john walking

Every race was a gamble, no matter who you asked. John always believed that winning came down to sheer power, it was the only thing that had kept him from losing everything. Including himself.

He wasn’t a "good guy" in the traditional sense, not by any stretch. He'd been forged in the heat of competition, a man who wore his ambition like armor. But there were moments—brief, fleeting thoughts—when he questioned everything. When he wondered if all of it, the endless drive to be the best, had been worth it.

Maybe an hour after his practice race, John’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He glanced at it quickly, expecting to just barely skim it over before he actually processed it. A message from his ex-wife.

"When you’re ready to start paying attention to your family I’ll call." The message read, and even through the condensation of the message, John could practically hear the anger behind the words.

John’s mind drifted back to the early days of his career, back to Lemar. His best friend. His partner. The two of them had been unstoppable before everything happened, even since they first met in high school. But everything had shattered after that crash, even himself. Lemar had been taken too soon. It left John in a pit of rage, unable to focus on anything except revenge. He’d taken matters into his own hands, targeting the only thing he thought to target: the Flag Smashers, the team responsible. And that had cost him his spot in the Caps team.

That was when Valentina came knocking. The woman that claimed she knew how to ‘fix’ people like him—those with a history, with something to prove. She’d given him a second chance. Well, as much as forcing him into a contract with the Thunderbolts F1 team was a second chance. He shoved the phone back in his pocket, forgetting he still had it out since earlier. No time for distractions. Not now.

John leaned against his car, breathing heavily after the race. His gloved hands were slick with sweat as he removed his helmet, the crowd’s roar beginning to fade as he caught his breath. He scored second place. Not bad, but not good enough.

A shadow fell across the concrete in front of him. It was Bucky, the man who was both an enigma and an ally even if they were both on the same team.

Bucky had a reputation—once a driver for Hydra (a rival team shut down long ago because of violations), then ‘rescued’ from them by Steve Rogers, an F1 legend who’d retired long ago. There was a constant tension between him and John as he carried the weight of his past, both with Hydra and with John.

John took a short glance towards Bucky. The man was good—too good, in fact. His driving skills had made him a formidable competitor, useful to any team who could get him. But it was hard to ignore the stressful guilt Bucky carried, the haunted look in his eyes. John knew what it was like to have ghosts, to carry regrets. They both did.

“You're still driving like you’re on the Caps team, huh?” Bucky’s voice was low, almost condescending. John didn’t want to handle more condescension right now. He knew how John was, always pushing harder, always wanting to prove something.

John grunted in response, wiping his face with a towel.

“Can’t let the past get in the way of the future, Barnes,” he said, though he wasn’t sure if he was convincing Bucky or himself.

“Yeah, well, you can’t outrun it forever.”

After the race, the Thunderbolts were back in their garage. The team—or maybe half of it—gathered around, but John could feel the tension in the air. The room was quieter than usual. He glanced over at his teammates: Yelena and Bucky, the only two other people currently in the room. Where even was Bob and Ava?

John exhaled. He was supposed to be their leader, according to Val, but he was far from it. He wasn’t like Steve—he didn’t have the easy charisma or the trust of those around him. But what he had, what he was learning to embrace, was the idea that maybe he didn’t have to be perfect. Maybe he just had to keep trying. For the people who mattered. But screw that, what mattered to him was meeting every standard. Being the best.

The memory of Lemar’s crash still stung, but John was starting to understand that the anger he’d felt back then, and that thirst for vengeance? It wasn’t the answer. And the divorce… Well, that was a consequence of the same obsession that had nearly destroyed him. His wife had been right to leave. He hadn’t known how to balance work with the people who loved him.

John stood in front of the mirror in the room Valentina ‘assigned’ him at the Thunderbolts’ shared building, staring at his reflection. The face of a man who had been through a well-deserved hell and come out scarred but still breathing. He had a second chance. A chance to make things right, not just on the track, but in his life. It wasn’t going to be easy. There was still so much left to prove. To his team, to himself.

But for the first time in a long time, John didn’t feel like he was just playing a part. He was beginning to see that maybe, just maybe, he could still be the man his wife once believed he could be. The man Lemar would have wanted him to be.

The roar of the engines outside brought him back to the present. It was time to get back on the track. As John walked toward his car, he caught sight of Bucky once more. The two exchanged a brief nod—a quiet understanding between them, whatever the unspoken words were lightening the tension. Bucky was the kind of guy to understand, at least under certain circumstances.

The road ahead wasn’t just about winning anymore. It was about redemption, about finding a way to live with the past… and maybe, just maybe, learning to drive toward a future that wasn’t defined by loss.

The next race was in Monte Carlo—narrow streets, tight turns, and the kind of track that chewed up even the most seasoned drivers. John had driven it before, but never under this much scrutiny. The press was already circling like vultures. They always did when the Thunderbolts showed up.

Rumors were swirling; someone was buying influence in the F1 circuit. Bribes, team sabotage, even tech tampering. And somehow, all of it was pointing toward the Flag Smashers’ resurgence—not just as a team, but as a force behind the scenes.

“Tell me you’re not listening to this conspiracy crap,” Yelena muttered as she scrolled through the headlines, only looking at it because Bob brought it up a couple days ago.

John, reviewing the telemetry from practice laps, didn’t look up as he spoke. “I’m listening to everything. Doesn’t mean I believe it.” He assured, fixing a Velcro piece on his gloves.

“You should,” Bucky chimed in from across the garage. “I’ve seen this kind of thing before. When things look clean on the surface, that’s when you dig deeper.”

John looked up at him. “You think they’re back? The real Flag Smashers?” Even after the crash? The words were left unspoken.

“They never really left,” Bucky said. “They just changed uniforms.”

That line stuck with John. He remembered what they’d done to Lemar—the ambush, the crash, the aftermath. Officially, it had been called sabotage. Unofficially, everyone knew they’d tampered with the braking systems and rammed him, so why they hadn’t even been arrested was beyond him. But the proof had vanished before it could be brought to light. The league moved on. John hadn’t.

And now here they were, back at Monte Carlo—the same track Lemar had died on.

Night had fallen. The Monaco harbor lights glinted off the water, casting gold reflections across the cobbled streets. John slipped through a side gate to walk the track alone, something he’d done for years—walking each track in silence before race day. Trying to connect with his surroundings. Understand them, he guessed.

But this time, it felt different. He was just walking the track, trying to get a hang of the renovated streets. John paused at Turn 14–the very spot Lemar’s car had gone airborne.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone.” A voice sounded from behind him. John turned to find Bucky behind him.

“I could say the same,” John countered, not looking him in the eyes.

“I don’t sleep much.”

John scoffed, but there was definitely truth to Bucky’s statement. “Yeah, me neither.”

They stood in silence for a while. The ghost of Lemar hung heavy in the air between them. Especially since Bucky saw it, saw Lemar die, saw how John reacted. It was almost obvious to him what John felt for Lemar back then.

“You ever think about just… walking away?” John finally asked.

“Every day,” Bucky said. “But we’re not wired that way. I guess we don’t know who we are without the fight. Without purpose, right?”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Bucky nodded at John’s response, as if he understood more than he let on. They hadn’t talked like this since—well, ever. Bucky hated him since before he ever knew him, right? Since he tried living up to Steve’s name. Tried, key word.

A car pulled up nearby—sleek, low, and painted in red and black. Not Thunderbolts. Not anyone John recognized. A driver stepped out in a full helmet, stared at them for a beat too long, then got back in and peeled off without a word.

“Friend of yours?” Bucky asked.

“No,” John said, tension tightening in his chest. “But I think they’re trying to send a message.”

The next morning, the Thunderbolts woke to chaos. Yelena’s car had been tampered with. Fuel system compromised, brake lines cut. If she’d taken the car out for early practice like she usually did, it could’ve killed her. Security footage showed absolutely nothing. No forced entry. No staff anomalies.

“Guys, I don’t think that this is just intimidation,” Bob realized, fiddling with the hem of his sweater. “This feels like- like war.” Thunderbolt management was scrambling. Representatives from the F1 league showed up with investigators, but John could already see it playing out—denials, excuses, and eventually, silence.

They didn’t want a scandal. They wanted a winner, he thought. It was obvious.

John stormed out of the garage and into the paddock, incapable and unwilling to deal with this. And that’s when he saw the Flag Smasher logo, barely noticeable, etched onto a tire wall near pit lane. It had been stamped on and then scrubbed off. But he recognized the ghost of it. This wasn’t over. It had just started.

Race day arrived as fast as they could drive. Fans flooded the stands. The sun beat down on the city like fire. And beneath it all, there were people still trying to kill them. The Flag Smashers wanted to finish the job they started, John guessed.

The Thunderbolts started strong. Ava took the lead early, with Bucky and John in third and fourth. But on lap twelve, it started to unravel.

An unmarked car, one not listed on the starting roster, joined the race. No pit crew. No team. Just a matte black machine with red trim and no identifiable markings.

“What the hell is that?” Yelena’s voice crackled over the team radio. The unknown driver began weaving through the lineup with aggressive, almost reckless maneuvers. When John tried to overtake it, the driver cut him off—precise, deliberate, effortless, and too fast to be stopped. It was no amateur. Whoever it was knew him. Knew his style. Knew how to push his buttons.

“They’re baiting you,” Bucky warned over comms.

John grit his teeth. “Let ’em,” he pushed the car harder, sensors blinking warnings as his engine strained. On lap twenty-three, the black car clipped his rear, causing a near spin. John corrected, barely, but fell back three positions. The mystery car backed off after that. Just long enough to make a point.

It wasn’t racing. It was a message.

After the race, a bitter fifth-place finish, John cornered Valentina Allegra Du-Fontaine and her dramatic name. He felt like it was his fault. But he knew it wasn’t, it was that goddamn black car tailing him on the twenty-third lap.

“I want the footage from the pit lane. The whole race. Everything,” John practically demanded—it was ridiculous that the driver was allowed to do that. He wasn’t allowed to do that.

“You don’t have clearance to request that,” Valentina replied, not even paying attention to him. She just always said no, regardless of what he asked.

John stepped closer. “Then you’d better find someone who does. Or I go public with everything you’ve forced us to do.”

Valentina hesitated, finally turning to face him. “You think you’re still Captain America or something? No one will listen to you, half the world hates you already for what you did to that racer, John.”

John didn’t blink. “No. No, you don’t get to tell me what other people think about me, Valentina. It’s not like you’ve got the best track record either,” he told her. Later that night, the footage arrived on a private drive. John, Bucky, and Bob huddled around a laptop in the garage.

Frame by frame, they watched as the black car was wheeled onto the track not from the pit — but from a hidden service tunnel near the maintenance sector.

“This—doesn’t this look like it was taken by someone on the track? It looks like underground access,” Bob muttered. “I think they might’ve had help, y’know? Right?” Bucky pointed to the driver.

“Pause it. Right there, that frame,” Bucky spotted, catching a single glance of the driver. The image paused just long enough for a clear shot of the helmet. A symbol, hardly visible, was stamped onto the visor. A red handprint. Goddamnit, really? Again?

The Flag Smashers weren’t just back. They were in the league, reclaiming their undeserved spot in Formula One.

“You want to beat them?” Bucky asked, eyes fixed on John. “We don’t do it through officials. We don’t do it through rules.”

“I’m not sabotaging anything,” John argued, obviously against the idea. “I’m not that guy anymore.” He worked so hard to get out of that place, to forget about revenge. He already got it, and it wasn’t worth it for anyone except Lemar. And he was gone, so there weren’t many reasons for—

“You don’t have to be,” Bucky said, interrupting his thoughts. “But you also can’t keep pretending this is just racing. It’s something personal. They tried killing Sam for whatever reason, this is the same thing.”

Bob stood. “You could take the fight to them, but- but nothing illegal. Either on or off the track, whichever’s— maybe go talk to Valentina about this,” he suggested, walking out of the room.

The next race was in Japan. Suzuka. High-speed corners. A perfect place for a message of their own. John requested a custom wrap for his car—a kind of honor to Lemar. Black and gold. Subtle, but deliberate. A phoenix on the hood (Lemars’ favorite bird, ever since he was a sophomore). Rising from flame, just like Lemar did to get into Formula One.

When race day arrived, he didn’t wait for the black car. He hunted it. By lap six, he found it, and by God was he going to get past that car. The two machines danced at 300 kph, slicing through the track, just barely skimming tire walls. This wasn’t about the podium anymore. It was about control, about sending a message of his own.

And as John forced the black car into a drift at Turn 9, pinning it just long enough to take the lead, he saw the helmet’s visor force open—just a glimpse. A woman, looking to be in her mid-30s. Looking directly at him. Not a ghost, not a legend, real. And familiar.

The woman who’d joined the team only days before their suspension ended, like she was preparing for something. And he knew her, not well, but he knew her. She wasn’t a Flag Smasher, she was Sharon Carter. Not suspended, not gone, and very much behind the wheel.

John stood in the Thunderbolt’s garage after the win—could it even be considered that? He got third place. He was slipping. He looked into the mirror again, questioning why this, why everything, had happened. He didn’t see what he usually did, looking into his own eyes. Not the Captain. Not the killer.

Something else, something in between. And he didn’t know if it was worse or better to just stand confused, confused about literally everything. Who was he anymore?

A new voice buzzed in his comms, the mic crackling unusually. “See you in Silverstone, Walker,” Sharon’s voice called. “Tell Bucky I don’t like his new team.”

What? Genuinely, what? None of this made any sense—especially regarding Sharon joining the Flag Smashers. He only knew her through Bucky, since before the Thunderbolts. Since before Lemar’s death.

Bucky stared at the rain pooling outside the team’s paddock tent at Silverstone. England’s notorious weather mirrored his mood, overcast and full of pressure. He’d driven clean in Japan, no incidents, no triggers, no slips. But the track wasn’t his issue.

They waited for a second after the race, the anticipation of an expectation for just something, for anything to happen.

In the early days of Hydra’s racing syndicate, Bucky had been a weapon behind the wheel. Brainwashed, contractually bound to them, remade to eliminate targets on and off the track. There were entire podiums built on wreckage he’d caused. Some intentional, some not—which Hydra never appreciated, especially not Rumlow.

Steve Rogers had pulled him out, dragged him, really, and pardoned him for everything he did. Steve was the only person who knew him. Really, really knew him. Even since before Hydra. But now? After Steve’s retired? With Karli’s people back in the picture and the league looking the other way?

The lines were blurring again. He watched John across the paddock, brooding, focused, relentless. In a lot of ways, John reminded him of himself. Not the Winter Soldier, but the man who came after. A soldier without a war. He was the kind of guy who needed purpose, they both were.

“You gonna tell him what you know?” Yelena asked behind him. Bucky didn’t answer.

She leaned in. “About the data chip you pulled from the black car’s comm unit?”

He glanced at her. “I can’t,” Bucky mumbled, stepping away from her.

“Why not..?” Yelena asked almost incredulously.

“Because if I tell John, he’ll try to handle it himself. And I’m not sure he’ll come back from it.”

Back in Monte Carlo, Yelena had lifted a tracking chip from the sabotaged car. It had taken weeks to crack the encryption, but what they found was damning—encrypted transactions, dozens of payments made from shell corporations that led back not to the Flag Smashers directly but someone slightly similar.

“Baron Zemo?” John asked. “That guy’s with the Dora Milaje, right? How’s he doing all that from there?”

Bucky sighed. “You think that ever stopped him?”

Zemo had once been broken out of prison by Bucky to help get the Flag Smashers suspended, now he was working with them? And it seemed he’d turned to financial sabotage—using motorsport as a stage for more corruption and manipulation. How was he doing this if he was in a different country, not even racing anymore?

“This league,” Yelena said, scrolling through accounts, “it’s all being bought. Zemo’s buying teams, probably sabotaging others. And no one at the top is clean,” including the board that had blacklisted John after Lemar’s death, Bucky thought.

“They’re not just letting the Flag Smashers back in,” Bucky said grimly. “They’re funding them. They’re letting this happen.” He leaned against the wall behind him, running a hand through his hair.

John sat alone in his hotel room, he felt different. The adrenaline was gone. Replaced by something heavier. He scrolled through old messages on his phone, stopping on one in particular: “When you're ready to start paying attention to your family I'll call.”

He hit the dial before he could think better of it. It rang three times, then four.

“John?” Olivias’ voice was wary. Tired.

“Hey,” he said, voice low. “I know it’s been a while.”

“It has,” she mumbled, silence stretched between them.

“I didn’t call to fix everything,” he said, genuinely debating just ending the call. “I just—I wanted you to know I’m trying.” Another pause.

“I saw you on the podium in Japan,” she said. “You looked like him again. The man I married.”

John’s throat tightened. “He’s still in there. Somewhere,” Olivia continued. “You just have to stop pushing everyone away to protect him.”

“I’m trying,” he repeated. He couldn’t help but feel like he had something to prove to her, something to live up to.

“I know,” the words stung for reasons he couldn’t voice. Maybe because she knew he was trying. Before she hung up, she said one last thing:

“If you ever want to really talk, I’ll listen.” It wasn’t a reunion, not yet. But it was a beginning.

Silverstone roared with the fury of 20 cars gunning for supremacy, but John heard only one engine: Sharon Carter’s car. She was back. Pole position. Her car now bore the name Mercy, an irony in crimson paint. By Lap 15, John was on her tail. Suzuka had been a warning, now this felt serious. He barely knew her, what was her business with him?

Their tires scraped. Sparks flew. Neither gave ground. At one point, she tapped her helmet and motioned to him—a gesture used by Caps team drivers back in the old days. It was recognition.

“Hey, Walker?” Her voice came through the private channel that she’d probably hacked into. “How’s your dad doing?” She spoke with absolute pettiness. Jesus, she really is terrible, John thought, refusing to let it get to him. How did she even know about his father?

He pushed harder, but every time he closed in, she blocked him cleanly, flawlessly. Whatever she was doing, she’d obviously been trained by the best. He knew how this would end, and it wouldn’t be on the track.

That night, Bucky broke protocol by meeting with Valentina Allegra Du-Fontaine.

“You said I’d have a purpose here,” he told her. “That the Thunderbolts were meant to rebuild something better. You know what the Flag Smashers’ team is doing, you know who’s funding them, right?”

She smiled coolly. “They’re the ones doing that, I’m not a part of this.”

“No. You can’t act like you can’t do anything about this.”

“Because I can’t. Not without destroying the team, of course. You’re not soldiers anymore, James,” Valentina spoke condescendingly.

“No,” he said, rising. “We’re drivers now. Which means we can do anything we want off the job. Off the track, you’ve got no control over us,”

He left the meeting with her shallow laugh echoing behind him: “You sound like John,” Bucky didn’t turn around. John? Did he come to her about this, too?

Back in the Thunderbolts' garage, John found a letter tucked into his driver’s suit. It was from his ex-wife. Handwritten.

I watched the race. You didn’t let your anger win this time. That’s the man Lemar respected. If there’s still a piece of him left, maybe there’s a chance for you to change. He closed his eyes, holding the paper tight.

Not closure. Not yet. But the weight inside told him something else. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want to get back with Olivia, but he wanted to try and change, to be a different man than the one who neglected their son.

Zemo made his move during the final race in Spa-Francorchamps. A full blackout hit the track grid right before the start, no telemetry, no radio, no GPS. Just steel, rubber, and instinct.

John, Bucky, and Yelena had only one option: driving. The officials could stop the race at any time, but nothing came through the speakers. The only thing that changed for the racers was the cold silence through the radio, and that wasn’t unnatural enough for any driver to stop. But they had no idea how dangerous this race had just gotten, how bad the risk was.

John knew the course better than anyone. Knew every hairpin, every breaking zone, every inch of tarmac. And halfway through Lap 12, he took the lead. He got past Sharon, but the strangest part about that was that she let him. Something was going on.

He crossed the finish line, noticing he was in first place. Ahead of everyone, including his own teammates. John would’ve reveled in the victory if he didn’t feel as if the Flag Smashers were avoiding the finish line. They did something.

A crackling noise boomed through the radio, almost loud enough he felt it was breaking his eardrums.

“J- you—ve-.. out- ofthere!—” Bucky’s voice yelled through the comms, broken through static. His car was sabotaged. Bucky was telling him to get out of it. The roof of the car wasn’t lifting, and he already knew the windshield wasn’t going to break— something ticked.

Something inside the engine set off, a blast erupting the car to flip almost into the barrier, landing upside down with John still in it. The crack of the explosion ringing in his ears as he forced his eyes shut with a wince. He was still conscious, his vision swaying as the blood rushed to his head—he couldn’t feel the pain from the explosion. He couldn’t feel anything but heat running up his bones and through his veins, like he’d been struck by lightning.

The first thing he saw when his eyes barely fluttered open again was Bucky, yelling something at someone he couldn’t see. His head stung and his eyes refused to stay open for long, but he was conscious. His arms strained as Bucky pulled him out of the wreckage from the… crash? Was it a crash?

“John? Walker, can you hear me?” Bucky almost shouted at him, sitting him up against a wall. His throat was dry, he was too breathless to speak. John tried to give a nod, squeezing his eyes shut. There was too much light. Everything was too much. Bucky called to the others, something about him being conscious as he began hyperventilating.

This was too similar to Monte Carlo. To the crash that killed Lemar. John could’ve sworn he heard him, screaming his name over the radio before his car landed and everything was silent. But this time everything was so loud. Bucky’s yelling, Lemars’ voice, the ringing in his ears—he couldn’t listen to it.