Author's Note: Thank you so much to everyone who's reading along! This is my first foray into a fandom in about four years, so it's lovely to feel welcomed. I have no idea how long it will take to get Kurt and Jane back in the same room, and when they are, it'll be a bit different from how it happened at the start of season two. But for now, Jane needs her share of the angst!

"You were never Taylor Shaw."

And just like that, the identity Jane had clung to so desperately had fallen in tatters around her. In its place had settled a heaviness in her chest that wasn't just the result of smoke inhalation.

There was no one in the world she could trust now. Not Oscar, who'd hidden the truth from her and outright lied all along, right up until the night she'd killed him. Not her team at the FBI; they'd handed her over to the CIA without a second thought as soon as Mayfair wasn't there to prevent it.

Not even Kurt Weller, who'd let them take her without even giving her a heads-up. He'd left last night with a terse but sincere promise to give her a fair hearing today, but two CIA agents had arrived in his place. None of the people she'd thought were her friends had come to say goodbye or even cuss her out for her betrayal.

On the floor of her chilly cinderblock cell that could have been in New York or the North Pole, Jane wrapped her arms around her knees and willed her torturers to come back for a second round. Any amount of physical pain was more welcome than being left alone with the demons in her mind.

What had Weller found out that had made him go back on his word? Had the FBI found Mayfair's body, or something to suggest she'd been there when Mayfair had died? Surely he couldn't have just abandoned her to her fate just because she wasn't who she'd honestly believed she was.

"Goddamn you, Oscar," she whispered into the silence, closing her eyes.

And goddamn herself for all the bad choices she'd made. How could she have been so stupid? She should have told Weller the moment Oscar had given her that first 'mission'. Or at least the second, the GPS chip. Sure, there was no way she could have known in advance where it was all heading, but her gut feeling about him had directly contradicted the memories of her old life with him. Until she'd grown to rely on the memories and information he'd been drip-feeding her with, and she'd let her libido do the thinking for her instead.

If she was honest, she'd been a little stung about Kurt getting back together with his ex, too. If not for how happy he'd seemed around Allie, maybe Jane wouldn't have let herself get so spun around by Oscar. Her fiancé had known exactly how to touch her, stoking her attraction into chains of mind-blowing orgasms, lending authenticity to those hazy memories of their relationship in their past life. She'd been addicted to the potential of the information he could give her about herself long before they'd started sleeping together. But if Kurt had tried a second time to set up a meeting with her after their first kiss, maybe she wouldn't have wound up on that pool table with Oscar. Maybe she would have confided in Weller about him.

But she'd known, right? Known, deep down, that she couldn't be the kind of person Kurt Weller would love. From the instant she'd remembered gunning down a praying nun in a cathedral, she'd suspected the kind of person she'd been: the kind of person Weller would never love. She wasn't good enough for him and his unwavering moral compass. And maybe that was why it had been so easy to turn to Oscar.

Kurt might have loved her if she'd been Taylor Shaw. But that was just another lie he'd never forgive her for. She shouldn't have pretended to remember their childhood together, but she'd so desperately wanted to provide the confirmation he needed.

"If I could do it all over again," she said to the empty room, just to ground herself with the sound of her own voice, "I'd go to the park, not the radio tower. I'd go, and Kurt would be there, and I'd tell him about how the CIA grabbed me, and how Oscar killed Carter. And then Kurt would kiss me and tell me we'd figure it all out together, and we'd work out what the hell my old self's plan was and stop it."

And we'd all live happily ever after, a caustic mental voice that wasn't quite her own taunted. Sure. Keep telling yourself that, Princess Doe. You know they'd blame you once they found out you let Markos inject you with that poison. They'd just be waiting for you to turn on them. At least the way things played out, you got to live as Taylor Shaw for a little while. You got to kiss Weller twice. Was it worth ending up locked up in this hellhole, waiting for them to come back and start waterboarding you again?

You can't change the past. So come up with a plan. Get out of here. Put Weller behind you. And find Shepherd.

Jane struggled to her feet, joints protesting the long hours of inactivity and the beating she'd taken before she'd been thrown in here. She began to prowl the perimeter of the small room like a caged animal, testing the integrity of each cinderblock she could reach, looking for loose mortar where she could prise away a weapon.

Nothing. The CIA weren't that stupid.

Disheartened, she nudged the drain cover in the middle of the floor with one toe, more out of idleness than actual hope. It slid a fraction of an inch backward, and she ducked down to examine it more closely.

It didn't take much work to free the cover from the drain. The previous occupant of her cell had obviously started the process, but had either given up or been killed before they'd succeeded. The drain spout was barely wide enough to accommodate her hand, and a sulphuric waft of air made her nose wrinkle in reflexive disgust, but the drain cover in her hand was heavy, solid. It wouldn't make a weapon, not on its own, but maybe…

Play the long game.

She carefully replaced the drain cover, hoping they didn't have any hidden cameras in the room that had registered her interest in it, and returned to a seated position. From the back of her mind came the memory of a book she'd read over and over as a child, about a rightful king imprisoned in a tower while his brother usurped his position as ruler. The king had taken strands from the cloth napkins that came with his meals every day, and woven them into a rope long enough for him to escape out of the window down the outside of the tower. Okay, so she had no napkins and no window, but she didn't need a rope as long as the one in that story…

It was going to take time, but maybe she could come up with a cloth handle for her makeshift mace head. One that her captors wouldn't immediately know was missing from her clothing.

Carefully, she teased out a few threads from the hem of her shapeless grey shirt. It would take forever to get anywhere, but it was a start.