What's the problem?
The problem is huge.
A strange glint flickered in Alex's eyes.
He knew—Logan wasn't the kind of man to joke about something like this. Especially not over some throwaway detail.
That mention of the Red Room—it had slipped out of James's mouth without thought, pure reflex. He hadn't considered that name anything special. But Alex knew better.
Logan was just a mutant native to this universe. He couldn't possibly understand what that name meant elsewhere—how massive the implications were.
He didn't know just how deep the fractures ran in this reality.
In that moment, Alex felt as if a few scattered pieces finally clicked into place. But deeper truths still escaped him. If he wanted answers, he'd need more than hunches. He needed proof.
Leaning against a wall, shrouded in the alley's shadows, Alex fixed a steady gaze on Logan. Choosing his words carefully, he asked in a low voice,
"Let's talk about it, Logan. I want to know everything about the Red Room."
"The Red Room?" James paused, digging into old, rusted memories. "I don't know a lot. Just that it was a facility—used to train spies and assassins."
He stopped for a moment, then added, "It was mid–World War II, I think. I was part of a paratrooper unit, sent behind enemy lines to sabotage a secret Soviet facility. That was the first time I ever heard of the Red Room."
"And then?" Alex asked, frowning slightly.
"The mission went off without a hitch. I mean, with mutants on your side, even elite agents couldn't do much. They weren't trained for frontline combat—just infiltration. So yeah, the ambush was swift. They didn't stand a chance."
Alex's tone grew sharper. "What about the people behind it? Who built the Red Room? What happened to their agents?"
James shrugged. "We blew the place sky-high. Everyone inside—creators, commanders—gone. We didn't leave survivors back then. It was war, you understand? No witnesses. No records."
He spoke with a heavy voice. "Back before I became a mercenary, I did a lot of dirty work. Missions where the identity of the target didn't matter. Orders came down, I executed. I didn't ask questions. I didn't care if they were good or evil. I just finished the job."
Alex's eyes narrowed, watching James closely. Sensing no lie in his words, Alex turned inward, thinking back over everything he knew about this universe's timeline.
In his mind, Logan (2017)—the last stand of Wolverine—should've been part of the Days of Future Past timeline.
If that was the case, then the broader timeline of this universe should've aligned with the continuity of X-Men Origins and The Wolverine as well.
And yet…
Something felt wrong.
"Have you ever heard of the Red Guardian?" Alex asked slowly, rubbing his chin. "Or Captain America?"
"Nope," James replied without hesitation. "Who are they?"
That said it all. If he had ever met either of them, names like that would've been unforgettable.
Even James realized something was off now.
"These two… they're important, aren't they?"
Click. Click.
Lighting a cigarette, Alex nodded. "Yeah. Very important. And the fact that they're not part of your memory? That's the problem."
James took the cigarette, lit it, and inhaled slowly.
"So I'm guessing... whatever we're about to start digging into—it's got something to do with those names, right?"
"No." Alex shook his head. "Dean and Sam will look into those names. You and I… we're going after something else. Something just as important."
James looked puzzled. "I don't know what you're after—but I trust you've got a plan. Just tell me this: whatever it is you're looking for… what does it mean for this world? Or for me?"
"This isn't just about you, Logan," Alex said with a heavy sigh. "This might concern the entire universe—every mutant across every reality. I think I'm starting to understand why they chose this universe. But… there are still things I can't quite figure out."
James gave a thoughtful nod. Even if he didn't get the full picture, he understood enough to know where things were heading. He looked up at Alex.
"So… where to next?"
"Not we—just me. I need to head to New York."
Alex flicked the cigarette butt to the ground and crushed it under his boot.
"You need to go back—to Charles. You're a mutant, Logan. Even if the odds are low, they might still take an interest in you. Which means you can't be with me."
James nodded. He didn't protest. But he did raise a concern.
"New York's a mess right now. And you've given up your powers. It's going to be dangerous."
"I know," Alex said quietly, lifting his head.
"But I have my reasons. And they matter."
------------------------
177A Bleecker Street
"New job just came in," Sam muttered, glancing at his phone as he sat in the front seat.
Dean, noticing his expression, looked over.
"What's up? What's Alex got us doing now?"
Sam didn't respond immediately. He handed the phone over, then raked a hand through his hair.
"Captain America and Red Guardian. Why would Alex suddenly want us to start there?"
Dean frowned. "I thought this universe only had the X-Men and mutants?"
"If we go by what Old Man Logan told us, yeah, that's what the files say. But if Alex is having us look into this… then maybe there's more here than we thought. Maybe mutants aren't the only shadows in this world."
Sam glanced over toward the motel room where Gabriel and Laura were staying. After a short pause, he turned back.
"Let's go. We've got bigger things to take care of."
------------------------
They left the motel behind. Dean and Sam drove out to the World War II Museum.
It was a quiet place, home to relics of the past—displays and exhibits chronicling the war. If they were going to understand the roots of this universe, this was the right place to start.
Maybe it was because of its historical nature, or maybe because there was nothing there worth looting—but unlike other areas caught in chaos and riots, this museum was eerily calm. The streets were empty. Quiet.
Dean had navigated around protest zones and rioting mobs to get here. By the time they arrived, the sun had begun to dip behind the skyline.
"Sorry, folks. We're closed for the day," an old African-American man said as he stood in front of the museum entrance, hunched but watchful.
"Sorry, we're on special assignment," Dean said as he and Sam flashed their fake credentials in front of the old man.
The elderly Black man blinked in confusion at the brief glimpse of the blue FBI badge. He couldn't quite make sense of why these two agents would show up here—this museum had nothing to do with the feds, at least as far as he could remember.
Especially now, with everything outside falling apart, shouldn't these two be out investigating rogue mutants or the Essex Corporation's rumored human experiments with government backing?
Still, he didn't question it out loud. Instead, he gave a small nod and unchained the museum doors.
"Come on in. I'll give you a quick look around."
He led them inside, unlocking the doors and flipping on the power. The museum lit up all at once in a bright flood of light.
"Truth be told, not many people come here these days," the old man said slowly. "No one cares about history anymore. They just treat it like bedtime stories. The American Dream we once believed in? Now it's just an American nightmare."
With a keyring jingling softly in his hand, he gestured to the main hall.
"I'll leave you be. You're free to look around. If you need anything, I'll be in the security office by the entrance."
"Thanks," Dean said with a respectful nod. He always had a soft spot for older folks.
The old man just waved his hand and walked quietly back toward the entrance.
When the doors closed behind him with a dull clunk, Dean and Sam were left alone in the vast museum.
"You know," Dean muttered as he glanced around, "the old guy had a point. Back in our world, we never actually visited one of these military museums."
"When all this is over, I wouldn't mind tagging along to one," Sam replied absently, scanning their surroundings.
"I was just making conversation," Dean said. "And saying that kind of thing here, in this situation? You're not afraid we might never make it back?"
"Heh."
Sam chuckled softly.
"Come on, planting death flags is old news. And let's be real—we've both died more than once. With Alex in charge of this op? If anything does happen to us, you know he's got the power to fix it."
"You're not wrong," Dean said, shrugging. "So… where do we start?"
"How about here?"
Sam had stopped in front of a massive display board. Through the glass, they could see an elaborately arranged exhibit featuring five motorcycles and a set of worn, bullet-ridden combat uniforms.
Carved into the plaque was a title: The Howling Commandos.
......
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