A/N: Spoilers (sort of) for the Season 3 episode 'The Farm'. That episode totally got the wheels in my head turning, and this was the result. Enjoy.

Five Things That Never Happened to Donna Sabine

A Convincing Meth Freak

Vice Unit Staff Inspector Scott Wallen appraised the thirty-something woman seated across from him with a critical eye. His first impression was that she could have passed for a financial adviser for a bank rather than a nearly ten-year veteran of the Toronto Police Service.

She was smartly attired in a navy pantsuit ensemble with a tailored white blouse, unlike the uniformed constables roaming the halls outside his office. Her dark blonde hair was neatly arranged in a no-nonsense French braid, typical of other women in her profession. She wore no makeup except for a dash of light pink lip gloss. Her piercing blue eyes looked like they were constantly in observation mode, and she seemed quite unperturbed by his close scrutiny. Wallen liked that about her; in this line of work, cooler heads prevailed, and the assignment currently at stake definitely required a cool head.

Wallen had her file on his desk. He'd read it several times and knew its contents quite well: it was full of glowing performance assessments. Constable Donna Sabine seemed every inch the person for the upcoming operation, at least on paper. Her most recent undercover assignment had her in with a nest of human vipers, playing the role of a high-end call girl. For three weeks she'd stayed in character, and had never once aroused suspicion. At the end of it all, a crystal meth manufacturing and distribution czar was out of business and in custody, along with a dozen of his underlings.

No, Wallen's doubts stemmed not from lack of qualification and skill, but rather Donna Sabine's overall appearance. She just didn't look like she could pass for a hardened drug addict. She looked like she could get up and run a 10K marathon without breaking a sweat.

It was one thing to pull on ragged street clothes and make up someone with cosmetics to appear to be a disease-infested, downtrodden junkie for a day or two, but the planned assignment was going to be for much longer than a mere two days.

Wallen sat forward and interlocked his fingers. He knew Sabine was waiting to see if the assignment was hers. She had an earnest expression on her face, anticipating his answer. As if sensing his ambivalence, she said: "You know, Inspector, contrary to appearances, I'm told I make a very convincing meth freak."

He smiled in spite of himself, decision made. "Noted," he said in reply. Then, "Constable Sabine, have you ever heard of a place called The Farm?"

Charles Stewart, the charismatic founder of The Farm, welcomed Donna to his rehab program. As she sat in his office, she spilled out her cover story for him. She was Donna St. Clair, a high-school drop-out who quickly fell into the street life and became addicted to methamphetamines. Stewart told her that he would definitely be able to help her, but that she had to follow his directives unquestioningly.

By week two, he was pleased to note that the new arrival seemed to have settled in comfortably with the daily routines of the facility. She eagerly accepted the tasks on the farm he'd assigned her, and appeared to be on board with the treatment program he'd tailored for her.

By week three, he started watching her more closely than he normally would another resident. Something wasn't quite right about Donna St. Clair. Sure, she acted as if she'd come from the mean streets, and talked of the hardships of being kicked out of her home by abusive parents and becoming an addict after dropping out of school... something was still slightly amiss.

Stewart was determined to find out just what it was about her that was bothering him.

By week four, he had his suspicions confirmed. Another new arrival, fresh from a court order to attend a drug rehabilitation program, came to Stewart privately.

"I seen her before," Eugene Hicks whispered to Charles one afternoon in Charles' office.

"Who?"

"That 'Donna' chick," Eugene replied.

"Really?" Charles asked mildly, concealing his interest. "Where?"

"A flophouse, three months ago. In Toronto. We got raided. She was there, man."

Charles considered this piece of news. "She was 'there' as in there with you in the flophouse, or 'there' as in part of the raid?"

Eugene sniffed. "The raid, man. She's the one that 'cuffed me! She gotta be a narc, or somethin'."

"Are you certain?" Charles asked, feeling an involuntary quickening of his pulse. This could mean that the authorities were on to him.

"Yeah, man. It's those eyes. And I don't forget faces."

"Thank you, Eugene," Charles said calmly, "you may go back to your duties."

The other man took his cue and left Charles' office.

Donna Sabine opened her eyes slowly, then wished she hadn't. Harsh afternoon sunlight streamed in through an open window, directly onto her face. Her head ached terribly, and a hazy memory of being confronted in one of the barns by a shovel-wielding member of the commune came back to her.

An attempt to move was unsuccessful as Donna realized that she was bound to a chair.

"Who are you?"

Charles Stewart's voice seemed to come from far away.

Donna feigned ignorance. "Charles? Is that you? What's going on? Is this part of my treatment program or something?"

Charles stepped from out of the shadows, his face filling her field of vision.

"I'm going to ask you again: who are you?" His voice was cold, and his eyes were filled with suspicion.

"Charles, please... you're starting to really frighten me..." Donna squeezed out a few tears while her mind was racing through the possibilities. Had her cover been blown?

Charles suddenly grabbed her face in his hand, roughly digging his fingers into her cheeks. "You're going to tell me who you are and what you're doing here, right now!"

Yes, Donna decided with sinking spirits, Charles definitely suspects something. That's why I was attacked with the shovel and tied up.

"No answer, eh?" Charles said in disgust. He let go of her face and turned on his heel. He started pacing around, kicking up dust and hay. "I don't think you quite grasp the gravity of the situation, Donna, or whatever your name really is."

Donna stared back defiantly, but inside, she could feel her heart beating wildly. The barn was one of the worst places Charles could have picked for this 'interrogation'. She hadn't planted any of the listening devices in here; it hadn't seemed necessary. No one outside the fences of The Farm knew she was in danger. No one was riding to her rescue.

How had it come to this? She was certain she'd done nothing to give herself away...

"You want to know how I know you're not a recovering meth addict?" Charles taunted. "You're just not convincing enough. Your health is just too good. I've watched you more closely than you think, and your teeth and gums are perfect. If you were really on the streets and addicted as long as you claimed you were, you should've had a pretty nasty case of 'meth-mouth' by now."

He's lying, Donna thought. He knows more about me than he's telling.

Charles turned back around and stared at her. He pulled a handgun from his waistband and waved it casually in front of her. "I know pointing this at your head probably isn't going to make you say anything, but I just wanted you to know that unless I get the answers I want, whoever you're working for out there will never find your body after I'm through with you."

Donna attempted one last gambit. If it failed, she knew she was dead.

"Okay, okay, I'll tell you. Just please, don't kill me."

Charles lowered the weapon and narrowed his eyes.

"You're right. I'm not a real meth addict, and my name isn't really Donna St. Clair. It's Donna Wallen, and I'm an investigative reporter for The Toronto Star. I came here looking to do a big story on addictions and rehabilitation. I knew you wouldn't let me on The Farm unless you thought I was a druggie, so my editor and I came up with my cover story so I could get on here."

"Really," Charles said doubtfully. "A reporter, eh?"

"Yes!" Donna said, adding an edge of desperation to her voice. "Please, let me go. All I was interested in was a good story!"

" 'A good story'," Charles repeated with a short laugh. "Hmm... I heard a good story earlier today; perhaps you'd like to hear it! It's about a flophouse about three months ago in downtown Toronto. It stars a coke user named Eugene who happened to get caught in a raid when the Vice squad swooped in to pick up the dealer. Everyone there got taken into custody, including poor, hapless Eugene. But his story doesn't end there. A sympathetic judge told Eugene he could avoid jail if he took a substance-abuse program. Eugene, being somewhat bright, chose to come here... and you'll never guess who he recognized..."

Donna's heart was hammering in her throat. She'd seen Eugene Hicks on The Farm. But never in a million years did she think that he had recognized her. She'd assumed he'd been too high at the time of his arrest to remember anything about that day, much less who she was and what she looked like.

"You should see your face," Charles said coldly. "It betrays you. Yes, Eugene recognized you, Donna, if that really is your name."

Donna closed her eyes and dropped her head, a silent prayer for deliverance running through her mind.

"The real question now, of course, is what I should do with you," Charles said. "Clearly, you're an undercover agent. Tell me, Miss Narc, what do the authorities know about me?"

He brought the gun up once again, pointed it at her and released the safety.

"There's hundreds of acres of empty field out here. What I said before wasn't a threat. You don't answer me, they'll never find your body."

A sudden commotion from outside the barn drew Charles' attention. Shouts from several men reached his ears, and he tensed.

One of the facility's residents appeared at the barn door, out of breath and shaking. "Charles! The gates have been breached! It's the cops! They're coming!"

Donna's head snapped up and her eyes opened in a flash. Had she heard correctly?

"How many are there, Higgins?" Charles snapped.

The man named Higgins gulped. "Uh, six, I think," he stammered. "They're all fully armed. What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to ask them to leave," Charles said casually. "They won't do anything stupid as long as we have her."

"...After which point in time the body of Charles Stewart was taken to the city morgue for autopsy..." the gentle voice of Sergeant Gregory Parker intoned. "Constable Callaghan, do you have anything to add?"

"No, Sarge," the sniper said quietly.

"I know SIU cleared you, Jules," Greg said, "but it hasn't escaped any of us that that was your first time using deadly force to resolve a hostage situation."

Jules shrugged. "Thanks for the concern, Sarge," she said. "I appreciate it. Yes, it was my first kill shot. But that's the job, right? Stewart was escalating. He was going to kill Constable Sabine. The choice was clear."

"Okay," Greg said, needing no further convincing. "I just wanted to say: Job well done, everyone. We got one of our fellow officers out alive today, and prevented an even bigger disaster from taking place on that farm. There's no telling how many more lives would have been lost if Stewart had succeeded in carrying out his plans for the mass murder of the members of that commune..."

Vice Unit Staff Inspector Scott Wallen looked at the thirty-something woman seated across from him in his office.

"How did you know I was in trouble?" Donna Sabine asked him. "The barn wasn't bugged."

"No," Wallen agreed, "but you did bug Stewart's office. That's where Eugene Hicks told Stewart all about how he recognized you. As soon as we heard that, we knew things were going to get bad for you in a hurry. We immediately dispatched SRU."

Donna nodded. "I can't believe I had my cover blown by one lousy low-life I encountered for one lousy drug bust."

"These things happen," Wallen said with a sigh. "Those are the risks involved."

"I want to request a transfer."

Wallen started, surprised by this sudden comment. "You... what?" He sputtered.

"I want a transfer. I want out of Vice."

"Well, assuming I'll even approve a transfer for you, where do you want to go?"

"Well, I've been thinking, obviously, about recent events," Donna said, "and SRU sounds pretty damn nice to me."

END