Boots quit a week after they took down Markoski's truck. Tig wasn't entirely surprised: the percentage of Prospects who eventually gained their top rockers was always very low. But Boots had eight months under his belt, and it was unusual to lose a prospect after they'd stuck it out that long. Sure, sometimes the vote went the other way, if one or more of the patched members weren't convinced a guy could really hack it in spite of the twelve month trial. Sometimes, the Prospect period was extended. Most times, though, if a man held out the first six months, he'd hold out till the end.

Boots was one of the exceptions to the rule. He came in a few minutes before Friday's regular church, stammering something about having found a different purpose in life, before shrugging out of his cut, tossing it on the redwood table, and practically running from the club house, never to be seen again.

Clay cursed when Bobby told him the news toward the end of church, grumbling about Boots' lack of backbone and the club needing manpower—until Piney reminded him it was better to lose the guy now than after they patched him in. Grudgingly, Clay accepted the point and asked the table for suggestions: who else was ready to be brought up? The pickings were slim, and the discussion went round in circles for a long time, while the chapel grew thick with cigarette smoke. At last, exasperated, Clay shelved the subject.

"Anything else?" He was lifting the gavel, ready to close the meeting.

"Yeah." Tig sat up straighter. Clay sighed, placing the gavel back on the table. Tig pretended not to notice Clay's impatience. The president knew well enough what this was about; he just didn't like it much. But he'd also promised he wouldn't keep Tig from bringing it up.

Tig had talked to Clay in private earlier in the day, seeking him out while Clay was enjoying a morning coffee and a cigar at a table in the clubhouse. If he could get the president on board, there was a better chance the rest of the club would agree to letting Kozik hack it out with Mouse in the ring, despite their difference in status.

"You're talkin' about a patched member and a Prospect," Clay had pointed out, after Tig laid out his plan.

"I know." Tig's answer was curt; he wasn't a fool. "Special case."

Clay raised an eyebrow. "How you figure that?"

"Mouse accused the Prospects falsely. Tryin' to hide his own mistake."

"Turned out it wasn't a mistake." Clay drank from his coffee, looking at Tig over the rim of the mug.

"True." Taking heart that Clay hadn't outright refused him, Tig pulled up a chair, pivoted it on one leg, and sat down, resting his forearms on the chair back. "Mouse didn't know that, though. Neither did the rest of us." He cocked his head, tapping one finger against his temple. "We never would've, if Kozik hadn't been so sharp. C'mon, Clay. If it had been brother to brother, we'da had pistols at dawn. Gotta give those guys something." At the time, he hadn't known Boots was about to throw in the towel. Not that it would have mattered: this was about Kozik.

Clay snorted a rueful laugh, slapping a palm on the table. "When did you become a Prospects' advocate?"

Tig grinned smugly. "Since I figured out right from wrong."

Clay had heaved an exaggerated breath. "Alright." Scrubbing a hand across his face, he'd grimaced. "You can bring it to the table. Leave it to a vote."

Which was all Tig had wanted.

And now the time was here. He looked around the table. "Last week. Mouse said something."

Mouse fidgeted in his chair, managing to look clueless and guilty at the same time. Tig fixed him with a look while he put forward his arguments, same way he'd done with Clay.

"Jesus, I don't believe this!" Mouse spat, even before Tig had finished speaking. He jumped up from his chair. "I put up with you and your abuse for a year, and now you want to let that...that—." He was spluttering with fury.

"That—what?" Tig asked, rubbing his jaw. "Guy who saved your bacon? After you falsely called him a rat?"

Mouse spluttered some more, but he had no real arguments. In the end, it came down to a narrow vote: five to three in favor, the smallest majority possible.

"We'll do it Sunday, late." Clay brought the gavel down, confirming the decision. He aimed the gavel in Tig's direction. "And no audience. This is purely a club matter."

"Sure thing, boss." Tig lowered his head to hide his grin. Mouse was so doomed.

o0o

Sunday night arrived cold and overcast. The hangarounds and club girls had been chased away, leaving only the patched members gathered around the boxing ring outside the club house. A thin fog was swirling around the floodlights; their buzzing glare blinded Kozik as he blinked sweat out of his eyes

Even with blood trickling from above his right eye, where Mouse had landed a lucky shot, he still couldn't quite believe Tig had gotten the club to sign off on this. Yet here he was, bare-chested, hands taped, and with Mouse's thin frame clinging limply to him as Mouse vainly struggled to keep his feet.

But if anyone had expected Kozik to have an easy time beating Mouse to a pulp, they'd quickly learned they were wrong. Mouse's smaller size made him light on his feet, and sheer desperation made him reckless, which was hard to guard against. He'd broken through Kozik's defenses a couple times, resulting not only in the cut to Kozik's eyebrow but also an aching jaw. Tig sure had known what he was doing, pitching them against each other like this.

In the end, however, Kozik's experience, recent training with Chibs, and determination had won out over panicked rashness, and Mouse was finally out on his feet.

"Enough. Break it up." Clay's voice forced its way through the pounding blood and the shouted encouragements filling Kozik's ears, and Chibs and Happy disentangled Mouse from Kozik and lugged him out of the ring. While they carried him toward the club house, Chibs hollered ahead, telling Bobby to get some ice.

Clay was studying Kozik from where he stood, near a corner of the ring with his arms crossed on his chest. His face gave Kozik no clue what he was thinking. Was he mad Kozik had beaten Mouse?

"Clean yourself up." Tig tossed Kozik a towel, before climbing into the ring. Without another word, he started unwrapping the tape protecting Kozik's knuckles. His mouth quirked as though he were fighting a grin.

"Thanks." Kozik wiped his face with the towel, glancing at the bloody streak he'd left on the material before draping it over his shoulders. With the excitement over, the October evening air was chilly on his sweating skin.

"Don't mention it." Tig shrugged. "Fair warning: don't let this go to your head. This was a one time only performance. For the next seven months, you're nothing but a shitty Prospect."

"I know." Kozik flexed his hands, testing his fingers. They were throbbing, but he reckoned Mouse's face was hurting a lot more.

The soft rumble of a car broke the quiet that had fallen over the lot now the fight was over. A Charming PD squad car rolled up and pulled in across from the club house. The hunched figure of Unser behind the wheel was visible in the floodlights.

"Alright. All done." With a slap to Kozik's shoulder, Tig yanked the last of the tape loose and crumpled it together. "Now get lost." He dropped from the ring, lobbed the ball of tape overhand into a trash can and took up station behind Clay.

"Wayne. What brings you out here, this time of night?" Clay asked as Unser ambled toward them.

"Gemma said you were still here." Unser scrubbed a hand across his balding head. He looked tired. "Wanted to give you the latest in person."

Kozik had climbed from the ring and was yanking a T-shirt he'd left on a nearby chair over his head. The movement caught Unser's attention. "What happened to him?"

"Ain't your concern, chief," Clay answered easily. "Unless you think to tell us how to handle our business now?"

"Uh..." Unser blinked. "No... No, I mean—."

Kozik grabbed his cut and, shrugging into it as he walked, quickly headed to the club house door. As a Prospect, he wouldn't be welcome to join the conversation, never mind becoming the subject.

"Anyway, came to tell you about Markoski."

Despite Tig's order to get lost and Kozik's own awareness he should skedaddle soon as he could, Unser's words stopped Kozik dead in his tracks.

"Had his business worked over by INS. Turns out a bunch of his drivers were illegals. Fake greencards, invalid licenses, the works." Unser pulled back his lips in a humorless smirk. "He's outta business. Thought you might like to know."

"What happened to those chicks?" The question escaped Kozik before he could catch himself.

Tig scowled at him, but Unser simply tugged at his ear. "From what I hear, they got put on a plane back home. Should be back with their families by now."

Kozik nodded, unable to keep his mouth from curving into a grim smile.

That seemed to be all Unser had to say for now. Promising Clay he'd forward any further information about Markoski, he left. Kozik doubted there would be anything else; the club had as good as put Markoski out of business and if the man was half-smart, he wouldn't try to set up shop near Charming ever again.

"Happy endings all around. Just the way I like it." Clay juggled his bike keys. "It's been a fun night." His tone was filled with irony. He caught Kozik's gaze. "And I expect you bright and early tomorrow morning." When Kozik nodded, Clay shifted his attention to Tig. "I'mma head home, see to the missus. I trust you'll look after things here."

"Absolutely, boss." Tig raised a sloppy salute. Even as Clay slogged off toward his bike, Tig swung round on Kozik, his blue eyes hard. "Don't do that again. When I tell you to get lost—."

Kozik held up his hands. "I know. Sorry."

"Goddammit." Tig's tone shifted to something more sympathetic. "Those bitches really got to you, didn't they?"

Kozik let his arms fall to his side. "Just ain't right, what that asshole tried to do."

"Christ, you're a soft-hearted puss, you know that?" Tig thumped Kozik's arm.

Kozik shrugged. He wasn't ashamed to admit he was happy to know those girls were safe, or that Markoski and his cronies wouldn't be luring any more innocent women into whoring with false promises.

"Christ, bro. What am I gonna do with you?" Tig shook his head and, clearly not expecting an answer, made a beeline for the club house.

Kozik followed. He tossed the bloodied towel into the basket behind the bar that held dirty dish towels. On the other side of the room, Chibs was finishing patching up Mouse, applying butterfly bandages while Mouse pressed an ice pack to his eye. Without needing to be told, Kozik started setting the room to rights: collecting the empty beer bottles and dirty glasses, emptying overflowing ash trays, straightening chairs. Taking care of the club house was a Prospect's job. Some nights, he successfully pawned off the clean-up to a couple of the croweaters. Tonight, he was the only drudge left, and he'd already overstepped the mark once. Best not do it again.

Gradually, the rest of the guys left for home or withdrew to the back room for a few hours of shuteye until, at last, Kozik was alone. Leaning on his broom, he paused in sweeping the floor to study the wall proudly showing off a collection of mug shots. He'd never even met half the guys in these pictures, yet they were all familiar to him.

He laughed quietly. His life had certainly taken an odd turn. When he'd processed out of the Marines, he'd thought he knew what the rest of his life would be like. Get Jenn to marry him, maybe produce a couple rugrats to raise...

Yeah, he sure had got that wrong. Shaking his head at himself, he abandoned the mug shots and finished sweeping. He put the broom in the cupboard and gathered up Miracle's keys from behind the bar. In the doorway, he turned, surveying the room a final time to make sure he hadn't missed anything. If he had, there'd be hell to pay come morning. Satisfied nobody would find fault with his work, he switched off the lights and closed the door.

Samcro might be an strange kind of family, and not what he'd imagined or dreamed of during his tours in those faraway hot, dusty shitholes. But they were his family now. And he'd do whatever it took to keep them.

Seven more months for his patch vote to come up...

Piece of cake.

Disclaimer: this story is a transformative work based on the Fox 21/FX Productions/Linson Entertainment/Sutter Ink television series Sons of Anarchy. It was written for entertainment only; the author does not profit from it. Please do not redistribute elsewhere without author attribution.