The Reaper's Only Daughter

by L. Nevada

In accordance with her father's dying wish, Schuyler (the only female patch) returns to Edward's (original nine member) home chapter in Charming, CA. Follow Schuyler's life-long journey as she tries to honor her father's memory, forge her own path in a male dominated society, and craft extraordinary relationships just as this makeshift family slowly unravels at the seams.

8. Second Gen

Author's Notes:

Major Series Updates:
Chapters 8 and 9 (this one and the following one) are new and will be published by the end of the day 7/1/20. If chapter 9 is not yet posted by the time you finish reading 8 be sure to check back in a couple of hours. It's a chapter you will not want to miss! Notice I have also upped the anticipated number of chapters for the series! Good news all around!

All 9 chapters will be edited and up-to-date by this same deadline (7/1/20). Most corrections made in chapters involve minor grammatical and spelling corrections (thank you to those who sat through reading me spell 'passed' like 'past'; I have corrected these and will be aware of this word in the future). Minor changes have also been made to dialogue (primarily Chibs' speech has been altered to better fit his accent) and to make some of the canon character's dialogue more original to my own writing (but this change has only occurred in select scenes). And I have now capitalized all instances where the term 'Patch(es)' is used to refer to a club member to make for an easier distinction between sewn on flashes and members. Understand no plot/story ideas have been altered and all developed relationships have remained the same. You can continue reading the story from this point on without being lost.

This is yet another long, but important chapter. Many relationships are touched on and developed in new and meaningful ways. It was important for me to post these two chapters together (I am making up for missing the upload last month and highly anticipate not being able to upload for August or September due to school. School takes precedent. Thank you for understanding!). Plus I want to celebrate having two chapters complete at once! The chapters are divided in a very glaringly purposeful way. Chapter 8 is again the longest instalment to date while chapter 9 is by far the shortest. Why will become clear as you read. Chapter 9 is very much a standalone chapter and I was sure to treat it as such. And I'm not so mean as to leave you will such a major, slap in the face, cliffhanger. That honor will be left up to the wait for chapter 10!

Enough stalling. Please enjoy the next couple of chapters of TROD...

"Thanks for coming out to see him. Really means a lot that you would."

"Can't wait to see what the fuss is about."

Jackson and Schuyler are walking into St. Thomas' hospital. The clinic is two stories tall and every floor is paved in white linoleum tile. Jackson's son lives in a private room on the second floor and is among high-risk patients. The child is kept in a corridor between the cancer ward and a cramped chapel which offers one measly row of pews for its visitors to find their solace in. The entire building screams 'sterile' and stands in sharp contrast with the dirty, rugged vests on the Patches' backs.

"I want you to do something else for me." Jackson steps up to a check-in desk. "I know you're picking up a shift tonight and everyone's stretched thin, but Gemma hosts this fundraiser for the community every year and it'd be great if you'd come out. Support her."

Schuyler ponders his request. "That 'Taste of Charming'-thing? I've seen the posters. Your mother is behind it?"

Jackson acknowledges the irony. "You've seen how charitable she can be."

"I can make it. Best to support the family in power, right?"

"No doubt."

"You're goin' to do something for me in return."

"That so?" Jackson flashes an award-winning smile.

"Been putting together a sort of charitable act of my own. I'll give you the time and location. Just need you to show up, and not complain about it too much. Those who do won't go if you're not there."

"Whatever you need. Can I ask what it is you're planning?"

"Don't try to ruin my surprise. And don't go telling Clay either! Especially with the money issues we're facing. He finds out…He'll ground me so hard he'll burry me in a coffin for my time-out."

They are given visitors passes, a minimum of off-putting glances, and directed towards the dimly light NICU room. Since his birth, the infant has scarcely known more than the four walls of this room having been held within an incubation chamber for going on four weeks' time.

"His name is Abel."

"Of course, it is." They sit in identical, dull white chairs next to the child who is lying in a clear plastic pod bundled in blue cloths. Their movements are controlled so they do not disturb him.

Abel is asleep on his back. His nose and eyelids twitch periodically signaling he's in the middle of a dream. Though he has been under careful ministrations since his birth, he remains severally under-weight and has not grown into his age bracket. Wires are laid around him to monitor his vitals. "Certainly, suits him. I bet you're happy he got your best features."

"Still has Wendy's nose."

"Yeah. I've been meaning to ask. Where is the mother these days?"

Jackson's eyes are firmly on his son. "She's checking into rehab. Again. I made it clear she's to keep her distance. She'll be leaving Charming soon." His right hand is resting on the heavy-duty support table holding Abel aloft. "It's just us now." He sports a look of pride that goes unmatched by no one. To see Jackson, one would never guess he had been involved in a shoot-out days prior.

"Look at that," Schuyler muses. "A month old and the kid's got his little hooks into you." Jackson braces, having expected the same level of chiding from Schuyler over his having daddy-fever as he had received from his brothers. "I get it man. Beau was like that too. With all three. He never got tired of it."

"What about you miss fearless? Does a momma bear live inside you?"

Schuyler watches Abel. His head turns to face her and his eyelids flutter. "Leave the title to Gemma. Not really my speed. But I'm always free to babysit. Should you ever get tired of playing the part."

"Oh shit." Jackson's mood sours. His every responsibility comes crashing down on him.

"Easy. He can hear you in there."

"Sorry little man. Daddy's gotta get to work."

Jackson stands from his chair and Schuyler parrots him. They distance themselves from the view of a large window which is utilized to look in on the chamber and speak in the corner out of sight from any nurses who may be making their rounds in the halls.
"I've gotta go meet Clay at Stockton. We've got a contact on the inside. Says he may have a lead. Could help out with our Irish "beer" debt. Think it involves the club doing some babysitting for a while."

"Sweet. Want me to call around? Bring in anyone not already at TM?"

"Thanks for looking out. Say we'll meet at the table in an hour." Jackson turns to glance towards his son. What he is faced with is a man in business casual attire wrapped up in a green cargo jacket. The man is peering blatantly into the room observing Abel. Jackson nods to the man who in turn nods back but he doesn't make a move to leave the square window pane on his own.

Schuyler leans to hide her face behind Jackson. "The hell does he want?"

They step outside to confront the man. His face is welcoming, but his posture is hunched awkwardly.

"Can I help you?" Jackson's voice is neutral.

The man's face grows sad. Apologetic, in a way. But it is obviously not for having spied on the private family interaction. "That's a…that's a beautiful boy. Is he both of yours?"

"No." – "Not even close."

The man's eyes convey he knew the answer already. A small smirk tugs at his frowning lips.

"He's mine."

"My mistake then." The man takes a few timid steps backwards making sure he will be allowed to leave before he disappears through a set of double doors as quickly as he appeared.

"He was too thin to be Father Christmas," Schuyler snarks. "Had too many white teeth in his head to be the Tooth Fairy."

Jackson draws a breath, his face inquisitive. "Did a damn good job of hiding a badge."

"Or he left his white collar in the car." The two spit ball ideas about the man's identity but, ultimately, they have work to attend to and chalk the man up to being an eccentric passerby.

When Schuyler arrived at Teller-Morrow she took a head count of who was present. She ended up having to phone Piney and Opie. The two hadn't attended church in a few weeks and were again reluctant when receiving her phone call. However, she was able to persuade them. When the stragglers showed up, she herded everyone into the chapel in anticipation for their superiors' arrival.

"I'll bite." Schuyler is sitting across the redwood table from Opie. Opie is sitting straight up in his seat with his arms crossed in front of him. A black inked tattoo written in Latin is staring Schuyler in the face from his forearm. "You'll have to tell me what it says."

Opie unfolds his arms to stroke a hand over the word and relaxes again. "Didn't any one ever teach you it's impolite to ask a man such a sensitive question?"

"I've made a habit of sleeping with people to get tattoo stories out of 'em." Juice hastily makes like he's going to remove his shirt and kutte beside her. She elbows him hard in the chest. "They're more enticing when covered up, smartass. Humor me."

"Tatum Deus," Opie replies flippantly. "'Only God will judge me'."

"My guess was in the right ballpark. Solid."

"You have to share one of yours," Opie insists. "Fair's fair."

"Mine are hard to get to." Juice peers into her lap comedically for his brothers' amusement as much as his own. "They aren't that exciting." She prepares to elbow him again. He reflexively shoves his hands against the table to escape her attack. In doing so, he tips his wooden chair backwards into Half-Sack who is sitting against the wall behind him.

The prospect counters Juice by forcing him back into the table. Juice has the element of surprise when he leaps from his seat and drags Half-Sack off his chair. The younger is more agile allowing him to gain the upper hand. They topple to the floor in their head rush to take each other down. During which time, Jackson enters the chapel. Lacking a President in the room, the rough housing continues as does the leisurely conversation.

"Can't imagine Eddie was very happy when you went and did that," Piney engages with her.

"My father had no say in the matter. And probably didn't see my ink for several weeks." Schuyler laughs, undoubtedly remembering her father's face the first time he had.
Jackson joins the conversation at the opposite end of the table. "Any club ties?"

"Hell no. Shit's bad luck, like getting names."

"You saying you don't want to be caught with a link to the club?" Tig interjects. As a man with club tattoos of his own, he converts his question into a criticism of the woman's capacity to be loyal.

Schuyler has a sensible answer for everything. "No one enters a marriage planning to divorce. Never know. I might want an early retirement in recognition for my vast accomplishments. Would still have to black them out if I left in good standings."

Piney's eyes shine with certainty. "I'd give the kutte off my back before believing you left the club willingly, sweetheart."

"You really want to prove your loyalty," Bobby says through a puff of smoke, "you should get the patch."

Schuyler's eyes grow wide with anxiety. "That's a lot of ink to put on a not so fun place."

"Scared of the needle?" Bobby's winding snake tattoo covers a fair portion of his arm. On the ground, Juice rolls Half-Sack into a filing cabinet.

"I think she fears commitment," Chibs chimes. Though he appears to be half listening.

"I thought about it once," Schuyler admits. She gestures to her person. "Beau. He's covered, including the patch. Tried to talk me into it but I wasn't down for it at the time. He'd probably kick my ass if I turned up with it, no warning, and he wasn't there to watch me get it."

Jackson gestures to Opie. "Remember when we got ours? Coyote gave us a two for one."

"What was that, 'bout six months in? Hurt for the rest of the first year to wear the kutte." The two laugh reminiscently.

"Now that I'm older, I can probably trust myself to get it." Schuyler considers, "I've been itching for a new piece. Maybe if I could get permission to have the tat altered. Recognizable but personal, you know."

"You're better off saving a dime than getting covered up in that shit." Piney offers his ancient wisdom. "That's one habit you'd do better to keep from copying." Schuyler abruptly stands from the table and pats her hands across Piney's shoulders while stepping around him. "Where are you going?" he demands.

She stops to lean over his shoulder and addresses the table with her declaration. "Oh, I'm heading over to the closest parlor I can find."

The table bursts at the seams. Piney good-naturedly drags her off his shoulders and back into her seat. "Don't tell me what I can and can't do old man. That's a lesson you're goin' to learn quick!"

"Cut the chit-chat!" Clay shouts his entry line. "Let's remember we have a job to do."

Half-Sack is quick up from the ground and back to his chair to give the President his full attention. Juice follows him, pushing the lackey's head into a wall and sits while knocking into Schuyler for having insinuated the good-natured tussle in the first place.

Jackson opens the meeting with information on a club contact. "Big Otto's got a job for us. Been watching this guy, Chuckie, inside and he's getting out today."

"Chuck was a bookkeeper for the Asian mob. Only he was taking more than he was due. Skimmed four hundred k off Henry Lin's crew," Clay summarizes. A collected groan is heard in response to the exuberant amount. "Thing is Chuck blew the whistle and cut a deal. Lin wants him to collect on a debt."

Tig says, "The punk's a thief and a rat. What's his baggage got to do with us?"

"Otto worked out a deal," Jackson explains. "We pick up Chuckie, protect him 'til we get our hands on the cash, then get him out of Cali. Keep him away from Lin." Jackson takes a drag from his cigarette. The smoke creates a trail behind his gesturing hands. "We'll split the cash with Chucky-boy. Keep twenty-five percent. Otto wants his twenty-five going to his Oldlady."

"It ain't gonna be a walk in the park," Bobby shakes his head. "Lin's every bit as cunning as his old man was. He's gonna be ready for us."

"That's why we're gonna keep this place sealed up as tight as a steel vault." Clay states, "We'll work three-man shifts. Chuck never leaves the clubhouse. And the garage is open for pickups only."

Jackson continues. "We pick up Chuckie in three hours, keep him here 'til Sunday. Skim's hidden in one of Lin's restaurants fronts. Grab the cash when the place is closed. Send the guy up north Monday."

"We pull this one off," Chibs acknowledges, "We'll have half what we need to pay McKeavy."

"That's right."

"Yeah, I have a proposal to make that has to do with our debt," Piney rasps from his end of the table. "An old platoon buddy of mine reached out last week. Nate, he's turned into one of those survival nuts. Him and a bunch of guys from boot camp are out in the woods playing, you know, capture the flag, three-legged relay race, shit like that. Wants to know if I'm willing to sell to him. I know it may not rake in a whole heap, but –"

"Save the speech," Clay asks Piney to cease and desist. "Every cent helps. We can shake loose some hardware, the best to stiffen up any conspiracy theorist's pants. If they can pay, let them play." Piney nods his gratitude. "After we hand off Chuckie to the Oregon charter, you, me, and Bobby will go deal to your pal."

There are murmurs of agreement for the future scheduled proceedings. With them comes movement suggesting Clay is expected to adjourn the meeting. Rather, the ex-military man adopts a tired expression and runs a hand down his face. "Wait a minute. Something else has come up."

"I had a talk with Gem outside. April Hobert wants to know if her Oldman can come to the fundraiser to see his kid's band play." The table turns hostile. Jackson and Opie exchange stressed expressions.

"You gotta be kidding me," Jackson starts.

"That's done, Pres." Tig scratches irritably at his facial hair.

Schuyler is at a loss as to whom is being referred to or why the club has a collective issue with the man. She nudges Juice to inquire him, but he is also unfamiliar with the name. She buts in. "Rewind the tape for a sec. Who's Hobert?"

"He's excommunicated," is Clay's simplistic answer.

Tig gives a more detailed one. "He's the coward responsible for Opie's vaca up in Stockton. Was driving the getaway car. Turned tail when he saw red and blue."

"No shit." Schuyler turns her attention to Opie.

Jackson educates Juice. "Kyle's the reason I let you start prospecting when I did."

"Worse than a coward." Piney stubs out his joint to channel his anger somewhere productive. "Damn traitor. Didn't deserve the chances he was given."

"I know." Clay is less than excited by the notion himself. "But this isn't about Kyle. It's about his kid whose father has never seen his band play. It's for April who divorced the prick and kept supporting us. This is Gem's ask for the club. Figured I'd throw it up for a vote."

"Let him come," Opie speaks defiantly between nibbles on his bottom lip.

"Are you serious, Opie?" Jackson consults his sibling.

Clay sets a stern face. "This can't be about getting even. Not at Gemma's event."

"It's not about that," Opie insists. "'s been hard settling back in. You know, I haven't been out all that long. Do good for me to see him these days. Without the club, he ain't got half what I got to be thankful for. I could use the reminder."

Schuyler asks, "It's your beef with this guy?" Opie nods stoically. "It's Op's decision. Let the guy come." Several others nod their agreement with her point.

"Anybody oppose?" Clay asks the table.

"Yeah, me." Tig is as vocal as ever.

Piney speaks up, thinking himself sticking up for his son's best interest. "Yeah, I don't agree with it."

No one else speaks. All Tig can do is protest. "This is wrong, man." But it doesn't change the outcome.

Clay announces his final decree. "Majority rule. Vote passes. Let him come."

The table stands to migrate through the double doors. Half-Sack lags behind the Patched members to empty the ashtrays.

"Hey," Clay orders, "you all better be at that fund-raiser tomorrow unless you want your eyes plucked out with a hundred-dollar manicured nails."

Juice heckles his sitting President. "You gonna be there?"

Clay winks at Schuyler. "Are you kidding me? I'd rather have my dick cut off!"

While Jackson and Bobby try their best to scold the crude joke, everyone else bursts into hysteria. Schuyler mockingly replies, "I'm so proud that's going to be my legacy in Charming!"

On their way out, Juice catches Schuyler by the arm. "You wanna kill a few hours in the garage? Watch me work before the pickup."

"Can't. Got some business to attend to before I pick up the second shift at the clinic."

"They keep doing you dirty. That's the third shift change in a month. When do you get to pick your hours?"

"It's coming any day." Schuyler extends her own invitation. "Are you gonna be my wingman at Gemma's gig?"

"Pulling a double in the garage to cover for Bobby. He's doing his Elvis tomorrow."

"Shit, really? Hell, well, no worries man. Nos Vemos?"

Juice's expression conveys he is trying to remember something. "I'll see you…around?"

"'We'll see you.' Like, we will."

"We'll see you," he repeats the words with the innocence of a grade schooler. "Nos Vemos."

"You're getting it! I'll bring you back my winnings from the raffle. I'm feeling lucky."

The business Schuyler has to attend to, which she would never admit to the charter, involves her laptop, and several hours spent on Skype. She prioritizes time each week to touch base with the folks she left in Texas. Some get the full run down of club proceedings, minus affiliates, time stamps, and locations for cautionary reasons. Some get a warm smile and a heartfelt 'I miss you' before they go on telling her about their own week. It is time well spent on her part. Phone calls and FaceTime is the activity furthest away from any one of Schuyler's daily responsibilities.

The irony, however vague, is not lost on her. Hours of communicating through muffled microphones with Beau's toddlers who use her to practice their speech skills, exhausted parents, and her own mother who is technologically illiterate, reminds Schuyler to be grateful she is no longer in the same state as those she is making a concerted effort to converse with. She doesn't have to put up with their domestic squabbles on a day to day basis anymore. Distance makes the heart grow fonder.

"I don't understand how you manage to change settings when you know I'm goin' to call you every damn week." Schuyler is lounging on her newly purchased couch with a hot cup of tea steaming in arms-reach. A laptop is propped on her outstretched legs.

Samantha is set up on a sectional in her living room. The middle-aged woman has often been accused of looking identical to her daughter. The physical differences between the women comes down to a matter of age and the trouble Samantha is having with wrestling a one-hundred-pound dog into a stable sitting position. Samantha is frazzled from her attempts to connect to the call. The sound of her daughter's voice through the computer screen is enough to send the pit bull into a frenzy and does nothing to ease her nerves.

"Your mutt tramples the keyboard." Samantha's warm southern bell accent shines through in so few words since she is unconcerned with repressing it like her daughter.

Schuyler addresses the dog by cooing to him. "Krueger, siéntate."

The patch colored canine paws at Samantha's jeans, tries in vain to step off the couch to paw the computer, and huffs a low sigh of frustration. He relents by lying next to Samantha on the sofa and resting his beefy head in her lap. His eyes remain firmly on his owner's face on the laptop.

Samantha's limbs slump. Her cheerful smile livens up her face making her glow. "He doesn't like to make it easy on me. He was waitin' by the computer today for you to call."

Schuyler playfully mocks the absurdity of her pet's personality. "He's smarter than most. Best bargain-hound around. Should be him on runs with me."

"Exercise would do him wonders. Was able to wrangle some of the guys into coming over Saturday. Beau brought the kids. Finally hitting him –," Samantha rubs his snout fondly. "— how empty this big house really is these days."

Though Samantha hadn't intended for her to, Schuyler feels a pang of guilt. She finds it hard to look her mother in the face through the webcam. "He's better off with you. Can't go changing too much on him. The move would have been too hard. And you need someone to safeguard the house."

"If I can run bill collectors out of the shop, I can hold my own against a home-invader." It's clear where Schuyler gets her sense of fashion. Samantha has been wearing the same attire for her daughter's entire life and is always in line with the club's signature style. She is wearing a t-shirt she personally ironed a SOA symbol onto, and her faded blue jeans are tucked into knee-high stiletto boots. Though her leather boots are more feminine than those the club wears and are not built for comfort.

Samantha does her best to cheer Schuyler up. By doing so, she reveals exactly where Schuyler learned her sense of humor. "And the garage turned a profit last quarter, not that you would have asked."

"You've always been the more business-minded."

"That's always been your excuse. Working a shift at the clinic tonight?"

"Working second shift. It'll free me up for the weekend. Club's partaking in a charity gig the next couple of days."

"Does this charity thing have a dual purpose of disguising club business? Or are the boys up there doing it out of the kindness of their patriotic, American-born hearts?" Being the resentful widow of a service member, Samantha gets by with making more of these sorts of unsympathetic jokes than Schuyler does.

"No shenanigans," Schuyler promises. She draws an 'X' over her chest and flashes a peace sign. "The President's wife is giving back to the community and is making sure us kids get our service hours in."

Samantha is no stranger to fundraising. It is most often she who plays the role of the contact. The person who legitimate charity organizations feel comfortable getting in touch with before deciding to partner with the MC which has a spotty past across the board. "I know you love the practice. There's not a day goes by I'm not proud of you for getting your degree. I think it's great to show you can hold down a nine to five. Just make sure it isn't cutting into your extracurriculars."

Such a sentiment would normally be reserved for a parent lecturing a rebellious teenage, yet Schuyler recalls hearing her mother make remarks of a similar nature during her residency. "Was there ever a time when you wouldn't have been referring to the club?"

"I actually had our show in mind." The television show Samantha quips about is a weekly comedic news program the two have watched for years. Neither had hardly ever missed an episode. Even going so far as to sneak off in the middle of official club events. The primary reason being Schuyler has had a crush on the host since she was a child. "If you work too late, you're goin' to miss seeing your Oldman tonight."

"Bullshit. I don't care how late it is when I get home, I'm still watching it. He doesn't care if I'm late. That's why I'm 'with him'." They share a familiar laugh and can forget the distance dividing them.

"Anyway. How are things inside the club? What was this week's tragedy? Or if you want, you can play medium and predict what next week's heartache will be."

"There doesn't actively have to be a catastrophe taking place." Schuyler drops her arm on the couch. The motion retracts the remnants of the bullet wound she received (now mostly healed) from the frame. "There was a small get together at the start of this week."

"Patched in the prospect you told me about or was it a family reunion?" Samantha flexes her club knowledge having more experience than most. Edward told his Oldlady everything which is how their relationship survived the club.

"It was a little bigger than that. Patched-Over a neighboring state's MC."

"No shit! How many chapters represented?"

"Three, I think. I don't exactly remember the whole night."

"He must have been cute then." Samantha is no stranger to club gatherings. After all, she spent the better part of her adulthood indulging in the perks of club culture herself. She never misses a chance to talk 'men' with her daughter who also happens to be her best friend.

Schuyler shrugs her shoulders dismissively. "Yeah, he was alright. Didn't have any ink on him which is always a disappointment." Though it is not the memory of the hook up Schuyler is actively trying to scrub from her mind.

Samantha parrots her daughter's action by rolling her own shoulders and dismissing the topic showing she shares Schuyler's stance. "Have you been keeping in touch with anyone besides your partner in crime?"

"Finally got a hold of R.K last week. Was thinking of ringing Zipper. Gotta make sure he isn't tarnishing my good name. Ethan agreed to set up a meeting with me. Keep me in the loop. At least for the foreseeable future." Schuyler knows there will come a day when the novelty will wear off. Her running track record with the southern charter will fade into history and she will no longer be invited into SAMTEX's personal proceedings and secrets. The thought frightens her more than she is willing to let on.

Samantha acts exasperated. "Such a diplomat. You don't have to schedule a meeting to reach out to an old friend. Ethan would be delighted to hear from you! Some of this shit is supposed to be fun on occasion." With the intuition of a mother and a wife of a club President, Samantha is willing the delay of the fateful day when her child will be cut off from her pack.

"It's never fun working for a living." Schuyler's next words are spoken with conviction, yet she doesn't first take their weight into account. The specific phrase is one which had been spoken to her countless times during her upbringing. She repeats them as naturally as she breathes. "'Celebrations proceed executions'."

Edward's words echo throughout their empty dwellings. A heaviness takes root in their minds. "Eddie would be proud of you, you know. Taking those boys under your wing. Stepping up to the challenge of jumping charters on your own."

Schuyler smiles remorsefully. "It's nothing like the charter he left, but they're still Sons. They've always been family. We're just spending some time getting reacquainted."

The 'Taste of Charming' is an annual fundraiser primarily orchestrated by Gemma and sponsored by SAMCRO. This year's funds are being raised for the local school district. The consequence is the event is being held at the high school. Set up around the athletic field's perimeter are booths housing food stands, face painting stations, and raffles. On the turf sits picnic tables, inflatable bounce houses, and makeshift carnival games. Judging by appearance, the entire town has turned out to show their support for a worthy cause.

Parking is pushing capacity in the meager high school lot. Among the patrons is a portion of the Reaper Crew. Each is proudly sporting a kutte for this public demonstration. Even the one in a bedazzled, rented costume.

"So, Bobby, are you supposed to be Elvis recording his first album or his last?" Schuyler cracks a joke. The group of three is waiting for the gig worker on the sidewalk. His helmet has gotten caught on his black wig.

"Party City was out of fat suits," Bobby retorts. He manages to free his helmet and joins the group. "You're getting young Elvis today."

Tig snickers back. "It wasn't his worst album."

Jackson breaks off from the pack and encourages his friends to continue inside without him. "Go check in with Gemma." He makes a b-line for a beige truck. Opie emerges along with two children and a woman whom Schuyler recognizes having seen once outside the grocery store on Main Street. She's glad to see Donna, as she recalls the name Gemma gave her, partaking in her husband's affairs. She hopes it is a good sign.

They go ahead of Jackson to locate his mother. Gemma is single handedly manning a raffle ticket booth while dealing out directions to the bodies bustling around her. "You're late, Elvis! The kids are waiting."

Bobby rushes past her booth towards his own station. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to get this wig into a helmet?"

"It's true Gemma." Schuyler welcomes herself into Gemma's quarters. Tig knows not to taunt the viper and opts to trail after the impressionist. "I was there. Was like watching him stuff a cat into a pillow case. The whole scene was not pretty."

"I thought you were going to be on my side. You're meant to keep the club punctual." Gemma's greeting to the younger woman is her hand pointing at a box of plastic covered ticket spindles on the ground behind herself.

Schuyler unwraps one and places it on the counter at Gemma's elbow. "You know how they are at that age."

"Forgetful and hard of hearing?" Gemma passes a woman a hand full of tickets across the counter.

"Damn." Schuyler laughs and wonders if Gemma has her husband in mind. "I was going to say mouthy and rebellious. Most I can promise you is 'present and intact' on any given day." Schuyler perches on a stool beside the matriarch. "I thought maybe those groceries you bought for Opie's wife were perhaps a onetime occurrence, but here you are with this fundraiser."

"I'm very charitable," Gemma says forcibly. "Can't imagine where you would get a different idea."

"No kidding. Asking the club to let Kyle come knowing his past. That's real charity. I guess I should have known better though. I haven't met a family member whose as involved with the club as you are. At least where Charming is concerned. You're giving my mother a run for her money."

"Was that a compliment?" A corner of Gemma's mouth quirks upwards slyly. "Does this make us girlfriends?"

"Sure, or at least I can say I figured out where you're coming from. It's a good place."

Schuyler gets her bearings on where her brothers are. She spots Opie walking behind his children. Jackson is no longer with them and they are seeking one of the bounce house. When they reach it, Donna appears from behind Opie's taller frame and she crouches to speak to her children. Schuyler nods in the direction of the family. "You know Donna showed up?"

Gemma's glance is fleeting, more focused on her task. She hands another bundle of tickets to a paying customer. "Good for her. Maybe she's turning a corner and we'll see more of her. I extended an invitation to my dinner – to no avail. The club needs as much support as it can get. Especially when it comes to family."

Upon mentioning family, Gemma drops her tickets and corners Schuyler. "Jackson told me what happened in Nevada. You were ambushed and you took a bullet for this club."

Schuyler tsks amusedly at Gemma's remark. Unbeknownst to Gemma, she has simultaneously created and referenced an inside joke. Jackson has put Schuyler in a compromising position by keeping information regarding her from his mother. Regardless if he was saving Schuyler's ass in the process.

"Nothing so dramatic went down. If I were shot you would have heard about it from me. I'd have raised hell. Those losers who went with me to Indian Hills would be doing my laundry as we speak. But, that doesn't mean I wouldn't take a bullet for them."

"As long as I know where it is you're coming from." Gemma grants Schuyler the privilege of seeing her genuine smile. It is subtle and calm before her naturally gorgeous face relaxes into a scowl and she faces the counter again.

"Was that a compliment?" Despite her attempts to belittle the senior woman's words, Schuyler appreciates Gemma's gesture of essentially allowing her inside the inner circle. Evidently Gemma has been waiting some time for Schuyler to pass her own unspoken test for admittance.

On the border between the parking lot and the field, Schuyler locates Jackson. He is speaking very pointedly at a blond man who Schuyler does not recognize. Jackson pushes said man against a wall leading her to understand this man is most likely Kyle.

Gemma spots her son's antics and her scowl gains a new purpose. "This isn't the place Jax," she mutely shouts under her breath.

As if Jackson received her message over the great distance, Jackson chooses the same instant to search out Gemma in her booth. When he spots her glare meant for him he drop his hands from where they had been fisted into the man's hoodie. He leaves Kyle with a final threat and stomps off.

"Allow me to assist him in seeing the error of his ways," Schuyler offers. She slaps the counter top on her way up from her stool and exits the booth through a pass through.

Schuyler shortly catches up with Jackson. "I see you've reunited with an old flame."

"Dude is such an asshole," Jackson informs her almost eager to have someone to rant to. "Bringing up the past. Spouting off about some scheme to get money for the club. Same bullshit that got the club in trouble when he was Patched. Trying to get into my head."

"I think he succeeded. That's the kind of behavior I expect from Tig or Juice simply because they don't know any better."

Jackson gives her an incredulous look. "I don't want you checking in with Gemma anymore."

"Why? Sounds too much like a lecture you'd hear from her after I do?"

Opie gives their heedless wandering a destination when he waves them over from the perimeter. He leads them around one of the inflatables where he has set up a table holding boxes of fireworks. Beyond his set up is where the school property ends, and a field extends for another quarter of a mile.

"Firework detail," Schuyler engages with him. "Are you working on your grand finale?"

Opie hovers his hand over some boxes before plunging into one. From within he pulls out a massive bottle rocket the size of a two liter and places it in her hand.

"Woah! You're going to need a fire truck when this goes off."

Opie opens an ice chest underneath his work table and pulls out three glass beer bottles. He proceeds to pass them out on his way to collapse in a low sitting lawn chair. He has it facing the center of the field where he can easily keep an eye on his children and the crowd at large.

Schuyler trades the rocket for the drink and leans her back on the table to Opie's right. She uses the drink more as a prop to hold than a beverage to consume. Opie and Jackson open theirs in tandem and tap the necks together. Jackson sits down on the wall of a flower bed beside Opie.

"Kids seem to be enjoying themselves," Schuyler tries again.

"Yep."

"Where's Donna land with this?" Schuyler wavers when she notices Opie isn't wearing his kutte. She is smart enough to connect the facts together. This is the first time she has seen Opie outside the clubhouse, and he chose not to represent the club despite his attendance at the fundraiser being a sign of his support for it. She realizes how far he has slipped from the club he once was and clearly longs to be engrossed in again. "You two work through anything?"

Opie smiles timidly through his beard. His apprehensive nature is a stark contrast to his lumbering figure. "The club is the one thing I've wanted to be part of. Ever since I went here —," Opie gestures to the school, "— this is the first thing I can remember going after. Donna never really got that."

He takes a swig from his beer. "Me going inside, and coming out again, it jus' makes it harder on her. I begged her for a divorce for years. But she stayed. For the life of me I can't figure out why."

Schuyler wants to be encouraging. "She had a family worth fighting for."

Opie shakes his head despairingly. "It's not that. She feels trapped by the club. Always has." He glances between the two members and tugs his beanie more securely into place. "Her, the kids, work, me. Nothing gels anymore and I've got no way to get ahead of it. Don't see a way of bringing them together. I'll tell ya, I'm having a real hard time with it."

Jackson sets his beer in the grass. "I got no answers. I wish like hell I did. Ever since Abel was born it's like a dam has burst. I've got no way to plug the leak."

Schuyler's eyes shine reassuringly. "And no way to out run the tide?"

"Yeah. Feels like that." Jackson admires Schuyler's ability to put what he is thinking into words. He always comes away from her feeling recharged as opposed to how he has felt coming away from exchanges with his mother since his son's pre-mature delivery.

"I'm so used to things moving a hundred miles an hour, I've forgotten what it's like to stop and take a breath."

Schuyler discards the unopened bottle and pushes against the table she is leaning on. She goes to stand in between her brothers. "Have a look at this."

On the left hip of Schuyler's vest is a patch with the dimensions of a postage stamp. It contains a purple stitched number two with a pound side in one corner.

Jackson asks, "What is that, a one percenters-type of thing?"

"Hell, I wish it were that cool. It stands for Second Generation. The boys I came up with all have one. Our fathers were the club's first generation and when we Patched this was our brilliant idea of a contribution."

Schuyler runs her thumb over the stitching while making her way back to sit atop the table. "We're each color-coded. This flash connects me to my brothers back home as much as the Reaper connects me to you. It reminds me why I'm here." Schuyler spots Opie's kids, a boy, and a girl, playing ring toss out on the field. At the moment, their mother isn't hovering directly over them and they can enjoy the game. "My godson, your kid, and Abel. They'll be third gen, if you want it to go down that way. You can't force a kid into it, but you can give them the tools to figure out what it is they want. Same way we did."

Schuyler faces her brothers again. "You want something to work, you make it work. It's about striking a balance. Give Donna some time to adjust to you being out. I'm sure she'll come around."

Instead of watching his children at play Opie overlooks them to the egg toss. His eyes are glued on Kyle who is in the middle of a game with his own daughter. Opie changes subjects out of necessity. "I wanted him to be a miserable piece of shit without SAMCRO. Thought if he had it worse off than me it would help set me right. Guess you're saying I've got to do that on my own."

"Like everything else, man."

"You think he's happy?"

Schuyler and Jackson follow Opie's line of sight. Kyle catches the egg in such a way to cause it to break and splatter on his shoulder. His daughter runs up to him and he picks her up gleefully, completely unaware of the eyes watching him.
Jackson responds. "I don't know."

They observe Kyle's movements as he lowers the girl to the ground. A woman his junior walks up behind him to assist in removing his stained hoodie. The action causes his shirt to rise up his back and reveal the ink he bares there. Letters spell 'California' on his skin. It's the same tattoo both Jackson and Opie share on their backs. Kyle is bearing club ink.

Jackson's brows knit together. Opie's tone is flat. "He still has that tat."

Either of the blonds first thought is to confront the outcast who is in severe violation of a club bylaw and they make moves to get up from their seats. Opie's claim prevents them. "This is me."

Schuyler watches Opie follow Kyle off the field through a door of the school building. She shakes her head to symbolically shake off her gut reaction to having seen the intact ink on the man who has been blacklisted. "See, he took it somewhere private. The way you're supposed to handle it. Op's goin' to need an ice pack or two after that chat."

"Yeah. I better go make sure he saves enough meat on the bones for what comes next." Jackson waits a beat then saunters after Opie. When he reaches the building, he looks in through a window into the school gymnasium and leans casually on the door
preventing anyone from entering.

Schuyler has half a mind to rejoin Gemma at her stand while her brothers' sort out their affairs. She starts walking with the booth in mind when a female voice stalls her progress.

"Hey you." A brunette shorter than Schuyler turns her head in the female biker's direction yet makes no move to near her. Donna is attentively watching over her children and, though she initiated the conference, she expects Schuyler to approach her. Considering Donna is her brother's wife Schuyler feels an obligation to comply.

Donna speaks while Schuyler backtracks to stand beside her. "I saw you talking to Gemma a couple of weeks ago. Are you two close?"

Schuyler's tone is civil. "I'm as close to my President's Oldlady as I need to be. I'm Sky by the way. Can I help you with something?"

"Sorry." Schuyler gets the impression the woman makes a habit of apologizing where there is no need to. "I'm Donna. Sorry we have to meet like this. I don't really know why I stopped you. It's been hard on my family the last few years. Money troubles, very original."

Donna smiles politely through the pain in her eyes. "I found myself wondering if your momma was as worried about you being here as I am about my kids. And their daddy."

Schuyler turns leery. "It's been a long time since my mom has had to worry about my whereabouts. But if your family has been going through it, that means the club has been going through it. Whatever it is, it's not a burden you've got to carry alone. I don't know Gemma too well, but I know she feels quite the same way. All you've got to do is reach out and ask."

Donna snaps back. "The holy mother has already given me the club is the glue speech."

"Woah. I knew things with you and SAMCRO were tense." Schuyler monitors her posture. She remains passive and open, never wanting to appear hostile towards the struggling mother. The last thing she wants is to belittle the woman's feelings or cause a scene. "In case no one has told you: your level of involvement with the clubs ends where you want it to. If you don't want to have anything to do with your husband's extracurricular activities, that's totally up to you."

"Actually no. Everyone looks at me like I'm the devil when I say anything to go against the club." Donna's eyes follow her children protectively. She crosses her arms to communicate she is more closed off than Schuyler. "Treats me like I'm the obstacle Op has to overcome any time he'd rather be off gallivanting with them."

Schuyler brooches the topic as delicately as she feels she can without lying to the woman. "Look, this probably isn't my place since I haven't been around too long, but I've seen how Opie has been these last few weeks. This one-foot in, one-foot out schtick. It's going to get him and people he cares about hurt. Or worse."

"What if I want him out? It's possible, isn't it? Jax and Op, they told me the other guy got out. What's his name?" Donna looks over her shoulders to find Kyle. Her face drops when she is unable to as if her one opportunity for an escape route has been dashed.

Schuyler is reminded of her distaste towards the outcast. "Kyle was kicked out. There's a significant difference."

Donna rotates ninety degrees. Her expression curious. "What did he do to get kicked out?"

Schuyler raises an eyebrow. Impressed with the woman's tact more than anything. "Are you in the business of sabotage? Besides, it isn't my place to say how. That's a conversation you should have with your husband." Schuyler eyes the Oldlady. "That is, if that's how you want things to be between the two of you."

Donna sighs exasperatedly. "I'm so sick of having this conversation! I want things to be like they were. Before Opie went to jail for a motor cycle club. I want his family to be his priority again."

"His family is his priority," Schuyler insists. Her voice carries a measure of honesty. Her instinct is to defend her sibling. "Op is trying his best to please everybody. You have got to understand, he's never going to turn his back on his brothers. He did the time, and maybe it changed him, but it's what we do. Now he's back and you've got to give him the room to settle."

"How can you ask me to do that? You don't know anything about our relationship."

"I've seen it. Relationships are never simple. Add the club into the mix, start to feel like you're competing for his attention, and you're heading for a disaster."

Schuyler subconsciously pops her thumbs and pointer fingers on her hands hanging limp by her sides. "It's great that you are here today. Truly, it is. You need to learn how to live beside the club. Figure out how much information you want in on. Because if you don't, and soon, you are going to end up putting him in a position where he has to make a choice everyone around him is going to feel."

"Are you saying my husband might choose to leave me and his kids behind?" Donna sounds desperate. "I don't understand why he can't give up a goddamn vest to help his family who needs him."

Schuyler holds nothing but sympathy for the other woman. "He's like me, Donna. It's all we've ever known. It's ingrained in us."

Donna looks skeptical. "You don't have a family, do you? Children. Tends to change one's perspective on things."

Schuyler cannot prevent herself from taking offense. "The boys in this club are like my children. I have a hand in culling them. Usually solo. Why can't you see you're among friends?"

Donna shifts away from Schuyler feeling aggravated. Schuyler tries a new angle. "Whether you like it or not, we are family. No one on the outside is going to understand what it is you're going through. And you would be surprised by what some of these guys would do for the kutte. I'd hate to see you stretch Opie too thin. He might come to a decision you don't like."

"Opie's not like them!" Donna raises her voice. She swivels her head to offer an apologetic smile to anyone within earshot.

"Then why are you so scared of losing him?" The question stops Donna cold. She focuses on her children unable to carry on the conversation. Thankfully, a phone chimes. Schuyler's prepay receives a text. She gazes over Donna's head towards Jackson who is motioning for her to join him. "Think about what I said Donna. Don't make Opie choose between two families. He can't get through the week without you."

Schuyler sidesteps Donna to meet Jackson at the gym doors. "You ready to do this?"

Jackson opens the door for her. "After you, sister."

The duo discover Opie and Kyle in the boys locker room and by their state it is clear they had a falling out. Kyle has mostly righted himself. The bulk of his damages seems to be a cut above an eye and a broken nose. Opie's shirt is off, and his back is to the door the blonds entered through showing off his back piece without regard. The black, pristine ink gleaming from perspiration. When he turns, he reveals his lip is split and his own blood has soaked into his beard. He dabs the cut with a towel.

"I see you two have been talking," Jackson recognizes.

"You can say that." Opie throws his shirt over his head. His arms follow when putting it on. "Had something to get off my chest."

Schuyler stands with her feet shoulder width apart and pins her shoulders back adding depth to her form. "Good. All that's left is to get down to business."

Kyle ogles her. His approaches from a place of insecurity. "They lettin' you play dress up?"

Schuyler designates herself the role of distraction. "Is my presence so outrageous to you?"

Kyle wipes under his nose where blood has dried on his skin. "Guess not. When I was in Charming they weren't letting such pretty faces Patch in." His eyes are not on her face. "Be a shame to see you end up like me."
Opie clenches his teeth at the man's veiled threat against his sister.

Schuyler's intentionally chosen words prevent him from lashing out unproductively. "Everyone's capable of change. Isn't that right Op? Think there's hope for this guy?"

The towering giant straightens his beanie to hide his ears, heating up, and he follows her train of thought. "Think so. New truck, nice piece of ass. You did alright by yourself."

"Yeah I guess." Kyle gives a scornful sigh. He crosses the locker room with bowed legs putting distance between himself and the unit who stand opposed to him. He eases onto a bench while speaking. "I miss it man. I miss it all." He looks regretfully between the Patches. His eyes scan Schuyler jealously unaware of how deep his disdain for her runs. "I miss the respect that came my way when I had that kutte on. The authority that came with it. I used to be part of something. These days, I'm just like every other shithead."

Jackson starts to corral Kyle's thoughts. "You started telling me something earlier. Stolen parts. Club might be interested in hearing your offer."

"Dude, I scoped it out and its real solid. I'd like to bring it to the club. Spread the wreath around." Kyle's voice rises in tempo and pitch, but he isn't able to bring himself to smile. Whether his frown comes from his guilt or a fear of being tossed aside for a second time, the members do not care to deduce. "My way of saying, 'sorry'."

Opie is surprised by the news but knows to trust Jackson's intentions. His attitude shifts to be ever so slightly more welcoming to the man he clearly despises. "We have to run it by Clay first."

"Yeah?" Kyle either doesn't recognize or chooses to ignore the façade. He begins to hope.

Schuyler agrees and her smile pulls Kyle further into the charade, making him believe there is a chance for him to be redeemed in the eyes of the Redwood charter. "Sure, why not. We could use the assist."

Jackson nods to her point. "That's right. It's kind of a complicated time for us. We should probably do it tonight. While you're in town."

"Yeah sounds good." Kyle stands to join the members.

Schuyler questions him. "Wait, ain't you suppose to stay to watch your kid's band?"

"Hey it's cool. I can hear him play some other time." Kyle preemptively jumps the gun.

Opie and Jackson, being fathers, share a telling look against Kyle's character. Kyle looks the other way in favor of stepping into the lone female's personal space. "Besides, I'd like to hear more about how you slipped under these guys' radar. Wound up playing on the All-star boys' team."

Schuyler relaxes her shoulders. She peers up through her eye lashes at the traitor. She whispers flirtatiously, though it makes no difference as to who hears her words. "It involved a quick wit and sharp tongue. Stick with me, stud, and you might get a chance to experience it for yourself." She leads the cluster out of the high school chatting neighborly with Kyle. He is close enough for her to feel his breath over her shoulder as they walk together.

Outside, they run into Tig and Bobby who have been actively combing the grounds for them. Bobby grows suspicious when he spots Kyle and asks, "Are we okay here?"

Kyle has the sense to quit speaking and he lowers his gaze. Jackson vouches for him. "All good here. What's up?"

Tig repeats the message he was given. "Gotta go. Chow Mein is ready."

"Now?" Jackson receives confirmation and directs Opie on what to do with Kyle for the time being. "I'll catch you guys back at the clubhouse. We'll iron out the details later."

Before dispersing, Kyle leans over Schuyler's shoulder one last time. "Am I going to see you there?"

Tig is quick with his wise crack. "Get in line, man. Whole town of Charming is ahead of you."

Schuyler's smile is more gracious when presenting it to Tig. "SA, always so serious." Tig's comment unintentionally makes it easier for Schuyler to engage with Kyle and she gives him a once over. "He never lets me have any sort of fun."

Kyle puffs his chest out. "Yeah, I remember how Tiggy could get." The inflection of Kyle's voice makes the use of man's nickname sound like a personal insult. He steps around Schuyler in a semi-circle while locking her in his gaze. "I'ma plan on seeing you later." His words, having been presented like a direct order, do not go unnoticed. He stalks off with Opie.

Tig sneers after the outcast, noticeably a little more riled than the rest. "Who the fuck does he think he is trying to piss on Charming ground?"

Bobby asks, cautiously, "You're planning on leaving them alone together?"

Jackson catches Bobby's shoulder, leading his group in the opposite direction heading towards the field exit. "We'll tell you on the way."

Schuyler starts walking in pace beside Tig and absentmindedly throws him a compliment. "Good news is you were right on the money."

Tig looks affronted by the comment because it came from Schuyler. "I was?"

The group maneuvers their way through the crowd. Most bodies part like the Red Sea to clear a path for the MC. The one obstacle delaying the group's otherwise quick pace is within Jackson's periphery. He is gazing at a food stand under operation by the police department. Hale and Unser are in their uniforms engaging with community members, but Jackson's focus is on the passerby whom he encountered at the hospital. The strange man lacks any sort of uniform, yet he is wearing an apron and grilling hot dogs beside the local policemen. His gaze is magnetized towards the club's path. His eyes are trained on Jackson.

Tig nearly tramples over Jackson's heels. "Jax, whose that guy over there? Are you looking at him?"

Everyone's attention is deflected to the PD's charity booth making them equally surprised by Gemma's sudden appearance in front of them. Gemma catches Jackson by his shoulders to gain his attention.

Fuming, Gemma berates her child. "You tell Clay I'm pissed off. Bad enough his sorry ass isn't here. Now you're leaving me to schlep raffle tickets and popcorn the rest of the day?"

"Sorry mother," Tig mutters apologetically. For an instant, he looks like a kicked dog behind his shades.

She hisses at Tig. "Would it have killed you to buy me an hour?"

Jackson's attention will not be deterred. "Who's that guy hanging with the cops?"

Gemma looks around. "Unser told me that's your ATF guy."

Jackson defers to Schuyler. "That guy was at the hospital yesterday watching us with Abel."

Schuyler confirms his suspicion. "I owe you a fiver."

Gemma curses under her breath. Tig's response is more tactical. "That's dangerous shit, brother."

Jackson requests a favor from his mother while mean mugging the ATF agent from across the field. "You keep an eye on him. If he tries to follow us out of here or leaves at any point, you give me a call."

Gemma asks stoically, "burner?"

"Yeah." Jackson leads his group away from the high school.

Gemma is left with a pit opening in her stomach.

An hour later, the group has reconnected with Clay. They have stashed their bikes somewhere secluded and left their kuttes behind to travel together in the nondescript van. Tig is driving with Clay riding shotgun. The benches have been lowered allowing Schuyler to sit beside Jackson and across from Bobby who is halfheartedly keeping an eye on a bald man whose arms have been duct taped together against his request.

Tig's grip tightens on the steering wheel once he is filled in about Kyle. "Stupid prick."

Clay looks into the rearview mirror. "You guys know what this means. When we're picking up the cash, I want you to phone Chibs. Make sure the garage gets locked down on time. No one on the lot after closing. And the prospect needs to stick around."

"Yeah alright."

"There's more," Jackson informs. "At the fundraiser. We got a look at the ATF guy whose been looking into us. Same guy who was at the hospital when I was with Abel."

Clay responds flippantly. "More bad news. Blue Beemer parked outside the clubhouse. Same as that watched us leave the prison yesterday. That's why I had to move this up."

"Are you sure this is wise?" The bound man speaks up. His nerves mount the closer the van draws to the restaurant. His speech is flippant, rushed. "The diner's gonna be packed. What's to stop them from calling the cops? Trespassing, vandalism, et cetera."

Jackson answers. "I'm more worried they'll call the Boss."

"Not possible. None of them have direct contact with Lin," the bookkeeper relays. He attempts to further explain with a gesture of his hands. He is stopped by the duct tape. He raises his bound hands up to Jackson's face in an exaggerated demonstration. He asks pitifully, "Is this really necessary?"

The van erupts in unison. "Yes!"

Schuyler was under the impression the bookie had an understanding with the club. She asks a clarifying question. "Why's that? Are you a pickpocket, too?"

Clay turns in his seat. "Thought we'd spare you from having to watch him perform his self-examination routine."

Schuyler looks confusedly between Clay and Chuckie. She wants to give the stranger the benefit of the doubt and takes a shot in the dark expecting a joke in response. "Classic case of CMD?"

Chuckie looks at Schuyler properly since having been shoved into the van with her and it's like she transforms into gold before his eyes. "Yes, I told these guys it was a real medical condition, but no one believed me! I couldn't get the right meds in Stockton, so it's a little out of hand."

Schuyler's eyes widen exaggeratedly. "No pun intended, right? You should find a doctor when you get hold of your cut. Get back to taking care of yourself properly."

Chuckie's eyes widen like a puppy presented with a steak. "Thank you kindly. That's very considerate of you. Well, I haven't been shown kindness since before I –"

"Calm down," Schuyler interrupts his attempts to grovel. "Don't go imprinting on me until we have the cash in hand."

"I accept that." Chuckie's eyes remain transfixed on Schuyler's face.

Tig pulls the van into an average looking restaurant parking lot during the dinner rush. This means there will be plenty of witnesses inside but on the flip side those who are dining will take up much of the business' attention and allow the MC to handle their business.

Jackson asks, "You sure this is the place?"

Chuckie nods. "I did the books out of the back office. Restaurants are how they wash the money. I guess you want to go in through the front door. Again, I'm not sure this is wise –"

"Shut up!" Bobby grabs Chuckie by the scruff of his coat collar and cuts his hands free. "Your time to shine, puppet master."

Everyone piles out of the van. Clay leaves Tig with a word of warning. "Our friends in the Beemer shouldn't be far behind."

"We'll be ready."

Chuckie leads a portion of the group into the restaurant. He's picking the tape off of his skin when a middle-aged Chinese woman in business casual dress confronts him. With an authentic accent, she scolds him. "Masturbator! You are not welcome in my restaurant."

Chuckie hangs his head. "I accept that." To give weight to the woman's words, he sticks his hand down his pants.

"Get out immediately!"

"Where," Clay demands bringing up the rear.

"Through here." Chuckie leads the group into the kitchen with the attendant chasing after them. Cooks scatter from their posts making way for the intrusion. Chuckie uses his free hand to point at a patch in the ceiling. "Ceiling above the stove. That square of new plaster."

Jackson nods for Schuyler to climb the steel cabinet. "Go on. You weigh less."

Schuyler blows a raspberry. "I might be more limber than you." She uses Jackson's shoulder for balance to step up onto the metal cooking station. She feels around the ceiling. She finds a weak point where she can create an indent in the ceiling with her hand, but it will not break easily. "Hand me something heavy." She opens her hand and a meat tenderizer winds up in her palm.

When she creates a hole big enough to stick her arms through, she receives new instructions. "Down the side vent, just there," Chuckie sheepishly directs her.

"Chuckie, you're making me blush." She gives him a warning while rooting around the vent for the prize.

Chuckie removes his hand from his pants and presents both as a sign of apology to the woman. "There was an exhaust vent up there. I hid the bag before they plastered over it." He looks proud of his ingenuity.

On her tiptoes, Schuyler retrieves a brown duffle bag. She drops it on the oven beside her. She uses Jackson's shoulder to hop down in time to see Clay unzip the bag.

"Holy shit." Clay rifles through the bundles of fifty- and hundred-dollar bills.

"I told you I had it."

"I accept that," Clay mocks Chuckie's unique word choice back to him.

All the while the restaurant owner has been shouting at the group in a mixture of languages to leave her establishment and threatening to call the police. Clay picks up the open bag and passes the woman a bundle of cash as a bribe. "Shut up!"

The woman flicks through the wad and her mood changes. As they leave, she walks them out, shouting, "You come back any time!"

In the parking lot, Tig is on high alert. "Our friends in the Beemer are here. And another interested party has been taking laps in a silver Caddy."

Jackson catches a glimpse of the vehicles and sighs. "Shit is on."

Clay passes the van keys to Jackson. "Let's move. Jax drives."

Tig becomes a human shield. He is the last to enter the van and physically protects Chuckie by blocking his stockier body from the nearest window with his own form. Schuyler claims shotgun and doesn't bother with her seatbelt. She kicks her feet onto the dashboard and lowers her head below the windshield. Everyone anchors themselves and ducks their heads below the fragile glass windows.

Jackson powers up the engine and makes a mad dash for nearest parking lot exit. The blue Beemer beats him to the punch when it jumps onto the curb. It instantly transforms itself into a barricade. Jackson changes gears, turning a one-eighty. There is a second exit which he tries to escape through at equal velocity. The second silver vehicle appears preventing his successful getaway.

"Sunday would have been so much better!" Chuckie insists. He has a death grip on the back of Schuyler's seat, drawing nearer to her in his search for a sense of security. Tig isn't making it easy considering he is pushing Chuckie's head down below the windows in anticipation of an escalation.

"Shit! Hold on!" Jackson's last-ditch effort is extreme. He changes the direction the van is facing a second time hoping to catch the blue car off guard. He drives straight for the Beemer causing those inside to scatter before the van makes an impact to the smaller car. The van bounces off the Beemer unable to clear the exit. "Well that didn't work."

The men who left their vehicle draw their guns and begin firing into the van's bullet proof windshield. Jackson blindly reverses the van at full speed jostling the occupants violently with his lack of coordination or care. Clay tumbles to the floor along with the bag which spills its contents.

Jackson slams on the breaks in his rush to crouch below the steering wheel. "What's the plan here, Clay?!"

Guns shoot off for several more seconds and stop eerily as the men who had been firing communicate between themselves in fluid Chinese. A single sentence registers in English amongst the commotion. "All we want is the bag!"

Clay refiles through the scattered contents as he tries to replace them and his hand lands on something he hadn't expected to find. A hard, metal bar. "Plates."

"Give us the bag and you can go!" The men outside grow increasingly impatient.

"These are plates for a twenty," Clay realizes.

Bobby reaches into the partially filled bag and retrieves a second plate identical to the first. "Here's the other one."

"This shit's counterfeit?" Jackson demands of Chuckie.

"It's not shit," the bookie tries to defend. "It's really good. These bills will pass anywhere."

"Goddamn it!" Clay gets to his knees solely to punch Chuckie in the jaw. The bookkeeper crumples to the floor between Jackson and Schuyler's seats.

"This is your last chance," a member of the Chinese mob warns.

"Hold up!" Clay opens the side door of the van and jumps out with the duffle bag. "Easy. I think we can make a deal." He presents the bag around the door that shields him as an offering. "I want to talk to Lin." A new man in business attire reveals himself by stepping out of one of the cars. He meets with Clay to discuss their options.

While negotiations take place outside, Schuyler reaches down and clasps Chuckie's shoulder aggressively. "This is your meal ticket bud. Was there ever any real skim?"

"No," Chuckie admits disheartened. Bobby lashes out by kicking his leg. Tig grabs Chuckie up by his overcoat. "I'm sorry! I needed protection and figured you guys could spend the bills anyway."

"Hey Chuck!" The words penetrate the van. Clay is waving for the man to be brought out as a bargaining chip.

With her hand on his person guarding him, it is up to Schuyler to make the call. She releases him and nods her consent for him to be taken away.

Chuckie retracts violently from her grasp, understanding the ramifications of her silent order. "This was not our deal!"

Tig and Bobby gather the flailing man between them and deliver him along with the second plate to Lin's car.

Schuyler sits up in her seat and buckles her seatbelt. Jackson, in turn, rights himself and rests a heavy arm on the steering wheel. They watch somberly as the bags be exchanged between the groups and Chuckie is placed into Lin's vehicle. The last either hears from the frantic man is his desperate pleas. "I do not accept this!"

Clay sits down on the van's bench and Schuyler asks, for her own conscious, "How much did Lin give ya?"

"Sixty thousand," Clay informs wearily. "Not as much as we had hoped for."

"Better than to be without." Bobby fishes for a positive spin on the situation.

"Next time," Schuyler assures. "We'll score big next time."

The sun nears the horizon. The MC's Stockton contact may not have provided the resource they expected him to, but nevertheless the Sons walked away with cash in hand. One step closer to solving a perpetual problem.

For the time being, another problem must take precedent. One currently occupying space within SAMCRO's dominion. The garage closed on time and unauthorized personal were sent home in order for such a matter to be promptly dealt with.

Half-Sack is playing pool against his sponsor. Opie and Kyle are bantering, one clearly more dryly than the other, along beside them. The members have done what they could to entertain the ostracized individual without letting on the purpose for his allowed visit. Their tactic has primarily involved drowning him in booze.

The bar's stock has been routinely set in front of Kyle and the man hasn't noticed how much more he has consumed compared to those who gifted the alcohol to him. Clay, however, does take notice when he steps into his establishment and decides to drag out his interrogation, believing Kyle could benefit from the sedative.

Clay maneuvers his way around the bar and grabs a beer from the fridge. "So, I hear you've got an offer I can't refuse."

Kyle approaches the bar with his hand extended. "Clay, it's good to see you, man." His smile is painful, caused by his fresh bruising.

Clay pops the top on his drink and dramatically tosses it away in refusal to take the traitor's hand. Bidding for time. "Better be fan-fucking-tasting for you to risk your balls a second time coming back to Charming."

Kyle makes a recalculation, believing his best chance of weaseling his way back into Clay's good graces will be to use words and dollar signs. "Something like that."

With the tense discussion transpiring, Half-Sack inquiries after the lesser occupied members. "How'd things go down with the Chinese?"

This was the wrong question to ask. Rather, he asked the question at an inappropriate time. As demonstrated by Chibs who, wrapping an arm around the Prospect's shoulders, knocks the wind out of him by shoving a pool cue into the boy's sternum.

Jackson shakes his head at Half-Sack's expense and answers vaguely. "Not too good."

"Jus' breathe through it lad." Chibs bends over the table. He shoots for a corner pocket and misses. He leads by example and camouflages his language in front of the outsider. "Where's our 'mutual friend' wandered off to?"

The Secretary shuffles past the game with the money bag in hand. "Twinkle fingers is out of our hair." He heads to the chapel where the club's vault is housed.

Schuyler, wanting to avoid Kyle until his time of reckoning, inserts herself into conversations starting with Chibs. She eyes the prospect who has gone over to slump against a wall and cradle his chest. "You could at least hint at what he did to deserve it. It would be the charitable thing to do."

Chibs wags his eyebrow. "Lesson sticks if he figures it out for himself."

Opie decides he has had all he can stand of being in Kyle's presence and makes up an excuse to leave. Unwilling, it would seem, to stick around to see the night play out. He has confidence the club will conduct itself accordingly. "I'd better get going. Sun will be down soon and, knowing your mom, if I'm not there she'll jimmy-rig the damn fireworks herself to blow up in my face."

Jackson supports Opie, recognizing his desire to make himself scarce. "I'm sure we're all on the Gemma shit list now."

Schuyler pretends to take offense. "Don't drag me down into your mess. I just got off that list!" She shares equally in Jackson's concern for Opie and trails them. They come to standstill in the narrow corridor leading towards the apartment rooms and the back exit where Jackson's words resonate between them.

"Hey Op. This thing that's about to go down. Is it going to sit right with you?"

The three juvenile members cram themselves into the hallway and overlook the scene. Chibs and Tig are around the billiards table taking turns riling up the prospect. Bobby has reappeared from the chapel and sat down beside Kyle with a drink in hand. Kyle thinks he has been successful in chatting up Clay, but the eyes observing him are informed of the truth.

"Yeah, it's what the club needs to strengthen its ranks. Is it sitting right with you? You know this one lands on your back."

Jackson looks regretful when speaking honestly. "I'm good."

Schuyler is intrigued by Opie's motives. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather be here to see it get done? Put some ghosts to bed and all that."

Opie looks down at her squarely. "You saying you want to watch?"

Schuyler contemplates her answer. She settles on a joke. "It'll make me feel a hell of a lot better. But then again," she raises her voice in pitch mimicking a particular type of Californian, "that's my unique, personal experience."

Opie cracks a smile. Her words take the edge off of the stress he has felt being back in Kyle's presence. For that alone, he is grateful to her in this moment. "My not being here doesn't mean I don't want this. And everything it comes with."

Jackson nods his understanding. "We know bro."

Opie redirects their gazes. "I'd rather be dead than be that guy."

Kyle is handed yet another drink completely clueless as to what is to come.

Jackson shares Opie's sympathizes. "Yeah, me too."

Schuyler huffs a laugh. "At least we managed to figure that much out for ourselves today."

Jackson sends Opie on his way. "You should get going man. I can hear my mom screaming from here."

With Opie gone, Jackson joins the ever-expanding discussion centered on Kyle and Clay. Seeing the Vice President return brings Half-Sack into the conversation. The group packs in tight on either side of the bar, and conversation flows as easily as alcohol. One could almost forget a dark cloud is growing over Teller-Morrow. The one person exempt from sensing its existence is the man who will be most directly impacted by the cloud's formation.

Schuyler begins to follow her brother until her attention is drawn elsewhere. Across the bar, Chibs is sitting atop a dining table. His game of billiards having been cut short by the club's arrival. He is leaning over Tig who is sitting below him in a chair. They are off to the side away from the action and speaking in low tones. Schuyler witnesses Chibs nod determinedly. Then he abruptly hops off the table. He goes to the bar and comes to a rest at Bobby's side where he injects himself seamlessly.

Schuyler fills in for Chibs sitting across from Tig with a thoughtful expression. She speaks to him in an equally low tone to keep Kyle from overhearing her. Though he's plenty distracted by the hard liquor being set in front of him and the conversation he is holding with who once were good friends. "Did you catch Chibs up to speed? Does he know what to expect?"

"He doesn't need to be warned." Tig's gaze is unwavering from Kyle's form. The longer Tig observes the more his emotions become corrupted. His feelings are darkening, sprouting from a visceral place within him, and his face is sunken with age and experience. "He's seen more violence than most."

"How many of us can say otherwise?" Schuyler's focus is on those who are sitting around the man with a target on his back. She knows her brothers' welcoming faces are put on and she feels secure in her standing with the California charter. Her charter. There can no longer be any doubt on her part as not a single man is holding onto any they may have previously held for her. She is safe, and she truly feels safe, within their ranks. After weeks of earning each man's trust she finds herself able to say she is the one on the inside looking upon an outsider.

She promptly continues. "Is Clay going to enact the deed himself or are you volunteering as tribute?"

"This one's gonna be on me." Tig is overtly willing, yet he will garner no joy from the execution.

"Should I offer you a drink?" Schuyler realizes there isn't one in front of him and wonders how such a mistake could have been allowed.

"Never needed alcohol to steady my hands." Schuyler chuckles lightly at his frankness. "I'm surprised you aren't offering to do it. You've been gung-ho up to this point."

"This beef was before my time. More surprising to me that Opie isn't chomping at the bit to carry out the retaliation."

"'S not about retaliation. This is about respecting the club." Tig's acceptance of her, though Schuyler had considered the notion herself, is chilling. A violence lurks behind the compassion he holds for her. "And you're a part of it. Stay. Watch. But I wouldn't ask anyone to do it in my place." Schuyler has never considered Tig to be a soft-spoken man, and yet. "I want to. Opie not claiming it means he has more sense."

"He brings a different skill set to the table. Club needs his hesitance, the way it needs your ability to act on any decision we collectively arrive at."

Tig cocks his head. "No one has ever dressed up the things I do as a Noble act."

"It's a good thing. It's vital." Schuyler makes a clarifying comment. "I should have trusted your judgement before." Tig is visibly confused. "I should have trusted you when you voted in the minority yesterday."

"It's a fair bet to say I've been at this longer than you."

Schuyler's eyes brighten considerably. "Yeah, I'll bet it is. Might could have avoided this if the vote had gone different, but this sort of thing…"

Tig voices her thought. "Have to handle this problem at the root. Keep the disease from spreading."

"Hey Bobby!" Jackson shouts, effectively ending all conversations. "You get around to showing Kyle your Knucklehead?"

"Woah. Who got a Knucklehead?"

The question Jackson proposes is a ploy to lure Kyle into the garage. The visibly drunken man wobbles on his stool and inquires about the proposed motorcycle that does not exist.

Schuyler projects a calm energy about her. "It's show time."

She saunters up to Half-Sack while the rest of the group migrates towards the garage. Bobby leads them while making his best effort to continue bantering with Kyle. Clay brings up the rear, lighting a cigar, and he quietly admires Schuyler's foresight.

"Prospect. Hang back." She keeps the group a distance from herself. "Did anyone bother to clue you in on what's about to happen?" Her sultry voice is melodious. The young boy shakes his head. Afraid to say the wrong words, having already been corrected once. "You're about to learn another lesson. This one's not going to be very pretty, but hey –," she catches his shoulder and speaks lowly, "— whatever happens. You keep looking."

Kyle barges in through the unlocked office door. His point of entry since the overhead doors have been shut. He fancies himself the cock of the walk with his feathers sticking out in every direction. Unaware a portion of the garage has wittingly been made clear of clutter. "Where's the Knuckle?"

The Patches file inside where they circle the outcast. The same way a pride of lions would encircle their prey.

Kyle's confidence dwindles rapidly upon realizing there is no vintage bike. He spins on his heels and searches the faces glowering at him. "What is this?"

Jackson is opposite Kyle. His face set. He strains his voice to contain his volume. "Take your shirt off."

Kyle shrugs his shoulders nervously. A hand rising to itch at the area in question. "Jax, what's this about, man?"

"Take it off!" The words explode from Jackson's chest. Fists are balled at his sides.

"No, wait guys. Let me explain!"

Bobby and Chibs lunge forward to grab onto either of Kyle's arms. Struggling, they wrestle the shirt over the unyielding man's head. Tearing the fabric from his body they force Kyle's back towards the first and second for examination. The ink of the club patch is untampered with. As crisp as the day it was applied.

Kyle is ruefully released. He paces back and forth between members like a puck on an air hockey table. Spinning wildly, he grants every member a visual of his betrayal. "I know, I know! I'm supposed to black it out. I went a bunch of times, I mean." He rubs the back of his head actively coming up with excuses. Kyle feels no remorse for disrespecting the club. He's sorry for having been caught. "Every time I went to get on the table, I just…I just couldn't go through with it."

Clay's grave declaration brings Kyle around with a pleading look in his eyes. "Fire or knife?"

Kyle slouches. "Clay, man. I tried. You've got to believe me."

"Answer him!" Schuyler demands behind the outcast. She acknowledges the prospect beside her and motions for him to take a step back from the culprit. Half-Sack follows her order by perching on a massive metal toolbox left out underneath a work station. Understanding of the severity of the situation presented dawns on his young face.

Kyle begs the Vice President. "Jax, please. Please! Don't make me do this. Just give me a chance!"

Neither Clay nor Jackson falter. Kyle desperately searches for a single sympathetic expression and finds none. He wrings his hands and resorts to bargaining with the ceiling. In his own time, he answers in a throaty, defeated voice. "Fire."

"Alright." The verbalization comes from Tig who moves towards the back wall of the garage where a blow torch is set up on a work table.

Bodies mobilize around Kyle. Chibs and Bobby set to work wrapping links of metal chain around either side of a hydraulic lift machine. Their intent is to utilize the erect pole-like figures to hold Kyle's arms in place above his head during the excruciating procedure.

Jackson pitilessly hands Kyle a two-liter bottle of Ever-Clear hand picked from the bar. Kyle swipes it up furiously. He downs the liquid as if he blames the bottle. One, two, three gulps and Schuyler reaches around to steal the bottle out of his hand. She turns the glass cylinder upside down and empties the contents onto the traitor's back. She discards the bottle, so Kyle can be hoisted up from the ground by the restraints.

The display is primal, driven by a tribal instinct. The most noteworthy act of them all is the unique way in which Tig is conducting himself. The torch comes alive in his hand morphing into an extension of his being. He shuffles the metal tool between his hands and draws a figure eight in the air with its sharp flame. He is staring down the barrel of a gun. Drawing face to face with his victim who is being served up to him like an offering. At first glance, one might assume Tig is brazenly assure of himself.

Schuyler sees through him. Witnessing something she never expected to see from a man sitting right hand to the President. She catches a glimpse, a fleeting moment, where Tig takes a steadying breath and rolls the muscles throughout his entire body. Like he is removing himself from a daze. She realizes he is having to hype himself up. Convincing himself what he is about to go forth with is justified.

What Tig is experiencing is far removed from blind hatred or obediently following a half-baked order. Tig is orchestrating contained, measured violence for the sake of others who are unable to claim this proposed justice for themselves. It isn't Tig's desire to be ruthless. Quite the opposite. He is the only member present who is able to choose to be.

Schuyler is blindsided. She finds herself gaining a new insight into the man's character. A man who she had originally written off as yet another disconnected soldier. This new perception causes her to gain something she could almost label as more than causal respect for her officer.

The concept startles Schuyler, ripping her out of the club headspace and the disdain she feels for the traitor. She forces herself to look around to the other faces in the room in search for a viable diversion to redirect her attention to the matter at hand. Clay is leaning against a work station puffing on his cigar. She watches Bobby don his glasses over his eyes. Preparing himself for the coming heat. Jackson goes to stand directly behind Tig. Ensuring for himself that the prosecution is laid to rest. Everyone is prepared and steadfast in their convictions. Understanding this course of action must be carried out.

The one man who seems out of place in the room is Chibs. Once Kyle was secured, Chibs took it upon himself to stand where he could keep his eyes trained on Tig's face – neither Kyle's back nor his form. While anxiety runs high and eyes lock onto Tig's craftsmanship, Chibs' focus is on the executioner. His body is otherwise relaxed, but his eyebrows are knitted together in consideration. Not for what is to come or for what will follow. He looks as though he is ready to step in for Tig at a moment's notice. Those in the room have a certain obligation to act as a witness, but Chibs' appears as though he is willing to accept Tig's burden in his stead.

Schuyler cocks her head to one side. A curious thought manifests within her. Chibs acknowledging her with an expression suggesting he's been aware of her eyes on him the entire time is the final straw. Schuyler is careful to reframe from looking between either man. A less than plausible thought takes root and refuses to be weeded out. A thought so outlandish she has to tear her eyes away from Chibs. She finds herself looking for a more meaningful deterrent than simply gazing about the room mindlessly and she has no other choice but to narrow her focus onto the gruesome scene unfolding before her. After all, she is on the clock and has to set an example. Schuyler has to shelve the implausible scenario she presented herself with. One evolving to be less and less unlikely by the second.

In the center of the garage, Tig approaches the traitor. He levels the blow torch with the man's lower back at the start of the word 'California'. Kyle's body forms a crucifix posed above the garage floor. Arms splayed out, he is white knuckling the metal hardware and chains between his despairing fingers. Bracing himself on his toes, he is close to hyperventilating and sweating profusely before Tig can even begin making passes with the domineering tool.

In unison, eyes shift purposefully from Kyle's face to Tig's hands when the Sergeant first touches the flame to Kyle's skin. Tig moves in steady, defined strokes. Passing over the same stripe multiple times before ascending further up the excommunicated man's back. Allowing the skin to chare and thus blend in with the black ink. Tig's goal is to make the tattoo Kyle was deemed unworthy to bare disappear. The flame destroys the tattoo layer by layer of skin burning close to the bone.

The air fills with the scent of burning flesh and guttural screams which are renewed with every new square inch engulfed by the red-hot fire. Smoke rises in the air. Vital fluids being extracted from Kyle's body and evaporating into the atmosphere. Dead skin cells are washed onto the floor by a constant stream of smoldering blood, as warm as magma, which drains out of the growing wound.

Half-Sack tries to evade the carnage. The tortured soul crying out in pain. He ends up finding Schuyler, as opposed to shying away, knowing full well he is meant to look to the Patches any time he requires guidance. Ignorant to being observed, her face is relaxed, and she shows no fear or discomfort. She breathes in through her nose and out through her mouth meditatively. Across the room, she still has a calming effect that overrides Half-Sack's fight or flight instinct and he is able to steady his hands. He keeps from covering his eyes or running away like he did the night at the carnival. He refocuses his energy on making the woman whom he knows has been hell-bent on looking out for him proud and he can face the straining man. His eyes remain on the sizzling skin until Tig extinguishes the flame.

After a time, the man's screams die off. His body goes into shock and he hangs limply in his restraints no longer pulling the chains taut to resist the lapping of the flames at his now scorched skin.

Tig replaces the blow torch on its workbench. With the help of Chibs, Tig works to bring down the unconscious man from the lift to the floor. Bobby leaves the safety of the garage by opening one of the sliding doors with a pull chain. He reenters the civilian world with his shades firmly on his face despite it being pitch black outside. He mounts his bike without a word and takes off. Clay offers a command about where to dispose of Kyle, but his words fall upon deaf ears. Clay leaves, planning on going home to his wife and forgetting Kyle ever existed. Carrying on the same way he has for the last five years. Jackson's objective is much the same, after he approaches the prospect and asks him in a cold voice to get the garage prepared to be opened for business the following morning. Half-Sack stares hard at his Vice President. A lump in his throat which had formed when he entered the garage finally moves past his windpipe. He mouths an affirmative, reaching for a bucket.

By the time Chibs and Tig wrap Kyle in a tarp and load him into the van, Half-Sack has set to work moping the floor. Evidence of the club sanctioned punishment attempts to stain Teller-Morrow's shop floor – to no avail.

Schuyler rests a firm hand on Half-Sack's shoulder stopping the youngest member with the head of the mop soaking in sudsy water. "You've seen what's at stake here. That was some pretty serious adult shit, but you had to witness it."

Half-Sack twists the handle tightly between his hands. "I saw intense shit over in Iraq, too. But nothing I remember came close to this."

"Some days are easier to get through than others. Do you understand this was the necessary move?"

Half-Sack wants to understand. "How do you do it?"

"How do 'we' do it?" Schuyler's expression is consequential yet reassuring. "Prospecting is about figuring that out for yourself. We all went through it. Once you're in, you'll find your place. Do something worth calling a good deed, every single day. Find something you can go home to it. This club is more than a job, the bike. It's something you can't live without no matter how hard you try. If this is where you want to be than I know you'll find a way to handle the baggage that comes along with it."

Half-Sack picks up the mop and begins pushing the blood around haphazardly seeming to make no progress. "I don't know."

"Hey." Schuyler makes Half-Sack look her in the eyes. "I'm proud of you, brother. No matter how much time you've got left on the clock, you're one of us now. If you want it bad enough."

Whether she knows this or not, Schuyler is the first member to call Half-Sack by the term 'brother'. He is beholden to her. "Thanks sister."

She shoulders the boy and he stumbles into the bucket. "Don't push your luck. Still have to clean this shit up." She leaves him to complete the task in solitude. She intuitively knows the silence will do him good.

Schuyler walks out the open garage door. There are only so many people left to finish out the job and she finds them behind the garage. Chibs and Tig are standing at the back end of the van watching over Kyle. Presented with the two men's backs, standing side by side a little closer than the open space requires them to, Schuyler is reminded of the suspicions that arose within her inside the garage.

Kyle is unconscious and has no chance of surviving his inflicted injuries without medical assistance. The trio's task will be to bus him to the nearest hospital. The punishment was not a death sentence. Kyle is meant to live with his mistakes.

Tig hears her approach and throws Schuyler a set of car keys. "You drive." He sits on the bench on the driver's side, leaning over Kyle's unconscious form. Chibs sits opposite of Tig. They each look in different directions of the van. Their attempt to give each other space after experiencing such a weighted deed. They do the same for Schuyler by leaving the passenger seat empty.

Schuyler closes the double doors on them and goes to the driver's seat. The twenty-minute drive to the emergency room passes slowly in torturous silence. Schuyler drives up to a side entrance of the building and idles on the curb. Chibs and Tig bolt out the van and lay Kyle on the street flat on his chest left without any dignity. The tarp falls off Kyle's back, exposing the fiery red skin blistering and scabbing over the excruciating wounds.

As Schuyler pulls away before any medics can ID the vehicle, she sees a woman without scrubs run out from the waiting room and into the street. She pulls on the man in the road in a futile attempt to rose him. She's screaming for help. Schuyler repositions the rearview mirror and drives back to TM.

Chibs and Tig resettle on their chosen benches. When Schuyler looks into the rearview again, she is able to see Tig's profile behind her and can tell he is looking to Chibs despite being unable to see the other man herself. She wonders if he's already forgotten the man they left behind or if he's still reeling from his spectacular display of cruelty. She wonders if he needs to take a few more calming breathes to compose himself. Before the question forms within her she realizes the answer for herself.

For a moment, she forgets she is driving. Lost in her thoughts she is unguarded with her appearance. She must have been staring because it's Chibs' voice that breaks the monstrous silence of the van and informs her she had indeed been staring longingly at Tig in worry. "We should talk."

Schuyler can see Tig's eyes widen in bewilderment. He is unaware Schuyler had been observing him both during the ink burning and presently. He is unaware of Chibs and Schuyler's exchange in the garage and is unprepared for Chibs' declaration. It is after he returns Schuyler's gaze in the rearview that he understands. No matter how small the evolution may have been, something has fundamentally changed between the three of them.

Tig clenches his teeth and waits with bated breath for the reply from the woman he could have never expected but nevertheless has longed to hear. "Yeah. We should."

Author's notes:

There is a lot to unpack here. Many moving parts to keep in mind.

What is this secret plan or event Schuyler is putting together and invited Jackson to? (Hint, the answer will be revealed in Chapter 10!)

Schuyler has revealed a tradition thought to be exclusive to SAMTEX. The #2 Gen flash where the title of this chapter derives from. Is it possible she will extend this honorary flash to her same-age siblings? Speaking of siblings, Schuyler has made a connection with Opie. Their relationship, steaming from much the same place as Jackson and Schuyler's relationship steams from, will continue to bloom from this point forward.

We've met Schuyler's mother, Samantha, who - besides Edward - is the person who has shaped Schuyler the most throughout her upbringing. Though distance divides them, Schuyler is always acting to make her mother proud. For those who are curious, the "comedic news show" referenced is Real Time with Bill Maher. Schuyler's long term attraction to this particular man with his physicality and personality is extremely relevant. Do not sleep on it!

To further divulge trade secrets, I have been keeping track of the timeline of this story for you. Edward's passing happened in February of 2008. Chapter 8 takes place in June of 2008. It has not been very long at all for Schuyler since she lost her father and it was important to see her reflect on him in this chapter. It should come as no surprise that the discussion Schuyler had with Samantha led her to the place where she ends up in chapter 8 and where we will pick up in chapter 9.

Thank you so much for the continued support of this series. Especially if you take the time to read these little messages I put at the beginning and the end. I have a lot of information to communicate and never mind sharing more! I do hope this update can be a bright spot in these strange and trying times we are living in. Crazy to think I am posting so much more during such a hectic year. I am working diligently to come up with new angles in which to alter and spice up this series. They will become increasingly obvious as the series progresses. I will continue to keep you up-to-date with the direction I plan on taking this series as it becomes crystal clear to me. Comments and kudos and the like are always appreciated!

And until the next update, this has been Nevada!