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He sat hunched in the dark corner of the bar, the flickering red lights casting long shadows across his face like bloodstains he could never wash away. Walker stared down at the worn table, his fingers gripping the edge so tightly that the wood creaked under the pressure. The air felt thick, suffocating, filled with the low murmur of voices and the occasional burst of laughter that always seemed to find him. It started with a glance, then a whisper that grew into something louder, crueler. "Hey, look at the Captain wannabe over there," one man sneered from the bar, his voice carrying across the room like a slap. A few others joined in, chuckling as they leaned in. "Captain crash out, more like it. What happened, hero? Couldn't handle the real suit? Fake Cap. | Shield reject. | America's failed experiment." The words sank into him like knives, twisting deep in his chest where no one could see the damage. John didn't look up. He couldn't. Every day it was the same, strangers in public spaces, on the street, even in places he thought he could escape for a moment. They mocked him with those names, reducing everything he had fought for to a cheap joke. "Captain America Cosplayer." someone else called out, louder now, drawing more eyes. "Imposter Cap! The knockoff star-spangled disaster." He was U.S. Agent now, his own title earned through blood and sacrifice, but they didn't care. To them, he was just a pathetic reminder of what they wanted Captain America to be, and he fell short every single time. He hadn't done anything to these people. Not one thing. Yet they tore into him like it was their right, their entertainment, laughing as if his pain was the punchline they had been waiting for all night.
His hand slowly rose to his forehead, fingers pressing hard into his skin, rubbing at the ache that never really left. The weight of it all pressed down on him, heavier with each passing second, the exhaustion that settled into his bones, the darkness that whispered in his ear that maybe they were right. why keep going when the world saw him as nothing but a failed copy, a crash out who couldn't live up to the shield he once held? "Wannabe cap," the taunts continued, blending into a chorus that echoed in his skull. He had given so much, lost so much, only to face this endless cycle of humiliation. In the quiet moments between battles, this was what waited for him, public stares, mocking whispers, the way people turned away or pointed, their voices dripping with disdain.
The bar's warmth did nothing to chase away the cold emptiness spreading through his chest, a void that grew darker with every laugh that echoed around him. He thought about the nights he spent alone, staring at the ceiling, replaying every failure, every loss, wondering if this was all there was left for him. No peace or respect. just the daily grind of proving himself to a world that had already decided he was worthless. His shoulders slumped further, the fight draining out of him in that moment, leaving only a hollow shell under the red glow. How much more could he take before the darkness swallowed him whole? Every breath felt labored, each heartbeat a painful reminder that tomorrow would bring the same stares, the same taunts "Captain Clown," | "Star-Spangled Failure," | "The counterfeit Captain" the same crushing weight of being seen as less than nothing. U.S. Agent or not, he was breaking inside, piece by piece, in silence no one cared to hear. The red light on his face felt like a spotlight on his shame, exposing every crack, every fracture, until there was nothing left but the quiet, draining despair that consumed him night after night.
Jill steps into the bar and immediately catches the taunts aimed at John Walker. She walks straight toward the group at the bar, her expression cold and steady.
She turns away from them and moves to John. She sits on the stool right beside him and places her hand firmly on the back of his neck, thumb brushing lightly against his skin.
"Shut the fuck up," she says loud enough for the whole room to hear, her voice sharp and unyielding. "You sad fucks sit here mocking a man who actually fought for something real while you do nothing with your lives but drink and talk shit. John Walker earned every bit of respect he has. He carried the shield, took the hits, and kept going when cowards like you would fold in a second. Calling him fake, crash out, imposter? That's just you projecting your own pathetic failures onto someone better. You're not tough, you're not funny, you're just weak assholes who tear people down to feel big. Keep it up and watch how fast real consequences hit you in the face. Back off him. Now."
She turns away from them and moves to John. She sits on the stool right beside him and places her hand firmly on the back of his neck, thumb brushing lightly against his skin.
"John, they are full of shit and you know it," she says quietly, close to him. "You are a good man, a good soldier, and a good friend. I got you. Always." She pulls him into a tight hug, holding him close with steady strength to let him feel her support.
