(adjective)
anti-personnel:
directed against -or intended to destroy- people. subject: U.S. AGENT
status: ACTIVE
> *Compliance with mandatory logging protocol 09-G. Entries subject to oversight.* ✪ [ indie rp blog for john walker | mcu + some comics | rp plus IC journals | 21+ ] ✪
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★ [ ABOUT • RULES • TAGS • STARTERS • MEMES ] ★
> anti-personnel (adj.): directed against -or intended to destroy- people.
✪ independent, selective, OC-friendly roleplay blog for JOHN WALKER / U.S. AGENT, largely based on his MCU characterization but with comic influences and headcanons.
✪ this blog will also include in-character [government mandated] journal entries, audio transcripts, internal memos, team comms, and other ephemera ! ✎
⍟ PERSONNEL: [ YELENA | BOB | CHERRY ]
⍟ EMERGENCY CONTACT: [ DR. CARPENTER ] [ K████ ]
❱ will feature (tagged) potentially triggering content ! please do not follow or interact if you are under 18, i personally would feel most comfortable with people 21 and older.
❱ don't feel like you have to match reply length !! i am just a notorious yapper. i also tend to go w the flow w minimal plotting BUT i am happy to plot in DMs with you if you have a wishlist !
❱ i'm also slow as fuck on replying sometimes, my energy & focus can wildly depend on the day for a laundry list of reasons don't worry about it lol ★ i can also sometimes get freaked out about talking to people OOC depending on how i'm doing, i promise i'm not trying to ignore my comrades
❱ since i find it easiest to roleplay with members of the thunderbolts, it's likely i'll prioritize threads ft. them, but i won't turn down anyone ! including OCs i love OCs
❱ i like following other walker blogs and really enjoy seeing other people's thoughts & analysis of his character, but if you roleplay him and don't like duplicates just softblock, no hard feelings !
❱ content warning for a lot of violence ! i roleplay walker as having undiagnosed OCD and will describe his intrusive thoughts pretty often, he also is just a violent guy in a violent line of work lol
❱ i don't roleplay h.ydra AUs and they make me very uncomfortable, if you do them i'd rather you not follow. not opposed to doing other kinds of villain / darker themed AUs if we discuss it first though
✎ mun info: nico | he/him | 30 | EST
⍟ "I'm a new man, Cap. A kinder, gentler, berserker." ⍟
[DISCLAIMER:]
walker is a complex & morally questionable character (especially in the comics); while i’m interested in exploring his mindset, i don’t support the ideologies he’s internalized and won't be glorifying them. he's my guy but he sucks lol
(( on top of being busy irl i'm doing uhh kind of concerningly bad recently i can't lie so i'm gonna be a bit scarce here 🙏 thanks for ur patience comrades ))
[ He wakes up on the couch, hair damp, tongue sour. The blinds are drawn. Katie is hunched in the armchair like she's been waiting for a verdict, arms muddy to the elbow. He asks what time it is, what day, what month, and she shrugs like it's nothing. His doesn't understand why his throat tastes like metal. ]
The water is warm. KATIE tosses scraps of fish to him and makes bright little noises he doesn't understand. He swims in circles, basking in the sun. Her voice is a good sound, even if the words mean nothing.
[ Next time he wakes up, her hair brushes her shoulders. He knows it used to be shorter --much shorter-- but she insists it's only been a few days. Todd knows better. They can't live in the city, can't live anywhere, not when he's legally dead and can't risk showing his face. He wonders if that's the reason she looks so sick. ]
He keeps time by visits. One each day. Sometimes the moon crosses overhead three, four times before he sees her-- he thrashes in the water angrily when she returns, tail cracking against the dock, only settling when she fearfully raises her voice.
[ He remembers the other Walker sometimes. West Point, same room, same cheap mattress smell. They weren't friends, not really, just two weird and quiet boys shoved together in the same space. He knows better than to bring it up-- Katie's jaw goes tight at the name, and besides, Todd's memory is already swiss-cheesed to shit. Most things before the procedure are missing anyway. ]
The dock creaks. Her shadow falls over the water as she tosses a hefty slab of frozen salmon into the water, bigger than usual. His tail stirs the weeds when he circles up, and KATIE laughs when he snaps up the fish in one bite. Laughing is a good noise. When she swims he rolls beside her, big and clumsy, careful not to break her with the sweep of his tail.
[ One day, there's a syringe on the counter. He doesn't ask-- he's been around needles enough to mind his own business. Katie's hands shake when she hurriedly knocks it into a drawer, not enough coffee in the world to steady them. She tells him it's nothing. He nods and pretends not to notice the glow in her red-rimmed eyes. ]
KATIE kneels at the edge of the dock, straps the tourniquet around his forelimb. The needle slides in. She smells nervous, though there's no reason to be-- he'd only snapped at her the first time, when the fear had made him foolish. Now he just grumbles under the water as she speaks to him softly, lets her rest her cool hand on the smooth scales of his neck.
[ Todd doesn't like mirrors. He doesn't like the cold. He doesn't like the fact that he can't walk into the pharmacy and ask for the little orange bottles that once kept the worst days from tearing him apart. He used to stockpile everything: cans, batteries, extra ammo. Now he has nothing but a damp couch and Katie's patience, starting to thin just like the color in their face. ]
Today she's folded in on herself, shoulders jerking like she can't get air. (Fish do that sometimes-- gasp in the mud, open and close their mouths until they stop moving. Todd doesn't want her to stop moving.)
He rises, pushes his snout against her knees. No change. He nips at her leg, sulks beneath the weeds when she kicks at him.
When KATIE finally lifts her head the noise is louder, ragged and painful. Her face is already wet-- he tests it with a clumsy swipe of his forked tongue as she scolds him. (Salt. Strange. The pond doesn't taste like that, does it?)
He does the only thing he knows. Takes the edge of her shirt gently in his teeth, slides backward off the dock. She follows without resistance, arms limp around his neck, folding into the pull.
The water closes over them both. Here, at least, she won't run out of air.
[ The choice is simple in the end. As a man he is hungry, paranoid, unmedicated, a burden.
As a monster, well-- Seattle Times said fish prices were going down this year, didya hear? ]
The pond is warm this time of year. He circles KATIE when she visits, nips at her ankles to make her laugh. Listens to the smooth lilt of her good sounds, the ones that mean nothing.
This world is smaller, and kinder. He stays. He doesn't wake again.
Walker's brash tone doesn't come as a surprise. In fact, Elijah hardly even lets out a huff as he flicks the latch to the rooftop. His own mood isn't chipper, but it doesn't take a telepath to see that the blonde is going through something worse than a broken coffee machine.
"Wow, thank you Dr. Carpenter." The redhead gives a half-hearted impression of the other man as he steps in line. "For leaving me my smokes—which I'm having one of—even after I was an immature jerk in your office."
Every inch of his sassy demeanor changes once the men are shoulder to shoulder. The unlit cigarette between Elijah's fingers doesn't hit his mouth, rolled paper crinkling under the pressure as he's too caught up by surprise. Walker looks hollow. Blazing eyes nullified with a vacancy that doesn't sit right in his stomach.
Of course, he catches the flex of Walker's palm. The removal of ash familiar in a way it shouldn't be. There's a tiny voice in his head; one that cowers by his own darkest thoughts, that sounds almost grateful for the plexiglass. His tongue worries over sharp teeth. Elijah's nose twitches as he finally flicks his own light.
Okay, now he just looks like an asshole.
"Up here doing your little monologues, or do you have something on your mind?" For once, Elijah lets his tone soften around the blonde. A cocked brow dares to lace with concern. "Off the books, of course."
Walker exhales slow, a deliberate drag that curls smoke into Elijah's space. It's lazy, almost cruel, the way he tips his head to do it.
"You want thanks?" The menthol hangs loose between his fingers. "Fine. Thanks can be me not putting this out on you, pretty boy."
It rings empty. A reflex, a muscle memory of being mean. Just another role, one he knows by heart.
And still-- Elijah's there, watching. Off his mark, out of place. Walker feels the wrongness buzz in his skull-- like he's missed a rehearsal, staring at a blank page where his lines should be. Grief fills the room up of my absent child.
The thought dredges up another: high school gym doubling as an auditorium, giggling while they signed their names on the audition sheet. A joke. Something stupid, the way teenage boys try too hard not to care.
(Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me.)
Lemar onstage, post-practice sheen on his face glinting like stars in the light. His voice cracking halfway through a monologue, stumbling over the rhythm, shaking it off with a grin. Awkward and earnest and a little terrible.
(Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words. Remembers me of all his gracious parts.)
And John, slouched in the back row-- breathless, flushed face hidden. Watching him through his fingers. Unable to look away.
Neither of them got cast. They laughed about it after, said they weren't cut out for that shit anyway. But John had wondered, if they tried-- if they'd given it half the seriousness Lemar had in that moment-- they might've made it.
Then, have I reason to be fond of grief?
Walker slides the pad of his thumb along a gap in the barrier til it stings, watches the brand-new plastic edge blush pink in its wake. The memory gutters out.
"Gonna snitch on me, Doc?" His voice is thin, still too tired to be a threat. "Don't you have paperwork to do or some shit, anyway?"
» [LAP] – cherry rests her head in in his lap without warning (she’s exhausted, and he’s safe)
❱ [ 'stages of a relationship' - lovers ] ❰
The sectional is almost too big for the space-- one of those impractical furniture decisions made by whoever on the design team thought square footage translated directly into team morale. Walker sinks into it anyway, icepack sweating against his shirt. His shoulder throbs in a dull, syrupy way, almost comforting in its familiarity, not bad enough to complain about but bad enough to keep him awake.
The blood draw bandage on his elbow itches. Neon cats on a blue background, courtesy of one of the newer nurses who hadn't cared that he didn't need it. He keeps forgetting it's there until it tugs at the skin, small and ridiculous against the rest of him.
Cherry shifts a little and suddenly her head is in his lap-- no warning, no hesitation. Perfectly natural, like it hadn't occurred to her to think twice. He blinks sluggishly for a beat, lets out a low breath, but he doesn't move her. Doesn't move at all.
For a moment, the day threatens to catch up to him --another less-than-ideal job, endless paperwork looming, blood pressure cuffs and needles and cold elastic bands-- but the weight of her head pins him down, keeps him still.
(Technically, she's not even Thunderbolt material yet-- still under consideration. Still up for debate from the higher ups. But Walker is already enough of a problem case that he doesn't really give a shit about technicalities. He treats the common space like it's theirs to share. Any alternative had never occurred to him, and never would.)
It's only when his thoughts settle that he notices the bruise on her cheekbone. Nothing dangerous, probably wouldn't even last the hour, but it bothers him. Without thinking, he peels the icepack off his shoulder and sets it gently against the side of her face. Holds it there with his good hand, thumb braced careful against her jaw so it won't slip.
"How'd you like the medical floor?" he mumbles idly, studying the circles under her eyes. "Better get used to it if you're gonna work here. They give you a cool bandaid too?"
» [CARE PACKAGE] – Sender leaves something on receiver’s desk/doorstep without a note.
❱ [ 'stages of a relationship' - friends ] ❰
"What a fuckin' joke, man. Stupid fuckin' joke."
Click.
Walker grinds the cigarette into his palm-- the sting blooms sharp and grounding, a flash of satisfaction he knows won't last. By morning the skin will look fine again. He flexes his fingers once, proof that the ache is still there, then flicks the butt against the shiny new plexiglass barrier with a dull kind of disdain. The sound is flat, unsatisfying.
The roof settles. Just the hum of traffic far down below, the wet air thick with another incoming storm. Gravel crunches under his boots when he shifts, shoulders tight. He tries to shake off the hollowness behind his ribs, but it clings worse than the humidity.
That's when he sees it.
A pack of menthols, tucked neatly behind the cinderblock doorstop. New enough that the cardboard hadn't softened in the rain. Out of place.
His first thought is: You left that behind. After storming out of the good doctor's office, too pissed to notice.
His second thought is: Who the fuck else would've left it here?
The third thought stung: Why didn't you see it? He'd been up here long enough, after all. Pacing. Recording your stupid little journals. He should've noticed. What else have you not noticed? Stupid. Careless. Did you lock your door before you came up? Did you lock your bedside table? Ever wonder how far down the traffic must be, if it's that quiet even to you? Ever wonder if it'd be far enough?
Walker's chest tightens, sour and uneasy. Everyone sneaks up here, sure, but the cheerful teal sitting there feels wrong. Like bait.
The back of his neck prickles.
Still, he picks it up. Shakes one loose and sparks the lighter again. Draws in the menthol burn, sharp and cold down the back of his throat.
He's halfway through the second drag when the latch groans and the rooftop door creaks open, handle still twisted open from where he'd forced it earlier.
"Jesus," Walker mutters, tone flat. He doesn't bother hiding the raw welt on his palm as he flicks the ash off carelessly. "We're gonna have to start scheduling shifts up here."
» [ RECORDING BEGINS: Low click followed by ambient city noise. Second click (assumed to be a lighter)]
WALKER
Uh, so. Yesterday was bad. [pause, gravel shifting] It was uh-- the anniversary. Not like my marriage, I mean like. Y'know.
WALKER
Woke up and all I could think was like-- every time they looked at me I had to try not to spit it out.
WALKER
'My best friend is dead.' Like it was the only thing I fuckin' knew how to say. Isn't that weird?
[Lighter clicks again. Long inhale.]
WALKER
How's the weather? My best friend is dead.
You get those reports done yet John? My best friend is dead. He's fuckin' dead, man.
WALKER
Like-- nothing else was gonna come out of my mouth. It kinda felt scary. What a stupid fuckin' thing to be scared about.
[Pause. Railing creaks.]
WALKER
[agitated] And I was-- I was so fuckin' pissed at everybody. Just walking around like it was a normal Wednesday, y'know? Like a normal day. I just kept thinking, like-- how are you not thinking about this? How the fuck are you guys doing anything? But I just--
WALKER
[sharp exhale] It's not fair. How mad I was getting. I know that. Why the fuck would they know, y'know. Nobody would, 'cause I don't talk about it.
WALKER
They can't fuckin' know if I don't tell them. They're not like, mind readers.
WALKER
I mean I guess you are, but whatever.
[Long silence. Muffled wind in background.]
WALKER
So I didn't talk to anyone. Like all day. Like a fuckin' weirdo.
[Lighter clicks again, repeatedly. Potential new tic. Extended pause.]
WALKER
[unusually hurried] And I stood in the bathroom later and said it over and over. In the mirror. Over and over again. My best friend is dead. I lost track. I had to-- y'know, say it until the number was high enough, I guess. I don't even know what the number was. I don't remember going to bed.
[Long pause. Faint siren in distance.]
WALKER
Whatever. Probably gonna do some crazy shit in a couple weeks too, on his funeral day. So look forward to that I guess.
WALKER
This plexiglass shit looks stupid as fuck, by the way. Whoever else is listening to this.
[Faint hiss. It's likely he put the cigarette out on his hand, again. Add to notes.]
WALKER
If I really wanted to I still could. What a fuckin' joke, man. Stupid fuckin' joke.
[ CLICK ]
» [ RECORDING STOPS ]
» STAFF NOTE(S):
Change roof door access code again. Not that it's really going to stop anyone. Remind all personnel that smoking on the roof is prohibited by OXE code of conduct Disregard. Infractions too numerous.
(He's probably right about the plexiglass too, but it cost too much money to take down.)
» "Is this the part where we shake hands or just nod to each other awkwardly?"
❱ [ 'stages of a relationship' - acquaintances ] ❰
"Is this the part where we shake hands, or just nod to each other awkwardly?"
Walker barks out something almost resembling a laugh, sharp and awkward. The conference room OXE set aside for this feels too bright, all glass and chrome, reflections in every direction. No solid wall to put his back to. His gaze skitters, anywhere but her-- the grain of the tabletop, the recorder set neatly between them, the bitten edge of his thumbnail.
"Guess we can try the handshake," he says, a little too carefully. He starts to stand, then recalculates, second-guessing the motion. It's not smooth. John forces his hand across the table, following a manual step-by-step, and feels suddenly grateful no one else can hear his pulse.
He's dressed down-- collar of his shirt too stiff, brand-new jacket too tight across the shoulders. Not a uniform, but not exactly casual. The kind of compromise HR probably signed off on.
Walker tugs at the cuff of his sleeve once, then again, digging his nails into his palm in time to stop the third.
"Appreciate you making the time," he recites, the words landing too even, flat and stripped of cadence. (A line practiced in the mirror. His ears burn anyway.)
For all the polish marketing had shoved onto him, the set of his jaw gives him away-- this isn't where he wants to be.
Walker freezes, finger already on the trigger. Figures. Same target, same goddamn night. With how disorganized OXE had gotten lately, an overlap like this was inevitable. What a fucking headache.
Bucky's glare cuts sharper than the storm pushing through the busted windows, jagged teeth of glass doing little to keep out the rain. John lifts his hands, casual and deliberate, his back easy against the crate he's leaned on. His eyes move the way they always do, from target to exit and back, calculating.
"Fine," he finally mutters, jaw tight. "I wont."
The silence that follows hums like a live wire. Every shift of Bucky's frame needles John's nerves. He can feel the weight of him in the room, remembers too well what those hands could do if they decided to.
But still-- he can't help himself. His mouth quirks, something mean flickering on the edges.
"If I got here first," he says idly, chin propped on one hand, "You must really be getting sloppy, old timer. They're gonna dock your pay."
