The Lost Motorcycle Club

[Marksy]

Restorations

Leo had been on the run for several months from federal agencies and had to go underground. During this time he left the Lost in the hands of his high command and had to disappear until the heat had died down and he could return.

When Leo was away several of the members and command had been experiencing some problems and wanted to move on for a fresh start in the city and leave behind the desert and club life.

 

Leo understood their need for change and gave his blessing for them to leave the club and move away from Sandy Shores, to Los Santos.

With this news Leo resurfaced, knowing that he had a job on his hands of rebuilding the club and attempting to restore it to it’s former glory.

He took himself back to Stab City and started to reflect on the past, consider the present and plan ahead for the future of the Lost MC.

He began by rallying the members who were left and making a plan with them for what the future of the club looked like, first and foremost they began with meeting with groups in the city in order to notify them of a new direction and a new purpose found within the club and how that looked for business and relations in the future.

The Rooks

Only The Family

East Side Mob

Milestone Rogues

Bratva

The Regiment

Waterfelons

Black Corp

Empire

The Cartel

[Marksy]

Wardrobe Retrieval

Leo and the rest of the Lost had been arrested whilst

in the middle of a cooking operation at ‘redacted’

They were minding their business heavily armed

holding down the fort when they heard footsteps

outside and someone entering pointing a gun, Leo

noticed immediately it was METRO SWAT and he

ordered the Lost to surrender as they wouldn’t have

stood a chance trying to fight them off.

During the arrest a certain member of the Police

Department decided he would take Leo’s kutte.

After serving his time Leo rallied the Lost MC and

took themselves down to Mission Row station to

retrieve it as peacefully as possible but also knew

that they wouldn’t be leaving without it one way

or another, upon arrival the club members gathered

in the lobby and waited while a member of the PD

gang unit went to check the lockers for Leo’s kutte.

 

After a short wait the officer came back with Leo’s

kutte and handed it over back to him, the kutte’s

are important items to members of an MC, it’s

a part of who you are, it’s to be treated like it’s your

own skin, and when someone takes that from you..

It’s not acceptable and everything will be done to

retrieve it one way or another, in the past the Lost

have had to take more extreme measures in attempts

to retrieve a stolen kutte from law enforcement.

 

While the Lost were at the station and with gang unit

detectives they started to ask questions about the

treatment and procedures that that unit undertook

with one of the clubs members, holding them at the

station in a holding cell for a significant amount of

time before transporting them to DOC to serve their

sentence. This was something the Lost didn’t see as

fair or right, and that something had to change in

the ways they waste peoples time and take

advantage of their powers given by the government.

 

They managed to reach an agreement that the time

taken was unjust and gives people extra time on

their own procedures instead of everyone fairly

serving the sentence they’re given by the states

penal code and agreed that either everyone should

be subject to their extra procedures at the arrest

or none at all in the interest of fairness and not

to single people out and not have their procedure

impede peoples time served with extra steps.

 

All in all it was a peaceful interaction between a

notorious outlaw motorcycle club and Los Santos’

most notorious gang unit, resulting in clarity to

the MC, the rightful return of the President’s kutte

and an agreement that in the future there will be

more fairness shared for everyone involved should

they ever butt heads in the future.

 

L.F.F.L

[Marl Charles]

A key entering the bikes ignition, a simple twist and the engine starts to turn over, rumbles from the exhausts fill the air with deep tones as gasoline smoothly flows through the bike bringing it to life. To a biker, a key is an essential tool. It’s what gives the biker the freedom to roam on their steele horse. To the club, their president is its key. The MC was running with excellence since having their President, Leo Marks, back with them. Leo’s presence is the key to the clubs function, allowing it to fire on a cylinders while smoothly operating under its core culture and beliefs. Since Leo’s return, the MC picked up some old members who decided to return, some which have been gone for well over six months. With the help of these returning members, new faces started to show-up in Stab City. These new faces turned into hang-arounds seeking to be prospected into the club. The culture of the club was at an all time high. Every member helping their fellow brothers and sisters, in turn allowing the club to prosper. Each looked out for one another, without judgement, as their bond grew stronger with each passing of the moon. Most importantly, club operations were resuming normally, allowing the club to find financial stability once again. One could say that the club was fully cranked as it continued to operate and build relations throughout the community.[/spoiler]

[Qumran]

Hugh entered Stab City after a long while. The place mostly looked, sounded, and smelled the same. To one, it could be a neglected and trashed area, full of broken trailers and oil spills, but to another, a rare occasion, biker heaven. He didn't take long to look around the new spots like the bar or the garage; he was more interested in the crew running the place now. Do they have their heads in the sand? Are they drugged out and trigger-happy? they push around newcomers, or will accept (not so) fresh blood? Well, he had doubts, but all he could do was stand straight, make a stoic stance, and find out himself. 
His bike was all he had at the time. Empty pockets, debt in the bank, and only a dream to figure everything out and stand back on his feet. This was a make or break moment for Hugh. He couldn't do anything else - being a biker is all he knew. Surely they would take him in, just because it was visible that a low-lifer like him had no other chance in this world. So he packed all his remaining goods in one bag and moved into stab, crashing into a broken trailer with no windows and started to settle in, knowing this is for the long run.

Crew here was something he was hoping for. They weren't tired out by any conflicts, seemed chill and welcoming. Hugh quickly blended in with the gang, having decent chats and meeting with other hang arounds at the time. The one member stood out for him though - it was Big Joe. Joe took the newcomer in like a lost uncle, that had to run away from his problems and found a new safe place with the gang. Split from society, bikers gave Hugh his sense of freedom back. This was perfect and everything he could have hoped for. Now it's just a question of time when Hugh could step up, show initative at the right time and start climbing the ranking ladder.

Hugh had a problem to figure out: hard cash. when one is off the grid in society, one still needs to eat, drink, and visit a strip club on Wednesday to Cindy and her, cuddly breasts. So the currently lone biker set off to check old jobs, one of which at the scrapy, selling stolen cars. Unfortunately, things had changed drastically, and now chopping required a solid investment and was no longer a starter's job. Hugh found this out the hard way when he brought car to the mechanic, who said he only buys parts now. Keeping his anger inside, Hugh could not afford to take the car apart, did he know how to do it, so scrapping had to be scrapped.

The other job he knew was cooking. Although it not more dangerous large groups would raid the labs for their own purposes. Hugh had a limited window to make his batch, so he devised a way to reduce the risk by his cooking. It took more time, but eventually, he made enough to sell. Surprisingly, the gang welcomed his efforts and bought the produce from Hugh. He earned just enough money to get by for at least a month in the strip club, so he was content. Finally, he could begin stuffing dollar bills into string panties and pleasuring himself in the morning as the coffee brewed. This was a fresh start for Hugh, and he knew he was getting back on his feet.

As his efforts did not go unnoticed, Big Joe gave Hugh some paperwork to fill out, along with a supporter t-shirt. This was significant news for Hugh, as he could now have a connection with the club and feel safe around the members. This was what he was after - the first step into the club. Although he still had a lot to prove to become a prospect, he now had a solid chance to do so. Hugh filled out the documents, received a firm handshake from Joe, and now sported the club colors on at least a medium-quality supporter t-shirt. This was enough as a start, as he could begin meeting with other members with ease and join in their joint operations, perhaps even receiving some money for his work from time to time.

As expected, Hugh quickly joined members in their operations, providing security and produce in their their actions. Even though it is still just the beginning, something tells Hugh that he is on a great path. He knows that if he stays committed, works with the right members at the right time, and shows proactiveness and engagement, he will soon join the club. That's what he wants, and there is nothing else, except leaking secrets at strip clubs to impress the entertainers. So here was the beginning of the story of Hugh and his involvement with the LOST.

 

To be continued.

[dominator]

Jane Wilson wasn’t tied to just one lab—his work took him across the map. From the hidden corners of Chiliad to the makeshift setups in Rust, from the window-lit space at LSD to the fast-paced runs at the Shipment Docks, each location had its own challenges. But he adapted, refining his craft with every batch.

As his work evolved, so did he. The past was behind him, and the name "Jane Wilson" no longer felt like his own. In the world he was building, he was Zane Mercer now—a name that carried weight, a name that fit the man he had become.

He adjusted recipes, experimented with new blends, and pushed the process further than ever before. Each cook was a lesson, each mistake a stepping stone, and each success a reminder that the Lost were still in the game.

But Zane wasn’t doing it alone. He met with others deep in the business—chemists, runners, and seasoned players from allied crews. He listened, traded knowledge, and sharpened his skills. Some had the science, others had the street smarts, and he took the best of both.

By the time the final strain was perfected, Zane knew this was bigger than just survival. This wasn’t about keeping up—it was about taking over. The Lost weren’t just making heroin anymore. They were rewriting the rules.

[gypsypickle]

 

 

A Week in the Life of Elena "Zen" Greene:

Elena's welcome back to the Lost MC was a whirlwind of change. New faces, a fresh energy, and a packed social calendar showed a familiar, but transformed family. From pulsing dancefloors to a demolition derby and the steady hum of drug production, her first week back was packed. Even with the jam packed calendar, Elena found time to relax with her family, enjoying the quieter moments in Stab. They bonded through jam sessions, Zen meditation, and rideouts, strengthening the vibrant mix of business and camaraderie.

[Snake I Tere I]

Fight Night: Round 2 The second edition of Fight Night was nothing short of legendary. Weeks of preparation paid off—fighters were ready, the ring was set, and the crowd came in full force. The atmosphere was electric, filled with roaring cheers, cold drinks, and the sound of fists landing hard. But no big event goes without surprises. Midway through, some clown in a gorilla suit thought he could steal the spotlight, trying to stir up trouble. Security was on him before he even got a chance to cause a real scene?handled quick, no distractions. Business as usual. At the end of the night, the winners walked away with their glory, and The Lost MC proved once again that we don’t just ride?we run the best underground events in the city. If you weren’t there, you missed out.

If you were… you already know.

[Derek_david]

 

Loose Ends: A Grim Resolution. A person takes a chance on someone, offering them an opportunity of trust, but the individual fails to live up to expectations. Despite being given a shot, they make a mistake, mishandle the situation, or act irresponsibly, resulting in disappointment and a lost chance. When REDACTED was given a chance after making prospect, REDACTED took him under his wing and wanted to show him the right ways but soon arises an issue he thought he’d never expect from it. REDACTED and another person decided to take things into their own hands and undo months and months of progress of fixing the mistakes Lost made during temporary new leadership when they decided to kidnap a cop. Due to which Lost was quietly watched, constantly members were arrested and harassed due to the actions of someone that broken the peace and the progress Lost made trying to fix for months. What they didn't know is their decision to do what they did would hurt the club and damage our family and we couldn't stand for that to happen to disrespect our morals to break our peace. To fix all our issues we had to tie up loose ends and make a hard choice to fix the wrongs. We would bring him to REDACTED and let him say his last words before we right our wrongs and mayhem them for the pain they caused to the club for their own selfish actions. REDACTED would say what he did was for the club but no matter what the club will come before one single person. It was a hard decision, but it had to be done. REDACTED felt like he let LOST down for not teaching him the right way. But at the end of the day, he had to do what's best for the club and put him down. Everyone knows all causes have an effect, but this was one of the cases where you fuck around you find out.

[dominator]

Two Wheels, One Road, Built for the Lost

Some people pick a ride for the looks. Zane? He picks the ones that feel like the road itself—wild, unbreakable, and free.

No cages, no walls—just the roar of the engine, the rumble in his chest, and the endless dirt roads of Blaine County. Out here, freedom wasn’t just a word; it was the wind cutting through his jacket, the dust settling behind him, and the feeling of never being tied down. This was where he belonged.

Not just any bike could handle that life. The Gargoyle, a warhorse built for the long haul, chewing up rough roads like they were nothing. The Sanctus, a ghost on two wheels, riding in memory of those who never made it back. The Nightblade, sleek, fast, and unforgiving—the kind of machine that owned the night.

Some people buy bikes to turn heads. Zane picks the ones that can take him anywhere. Because out here, the road never ends, and neither do the Lost.

[gypsypickle]

 

Library Upkeep:

The Lost MC required immense quantities of books to maintain the library for their members. REDACTED and Lost shared an interlibrary loan system, where Lost paid REDACTED to stock their shelves. When REDACTED contacted the Lost about the circulation, they always did it in a stealthy manner. Sometimes giving GPS coordinates, sometimes sending someone to inform of a meeting location, and sometimes requesting a lookout. But the end was always the same: fully stocked shelves. .

 

[Clive Steel]

From the Mountains of the Highlands to the Sand of Sandy:

Hamish McTaggart left the windswept highlands of Scotland with nothing but a dented rucksack, a flask of whisky, and a heart too heavy for the quiet life. The old croft he’d grown up in was sold, the sheep gone, and the misty mornings held no more promise. America called to him like a roaring engine—fast, loud, full of grit and maybe, just maybe, full of hope.

He landed in the city, drawn to the desert like a moth to flame. But it wasn’t until he wandered into a dusty roadside bar outside of Sandy that he saw them—leather jackets stitched with the emblem of the Lost Motorbike Club. A grizzled Scotsman with oil on his jeans and fire in his  eyes raised his glass. “You look like you’ve been run over by life, My names Stevie” he said

Hamish chuckled, the first real laugh in months. “Aye. But it missed me heart.”

That was how it started. No ceremony. No questions. Just a place to sit, stories to swap, engines to fix, and roads to ride. A place to hang around. 

They weren’t just bikers. They were misfits, wanderers, people who'd lost homes, time, or themselves. But in the garage, covered in grease and sweat, Hamish found something he never knew he needed—a family. They taught him how to rebuild an engine, how to ride like wind over heather, and how to stand tall when the world leans heavy.

Hamish, they still ribbed him about his accent and his obsession with shortbread, but they also knew—when Hamish stood beside you, nothing could knock you down.

He hadn’t just found a better life.

He’d found the road home.

[Diligo]

 

 

Safety Measures

At times of need, friends help each other out. Lost MC does just that and more.
Whenever someone has a significant loss, Lost members make sure their brothers and sisters get back up on their own two feet.

Suspicions, investigations, warrants and raids. Not Lost nor their allies are ignorant of the works of the Law Enforcement officers, but mistakes happen and in the world of shadows, one single little mistake may lead to devastating consequences.
The High Table and the members understand what is needed to be done and after a while taking the safety measures necessary to preserve their stash for some might seem tedious.
But being careful is financially smart. And taking precautions is necessary.

At times of distress, where mistakes have been made, people need financial support, emotional care and for some even - medical aid.
One particular organization stands out in that case and they never fail to deliver when providing much needed psychiatric medications for the Lost Motorcycle Club.

Person 1 - “Your prescription is fulfilled and you can pick it up at [ADDRESS] , health center. Make sure you grab some refreshments and candy from our vending machines!”

Person 1 - “If you need bags, check the drawer next to the reception’s gates.”

Person 2 - “We have received the medicine. Thanks for the refreshments!”

Person 1 - “No worries. Make sure you recycle the cans and wrapping paper.”

Codewords, deceiving looks, quick reaction time, whispers and closed doors provide more than one would believe, and that is what differentiates Lost MC and their allies from others - professionalism.

Edited April 12, 2025 by Diligo

[Splixzy]

 

 

The Day the Scots Arrived:

Digby Brown never thought he'd leave  Glasgow, but life throws curveballs—especially when your only plan is to avoid making any. He and his mates, Hamish and Paul—three scruffy Scots with hearts bigger than their bar tabs—found themselves trading misty moors for the dry dust of Sandy Shores, San Andreas.

It started with a road trip. A “wee holiday,” Hamish called it, though it became a one-way ticket when their rusted van broke down outside the Yellow Jack Inn. Paul, ever the optimist, raised a toast to “new beginnings” with a pint of something cold and they never looked back.

Sandy Shores wasn’t glamorous. It was cracked pavement, sunburnt trailers, and the hum of engines echoing at night. But it had soul. And, as fate would have it, it had the Lost MC.

Digby met Stevie, a leathery old biker with a gravel voice—Scottish, no less—and eyes that had seen too much, while fixing up a busted chopper at a scrapyard. Stevie liked how Digby worked—quiet, focused, no bull. Before long, the Scots were introduced to the crew. The Lost MC didn’t ask where you came from—just whether you could ride, fight, and stay loyal.

Turns out, they could.

Hamish was a natural on a bike—fearless, wild, with a laugh that scared coyotes. Paul took to the clubhouse like a duck to whisky, getting his first hair cut from Elena

And Digby? He found purpose. Something about the open road, the brotherhood, the sense of belonging—it filled a hole he didn’t know he had. They weren’t just passing through. They patched in—not just to the club, but to a life that gave more than it took.

Sure, there were fights, rough nights, and brushes with the law. But they had each other. A new clan—rough around the edges, but solid. Family wasn’t just blood—it was oil-stained jackets, shared scars, and engines roaring into the horizon.

In Sandy Shores, Digby found a new home. Not in the dust or the sand, but in the noise, the loyalty, and the strange, fierce love of the Lost.

 

[Marksy]

 

Guitar Pick

Things had been quiet for a while for Leo, running Lost had been a relatively easy road the past few months and he was looking for something relaxing to pick up during his spare time.

 

He was rummaging around in the bar’s storage room when under all the clutter and dust, there it was... His old guitar, he picked it up and blew the dust from it revealing the worn down strings.

[SM1L3R]

 

Name’s Max Chopper, born and bred in the back alleys of the UK — all grey skies, spilled pints, and busted knuckles. Came up turning wrenches in a junkyard that smelled like rust and regret. Life wasn’t clean, but it was honest.

Tools in one hand, a pint in the other, and always enough scrap to bring something back from the dead. But the streets dried up. Same faces, same rides, same dead-end grind. I needed noise. I needed fire. So I packed my gear, kissed the old country goodbye, and burned rubber till I hit Los Santos. Didn’t take long to find the Lost MC — or maybe they found me. Either way, it felt right. Grease, grit, loyalty, and the kind of silence you only hear when brothers trust you to watch their six. That’s the life I came for. That’s the life I’m sticking with.

I wrench bikes like I was born with a ratchet in my hand. From frame-ups to fine-tuning, if it rolls and rumbles, I’ll make it scream. Lost have a great setup — dirty, cluttered, and efficient. Custom work, salvage builds, nitro mods… if it’s illegal or loud, I’m into it.

Back in the UK, cooking wasn’t just about the cash — it was survival. I ran a low-key lab behind the garage, making small-batch crank and designer pills before half the scene even knew what they were swallowing. The setup was tight, the product was tighter. Learned the chemistry from an old chemist who owed my uncle favours — paid attention, took notes, ran my own formulas.

Now in LS, I’ve levelled up. The cookhouse is cleaner, the recipes sharper. I don’t sling trash — what I make is smooth, steady, no cuts, no burns. If we’re moving product under the Lost name, it’s gotta be worth the patch on our backs. And I take that serious.

Everything’s controlled — lab's rigged with backup vents, climate controls, and security. No cowboy shit. I'm not just mixing — I’m crafting. Meth, LSD, Crack… I can run it all depending on what the club needs, and it’s all low-risk, high-output, ready to ship.

I don’t run my mouth much, but in the cookhouse? That’s where I shine. That’s where things get built that keep this machine running. Bikes win turf. Product buys it.

I’m not just a wrench monkey and a cook. If the club rides, I ride. If the club bleeds, I bleed. Loyalty runs thicker than oil — and I’ve got no problem getting my hands dirtier than they already are. If I ain’t in the garage or cook house doing experiments I’m on ride outs hitting the bars with the guys and gals chewing the fat and scheming the next pay cheque.

[gypsypickle]

Two Years Leading the Ride:

The word spread fast: surprise Leo for his two years as Lost MC president! Forget a boring party...knowing Leo, it had to be something wild. Someone shouted, "Bike race!" Perfect. 

From Stab, Lost members would pedal their way through the mountains to a beach in Paleto Cove. Three boats would meet them there, ready to take them to an island for a proper toast to Leo.

Easy enough, right? The plan was ready. Ideas flew, everyone eager to help. But then came the setback: a dozen bikes needed hauling from the city all the way up to Stab. A small crew took on the challenge, buying the bikes, riding them to Stab, then back to the city for another load. It was a tough hour of back and forth cycling, but finally every bike was in place. The surprise was on!

When Leo arrived, everyone was decked out in outfits ready for both biking and beach lounging. "3, 2, 1, go!" The race was on. Bikes flew, friends laughed as they passed each other, and the beach finish line appeared. They hopped into the waiting boats, the ride to the island a chance to finally relax. Bottles popped, glasses clinked, and a heartfelt toast went to Leo. They thanked him for his 2 years of loyalty and friendship, his drive to make the club better, and for making it what it was today. Leo raised his glass, proud to lead the crew. After his own speech and another toast, party favors were handed out, and the night ended with members high up in the clouds.

 

[Clive Steel]

Family in the Storm:

The wind howled across the cracked highways of San Andreas, but Hamish McTaggart didn’t flinch. With a cold stare and a silver mohawk gleaming in the setting sun, he cut through the world on two wheels like a blade through silence. The roar of his bike wasn’t just noise—it was a declaration: he belonged.

Hamish hadn’t always had a place. For most of his life, he drifted—city to city, job to job, never staying long enough to grow roots. Trouble followed him, or maybe he followed it. Either way, he lived fast and quiet, carrying the weight of a past he rarely spoke about. Then came the day he rolled into the rundown clubhouse of The Lost MC, dirt on his boots and fire in his eyes.

He didn’t ask for much. Just a beer, a place to rest, and a chance.

The club gave him more than that.

What began as a hangaround quickly became more. Hamish didn’t talk much, but when he did, people listened. He was the kind of man who didn’t bluff, didn’t break. When bar fights broke out, he was in the thick of them. When club business turned dangerous, he volunteered first. And when someone from outside disrespected the patch, Hamish made sure they remembered who they were dealing with.

Time and trust forged his rise. Prospect. Full patch. Then rising to Lieutenant.

Now, when Hamish speaks in church, even the wildest among them fall quiet. He’s not a man of speeches but his presence alone speaks volumes. His silver mohawk, worn without irony or apology, has become a symbol of who he is: sharp, bold, and unmovable.

He still rides alone sometimes, taking long trips up into the hills or down forgotten backroads. Not to escape, but to remember. To keep himself grounded in the journey that brought him here.

Because for Hamish McTaggart, The Lost MC isn’t just a club.

It’s the only place he’s ever truly been found.

 

[Vritza]

Up there in the quiet corners of the north, where Stab City breathes a little slower and the noise of the world fades into the hills, I live simply and relax with my crew. Here, the days pass between laughter, cold drinks, and motorcycles cooling in the earth as we settle in by the fire. Sometimes it's not just madness, but simply peace. A quiet place where you meet new faces as you pass through, some in search of a story, others in search of the truth. Whether you're speeding along back roads or sitting quietly watching the sky change color, life here isn't loud, it's authentic. And that's all we need.
We've been in contact with other gangs for a while, staying real and building strong bonds. Whether they arrive in Stab City or we join them on our bikes, there's always love and respect. No arguments, just good vibes behind the wheel, laughter, and mutual support when it counts.
And yes, we're still sticking to the old dirty work, cooking and exercising as always. Just because we're hanging out with other crews doesn't mean we've gone soft. The activity continues, quietly and with focus. Type shii we don’t talk about too loud, but it keeps the wheels turning.

[gypsypickle]

[Freddie Barr]

 

 

The Barr Family 

The Barr family were legends in Merseyside. Everyone knew Barry Barr — a tough old grafter with fists like bricks and a heart of iron. He’d raised three sons the old-school way: Freddie, Jimmy, and Sean — hard workers, no time for nonsense. But Merseyside started feeling small, and Barry had always fancied something bigger before his knees gave out.

So they packed up, left the drizzle behind, and moved halfway across the world to Los Santos — the land of sun, crime, and opportunity

Freddie’s the oldest — bit of a smooth talker, proper handy with an engine and even handier when things get heated. He can talk his way out of anything, flash a grin, and somehow walk off clean. Sean? He’s the fighter. Still walks like he’s just stepped out of a pub scrap in Widnes, fists clenched for no reason. Jimmy — he keeps his head down. Low-key. While they’re out making noise, he’s back at the yard, chopping cars, shifting parts, and keeping the heat off the family. You’d be surprised how much cash there is in a clean cut and a silent engine.
Sean’s lads — Flex, Ste, and Max — were a force of their own. Flex was all swagger and speed, Ste was the cool-headed one with a sharp tongue, and Max… well, Max was chaos on two wheels. Explosives, fights, joyrides — if something went sideways, Max was usually grinning in the middle of it.

And then there was Matty, Freddie’s boy. The family loved him, but there was no denying he was a scub. Always showing up late, never finishing a job, drifting through life like it owed him something. Still, he was a Barr — and Barrs don’t quit on their own.

Luna and Freddie eventually they got married right in Stab City — proper Lost-style. Freddie rocked up in his leathers, Luna wore white with combat boots and a smirk like she owned the place. The whole club turned out, beers in hand and bikes lined up. Barry gave a rough-around-the-edges speech that somehow got even Matty emotional — though that might’ve been the beer he was pouring straight into the wedding cake. 

They may have left St Helens behind, but they brought the soul of it with them — loyalty, hard work, and family above all else. Los Santos didn't know what hit it.

Edited June 9, 2025 by Freddie Barr

[gypsypickle]

 

The Final Warning:

“Someone’s lockpicking my car back at Stab”. The words came over the radio as the club was cruising down 68 headed back home after a ride out.

That was all it took for the members to turn off cruise control and floor it back home. Once they pulled into Stab, everyone split different ways, looking for a sign of anyone out of place or someone trying to escape.

 

“The beach! There’s one running on the beach and I think I see one in the lake swimming!”

Everyone rushed behind Stab, to the Alamo beach where they saw the lockpickers attempting to flee.

With Stab being their home, a few members had jet skis anchored in the shallow lake, ready for deployment. While half of the club cornered the beach escapee under gunpoint, the other half zoomed across the waters to the fleeing swimmer.

Not more than 2 minutes since the initial callout, both lockpickers were on their knees on the beach, stripped of their dignity.

Phone batteries removed, radios taken, and IDs stolen, the men then endured a gruesome "tax": their pinky fingers were slowly broken, a brutal warning from the club to stay out of Stab.

One of the men, shaking and nodding, clearly took the warning to heart. His defiant ally, however, refused to show any respect, even when threatened with the removal of a pinky toe.

As his injured ally watched, grimacing at his own dangling, broken fingers, the defiant man was dragged to the water.

His head was repeatedly shoved beneath the surface, pulled up only for gasping breaths before being submerged again.

A few moments later and the gurgling ceased, the limp body was hauled away and his terrified ally began his long, solitary journey on foot back to the city.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[synnrsavior]

You learn certain things quickly in this city. When we were on the outside, we saw The Lost as black-clad motorcycle riders, secretive, not to be fucked with. These people just dripped attitude on their thunderous motorcycles or flashing by in off-road vehicles. Over time, paths crossed and recrossed, and we began to see that The Lost are much more. 

Behind the don't fuck with us, though well-earned and well deserved, a group of people who live to be free and to support each other. A band of brothers and sisters who ride together, fight together, and when it comes down to bullets and money, they ride or die for each other—a club built on outlaw honor and respect,
But let’s be clear: this isn’t a charity. You don’t just walk in and get a patch. You earn it. You bleed for it. You take hits, hold your ground, and prove—not just once but over and over—that you belong in the cut. The road is long, and the club never forgets who rode through hell and came back grinning. Who fought alongside and didn’t back down from the fight. Who handle themselves in a way that earns the respect of not just other members but those on the outside looking in.

One should never mistake kindness for weakness. We Know what comes from the assumptions of fools. Some people think patched riders are just thugs with bikes. The Lost is more than brawlers or dealers or ghosts from the bad old days. They’re soldiers, Philosophers, Survivors, Mechanics, medics when needed, Sinners and saints and everything in between. Family, forged in diesel and fire.

How did we end up here? Some of us got dragged in by fate. Some of us chased the sound of motors roaring, some followed their heart, but once you're in, once they call you brother or sister—it means something. It means if someone fucks with you, they fuck with all of us. And if you fall, someone will ride through hells fire to fight by your side and return home.

So yeah, maybe The Lost looks like a gang. But they are so much more. They’re a heartbeat. A code. A way of life you don’t come back from. And if you’re lucky enough to be trusted, to earn your place…

Then you already know:

You don’t join The Lost. You become one. So, we strive to earn our place, to garner the respect of our High command, To show that we are ready to become…

LOST FOREVER FOREVER LOST

[raganrogaine]

 Alfie and Synn
Moving  to the city roughly a year prior, Alfie and Synn had always been right alongside each other whether it was working at bennys, or being command in an old startup crew called the Church, they have always been with each other. Once The Church fell apart, they were unsure of what their future held. They knew they had family and friends in Lost, so they decided to pursue it. Upon joining and becoming official hangarounds, lots of money, activites, and dominance ensued. They had never held labs in force and garnered this much respect simply for wearing some clothing. They have found a crew that shared The Church’s morals, and have now become Lost Forever, Forever Lost. 

[Marksy]

 

[raganrogaine]

 

 Alfie's patch task

At this point, Alfie has been prospected by Hamish Mctaggart. It was business as usual until one day he walked up to me and said, "you're coming up on your 2 weeks as a prospect, I think it's time I give you your task to be patched" 
The task sounded simple. Steal a wheel off of a police cruiser. I had to grab lockpicks, a wrench, and a car jack. I searched for 4 days, with the help of other club members, I made several attempts to lock pick police cruisers right under their noses, but I never had enough time to complete it. 
After several failed attempts, I was finally able to complete it. At the next church, I was fully patched in, replaced my prospect kutte with a member kutte, and was told I was the only member to ever complete this task, and have since raised the standard of all other prospects.
((link in the text spot))