STOCKTON

A series of oneshots chronicling the 14 months SAMCRO spent in Stockton Prison.

Chapter 1: A Russian Strike.

It was Tig who found him. He'd been MIA for roughly twenty minutes and the guys had started to get worried, so they'd split up, searching what they could in attempt to track him down. After talking to several inmates, Tig had managed to figure out where he'd been seen last – lining up for the payphones. So Tig decided to head there first.

The first thing he noticed was the smell. A strong coppery-odour (1) assaulted his nose as he turned the corner. It seeped from the walls, drenching the hall.

Blood.

Through the overwhelming scent of blood, Tig came to notice a new sound. Shallow, wet, gasping breaths penetrated the otherwise silent air. Nothing good ever came from sounds like that and Tig immediately went on alert.

He strode down the hallway, eyes widening as he saw a slumped figure lying on the ground, dark red – almost black – blood pooling in a distorted halo-type shape around him.

It wasn't until Tig was closer that he recognised the figure. Even though his trademark clothes had been swapped for standard-issue prison garb, the figure was easily recognisable as Jackson 'Jax' Teller. Even with his white tennis shoes, baggy jeans and kutte gone, the Californian blond hair (now cut short) was visible beneath the black beanie that had half-slipped off his head.

"JAX!"

Tig raced the rest of the way and skid to a halt beside Jax, almost sliding past him as his shoes hit the growing puddle of blood.

"Oh shit... oh fuck... fuck... Jax!" he mumbled while he pulled Jax's blue overshirt out of the way and stared in horror at the amount of blood soaking the white shirt he was wearing underneath. Glancing up at his VP's face, Tig was not reassured. His face was pale, almost translucent in colour and his features were twisted in pain. However, Jax's vibrant blue eyes were open and apart from a slight glaze, seemed to be exceedingly alert.

"Jax? Hey you still with me, man?" Tig asked, leaning forward so he could hear Jax's response as his lips began to move. However, all Jax managed to do was utter a low croak so he nodded weakly instead, sucking in a desperate breath as he did.

"You stay with me, you here me? You stay with me Jax. No clocking out on me just yet, alright?" When Jax nodded again, Tig allowed himself to half smile. "Good."

Once he'd established that Jax was in fact still responsive, Tig ripped off his own blue prison shirt and balled it up before gently pushing Jax's hands away from where the knife wounds obviously were. He pushed up the blood-soaked shirt, wincing as he caught sight of the three lacerations on his upper abdomen. Probing one lightly, Tig frowned as Jax jerked away from the touch. The wounds were deep and were bleeding profusely and the Sergeant-At-Arms wasn't thrilled with Jax's breathing. He really hoped a lung hadn't been hit.

Tig placed the fabric over the wounds, preparing himself. "This is gonna hurt, Jax. Sorry man." And he pressed down, hard.

Jax let out a strangled yelp of pain, jerking away from the agony racing through his body. The only thing that was keeping him from screaming was his pride.

Tig continued to put pressure on the wounds, turning his head after a few seconds and yelling down the hall.

"Hey! I need some help down here! HELP!"

His voice echoed through the space and Tig desperately hoped that someone heard his calls. It didn't look like Jax was going to last much longer by the amount of blood still soaking his clothes.

Moving quickly, Tig released the pressure on the wadded up shirt and moved around Jax so that he was sitting with his VP's head in his lap, back pressed up against the concrete wall. Jax's blonde hair was streaked with red, the blood from his upper abdomen having spread far enough to coat the strands dark.

With Jax firmly in his grasp, Tig reached over and once again pressed against the knife wounds. The blonde biker moaned weakly, his glazed blue eyes roaming unseeingly through heavy lids.

Seconds later, Jax shuddered before his eyes rolled back in his head and he went completely still.

"Shit! Jax!" Tig hissed, watching horrified as Jax's head rolled limply to the right. "HELP! Hey, I need help down here! Inmate down! Inmate down!"

Several frightening minutes – it was really only seconds, but it felt so much longer – four prison guards and a medic rushed around the corner, stopping short at the sight before them. No one made an effort to move, their mouths having dropped open stupidly in shock.

"Well don't just fucking stand there!" Tig growled. "Help him! He's gonna die if you don't do anything!"

That seemed to spur them into action and the hall erupted in a flurry of activity. The medic approached and kneeled beside Tig and Jax, lifting up the bloody shirt to get a look at the damage.

"How long has he been unconscious?"

The Sergeant-At-Arms blinked at the question, his mind having gone into a sort of state of shock. "What?"

"Mr. Teller," the medic said, exasperation heavy in his words. "How long has he been unresponsive?"

Tig looked down at Jax's rapidly paling face, alarmed to see that the normally rather pink lips (for a guy anyway) were starting to turn a disturbing shade of blue. "Uh, only a few minutes. He was awake when I found him and responded to pain. His breathing has been getting worse though." And it was. Jax now sounded like a land-stranded fish, gasping desperately for air (or in the fish's case – water) that would never come.

One of the guards must have called for backup as another two medics came racing around the corner, a gurney and several medical bags piled on top. They made quick work of getting Jax strapped in, with only maybe a minute passing before he was secure, an oxygen mask in place over his mouth and nose, a clear IV in the back of his left hand and another in the crook of his elbow, pumping much-needed blood into his veins. (2)

Tig was just starting to push himself off the ground when Jax arched off the gurney, face twisted in silent agony. His vibrant blue eyes were milky and the pupils blown wide, darting around in his skull like a madman. From this angle, Tig could see a splatter of bright red blood hit the inside of the oxygen mask as Jax began to cough.

"Shit!" the first medic swore. As another medic lifted the oxygen mask, he leant over Jax's torso and pressed his ear close to the wounds, listening for a few beats before straightening up. "I've got a small amount of air escaping from his left lung. The shiv must have nicked the wall. There's definitely internal bleeding as well, based on that blood he's coughing up." The medic turned to one of the guards. "What's the ETA on that chopper?"

The guard looked at his watch. "Should be here now."

Nodding, the medic turned back to his patient. "Let's get him outta here!" Tig watched, helpless, as they wheeled Jax down the hall at a run, shouting off stats and other medical jargon.

Once they were gone, Tig found himself standing in the hall, two guards reaching for him as he stared at the drying pool of his friend's blood on the ground.

They were only on day 26 of a minimum 14 month stay and already Jax had been attacked and could very easily die. How the hell were they gonna last another 13 (if not more) months?

"Trager, come on. Let's go."

Tig blinked, letting his gaze wander upwards. "Huh?"

"Let's go Trager. Let's get you cleaned up and back your biker buddies – let them know what's going on."

It was then that Alex 'Tig' Trager noticed his hands, shirt, pants and shoes were drenched in blood; Jax's blood; his friend's blood.

"Uh, yeah, okay." As he let himself be led away, Tig vowed that he would find out who did this to Jax and he would make them pay. The club would make them pay.

(1) I'm from New Zealand, and we spell things a little differently from the US, so if you find words with an extra 'u' like 'colour' instead of 'color' that's why. Sorry if this annoys anyone. I will also try to use American sayings like 'gas' instead of 'petrol' but I'm pretty sure some New Zealand slang will slip through.

(2) I have taken dramatic creative licence with what the procedures prisons would have in cases like this, and what medical supplies they would have on hand for immediate use. Sorry if I've got anything wrong (which is very highly likely).

END NOTES: Okay, so after watching those snippets of what life was like inside Stockton for the crew and searching for fics about their time inside, I realised there weren't nearly enough around. While this won't essentially be a multi-chapter fic, it will be a series of connected oneshots about those 14 months. It will mainly focus on those inside Stockton, but I think I will occasionally throw in those on the outside too (Opie, Chibs, Gemma, Tara and the boys etc). If there's anything you would like to see written, please let me know!

Sorry for the insanely long AN. This will be the only one. Thanks for reading!