The birth of Captain America was something that felt "destined." But even the smallest shift in events could have led to a dramatically different outcome.
During the height of World War II, in an effort to gain an advantage on the front lines and bring the war to a quicker end, the United States covertly initiated a project known as the Super Soldier Program.
Dr. Abraham Erskine developed a unique chemical compound—an experimental serum designed to unlock the full physical potential of the human body.
In other universes, Steve Rogers was selected for the serum due to his unwavering resolve and moral strength. He didn't disappoint. He took up the shield, defeated the seemingly invincible Red Skull, and became the legend known as Captain America.
But in this universe, the Super Soldier Program was discovered prematurely by enemy spies. Dr. Erskine was assassinated before he could even finalize the serum. Alongside him, another patriot—Howard Stark—and a number of U.S. operatives were also killed in the ambush.
With both Dr. Erskine and his team of scientists gone, the Super Soldier Program was forced into abandonment. Even with the full resources of the American government behind it, no one could replicate or continue Erskine's work.
All the funding and effort ended in complete failure—an outcome no one was willing to accept. So the government shifted its focus. Instead of enhancing regular humans, they turned their attention to mutants—beings already born with extraordinary genetic abilities.
From that moment, the Super Soldier Program was rebranded as the Mutant Gene Research Initiative. The military selected 300 Black soldiers to undergo experimental procedures. None of them survived. All died under "unexpected" circumstances. Even the few who barely held on to life couldn't survive more than a few years.
Mutant gene compatibility with humans was far too low. Anyone injected with mutant DNA died from genetic breakdown—typically within one to three days after manifesting their powers.
This failed research was just one of countless wartime experiments. In the end, they were buried by history, erased from record, and known only to a select few.
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Back in the driver's seat of their Chevy Impala, Dean didn't even remember how he walked out of the WWII museum, nor could he make sense of what he was feeling as he returned to the car.
He was still processing the old man's story. His worldview needed serious realignment.
Sam exhaled deeply, trying to settle his turbulent thoughts. "How much of that do you think was real?"
"I don't know. My head's a mess," Dean replied, shaking his head.
"I'm not doing any better," Sam admitted. "It's hard to accept that this world never had a Captain America. And not just that—Howard Stark died in that assassination too. Who knows how many future heroes got erased from history right then and there?" He pulled out a comic book, staring at the familiar faces of the X-Men, a complicated look on his face.
"I'm starting to understand what Alex has been dealing with," Dean said, wiping the cold sweat from his brow. His eyes carried the weight of something heavy and unspoken. "If this is the kind of crap he's been handling all along, then all our so-called world-saving missions feel like child's play."
"What hits hardest," Sam added quietly, "is knowing how every superhero should've been born—and realizing that, in this world, no one remembers. No one even cares."
Dean shook his head slowly. "If no one knows the truth, why would they care?"
He started the engine. The Impala roared to life.
Outside, the night sky was lit by flames. Chaos reigned in the streets. Crowds stormed out of their homes wielding weapons, smashing into storefronts and looting anything they could get their hands on.
No one cared about the Wild Sentinels rampaging through Manhattan. No one cared about the mutants running for their lives. All people knew was that in chaos like this, force and violence could get them what the world had always denied them.
"Where are we headed next?" Sam asked.
"The clues have already shown us the answer," Dean said. "These 'missing' superheroes—that's where we need to look next. Sam, I hope you still remember the other heroes who were active during World War II."
"Remembering them isn't the problem, Dean," Sam replied. "But finding them here is. If even Captain America and Iron Man never appeared in this world, then none of the Avengers we know ever existed here."
He held up the comic book in his hand. "Just like Alex said—this is a world of the X-Men. And only the X-Men."
"Exactly. That's the heart of the problem," Dean said, eyes fixed on the road. "That's what Alex wanted us to dig into. If this world truly only had mutants, then there's no reason for someone like Howard Stark to exist—or Dr. Erskine, for that matter."
He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, continuing, "But guess what? That's not what happened. Not only did Avengers exist in this world… they died. Or no—saying they 'died' isn't even accurate. They never appeared at all."
"Steve Rogers never received the Super Soldier Serum. Tony Stark was never born. I'm willing to bet even the Red Guardian doesn't exist here—because chances are, they never figured out how to replicate the serum like they did in our universe."
"This place is completely off the rails," Sam muttered, exhaling deeply. No one could tell just how heavy his heart felt at that moment.
"Let's just hope we can bring this to an end soon."
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After Dean and Sam left, the WWII Museum fell quiet once more.
The elderly Black man shuffled out slowly, a length of iron chain clutched in his hand. He carefully looped it around the door bolt, securing it shut.
He sighed, long and soft.
It had been years—decades even—since anyone had asked about the Super Soldier Program. The visit from those two federal agents had brought back memories he thought long buried.
"...Ah, forgot to shut the power off." He glanced back at the museum's glowing lights, smacked his forehead lightly, and chuckled. "Old age... the mind just isn't what it used to be."
Just as the elderly man unlocked the door and stepped inside to shut off the power, he suddenly heard a rush of footsteps behind him—quick, erratic, and accompanied by hoarse, excited shouting.
Turning around, the old man saw that a group of street punks had swarmed into the museum's main hall. Some carried crowbars, others even had handguns.
"Gentlemen, the museum is closed for the day. Please—"
"Oh, shut up, old man!"
One of the punks cut him off rudely, sneering as he hurried forward, signaling the rest to pour in behind him.
"Clear this place out, boys! Some of this junk's gotta be worth something! I bet collectors on the black market would pay a fortune for these relics!"
"No! You can't do this!" the old man shouted, hurrying to block their path.
But the leader shoved him aside without hesitation, sending him tumbling to the floor.
"We're not here for you, so stay the hell out of the way, fossil!"
"This is a World War II museum," the old man growled as he struggled to his feet. His voice was hoarse, but his tone was firm. "It's a place to honor heroes. How dare you defile it like this?"
His words drew laughter—loud, mocking laughter—from the punks. They erupted in amusement, like he had just told them the funniest joke in the world.
The ringleader laughed so hard he had to hold his ribs, pointing mockingly at the old man.
"Heroes? Are you serious?! This whole place is a fraud! All those so-called experiments America ran during the war—the stuff they did to mutants—it was all just a sick joke! There were no heroes. Just human testing and government lies!"
He stepped closer, towering over the old man now, voice dripping with disdain.
"You know what, old timer? Magneto was right. This world should belong to mutants—not to humans who built their legacy on torture and oppression."
"But… but you're human too!" the old man roared back.
"I wish I wasn't."
The punk snarled, shaking his head with a twisted grin. Then he turned toward his crew.
"Grab anything valuable—and torch the rest of it."
At his word, two tattooed punks emerged from the crowd—one tall, one short. Each carried a Molotov cocktail. Without hesitation, they hurled them straight toward the museum displays.
With the shattering crash of a glass bottle, a pillar of flame erupted and instantly engulfed half the museum. Nearly every exhibit stand was consumed in fire, the blaze rapidly spreading as gasoline soaked into the floor, flames licking hungrily across the gallery.
"No! No!!"
Seeing the inferno unfold before his eyes, the elderly Black man surged forward with strength born of sheer desperation, throwing himself at the vandals.
"How dare you?! How dare you?!"
But the only answer he received was a crowbar swung straight at him.
CRACK.
The blow sent him flying backward, crashing hard to the ground. Blood spilled across the floor as he lay motionless, his body twitching faintly.
The punk sneered, casually wiping the blood off his crowbar. He looked down at the old man's badge, the name glinting beneath the flickering firelight.
"Isaiah Bradley," the punk muttered with a mocking shake of his head. "Shame. You really shouldn't have tried to stand in our way."
...
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