AN:

I hope everyone enjoys this little piece of my imagination, this is my first time writing anything fictional but I've been compiling this story for probably the better part of a year. I decided it was about time to probably do something with it.

This first chapter is very vague, the only characters you'll particularly recognize here is Jax and your normal SAMCRO boys, but bear with me and hopefully you'll get to enjoy my ramblings, I want to have a substantial build up. This story will be canon to a degree but this is set about 7 months before the pilot episode.

Any questions I'd love for you to ask.

I'd like to thank you for taking your time to read it, and I'd like to thank Kurt Sutter for inspiration.

All Characters and plot lines you recognize belong to Mr. Sutter.

Chapter 1: The Killing Moon

Under blue moon I saw you

So soon you'll take me

Up in your arms

Too late to beg you or cancel it

Though I know it must be the killing time

Unwillingly mine

Echo & The Bunnymen- The Killing Moon

The shipment was disguised in a dog grooming van, two members of the SAMDINO charter riding up front, Dale and Red. Both dressed in plain clothes, trying to embody the epitomine of covert. The men found themselves on edge, hyper attuned to their surroundings, the ominous note lingering in the air hard to ignore. Dale was at the wheel, Red couldn't help but notice how he kept peering into the rear view mirror out of paranoia, the bad feeling working its way deeper into his bones. The last shipment had been unsuccessful, as was the one before that. Someone was after the club and it's guns, and it had to stop. Thus the reason for them driving such a ridiculous van, "Paula's Pups". What a god awful imagination this woman must have but she was a croweater, so you couldn't and wouldn't generally expect a whole hell of a lot more. It was supposed to be a simple run, only two of them riding in to be more subtle and concealed, as the bikes were bound to draw attention and provoke recognition. Their facade was supposed to be flawless. So what felt so wrong?

Dale let his sweaty fingers reach for the volume control on the radio, plunging them into silence.

"Chill man won't ya? Hell Dale. I don't know what's got you so worked up, just listen and relax." Red huffed as he turned the dial back up to a louder volume.

"Don't tell me to relax, some'in ain't right here Red." Dale snapped in his southern twang as he swatted Red's hand away to turn the dial again, he leaned forward and his fingers finally made contact with the cheap plastic knob. Both men were too busy squabbling between themselves to notice the truck heading straight towards the driver's side, not until the lights glared in their face that half a second prior to impact. The force made their own van, pitiful in size compared to the truck, crumple like a discarded sheet of paper. Dale instantly was killed on impact, Red on the other hand was not so lucky. The van had been propelled several metres from where the attackers had stopped, and had rolled to its side in a dilapidated heap. Red just managing to cling on to consciousness, unbuckled his belt, falling painfully onto his side once the buckle released. Not letting this deter him, he scrambled through the broken window screen, ignoring the broken glass penetrating his skin. Reaching his arm forward to crawl further, his hand came in contact with a scuffed boot, the fear that pooled in his stomach at that moment outweighed the pain he felt through his entire body. The owner of the boot grabbed a fistful of Red's hair, allowing him to look into his face. Yet from Red's looming vision, the dark surroundings and the balaclava he only looked to him like imminent death. Red closed his eyes and said a quick prayer, knowing that there was no one on the deserted highway that could influence his fate, which was now left in the hands of whatever higher power and his soon to be murderer who was currently holding a blade to his throat. With his knife held firmly in hand the unknown assailant sliced Red's throat, the blood pouring out sick irony towards his name.

"Load the truck, don't leave any guns behind." The guy shouted to his minions that had thus far stood and watched as he dealt with Red before turning back to the corpse before him, and with a sick smile started to slice through the bone and tendons that composed the neck.

All the loot loaded, the truck peeled down the highway, the driver having a quick peek in his rear view to chuckle lowly at the sight. The sight of Red's head sitting upon the wrecked van.

"As you all know Johnny's been with us for a few months now, a brother of our London charter. As I'm sure you all know, and for those of you that didn't have the pleasure of watching the Sinclair family thrive in Cali, he spent a large chunk of his teenage years growing up in Charming, and he's put in a request for transfer Redwood. We'll go through the boring history shit for those of you in the dark, although I'm sure he's proved enough to you boys in his recent 'expeditions' with us." A low chuckle sounded around the reaper adorned table as Clay grinned, pausing in his speech to light a cigar. "He's got a long family history with this club, his father a first 9 and his Uncle being one of the first people we truly excepted after the first 9. We owe his father the Manchester and London charters, Bill is a dear friend of mine and many of ours, not to mention countless others throughout the MC as well as every surviving member of the first 9. His uncle is responsible for the SAMDINO charter. Personally I think they like to show off a bit."

"Johno you've always been my bro, I'm glad you've come home. Your family does some amazing things with our MC, and from what we've seen in the past few days it's nice to see that the genes didn't skip you." Jax shot him with a wink.

"That pretty face could fool you, hey when we gunna see this sister of yours again? If she's half as pretty as you, I think me and her will get on well." Tig visibly licked his lips, whilst grinning from ear to ear.

"Since when did you care about standards Tiggy?"

Johnny snipped back which earned laughter from the table as Tig just shrugged his shoulders, nonchalant, knowing for a fact that he wasn't fussy in any meaning of the word.

"Jax is right. But legacy behind us; he has more than payed his dues to the club all by himself, becoming a fierce, loyal and an exemplary soldier. He's already received the go ahead from London," Noticing the questioning look from Johnny, Clay cracked his trademark grin, whilst wiggling his heavy brows, "Spoke to Bill this morning kid, he's not happy about losing a good soldier and his son but he respects your choices kid. So let's put it to a vote. What's say you to Johnny becoming an official member of SAMCRO?"

There was an unanimous collection of ayes from the table, as the gavel's resonating thud confirmed the vote.

"Welcome to Redwood son, now this meeting wasn't all happy crap, now to the doom and gloom. We need some members to visit San Bernardino to help them sort out some turf shit they've got going on whilst securing the Irish Pipeline. They've got another run tonight, hopefully it goes well and they won't need too much help but they're three men down so I'm not willing to risk letting them sort this shit themselves. It's cost us too much already. Jax you're going down as you're my VP, need some authority and a high ranking officer to show our support. Also need your brains to help figure out who this threat is, as they haven't revealed any colours or motives so far, bar a dislike for the Sons. Could be a rat, might just be an old fashioned turf war but enough is enough. "

Clay sent a steel gaze to his stepson, daring him to object, to give him more authority to publicly criticise him. He loved his son but the boy needed to take a breather and sort his shit out before it got someone injured, maimed or good old-fashioned dead.

"That's fine." Jax sighed with gritted teeth. The VP knew there was no point arguing the matter, not that he really had the spirit to anyways.

"Chibs, you go with Jax."

The Gavel slammed. Closing the Church session and the vote. Jackson wasn't quite happy that he was being made to do babysitting duties for another charter. He had respect for his fellow brothers, no matter the location but he couldn't quite help but ponder whether this was just Clay trying to push him from the picture temporarily, but he couldn't care the least anymore. Maybe a break was what he needed, a chance to distance himself from the turmoil both within him and arising in the club. Clay had began questioning his loyalties and abilities to better and perform for the club for several weeks, some other fellow patches following suit, making it obvious that they'd been gossiping like a group of bitches behind his back. All just because of the recent messy divorce and attempted reconciliation of his ex wife, Wendy Case. He already hated the cranked up bitch, this was demoting her further into his shit list. Jackson failed to believe his loyalties to the club had really ever deserved to come into consideration like they had. He lived and breathed for the club. What was affecting Jax was his own stupidity and lack of control of the situation. The patch on his back and the consequent brotherhood that followed were his entire life, to the death, the club and its members were his family. His only mistake was bottling the maddening ramblings of a desperate man within himself, teamed with his sharp temper and hot-headed tendencies, it was a volatile cocktail. Also being a tad more indulgent than normal in booze and pussy hadn't helped his brethren's cause, the more he thought about it the more he was beginning to see their point. A break was necessary.

New scenery, new people and new pussy. He thought to himself as he smirked, all whilst staying in sunny Cali, not even a long trip. San Bernardino was a lovely place, he hadn't ventured there in a while, he'd at least visited majority of their charters in America in his 26 years. An easy and pleasant ride, he'd actually semi hoped that he'd be going to Reno. A bit of gambling excitement as well as a hooker, but beggars can't be choosers. Rising from his seat at the right of Clay, the Vice President rose with the rest of the men and departed the Chapel. Deciding it to be prudent to pack his bag now before he got too wasted, as it was an early start after all.

He enjoyed seeing his brother from the London charter, but this party wasn't cutting it for him. Sure it wasn't that different from the usual SAMCRO parties, there was the necessary combination of Sons, alcohol, weed and pussy, but none of those interested him at that moment. Except of course intoxicating substances always held an appeal to a mind in a state like his current dwellings, but I guess that was the repercussions of having to deal with a junkie ex-wife. Though his mind, the partly rational segment, argued against him further that she was practically a walking poster of why he should rehabilitate.

Although the downer he could honestly say he was enjoying seeing his brother Johnny: Jonathan Sinclair was a face he hadn't seen in years. Along with Opie and Charlotte, his other childhood best friends. They were all inseparable from the age of 10, up until the age of 18 when his pops had moved away, him and his sister deciding to go with. Jax and Charlotte Sinclair, Johnny's twin sister, had been better friends though. Thinking of her made Jax smile softly. A modern Bonny and Clyde as his father had affectionately declared, although there was never any solid romantic afflictions between them, just nigh inseparable due to their shared and complimentary personalities. Their penchant for causing trouble didn't harm the cause either. Each had their talents but an amazing team, JT and Gemma had always said they'd realize eventually that they were madly in love with each other and get married. She was always beautiful and fierce but they'd each had their respective partners, and were more siblings if anything, Jax still smirked at the idea of them ever getting together. It had never been worth losing their friendship over, which had dwindled anyway due to a separation of 8 years. Plus he had wanted to be a stud. Some letters and phone calls with the siblings and Jax, but very little face time. William 'Bill' Sinclair had never been content with any of the charters he'd flitted around, until he composed the London charter, he found his calling. He had always missed the motherland as he called it. So the company of his long lost brother was the only thing keeping him sane in the present. Rising from his chair with a huff, he shrugged off the sweetbutt that was hanging from his cut with a dismissive wave of his hand, clapping Johnny round the back of the neck as he passed him ready to resign himself to bed with a bottle of Jack as his companion.

Tonight was the same, another mission, another face of a corpse. Wiping their invisibly gloved hand, technology never failed to impress. An assassins best friend a silicone thin glove impressionable to any identity or none what-so-ever. M smiled at their handy work. Two birds with one stone, killing one and implicating the other. It didn't make up for the hit, little information was gained from the cranked up dealer who was a true bottom feeder, they could have waited for them to come completely out of their daze and high. M didn't truly believe that he knew nothing, yet what he did know within that distorted brain was not worth knowing if the sodium pentathol and the sheer terror had not roused it out of that jumbled mess. He was no longer any use regardless with a broken neck. His less than savory friend who's prints were implanted was also on said premises tonight making the plan faultless, straightening their attire M couldn't help the smarmy grin that crossed their face. Leaving the body in the disabled toilet, purposely chosen due to the black spot in the security cameras and conveniently placed window that backed onto a dark alley, big enough for M to make an escape. Which is exactly what M did, off to the bike parked a couple of blocks over before riding back to the SAMDINO clubhouse.

It was an unusually cold morning, not that that matter once you hopped on your bike. When riding with the wind blowing your face, muting your hearing and dulling your other senses it's easy to forget about the turmoil within. To ignore your problems and become one with the road, as once you reach a certain speed, you stop noticing everything and just feel the ride. You meld into the road, and all other life disappears. To feel the air stroking your entire being, almost stroking the darkness from your soul and you achieve a feeling of true contentment. An unparalleled bliss. You feel truly at one with the bike, your heart beats to the purr of the engine and you achieve the feeling of complete and utter peace. The two riders experienced the same feelings and release, although neither was aware of the other, nor that the space that separated them was due to dwindle to a fated collision. A mess was soon to be created and blood was sure to be spilled.