Edit as of Jan 2013: So, this was my first ever attempt at fanfiction, let alone Sons fic. To be totally honest, it's got some Mary-Sue elements, especially in the first few chapters. It does improve (since my own writing matured) and the OC becomes less... ugh around ch 4/5.

I'm not completely sure where I plan on going with this - as I'm more interested in other ideas - but I would like to wrap it up for those who have kindly read, reviewed, and followed this story. Cheers.

Prologue

Juice was sitting in front of his computer. Fingers tapping against the keyboard, he mouthed along absentmindedly to the rap song that played from the small speakers. High hats and cymbals kicked to scratches as Guru's voice rhymed.

I used to guzzle 40s, and own a beat up Caddy

Since the hood still love me, I'll turn the heat up daddy

I'll take a second to speak, I keep my weapon in reach

I ain't talkin' romance but you'll get swept off your feet

"Turn off the goddamn nigger music," grumbled Piney. Swinging his oxygen bag onto the bar, he fished for a bottle of Patron and took a mighty swig. Juice complied wordlessly. He was used to the old man's racist remarks; after all, he'd been on the receiving end a couple times when Piney was in a foul mood. Since coming to know Piney over the past few years, Juice considered being called "the 'Rican" a heartfelt compliment when not accompanied by swearing.

An hour later, Juice filed in with Piney and the rest of his brothers to the thick-walled room.

Church was, as far as Church went, a boring affair. Darby's Aryan contacts were still keeping an eye out for Opie in Chino. Laroy and the Niners had been pleased with their last shipment. Mayans continued to push the H trade in Oakland, but Irish guns kept them at bay, not to mention out of Charming. Despite being the Intelligence Officer, there wasn't much for Juice to offer intelligence on – for the first time in a long time SAMCRO seemed restless. Something had to go bad, soon. Paranoia is an occupational hazard, Juice supposed.

Back in front of the computer, now with beer in hand, Juice surfed absentmindedly, occasionally calling over Bobby to show him something. He swiveled around in his chair at the sound of a heavy crash by the door.

"The fuck, Prospect?" Juice couldn't hold back the smirk.

"I, uh, tripped. Hey, you seen Clay around, man?" Kip dusted off his knees, eyes scanning the room. Juice pointed towards the back hallway but grabbed Kip by the shirt when he started to walk over.

"He's with Gemma. What do you want?" asked Juice.

"I was gonna ask if I could bring somebody to train with. Out in the ring."

"Who? Davey?"

"No, no. Somebody new."

"I'm not going to give the okay if I don't know who it is." Juice crossed his arms.

"It's, uh... well, it's a chick. She boxes. Lumpy won't let her train at the gym so I kinda invited her to train here," said Kip sheepishly. Juice contemplated the brand new Prospect, who was standing there in leather so fresh it still smelt like the farm. Not that I really know what farms smell like. Juice smiled inwardly at his thoughts. He didn't take the same pleasure in torturing club hopefuls like the other Sons – probably because he was the most recent patch himself – but didn't see any harm in giving them a bit of tough love. He cut Kip a break this time.

"Whatever. Just don't bring her in the clubhouse."

"Yeah, of course," replied Kip.

"Is she hot?" asked Juice.

"My name is Wendy, and I am an addict."

"Hi, Wendy." Voices chimed in harmony, greeting her admission. Wendy vaguely felt like she was in a movie, maybe even a daytime soap opera, except this was real life. It was an unfortunate realization, but Wendy Case was a woman of unfortunate circumstances.

"Three weeks ago I gave birth to my son. He was born ten weeks premature with a hole in his stomach and a heart defect. Everyone hates me. I hate me, too." Her voice broke. She sniffled and wiped at her eyes before continuing, words spilling out rapidly. The lie had become so woven in with the truth that Wendy barely noticed it as she spoke. "I... I had a frie-... I had someone bring me crank when I was in the hospital. Asked them to smuggle it in, just enough to end everything. I was being threatened with a child abuse lawsuit; I knew I could never have Abel and I just... wanted to go away. Now I'm here." Wendy exhaled the breath she'd been holding in. "I don't want to die anymore – I want to clean up, get to know my baby boy, make something of myself. I think when I overdosed, I was being given a second chance instead. For me and my son." The last part was no lie, she meant every word.

"Thank you for sharing, Wendy. That was very brave. You're making progress by admitting and accepting your decisions instead of avoiding them. Old Wendy escaped with drugs, but new Wendy will face her problems head on." Jason, the burly Narcotics Anonymous group counselor, placed a tender hand on her knee and gave it a squeeze before turning back to the group. He wrapped up the rest of the session with encouraging words, and told Wendy he looked forward to seeing her next Tuesday night as she walked out the door. It was an intentionally binding statement.

"Got a light?"

Wendy turned to the female voice. She was young, perhaps mid-twenties, with long, dark brown hair. No knockout, but attractive, in a kind of distinct and angular way; long, thinly pointed nose, pronounced cheekbones, sharp jawline, and green eyes. Wendy fleetingly wondered if the girl was partly Asian, or maybe American-Indian, before extending her lighter.

They both puffed away, silent. Wendy broke the calm.

"Kicking this shit is going to be the hardest thing I've ever done. It'll make pregnancy look like a cake walk."

"It gets better. The first few weeks were especially bad, I remember."

"How long have you been clean?" asked Wendy.

"A little over five years."

"Congrats."

The girl shrugged. Finishing off their cigarettes, they both said goodbye and left the community center in opposite directions. Wendy realized she'd never asked her name. But maybe it was best not to get attached to people, after all.

Writer's Note: This story begins in season one, though Opie's release from jail is delayed. Kip still goes by his given name for the moment; the Half-Sack nickname will come in soon enough. The story has an intended arc that spans to present day, and explores relationships between Wendy, Juice, Half-Sack, Kozik, and other secondary characters to the alluded-to OC. I'm interested in the lives of Sons members outside of the Jax/Clay/Tara/Gemma paradigm, and how a sympathetic outside voice can bring light to their feelings while exploring her own story.

It's something I've been working on for a while, and I have approximately 35 000 written words on (digital) paper. This prologue serves as a teaser and an introduction to my writing style. I'd appreciate ANY constructive feedback on how readable and convincing any of the formatting, dialogue, flow, and canon characters are. Or general reviews!

(update: I got some different bits of feedback on the inclusion of the n-word, and although I felt horrible writing it, I stand by thinking it is a plausible statement from the evidently racist Piney. Race is going to play a part in this story; obviously for Juice, but also for the OC.)