Author's Note: Jane is really not having a fun time in this chapter. Lots of torture - you have been warned!

Waterboarding. Beating. Electrocution. Strappado. Sleep deprivation. Dehydration. Starvation. Broken pinkie fingers and reeds inserted under the nails.

Nothing that would leave permanent damage, though, Jane noticed. Nothing that would mar her tattoos. It seemed the CIA was just as paranoid about there being information that would require the originals to be preserved as the FBI had been, though in a completely different way. Patterson had just advised her against tattoo removal. These assholes were holding off on the chemical burns and cutting.

A memory from her old life kept recurring as she weathered each day of torment. A bearded man—not Markos—coaching her on how to resist torture before inflicting pain on her. "Pain is a dream," he kept telling her.

It became her mantra, repeating inside her head as the guy in charge fired questions at her and then enlisted the help of two other men to punish her for not giving the answers they wanted. Who was she really? Why had the people who'd tattooed her sent her to Kurt Weller? Who was she working for, and what was their plan?

It would have been laughable if it weren't such a violation of everything the civilised world was supposed to stand for. After all, Jane had no idea who she was, how she'd selected Weller, what phase two was all about. All she knew was that she'd been a willing participant in the plan. If she chose to believe Oscar —which she wasn't sure she should, even though the information he'd given her while he'd been planning to re-erase her memory seemed genuine—all she had to go on was that someone called Shepherd was in charge, and that she'd been highly ranked enough in the organisation to plan and execute her own missions. Including the one to wipe her own memory.

She was keeping those tidbits to herself, though. When she got out of here, she was going to find Shepherd and get her own answers. Even though she was becoming more and more convinced that she'd been a domestic terrorist in her former life.

"What's your real name, Jane Doe?" Maybe it was just the dim lighting, but the man in charge of interrogating her sort of reminded her of a weasel. He definitely had less integrity than one.

She spat out blood from her split lip and scowled up at him. "What's yours?"

"You can just call me Jake."

He has a family, then, or people he cares about. That's why he won't give me his full name. He's protecting them.

"Now it's your turn," he prompted, though surely he knew she'd just been sassing him for a respite between blows.

"You can call me Jane." She tried a sweet smile. It tore her split lip open farther, but she held the expression anyway out of sheer stubbornness.

"Yeah, that was a long shot." Jake returned her smile and slugged her in the stomach, hard enough to wind her.

Pain is a dream, she reminded herself, gasping and choking. And one day this asshole will get what he deserves.

As she tried to get her breath back, Jake picked up some kind of bludgeoning instrument. Her eyes were watering too hard for her to focus on exactly what.

"What are you holding out for, Jane? It's been weeks. Surely you don't think Deputy Director Weller is coming to save you?"

The sound of Weller's name was far more painful than the starburst of agony in her left shin as Jake swung his makeshift club. She let out a strangled yell, as much out of frustration as from pain.

"He has other concerns now, after all. He's helping to run the entire FBI in Mayfair's place. Where is Bethany Mayfair, by the way?"

He swung again, the impact against her right shin making her dizzy. She twisted on the hook she was suspended from, barely realising she was moving.

"It's probably none of my business, but did you and Weller sleep together? He seemed pretty invested in you for a while. What made him arrest you that night? Did you cheat on him?"

Jane gritted her teeth and imagined a million weasels swarming up behind Jake and ripping the flesh from his smug, ferret-like face.

"He was the one who called us in to take you into custody, you know. Whatever your plan was with that tattoo of his name, you really screwed it up, huh?"

She'd agonised over whether Kurt had invited the CIA to take over, or whether it had been Pellington who'd given her up. Pellington had seemed more probable, since he'd taken away her bureau consultant status and revoked her access to the building just a couple of days earlier. To hear that it had been Kurt knocked her world askew.

Don't let him see that he got to me. Stay strong. Pain is a dream, even this kind of pain.

Jane swallowed the lump in her throat and tried to put all her weight back on her battered legs, letting her physical pain eclipse the psychological.

Jake sighed. "I'm really starting to get bored with this stoic Navy SEAL act. Which black ops unit were you with, by the way? I'm running into nothing but redactions and blank searches when I try to find you. Or were you even a SEAL at all? Did you wash out during training?"

She laughed at him, remembering again the fake struggle she'd put on during her SEAL training, and the far from fake conflict with her own pride at having to ring the bell to signal that she was giving up. Her CO had enlisted her with Orion that very evening, but Jake clearly wouldn't find any indication of that in the CIA's intel. Maybe it was above his clearance level.

Maybe it was above everyone's clearance level.

With a grunt of frustration, Jake swung the metal bar right at her thighs, laying a stripe of fire across them both at once. While Jane swung from her hook, groaning, he addressed the agents by the door. "Take her back. No food or water unless she decides to start talking."

Breathe. It's a bluff. He won't let me die.

She barely remembered the excruciating journey back to the cell, her newly forming bruises pulsing in time with her heartbeat. Her captors dropped her on the concrete floor and left her there, the door slamming shut behind them.

The triumph of having survived another session with Jake without giving them anything they could use got her through the first couple of minutes, giving her enough strength to use the bucket in the corner that served as her bathroom. After that, the endorphin rush faded and she stretched out on her back, getting as comfortable as possible and letting the waves of pain take her.

Weller was the one who called the CIA. I broke his trust and he abandoned me. They all did.

Instinctively, she rolled onto her side and curled into a ball as the sobs she'd been suppressing for weeks seized her battered body. If she had ever felt more betrayed and heartbroken, it had been in another life, one she didn't remember.