Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers (the comics, movies, characters etc.) or any of the characters; I only own my OC Art.

Forword: So, if anyone is new to this story, having just found it in the Avengers category, I will tell you that this is a sequel to my story In The Dawn of Change; I would urge you to read that before reading this! And if you're a returning reader… read on, my friends! Hope you enjoy!

1. A City Changed

Artemesia Knoll, lieutenant and proclaimed superhero, stood in the middle of Times Square feeling very much like a small, ignorant child. People buzzed and bustled around her, adding to the wide-eyed daze she felt. The Square had always been dazzling and overwhelming, even back in the nineteen-thirties; massive signs had towered over citizens, lit with powerful, industrial lightbulbs. But now… in this strange, modern world, Art felt blinded by the dozens upon dozens of flashing, electronic billboards. It had been a month and a half since she and Steve Rodgers––the one and only Captain America––had awoken from their coma-like state.

Their introduction to the modern world had been rough to say the least. Times Square was only the tip of the iceberg. Phones were now both cordless and portable. There were things called computers and televisions. The televisions––or 'T.V.s'––allowed one to watch films or shows at home; they seemed to have replaced radios, which were hard to find except for inside of cars. People tended to buy things with rectangular plastic cards, a concept Art still couldn't grasp. Technology wasn't the only thing to change in the seventy or so years she and Steve had been asleep. But one thing that had hit close to home for Art was the changes made in the military regarding women. They were now allowed to be in combat; that was something she, Artemesia Knoll, had a hand in––or rather, her memory and legacy had. The legacy of Lieutenant Liberty. She was viewed just as Steve was––a hero; and that was beyond comprehension to her.

Art was bumped out her thoughts as someone brushed her arm as they passed her by. She apologized and then returned to staring up at the big signs that hung over her head. She was sure she looked like the most awe-struck tourist in history despite the fact she'd lived in the city her entire life. Commercials for movies or Broadway shows flickered across the screens and Art felt an uneasy shiver ripple through her body. The word 'modern' was a conflicted one. To her, modern was Polaroid cameras, records, and radio. But now 'modern' was small, cordless telephones, big screens, and fancy cars; and standing in Times Square made her feel so small in a city she once felt so at home in.

Her blue eyes fell shut against the harsh lights, and when they opened again, she cast her gaze to her feet, which were clad in a set of neutral toned Mary-Janes. Fury had called her in to talk to her about something they'd found through the many tests and trials S.H.I.E.L.D. had put her through. The headquarters for said operation were just of the Square, so she wove her way through the crowd and entered the unseeming building in the middle of the block. She nodded to the doorman who gave a solemn incline of the head in response. Art rode the elevator up to Fury's office, staring at her dull, warped reflection in the doors of the lift. Her hair had grown quickly, as it typically did, but it was now at that annoying length where she didn't know what to do with it; though, it seemed more common place for women to have shorter hair now.

Director Fury's office overlooked Times Square and the near constant hustle and bustle that passed through it. He was watching said crowds and traffic as the elevator dinged and opened to let Art step through. Turning around, Fury saw that the World War era soldier was dressed in a pastel pink dress, which was certainly a first; all of the photographs anyone had ever seen of her was from a time when she was still known as 'Arthur Kensington,' dressed in military regulation clothes or the uniform Howard Stark had designed for her.

"I never took you for a pink sort of girl," Fury commented as he sat down at his desk. Half of a smile appeared on Art's face.

"Yeah, well, all the pictures of me before and during the war were in black and white," she responded, standing beside the chair on the opposite side of Fury's desk. "May I sit down, sir?"

"Of course, Lieutenant." He gestured to the seat before he clasped his hands and leaned forward. "We finally finished your blood work… and finished analyzing the rest of your tests." Art watched him with all the seriousness in the world on her face, her knee bouncing in anticipation. He began rooting around in a desk drawer. "Turns out you and Cap don't have the exact same serum running through your veins," Fury said, slapping a report down on the table. Art's brows furrowed and her face composed itself in a look of confusion.

"Of course it is; Schmidt replicated the serum that––"

"Exactly. Schmidt replicated the serum, meaning that when he made it, there was room for changes; and being a man of opportunity, he made some. You heal faster than Rogers. After all the trials we put you through we've also found you're more agile. Maybe that's just 'cause you're smaller than him, but given the fact that Schmidt was trying to make the ideal super soldier, it's likely that was a change made to the serum. Less muscle definition, still strong, but more agility. You and Captain Rogers are two different models of the same type of soldier, Lieutenant Knoll. And it'll do you good to accept that fact and play to your strengths," Fury went on to explain, sliding the file towards her.

Art flipped the manilla folder open as she shook her head, quickly scanning through the report with slightly narrowed eyes. There it was on paper. A comparison of her blood and Steve's blood; Schmidt had made changes to the serum. One of the pages made a detailed report of how the antibodies in her system worked harder and faster, which essentially meant she healed at an abnormally quick pace. Like when she'd bruised and scraped her knuckles during the strength trials and they'd scabbed over before the day ended and healed by the end of the next day. She was just glad they weren't insisting they see how fast she healed things like broken bones or deep lacerations.

"I don't believe it…" she muttered.

"You also happen to have the worst case of trypanophobia our doctor's have ever seen."

Trypanophobia. The fear of needles. When the doctors had given her a series of inoculations shortly after she'd woken up, Art had gone into a panic attack, shouting and fighting against them. To her, the memories of Schmidt poking and prodding her with needles was fresh in her mind, as though it had happened the day prior. Art sighed and leaned back in her seat; she still felt horrible for shouting at the poor young nurse who had been trying to give her the shot.

"So, what now?" she asked quietly. Fury drew the file back towards himself and then fixed her with a decidedly impassive look.

"Go home. Move forward. Get used to the world you're living in; we'll call you if we need you."

OOOO

By the time she got back to the apartment she and Steve shared, the sun was beginning to dip towards the horizon. The apartment wasn't anything fancy. There was a living room, a small kitchen, a shared bathroom, and two bedrooms. It had been furnished by S.H.I.E.L.D., and had been given all the basics technology wise. They had a television––which they barely used––a computer, a house phone, and both of them had been outfitted with a cell-phone. But they had also been given a record player and a radio, which they had more of a tendency to use. To be honest, the apartment looked like it had be taken right out of a housekeeping catalogue; Steve and Art had very few personal effects to put around the space. Most of Art's stuff had stayed with her family and probably sat in some storage crate somewhere. But the photograph of Kenneth––who was now seventy-nine and living somewhere in the city––that had been stored in her jacket pocket had survived through the year; it was now framed and sitting on her bedside table. The apartment was the most comfortable space for Steve and Art. It was their home.

Steve was sitting at their small kitchen table, flipping through a set of files he had flopped down on the table in front of him. There was a pinch between his brow and a peculiar down-turn to his lips, which was a look that Art had come to know far too well on his face. The transition to modern life had rendered them both confused and stressed. There were moments where they ran their fingers through their hair in frustration or felt nearly moved to tears at how they were unable to grasp at concepts that seemed simple to everyone else. Smiling was a rare occurrence for them now. Art kicked her shoes off and sat down across from Steve, resting her chin in her hand.

"Did you know that Howard Stark has a son?" Steve asked, looking up at her. Art's eyebrows rose at the news; it didn't surprise her. Howard was a charming man and women often fell for him fast. She only hoped he had found a woman who loved him for him and not because of his money.

"Really? I wonder if they're anything alike," Art pondered. A tiny smirk appeared on Steve's lips as he pushed a file across the table. Flipping it open, Art found herself staring down at the face of a man who bore strikingly similar features to Howard. A long, straight nose, dark hair, mischievous eyes, and impeccable facial hair. Beneath his photograph read: ANTHONY 'TONY' STARK. ALIAS: IRONMAN. Art shook her head and laughed. "I bet he's just like his dear old dad."

"He's a billionaire, a playboy, and an inventor," Steve pointed out with a chuckle, rising to get a glass of water. "I think he learned a lot from Howard. So, what did Fury have to tell you?" Art shut Tony's file and leaned back in her seat. She reached up and rubbed at the scar on her neck, where Schmidt had gouged the syringe into her flesh. When Steve didn't hear her respond, he turned around with worry etched on his face. "Art?" She seemed lost in the past again, her eyes unfocused as her fingers slipped over the circular, pink scar on her neck. Then her gaze brightened and she looked up at Steve, letting both her hands come to rest on the table.

"You and I both have the serum in our blood, but mine was a replication… meaning there was room for change. I'm… more agile, strong but with less muscle definition, and I heal faster. What was it Fury said…? Oh, that we're 'two different models of the same type of soldier'..." Art put on a tense smile that she struggled to keep on her lips. The idea that she'd been changed against her will irked her, upset her. "So Schmidt messed around my genetics more than I initially thought. Oh, and I have a severe phobia of needles that will result in terrible panic attacks."

Steve tugged his chair around the table so he was able to sit next to her. He placed his hand atop hers, which were streaked with scars from battles past. The smile that she gave him was thankful but broken. Then he wound his arms around her completely, drawing her against his chest. Art's head dropped down against his shoulder, taking comfort in his embrace. One of the greatest frustrations about being so blind-sided by the modern era was the fact that they hadn't gotten the chance to explore the relationship that had just barely begun before the plane crash. They hadn't even been able to speak about it either; they couldn't talk about where it might go when they had to both figure out how a microwave worked and what they could and couldn't put inside it. But even through their inability to explore and speak, they knew that said relationship was still worth pursuing, and it was so much more special now.

"You're still you, Art; Schmidt can't take that away. You're just a bit faster now, a bit stronger. Trust me… you get used to it. You might even grow to appreciate it," Steve told her. "It is the reason you're here today." He felt Art smile against his shoulder, a genuine smile that was surely as bright as the ones he'd brown to love all those years ago.

"It's what made me a 'superhero.'" Art drew out of the hug and gestured to herself with a smirk. "Lieutenant Liberty at your service. God, if Dugan were still around, I'd give him a right good punch for starting that name."

In the month since they'd been reawakened, Art had taken to reading a good number of books detailing what had happened in the wake of the second World War. She read an entire novel on the Howling Commandos, in which it discussed the origin of the name Lieutenant Liberty. Dugan had mentioned the lads had secretly been calling her said name since her raise in rank had taken effect. Once her true identity was revealed to the public, a great deal of drama had ensued; there were trials for dear Colonel Phillips and the real Arthur Kensington, who took the brunt of allowing her into the military. Amidst all the chaos, the nickname Dugan and the Commandos had so lovingly given her became a household name. Captain America and Lieutenant Liberty, fighting side-by-side to keep both the United States and the world safe. Her image adorned posters, comics, and she became a roll-model, just like Steve had.

"I like that name," Steve said, smiling brilliantly for the first time in weeks. "What was it the comic title was changed to after the war ended? 'The Adventures of Captain America and Lieutenant Liberty.' I'm sure Kenneth was thrilled to see his sister in the comics." Art smiled in remembrance of the young boy who sneakily read the Captain America comics under the covers of his bed. He had been thrilled to find out his older sister was good friends with his favorite hero… and she wondered what his reaction must have been when the same sister was called 'hero' as well. What he thought of seeing her image right beside the Captain's.

"Maybe I'll get to ask him sometime," Art said thoughtfully. Fury had told her that she could visit Kenneth, but it might not do her well to see him so soon after her return. The concept that her baby brother was now in his seventies was something she hadn't been able to grasp yet; and then there was the fact that he would have to grasp the fact his sister was actually still alive… and looking as young as the twenty-five year-old she was when she went into the ice despite the fact that she was technically ninety-five years old. "And maybe he'll get to meet Captain America, too."

Steve smiled and placed his hand atop hers, which rested in her lap. His thumb swept over the pale scarring that veined across the back of her hand.

"I'd love to meet him," Steve said. "Say the word and I'm there. But, getting back to the subject of your newfound abilities… if you'd like help figuring it all out, I've been there before. I won't push you like Fury did, but I can help you."

Art leaned back in her chair and recalled the strength trial the Director had put her through a bit too soon after waking up.

"Alright, with all the strength you can muster, I want you to hit the punching bag, alright?" asked the physician through the speaker. It felt as though she were a caged animal; she was being observed through a window as though she were dangerous and would snap at any moment––the only reassurance she had was that Steve was on the opposite side of the glass, watching with, as he would admit, interest. She adjusted the wraps on her hands and then faced the punching bag that she'd been told had some sort of… monitor inside of it that would measure the force she could pack in a punch. Sighing, she shook her head and lifted her hands. She'd never been taught to properly throw a punch like a boxer… but she'd socked some jaws in her day. Taking a few deep breaths she threw her fist forward and it connected with the bag, making it swing a little big.

"Not hard enough," Fury's voice said through the speakers. Her body was still adjusting to being awake… and apparently having had its physique changed by that god-awful serum. "Again." She sucked in a deep breath and tried again, the punch harder. "Again." She swung harder and the bag twisted around in circles. She could still feel the impact buzzing down her arm. "Again!" She turned and glared at the window before facing the bag once again.

Art's breathing had become heavy and she did the only thing she thought to do to get the results that they needed; she glared at the bag and pictured it as the one person who had hurt and killed her friends, comrades and innocents. She pictured it as Johann Schmidt. His horrible red face, his glaring eyes, his intent to do evil. Memories of explosions and the smiling faces of her comrades came to mind; she saw her little brother, and she saw the Howling Commandos. She remembered Bucky, who had laughed and smiled and then had his life cut short when he fell from that train.

The memories of her veins feeling as though they were on fire as the serum snaked through her body. How broken Steve looked in the moments before they crashed. Before she even realized it, a shout left her lips and her arm snapped forward; the punching bag swung harshly with the chains creaking. She threw another punch and then another and another, not feeling the wraps on her fists begin to unwind and not feeling the way that her knuckles began to bleed. When she finally stopped, the bag twisted and swung for a moment before the chain gave way and fell to the ground, with a tear in the center of the bag leaking grains of sand. Her heart was racing and her chest was heaving. She stared in shock at the fallen punching bag and stared down at her hand. Her knuckles were bruised and bleeding, the force of her punches having taken its toll. Something warm and wet ran down the side of her face. Lifting a hand, she felt tears escaping the corner of her eyes.

"There we go…" Fury whispered to himself behind the mirror.

Steve watched as she turned her face towards the mirrored window, tears on her cheeks and a churning mix of emotion in her eyes. A frown rose to his own face as her body spun to face the direction she was looking in, immediately snapping to attention as though standing in front of a row of admirals and generals.

"Do I have permission to leave the training facility?" she asked clearly but shakily. Fury leaned toward a thin microphone and pressed a small red button, saying,

"Yes, Lieutenant, you do." He pressed another button with his other hand, a buzzing sound echoing through the room beyond the wall. "The door should be open now." Art nodded curtly and marched towards the now open door with her head ducked and her hands busily unwinding the rest of the wraps around her knuckles.

Snapping out of the memory, she turned to Steve and straightened her back with a playful smirk on her face. She held her hand to her forehead in a salute.

"I would be honored, Captain," Art told him. Chuckling, Steve returned the salute with a brilliant glitter in his eyes that Art had missed seeing. The glimmer of happiness.

"The honor is all mine, Lieutenant."

Afterword: Woo! First chapter is done! I don't think it's the best I've ever written, but it was difficult to write and it's sort of just an introduction of showing what they've been up to. Some backstory to the name Lieutenant Liberty and a glimpse at what Art thinks about the time period she finds herself in.

So, as you can probably tell, we won't get to the Avengers for a couple chapters; so if there's anything you'd like to see Art or Steve or both of them do or be put into a certain situation, let me know! I've got ideas, but I'm open to more! I hope you guys keep on reading! Thanks again, you guys!

Also, to anyone who's wondering, I picked a face-claim for Art (finally) and it's Emelia Clarke. If any of you are interested I posted a few things with her as Artemesia on my Polyvore, which is linked on my profile page :)

~Mary