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kill-bill33 · 2 days ago

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Mayan War (Chapter 1)

Rating- Teen and up Audiences

Warning- No warnings apply

Any suggestions for a better title would be appreciated. It's 11pm here and that's all I have in me at this point.

Other SOA stories here

Chibs had left the bedroom window open again, that’s the first thing Juice notices when he wakes. Cold air has crept into the room through the small gap, tendrils of it reaching for Juice under the thick blanket. Trying to insulate himself he tucks the edges under him, contemplating whether he should wait for Chibs to return or close the window himself.

In the end, he slips out from under the covers, moving to the window the glare of a street light bouncing off metal catches his attention. It's reflecting off a bike in the front garden, not Chibs or his own he knows both of theirs are locked in the garage at night. Leaning closer Juice can just make out letters adorning the left flank, SOA before his breath fogs the clear glass and the sight vanishes. Those letters mark it as Tig’s bike though why he’s visiting at 3AM is anyone's guess.

Creeping closer to the bedroom door he eases it open slowly, voices filter up the stairs, stemming from the kitchen. Chibs’ Glaswegian drawl is familiar and easy to recognise and after a few moments, Tig’s voice accompanies it. Just the two of them it sounds like. Padding out onto the stairway he grips the wooden banister, the cold seeping into his palms. Leaning over it the bodiless voices are clearer, and yet, still indistinguishable.

The foyer lights are off, leaving the lower floor cast in shadows, the glow of the moonlight outside only allowing him to see the outline of the furniture within. With curiosity fuelling him and the conversation getting no easier to make out he decides to risk moving further down. Taking the stairs one step at a time, it’s fortunate he has the carpet’s thread count to muffle his footfall. Nearing the bottom, his eyes begin to adjust to the dimness. Adjacent to the back door there’s a hook nailed into the wall, a kutte hanging from it. The reaper printed onto the leather grimly smiles outwards, its eyes emotionless craters, its bones faded to grey by the sun and covered in road dust. Its scythe is frozen, forever caught in the action of slicing down. Juice knows the weapon is made, not from solid steel, but from cotton and thread but still, dark memories flash across his mind, so vivid it feels as though a phantom blade is sinking into his skin once more. On the left a patch with VP is stitched, the edge tinged with an ominous red stain.

With no other kuttes in sight, he assumes their VP came alone tonight. Angling himself to the side he can peer through the doorway left ajar, he can see Tig Trager. The older man’s sat by the table, a coffee mug laying untouched before him, new enough that steam still streams from it. His curly hair is made wilder as he runs his hands through it restlessly, the blackness of it interrupted by greying strands near the root.

‘’What did they say?’’ Chibs has gone for something stronger than coffee, a bottle of Jack Daniels sits upon the tabletop, its cap removed and a glass forgone.

‘’It's bad Chibs, they want you to greenlight it.’’

‘’We’ve had a truce for years now.’’ Even without seeing him Juice knows he’s doing that thing where he pinches the bridge of his nose, with his eyes closed and his eyebrows drooping down. It’s the same face he pulls every time a prospect screws up.

‘’I get why they want it. That girl found him in a goddam barrel.’’

Now Juice sees why he wasn’t invited to the meeting. Ever since Stockton, he hasn’t been involved in the darker elements of the club. Any information that’s deemed triggering or upsetting is kept far away from him. He exists in a bubble, not part of the rest of the world but still different from his brothers, left to observe from the periphery of the outlaw life. His working days are filled with signing papers and fixing engines, the monotony occasionally broken up by a hacking job usually courtesy of Happy and his murderous antics. Juice never has the stomach to ask what happened to the people he’s asked to find, though he’s sure a quick google search will bring up that they disappeared at night under mysterious circumstances.

From little titbits of information Juice has managed to scrape together in recent months he knows Montez's cousin had gone missing, a couple of days after Chibs had led a small trip to Santra Padre. His disappearance was closely followed by Montez himself, vanishing in the middle of the night like an apparition. With that context in mind, he tries to piece the conversation together, evidently either Montez or Tommy had been found.

His stomach sinks down to his feet as these dark thoughts swirl around his head and the imagery of Montez’s bloody corpse flashes across his mind, riddled with bullet holes. On impulse, Juice moves forward, in his concentration failing to notice the cat bowl sitting on the last step. As the fish-shaped biscuits sail, the metal bowl hits the ceramic with a clatter, the noise echoing loudly in the quiet. The scrapping of chairs across tiled flooring follows it. The door is quickly flung open and light streams into the foyer, two humanoid shadows appearing within the bright square cutting through the dark. When Juice’s eyes adjust the forms take shape. Chibs is standing there in an off-white vest and a loose pair of worn jeans, his usually neat beard has taken an unkept look and his hair’s been pulled back into a short, rushed ponytail. Tig’s still on the further side of the table, both hands clutching his drawn gun, it’s body remains sleek and shiny in the light whilst the trigger his finger is rubbing is matte, worn down from overuse. The weapon is holstered it as soon as he realizes it's Juice standing in the doorway.

Juice breaks the oppressive silence, ‘’Hey Tig.’’

‘’Why are you creeping around, Lad?‘’

‘’Just coming down for some water?’’ The lie might have come off as more believable if Juice hadn’t posed it as a question.

The commotion had woken up the cat sleeping on the counter and she chooses now to jump down, landing with a thud she weaves through Chibs’ legs plodding to the biscuits scattered across the floor.

Waving him in with a sigh Chibs pulls out a chair for him before grabbing a clean cup from the rack. The faucet squeaks as he turns it and as the glass fills Juice takes a moment to observe Tig across the table. The last few days have been scorching in California, and the heat has taken its toll. Tig’s arms are painfully fried below the elbow whilst his nose is a dash of brilliant red amidst his tanned leather-like face, dried skin peeling from the tip of it. Dark glasses cover his eyes but he still looks tired, beaten down. Whilst his appearance has barely altered in the last few years, sitting under the bleak kitchen lights he looks older, like he’s aged a decade this evening alone.

Sensing the attention Tig meets his gaze, grinning when Chibs sits the drink in front of Juice, kissing his cheek on the way up. They make up a domestic scene that they rarely allow themselves to show. Their Redwood brothers had fortunately never judged their relationship that they couldn’t manage to hide. Chibs was their president and they weren’t going to turn their back on him. It was a refreshing change from Teller’s era when half the table��s loyalty was assured through the use of blackmail and the promise of a drawn-out death if they ever stepped out of line.

‘’How much did you hear?’’ Tig questions, his gaze unwavering, burning into Juice’s. His ability to pry out information was astounding and had only gotten better with his experience as VP. Chibs had previously been staring off absently across the room but now his attention is locked onto Juice, like a sighthound on a sent. Waiting for him to speak his hand finds the back of Juice’s shoulder, comfortingly rubbing the inked crow residing there.

‘’Nothing... Something about greenlighting.”

Chibs looks over at that, and even after all the years when Chibs stands over him like he is now Juice still feels like a prospect being lectured over his idiotic antics.

‘’It’s nothing to worry about, Juicy.’’ Any following consolation is cut off by the sound of his phone ringing, glancing over he shares a look with Tig that Juice can’t manage to decipher in the short span of time it's there. Whilst Chibs answers the call trying not to convey the exhaustion in his voice, Tig rises up. Progressing around the dining table an arm’s snaked around the youngest man’s shoulders, as he gets to his feet he’s shepherd gently out of the kitchen. Juice cranes his head back as they walk out, only to stop when Tig kicks the door on their way out leaving it to slam with a solid thud.

‘’Let’s get you back to bed,’’ Tig says, steering them towards the stairway.

‘’No.’’ The man in front of him had seen him in various lows but Juice had never reached the point where he’s willing to be put to bed like a child up past bedtime. ‘’You’re not done explaining whatever the hell’s happening. Who’s been found?’’ Juice just hopes the other man doesn’t acknowledge the way his voice breaks at the last question.

‘’No? You’re telling me no? You know what- Juicy can’t this wait until morning?’’

‘’No.’’ Tig’s temperament has changed drastically in the last few years. He’s matured now he’s not engaged in a daily pissing contest with Jax. Juice knows that if this had happened a few years ago Tig would have dragged him upstairs regardless of his protests. This new change just serves as proof Tig had finally grown up, forty years late but it's better late than never.

‘’You know if Chibs had just married a croweater, like any other outlaw, I wouldn’t have to do this much arguing.’’

So rather than dragging him along he adjusts his direction toward the living room instead. Tig lets him go of him as they walk in, confident he’ll stay put. Pulling some blankets from the cupboard he piles them onto the sofa forming a makeshift bed, before he stands back to full height, content to watch Juice stand awkwardly in his own living room.

Under the weight of the older man’s analysing stare, Juice is uncomfortably reminded of his own attire. Whilst Tig is still wearing his day clothing, a leather kutte covering a black long sleeve shirt, there’s just underwear and one of Chibs’ old hoodies covering Juice, and he’s sure it isn’t covering the hickeys Chibs had painted onto his skin the previous night, scattered around his collar bone. Feeling exposed he futilely tugs at the bottom of his hoodie, ignoring Tig’s smirk at the minor action.

Breaking the standoff Tig plops himself down on the edge of the sofa, confident Juice would soon follow suit. And he’s right, after a second's hesitation Juice places himself next to him, wrapping the covers around himself in an attempt to restore some modesty.

‘’It’s nothing I haven’t seen before kid.’’

He’s pulled out a pack of smokes and looks on the verge of lighting it but thinks better of it at the last second. Juice knows that must mean shit is hitting the fan again, as it always seemed to do, Tig had been trying to quit for a year, after one of his old military buddies was diagnosed with lung cancer. Even if there wasn’t a packet being fiddled with in the man’s hands Juice would still have known, Tig was a man he’s gotten closer to in the last year, close enough that some days he could read him better than he could Chibs.

When he first started to prospect neither of them would have thought they’d ever be close. But a bond had since grown. Tig had looked after him when Chibs was on a run, had consoled him when he woke up shaking from dreams of pale hands with Nazi hooks and of icy blue eyes sentencing him to death, he’d even dragged him back to the clubhouse the couple of times Juice had tried to run when the Chinese threat was still immanent. They still bickered like brothers but Tig’s most brutal taunting was now reserved for when prospects were around. He settled for occasionally throwing half-hearted jabs at Juice, always out of earshot of Chibs of course, the Scot had frustratedly babied him ever since Stockton.

When Tig holds one arm out Juice can’t resist leaning into him, it's nothing like cuddling Chibs where there’s a soft bulk to burrow into but still, he craves the comfort this kind of touch elicits. ‘’Who did they find?’’, Juice asks, only to be shushed for his troubles.

With answers being withheld and Chibs' voice cut off, it’s easy to let the troubles of the club fade to the back of his mind. As his eyes start to close he pulls the covers a little tighter around him, the blankets are a reminder of how this house no longer feels like it belongs to an outlaw, not since Juice moved in. The blankets and cushions were bought after Juice kept falling asleep on the sofa waiting for Chibs to get back after a run. The kitchen cupboards are now full, whereas before they remained bare and Chibs’ heart was about to explode thanks to the infinite number of Chinese takeout fuelling him. Even for Chibs to consider this house home was abnormal, before, it was used as a storage unit or a place to crash when a clubhouse party got too rowdy. Now it’s full of life when it was once bleak and bare.

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When Chibs finally manages to end the call Juice has fallen asleep, his head lolling against the leather of Tig’s kutte. The cat walks into the room first, butting the door open enough to fit its vast form through, they can’t get her to drop a few pounds no matter how many diets they put her on. Having stuffed her face she tries to hop onto the sofa, claws rake across the fabric as she scrabbles to get her fat posterior up, succeeding she curls into a tight ball, nose smashed where the sun doesn’t shine, forming a mass ball of dreary orange next to Juice, he stirs but doesn’t yet open his eyes.

Chibs follows her into the room and without him speaking Tig knows it’s not good news. ‘’You greenlit it.’’

‘’Aye,’’ before saying anything else he leans forward to scratch behind the cat’s ear, only to pull back swiftly when she recoils and hisses, lengthy teeth on show, the same colour as a rotting lemon. ‘’It was Doc on the phone. He doesn’t want war either.’’

‘’It’s still Terry pushing it forward?’’ Tig asks.

‘’He’s got a few of the other lads backing him now.’’

‘’Terry Drakes?’’ Neither man had noticed Juice waking up till he spoke.

‘’That’s the one. I sponsored the stupid shit a few years before you rolled up.’’ Tig says.

Even whilst he’s still grotty with sleep Juice recognizes the name. A couple of months after he was welcomed back he had met Terry Drakes; they’d been invited to a SAMDINO party, Chibs had thought it a great opportunity to restore trust, both in the chapter’s and in Juice’s loyalty.

The outside of the building was all shiny mental and grey brick, barbed wire lining the fences and reinforced panels on the front gate, a clubhouse designed for war. When they’d rolled up, a prospect, who’d previously been sweeping the courtyard, pulled open the gate for them to ride through. The other few presidents, from the surrounding states, had been waiting by the front door, clearly willing to put the past behind them for the sake of unity. Whilst the other guys had been fondly greeted and Chibs was embraced like a brother by Packer, Juice had been pointedly ignored.

Part of him had wondered if it was paranoia that was fuelling that idea. Walking into the clubhouse had proved him wrong. The building was just a single floor but a variety of rooms were stuffed within. The double doors opened to a condensed hallway, to the right of that was a small room with a pool table in the middle, a few patched members milling around. An open doorway led to the main room, it was darker here, the neon lighting leaving the room cast in a navy blue hue. To Juice the shadowy figures the lighting creates, feel more like strangers rather than brothers in the darkness. Their bar lay at the furthest edge of the room, most of the leather bar stools were occupied and drinks were placed on the sleek black counters regularly. The overall appearance gave off the feeling of a modern nightclub rather than a biker bar. Not that Samcro could judge, they had spent a month holding church over an ice cream parlor.

From the second Juice had walked into the clubhouse he’d known it was a mistake coming. After everything that went down; the lies, the broken promises, and the avoidable deaths, Juice had been expecting to be greeted with mumbled curses and angry glares. What he hadn’t expected was for him to be the only one to receive the ire of the other charters. Going through the front doors, purposefully wedged between Quinn and Tig, it felt like every eye in the room turned toward him. At the time he was sure the two men flanking him were the only thing stopping the violent thoughts playing out in their patched brothers’ minds from becoming reality.

As their Prez Chibs was pulled from one side of the room to the other, every member with a few years on the road under their belt wanted to talk. After all, he was the physical representation of Samcro’s new era. From his awkward stance alone it was clear he was uncomfortable with this aspect of his presidency, representing the charter and greasing palms was an unfamiliar task to him. Leadership had been a new glove that didn't yet fit. Chibs was diplomatic by nature but in a different way than the golden boy had been. Fortunately for him, after an hour or so the requests to talk to him had faded out and he’d been able to escape to the back with the other presidents, undoubtedly to talk about the good old days as they played cards.

Juice had spent the night trailing after Quinn like a lost puppy, knocking back the shots of whiskey he was passed in hopes he could forget where they were. Sometime in the night he managed to lose Quinn, with the man towering a foot over most of the men in the room Juice wasn’t sure how he lost him, he was just sure the giant was nowhere in sight. Feeling slight panic settling like a weight on his chest, he scanned the faces around him. None of them in the room were familiar but on the screen above the bar, relaying the CCTV camera from outside, he recognized one of the men who stood by the front doors, Tig.

With panic dissipating slightly, he weaved through the crowd. Halfway to the front doors, a prospect scurries past him, narrowly avoiding a collision he ducks his head and apologises. The guy’s young, with dark skin and prominent acne scars. A few bottles of beer are tucked under his arm, recently taken from the fridge condensation is now dripping off them, turning his grey shirt black. Plenty of patched members would have knocked the prospect on his ass for getting in their way, but Juice waved off the apology with a smile. His grin quickly evaporated when he glanced up to see where the younger man was heading. Gains was sat at a table at the edge of the room, he was the only president who hadn’t gotten up to greet Chibs and those actions speak louder than any words could. Samcro was not forgiven.

Though when their eyes met across the room there was no animosity there, just pity. Juice felt his face burn. He’d rather be considered a traitor than a poor little victim of Jax Teller. When Gaines looked ready to get up, Juice carried on walking, merging into the crowd before the older man was off his stool.

After he’d made sure he was out of sight Juice had looked at the screen again, only to realize the images were out of view from his current angle. He’s about to continue when he hears his own name from behind him. ‘’Kid should’ve died in there. It’s what Jax wanted. That would have been justice.’’ The words had a slight drunken slur to them but the voice was loud enough that Juice knew this must be a conversation SAMDINO commonly and openly had.

‘’Don’t stress about it man, he’ll be gone when the Scot eventually gets bored of taking care of the goddamn rat.‘’ Feeling ill at the words he tried to stop the trembling in his fingers, curling his hands into loose fists.

Having turned around he almost managed to escape without notice. Without warning fingers had hooked over his shoulders spinning him back around. He didn’t know if it was due to the sudden turn or the copious amounts of alcohol he’d consumed that his limbs felt unstable.

When he looked at his attacker, he froze at what he saw, ice-blue eyes. It’s not Jax he sees but for a second the eyes still pulled him back to a time before Chibs’ presidency. The guy before him looked to be the same age. He was an intimidating size, build like Opie had been, though he evidently didn’t have the deceased man’s temperament. His nose was a misshapen mound on his tanned face and his arms were as thick as tree trunks, a reaper identical to his own was etched on the muscles.

Seemingly sensing the changing atmosphere, a small circle surrounded them ready to witness a fight. Juice took in a shaky gulp of air, with both the bodies and his lungs pressing inward the large bar felt cramped. As he looked at the faces, men with unkempt facial hair and crooked noses, Juice knew no one was coming to his aid. Maybe Gaines would have but the President was out of sight, people were often out of Juice’s sight when he needed them most.

Having had Quinn by his side all night, none of his patched brothers had had the nerve to pick a fight, but now he was on his own. His fists went up like he’d learned on the streets all those years ago. He curled in on himself slightly, ready for the blows to rain down and wondering how he could protect his most vital organs.

Just when the attacker had moved forward, steadier on his feet than his earlier drunken rambles had suggested, ready to throw the first punch, Terry had stepped out of the crowd into their little circle, Juice hadn’t recognised him but he’d recognised the patch neatly sewn onto his vest, confirming he was this charter’s sergeant at arms. ‘’Fight’s over.’’ Juice sagged with relief, having been sure Terry was there to referee the fight rather than break it up.

‘’You’re going to take this rat's side? Over mine?’’

‘’There aren’t any sides, Gator. We’re all brothers here. Now, why don’t you take a walk and let me give Juice here a tour of the place.’’

Gator had barred his teeth at him like a dog would when it’s being berated for pissing on the furniture but he reluctantly complied. With audible grumbling, the crowd disperses, disappointed that no blood would be shed that night. When Terry faced Juice again he’d gotten his first good look at the man. He was older, if his head and face hadn’t been carefully shaved, his dark hair would surely have grey streaks within it. Blue eyes, with a grey hue, looked Juice up and down. When Juice had been ordered to follow him, he’d hoped to be brought to one of Samcro’s guys. When they move away from the doorway that seemed less than likely. Weaving through the crowd, Juice stuck close by. Through the cluster of bodies, Juice glanced wistfully at the door he’d seen Chibs walk through a few hours earlier.

‘’Would have thought they’ll join the rest of us soon. Probably got distracted talking about the good old days.’’ The joke made Juice let his guard down slightly but still, he kept his eye on the surrounding people, searching for one of his charter brothers.

They stopped walking when they reached the room with a pool table centre of it. The earlier group had departed leaving just two men. The oldest is Hoosier, a legacy member, his father being one of the founders of the SAMDINO charter. He’s got a thick beard, like an outlaw variant of Hagrid. The one who looked to be the same age as Juice was all hard lines and sharp features, with a gaze that looked like it could cut. When Juice walked into the room that look on the other man’s face made him feel like he was being dissected, the events of the night being laid out bare in front of him. He was introduced as Joker and having looked at his kutte Juice knew he was yet to hold a role in the club. That and the lack of ink, Juice associates with long-term members, suggested he was a new patch. Not that you could always tell. Within a few months of patching Juice’s arms were physical markings of his loyalty to the club.

Both men stared at him with open distrust and for a second Juice wondered if his pride could take calling out for Tig or Chibs. Terry ignored the mounting tension, walking toward Hoosier he plucked the pool cue out of his grasp.

Addressing Joker, he asks ‘’Been making sure this one’s not cheating again?’’

‘’I have been cheating and I’m still three points down.’’ Hoosier replies instead as Terry takes his shot. The stick hit the ball, and it rolled forward before ricocheting off the side, only to halt a couple of inches from where it started.

Terry had passed Juice the cue, nudging him toward the table. The rest of the night went smoothly, Quinn having then found him there an hour later. By that time Juice had been plied with alcohol, bitter-tasting vodka making him forget about the night's earlier catastrophe. The guys didn’t seem as distrustful then, more open about themselves. Hoosier was the youngest child of a patched member; all his other siblings were living on the other side of the law. Terry had been Tig’s prospect, he’d transferred a couple of years before Juice had appeared. Joker had met his sponsor, Packer, in Stockton prison having been thrown in there at twenty-three for scamming tourists in Vegas.

Joker was the youngest and newest in their charter. He’d patched in earlier that month. The lack of ink on his pale skin was due to a needle phobia he couldn’t bury. The only mark on him was a small skull given to him as part of the Sons’ tradition, it was drawn on his chest the tip of it had peeked above the collar of his white vest. In some way, he was the Juice of the SAMDINO charter. He took the brunt of the affectionate torment as they played with an easy grin, never taking the half-hearted insults personally, content to be picked on so long as it allowed him to run rings around them all.

Juice’s mental tangent is disturbed by Chibs sitting at the bottom of the sofa, tugging the covers so there are spades of material to cocoon into, just the way he liked it.

‘’Still want Happy up here?’’ Tig asks.

‘’Let him decide. Maybe he needs this.’’ Hearing Chibs’ concern Juice knows it’s Montez. Happy had never met Tommy but he’d grown close to Montez over the years. If it was an unknown brother he’d want simple clinical revenge against whoever wronged the club, Chibs wouldn’t need to worry about the Tacoma killer’s emotional wellbeing unless the victim was a friend.

As salt prickles at his eyes, the room swims in front of him like he’s seeing the world from a blurry lens. Conversation drops off and he can tell they’ve realised he knows. Not wanting anyone to say the words he tilts his head away from them both finding sudden inexplicable interest in the flooring as he scrubs at his eyes with the edge of his too long sleeves.

Happy and Montez had gone to SAMDINO a few months prior, to offer some stability to a charter reeling at their President falling ill so suddenly. The charter had expanded the offer to allow Juice a chance to visit but he knew it was more for show than an actual change of heart. Packer had still been on the merry-go-round of Jax’s promises and legacy, whilst his VP, Doc, had more of an issue with the darker pigment of his skin. It was something he wasn’t willing to let go of no matter what bylaws were gone; prejudices died hard. It looks like the golden boy’s sacrifice didn’t solve everything.

Silence that feels fragile enough to shatter carries on and Juice adjusts the way he’s sat already feeling stiffness creep into his neck.

‘’Are we having a funeral?

‘’Course. I’ll let his old lady know tomorrow.’’

Funerals have become more of a rarity in recent years. But Juice has attended enough of them in his time as a son. In various dreary churches they’ve taken place, the repeated feature of stained glass windows and the lines of grim reapers, with emotionless craters for eyes, in each one. The reaper would eventually rise as a man, in a crisp white collar, read out a bible passage, like a verse from an old book could help them atone for the sins of their deceased brother. Sitting in the living room tonight Juice has a feeling it’s a sight he’ll soon see again.

Tagged a couple of people I thought might be interested hope no one minds being tagged.

Feel fee to let me know if you'd liked to be tagged in any future stories. @viskovie @sadandgeek @ineedthesons @vulgar-display-of-escapism @ammleh

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