She’s born breech, feet kicking out before the rest of her screams free; she’s born breech, and never stops running. It’s a talent of hers, eventually, bringing the country to its knees with her stilettos leading a charge. She slips out of dark cars with her legs freshly waxed and her calves pressed together, bright red heels making the only statement that matters.
“I’ve arrived,” says Tony Stark, and if no one hears her, well. That’s not such a problem, is it? She’ll just have to say it louder.