If there was one thing she’d never been good at, it was quiet moments. Quiet had always belonged to someone else, someone more fortunate. America couldn’t afford it. She was loud, she was brash, she was angry. She wasn’t quiet. She was never, ever that.

Not even when she needed to be.

She was meant to be sneaking. She shouldn’t be out this late, certainly shouldn’t be throwing punches and kicking ass, not with the Accords hanging over everyone’s heads and the sentinels making their rounds. But America had never been good at sitting still, either, and so she was here. She was sneaking away from a sentinel’s post, waiting until she was far enough away to kick open a portal somewhere else. 

And her goddamn shoes squeaked. 

She felt the person behind her long before she saw him, all burning heat and cocky attitude. She didn’t know if he was registered, if he was an enforcer --- it was difficult to keep track. But he’d heard her, and he was looking at her now, and that was a dangerous position to be in. “You think they’re loud now,” she said with an exaggerated smile, “you shoulda heard them on the dance floor. I’m on my way home from the club. We got a problem?”