Chapter 1 : Second Life, Same Highway
The semi-truck came out of nowhere.
One second I was cruising I-5 at seventy, rain misting my windshield, The Eagles crackling through blown speakers. The next—white light, horn blast, and that sickening crunch of metal folding around my legs like aluminum foil.
No pain. That was the strange part. Just pressure, then floating, then nothing at all.
The darkness lasted forever. Or maybe three seconds. Time meant nothing in that void.
Then wind. Engine roar. Vibration rattling through my hands.
My eyes snapped open.
California highway stretched ahead, sun-bleached and cracked. Not I-5. Not rain. Bone-dry asphalt shimmering with heat waves, and I was moving—not in my Honda Civic, not bleeding out against twisted steel, but upright on a motorcycle.
A Harley. The rumble was unmistakable.
What the hell—
The bike wobbled. My hands clenched the grips on instinct, overcorrected, nearly sent me into the shoulder. Gravel sprayed. I fought the handlebars, muscles responding in ways that felt both wrong and right simultaneously.
The Harley steadied.
I was alive. Different body, different machine, different road—but alive.
[OUTLAW BROTHERHOOD SYSTEM BINDING COMPLETE]
The words blazed across my vision in sharp blue text, floating like subtitles in a movie. I blinked. They didn't disappear.
[WELCOME, HOST. TRANSMIGRATION SUCCESSFUL.]
The bike drifted toward the center line. I jerked it back, pulse hammering.
Transmigration. System. What—
A horn blared behind me. Some sedan swerved past, driver flipping me off through his window. I didn't blame him. I was riding forty in a sixty zone, weaving like a drunk.
I needed to stop. Now.
A rest area materialized ahead—concrete island with picnic tables, trash cans, and a single port-o-john baking in the afternoon sun. I pulled in, killed the engine, and sat there for a long moment. The Harley ticked as it cooled.
My hands were shaking. I looked at them.
Not my hands.
Same shape, sure. Five fingers each, calluses in the right places for someone who worked with tools. But younger. The scar on my left thumb from that kitchen accident in '94—gone. The liver spots creeping in above my wrist—gone.
I was in my thirties. Had been, at least. These hands belonged to someone in their mid-twenties.
I swung off the bike, legs unsteady, and walked to the port-o-john. The mirror inside was scratched plastic, barely reflective, but good enough.
A stranger looked back.
Dark brown hair, longer than I'd worn mine in years. Gray-green eyes—that was the same, weirdly—but set in a younger face. Strong jaw with a few days of stubble. No laugh lines. No gray at the temples. Mid-twenties, athletic build, someone who'd spent time in a gym.
Not me. But also... me?
I pressed my palm against my chest. Heart beating. Lungs working. Blood flowing through veins that didn't belong to me but apparently did now.
[INITIAL CALIBRATION COMPLETE]
[HOST IDENTITY: COLE ASHFORD]
[HOST STATUS: STABLE]
The blue text flickered at the edge of my vision. I focused on it, and a new window expanded—like a heads-up display in a video game.
[OUTLAW BROTHERHOOD SYSTEM - HOST INTERFACE]
Level: 1
EXP: 0/500
Primary Stats:
STR: 10 | END: 10 | AGI: 10
PER: 10 | CHA: 10 | CUN: 10
Available Stat Points: 15
Reputation: 0
Heat Level: 0
[TUTORIAL: The Outlaw Brotherhood System enhances your capabilities as you rise through the criminal underworld. Earn EXP through club activities, combat, and social achievements. Increase REPUTATION to unlock advanced functions. Manage HEAT to avoid law enforcement attention. Stat points improve your physical and mental abilities. Distribute wisely—survival depends on balance.]
I leaned against the port-o-john wall, sweat trickling down my spine.
A system. Like those web novels my nephew used to rave about. Stats, levels, progression—except I wasn't reading about it. I was living it.
Okay. Okay. Breathe.
The transmigration stories always had rules. Always had a world the protagonist landed in. Some fantasy realm, some historical period, some—
My gaze drifted through the scratched plastic, out toward the highway.
California. The road signs said Highway 99. That sedan's license plate had been standard California issue. The date on the rest area maintenance log nailed to the wall read: February 14, 2008.
I'd died in 2024.
And Sons of Anarchy premiered in 2008. September, if I remembered right. The show that got me through my divorce, that I'd rewatched during COVID lockdowns, that I knew better than my own family history.
The show set in Charming, California.
I stumbled back outside, blinking in the sunlight. There, bolted to a post near the highway entrance, a green sign:
CHARMING — 30 MILES
My stomach dropped.
No. No way.
But the system's name was OUTLAW BROTHERHOOD. The setting was 2008 California. And Cole Ashford—whoever he was—rode a Harley toward the town where a motorcycle club would tear itself apart over seven seasons of blood, betrayal, and Shakespearean tragedy.
I was in Sons of Anarchy.
Not watching it. Living it.
I walked back to the bike and pulled the wallet from the jeans pocket. California driver's license: Cole Daniel Ashford, 28 years old, address in Oakland. $127 in twenties and tens. No credit cards. No photos.
A blank slate.
The bike was an older Softail, well-maintained but showing its years. Saddlebags held basic riding gear—rain jacket, gloves, a flashlight. Apartment keys on the ignition ring, presumably for the Oakland address.
I had a body. An identity. A system giving me advantages.
And I had knowledge.
Seven seasons of Sons of Anarchy, every plot twist burned into my memory. Donna shot in her car, framed as an accident by Tig. Opie's devastation, his eventual death in prison. Gemma's assault by the League of American Nationalists. Clay's long betrayal. Jax's descent. Juice's weakness. Tara's murder.
Everyone I was about to meet—I knew their fates.
If I do nothing... they die. Most of them. Horribly.
The thought sat heavy in my chest. These were fictional characters. Were. Now they'd be people I'd shake hands with, share beers with, possibly bleed alongside.
I could ride the other direction. Head back to Oakland, disappear into Cole Ashford's life, stay the hell away from Charming and its doomed motorcycle club.
But I'd know. Every time I saw a news story about a small-town biker killed, I'd wonder if it was Opie. Every ATF raid, I'd imagine Jax in handcuffs. Every body in a ditch, I'd see Donna's face.
Can I change it?
The system pulsed.
[QUEST AVAILABLE]
[REACH CHARMING]
Objective: Arrive in Charming, California
Reward: +50 XP, System Function Unlock
Time Limit: None
A quest. Pointing me exactly where the story wanted me to go.
Or exactly where I could make a difference.
I straddled the bike. The engine caught on the first kick—good machine, reliable. The sun hung low enough to warm my face without blinding me.
Thirty miles to Charming. Three months until the show's timeline kicked off. Time enough to establish myself, find a way in, start positioning pieces.
What's waiting there?
Teller-Morrow Automotive. Clay Morrow's club, Gemma's domain, Jax's inheritance. A garage that fronted for gun running, drug deals, and enough violence to fill a cemetery.
Also a family. Brothers who'd die for each other. A code, however imperfect. Loyalty that meant something in a world where nothing else did.
I twisted the throttle. The Harley surged forward.
---
[Highway 99 — 2:45 PM]
The gas station appeared twenty miles out—a rundown Shell with one working pump and a convenience store that probably hadn't been restocked since the Clinton administration.
I pulled in because I needed to think. Also because my hands were still shaking and that wasn't safe at highway speeds.
The pump clicked its approval of crumpled twenties. Gas gurgled into the tank.
Inside, the attendant barely glanced up from his magazine. I grabbed a coffee from the pot that had been brewing since morning—burnt, bitter, too hot—and a pack of beef jerky that would outlast nuclear winter.
"Dollar seventy-three," the guy muttered.
I paid. Took my change. Walked back outside.
The coffee was terrible. I drank it anyway, leaning against my bike, watching semis roar past on the highway. Each truck made me flinch. Probably would for a while.
But the heat spreading through my chest felt real. The bitter taste on my tongue felt real. The wind carrying diesel fumes and dried grass felt real.
I'm alive. Different world, different body, but alive.
The system waited at the edge of my vision. Those fifteen stat points sat unspent.
Later. Figure out priorities first.
I tossed the empty cup, mounted up, and pointed the Softail south.
The Welcome to Charming sign appeared at 3:15 PM.
White letters on green metal, slightly faded. A smaller sign beneath: "Our Name Says It All."
I downshifted, letting the engine idle me past the town limits. Main Street stretched ahead—small-town Americana with an edge. Hardware store, diner, park with a gazebo. Normal, quiet, the kind of place people retired to.
Except for the Harley-Davidsons parked in rows outside a building a half-mile ahead. Chrome glinting in afternoon sun. A sign: TELLER-MORROW AUTOMOTIVE.
My destination.
A Charming PD cruiser rolled past. I kept my speed legal, my face neutral. No reason to attract attention. Not yet.
The TM lot came up on my right. Garage bays, office building, and behind it—the SAMCRO clubhouse. I could see the corner of the building, the roofline I'd recognize anywhere.
My gut clenched.
This is real. This is happening.
I could still ride on. Find a motel, sleep on it, make a rational decision in the morning.
But the clubhouse doors opened, and two men walked out. One blonde, one dark-haired, both wearing cuts with patches I couldn't read at this distance.
Jax Teller and Bobby Munson, if I had to guess.
I pulled into a gas station across the street. Killed the engine. Watched.
They talked for a minute, laughed at something, clapped each other on the back. Brotherhood in motion. Then they climbed on their bikes and roared past me without a glance.
I had time. Months before the real trouble started. Months to find a way in, earn trust, position myself.
The coffee sat sour in my stomach. The road stretched behind me, empty and safe.
I kickstarted the Harley.
Pointed it toward Teller-Morrow.
And rode in.
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