I don't own Frozen.

"OLAF!"

The Queen landed on all fours in the white room, one knee tucked up under her body, the other bearing the brunt of her weight, arms spread for better distribution. The only way in was through the ceiling.

Better that way. Safer that way.

She rolled her body up, spine unfurling like a depressurized accordion. Audible beeps and boops sounded from speakers hidden in the room as the woman strode toward her nondescript couch. Fiddling with the black harness situated around her hips and waist, the woman threaded several feet of black rope through a carabiner hooked on the contraption. Detangling herself, she flipped headfirst over the arm and sunk into the cushions, curling into the fetal position.

"Olaf?"

A small, lumpy mass of digitized personal assistant fell from the ceiling in holographic precipitation. Shaped from jet blue lines and nothing short of technological magic, the short, pudgy, digital creature pulled a holographic tablet from the clear confines of his incorporeal chest. He pushed the center of his square-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose and smiled dopily at the blonde girl on the couch.

"Hi Jane!"

Jane flopped over, face down, mumbling into the pillows.

"Jane, I didn't quite catch that. Did you get the Carazolla?"

Jane lifted her arm and yellow-white sparks of electric energy shot from her fingertips, hitting the blank wall to her right. Only, the wall wasn't blank. Like a droplet rippling over a puddle, her energy emission spiraled outward in kinetic waves, triggering devices, screens and a series of satellite maps and grids that displayed the five New York boroughs.

"Ruuuurrrassseeerrroooooorrrreeeeee."

"Jane, you're talking into furniture again."

"I said, 'run a search for me'."

"Oh! Sure, why didn't you just say so?"

Jane flipped back right-side up, pulling her black gloves tighter over her fingers. She swirled her hands in the air and a display formed an arm's length from her face, like a floating, holographic desktop. The gloves were warm on her hands, the miniscule platinum wires connecting the circuits always in danger of overheating. She would have to fashion herself a new set soon.

"Parameters, Jane? Job-for-hire or one of your jewel escapades?" Olaf asked.

"Neither. Put it in the personal file."

"You mean, with the rest of the search material—"

"Yes. For now. I'll type an info tree for it later."

"Still, Jane. Parameters?"

"Personnel search. Female. Caucasian. Nationality… unknown. Age, seventeen to twenty-two. Hair color…" she had to stop herself from saying 'melting sunset'. "… copper. Well, auburn. Though that could be dyed."

She paused, recalling the face. Numbers and structures floated beneath her closed lids, information recall so precise she could calculate the angle of a cheekbone, measure the diameter of a pupil.

"Yes, auburn. Bits of red recessive genes prominent with fare freckled skin. Eyes…"

Charismatic? Uninhibited? What color corresponded to careless joy?

"… blue. Known links within the past two weeks: Deburque's Jewelers, Cartier affiliates in Manhattan. Alias 'Janene'. From three weeks, five days ago, connections with the Irish Mitchell Scholarship Foundation, Dr. Owen Moore, NYU and Boston College. Alias 'Sarah Conner.' Check the FBI and CIA lists for cons with multiple AKAs. Oh, and anything to do with fine art."

Shit. What else had she said that night?

Hanging bat-like from the third floor eaves of the Moore mansion a month ago, Jane had done her level best to drown out the girl's nonsense cover story relayed through her earpiece. It wasn't real; none of it ever was when she worked with grifters. She didn't particularly care for them, the kind that lied straight to your face. She much preferred her style, in and out, no muss no fuss. Sometimes literally flying under the radar. And listening to the girl shamelessly throw herself at a man that could have been her father had her stomach churning. And not in the good way, like it did when she was leaping off of buildings, repelling down skyscrapers, crawling through air ducts, dipping over laser beams. This was a nauseated churning prompted by young women whoring out their company to get what they wanted.

But why this girl needled her more than usual…

It wasn't even the fact that she had bested her at the Deburque showing.

Well, maybe. No one's ever done that to me before.

That was part of it, yes, the blatant challenge in the tilt of her chin as she waltzed out that side door with the necklace in her hand. Jane should've kept her cards closer to her vest as far as her acrobatics were concerned, but she wasn't going to stay trapped by those beams. And disarming them with her… gift… well, that was out of the question with a witness. She had needed to regain control of the situation, so her hands, as well as her back, her legs, her arms, just all of her body, had been compelled to move. She didn't mind hiding or hovering in corners for a job, but hell if she was going to be forced into one.

And by someone her own age! Or younger! For as far as Jane was aware, she was the youngest female operating at this level on the global scale. She'd seen the random pickpocket, foster runaways trying to pull the wool over the eyes of a trusting stranger. Amateur kids performing an inelegant Ponzi scheme. But this girl was being hired by the elite, hobnobbing with mobsters and senators and society men much too crooked for the innocence the girl seemed to emit. But that was the crux: the girl was no innocent. No innocent would leave four people stranded in the confines of searing laser beams. No innocent would make off with a necklace worth millions.

So Jane needed to keep an eye on her.

The girl was just like Jane; nefarious and unprincipled underbelly protected by a convincing armor of guiltless fake identities.

She was just like Jane.

She was just like Jane.

No.

No one was just like Jane. Sure, the unidentified bodies in potter's fields shared her name, Jane Does literally lining grave markers from here to the west coast. But Jane knew, positively, that none of those women could do what she could do. Surely. Because someone who could manipulate technology, hack the Pentagon systems at age eleven, NASA at twelve, Interpol at thirteen, reroute satellite trajectories, snap and strike a spark off her thumb—

Someone like that wouldn't die unknown and unrecognized in an unmarked grave, right? Someone that dangerous, that treacherous… even if people feared her they at least knew her. Even if she was alone, had been alone for as long as she could remember… since the accident… even if there was absolutely no record of her existence, no birth certificate, no fingerprints, no physical trace that she even existed, she was still worth finding, right? She was here, wasn't she? She walked and breathed and acted.

But I don't really live.

So how could they ever find me?

If she was special, wouldn't they come looking for her? Wouldn't she be able to find them, with all the access she had to every database in the wired world, all the birth and death records, the DNA samples, the files at the social security office… She'd be able to find them. They were still out there to find, right?

Right?

Wrong. She didn't even know who she was, let alone who her… her family might be. The search had never seemed more fruitless, more hopeless than these times when Jane wallowed in self-doubt. And with her self-imposed isolation these episodes were becoming more frequent.

To protect the public. To protect myself from what they'll do to me. Win-win.

No matter how many times she said it she still didn't believe it.

So, to buck herself up as best she could, she'd go out on a special mission. Pick up something shiny along the way to smooth over her emotional wrinkles. And maybe get a little more intel on the girl from Deburque's along the way.

Call it a special project.

"Anything, Olaf?"

"Maybe."

"Something more definitive, please."

"Is this her?" Olaf asked, as a fuzzy photograph of what might have been the auburn-haired girl popped up on the tech wall opposite Jane's couch.

"Can we get a better shot of the face?"

"Give me a minute… there!"

"Yes. That's her. Run it through the facial recognition software."

"Running."

A progress bar popped up above the girl's face as data was being tabulated, terabytes upon yottabytes of information whizzing through the electronic byways of Jane's supercomputer. The green column filled in at 100%, and then the information screen was flooded.

Pictures of the girl at stoplights, airport lounges, museums, hotels, restaurants, all with sporadic date and time stamps, all with the girl in varying stages of adolescence, all over the country. One file in particular caught her eye.

Jane reached into the thin air and shuffled several pictures aside on the screen, her wireless gloves linked through her own coding to the wall in front of her. She zeroed in on the Interpol file compiled on the young art thief.

"Wow," Jane said.

"What is it?"

"She's good. Much better than I thought."

"Who's good?" Olaf asked.

Jane simply swiped through more files and pictures.

"Sarah Conner, Janene Melnitz, Danielle Linbsk, Gracie Lou Freebush, Brigid O'Shaughnessy, Regina Georgio, Jessica deLapin—"

"Who are those people?" Olaf asked.

"Not people. One person. But those names… Run a comparative information tracker scan on every federal database file with her aliases, see if we can get something more consistent."

The computer responded accordingly, a headshot of the girl popping up.

Underneath it in one big, brass red letter was a capitalized A.

"A," Jane said.

"A… name?"

"I think her name is A."

"That's a silly name."

"It's probably not, but we might be working with an actual initial now. Known affiliations… Hans Westerguard, Kristoff Tröllen, Sven Deermehyer, Gaston Chasseur, Claude Frollo Débauché, the Khan of India, Shan Yu—"

"There's no connection with the Arabian peninsula."

"Olaf, you're overstepping. We've talked about this."

"Sorry," the digitized assistant said. "She just really gets around."

"And this is just a list of known connections," Jane sighed. "Wanted for grand theft, larceny, espionage, breaking and entering, extortion, embezzlement, fraud, forgery, money laundering, etc."

"She might have more in her file than you, Jane."

"Everyone has more in their file than me. I don't leave anything behind."

"Yeah, but it looks like she left everything behind. There's so much information up there, there's no telling who she is. And which who did what thing. And what who stole which thing. Or who which… I've confused myself," Olaf said.

"Brilliant. She's flooded the system with information. Who's to say what's correct? Say they have evidence of the crime but they can't prove her identity. There's no one to link it to because she's protected herself with more aliases than the feds can keep straight! Did you run her prints through AFIS?"

"There's no prints on record for her."

"Really? Out of all of those names and they don't have anything?" Jane asked.

"Like you said, she's too many people."

"There has to be some sort of birth certificate."

"No records on file that your system can find. And yours is the best, you know," Olaf tried to console his creator. "Plenty of kids slip through the cracks and aren't recorded at birth. You know this better than anyone, so what's so important about her?"

"Nothing. That is, I don't think…"

"She's just like you, Jane."

"No one's like me!" Jane snapped.

"Sure she is. She's been so many people for so long, she probably doesn't know who she is, either."

Jane waved a hand and the system powered down. She rose from her chair and paced in front of the glass window that ran the length of the west wall. The blonde stared down at the New York skyline from what should have been a penthouse suite. But it was all bare; minimal, neutral furniture; electronics hidden away behind paneled white walls; self-destructing systems that would implode with any type of foreign bug sweep. She could only keep what she could carry on her at a moment's notice. Nowhere was home. She could be found at any moment, so she had to be ready to move. Perched up there, like some solitary goddess of the skyscraper, she felt like she could see the threats coming.

But what happened when the threats were wolves in sheeps' clothes? Like a pig-tailed girl in a Catholic school uniform, who pricked the edges of her mind like a needle. An injection of some wholly consuming chemical, the kind that made her synapses fire and her nerve junctions zing, an antibiotic cocktail that ridded her system of her stoicism. She couldn't help but feel, around the girl. Jane couldn't tell if it was negative or positive, but it was undeniably and overwhelmingly present.

"Thank you Olaf. That will be all for tonight."

"Goodnight Jane. Peaceful sleep."

Jane's head fell forward onto the window, energy sparks absorbed in the glass. Olaf was wrong about one thing: the girl was far too content with her lot to agonize over her identity. Hell, A had to at least know her own name. Every job was a play for her, from what Jane could tell in their limited interactions. But what she'd said to Jane at the Deburque showing:

"I'd be lying if I said this wasn't fun."

That was… enjoyment, right? And Jane had felt… something, at the astounded look on the girl's face when she had vaulted over the laser beams. Like recreational exhibition. It made her feel important. Impressive. As if someone could revere her in spite of the tech, notice her for the talents she had honed as opposed to the one she had been cursed with.

Jane tried not to think about it as she shed her clothes, limp garments littering the floor as she trudged to her bedroom. She collapsed on the mattress and tried to bury the feeling the girl inspired. Tried not to let herself grow accustomed to the sensation. Because she had felt it before, and it had left her wanting. Left her broken. Just… left her.

But try as she might, she couldn't quash it, couldn't tamp it down.

It felt like possibility.

A/N: Goodness, that was quite a bit of clunky explanatory prose. We'll just throw our hands up and call it 'character development', shall we? So excited for all of these follows and favs, and every review makes me twirl about in a meadow of happy flowers. Or I would, if Elsa would thaw the country. Thanks everybody. Would love to hear from you! (I'll take conspiracy theories as well as constructive criticism!)