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He's not so sure about this, but, fuck, he can't back out now. No, no, there's no way to stop this one from happening. He's wishing that he had never ever taken this heavy debt, but he had to. It was Jax for fuck's sake. What was he supposed to do, just let his best friend get beaten to death? Fuck that, that's not how SAMCRO does things.
He's seen some shit, that's for sure. Before this entire clusterfuck happened, before Pope, before Galindo, before O'Phelan and Zobelle, his entire life was turned upside down and fucked. His wife was murdered by what he thought was a crew of niggers. But, Hell no, that couldn't be the case. His own club killed her, blew the back of her head off. To make things even more screwed up, she was just an accident. She was a fuck-up, and that's what hurts the most.
After that, his old man died. He was the second-in-command under JT, the man, myth, and fucking legend. If it weren't for his pop, SAMCRO might not even be here today. They told him that it was some of the Senora guys that killed his old man. They stormed his house and put a nice spread of buckshot in his chest, then just let him die. But once again, he was proverbially shafted by his club. His father wasn't killed by Mexicans, it was another of the First 9. Clay-fucking-Morrow killed his old man over a disputed about drug mulling and letters.
After that, he had no clue what to do with his club. Nonetheless, he stayed loyal. Loyal to his best friend, loyal to the club, loyal to his family. Damon Pope came along and put everything under siege, all because of Tig's screwup. It's bad enough that Tig had to suffer for a mistake, but it's worse that his daughter was burned alive because of a goddamned lie told to him as an effort to save Clay. To push the rod in a little farther, most of the crew went to gen-pop in the pen because of Trager. But that wasn't quite the end of it all, no. Then they had to choose one person to go out and die, just so the rest could live.
Teller was more than ready to throw his life on the line, but he couldn't let that happen. He stepped in and took the burden, even though he knows the penalty is death. And yet, there's no fear in his eyes as the door locks behind him. He stares through the the glass at Jackson, who can't fucking believe what's going on right now. He's not just some nobody who the club will forget. No, he has a soul, he has an identity, and he's the only Saint among his misfit group of Sinners. He's the King among Peasants, and his name is Opie.
"I got this."