Aight, this is my first story under this name. Check out "Future Past" by Esteban Sanchez. Anyway, enough plugging...this story is basically an alternate universe thing, where Wolverine and other mutants well...I don't want to give it away. Of course, all props to Marvel, because only they can make money off these characters. More chapters to come very soon. R/R please! Hope you like.

James never bothered figuring out how he ended up at the motel. It didn't matter…they had great pancakes. The place was old, wall paper peeling from the corners of cob-webbed parapets. What were those…ducks? He chuckled internally, stuffing his mouth with another stack. The small 13 inch television looked like it barely made the transition to color, the chef coming from behind the counter to smack its frame. Surprisingly, the picture came in clear…the local news.

A few other people walked in, a family, barely able to take in the "rustic" scenery before being seated. They were Mexican…maybe even Native American. That didn't help. His eyes trailed around the room, noticing everyone looked about the same. All except for the guy in the corner with the red shades…he looked out of place. James didn't linger on him long, another plate of pancakes dropping down in front of him.

"You must be hungry? This is your fourth plate." The waitress smiled wide when he looked up at her, wiping her hands on her apron before sliding into the booth. Silence. Uncomfortable silence. It was quiet enough to hear her heartbeat. It ticked a little faster than normal…she was nervous.

"James. James Howlett."

"Rebecca…b-but all my friends call me Reba."

"What makes you think I want to be your friend?" James could feel the expression on her face change, smirking before looking up.

"I'm kidding."

She started to laugh, still not sure if he was being serious. A bell cut the conversation short, the chef looking over the counter at Reba. She waved him off, getting up from the booth.

"Next plate is on me."

"I'll hold you to that." James sat back, reaching into his pocket to free up his wallet. The television was flickering again, and Reba went over to fix the antenna before dropping off a tray of food to the family that had walked in earlier.

Again, our top story comes from Deming, where two people were killed today.

He was barely listening, but the story at least let him know where he was. Deming, he thought, how the hell did I end up in New Mexico? The query made him look up at the T.V. A few others had taken notice. The guy with the shades was paying. Between static, James could make out the reporter standing in front of an abandoned building that appeared not to be as abandoned as it looked. A homeless man had found the bodies after coming in to sleep.

Howlett took a slow breath, running a hand through his black locks. That was the second time. He didn't need to see any more—he knew the two dead people were mutants. What he didn't know was how he'd gotten here. What he didn't know was how both times he'd waken up somewhere he was unfamiliar with, two people popped up on the news dead. Two mutants. It was time to go.

He almost made it out to the jeep when the waitress ran out side, the cook not to far behind with a baseball bat.

"Hey! You didn't pay!"

James still had his wallet in his hand, scanning inside of it before pulling out correct change. He'd need the rest for gas. He handed the money to Reba, much to the chagrin of the cook.

"Sorry 'bout that." He waited until they both made there way back in, the whispers coming in clear as if they were still standing next to him. Stepping to the back of the Wrangler, he spotted it…a black plastic trash bag. He knew what was inside…he wished it wasn't what he thought. He jumped inside the Jeep, throwing up a cloud of dust as he shot onto the road.

He peered into the rear-view. Nothing. Deming was dead, all except the recently built Wal-Mart that had become the new "hang-out spot." It eased his mind until he remembered the bag. He wanted to pull over and dispose of it right there, but better judgment ruled that out. He could smell the blood in the bag, but no memories came along with it. How the hell did he get in New Mexico? Last he remembered, he was in Illinois. That was a day ago…wasn't it?

His hand searched unconsciously, looking for the small car calendar that used to be stuck to his dashboard. He took his eyes off the road for a second, the corner visible underneath the passenger floor mat. He made habit off marking off days, and when checked against his watch…three days had passed.

"Shit…" Three days. It was the same amount of time before. His eyes wandered, the blurry figure standing in the middle of the street not registering at first. He wouldn't get a chance to look again. It felt like an 18 wheeler had smashed into the front of his Jeep, flipping it 10 feet in the air before it slammed to the dry earth on the side of the road.

His vision was hazy…he could feel blood pouring down his face. He'd broken the steering wheel with his face. Air passing over his gums let him know he was missing a few teeth. The blurry figure stayed that way only for a moment, stepping over James' bumper in the street. Red shades. He had red shades in his hand. James felt that same itch he always felt when his body stitched itself back together, teeth already starting to push there way back in place.

Red Shades didn't say a word, just smiled, eyes glowing the same hue as his glasses. That's when James felt it again—the truck—his vehicle cart-wheeling across the prairie and plowing into an old gas station. The ensuing explosion would be heard for miles. Red Shades replaced said shades, walking towards the fireball that used to be James Howlett.

"It's done," he spoke into mid air, reaching down to pick up a Canadian license plate, "The clothes have been disposed of properly. Am I to bring him in for reprogramming, or can I dispose of him too?"

"That hurt, you sonofvabitch…" Howlett stepped out of the fire, on fire, the sound of his own flesh cooking filling his ears. Muscles flexed, releasing the three blades housed in each fore-arm.

"Oh, so you're awake," Red Shades chuckled, dusting of his shirt, "And here all this time I thought I was going to be bored, Wolverine." He removed his glasses once again, stuffing them in his shirt pocket. Brown eyes suddenly washed over red, and the humor once on his face was lost, "It's over."

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