he took a long drag. "If I went through all that trouble of demolishing public property to save you, it seems kind of counterproductive to lead you into a trap now, doesn't it?"

The motorcycle's engine cut off behind them, followed by the crunch of boots on gravel. Dutch's expression soured further as the shorter rider approached, exhaling a cloud of smoke with theatrical annoyance. "I'm starting to think you're stalking me, Logan. A man could get the wrong idea."

The man who stepped into view beside the window looked like he'd been carved from weathered granite and aged leather. His black hair swept up into wild points that seemed to defy gravity, matched by thick sideburns that bordered on animalistic. His face bore a permanent scowl that suggested he'd seen everything the world offered and found most of it wanting. When he spoke, his voice was a gravelly rumble that originated deep in his chest.

"Trust me, bub," Logan growled, leaning down to peer into the car with dark eyes that had seen too many centuries. "If I was stalking you, you wouldn't know it until it was too late." Despite the threatening words, there was an undercurrent of gruff amusement in his tone, like he was sharing an inside joke—albeit one that might end in violence.

The tension in the car crackled, both literal and metaphorical, as Clark and Harper watched this strange reunion unfold. The night had already served up plenty of surprises, but something told Clark they were far from done.

Dutch's laugh was hollow. He took another long drag from his cigarette, the ember briefly illuminating his sardonic smile. "Funny," he exhaled, smoke curling around his words. His eyes flicked to Clark and Harper in the rearview mirror. "So they're both mutants, huh?"

Logan's nod was slight, but certain. The streetlight caught the silver threading through his sideburns, marking decades that his weathered face somehow denied. "Yeah. Both of 'em lit up Cerebro like Christmas trees."

"I'm a mutant?" The words fell from Clark's mouth before he could stop them. His hands trembled slightly as he looked down at them, remembering the surge of power that had coursed through him at the library. All those years of feeling different, of that nagging sensation that something was missing.

Harper's small voice cut through his thoughts, innocent but edged with fear. "What's a mutant?" Her fingers twisted in the borrowed coat, sparks occasionally dancing between her knuckles like nervous fireflies.

Logan's expression softened almost imperceptibly. For a moment, the gruff exterior cracked, revealing something older and gentler underneath. "A mutant is someone special, kid. Someone born with gifts that most people can only dream about." He gestured vaguely at the electrical display around her hands. "Like what you can do. Thing is, right now the world ain't too kind to people like us. But I know a place—a school. Somewhere you don't have to hide, don't have to run. Somewhere safe."

"Well, that's underselling it," Dutch interjected, grinding his cigarette out in the car's ashtray.

Harper's eyes had gone distant, focused on something only she could see. "Don't have to run..." she repeated softly, testing the words. The constant sparking around her hands slowly faded as her shoulders relaxed for what felt like the first time all night.

Clark's mind was spinning. Everything he thought he knew about himself was shifting, realigning around this new reality. "I can't just leave," he protested, but the words sounded hollow even in his ears. "I've got a life here. A job. I'm sixteen—I'm old enough to handle this on my own!" The last part came out more defensive than he'd intended like he was trying to convince himself as much as them.

Logan opened his mouth to respond, but Dutch cut him off with the precision of a surgeon wielding a cruel scalpel. "That job you're talking about? The one at the library that's currently a smoking crater?" His laugh was sharp and without mercy. "And this life you've built? Hate to break it to you, kid, but that's gone too. The moment you walk back into town, the moment people connect you to what happened tonight..." He let the thought hang in the air like smoke.

Clark wanted to argue, to defend the life he'd carved out for himself, but memories of the street preacher's hateful words came flooding back. He'd seen the good in people here—Mrs. Bell's warmth, Mr. Chen's quiet kindness at the library. But he'd also seen how quickly fear could turn that goodness to ash. The destruction at the library played through his mind on repeat: splintered shelves and shattered windows. How would they look at him now? Would Mrs. Bell's smile fade when she realized what he was? Would Mr. Chen's eyes go cold when he saw what had become of his beloved library?

Paranoia crept in like rising floodwater, drowning out the rational parts of his mind. Every friendly face in his memory twisted with fear and hatred. Every kind word became a potential betrayal. The life he'd built suddenly felt as fragile as the paper in those scattered books, ready to tear at the slightest touch.

Dutch leaned back in his seat, the leather creaking beneath him as he fixed Clark with a look that was somewhere between exasperation and grudging concern. "Listen, kid, your Boy Scout routine back there? Jumping in to protect someone you didn't even know? That takes guts. Real stupid guts, but guts all the same." He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, choosing his next words carefully. "But that comes with a price tag. Right now, there's probably an entire squad of cops trying to piece together what happened at that library, and trust me—you don't want to be around for that."

Clark slumped in his seat, and the streetlight caught the dried blood on his knuckles, a reminder of everything that had changed in a few hours. "I just... this is the longest I've stayed anywhere. Put down roots, you know?" His voice carried the quiet desperation of someone watching their carefully constructed world crumble. "It feels wrong to just run away, leaving everything in pieces."

Logan's eyebrow arched skeptically, his gruff voice cutting through the tension. "Smoking crater?"

"Long story." Dutch waved off the question with practiced nonchalance. He turned to face Clark fully, his usual smirk replaced by something more genuine. "Look, the mess we left behind? The library, the property damage, questions that might come up? I'll handle it. Consider it my contribution to the cause of wayward mutant teenagers everywhere."

Clark sat quietly for a moment, processing. The blue glow had faded from his eyes, leaving them thoughtful and uncertain. He glanced at Harper, who had been unusually quiet throughout the exchange. "What do you think about all this?"

The girl seemed to shrink further into Dutch's oversized coat, but her voice was steady when she finally spoke. "I want to go." The words were soft but carried the weight of someone who had spent too long-running. "I'm tired of being scared."

A small smile tugged at the corner of Clark's mouth as he looked back at Logan. There was something almost liberating about standing at the edge of such a complete change. "Well, new powers, new slate, I guess. Might as well see where this road leads."

"Great, well, it's been..." Dutch started, already reaching for the ignition, but Logan cut him off.

"Need you to drive them," Logan said flatly. "Follow my bike." He gestured at the motorcycle behind them, its chrome still gleaming in the darkness. "Can't exactly fit four people on one bike."

Dutch's eye roll was practically audible as he slumped back in his seat. "Yeah, okay, whatever." He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like 'glorified taxi service.'

"Can we make a quick stop?" Clark asked suddenly, sitting up straighter. "There's this diner—Bell's. I just... I need to say goodbye."

******

The bell above the door chimed its familiar welcome as Clark stepped into Bell's Diner, the lights casting their warm glow over the worn checkerboard tiles and chrome fixtures. The place smelled like home—coffee and grilled onions. Mrs. Bell looked up from wiping down the counter, her face lighting up with that smile that had gotten Clark through more rough nights than he could count.

"Well, if it ain't our favorite customer!" She set aside her rag, already reaching for a menu she didn't need. "Want me to get your usual, darling? Those fries aren't gonna eat themselves." The way she said it made it sound like feeding him was her personal mission in life.

Mr. Bell emerged from the kitchen, wiping his calloused hands on a dish towel that had seen better days. "Why don't I throw something special on there? Been working on a new sauce that'll knock your socks clean off." His enthusiasm for cooking had always been infectious.

Clark's throat tightened as he looked at them—this couple who had taken in a strange teenager and made him feel like he belonged somewhere. The words stuck in his throat for a moment before he could force them out. "I can't stay," he managed, each word feeling like gravel. "I'm... I'm leaving town. Going somewhere else for a while. I just..." He swallowed hard. "I needed to say goodbye."

The change in Mrs. Bell's expression was immediate, like watching a sunset fade too quickly. Her hand flew to her chest, clutching at her apron. "Oh, honey," she whispered, and those two words carried more maternal concern than Clark had heard in years. "Coming to break my heart now, are you?"

"I don't want to," Clark said quickly, the words tumbling out. "But I think... I think it's something I need to do. Something good for me." He couldn't tell them about the powers, about the fight, about the school waiting for him. But somehow, standing there in the diner's warm light, he thought maybe they understood anyway.

Mr. Bell moved to his wife's side, one strong arm wrapping around her shoulders. His eyes, usually twinkling with mischief, were serious but kind. "A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do," he said simply, and in those words was every lesson about growing up that Clark had never had a father to teach him. "I get it, kid. Sometimes the road calls, and you've got to answer."

Before Clark could respond, they were both moving around the counter. Mrs. Bell wrapped him in a hug that smelled like vanilla and flour, her slight frame somehow encompassing him completely. She pressed a kiss to his forehead, the gesture so motherly it made his chest ache. "You make sure you eat enough, you hear me?" Her voice wavered slightly. "Don't go getting too skinny wherever you're headed."

Mr. Bell's hand found Clark's hair, ruffling it one last time. The gesture was casual, but his grip on Clark's shoulder was firm, grounding. They held him there between them, creating a moment of perfect belonging that Clark burned into his memory.

"Thank you," he managed, the words feeling inadequate for everything they'd given him—not just food and shelter, but dignity, kindness, a place to feel human. "For everything." He held onto them a moment longer, memorizing the feeling of being part of something like a family, before finally stepping back toward the door. The bell chimed again as he left, its cheerful ring somehow sadder than before.