Author's note: Jemma Simmons is 26 years old and had multiple Ph.D.'s. As a "kid" who works/trains/goes to school with people mostly older than myself, I couldn't help but wonder how she felt when May said she was "just a kid" during "FZZT."

"She's just a kid."

Sitting in the lab, infected with a virus she knew would kill her, Jemma Simmons overheard four words that would stay with her for a long, long time. They hit her in the gut, destroyed the self-confidence she'd spent two decades building. Just a kid? She could recite the entire periodic table from memory, name the chemical formula of practically any substance on the bus, describe the inside of a cell in painstaking detail and then build a holographic model. She wasn't a child; she was a grown woman, strong and tough and razor-smart, and she'd spent her entire life trying to prove it.

Everyone thought it was the trauma that made her so quiet and sullen in the weeks that followed. That was part of it, of course, but the real reason was those words. She kept hearing May say it, over and over again. She's just a kid. She's just a kid. She's just a kid. And eventually May's voice would turn into the voice of her organic chemistry TA from MIT: Come on, prof; go easy on her. She's just a kid. Or the leader of the study group for her English class: Larry, we can't let her join. She's just a kid. Even her mother: David, we're not sending her to university, not now. She's just a kid.

She had spent her life trying to prove her worth. Being the only nineteen-year-old in graduate school hadn't been easy, after all. Everyone had treated her like a child. They'd never been outright mean, but there'd been the condescending looks, the patronizing compliments, the rolling of the eyes anytime she raised her hand in class. So she'd done better. She'd forced them to accept her. Suppressed her joy, her smile, any part of her that could be considered even remotely childish. Stayed up all night studying, perfecting her thesis, reviewing her oral presentations. Because despite her age, she was the smartest one of the lot, and determined to show it.

And then she'd joined SHIELD. She'd met Leo Fitz, another young genius who'd had the same problems in school. They'd gone to the Academy together, and it had been heaven on earth for both of them. Finally, they were among their own kind, other scientists who didn't care how old you were as long as you could design and execute a decent lab experiment. She'd stopped repressing the "childish" parts of her because now she had nothing to prove to anyone, least of all Fitz. She could wear her heart on her sleeve all she wanted, and no one judged her for it. She could get excited over a new project, and then sad when it didn't work out, and then even more excited when it became viable again. And she grew used to it, to being herself, she and Fitz both. They accepted each other for who they were, stuck together like glue until people started referring to them collectively. Fitzsimmons.

Then her sense of adventure had kicked in, and she'd convinced Fitz to leave Sci-Ops and go with her into the field. And it had been rough. They were working alongside seasoned specialists with years of experience. But they'd proven themselves, time and time again. They'd developed the Extremis antidote for Mike Petersen. They'd been "part of the solution" to the 0-8-4 debacle. They'd sorted out Akela Amador's eye. It hadn't been easy, but they'd come through. She'd come through. She wasn't just some ten-year-old with a toy microscope playing superspy; she was an agent of SHIELD, tall and strong and confident, and she'd shown it to the whole world.

But none of that mattered. She was still "just a kid." Even though May was in her forties and viewed anyone under thirty as a child, even though she only meant that Jemma was too young to die, even though it really said more about her age than her skills, the words meant what they'd always meant. That she wasn't enough. May saw her as a victim, a poor helpless, frightened creature who couldn't take care of herself. Forgotten were all her successful missions, the things she and Fitz had accomplished together in the field. Even in the face of death, they didn't take her seriously. All the work she'd done, all the times she'd proven she was just as tough as May or Ward, and it all came down to those four words. She's just a kid.

And in that lab, racing the clock to save her own life, the thing that kept her going wasn't hope or perseverance or Fitz or her parents. No, it was the idea that she was going to die "just a kid." That people were going to remember her for her kindness and laughter, not her skills and courage. And when the last trial failed, when it became apparent that there was nothing more she could do, she jumped. And as she fell through the sky, hair tossed wild by wind and fingertips brushing the clouds, a smile came over her face. She knew she was going to die, but her friends were safe, and more importantly, she would be remembered for this. Everyone would remember the strong, proud, brave woman who sacrificed herself for her team. Hardly the act of a child.

So when Grant Ward jumped out of the plane after her, anti-serum in hand, and saved her life, she couldn't help but feel the slightest twinge of disappointment.