Chapter 1

Open the cage

Raindrops hits the the puddles outside the looming grey building, grey skies spilt by dim lights and the low rumble, like the gods of the old ones show their displeasure over this ancient land, cars go by, black and white, headlights dimmed by the downpour, blue lights blink.

Inside cold clinical light illuminates the stark white corridors, broken by intervals with solid blue steel door, people move about, some laugh, other in sullen silence, but always the atmosphere of malvolence is in the air, so thick that it feels like a man could reach out and touch it. A shout rings out down the corridor, like a bell over the din of the chatter, "386 Petersen!", a shuffle from one of the rooms follows soon after and the corridor's inhabitants look at the doorway, other coming to their own doors to look.

A man in his late thirties exits the cell, bag over his shoulder, not overly tall, about 5'8", tattoed, stocky, heavily muscled, sporting a well-kept van dyke beard, long black hair going to just below his shoulders, bound up in a ponytail, the eyes that meets every look being the only thing standing out in this collection of rough men, shockingly green, sometimes remote, other times flaring in rage like a animal, and as now, calm, uncertain. "Get your whistle dipped and have a drink for us brother", the speaker, a huge bald man covered in nordic tattoos steps out and locks his scarred hand with the hand of the man called Petersen, "I will do better than that, I'll down a bottle and send you a bird to tend to that shriveled cock of yours, think that is about the right tribute for 'white Finn', I will send your regards to your club' ".

The large man laughs, his deep baritone rings out over the well wishes and laughter of the other men, all of which wear leather and patches when able to spread their wings in freedom. 16 different clubs represented in this prison, but the inside, and the years rubs out the differences, even in a country where bloody club wars raged for years.

"We do not have all day Petersen, get your scruffy ass in gear". The man called Petersen moves along the corridor, exchanging words and farewells with others until escorted out of the section by two large corrections officers.

"Sven 'Zimmer' Petersen, Ten years served, here is your box of belongings and 'the envelope'". Sven looks at the brown cardboard box and sighs, taking the envelope with money, a few bills and some change, he tears the box open and takes out a sleeveless leather cut, and puts it on, a sense of relief comes over him, he enjoys the feel, and all the good, and terrible things that cut represents, his life, until bullets or a crash ends it. A hateful sneer spreads on his face as the corrections officer recites rules and regulations, and advices him on the laws on wearing his beloved patch, he strains not to threaten this tiny self important cunt, telling him that he will find him on the outside, and treat him to a workover with a alu-bat, and if he is unlucky a hard stick-fucking with the same bat...No lube! But instead Sven turns and walks out, cutting the stream of nonsense off midsentence, letting the officer see the defiant look of the reaper with the m16 in it's bony claws, Sons of Anarchy, Midgaard.

With a resounding boom the huge steel gates shut behind Sven, he lifts his face skyward and takes a deep breath, fuck the rain feels good on his face as it drenches him, he grits his teeth as the feeling of freedom rises in him, all those years inside this deep stinking hole, his father's funeral on escorted leave, disapproving looks from his family. All done for the reaper, he would have given more..Murder is nothing, and they could not even prove his full participation,.. Hells it was his damn idea, all of it, but he kept his mouth shut, and was the only one who went down. The reaper takes care of it's own, well.. Times like this shows you who is a bitch, and who is a true brother, reminded him that some business was overdue. Sven lifted his arms and let out a scream like the entire range of emotions, rage from a free spirit was being let out, ringing over the dismal landscape of the state prison.

The cry was answered by a dozen rough throats as Sven opened his eyes, barely in time to see the big biker charging him and wrapping his arms around him, lifting him with a great burst of laughter, "Look what got released, some silly bitch, wonder if he can still pack a punch?", Sven looked down to grin at his brother, big Abdel, the club's sergent-at-arms, the massive turk had been his friend for twenty years, followed each other through good times and bad, loyal, a true brother, and behind him, the entire chapter was parked on their motorcycles, all american bikes, accept no other. Hammering their horns and raising a godawful clamor, after a tight embrace Sven and Abdel walked down to greet the rest, and was subjected to all kinds of greeting from back clapping to questions about how much wanking he had been doing. Sven took it in his usual stride, grinning as he gave as good as he got. Looking around he noticed a few missing, the president and two others, one was in another prison, but the other...Well business. "'Curly' is in the club house 'Zim', we got a welcome home bash planned, and church tomorrow, we need to talk about your transfer, and about what you are owed", the talk grew quiet as Abdel spoke, and the the rain drummed on the precious black and silver bikes, Sven's smile faded, and he reached out to take the cigarette pack in Abdel's pocket, lighting one, zippo making the characteristic metallic sounds,"You know brothers, you owe me nothing, the club owes me nothing, this is who I am". "This is not how it works 'Zim', we take care of our own, and you did a dime for the club, and a lot more on the side, but enough about work", stepping forward with those words a middle-aged, thin, moustached man made his presense felt, from his chest the VP strip was the first to catch the eye, a mark that had not been off for 25 years, the fured lines of his face marked him as a elder, but the eyes shone as vitally, ruthlessly as ever, 'Moroco' Karl, a true SoA constant, in this country as constant as the mark of the club, when he spoke, people listened. "The prospects hauled your Panhead uphere, you ride back in style brother, now, let's be off before we get bitchy calls on the cell".

Sven walked over to his baby, his hands glided over the chrome, the prospects had done good work. Original 1949 Panhead, first year hydraulic fork and so first year Hydra Glide. Original Harley frame, almost all original sheet metal, as the rest of the club fired up their engines Sven lovingly sat down, in the saddle again, leather creaking, put his helm on, and fished his leather bandana out of the saddlebags where he knew it would be, tying it behind his neck so it covered his mouth and nose, with the screaming, raging, metal skull depicted on the front.

He started up, hearing the roar from the powerful engine, the feeling of riding this beast yielding to his every command a savage grin spread beneath his bandana. The convoy of bikes started down the sleepy town street, the roar of the engines bringing many looks as reaper patch after reaper patch passed by and disappeared from their view in the rain.

Sven took his place, up near the front, he knew it would not be for long he would ride like this, so he enjoyed every second, gunning it as thoughts raced through his head, the look Abdel gave him just before they started told him that the big turk knew what would happen when they got back to the clubhouse.