According to ao3, I posted the first chapter of Freezer Burn five years ago today. It was my first MCU story and a sort-of return to comics(-ish) fic after the better part of a decade away. Which means that (a) yes, I am a fannish dinosaur and (b) I didn’t name the story after the working title of CA:tWS; they named the working title after my story.
I started FB with only a vague idea of where I was going – and then had to abandon that vague idea once Marvel announced that Captain America 2 would be a Winter Soldier movie because at that point the story was MCU-compliant and I utterly refuse to create fanon where canon is imminent. (Or, why I wrote a POV character for almost five years in SGA without using his first name because he didn’t have one.) So I didn’t know who the bad guy was until about halfway through – about 100k words in is not a recommended point to pause and figure out what the heck you’re doing, for the record. Which is why there are enough red herrings to stock a fish counter and a few too many lovingly detailed meals before I get around to advancing the plot where it’s actually going.
The story turned out okay, I think, and then became a series with both official sequels and unofficial connected parts as I worked out characters (or, why the master list for the series is different from the series page at ao3). I got over my canon compliancy fetish and the end result is that the story is MCU through a very thick 616/Brubaker filter. I officially closed the files sometime after Revenant, but then I kept adding to it, so it’s sort of a zombie now. But I’m not even considering trying to write Codename: Pandora until I get the albatross of a stalled wip off of my neck.
Anyway, it’s been five years since I dipped my toe into that pond and I’m celebrating. 🙂
I feel like there needs to be some kind of post for MCU fans on How To Write About Africa because I feel like there’s a lot of people out there who want to write about Wakanda and T’Challa but are worried about being problematic and that makes me sad because there’s SO MUCH GREAT meta to be had about T’Challa and Wakanda but at the same time there’s a lot of legitimate concerns about perpetuating racist stereotypes and yeah.
T’Challa and Wakanda could be such a great way to introduce people to amazing sci-fi concepts that people should know
This is SO needed.
It’s so easy to be like ‘just try it!’ but the problem with this website is that people don’t think its okay for people to make mistakes. I’ve gotten messages from people who want to write about T’Challa/Wakanda but are nervous about how their work will be perceived and its so sad.
We really need to gather some people who’d be interested in writing a nice little info post!
The waitress is the only one who recognizes Captain America.
The busy cafe is in a country far from America, and its Captain is in disguise—a dark beard cloaks his once-smooth cheek, sunglasses hide his bright eyes. But she serves his coffee, and she sees him, and she knows.
She is curious. As she adds a square of chocolate to his saucer, she murmurs, “What should we think here about this day in America, Steve Rogers?”
He seems startled, but doesn’t startle. Sits ramrod-straight, calm and ready. Cocks his head, curious. Perhaps he hasn’t heard.
She digs out her phone—shows him the news: the Twitter feed of pain and outrage, the news reports of chaos and death. For some minutes, he studies her screen.
“I think,” says Captain America, “That when you see a Nazi, you should punch that Nazi in the face.”
The waitress blinks. Times have changed since the Captain’s legendary youth forged in world war. Times are not so black and white, she thinks, but all the world is in a state of gray. “People say,” she says, halting, questioning, “People say that violence should not be used, even against those who call themselves Nazis—”
“Can’t imagine a situation I wouldn’t want to see settled peaceably,” says Captain America. “But some things never change. Some people don’t—they make sure their ideas’ll show up in every future. It’s our job to stop those people and their ideas. And that’s why if you see someone waving a Nazi flag and naming themselves a Nazi, you deal with them like we always have. Like I was made and trained to do. You punch them in the face, and you be sure to tell them it’s with regards from Steve Rogers.”
And this is how The End is stopped. Not by the gods or goddesses, the other races than man, no. It is Tumblr. As a mass running after a now confused and tail tucking Fenrir, whining softly as the crowd chants “PUPPER! PUPPER! PUPPER!”
Better yet: Fenrir escapes his chains and lopes forward to destroy the earth, and is met by a crowd of people. An army, Fenrir thinks, and bares his teeth in a ferocious snarl and charges toward them.
They cheer.
Wait … cheer?
Fenrir slows, confused. He smells no fear, senses no rage. This is … a very strange army.
The first hand—weaponless!—reaches for him; he tenses, ready to tear the offending limb to shreds, and lets out a high little yippy whine when it pats him about the ears.
Immediately the noise is reproduced by some four or five of the nearest humans; he smells excitement; more hands are patting him.
It’s nice.
The humans crowd around him, patting him and scritching him and shuffling around to give others a chance. Voices coo, and make puppy noises, and someone catches just the right spot and he cocks his leg and scratches himself, drawing a multitude of oohs and ahhs and cheers and squees.
At some point, his hunger awakens at the scent of burnt flesh; a human has brought him what he later learns is a hot dog; he swallows it in one bite, to more cheering, and looks around hopefully for more.
It is not long before more is bought: steaks and Big Macs and bacon; it seems like much of the group has brought him a snack of some kind and was hoping for a chance to give it to him.
The End of the World is supposed to be at hand, but Fenrir does not care. His hunger sated, his battle-lust swept away by a tide of gently petting hands, he rolls over, careful not to crush his many companions, and takes a nap.
“Who’s a good boy?” they ask him, over and over.
Is this some psychological warfare, he wonders, designed to undermine his confidence and remind him that he is nothing more than a monster who needs to be chained?
“Who’s a good boy, huh, huh?” “Who’s my good boy?” “
And then one of them answers the question for him.
“You are!”
‘Me?’ he thinks. But if there was any doubt, she confirms it.
“You are, yes you are.”
Fenrir’s tongue hangs out of his mouth as he grins. ‘I’m a good boy!’
Steel Phoenix Studios 