*All characters taken from Sons of Anarchy were created by Kurt Sutter/FX. I do not claim any ownership over these characters.

This story is for entertainment purposes only.*

A Mark, A Scar, and A Tiny Heart: Chapter 1

The window was small, just a slit along a white-washed concrete wall. But her office faced the building's northern side, with a view of the river. Four years of college, two of graduate school, and a handful of low-paying jobs at hospitals and institutions had finally led her here: program director for a non-profit that provided medical supplies and volunteer services to third world countries. Years before, she had wanted to be one of those volunteers; a doctor, more specifically a surgeon. She had seen first hand the miracle of a neonatal surgeon repairing an infant heart, saving a life before it had begun. Spending those nights in the NICU, sending silent prayers of thanks and hope to a god she wasn't sure existed, opened her mind to science and the call to practice medicine.

But a slippery road on a snowy night had derailed those dreams. Her right hand had been crushed when her car slid on a patch of black ice and careened into a pole. She spent weeks in the hospital recovering from cracked ribs, a bruised spleen, and of course, her damaged hand. She had tried to remain positive in those early days, attending physical therapy religiously, massaging hard tissue, and wearing various braces as directed. But soon enough, the prognosis turned grim when progress on her hand slowed and eventually stood still. Nerve damage was permanent, they said. She was only 22.

She had cried for days as her dream slipped from her slowly. Be a doctor, but not a surgeon? Never sow a stitch? Never be able to steady a scalpel? Never heal a tiny heart? Her damaged hand was an outward echo of her struggle. But, life continues on and so did she because not recovering was never an option. Her focus shifted to finding an alternative way to repay the debt she felt was owed; a life in service, one way or another. And so she found herself in this white-washed office, worrying over donations, flight schedules, and licenses on the day her past came back to her with a thundering, gasoline-fueled roar.

There was a soft knock at the door, followed by her name, "Tara, sorry. Are you available?" The door creaked open, and the friendly round face of her office manager Margie peered through the opening.

"Marge, I told you before: there's no need to knock. What's up?" When Margie didn't respond, Tara brought her eyes to Margie's face. She looked peeked, almost ghostly. "Margie," Tara said with slight alarm. "Are you not feeling well? Don't take this wrong, but you look a bit sick."

"Well, I um...it's just...uh, well..."

"Marge?"

And all at once, the words tumbled out so quickly Tara wasn't sure she'd heard right. "Margie," she said, calmly rising from her chair. "Repeat that again, but slower this time."

Tara stood in front of Margie now, her left hand on her shoulder as she leaned in to hear, "There's a man in the waiting room, says he knows you. But he doesn't look like anyone you would know, Tara. He...well, he...he looks like a thug! And I think he might have a gun!" Margie's shoulders were shaking now, and Tara did her best to steady the sweet lady who stood trembling before her.

"What does he look like, Marge?" Tara said, trying to hold her gaze.

"Um...he's pretty tall, and um...his hair is blonde, I think. And he was wearing a black leather vest with writing all over it...and a skull or something...I think."

"Blonde, Marge? Are you sure?" Tara practically yelled.

"Yes, Tara. I'm sure." The woman's voice was quaking now as she spoke.

"And the skull on his vest, was it..."

"Creepy and horrible? Because it was definitely both, creepy and horrible!" Marge had stopped trembling now. Her face was reddened and though she wouldn't admit to Tara, Margie was feeling quite faint.

"No Marge. The skull. Was it a reaper?"

"A what?" Marge was taken aback by Tara's sudden calm. Margie was old enough to be Tara's mother, but she enjoyed working for the girl. Tara was honest, had a good heart, and was dedicated to her work. She also knew what it meant to sacrifice, and Margie respected that about her. Until this moment, Margie would have said she knew Tara well. But her face was stern and her eyes hardened. She was unreadable and impassive. Margie suddenly felt fearful, although she couldn't pinpoint why.

"Never mind. I'll take care of this Margie. Stay here. Keep the door shut," Tara said, half directive and half threat.

"Should...should I call the police, Tara?" Margie was back to trembling as she slumped into a chair in front of Tara's desk.

"No need. I'll be right back." And with a quick slam of the door, Tara was gone.