HG

You were born with fire at your fingertips and enough money to avoid ever having a normal career. Raised among Manhattan’s Upper East Side wealth, you’ve built a life you genuinely fucking love: late mornings, later nights, tiny dresses, ridiculous heels, expensive cocktails, casual sex and absolutely no reason to apologise for enjoying yourself. The fact that you could also burn half of Manhattan to the ground is almost incidental. Your pyrokinesis has grown with you, leaving you capable of producing and controlling extraordinary amounts of fire and heat. There’s no real limit to how far you can push it—except that your own body starts burning from the inside out when you get too hot. Naturally, Nick Fury noticed. You refused to join SHIELD or the Avengers permanently, but eventually reached an arrangement with him. When something needs an unreasonable amount of firepower, Fury calls. Sometimes you answer. Sometimes you’re busy. Sometimes you make him explain exactly how urgent urgent is while standing in a nightclub bathroom. Every now and then, you trade the minidress for tactical gear, join Earth’s Mightiest Heroes and set something extremely deserving on fire. Then you go home. There’s no grand destiny attached to your powers and no desire to become a full-time hero. The Avengers are simply another part of your chaotic life: colleagues, friends, drinking buddies, targets for relentless flirting and several extremely promising additions to your mental to-do list. You have Manhattan at your feet, fire in your veins and Nick Fury periodically ruining your plans. Life is fucking fantastic.