Nic a' Préachán
A/N: Though specifically crafted based on careful observation of certain characters, this is technically an Alternate Universe story since I doubt this storyline will ever appear on the show (which I don't own in any way, shape or form). For the sake of ease, I've given names to the unknown Tacoma charter members. If we ever learn any of their actual names on the show, I'd be more than happy to revise this accordingly.
For the fraternity mentioned in this, I used a combination of letters that is not known to exist. It is not used as a statement about fraternities in general (I have several friends who belong to various fraternities), but simply as a way of identifying one of the characters.
Also, any MCs referenced either exist only on the show (designed specifically by Kurt Sutter so as not to offend existing MCs) or are based on MCs I have had contact with but have changed the names of out of respect for the clubs and their members.
--Chapter 1--
Her shaking fingers groped for the button on her pocket as she stumbled through the yard. The toe of her boot dipped into a hole, pitching her forward. She whimpered as she hit the ground but desperately tried to keep quiet. Frantically, she pulled the phone from the pocket of her skirt and lifted it to her face. Her vision was blurring; she didn't have much time. Finally, her clumsy left thumb managed to open a text message and type, "Sos pmd." She gritted her teeth against the pain and pushed the green "send" button, and then everything went black.
She stood looking at her new room, already seeing the potential. She had four years from this moment, less if she could manage. She'd be getting a degree in Psychology. Technically it was something she could get at a school closer to home, but she thought she'd like a change of scenery. As she looked at all the boxes, she sighed. "Maybe this was a bad idea."
"Maybe what was a bad idea?"
She turned around to find a young blond woman. "Leavin' home."
"Oh, everybody says that," the girl laughed. "You're not gonna be one of those spoiled roommates who's homesick every night and doesn't know how to do her own laundry are you?"
"Homesick, maybe," she admitted. "But I've been doing my own laundry since I was eight."
The blond girl set down the box in her arms and held out her hand. "I'm Kara."
"They call me Spitfire," she replied, shaking the other girl's hand.
As he bent over the pool table and lined up his shot, Happy's pocket started vibrating. He dropped his head and sighed, "Dammit." He stood up and pulled the infernal contraption from his jeans to find that he had one new message. "This had better be good, Spitfire; you know we're getting ready for church." He flipped open the phone and accepted the message. "What the hell?"
"What's up?" EC asked.
"Something's wrong with her, but I don't understand."
"What's it say?"
"Sos pmd . . . Anybody got any ideas?"
"Pre Menstrual Disorder?" came the reply from the prospect. Everyone within earshot turned to look at him like he was insane. "Or not." The group returned to thinking, and a few seconds later another thought occurred to Crash. "Hey, what about Pi Mu Delta?" he offered, more cautiously.
"What?" Happy had no idea what Crash was talking about.
"Pi Mu Delta . . . it's a fraternity near campus."
"Spitfire doesn't go to frat parties," EC clarified.
"But what if she did?"
"You know the way?" Happy asked, willing to accept any kind of explanation of where the girl might be.
"Yeah."
"Then let's go, Brother."
In simple jeans and a T-shirt, she maneuvered around the floor, passing beers to the men in Reaper cuts. Her red hair hung loose, covering half of her face every time she turned her head. Most of the women in the room gave her odd looks, wondering why she wasn't dressed as scantily as they, wondering what she was even doing there. The Tacoma chapter of the Sons of Anarchy had invited their neighbors, the Crooked Spokes, over for a party. Plenty of the men who weren't used to seeing her eyed her as she went past, but none made a pass at her. They, too, were at a loss as to her position here. Without hesitating, she carried a cold, brown bottle over to Happy and exchanged it for his empty one. "You're 'mazin', Spitfire," he slurred, kissing the top of her head.
"Yeah, yeah," she replied with a smile before weaving her way back toward the bar. It was hard work being the sober one at these parties.
The two men sped through the night, not in the least concerned with getting pulled over. When they reached the house, Happy threw his kickstand down and jumped off, making a pissed off bee-line for the door. He pushed it open and bellowed, "Spitfire?!" The drunken college students were stunned at first, then laughed, thinking he was an idiot. Pushing past the bubbly, inebriated youths, he made his way through the house, but she was nowhere to be found. Eventually he walked up to a game of beer pong and swept his hand across it, knocking over the rack of cups sitting on the edge of the table.
"Aw, Dude, what the hell?" one of the players objected.
"Now that I have your attention, I'm looking for a girl--5 foot two, buck-forty, red hair. Who's seen her?" The anger in his voice warned not to mess with him. "Come on, guys, attitude like a cat in a sprinkler . . . Where is she?!"
After a long pause, during which the sloshed hamsters of their brains tried running sideways in their wheels, one girl slurred, "You mean that girl in the back yard?" Then she laughed. "She's so wasted." His goal in mind, Happy headed out the door and around the house. He found a form wearing tall brown motorcycle boots, a camouflage skirt, and a brown t-shirt passed out in the grass. Her cell phone was still open in her left hand.
"Oh, Spitfire," he sighed as he moved to flip her over. Kneeling on the ground, his eyes caught a red stain on her phone that seemed to come from her hand. Gently, he rolled her onto her back. "Shit." The front of her was nearly covered in blood, oozing from a cut on her face as well as several others on her arms and torso. Lightly tapping her other cheek he called, "Hey, Spitfire. Come on, Baby, let's go; wake up. Come on, I need you to look at me, let's go." He shook her a little to emphasize his point. "Sorcha!" Her eyes opened, and she sucked in a breath that made her cough. But at least she was alive. Her hand grabbed his shirt trying to hold onto anything solid. She cried out in pain through clenched teeth. "I know, Baby, I know." He pulled her to his chest and slid an arm underneath her legs. With a little difficulty, he managed to get to his feet. It wasn't that she was the heaviest person he'd ever carried by any means, but she was wet from the blood, and the grass was wet under his feet, which made for less than ideal circumstances to have to lift her from that awkward squatting position.
What was even more awkward was trying to hold her on the bike. She couldn't just ride pillion like she usually did because he couldn't count on her to have the strength to hold onto him, couldn't guarantee she wouldn't fly off around a corner. So he sat her on the gas tank and cradled her between his arms while he operated the handle bars. It wasn't the best of situations, but it worked.
He stood looking over Gemma's shoulder at the wiggly bundle in her arms. Abel was a fighter, to be sure. He smiled, his memory straying to years ago as he looked down on another baby: a brand new little girl with her mother's hair and his big mouth. That was before he'd received the scars on his face, before he'd had to bury his wife, before he learned what it was like to raise a redheaded teenage girl who also shared his temper.
"Okay," Clay sighed. "I'll look into it, but we're gonna need some info on these guys. I'm not going into this blind."
"I can have background checks done by Monday," Juice offered.
"Good." Shifting in his seat, Clay sat forward, leaning his arms on the large wooden table. This week Jury from the Indian Hills charter was joining the usual group of Clay, Jax, Bobby, Juice, Piney, Opie, Chibs and Tig for church. They were almost finished with the usual meeting when someone's phone started singing from the cigar box on the table outside the doorway. Everyone froze; phones weren't allowed at church. Eyes darted around the table, and heads moved, nervously seeking the culprit. All except Chibs, who went white. "That yours?" Clay asked, gritting his teeth.
"Clay, that's Sorcha's ring," he explained, looking at the older man nervously.
Clay's eyes narrowed. "She should know better."
"She does." Sensing the anxiety in Chibs's voice, Clay nodded his head in the direction of the noise.
"Okay, pick it up." Chibs jumped from his seat and grabbed the phone, flipping it open.
"Yeah?"
"Chibs?" a scratchy male voice asked.
"Who the hell es thes?"
"Chibs, it's Happy. I'm at Tacoma General; I just brought Spitfire into the emergency room. They say she'll be okay, but I think you should get up here as soon as you can."
"Are ya callin' from her phone?" Chibs asked, his mind whirling.
"Yeah. I figured you'd pick up if I did."
"Ya said Tacoma General?"
"Yeah."
"Alright, I'll be there as soon 's I can." He clapped the phone shut and headed back into the chapel. The whole table looked expectantly up at him. "Sorcha's in the emergency room."
"Jesus," Jax exclaimed. "What the hell happened?"
"Don't know," Chibs shrugged.
"Take whoever you want," Clay offered. "We can manage to spare a couple of guys for her." Chibs nodded his thanks and then looked back and forth between the two legacies.
"Jackie-boy, Ope, wha' d'ya say? Ya wanna come weth me ta get yer sester?"
An unspoken sentiment passed through the club as they voted on what to do about the rape of young Tristan Oswald. Chibs closed his eyes, not believing what he was hearing Tig say. "We got a 200k deficit hanging over our heads; do we really, really want to be out there playing some pro-bono lone ranger?"
None of them could believe it. They knew Tig had a history of sexual assault, but Chibs thought Tig would at least have a soft spot for a young girl from Charming, a girl from their own town, one of their own, especially after what had happened all those years ago. Sorcha had been about the same age as Tristan. He leaned over and made sure Tig heard him say, "I'm in."
Happy hung up the phone, stuck it back in his pocket, and headed into the building. After a short walk through a bustling maze of scrubs and gurneys and an elevator ride up two floors, he walked down a very straight hall, opened a door and resumed his seat next to Sorcha's bed. The normally spirited redhead now lay eerily calm. She was breathing on her own, but she'd lost a lot of blood. An IV pumped saline into her arm, keeping her hydrated. For now, they were seeing if her body would start healing itself; if her red cell count didn't increase by morning, they'd give her a transfusion. He looked up at the clock on the wall, slid a hand over his head feeling the stubble on his scalp, and blew a sigh. Frowning briefly at the blood on his white t-shirt, he turned his attention back to the girl. It had been almost three years since she'd moved up here to attend the University of Washington at Tacoma; three years since she'd been entrusted to the Tacoma charter of the Sons of Anarchy. Though the entire group up here saw her as a little sister--and were instructed to drop everything at a moment's notice should she call--she greatly favored Happy and East Coast. Maybe it was because they were the two she'd been most familiar with when she'd moved up here; they were always on runs down to Charming. But to say that the reason was because Happy and EC had simply stepped up, made an effort to help her get acclimated to the location change, was probably closer to the truth. She hadn't latched on to them; they'd latched on to her. When Happy's mother had finally died, and he'd come back to Tacoma from his "Nomad" status, he basically hadn't let her out of his sight. In fact, he'd just started allowing her to do things outside of class and the club. He only blamed himself for not being there to protect her. He wasn't aware of when he closed his eyes.
Sunlight streamed in through the horizontal blinds on the window. They'd been here all night; he'd been here all night. Sorcha painfully pushed herself to a sitting position and laid a hand on his arm. "Hap," she croaked. "Happy."
He jolted awake and sucked in a deep breath. "You alright, Spitfire?" he asked, sitting up and wiping the sleep from his face.
"Yeah." Her eyes said otherwise, but Happy knew better than to contradict her. If she said she was okay, then--regardless of how she felt at the moment--she would be.
"I called Chibs last night," he said, glancing at the clock. "He should be here any time now." She nodded her understanding. "D'you remember what happened?" She bit her bottom lip and shook her head, avoiding his eyes. It obviously bothered her. Happy got up from the chair and sat down on the bed, wrapping an arm around her. "It's okay, Baby Girl." He looked through the window of the room and saw three leather-clad men approaching the door. "Hey," he whispered. "They're here." He kissed the top of her head, and moved to the door, catching Chibs, Jax and Opie before they entered. He closed the door behind him; he wanted to talk to the men privately for a second. "She doesn't remember what happened," he addressed Chibs. "Which is probably a good thing 'cause the rape test came back positive." Chibs closed his eyes and set his jaw. Not again. "I also wanted to warn you," Happy continued. "She didn't just let it happen; whoever it was got a few good swipes with a shiv."
"How bad?" Chibs asked.
"She was passed out from blood loss when I found her."
"Son of a bitch," breathed Jax. Opie just shook his head, at a loss for words. Chibs heaved a sigh and nodded; he was ready, and she needed him.
Tears finally ran from her eyes as Chibs entered, his face full of sympathy and guilt. He made a bee-line for her, wrapping her in his arms and holding her close. After a few minutes, she'd calmed down a little, and he pulled back and placed a finger under her chin, turning her head to get a better look at the row of stitches on her cheek. He winced, remembering how much his own scars had hurt . . . and how little he'd been paying attention to his own pain the night he'd received them. Then he gently tucked her hair back behind her ear and wiped the tears from her cheek with his thumb. "Tak m' hame, Da?" she whispered painfully. "I dinnae wantae stay here." Her eyes begged him with everything she had in her. He nodded meaningfully and pressed his lips against her forehead. He wiped away one more tear, then stood and headed toward the door. He would get her home tonight even if he had to pay for an ambulance to take her.
Jax and Opie glanced at each other as Chibs passed between them without a word. After a silent moment of deciding who would be first, Jax stepped forward. Sorcha was taking deep breaths and using her free hand to gently wipe her cheeks dry as he approached cautiously and sat down on the side of the bed. Nearly a decade ago, he'd seen her sitting in a bed like this, eyes bloodshot and puffy from crying, looking to her father and brothers for comfort and support. He laid a reassuring hand on her knee and glanced down at the needle in her skin connecting the tube of clear liquid to the crook of her elbow. Just below it on her inside of her forearm was a slightly modified version of the tattoo that all Samcro women were allowed to carry. It was the same crow-and-heart, but unlike the others, below the bird read "Nic a' Préachán" in an ornate script . . . "Daughter of the Crow." She was the first to bear this title because she was also the first woman to be almost entirely raised by the club.
He'd been the age she was now the last time. God, that was hard to say: the last time. They'd all thought the last time would be the only time she'd ever know this kind of pain. How could this have happened again? Opie entered behind Jax and took a seat in the chair next to the bed.
"How ya feelin', Kid?" It was all Jax could do to keep his voice from cracking.
"Like I been het by a bus," she snuffled back through a nervous laugh. She took a deep breath and turned to the bear in the seat next to her. "Ope, I'm so sorry I couldn't make it back fer Donna's funeral."
"Hey, don't even worry about that right now."
"I jus' dinnae wan' you ta be angry weth me." Tears started escaping her eyes again, pulling at the portion of his heart that belonged to her.
"I'm here, aren't I?" he asked with a sympathetic chuckle. He stood and leaned over, enveloping her in an embrace, and she clung to him with her free arm, thoroughly soaking the shoulder of his thermal shirt.
The door opened, and Chibs, Happy and a nurse stepped through. "She's gonna un-hook ya, Love." The nurse gave Chibs a look that screamed of her tentativeness, but she made her way to Sorcha's bedside nonetheless. Flipping a white ring on the end of the hanging bag, she stopped the saline drip. Then she gently pulled at the tape that kept the needle in Sorcha's arm. The needle slid out easily, pulling a few drops of blood to the surface with it. The nurse quickly pressed a square of gauze to the spot and secured it with a strip of cloth tape.
"Alright," she sighed. "But I don't like the fact that they're moving you this soon, and I really think you should talk to someone about what happened."
Sorcha wasn't in the mood to deal with this. "Look, Mess, I appreciate that yer tryin' ta help me, but I don't wanna talk about it; I jus' wanna go home."
As she was leaving, another man slipped in through the door. EC had brought with him a backpack full of clothes that Sorcha had kept in Happy's room at the clubhouse. All four men walked slowly to accommodate Sorcha's soreness. She leaned heavily on her father, eternally grateful for the sneakers EC had included with the jeans, t-shirt, and leather jacket. This ride would probably be pretty painful, but she didn't care; she just wanted to go home.
She waited for Chibs to kick-start the bike before climbing on behind him. He handed her her helmet from his handlebars, and she pulled the strap tight against her chin. She pulled her sunglasses from the pocket of her jacket and slid them onto her ears before pulling up the zipper. Then she scooted forward and wrapped her arms around her father's waist. The tension in her muscles eased with the comforting vibration and familiar sound. Though she was thankful that he'd attached his sissy bar so she could sit back, right now she just wanted to feel his solidity. She leaned her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes as the four bikes pulled away.
Sorcha sat up in the hospital bed looking out the window, her face raw from the lines of tears. The door opened, and Tig walked through, quietly shutting it behind him. The chain on his wallet jingled softly as he made his way over to her bed and sat down. "How ya feelin', Kiddo?"
"Ya have sexual assault charges on yer record?"
Tig swallowed hard. He was afraid she might ask him about it, but he wasn't going to lie to her. "Yeah."
Her head jerked to face him, eyes spewing blue flames at his body. "You ded thes ta someone else," she accused.
"Not like this, Spitfire." His gaze radiated sympathy; the woman who'd pressed charges against him had been just that a woman. Sorcha was still a girl, and whoever had done this would pay.
But it didn't matter. She'd been hurt, violated, and she wasn't seeing the difference in the situations. She turned her face back to the window and whispered, "Get out."
Sorcha's insides leaped as they pulled into the parking lot of the clubhouse. It had been a long ride. It had also been nearly a year since she'd last been here, and she was more than homesick. She'd been taking summer classes over the past two years so that she could finish as soon as possible. She'd never really wanted to leave Charming. After the incident eight years ago--and the resulting carnage--she didn't think any of the Mayans would be stupid enough to mess with her again. They understood the rules of gang life. Unfortunately, the same wasn't true for frat boys.
She lifted the helmet from her head and handed it back to her father. In the failing light, she could see some of the remaining members of the Sons of Anarchy coming out to meet them. Her uncles Clay and Bobby lengthened their steps to get to her, while Tig hung back. He'd always taken care of her the way the club expected him to, but there was also a slight tension between them. He'd been the one who taught her how to weld and how to pull apart an engine and put it back together. But eight years ago, she'd started looking at him differently. He had a history of criminal sexual conduct, including sexual assault. Eight years ago she'd finally understood what that meant, and she hadn't been able to look at or speak to him for almost a month. Now they respected each other, but rarely talked unless the situation required it.
She slid down to the ground and immediately grabbed for the bike. Her knees didn't want to hold her weight. After a few seconds of steadying herself, she turned to accept hugs from the two older men. Bobby dropped a kiss on her left cheek and whispered, "If there's anything you need, just let us know, Sweetheart." She nodded as he took a step back, giving her room to breathe. Her eyes drifted up, catching a glimpse of Tig, and her whole body flinched. She dropped her gaze to the pavement and then closed her eyes, swallowing the urge to cry again. Bobby and Clay exchanged a glance before looking to Chibs. He met both their stares and simply nodded, silently telling them that she had indeed been raped again. He reached for his daughter's hand and gently began guiding her toward the clubhouse. They would stay here for a while. He no longer had his own place because there'd been no need for it while Sorcha was at school year-round. Opie and Jax followed behind them, enclosing her in a ring of security. But before she could make it to the door, her legs gave out. Reflexively, Opie's hands shot out and caught her shoulders. He glanced at Chibs, who let go of her hand, and then Opie swung her up into his arms effortlessly.
They went through the door single file, Opie sidling through so as not to smack Sorcha's head into the doorjamb. Juice sprang to his feet, immediately dropping what he was doing at the computer to greet the returning group. "Is she okay?" he asked nervously.
"She will be," Clay shot back at him.
Jax tapped Opie on the shoulder. "She can sleep in my room tonight," he offered, leading the way down the hall and in through his door. He cleared the various items from the bed and pulled back the covers. Opie gently laid her down and unzipped her jacket, rolling her onto each side to pull her arms from the sleeves. Jax pulled the sneakers from her feet and dropped them at the foot of the bed, then pulled the covers up over her. Each man kissed her forehead and headed back out to the common room. The older men were all sitting at the bar as they entered.
"You've got to be kidding me," Bobby exclaimed. "How the fuck did that happen?"
"All Happy told me 'as that he found 'er face-down on the lawn 'a some frat house bleedin' ta death."
"And you're sure she doesn't remember anything?" Clay asked.
"Hap said no," Chibs answered. He stood up and walked behind the bar, pulling a bottle of whisky from the shelf and taking a swig.
"Well, let's all pray it stays that way. God knows she doesn't need the memory of another one." The other men nodded in agreement.
Chibs strained with all his might, trying to break the grip the other men had on him. He wasn't an easy man to hold; they needed three of them just to keep him from getting away. Sorcha on the other hand, was much smaller than he. It didn't take much at all to lift her . . . or to throw her onto the table. The brown-skinned man leaned over her, smiling down as she fought the hold he had on her wrists. "It's okay, Chica; you're gonna like what Uncle Hector's got for you." Another man approached the other side of the table, grabbing for her ankles. She kicked and flailed, but they held her fast.
"No!" Chibs screamed, his face turning purple with rage. But all he could do was watch. There were four of them that stole his daughter's innocence. By the time they were finished, she was unconscious. The last one buttoned his pants, and then they pushed Chibs flat on his back. Hector stood over him with a knife, holding his forehead down. Pain ripped through his face as the blade opened up each of his cheeks, but his mind was on his little girl. He heard the THUDs of their boots leaving the house and rolled his head to one side, catching a glimpse of his wife laying lifelessly on the floor, the phone receiver near her hand. As the world went black, there were sirens in the distance.