I Am Titanium

There was no separating the Queen of the Underworld from her beloved Palace. Rulers were defined by their resilience in War times, and there’s a semblance of satisfaction at the end-result. Ultimately, they had won - defending the Nightclub, and with it, Pestilence’s honor in two-fold. Priscilla firmly at the helm, and carrying with her a win against War’s eldest son, Remus Warden. It would be a victory, lauded with bottles of liquor and arrogant cheers. But when the smoke cleared, all she saw was the aftermath. Her ethereal nightclub where hedonism and escapism was rooted, turning clinical and dour. Blood splatter on leather seats, scent of gunpowder in the air, and the echoes of her patrons running for their lives. Hers was not a conscience that was easily perturbed. You don’t climb to the top of the food chain, without a thick skin and a morally grey perception of life. But it perturbs her, and after supervising the day’s clean up, she escapes to her home away from home.

It’s a small and unimpressive restaurant, serving her favorites; heart healthy salad bowls, organic smoothies, and an assortment of Millennial Favorites (from avocado to chia seeds) that keep the health-focused Priscilla satisfied. She takes comfort in the distance from the Nightclub, tucking into her Thai-fusion salad when the ring of the bell causes her to look up. An instinctive hand along her jacket, where her well-used blades remained concealed. It’s fruitless; however, because it’s Fletcher that emerges. Likely, scouring her out after a day’s worth of reconvening. “I know you didn’t come here for fucking celery juice and veggie burgers.” Priscilla assumes, a tug of a playful smile that scarcely hid the exhaustion along her features. There was no point in hiding things from Fletcher. He knew her too well, and has seen everything from her success to disarray. “Will you sit down?” She asks, oddly softened and almost needy for companionship. It had been a long, twenty-four hours. “I don’t really want to be alone right now, but...” She glances outside the window, the view of the Nightclub still firmly in view - as always. “I don’t think I can head back just yet.”

Horrid. Absolutely horrid. Although, the club attendees would have not noticed a darn thing. This great pitch she had brought to Priscilla months ago to host a Valentine's Day themed night seemed like an easy job. Switching up the music that evening with a salsa-styled tracks was a calculated marketing move. One that certainly would work well in the club’s favor. Yet, for the first time in an incredibly longtime, Mia felt off her groove. Being up on stage behind the booth was her safe space. A place where she freely could do whatever she wanted without the judgment, critiques, comments, and concerns of others.  

It had come natural to her at this point that even on nights where she felt slightly ill, she could power through and perform a damn well near perfect set. Able to tap into that headspace came with ease, but tonight felt like she was climbing Mount Everest. Song after song, couple after couple, with the genre in the air, made her feel sick to her stomach. Considering last night’s events, she wasn’t even sure how she was operating now. The sense of relief when she completed her set for the night’s festivities was a huge sigh of relief. Micro mistakes were smoothly corrected throughout the performance; only those with a very keen eye or who were big fans of Mia could have been the only one to have noticed. She would just shake it off, help herself to a cocktail and just breathe. Unfortunately for her, Priscilla was approaching, and Mia honestly did not want to say a damn word to the woman. They’re the whole reason she’s in this mess to begin with. “I know. I know. It was shit.”   @accordingtopris

-

Hers was a sharpened aptitude for details. The difference between success and failure, hinging on the most minute of factors. From the exact number of ice cubes in a gin and tonic, to the specific orange pill bottles used in Pestilence’s enterprises - Priscilla notices it all. Her moniker as Queen of the Underworld  was hard-earned, and if the price was a scrupulous eye? So be it. She watches, amidst the frenzies fray of the Nightclub, for signs of dissatisfaction. The turmoil of the gang war, hitting the Nightclub’s bottom line swiftly and surely. Losses would be recuperated that night, so long as all was up to snuff. Her ears peak at the slight scratch of the record. A small, but poignant mistake for someone as refined as Mia herself.

The wonderfully talented DJ was one of her successes. Stolen from a rival clubs, and foisted as one of Pest’s most beloved entertainers. Beyond her business value, was a doll of a woman. An easy friendship, wherein Priscilla did not have to live up to her own impossibly high standards. She could simply be the gung ho, nightclub manager with a penchant for American television, yoga, and vegan eats. Gone were those days, and the slight curl in Mia’s expressions reminds her as much. She stomachs the maternal fear that gnaws at her. There was no room for guilt in this trade, and she settles beside Mia carefully. “It was.” No point in lying. Priscilla was always frank with her words, especially where Mia was concerned. “But you’ll do better tomorrow.” She sighs, nudging the bartender for a glass of water. “And I’m not just talking about the set, but the mission as well. It gets better.” It may not be of comfort to Mia, after all that Priscilla wrought onto her life, but she says it none the less. Biting her inner lip, she glances away, looking to bridge the divide between them. “Did you bring a date?” She asks conversationally. It’s a testimony to Mia, really, that Priscilla would deign to try even when her company was wholly unwanted.

For Remus Warden, holding a firearm is second nature, the grip of a gun in his hand comforting and familiar, something that reminds him of his mother and all her steely commandeering. Only thirteen when she first hands him a pistol, the weight heavy in his hands, but soon enough he comes to equate the cold machinery with power. That’s all he feels now, pressing the barrell to Priscilla Rubin’s forehead — there is power here, and Remus is high off of it. The sly smile that spreads across her lips, though, threatens this rush, makes Remus begin to question himself and the methods he deems as concrete, foolproof. To Remus, Pestilence is full of fucking rats, and their beloved Queen of the Underworld is about to prove to him as much. 

Finger twitches against trigger, eager to make the minute movement that would murder Priscilla in detached, swift action, marking this operation complete. But Gabrielle has made this much clear — this mission is about territory, yes, and taking Pestilence’s headquarters is the ultimate goal, but there’s value in reconnaissance, too, his mother’s low French on repeat and repeat in his mind: Découvre ce que cachent ces salauds, Remmy. Find out what those bastards are hiding. And with the way she so freely laughs in the face of certain death, Remus knows there’s a joke here he’s not getting. 

“What the hell is AP Chemistry,” Remus seethes, his eyebrows furrowing, watching carefully as Priscilla shifts against desk. No fucking sudden movements, if she flinches too fast she’s fucking dead, intel gathered or not. She’s on about her school marks and university applications and it’s wearing Remus’ already thin patience thinner, his blood beginning to boil beneath tactical gear. “Shut your fucking mouth,” he finally spits, lips pressed together in funny annoyance. “Is this how you normally act when men come into your office to kill you?” His eyes flit around the room, growing more and more paranoid as Priscilla’s confidence seems to grow instead of waver — at first, he considers the possibility that she may have a death wish ( which, who can blame her, knowing the fucking filth she works for ) , but then other grim ideas dawn on him. It comes in handy when you’re in a rush. Oh.

Coy question from the mouth of the Queen goes unanswered for a moment; there’s a distinct tingling in Remus’ fingers that he at first attests to adrenaline, coursing through his veins and making muscles twitch at the threat of action. But a glance down at his hands brings genuine shock — the nose of the gun lifts off of Priscilla’s forehead slightly as he’s distracted. Hands are puffing up, swelling fast, turning red and ballooning. In fact, his trigger finger can barely fit in place anymore — Remus begins wiggling his fingers madly to try to loosen the grip. “What the fuck, what the fuck,” he repeats, stepping back from his hold on the woman at her own desk. Mere seconds pass and Remus realizes his hands have gone completely numb, rendered useless as they go unresponsive to his attempts to move them. Shotgun falls from his hands and clatters against the floor, Remus unable to catch it, and he’s officially out his fucking mind, knocked from his violent element. 

Backing away from desk towards still open door, Remus reaches towards boot, struggling to lift up his trouser cuff to get the knife strapped to ankle — he can’t feel his fingers and the reddened skin burns and itches as he moves. His mind whirrs, trying to collect his thoughts and weave them into strategy, but sheer, blind panic makes his head feel rubbery. Maybe he could run outside, flee and make it back to Solomon and Kashvi — they have firearms, they have fingers to pull triggers, could gun Priscilla down if he manages to lure her outside. Fuck it; it’s his best option, his only option at this point, practically unarmed and at severe disadvantage to this fight. Remus turns on his heels and sprints out the office door, knowing Priscilla is almost certain to follow. 

-

He was not the first man to put a gun to her head, and threaten to unload his chamber into her skull. By her count (and Priscilla always kept count, meticulously scribbled in one of her little notebooks) he was at least the twentieth. Such was the climb when one built a career in London’s underground. Hers was not a rags-to-riches story, of a scrappy young bookworm shattering a glass ceiling. Not a ‘girl boss’ with inspirational quotes lining her office, and talk of ‘having it all’ in between power brunches and krav maga. It was forged on being powerless, desperate, and having everything to lose. A killer instinct that came with ensuring that it was she, who would survive after the cool dead of night saw the warmth of sunrise. Temperance is her virtue - and she does not go act at the first opportunity to undo him.

It is tempting, though. Distraction runs ragged through those crystalline blue eyes, scarcely backlit by Priscilla’s monitors. Quick recognition as her feathered words draw implication, and she is almost duly impressed by such deduction. Priscilla bites her inner cheek, feeling the wavering confidence of the cold pistol against her forehead. She could overpower him now, as his hands turn sickeningly thick. Mitzi did not oversell her toxin - it truly did work wonders, in fractions of a second. But her quick assessment knows that gun fire, least of all in the manager’s office, would only pull the attention of both their ranks. If she’s lucky - it’s Fazal or anyone of her ranks, coming to ensure the Queen of the Underworld’s survival. But if she wasn’t - she’d find herself in another fight. One where the odds would fall outside of her favor.

Priscilla is not a gambling woman - but caution decides for her, and she merely shrugs. As his eyes trace along his numbed hands, she finally answers his question. “No,” she says simply, lips twisted into a fine line. “It’s not usually this fun. Or easy.” She adds insult to injury, having learned the Warden’s egoistic dispositions by now. Years spent in an observational capacity, allowing her to distinguish the extent of their egos. It was almost as powerful as their need for violence. Almost. The gun falls to the floor, and she knows now that the affects of the concoction have rendered him numb. Remus is quick - thundering out of her office, tail tucked in between his legs. Without missing a beat, she follows swiftly.

The lights remained shut off and as she follows him down a corridor, her unparalleled familiarity acts as her guide. Priscilla knew just how many steps it took to make it to the centerfold, to the backroom, and what obstacles were in place. She decides, then, that the cautious method of success would come by taking it outside of the Nightclub. Spotting him head straight first down the long corridor, she makes a bee line through the backroom, running speedily until a she emerges from a secondary door. Cutting him off right at his tracks, and using her agility to lunge at him from behind. Jumping on his back with her legs resting on his sides, and pressing the power of her elbow right into the crux of his shoulder. She pulls him to the ground, and before a peep of contention can be made, Priscilla grips a handful of his hair and slams his head onto the cool floor. “Don’t be a little chicken shit. Aren’t you gonna finish what you started?” With a wry smirk, she gestures towards the door leading into the alley. “Assholes first.”

PEST NIGHTCLUB  /  THE SEVENTEENTH of FEBRUARY / @accordingtopris​

Frankly, Remus thinks this plan is shit — but then again, maybe he’s just bitter, already-damaged pride only further bruised when he and Kashvi present their detailed, long-term strategy for retribution against Pestilence to Gabrielle Warden, who hardly has ears to listen to her eldest son or his plucky friend. She doesn’t care for their slow burning plan of staging overdoses and linking them back to Pestilence Labs, having neither time nor patience to wait; no, open warfare is always better, raining bullets down on their precious club, taking their territory as War’s shining trophy. But the labs would be a bigger, better, prize, Remus thinks, unable to scrub the thoughts and forming strategies from his brain. It should be enough that Gabrielle still names him the leader, handing Operation Erebus and its assigned crews all over to Remus. This is his mother’s game, though, and Remus won’t dare tell her that the whole fucking plan feels fucking rushed and it has him antsy, on-edge, unnerved on the battleground where he normally excels. In action, he can do nothing for his crew but wait for his own signal, and when the members of War disperse, sounds of gunfire and screams ring out like warnings.

Guarded by the chaos that surrounds him, Remus is through back door and into the depths of the club. The bowels of PEST are empty except for the stray corpses littering the dance floor, some bodies donned in riot gear denoting gang allegiance, others left to bleed all over their nice party outfits before meeting their end, untimely or otherwise. Remus harbors no sympathies for these dead, takes no time to see if he recognizes any of these faces, finding casualties of War, but instead navigates the maze of bodies to move further into enemy territory. It’s his piece of Gabrielle’s plan, to track down that pesky fucking manager and get her to surrender, dead or alive. From her reputation, Remus knows he has his work cut out for him — but he doubts even scrappy fucking Priscilla Rubin will be very bold with her beloved club under invasion, the barrel of a gun in her face.

So he swings her office door open, weapon drawn, a Bellum branded semi-automatic shotgun with enough firepower to get his point across — with two hands, Remus aims the nose directly at Priscilla, who looks like she’s been waiting for his arrival like he’s her late fucking date, leaning calmly against her desk. “It’s over. Get on the fucking ground,” he seethes, steps inching Remus forward, moving slowly in order to anticipate her defense. His mind whirrs, processing information: it’s a small, dark room with few places to hide, bullets will ricochet off walls and furniture, making every shot a risk in itself. “You’re the same to me dead or alive, so it’s your choice.” He moves forward, but she remains still, that same eerie half-smile on her face; it pisses Remus off enough for him to lunge the few extra steps at her suddenly, finally pressing cool steel of firearm to her forehead — “Last chance to surrender before I gun you down.”

But instead of surrendering, she laughs. “What about this is so fucking funny to you?”

-

Predictable in their blood lust, the ear-splitting sound of gun shots cut through the latest remix and wrought panic shrieks in its wake. It was a warning call, and one quick glance outside of her office window confirms her suspicions - War had come to join in on the festivities. Any fool with half a brain would look to Pestilence’s holy grail. The symbolic nightclub would make for a prized trophy, on any Horseman’s mantle. Unfortunately for War, their Warden Virtue showed their hand a week prior. The scabbed cut along her pale cheek, a physical reminder of Saint Warden’s vicious warning. But more importantly - of War’s plans. The threat was clear, but the target was confirmed by his surveillance. And what was Priscilla, but not a woman who laid into the side of caution? Days and night spent in close conversation with her Powers and Angels, maneuvering and altering the club’s to their advantage. From dummy trucks filled with baking powder, to renewed escape routes - they simply lay in wait for the inevitable.

She is fast to abandon the fashion of the night, her irresponsibly expensive Jimmy Choo’s strewn aside in favor of her beloved, worn Converse. They could take the girl out of America, but they couldn’t take the American out of the girl. Fast on her feet, as she relays with the Pestilence members in residence. The scent of gunpowder and blood, scarcely overpowering the liquor and sweat. But it prevails - Pestilence always does. The commands are set, but she doesn’t make for the dance floor. After all, they didn’t just come for the Nightclub. No, they came for Priscilla. It was one and the same, and Saint’s vengeance ensured a target on her back. She returns to her office, digging into the vault and securing Mitzi Zhang’s latest concoction. With a gloved hand, she acts quick, drenching the outside handle. The only question now was who would come to her ebony tower.

Her dark knight is revealed as Remus Warden, and the poignant irony is enough to solicit a halfhearted smile. His Bellum Nova pistol is raised to her, as she remains poised against her desk. Breathe steady and eyes dancing with mirth, as the eldest Warden pushes into her office. Unlike his younger brother, he was not unhinged mania. There’s a calculation in his movements, assessing the situation just as Priscilla would. A worthier opponent, some might say. But the Virtue had been in the business of vice and addiction for many years now. Even from across the Savoy Hotel, or her post at the Nightclub - she could sniff out a client from a mile away. There’s a throaty laugh, as his threat resonates through the room. The coolness of his pistol, scarcely ending her laughter.

“Shit, I shouldn’t laugh. It’s really not that funny.” She says, almost apologetic as her shoulders shake with cold humor. It could have been anyone - but a War Seraphim? Now that was a prize, that Michaela Pinkett would laud in praise for days to come. “You know, I almost flunked AP Chemistry? I thought, hey, I should take it. It would look good on the college app. But you know what? Never really got my head around it.” She kisses her teeth, relaxing further against the desk. “But now? Shit. It comes in handy when you’re in a rush.” She squints her eyes, tilting her head against the loaded gun. An inspecting eye, as she glances at his hand. “How are you feeling, Mister Warden?”

.

For the first time in a very long time, Ricardo Perez had considered the idea of having a lazy day. Stay in bed until noon, not change into street clothes, eat only what was ready made or could be delivered while staring vacantly at the television until dozing off without having done a thing. A little over a day after the fight and his whole body hurt. From the newly-done stitches on his leg, to the dull ache at the back of his head, to the way his ribs hurt in an unnerving way when he breathed. But physical damage heals, damage to his reputation would not. Black shirt and pants in case he stars bleeding again, a jacket that settles perfectly on his shoulders, sturdy silver rings that glinted on his fingers. At least some of the bruises could be hidden under carefully applied makeup, and the others would simply have to be borne.

The nightclub is packed, but the crowd parts slightly to let him through as he makes his way to where the club orbits Priscilla. There is no need to push or shove, just a calm aura about him that makes it clear no touching is allowed. It’s good to be back among the steady thrum of people, even if many of those people are wasted idiots. He can see the money changing hands, picture the spreadsheets of resources that can be applied to what they’ll need to deal with this shit. The machine runs on and on.

He stops by Priscilla, leaning slightly against the bar with a controlled sense of purpose. His ribs groan again and he bites back a wince. No blood in the water tonight. He has to be perfect. “As I assumed,” he shoots back with a quiet chuckle. “I said, ‘Oh, how I would love to bring someone to a nightclub on Valentine’s Day, but Priscilla needs to use me as gold-digging bait.’” He glances down for just a moment as her hand runs its gentle path across his collar, then looks back up to meet her eyes. His voice drops slightly, but the image of calm and collected never leaves. “Pissed, mostly. My ribs aren’t too happy either.” He surveys the crowd for just a moment before he continues. “I want her gone. We cannot let this slide.” 

-

It seemed only fitting that Ricardo would make his grand stand in Pest’s ethereal nightclub. The showmanship and symbolism isn’t lost on Priscilla, and a humored thought passes on the lighting’s effectiveness. If Ricardo had informed her of his unexpected visit, she could very well re-caliber the lights to emphasize his message. One that is painfully clear, as the sweaty and impassioned bodies part to make way for him. It was meant to be a presentation of strength. A reminder that Famine’s blows scarcely landed, and Ricardo was more than able to partake in the glittering festivities. As far as coping mechanisms go, it certainly beat the hell out of laying in wait. She should laud him for his bravado and strength, but a maternal instinct (or so she chooses to call the lingering race of her pulse, in his presence) stops her. Dark eyes dart along his physique, making note of where his joints appeared tight or constrained. A telling deduction, that told him exactly where he hurt - apart from the wounded ego, that seemingly prevailed.

“Anything for a quick buck, right?” An American colloquialism, betraying that her existence was not forged on English soil. Rather, fostered in the hardships of California’s bitter streets. “Mia’s too busy instructing, and Fazal and Fletch are nowhere to be found. But you’ll do.” She glances off, curious if the remainder of Pestilence’s ranks found their way to the event. Surely not a requirement, but given the temperature of current events, a safer way to spend the evening than others. Priscilla licks her teeth, curious eyes inevitably ending at his ribs. “A doctor would say that bed rest and chicken noodle soup is a better alternative than salsa and tequila.” It’s a lost argument, and Priscilla stops herself from making it. Was it not what she would have done, if it was her reputation and ego scarcely bruised?

“Kyung-Soon, right?” It’s a familiar name, one held in as much reverence on city streets as Priscilla’s herself. If she was the Queen of the Underworld, Kyung-Soon was Lady Luck. That said - in all her years of observing her fellow manager, luck never appeared to be relevant in her success. She was like Priscilla - and by default, it was decided that she was dangerous because of it. “She’s a smart girl.” Almost complimentary, but she turns back to Ricardo with loyal and brazen eyes. “But she’s just an Angel, and we can clip her wings before she flies too high.” Never mind that her casino competed on the Nightclub’s equivalent level, or that a promotion to Power would no doubt be within her grasp soon enough. Famine’s loyalty to their reigning family was as sickening, as it was predicable. “I doubt her business is doing any better, either. One bad hand, and she could fold.” As was the weakness of their rival’s enterprise. “We could make her fold.” An insistent hand rests along his wrist, squeezing it in reassurance. Pestilence was not made of Famine’s tiresome loyalty, or War’s insatiable wrath - but there was a reason why they were first in all things. Trailblazers that wrought a disease of thought, until a purge inevitably follows. “We won’t let that bitch get away with this.”

Location:Pest Nightclub

Timestamp: February 18, afternoon

With: @accordingtopris

“Jesus.” It slipped out almost involuntarily as she stepped inside of Pest - tried to register the damage that had been wrought to the space. She had been there less than twenty-four hours before, and even though some cleanup had been done, it was far from the shining place she recalled. Shattered windows, charred marks in the front pavement. Even some blood had tried on the floor. She stood in the doorway and just tried to absorb it all before she heard one of the doors open upstairs, someone descending, tense before she saw Priscilla coming.

“You were here last night,” she mused aloud, more a statement than a question to the woman who had informally become her trainer over the last few weeks. She knew Priscilla well enough that that she knew the Virtue would have been present. “Are you alright?” And then after a beat, she took a step closer, away from the battered door back door. “What happened?”

-

The nightclub was an extension of Priscilla herself. Every withered coat of paint and creaky floorboard, as familiar to her as her own skin. She lived and died by the illicit walls of the establishment, almost mirroring its mood. Odd as it was to be so in tune with a structure, but Priscilla no longer questioned her attachment to it. It mirrors her mood, as she works through the fall out. The task of cleaning the mess, left to the hired cleaning crew and trusted inner circle. Her eye was keenly on their loading docks, jotting down notes for a renewed structure of delivery. She steps away from the monitors, combat boots against the slick floors. No matter the clean up, the bloodshed still felt warm against the soles of her boots. There’s a small hum at the sight of Victoria Pinkett. The newly integrated member of Pestilence’s fold, standing in confusion at the waste laid upon their beloved nightclub.

“I’m here every night.” Priscilla reminds her astutely. The Virtue took pride in her work, and the events of the previous evening left a sour taste in her mouth. Dark circles barely concealed, as she drops to Victoria’s side. “I’m fine. The club, on the other hand...” She shakes her head, kicking a strewn bottle that lit aflame to the dance floor to the side. “We won.” Hers was never a positive outlook. A realist, through and through. But in this case, it’s key for Victoria know it first and foremost. “At great cost.” She adds afterwards, the glean of blood on the floors looking misplaced in the sheen of the Nightclub. “At least a handful of our guests died, the rest are badly injured. I can only imagine what’s on social media now. Or, fuck, on the news.”

The cynic in Priscilla Rubin vouched for an evening of debauchery and escapism, to the tune of EDM and married with an obscenely over-priced cover charge. There would be more than enough twenty-somethings looking to drown the festivities in bad decisions, and copious amounts of alcohol. But to her DJ’s well-argued point; Valentine’s Day, in its Hallmark pomp and circumstance, was a commercial triumph. Why bother with the volume and expense of a crowded club night, when a number of couples could do the trick? Higher margins, lower cost, and a steady marketing gimmick to proper Pest’s reputation. The ruin of the alliance was not kind to their day-to-day pockets, and gimmicks such as these would offset any losses ever since.

Yes, it was a well argued point. And after stubborn refusal, the Nightclub manager inevitably relented. What was the sin in capitalizing on something as fictitious as romance? Priscilla debased herself many times over, in the company of spoiled-rotten trust fund kids, making polite conversation. To simply stand and watch, while peddling four hundred pound bottles of Bordeaux? It was child’s play. A mere scuff on an otherwise very minimal ego. The brunette watches the dancers move, under the canopy of red and pink lights. One shoulder against a nearby poll, as she calculates the numbers so early into the evening. Such calculations foregone; however, as the familiar Dominion weaves through the crowds. A curious shift in her red soled heels, the unmistakable presence of Ricardo emphasized by the strobe lights. Tall and decisive, as the scent of familiar cologne floods her senses. It felt like Ricardo always existed in media res, in the middle of her life. Present and warm, yet quick to burn or fizzle when the situated demanded it.

“Don’t tell me you came without a date.” Priscilla huffs, mock disappointment rolling off her tongue. Long, manicured red nails glazing along the collar of his shirt. “Actually, it might be a good thing. I can get one of these snooty divorces to spend double if I say you’re a dance instructor.” Mirthful jokes aside, she drops her hand to the side, the warmth of her humor softening in the name of concern. “How are you feeling?”