Clark Johnson
Clark Johnson
Clark
The Realist / Truth-Teller with a Beer Can
Age: Late 30s to early 40s
Look: African American, Rough around the edges, probably in scavenged military or urban gear, shaved head
Vibe: Cynical, streetwise, a bit grungy
Background: Skeptical of myths but knows the legends; has street knowledge of the Watchers
Role: The camp’s grounding voice, comic relief, and warning signal
Personality: Rough, humorous, drinks to numb the fear; tells it straight
Clark
Role: The Skeptic / Camp Realist
Age: 40
Background: Former scavenger or military dropout, Clark has seen more than he wants to remember. He doesn’t believe in much but sticks with the Disciples because they’re the last community left.
Skills: Survival, camp defense, mechanical improvisation, truth-telling
Personality: Gruff, sarcastic, world-weary but loyal
Motivation: To stay alive and protect what’s left of humanity—even if he doesn’t buy into the spiritual side
Arc: Clark may have to confront a deeply personal revelation about the machines or the Wanderer that challenges his skeptical worldview.
Character Description: Clark Johnson
Clark Johnson is the grounding force in a world coming undone. In his late 30s, with close-cropped dark hair and steady brown eyes, he carries himself like a man who has seen both the worst and best of humanity and still chooses to believe in something better. Broad-shouldered but calm in demeanor, he dresses plainly — leather jacket, scuffed boots, a watch that once belonged to his father.
He has the quiet voice of someone who listens before speaking, and when he does, people pay attention. Beneath his pragmatism, though, lies an unspoken grief — the kind that drives a man to search for answers far beyond what the visible world can provide.
Clark doesn’t chase truth like Martin Cole or Brandon Eisenberg — he protects it. He is the one who keeps the others tethered when their search threatens to tear them apart.
Biography
Clark Johnson was born in Detroit, Michigan, the son of a steelworker and a nurse. His early life was defined by discipline, faith, and the unromantic realities of survival. After serving as a field investigator for the U.S. Air Force’s classified Phenomena Analysis Division, Clark developed a reputation for seeing patterns where others saw chaos. His specialty was “human anomalies” — individuals who experienced measurable disruptions in electromagnetic or psychic fields.
It was during one such case that he crossed paths with Brandon Eisenberg, whose GEIST research had left ripples across classified networks. Eisenberg hired Clark as a “consultant,” though Clark quickly realized he was more of a handler — someone to keep the scientist from slipping too far into madness.
Through Eisenberg, Clark met Martin Cole, and something about Martin struck him deeply. Unlike Eisenberg, who sought to dominate the unseen, Martin sought to understand it. Clark recognized in him the same longing that had driven his own life — the desire to make peace with forces beyond control.
Over time, Clark became Martin’s closest ally — a brother-in-arms, the only one unshaken by the metaphysical storms surrounding GEIST. Though he never fully believed in the cosmic underpinnings of the experiment, he believed in Martin. And in the end, that was enough to drag him further into the mystery than he ever intended to go.
After the GEIST event fractured the team, Clark went underground, keeping watch from the shadows — a guardian, still seeking redemption for the lives lost and the truth buried.
Short Story: “The Man at the Edge of the Field”
The desert had a silence that didn’t feel natural — a kind of pause between heartbeats.
Clark Johnson stood beside the charred remains of what had once been the GEIST mobile lab, his boots crunching on broken glass and scorched sand. The air shimmered faintly, as though the sun itself was uncertain where the horizon ended.
He knelt down, picking up a half-melted badge: Dr. Brandon Eisenberg — Director, GEIST Initiative.
It was warm to the touch. Too warm.
“Always chasing ghosts,” Clark muttered. “And now you’ve become one.”
He turned as he heard movement behind him. A figure was walking from the dunes — tall, thin, wearing a torn coat, eyes wild with exhaustion. It was Martin Cole.
“Clark,” Martin rasped. “Don’t come closer.”
“Jesus, Martin. You look like hell. What happened here?”
Martin hesitated, swaying slightly. “It wasn’t supposed to open. It was just light — and then sound — and then… something stepped through.”
Clark felt the back of his neck tighten. “Something?”
Martin nodded, his eyes unfocused, haunted. “It called itself The Wanderer.”
Clark said nothing. The desert wind moaned softly around them, dragging ash through the air.
“What happened to Brandon?” he finally asked.
Martin’s jaw tightened. “He saw it first. I think… it took him.”
Clark exhaled slowly, scanning the horizon. The sand stretched out in every direction — endless, unforgiving. Somewhere in the distance, the faint hum of energy still pulsed from the ruins, like the heartbeat of a sleeping giant.
“You know what this means,” Martin said quietly. “It’s not over. It’s just begun.”
Clark placed a steady hand on his shoulder. “Then we start from here. One step at a time.”
He didn’t believe in the divine geometry or cosmic gateways that Brandon raved about. But as the air rippled faintly and the sun flickered — just once — Clark realized something unexplainable was still alive in that field.
And he understood, with the old soldier’s clarity he had never lost, that his role was no longer to investigate.
It was to protect.