Disclaimer: Blindspot is my current obsession but it is not mine
So here we go… a brand new story. This is an alternative start to season 2 where Jane's escape attempt fails. But because of her almost escape, the torture escalates.
Yes… there will be angst… gotta love the angst.
I really wanted to delve into the characters' thoughts and motivations. Hopefully you all enjoy it.
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Chapter 1
No Rest for the Wicked
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Jane remembered her training. For three months, she bided her time.
She watched.
She planned.
She endured.
She would escape from this hell hole and get her revenge. The people who tattooed her and turned her into a traitor would not go unpunished; she would make them pay. Jane knew that absolution was out of her reach — her mistakes would never be forgiven. Her team (former— her former team, Idiot!) had made that perfectly clear when they sent her here.
She did not deserve forgiveness — but Jane felt compelled to at least try to make things right. All feelings aside, her actions had resulted in a great loss and gutting betrayal; she was obliged to do her best to rectify in any way she could. After all, what else did she have?
The hope for escape and revenge became the easiest things to fixate on; they were her reason for breathing and the only things she would allow herself to dwell on. It helped her cope— it kept her sane. She needed them.
The more time Jane spent with Keaton, the more confined her thoughts became… the more parts of herself she shut away.
It was a metaphorical tight rope. Jane could not think of the past without dredging up self-recriminations and for her stupid decisions. And she had few plans beyond her escape except the lonely, short future that she foresaw for herself.
There was only escape and revenge. To think about anyone or anything else was a distraction; it was not allowed. Keep it factual, keep it current and stay detached. Pain was a dream; escape was her only reality.
Jane refused to give Keaton the satisfaction of breaking her. Everyday when they were finished with her, she compartmentalized the trauma into a tiny box in her mind. She shut out the agony of her body. She forgot the desolate depression. She ignored the black tendrils of fear that snaked through her mind. But it was hard... so hard not to permanently retreat into the calm, safe zone her mind had created to hide from the pain.
Instead, she focused on what she had observed from her captors and turned those observations into an action plan.
To escape Jane needed three things: a detailed analysis of her enemy's behaviour, a weapon and an advantage.
Step one: know her enemy. She memorized the traits and roles of her captors. She knew which guard would hold her down and how Keaton liked to administer each brand of torture. She knew which guard favoured a right hook and which one had a weak ankle. She knew how many guards usually attended each session. Most importantly, she knew that they were becoming more lax as time went on.
Step two: a weapon. She scavenged rope and attached it to the heavy drain in her otherwise empty cell. Grateful that they chose not to use a camera in her prison, she hid the weapon in plain sight and waited for the opportune moment.
Step three: an advantage. She fought her instincts and, on occasion, allowed her body to succumb to the extreme torture — each time mentally documenting how they reacted. She knew that when she drowned, they had a serum ready to administer to her body using an IV. Bingo. Once she was ready, she allowed herself to drown and be beaten in a half-hearted escape attempt in order to gain the IV needle.
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It took three months before Jane was ready to execute the plan.
With the IV needle firmly gripped between her teeth, she stealthily hid her makeshift weapon in her clothing and waited. Her awareness narrowed to her surroundings and all her senses were sharply focused on her prepared course.
On her way to the torture room, she used the needle to pick the lock on her cuffs. Once free, adrenaline kicked her body into high gear and she attacked the guards with all her reserves of strength. She felt nothing; no mercy, no remorse, just satisfaction as she watched their bodies crumple.
It all seemed to go according to plan. She had taken out the two men that flanked her and effectively knocked Keaton unconscious. Unfortunately, she hadn't anticipated an extra guard newly placed to observe her session in the shadows.
One minute she was ready to bolt for freedom, and the next thing she was flat on the floor experiencing the debilitating pain of a taser…
Fade to black.
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When Jane woke up - she was in a new circle of hell reserved only for the worst sinners; she supposed she fit right in.
Keaton was humiliated by her almost-escape— by the fact that Jane had bested him. New motivation fuelled his sociopathic mind. He wanted to kill her spirit… he wanted to decimate her strength… he wanted to crush her under his heel if it was the last thing he did. He designed a new torture regime with the sole intention of breaking her will…
And he succeeded.
What was once predictable and bearable became the unendurable. Each day was a new lesson in suffering and torment…
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Emotionless faces swirled around Jane as her guards circled her like vultures after a meal. They did not feel, they did not flinch and they never stopped. But where they were robotic, Keaton's glee was a stark contrast - he presided over each relentless session like a gleeful, mad king.
Every inch of her body ached and throbbed from the bottom of her bare, rat-bitten feet to the tips of her cracked fingernails. She never thought that would miss her dank cell; but she longed for that private refuge if only to regain her bearings.
Jane could no longer remember the last time she had slept for longer than an hour. She needed respite from the glaring electric lights and the shrill shrieking that played on an endless loop. No sleep… no refuge… no rest for the wicked.
Like an endless film that she couldn't forget, she watched her actions play out over and over again.
She reminisced over her failures and cringed at how she had once been so naive.
God, she loathed herself... she was the one to blame.
She still felt Oscar's hands on her body, Kurt's lips on her mouth and Mayfair's blood on her hands.
Hindsight was a bitch.
Her days lost all sense of time. The only way to measure the passing hours was by the vicious beatings that would herald the start of a new horrific episode of torture. She fingered the black bruises and red electrical burns that mottled her inked patchwork was liberally interrupted by a sea of shallow lacerations that coated her body. If she closed her eyes, she could still see Keaton playing with the knife.
Why did they keep asking questions? She no longer spoke.
She never knew most of the answers in the first place and the answers she did know, she would never tell.
Even though her team had discarded her here like a broken toy, she couldn't bring herself to demonstrate another act of disloyalty.
Jane's throat was raw from the salt water that she was first drowned in and then forced to consume to the point of continuous vomiting. Pain lanced up the muscles of her back and legs from the contorted positions she was forced to maintain for days on end.
She used to be someone.
When she was Taylor, she had a name, an identity and a family.
Now… no name… no rights… she was nothing and she had no one.
What does one hold onto when there is nothing firm to grasp— nothing to anchor you;
when there is nothing constant except pain.
Her shoulders burned; they had handcuffed her hands behind her back and then suspend her body from the cuffs. The pressure had dislocated both her shoulders; her captors only deigned to shove them back into their sockets much later.
What was her purpose now?
Why did her body keep fighting to live?
Hope or vengeance… instinct or willpower… guilt or anger… or nothing at all.
Scant, moldy food and stale water. Jane's body was barely able to function.
She was a failure. Her instincts— her decisions… they ended in disaster.
Mayfair and the team had trusted her and she betrayed that trust.
She had only wanted to protect them and instead she hurt everyone.
Kurt… Mayfair… Oscar… Patterson… Zapata… Reade… she hurt the people she loved.
Every. Single. One.
She couldn't even save herself.
And through it all, Jane had the pleasure of Keaton's constant questions. She could smell the fetid stench of his breath on her face and feel his creeping hands roaming her body. His voice, face and hands were her waking nightmare.
His methods worked— she no longer planned an escape. Every cell in her body was working too hard to survive.
And she was numb to the pain now. Like the endless litany of questions and scent of her own blood, pain was as common as breathing.
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Jane tried to follow her training but all her strength was depleted. Out of sheer desperation, she retreated deep into her mind as far away from reality as she could manage. She no longer tried to stay aware and let herself sink into the warmth of oblivion.
No purpose, no hope — just the instinct to protect what little of her there was left to protect.
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In the beginning, Jane's mind had fled to places she used to consider safe.
At first, she imagined herself in her safe house — but that apartment wasn't truly safe. Her safe house was the place where Kurt arrested her; it was the place where the person she had protected, turned into her enemy. The place where her last vestiges of security were ripped from her hands. It was the home that she no longer deserved. It was the place where hell began. No, Her safe house was not a safe place to shelter her mind.
The next place she imagined was Weller's apartment. But that door was mentally slammed shut fairly quickly. Weller hated her - he sent her to hell without even the chance to explain herself. Weller's apartment was meant for Taylor, not Jane — she wasn't welcome there anymore. She didn't deserve his protection. Besides, how safe could it truly be, if she was kidnapped by Carter outside of it.
Her mind flitted to the New York Office next. It was once a place of identity and belonging — the one place that gave her a feeling of purpose. But even that place would not do — she had been kicked out of it— fired by Pellington. It was Mayfair's domain; it was the place where Jane betrayed and lied to the woman who sheltered her. It was a place she would never belong to again.
After all this time, Jane had circled back to the nameless woman in the duffel bag. She still didn't know what safety felt like…
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Jane's imagination constructed a brand new safe place. From scratch, her mind built a dream haven to preserve her consciousness and insulate her from the harsh reality.
It was a beautiful place that belonged only to her - and as long as she stayed inside of it, pain was a dream. The haven that her consciousness created came in the form of a small cottage by the sea.
While her body starved and convulsed, she imagined herself cuddled on a white divan listening to the lull of the crashing waves.
While her lungs burned and choked, she mentally painted the walls a serene shade of green.
While the brown rats gnawed at the bared flesh of her legs and feet, she conjured up walls full of friendly, framed pictures of the team that was once her family.
When the bitter tang of blood and vomit became too much to handle, she fabricated a luxurious queen-sized bed with warm, flannel sheets.
On the really bad days, she pretended she was Taylor Shaw. She pretended she was a girl with a happy childhood with people who loved her. A girl with a history, a name, a family and Kurt. Even though deep down she knew that life didn't belong to her.
Her haven wasn't foolproof. She had to fortify her mental defences daily to keep the CIA out. If she wasn't careful, the phone would ring and Keaton's voice would taunt her softly from the other end. Once, while she was being waterboarded, the ceiling of her dream house ripped open and water flooded inside.
But she was vigilant and meticulously rebuilt and strengthened each flaw that appeared. She bolted the door with countless locks and sealed every window.
Even if her body was being systematically broken, Jane's mind was was strong… too strong. Her mind would not let her body give up — her damn instincts and training kept fighting for life. Until her mind broke, she would be stuck living this half life — trapped in purgatory for her sins.
Jane retreated further and further inside her head and firmly shut the door.
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Sometimes, from the safety of her haven, Jane let herself wonder.
She wondered how Keaton could derive so much pleasure out of these last four months. What kind of man could happily reduce a person a mere shell.
She wondered how her team could send her here. They never even gave her a chance to explain what happened — her months of service and protection meant nothing. She had thought they were friends— family even. Did they secretly hate her all along or only now? She cringed at the thought that he hated her the most.
She wondered if there would ever be an end to this torment. She didn't expect to be saved; she didn't expect to be found. To be found, someone had to be looking for you. But no one wanted to find her. No one wanted her.
But wondering was pointless. After all, the victorious didn't need to justify anything.
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Thoughts?
Should I continue or try something different?