Exams Are Over.

In memory of Sokovia

A little oneshot I thought about while writing Zemo- I’ve decided to put it here.

Zemo tells an audience of children all about Sokovia, how the earth there was rich and matted, and all around them tall grass would spin out crackling sounds.

That if you walk far enough into the rising mountains, till you could only see the tops of the low terrace houses and the smoke spiraling up lazily from your house chimney, and you closed your eyes: you’d hear the rise and fall of hissing grass, they’d turn in huge ocean waves as the wind blew.

He would name all the mountain ridges, from the snowy peaks, all the way to the parts where the ice melted and trickled down into streams, gathering into cold rivers and bubbling springs. The water would be a pale green from afar, and a hazy yellow up close, reflecting the small brown rocks that lined the bottom.

He’d tell them that where the river mouth was, the water was flowing clear and crisp, and children used to drink from it and catch tadpoles. A kilometer down, where the bustle of the town was, the river would be sun-warmed and algae infested, swirling lazily around and releasing the deep grassy perfume of the hills, saturating the air. In summer this was even more so.

When the plum and apple trees were ripe you could pick the fruits as they came bobbing down the river. The children would stand at the banks and fish them out with long nets, and even those that were partially rotten would be taken back home.

When the sun rose you could hear the song of the Stieglitz- the goldfinches, all across the valley. And the Gimplel with their red bellies and the Blaumeise, the rotund little scoundrels with their small beaks.

There’d be roads of crunching gravel and houses built on hills, stacked up like a mound of uneven books, the steps and rooftops cascading down into flatland where the bridge crosses the river and meets land.

You could harvest berries from the mountains, any berry was the right one, all were ripe and burst into sugary water in your mouth. You could pluck them straight from the stems, collect bunches and bunches, eating and spitting out the seeds as you went.

When the apple flowers bloomed he would wear crowns of them in his hair, spun by the maids that worked for his mother and father. They smelt delicate and sweet, like roses but without the dampness, and just a hint of fresh apple skins. When he was young he had thought they were cherry blossoms, for they looked so much alike. And he would tell the children in a conspiratorial whisper, that these were better than cherry blossoms, for they flourished for months and months instead of a mere week.

And then the children, in wonder and amazement, would tug at his sleeves, asking him to point out his country on the map. Zemo’s gaze would drift away, his face would settle into the mould of its suffering... Sokovia was gone from the maps, would only exist in his memory.

Slowly, the children would see that he was drifting away, they would lose interest and run away to play together, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

Sitting alone, Zemo thinks of fires burning and towns flying, snow melting under tremendous heat. He remembers water evaporating, berries and flowers crushed under stampeding feet, and the smell of smoke. The grass is no more, the roads and the rooftops are no more, they’ve been covered by wet concrete.

Damnnnnnn, tony, stooooooop

You’re gonna make me catch feelings

Tony Leung photographed by Isaac Lam for GQ, August 2021.

👏👏commitment right here, folks. I will be reading the docs just to firm up my characterization of JW for the fic I’m working on

John Walker: a study in story framing, character archetype, established canon details, and audience manipulation

There’s been a ton of discourse surrounding the character of John Walker, everyone has a lot of opinions. But having read many articles, posts, tweets, and watched reaction channels and video essays, I have found a common theme among them: a fundamental misunderstanding of the character due to the story framing.

In fact, the character of John Walker that exists in fandom discussions is more of a projection of what people think he is and what people want him to stand in for rather than the actual canonically established character that exists in the story of The Falcon and The Winter Soldier. This is why I have decided to write this post along with an episode-by-episode breakdown, because I think John Walker the character has been completely eclipsed by John Walker the symbol, lost underneath the iconography that he’s been associated with and not really given a fair look as an individual person.

I should make it clear upfront; it is not my intention with this to tell people how they should feel about a character. Whether you agree with my points or not doesn’t really matter. My hope is that this at the very least provides you with a different perspective on the character and his motivations. Maybe have you consider him in a new way.

So, let’s start from the beginning.

——————————–

EPISODE 1

Story framing is important, it effects our perspective as an audience, and it is deliberately controlled by the writers and filmmakers to manipulate certain emotions and impressions out of us. The Falcon and The Winter Soldier expertly does this from the very beginning by framing John Walker immediately as someone whom we should not want.

Because the music is mournful and ominous despite the celebratory occasion shown on TV.

Because Sarah is upset.

Because Sam has his fists clenched and is unhappy and suspicious, and then closes his eyes in upset.

Because when dialogues like this is delivered, the show is purposefully playing into real life iconography and feelings that already raises our hackles.

Because Sam retired the shield and the hero position, so when someone else seemingly carelessly and casually steps in waving like a propaganda piece with a gun on his hip, and a grey flag symbol that looks so close to the thin blue line flag used by cops, there is something unsettling to us even if we didn’t consciously pick up on it, we just know that it goes against what we want and what our main protagonist wants. 

Because this strange person in a Cap costume winking looks like a jerk. We didn’t ask for this. 

As it’s always said, first impressions are important. How someone first perceives you decides how someone might judge anything that you do. If someone thinks you’re an arrogant jerk, then anything you do will be colored by that impression and they will never think well of your intentions. But if their first impression of you is kind and caring, then any mistakes you made is automatically given leeway because your intentions would be well considered. And in one fell swoop, the show firmly planted into the minds of every single person watching that John Walker is an arrogant jerk espousing propaganda no one wants and everything he does is automatically suspect and questionable. 

In fact, they even go the extra step to make that very clear by how the cast credits is used. Notice the difference between the image of Walker in Episode 1 and Episode 2-6?

The red mark over his eyes, blocking him from us, not only feels foreboding, it feels as if it’s warning us. 

So, when I say that John Walker was from the beginning set up to fail, it’s because he was, the story intended for it to be. We have to hate, question, suspect, and think the worst of Walker in order for Sam’s eventual reclaiming of the shield to mean anything or have that emotional catharsis. Because nobody wants to see Sam take the shield from a nice dude, it would be bittersweet or even mean, but if the story tells us that this guy is someone we can dislike or hate right off the bat because there is something vaguely “bad” about him, then we would root for Sam to take that shield.

There is a reason we don’t get Walker’s perspective at all in his introduction. He’s just this stranger we’ve been programmed as an audience to hate. We are not treated to Walker waiting to go outside and feeling nervous, or Walker doubting himself or perhaps even not wanting to take up the shield at first when it was given to him. The purposeful lack of his perspective is done so we only feel the weight of emotions from the Wilsons being upset, because we must relate to the protagonists.

Walker is not the hero of this story, he’s not the protagonist of this story, if he was, then the story would have framed his unveiling as Captain America in a completely different way, and we would have been treated to a sympathetic look at what he was feeling about taking on the shield, we would have had an inside look at his mindset before he walked out there and looked into that camera and winked. But because we the audience lack that important context that was deliberately kept away from us, our views on Walker formed and solidified without it, and then we all stewed on those feelings for a whole week. 

By the time Episode 2 rolled around to open with Walker’s perspective, the damage was already done, it was too late, because people had already made up their mind about what kind of a person he was, and even those who might have given him a chance was just waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

The show had very clearly made sure that John Walker was always going to have an uphill battle in the eyes of the fans, however fairly or unfairly. And that deliberate and purposeful removal of his perspective and context would be the key to how the character will be misread. Because the reality is, Walker hasn’t even done anything wrong yet and people have already made assumptions just because of one wink, just because of his mere presence. There was no objective consideration that Walker winked because he understood having to put on a cheerful public facade, no consideration that he could have been told to play along nicely for the cameras and directed to look there and wink, no consideration that he didn’t ask for this job but was ordered to do so and is as much a “victim” of the government as Sam. Because the show had already used every trick in the book to make us feel bad and ominous about his presence, the audience would automatically assume the worst.

CLICK THIS LINK TO CONTINUE TO EPISODE TWO AND THE REST OF THIS 219 PAGES AND OVER 28K WORDS ANALYSIS

There are many who have the same motivations as Zemo. His family probably wasn’t the only one hurt by the avengers. What sets him apart is that he chose violence.

There are many who also have the same motivations as Karli. After all, displaced people are all over the world. What sets her apart as well, is that she chose violence.

I ship WalkerBaron so hard it’s not even funny. I don’t even know why or how. Some part of me started headcanoning how they’d work together in Thunderbolts and it was all a spiral after that.

Someone save me from this fresh hell

😭🤧🤡

Wowowowow 🥵

First chapter of my Shang Chi/Wenwu fic is on AO3.

Uhhhhhhh if you ship, check it out.

If you don’t, don’t come for me.

Oh boy it’s a slow burn and it’s gonna be a long one.

Awesome, nuanced analysis of Sokovia and Zemo’s character!

Been thinking a bit about Zemo’s character arc & tragic backstory.

As a member of Sokovian nobility, he was ostensibly raised to be proud of his country and heritage. He joined the army out of patriotic duty (it’s not like he needed the money). He could trace his lineage back generations; his son was going to be his future legacy.

And then all the things he loved or fought for in his life turn to dust.

His entire family dies, and his homeland gets smashed to bits and absorbed by neighboring countries. Suddenly, he’s a dying breed - there won't even be Sokovians in a generation or two, as ethnic Sokovians get acculturated in the diaspora. The language and unique customs will probably die out. It’s only been a few years since the Ultron catastrophe, and nobody even visits the memorial to Sokovian dead. The world is moving on.

At first he latched onto revenge, targeting the Avengers… and then what? Where does all that energy go now? He’s got nothing left to live for, but he’s always been a very disciplined man, so he’s still planning, plotting, calculating. He might as well start some shit. Revel in the chaos.

And if it kills him in the process, so be it. He thinks he should have died years ago, anyway.

I’m going to write another (possibly last?) WalkerBaron story soon, this one set 5 years after the events of He’s My Collar.

My Tunnels Are Long and Dark These Days

Featuring snapshots of the three most important road trips in Zemo and John's journey of working together.

To love is to pretend, don't try to love yourself again That is the worst kind of pain We're not those kinds of freaks, amen We're a different sort of breed of men

KARAKORAM HIGHWAY, CHINA-PAKISTAN

Zemo sat slouching in his seat, one hand hanging out the window of the truck, another draped on the steering wheel. The road stretched out in front of them, disappearing into the shadows of the mountains and forests. The sun was not up yet, it was early morning. 5AM, where no one rose out of bed but the office workers, the labourers, the soldiers coming out of their blanket shells. And where no one entered into slumber but the gravediggers, the night-shifters, the soldiers retreating into their blanket shells. The truck had been trotting along the road for hours, a small brown beetle with its headlights shining pale yellow, framing the one-meter radius ahead of it. Twenty-four hours ago had been when they first kicked the ignition into its churn in the region of Kashgar (a former trading town along the Silk Road), and when the prospects of a proper ceramic toilet had bit the dust. Twenty-four hours come and gone, with Zemo quietly helming the operation.

From Kashgar, they had traveled to Karakul under the cover of night, a journey that had taken them six hours. There had been no scenery of note but white moonlight glinting off the peaks of the two tall snowy mountains, Muztagh Ata and Mount Kongur. The shimmering scales of the Karakul lake had enraptured Zemo for hours, greeting him whenever a sharp jolt in the road woke him from his slumber.

And now, after resting a few hours at a local abode, they continued on to Tashkurgan, where from there they would go right into the borders of Pakistan.

A small muffled sound came from the lump beside him. “What’s the situation?” John mumbled blearily, poking his head through the covers. Zemo cast him a sideline glance, frowning at his sleep-mussed hair and squinted eyes. “It’s not your turn yet.”

With a snort, John closed his eyes again and rolled over, facing away from Zemo. He settled into another deep sleep.

A big, military-looking truck drove by them, momentarily blinding Zemo with its headlights. Heartbeat quickened in his chest, Zemo sat up straighter and observed the truck through the rearview mirror, hoping for its retreat. He glanced quickly towards his small driving compartment, doing a mental catalog of the materials there: a driver’s license, a forged visa to pass the border customs, fake passports with cover identities for himself and Walker… good, very good. All according to plan. Zemo rolled down the windows of his truck slightly, listening intently. The roar of the military truck did not fade into a distant hum. Instead, there was the screech of tires and the sudden whirring which indicated only one thing- Walker had better practiced the cover story that Zemo told him to, or the ensuing events would be catastrophic.

The urgent, piercing honking behind them startled John into wakefulness. He bolted up, then as if realizing that there was nowhere to go, settled back gingerly into his seat. “Zemo…”

Zemo tightened his grip on the wheels. Flexed his knuckles once, twice. Gently, as if petting a startled cat, rolled the ball of his foot over the brakes. “Anderson, don’t panic,” he says with practiced calm. “Remember what we rehearsed?”

“Yeah, Niki,” John replies. Though his face was carefully composed, the telltale twitching of his leg told Zemo otherwise.

All John had to do as Anderson was play the part of a slightly confused USA diplomat, heading from China to Pakistan over some matters of a proposed trade deal. Niki was to be his driver and translator, a man who had been an exchange student in China briefly where he picked up some basic Mandarin. Zemo had learned barely enough to get the both of them through a ten, fifteen-minute exchange. For the rest of his persuasion, he’d have to rely on the forged documents and the facade of confidence. If all went well, they would be sent on their merry way very quickly, and deliver all eight billion dollars worth of SHIELD information straight into the hands of Contessa. Of course, Zemo had taken an innocent, ‘accidental’ look at the confidential information, and deemed it useless enough to give to the woman. If it were anything that he found potentially dangerous, he would dispose of it immediately. Dry kindling could turn into a wildfire in Contessa’s hands, and that was the kind of risk he would never take.

“Stay calm. I will settle it quickly. The officers don’t want to make a big deal out of this either- we will be on our way soon,” he hissed to John as soon as he heard the crunch of boots on the tarmac.

Zemo rolled his window down to the silhouette of a heavily-clad soldier, who was covered head to toe in military gear. His eyes seemed to be narrowed, whether it was from suspicion or simply fatigue.

“有签证吗？” (Do you have a visa?)

“有。” (Yes.) Zemo reached into the compartment and retrieved the documents. The soldier took a quick look at them via the torchlight and passed it back to him. Then, tipping his chin at John- “他是你的朋友？” (Is he your friend?)

“他是我的老板。” (He's my boss.) Zemo struggled to recall the words for a moment. “我帮他翻译。” (I help him to translate.)

“对于游客来说，这时间挺早的。你们从卡拉库尔来的？” (This time of day is quite early for a tourist to be travelling. Are you coming from Karakul?)

Zemo blinked, processing the words. “可以…重复吗？” (Can you... repeat that?)

The guard sighed, then said slowly- “你们从，卡拉库尔，来? ” (You came, from, Karakul?)

The pieces slot into place in his head. 卡拉库尔 - Karakul. You… from… you came from Karakul.

“对，对。抱歉，我的华文不好。” (Yes, yes. Apologies, my mandarin isn't good.)

The guard laughed, but there was no condescension or meanness in it. “对于老外来说，发音挺好。” (For a foreigner, your pronunciation is pretty good.)

He continues, “好，好，谢谢。打扰你了。不多说了，你们走吧。” (Yes, yes, thank you. Sorry for the disturbance, you can go.)

Zemo, displaying the kindest smile he could, nodded and bade the man farewell. He turned off the lights in the car and smirked, knowing John could see it- This is how a professional works.

Another voice rang out, different from the one earlier. “先别走。” (Don't go yet.)

Zemo’s foot froze at the pedal. John’s expression was one of pure confusion and panic, his calmness now barely held together. Through the conversation earlier, Zemo had already sensed him vibrating with stagnant energy, and now it was manifesting in dangerous, careless ways. Zemo quickly reached out to touch John shoulder and calm him down- he's learnt that the other man responded best to physical contact, something he himself detested.

John’s wild gaze lifted to a point above his shoulder and lingered there.

The sharp rapping at the glass behind him are like bullets to his ears.

Zemo turns around, “为何…” (Why...)

His voice died in his throat. Standing there outside the car, equally shocked- Karlen Constantine.

Zemo could recognize that face anywhere. The rounded jaw, the brittle mouth, and that hateful, hateful look in his eyes.

The same look he gave when Zemo framed him for murder and left a two-million-dollar bounty on his head in Madripoor. Eight years ago.

Zemo takes quick stock of the situation. Judging by Constantine’s badges- high ranking. Heavily armed. A long, long road ahead of them. Walker has no shield, not yet. That was still in the process of being manufactured in Romania. Car chases weren’t an option. Evasion wasn’t an option. Anything other than negotiation would lead to their death. Zemo swallowed the saliva that rested heavily on his tongue.

“Karlen, please,” he says. John inhaled loudly behind him, he ignored it.

“You son of a bitch,” Karlen laughed gleefully. “Oh, this has made my day. I’m going to enjoy this.”

“What the fuck is going on, Zemo?” John snarled, ditching the pseudonym. He knew the game was up, the only question was how they were going to get out of this situation.

“Karlen, I’m invaluable to you,” Zemo continues carefully. His heart is pounding wildly in his chest, and it’s taking every iota of energy in him to keep his voice steady, to prevent the wave of panic from engulfing his mind. Any wrong word, any wrong move, and he would be dead within minutes. The car was bulletproof, but at such close range… with a shotgun, no less… Zemo knew the specs of the glass well, but he loathed taking risks. “I can-”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Karlen screamed, spittle hitting the glass. “Both of you, get the fuck out. Hands where I can see them. Slowly. Fucking do it slowly, or I’ll blow a hole in your leg.”

With steady breaths, Zemo complied. He could feel the adrenaline rushing up to his brain, reducing everything to a frantic pulsing in his muscles, the instinctual urge to run or fight. He got out of the car, hands raised to his shoulders, holding John’s gaze steady- don’t do anything rash. Follow my lead. And surprisingly, John did. He followed without a single word of protest, even though Zemo knew he was aching to throw a punch, to smash his fist into someone’s temple, or feel the satisfying recoil of a gun vibrating against his bones.

Zemo felt the cold barrel of a gun pressed between his eyes, at the same time that John jolted forward and cried, “No!”

“Don’t FUCKING move!” Karlen roared again, clicking off the safety. “Stay where you are or I’ll fucking kill him. Zemo, he answers to you, right? Tell him.”

Zemo glanced away to catch John’s horrified stare before his head was painfully yanked back by the roots of his hair. “Hey. Eyes on me. What did I say?”

“John, don’t move,” Zemo said slowly, grimacing as Karlen’s grip tightened.

“Now kneel.”

Zemo complied, breathing heavily. He could feel the fur of his jacket sticking to the back of his neck, and how hot his entire body felt, alight with energy. The aching of his scalp and knees had faded into a dull buzzing, overtaken by the hyperawareness of Karlen, his every movement, and Walker’s unyielding presence at his back.

As if sensing the same, Walker leaned forward carefully to place himself in Zemo's peripheral vision, discreet enough that Karlen wouldn't notice.

"Three years. Three years, I had to run and run and run. All because you stabbed me in the back, like the fucking coward you are. We were friends, but that didn't mean shit to you, did it? I'm glad your fucking wife and kids died. I hope they suffered. Oh yeah, I hope they screamed. I'm going to make this very painful for you too, Zemo."

Zemo's hands were trembling with the force of keeping them from Karlan's throat. It was taking everything he had to restrain himself. He tipped his chin up, looked straight into the matching pair of hateful eyes, and spat at Karlen's feet. "Fuck you."

It barely sounded like his own voice. The hate was thick sewer sludge, bubbling past the broken glass in his throat. A blinding burst of red splattered across his vision- Zemo flinched from the force at which the rage slammed into his mind. I will kill you. I will peel your skin from your bones, bit by bit. You're going to be screaming like a pig by the time I'm done. Constantine, you'll wish you were dead-

Karlen punched him so hard his entire body collapses to the side. Zemo tasted blood on his tongue, and god, it was pouring out of his nose. It wasn't broken, however- he turned his head just in time to prevent that. The lights look blurry- his eyes were watering.

Another kick connected with his stomach and Zemo cried out in pain, curling up into a ball.

Stop, stop, fucking stop, someone was shouting. When his head finally stopped ringing, he realised that it was John.

"You're friends with this guy?" Karlen laughed. "Oh, come on. He's just going to stab you in the back too. In fact, I'm sure he's already plotted multiple ways to kill you or fuck you up."

"He's tried," John laughed mirthlessly. His voice dropped into a low growl, a voice meant for spilling dirty little secrets- "Many, many times."

"And guess what, I'm still here. You aren't. A word of advice? Don't take yourself so seriously. You don't mean shit to him if you can't keep yourself around," John continued.

Zemo struggled to push himself back up, panting hard. He can't gather enough air to shout, stop talking. Those words laid like a brand against his skin, spelling out the name John Walker, a possessive claim.

I'm special, John Walker practically crowed.

And Zemo hated that he was right.

"If you like him so much, you can join him." Karlen laughed, raised his gun to John Walker, and fired.

He was fast.

John was faster.

The bullet buried itself harmlessly into the ground. The soldiers startle, reaching for their guns. One shot, Karlen's body dropped. The muffled thump launched Zemo's body into action. His fingers found a gun, and without blinking he whirled and pulled the trigger three times.

A few more shots rang out, and two more men are down.

Zemo swayed on his feet, but before he could collapse, there were strong arms around him, leading him to the car. He's shoved into it in a daze. John Walker entered through the other side, at the wheel.

"Shh. Shh. Hey. Hey, princess, look at me." A damp cloth was pressed into his hands, and he instinctively brought it up to his nose to staunch the bleeding. They're both breathing harshly from the fight. Gunpowder blue eyes stared back at him, brows furrowed. Light glanced off the mirror, staining John's hair a warm golden. Zemo was reminded of his vintage brass rulers, the beautiful old smell they had...

Wait. Light? He lifted his head to see the sunrise, then the time on the electronic clock. 6.05 AM. The tourist buses would be moving out soon, which meant-

"Drive," he whispered, and John kicked the car into high gear without a word.

"I'll text Contessa to put a roadblock on both sides and clear up the scene as quickly as possible. Once at Tashkurgan we'll leave the car, take the tourist bus, and blend in with the rest. I will arrange for Contessa to meet us earlier than was planned. When we arrive in Pakistan, we need to get past the border security. Even though we're compromised, this will not be risky. It's broad daylight and there are too many people at the border to cause a scene. The congestion will be in our favour. Clear?"

"Crystal."

"And the next time, I'll tell Contessa that travelling at night is a bad idea."

John frowned. "Hey, don't blame yourself. No one knew this was going to happen."

"We were nearly killed, John."

"Yeah, what's the big deal? Do you know how many times I've nearly been killed, Zemo? More than I could count. And trust me, this does not even come close." John laughs brightly. "We got outta there fine, yeah? Trust me. Not even close. It was a team effort."

Zemo looked down, and saw the slight quivering of his leg that John tried to hide. He dragged his eyes up to John's face, and recognised the tiny, near-imperceptible strain in his eyes... something you would not catch unless you were specifically looking for it.

You can be a really good liar if you tried, John.

"You're special to me, you know." the words came out in a rush, stumbling over one another. It sounded like a confession, and Zemo hated how it made his heart stutter, how his hands tingled, how the pain and the anger faded away into a schoolboy-nervousness.

The entire world, bottled down to a single response.

And he waited for an answer with bated breath, though he was uncertain of the question he had asked, if any at all.

My ending thoughts:

John Walker tells Zemo about love, like how a parent tells their child about the unobservable universe, about the untouched depths of the ocean, as if whispering: don't fear the unknown, for we'll explore it together.

Inspiration and images were taken from:

Zion National Park, United States (Utah)

Black Canyon of the Gunnison, United States (Colorado)

Trollstigen, Norway

Transfăgărășan road, Romania

Karakoram Highway, China-Pakistan

Images were taken from Google, not owned by me.