Rogers was riding home. He wasn't really concentrating on anything except the road, that was probably safer right now. He hadn't enjoyed the election cycle, he'd have sworn it hadn't been this crazy in his day. And surely America could do better than two people who were under investigation for one crime or another. He was glad it was over. He wasn't overjoyed about the result, but at least the campaigning was over. He'd been out on manoeuvres on the Canadian border with most of the other Avengers for the past five days, so he'd missed the tail end of the cycle. He'd voted in advance. He just kept his eyes on the road, mind as blank as he could manage.
Which was why it was surprising that he saw it at all. But out of the corner of his eye, he saw something he couldn't believe. He flicked his head back to look again and braked hard. There, on that wall. He'd never seen it in America before, not in the war, not since he'd woken up. He'd thought America, his America, was safe from it and all it represented. Now three men were standing around it with a spray can, writing words around it. Rogers's mouth fell open, he could feel his heart hammering in anger.
A Swastika.
Four. Hundred. Thousand. American soldiers had given their lives to hold it back. Sixteen Million Allies. He pulled his bike off the road and laid it down on the sidewalk. He could stop this. He had to stop this. He started towards the men. They didn't look round. Make America White Again. That was what they were writing. How dared they?
"Hey!" Rogers called out. He was breathing hard, his hands balled in to fists. They looked over their shoulders, then back. "Hey!" He repeated. They ignored him completely this time. Rogers felt his nerve snap.
He broke in to a sprint and closed the gap between himself and the man with the spray can before the man had had time to do more than turn round. Rogers grabbed him by the front of his sweater and his right arm and threw him back against the wall and held him there.
"Do you know what that means, punk?" He snarled. The man struggled, but he wasn't strong enough to push Rogers off. There was a sharp, alcoholic smell on his breath.
"We won the vote." The speaking man came at Rogers from his right. "They gotta get out before they get thrown-" Rogers lifted a foot, "– Agh!" and kicked him in the guts.
"Did your grandfather fight in the war?" Rogers asked the man he was holding, shoving him against the wall again. He was still struggling. "Do you know what we paid to stop the Nazis?"
"Well they had something right." The man in Rogers's grip choked. "What's your problem? You a fag or something?" Rogers threw him down sideways, then stooped to pick him up again.
Something hard hit him in the side, sending pain jarring through his ribs and knocking him off balance. A broken brick landed on the ground beside him. Movement behind him. He turned. Something hard connected with the side of his head, then shattered and became sharp. Dozens of claws bit his scalp, green shards flew across his sight. He punched the knee of the man holding the broken bottle. There was blood in his left eye. The man fell down. Rogers got up. The third man grappled him. Rogers stamped on his foot, punched him in the stomach and pushed him away. Rogers took two steps away from the three of them, they were starting to get up.
"Come on!" He shouted. "I've put a lot of Nazis down, I'll put down three more!"
They ran. Of course they ran. They knew they were outmatched and they were afraid he'd hurt them. There was blood running down the side of his head, and his side hurt. Rogers picked up the dropped spray can. That hadn't been smart. He should have called the police and restrained them, got them arrested for this. He'd just…
That symbol, and everything it represented, it didn't belong in America. A lot of people had been lost, Bucky had been lost, making sure of that. And if this was what…
It was three punks with a spray can and alcohol. It didn't mean much. Wherever you were in the world there were always a few horrible people. He should just carry on and find somewhere he could clean up his head, there was blood in his ear now.
He hated to leave the Swastika just… there on the wall as though it had a right. But what could he do? He didn't fancy explaining to the police, or anyone else, why he was standing next to something like that with a spray can in his hands. He'd do better to just call the cops and say he'd seen some bad graffiti.
Rogers dropped the can, turned and walked back towards his bike, head low, wiping the blood out of his eyes.
This is not meant to suggest how Rogers would have voted, or even which candidates exist in the MCU.
This is not meant to suggest that all those who voted Trump are neo-Nazis, nor even that all those voted Trump are racists.
This is meant to say, as I'm sure most of you know, that owing to Trump's racist rhetoric, neo-Nazi and other racist elements with the US feel emboldened. This is predictable, but it is not insurmountable. The responsibility for stopping it lies, yes, with the police and with Trump, but also with every single person in the United States who witnesses a xenophobic attack. Inaction is as bad as assent. Approach the victim and strike up a conversation about the weather or a film that's coming out. If you can do so safely, film and report the incident. Afterwards, stay with the victim if you can, offer them water or to phone a friend for them. It is not usually advisable to engage the perpetrator at any stage.
This happened in my home country too this year, after another campaign with distinctly racist tones won. It is taking time, but are overcoming it. The neo-Nazis realised that Brexit did not mean white supremacy. Eventually, they will realise that Trump doesn't either.
This was inspired by the image of this very graffiti in New York State.