Hey! I know this is an incredibly short intro so I'm sorry! But I hope you enjoy this. I've been sucked into the abyss that is the Maximoff twins. I would really appreciate any feedback! I own nothing but my character, Katia.

I wrap my fingers around the straps of my backpack. The crowd is large and it wouldn't surprise me if I'm surrounded by hundreds of eager pick-pockets.

I can see it now. A kid with grimy fingers and a tiny knife rips open the bottom of my bag and the parts of my rifle clatter to the cobblestoned square. Everyone else turns and looks. The pick-pocket takes my clip and the crowd descends on me, finding me another foreign threat in the midst of their riots.

I snap out of it. I don't actually look that out of place in Sokovia and I definitely don't look out of place at the protest.

After a second of shifting from one foot to the other, I decide I have to get to higher ground. I push my way through groups of angry Sokovian teenagers and even angrier Sokovian adults. I duck wayward elbows and arms until I am finally on the outside of the crowd. My backpack makes it out equally unscathed. I wander the streets until I find a building tall enough to survey the situation before it gets worse.

Something tells me that I shouldn't be here as I climb flights of stairs to the top of a bell tower. I shake that off too. I've spent too long being told I'm not old enough to be an agent, that's all it is. It's natural to doubt yourself on your first mission, I think. But I just can't shake this bad feeling.

I was only allowed on this mission because I'm the best sniper this side of Clint Barton. It's certainly not because S.H.I.E.L.D. considers me an agent. They act like I'm still a child but I'm not one. I'm an asset. I haven't been a kid since my dad died. S.H.I.E.L.D. knows that because they took me in. Still, they've lorded the number "21" over me since the moment I expressed interest in becoming one, as if it would make me change my mind. You can join the army at 18. Just ask Captain America.

I drop my bag to the floor and start to assemble my sniper rifle. Once it is locked and loaded, I lay on my stomach and look through my scope. Even though I'm not going to shoot anyone, I still finger the trigger.

The only reason we're in Sokovia is to quell this rebellion. S.H.I.E.L.D. agents are coming in to be "peacekeepers." The very nature of this mission (and the very definition of the word "peacekeeper") was why I was even allowed to come. Discussions about allowing me on a mission went on for weeks. Their reasoning for letting me finally go out in the field came down to, "Keeping the peace? In Sokovia? There's no trouble for Katia to get herself into." They underestimate me. I can get into trouble anywhere.

Something catches my eye in the square and I adjust my scope. I keep my gaze on the Sokovian rebels. They're yelling, pushing against their barricades. I turn my gun to look back at our forces. Most of them aren't S.H.I.E.L.D. but news channels.

"Ridley, how's the unrest looking?" Agent Basso's voice asks over my comm.

"They're starting to get violent," I respond, returning to the rebels just as something is thrown over their barricades.

"Wishing you'd stayed at home?" The whole team seems to walk on eggshells around me and they've wanted me to leave since day one. I know that everyone's attitude is that I'm a teenager and therefore, not old enough to make informed decisions but they're wrong. I'm an adult in all the ways that matter.

I scoff at him. "Not one bit." I twirl my scope until it focuses on a pair of kids around my age; a boy and a girl, both brunette and equally enraged. I bet they've been told by their superiors that they're too young to stand up for what they believe in. For a second, I wonder what they've been through… and then it happens.

A smoke bomb fires off in the square and I say, "Move in!" I twist my rifle around, moving away from the Sokovian boy and girl.

"Ridley, get to Agent Smith! We'll take you back to base!" I want to protest but another bomb goes off and I feel the impact of it from my vantage point at the church.

"Okay," I reply and immediately begin dismantling my rifle. I throw parts into my bag haphazardly, zip it up, and throw it on my back. I run down the stairs and head out onto the streets, which are filled with people fueling the riots. This situation is getting more precarious by the minute.

Sokovia is mostly medieval with a few semi-modern structures thrown in for good measure, which only serves to make its layout more confusing. I pull out my tiny GPS, which should help me get back to Agent Smith. I hit it with my palm several times before it decides to work. This is what happens when you get Clint's hand-me-downs.

It tells me to turn right so I start at a sprint, hoping to get away from the yelling. I go left, right, left again. I turn another corner and slam into someone. My GPS hits the ground and the guy I ran into scoops it up and delivers it back into my hands. It's the boy I was watching earlier. "Sorry," he says with a wink and moves around me. The girl he was with runs by me too. I turn and look after them until my GPS starts blaring.

I miraculously make it back to Agent Smith. Frankly, I'm irritated that I have to answer to an agent who was recruited in the past six months. Sure, I'm not official but I've been around these people far longer than he has. Besides, Clint and Natasha don't seem to like him so I don't either.

"Let's get to the jet!" Smith yells at me. I slide into the passenger seat of a black SUV beside him and say nothing in response.

Smith arrived only a couple of days ago, a week after the rest of us got here. Agent Basso wanted him to come because he would bring something we need (or more specifically, something Baron Von Strucker needs). I've yet to figure out what it is and no one will tell me.

Once back on the jet, I think about letting Clint know just how great I'm doing but when I see another agent glance at where I'm sitting and snicker, I decide against it. I just go to my bunk in the back and lay down. I know I'll never be taken seriously if I keep openly protesting the idea that I'm just a "kid." They have to see what I can do. But subduing the riots in Sokovia won't be the best opportunity to show I can kill from 500 yards away.

The situation in Sokovia isn't terrible, all things considered. It hasn't warranted being on TV until now and even at this point, I bet it's only being shown on the premium news channels you have to pay extra to get. Frankly, I don't understand why S.H.I.E.L.D. even wants to get involved. Riots like this aren't all that unusual over here. I also don't see how there's anything to gain from a base in a small country like this. But what do I know? I'm not an agent.

Over the next couple of weeks, I repeat my actions daily. I set up in the steeple of the church and keep an eye on the progress of the rebellion. For the most part, I find it boring and tedious. Is this the life I'll be living once I pass my entrance tests? Sitting up in a crow's nest, only one eye open, clutching a semi-automatic rifle?

S.H.I.E.L.D. creates more of a presence down in the square after our base is finally firmly established. It's located in a medieval fortress that resembles a cold, mountain castle. Sometimes I find things like that cool, as I've found most of Sokovia, but the compound creates a pit at the bottom of my stomach. It feels like a dungeon. I try to tell myself I'm overreacting because the team has been attempting to sike me out from the beginning, but I've felt weird since the moment I stepped off the plane.

I head down from my vantage point earlier than usual one day, my bag bumping against my back. I arrive at the outskirts of the square and stand on my tiptoes to see over the shoulders of the protesters. "Is that Dr. List?" I mutter. He looks like he's about to say something to the crowd. That doesn't make any sense, I think because Dr. List typically remains sequestered in his lab. I fall back on my heels and start to push through people. I have got to see what this is about.

I don't like Dr. List. Actually, I don't like anyone on this team because the whole mission has been so secretive. Of course, no one tells me anything, other than, "You shouldn't be here," and I'm quickly coming to the conclusion that maybe they're right. Parts of the compound have been cordoned off for Dr. List and his small scientific team's lab. Why do we need a lab at all when we're just supposed to be policing the area? Nobody has clarified what Agent Smith brought but it's safe to assume that it's what Dr. List is working on. All Baron Von Strucker does is glare at me and twirl his nonexistent mustache.

I miraculously reach the barricades in time to hear Dr. List speaking, even though he's still rather far from me. "You should not keep looking to your government to protect your rights! What have they done for you so far? Fight for those rights personally!" Everyone around me yells in agreement, thrusting their fists in the air. I feel the metal of the fence pressing into my leg. What the hell is he talking about? I wonder. "I, and my organization, can offer you the tools you need to battle your oppressors… but only if you volunteer." Volunteer for what?

"Dr. List!" I yell but he can't hear me. "Dr. List!" A couple of heads turn in my direction but no one seriously notices me; no one but the boy and girl I first laid eyes on weeks ago. For some reason, my scope always lands on them. Could be because they look more like models than Sokovian rebels. Whatever the case, I see them regularly and occasionally, they see me. I was leaving the church one day last week and the boy began to approach me. I started to wait for him, see what he'd say in a cute Sokovian accent, but I ran before he got close enough. I'm not here to make friends, I'd reminded myself. Not even with cute Sokovian guys.

I plant my feet between the metal bars of the barricade to give myself some extra height. I get a better look at the boy and girl, who have turned their gaze from me to Dr. List. I shake my head when the boy speaks. Be quiet, I think. This isn't right.

"We just want these wars off our streets," he says in a spotty accent. The girl nods beside him. Good. You don't need whatever this is. I may want to be S.H.I.E.L.D. more than anything in the world but that doesn't mean I don't know when something's sketchy. And this is sketchy.

"Well, you need power to achieve that," Dr. List responds. "And you've seen the type of power I can give you in people like Iron Man and Captain America. You could have the strength and fortitude of the Avengers. All I need to grant you a greater future is your consent."

The crowd screams in agreement once again. The name "Iron Man" in particular sends a ripple through the group of protesters. I can't even blame them for wanting something like this. Who would decline becoming Captain America? Who wouldn't want to be able to defend themselves and their neighbors against their enemies? I, myself, have always wanted superpowers of some sort because I know it would make S.H.I.E.L.D. look at me differently and actively want to have me around. I wouldn't just be some orphan running around and tugging at their gun holsters, trying to keep up. S.H.I.E.L.D. would be the one annoying me. So I understand the desire in the eyes of those around me, so many of whom have lived under an oppressive regime and in a war-torn country their entire lives. They're tired of it. And so I am unsurprised to hear many of them vocalize their desire to volunteer.

The loudest are the boy and girl I've been watching. My stomach sinks when the fences are opened and they are the first two to reach Dr. List.