This story is complete, though I haven't broken it down into chapters yet. It's fairly short-roughly 50 pages in Word. I don't think it's anywhere near my best work, but I'll let you all be the judge of that. Thank you for reading.

I'm skipping town.

You can't.

I don't have a choice.

I wasn't supposed to be there. If they found out, I'd be fucked, but I had to say goodbye.

When I go, Piper, I can't come back.

You can't leave me.

Her face crumbled, and I nearly lost my shit. Fuck the deal I made with the feds. Fuck my freedom and fuck Piper's safety—I needed to be with her even if it meant getting thrown into prison again. Even if it meant putting her life in danger.

No.

No, I couldn't do that. I wouldn't.

I know that my track record is shit, but I really do love you.

She has to believe me. Please believe. When I walked out of there with the possibility of never seeing her again, it damn near killed me.

At first, Piper recoiled—said she hated me; we both knew that wasn't true. She loves me despite her better judgement.

Same.

The first three months of training were brutal—5 a.m. wake up calls that led to an hour of physical activity, followed by eight hours of lectures and simulations, ending with another hour of intense physical training. I asked questions often: Why me? What am I training to do? Will my life be in danger? Until I completed Level I, my questions went mostly unanswered. All I knew was that I signed my life away to become a narc. A fucking narc.

It wasn't until the fifth month when Agent Pratt, the lead training officer, held me back on a Friday afternoon when I got some answers.

"You had a rough start, Vause." He twirled a pen between his fingers like he was about to perform a magic trick. "However, your physical stamina has improved dramatically, and you've scored at least 95% on every assessment."

I remained silent, hands in my lap—I learned early on not to speak unless directed to do so.

He gave me a once-over before blurting out, "You're going to be an undercover informant."

When I agreed to work for the DEA I was told, "Come work for us, and we'll protect you." That was followed by a litany of questions about Kubra, all of which I answered to the best of my ability to help them nail his ass. He's still at large, which freaks the shit out of me, but that's a story for another time.

"The core of what we do—this undercover work—is assimilation not differentiation. Kingpins are brilliant and devious. We need our informants to look and think like them in order to catch them. No one is better at this than former high-profile drug dealers." Pratt leaned forward, desk chair creaking like a spring would pop right out of it. "That's where you come in."

I figured I'd be an agent of some sort, mostly behind the computer, maybe as the back-up for a back-up agent, not an undercover informant who'd come face to face with guys like Kubra.

"You have the skills, the presence and the intelligence to fit into most situations involving high end drug sales."

"I haven't learned anything about undercover work," I confessed, anxious that they'd picked the wrong person.

"You'll continue with your cohort through Level II, then during Level III, you'll do intense undercover study and training. You'll be assigned a veteran partner at that time." He set the pen down and cracked his knuckles. "Any questions?"

"Yeah, tons," I let out a muffled, incredulous laugh. "I don't even know where to begin."

Pratt tossed a thick paperback across the desk. "Here's a book, detailing life as an undercover informant. Read it. Take notes. When questions arise, jot them down. You and I will meet twice a week through Level III."

"Is everyone else in my cohort going to do undercover work?"

He walked to the door, signaling this conversation was seconds away from over whether I had more questions or not. "We've singled you out at this juncture, and we expect you to keep it confidential."

I nodded, following him towards the entryway.

"I'll see you on Monday, same time, Vause."

With that, I went to my dorm room and began reading what the fuck I was getting myself into.

The best part of my seventh month of training was getting low-level access to classified sites and files. Although it took some time, I finally found out how to access the Litchfield database. I wasted no time searching for Piper's name and held my breath as it popped up, revealing she'd spent three days in Seg for an altercation with an officer, which extended her sentence by two months. If my math was correct, that meant she'd be getting released within a matter of days.

I wanted to call her—tell her I was fine, but all six of us in my cohort received daily reminders that we were to have no contact with the outside world until training was over. That proved difficult for all of us, particularly Blake, a newlywed from Albany who missed his wife to the point of finally quitting. All of us were in this federal training program as ex-cons, and I learned later that only 5% of those who begin training actually complete it.

By month eight I'd read four books about undercover work and nearly 100 files that covered all sorts of scenarios. The work sounded interesting though occasionally dangerous. My next assignment was the most fascinating one: dressing in costume to gather intelligence.

I'd get orders two or three times a week to meet an agent at random locations around DC at all hours of the day. My goal was to extract information from unsuspecting people to get the hang of how to be persuasive and come across as trustworthy in a short amount of time. Every assignment was different—I had to find out one woman's birthday in the middle of the day at Wal-Mart; discover the maiden name of another woman at a playground in Foggy Bottom; and get a 20-something year old man to give me his password to his iPhone in the lobby of a Marriott. I went through 20 of these random tests, only coming up short twice.

By the time I completed Level III of training, I received my assignment to work for the DEA in the Northeast Narcotics Division, which meant relocating to New York City. The placement officer and I took the train from DC to Penn Station, so he could show me the six apartments where I'd call home for no more than three months at a time. Each location would be within a mile of where the assignment was based.

"Although you're still listed in the classified federal database as Alex Vause, there's no record of you living or working in the US in the present tense," the placement officer said, ushering me into a basement apartment two blocks from the train station. "Anyone who does an Internet search for you will have access to your public life through your time at Litchfield, but it stops there."

"So, it'll look like I don't live in the country? Like I just disappeared?"

"That's right." He gave me a firm head nod. "If you eventually want to tell family and friends where you are, they'll have to be trusted sources, and we'll need to run a background check on all of them before you disclose anything in addition to a formal screening process."

Other than Piper, there was no one I felt the need to tell about my work.

"What about my paychecks? My driver's license and passport?"

"Your only bank account remains in the federal credit union in DC. Your checks will be direct deposited, and we'll deduct a small amount each month for living expenses. You can access any ATM with the fake identities we'll establish for you. Those will automatically connect to your real bank account." He opened the bedroom door to show me the sparse living conditions. "You'll essentially become someone new for every case. Sometimes cases will take a couple days and sometimes they'll take upwards of six months to resolve. Some are never resolved."

"I become them?"

"Yes." He returned to the living room. "The DEA takes tracking very seriously. You'll buy only essential items like groceries and clothing and be ready to move within 24 hours as you receive orders. You'll report to the New York field office when you're not undercover, and a team will work with you to put together your new persona when necessary."

I'd watched enough undercover videos and read enough files to understand what he meant about changing identities. There would be times I'd have to wear a blue wig and contact lenses and other times when I'd have to dye my hair and wear eyeglasses the complete opposite of the ones I own. Assimilate not differentiate.

"This line of work is either something you'll love or hate after the first couple of cases. About a month into it, your field supervisor will assess how you're doing and determine if it suits you. Any questions?"

I always had questions, but I knew a verbal answer would never be enough—I had to live a life as someone else to get my questions fully answered.

After my first case as an undercover informant, I was hooked. My role was to play a wealthy graduate student who was just getting into the high-end drug scene. I wore a short-haired brown wig and iridescent cat eye glasses. My clothing was professorial for lack of a better term—I could fit in with the NYU grad students without missing a beat. My goal was to get the name of the dealer's boss' boss, a task which I accomplished in ten days.

My second and third cases were equally tantalizing, and there was no question I was good at this kind of work. It reminded me of my younger years when I was on the wrong side of the law. I lived high on the hog, went to fancy parties and clubs and was respected by the higher-ups in the cartel. Although my undercover work didn't involve traveling to exotic locations, it was equally thrilling and rewarding. Of course the big difference this time was I was the one sending people to jail instead of the other way around. There was something about it that didn't sit well with me—the tattling part, but it was either this or prison for another five or six years, and the likelihood of my returning to Litchfield was slim. I didn't want to be in prison if it wasn't with Piper.

My partner was not someone I would have chosen for myself, but apparently that's exactly why we were paired—we don't look like a couple. Not that we'd often pose as a couple when undercover, but we don't even look like we'd be friends. That's precisely the point. If we're in the same room even when I'm in costume, no one would predict we're together. He's short, stocky, blond hair, brown eyes and a lopsided smile. He reminds me of the young, male attorney on The Good Wife, Cary something. Kevin Bosworth married his high school sweetheart when he was 20. He has spent his entire career with the DEA, and I'm only his second partner in a 15-year career.

When I wasn't in the field, I was in the New York office. I spent upwards of 50 hours a week working behind a desk, but not a day went by without thinking about Piper. I learned that she was released from prison, and I assumed was living with her parents in Connecticut. I wanted to contact her, but I figured she was still pissed at me for skipping town, plus I didn't want to jeopardize any of my cases by revealing too much to her. Everything was still so new, and I needed to establish myself a bit more before reaching out to her. If I would have been satisfied with a quick phone call or two, I would've made it happen, but I wanted more from her than a fleeting moment of confessions and apologies. If I could hold out another three months, I'd find a way to see her and explain everything if she'd allow it.

Fate had other plans.