𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐮𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐧.

“As if they would allow me to wear anything else to an event like this.” Milo mused back. Not that anything his sibling said would stop him from doing what he wanted, when it came to fashion he did not argue with an expert. Just like he would not argue artillery with a Warden. “Oh, I can definitely get you in with them. If anything, I’ll give up one of my standing appointments. It’s not like I actually need another suit.” A light chuckle fell from him. It wouldn’t stop him, by any means. Call him spoiled, but he quite enjoyed having someone from the fashion industry in the family. If he could share that perk with an old friend, it was all the better. Especially considering his main expertise was no longer in the cards for Remus. Not a bad thing, quite the opposite. All fun and games until someone gets addicted. Then it becomes a problem and that’s not something he wished on anyone, least of all a friend. Even if it did contradict how his fortune was made. He’d much rather distribute pleasure in small doses to the masses than leave someone with a monkey on their back. 

The blonde was quick to shake his head at the mere idea of indoctrination by a band of idiots in skull masks. “Abso-fuckin’-lutely not. Bloody scum, the lot of them.” He scoffed it out with an extra bit of venom. The scowl quickly softened when the next words left the other Seraphim. He wondered if Juno would enter their conversation. Milo had witnessed a lot of death in his thirty odd years on earth. So much that he’d become numb to it, as just another part of business like paperwork. Not that one, that death would stay with him for a long while. He could not begin to imagine what effects it had on War and the Wardens. “While I enjoyed our previous truce, and yes I am well aware I am affiliated with those who broke it, this doesn’t sit well with me. They need to atone for what they did to your family.” He placed a hand on the other man’s shoulder and gave it a light squeeze in an attempt to show what comfort he could offer. As if there was anything he could say or do that would ease the pain of that loss. He sincerely wished there was anything he could do and should the opportunity arise, best believe he’d be there to offer his support. Even if it didn’t include the support of Pestilence, in this single instance. 

He swallowed the lingering poison of the previous topic with a sip of gin and welcomed a new string of conversation. “Honestly, not as much as you’d think. I did hear about the campaign, of course. But, I’ve been so buried under bullshit, I haven’t had the time to keep up with everyone like I used to.” A shame really, he felt like he used to know so much more of what was happening across rival lines and the city. Now he needed to rely on other sources to stay informed where he could no longer linger in the shadows and listen. It was bound to happen eventually, and that was why they had Dominions and advisors at the end of the day. “From what I have heard, most think it’s a bold move- which it is. I think the rest is just envy. With all the ties you all have, I am sure you’ll do just fine.” His lips twisted into a smile. “Don’t think Pierce is a name that can help in that area but you need some word out to the working class, let me know.” A genuine sense of happiness formed in his features when he heard the confirmation of the family his friend was forming. Perhaps a bit of envy underlying the grin that was followed by a matching gulp from his own glass. “Good. Congratulations, you deserve all of it Rem. I mean that.” 

A sigh fell when the question turned to him. “All work and very little play for me. Though Pierce is expanding their reach into South America, through some clients in Mexico. Pest, is Pest and Pinketts are Pinketts. Trying to get the crown a bit less tarnished before I get an ego about it.” A breath of a laugh followed because while he would love to get into the details, that wasn’t possible between them. “Other than that, I’ve been looking into some new business ventures of my own but I haven’t gotten them fully sorted yet. Dad’s been nagging me to settle down with someone, but I think he’s just gettin’ sentimental in his old age.” Milo shook his head and finished his drink at the thought of carrying on the Pierce name. He didn’t even know where to start with that one. 

—

They need to atone to what they did to your family. A simple sentence, a sentiment uttered a hundred thousand times by a hundred thousand different mouths across enemy lines. No one outside their ranks would dare defend Death’s actions, no one can justify the recorded and treacherous killing of Juno Warden, all her family’s sins aside. Words like these ring hollow over time, sympathy doing nothing to quell the family’s worries or losses. But when Milo says it, Remus does find comfort; outside of his own family, he is one of the only people Remus still respects. He gives a solemn nod in response, washing down his initial reaction with the cold drink, suddenly thankful that the noise of the party nearly drowns out their voices. “I still can’t believe she’s gone,” he says, stuck reliving crystal clear memories of his little sister in all her grace and sophistication. Mangled with emotions, Remus feels everything from sadness to anger to relief to guilt to grief in each mention of her name. It takes the support of a recently returned wife to keep Remus from turning to old coping habits, powders and pills that will only pull him down further into despair — is this what Milo thinks he wants now? “In a strange way, it’s made Saint and I closer. We’re not at each other’s fuckin’ throats anymore,” he says with forced laughter, knowing Milo was a witness to the youngest Warden’s rise to infamy, and Remus’ jealousy brewing in response. 

Two old friends, each a prince in their own right, inheriting their own corners of the empire of London and all the responsibilities that come with it. “Oh trust me, I get it,” he laughs, more genuine this time. If there’s one thing Remus Warden always needs more of, it’s time; stretched between Bellum and War and the campaign and preparing for the birth of their children, Remus hardly has time to play catch up with acquaintances — Milo is, as usual, the exception. “It certainly is a bold move, but then again, that’s why I did it. I’m no politician, which is exactly what the people want. It’s time for some fucking change.” He says it simply, unbothered by all the buzzing press, it’s nothing new to Remus anyway. “Well,” he starts, ever the strategist, “even if you can’t help me, it’s very likely we can help you.” Thoughts of his brother’s new Archangel security plans run through his mind. “If elected, I’ll have industry leverage where it matters.” Pharmaceutical regulations, fixed prices on common medications, things to have a hand stretch into other territories. “Have to work with Parliament to check off the to-do list, of course, but money always fucking talks.”

Able to recognize a fellow man stretched paper-thin, Remus nods in knowing response. “That’s quite far from home,” he murmurs, swirling drink absentmindedly in hand as he considers the logistics of managing business that widespread. “And you’re doing this through proxy, or does this mean you’re traveling these days?” A question asked out of curiosity over his old friend and a desire for intel from Pestilence’s Seraphim. Remus leans closer to his friend, pushing the words carefully out his mouth, though he smirks as he does it. “Do you still think Michaela will give it to you, or will you have to take it for yourself?”

SAMIR: Hello Mr. Warden, it's Samir. There's been a situation.

[ Samir took a breath and glanced around the cafe ]

SAMIR: Solomon and I had a meeting with Gabrielle this morning and we were drugged, we came to about ten minutes ago.

SAMIR: The staff is all unconscious still and Gabrielle is missing.

[ he paused there, lips pressed together, his hand moving to scrub through his hair while he waited for the response from his Horseman's eldest son and Seraphim ]

//

[ Only just now settling into his Bellum Nova office for the morning, the last thing he expects is a phone call from Samir, who is supposedly busy with the bimonthly security review with Maman herself — but the sound of his voice gives everything away. In hasty tone, Remus speaks.]

REMUS: Go on, go on.

[ There's no sitting still while the news is delivered; Remus paces as they talk. Immediately suspicious of one of the other gangs, he wastes no time getting into the important questions. ]

REMUS: Fucking Christ. Where are you?

REMUS: Don't leave there without getting the fucking CCTV footage. Tell Solomon to handle the staff.

[ Putting his War-dedicated cell phone on speaker, Remus nabs his personal phone off his desk, firing off semi-panicked messages to Saint and Rita. ]

It’s not often that Saint had considered his future. Not really, when he was the sort to pride himself on his reckless ambition, the idiocy of the acts he performs piling sins so high that he’d surely been doomed from the moment his finger twitched on a trigger and claimed the first of many lives to be taken at the hands of the Warden’s youngest son. Because victory and War must come before everything, and it’s the notion that keeps him breathing, keeps him hungry enough to become a ravenously dangerous man with the will to carry out dreadful deeds in his Maman’s name. And yet it’s not the blood that coats his hands that scared him, its the prospect of loss, of losing, of that dreadful feeling when victory slips through his fingers and he’s left instead to face the daunting void in his chest that becomes more and more hollow over time. As if with each passing year, he carves out a piece of himself to ensure he could survive, so that Gabrielle could look at him and deem him worthy of a crown someday.

But mentality and impulse control are a fragile thing, when only twenty-four hours ago, he’d been holding a loaded gun to his head, and tempting fate to take his life in the name of proving a point. Saint hadn’t been thinking of the future then, either, not enough to regard himself worthy of such a luxury. Old age feeling just as ridiculous of a concept as the Easter Bunny or Father Christmas as he watches those around him die, experiences Juno’s murder on the flicker of an old TV screen, where her only legacy is gasped from tired lungs in the delicate wish that she’d be avenged. So life is a precious thing, evidently, worth more value than the millions his family is worth, or the silver armour they wear, decorated in the blood spill of sparkling faceted rubies. So he’d glanced up at his brother, quietly observant as always, as green eyes focus in on the other’s features. Neat facial hair, clear skin, and a healthy spark returned solidly Remus’s blue gaze, and he’s grateful. Thankful for his older brother, who even in their conflicts, had perpetually, and would undoubtedly always, be his sibling and protector.

“I’ll launch the app first. Get enough people downloading that they trust the company and the product. When people like something they’ll buy the add-ons, it’s human nature. With the app off the ground, I’ll have the money to start manufacturing the cameras first,” Saint’s attention returns to his notebook, flicking to a page filled with the estimation of costs, and materials. “And in terms of trust, it’s a fair point. I’m working with Kai, but once we’re looking at mass production and building a worthy relationship with a manufacturer, well…” he pauses with a shrug, criminal ways leaking through in all plans and concepts. After all, if you had a weapon, they’d always been taught to use it. “We know the game well. We find the right fuckers, lure them in with a shiny career and a plaque on their fucking door. Then we put a gun in their hands and have them pledge themselves to War in the name of their new lifestyle. Easy,” Saint grins, a charismatic air to his tone, as there always had been when the topic turns to the corrupt inner mechanisms of all their business venture’s DNA.

In an uncommon display of consideration and respect, rather than roll his eye’s at Remus’s advice, Saint is prompt to note it down. ‘HACKERS’, a pen scrawls the quotation upon a blank page of his notebook, as his head nods encouragingly in agreement, and a double underline punctuates the importance of the suggestion. “Manufacturers and hack- oh fuck off,” the pen returns to the table, as Saint scowls down at his soup and back to his brother. The remark of an unbalanced diet is no new thing to be accused of by Remus, among his lack of a skincare routine, and dangerous driving, of course his sibling finds an opportunity to prod at something when the opportunity arose. “It’s tomato soup and bread, there’s definitely fucking nutrients in a bloody tomato,” thus returns the roll of his eyes, his spoon dunking into red liquid and shoveled into his mouth almost out of spite. Then as a small plate of roasted brussel sprouts is pushed his way, Saint holds back a grimace, and fights the urge to grab one of the small green spheres and launch it at his brother’s forehead.

“Je sais. Vous avez juste besoin d'être prudent. Là où les restrictions nous restaient, elles seraient levées pour tous, et c'est une arme qui a tué Juno entre les mains d'un ennemi,” I know. You just need to be cautious. Where restrictions lift for us, they would lift for all, and it’s a gun that killed Juno in the hands of an enemy. Saint is careful as he speaks, tentative and cautious. As if handling a bomb, his finger laced through the safety pin, in the danger of a topic that had the potential to explode. “Ce que j'essaie de dire, c'est qu'il y a du pour et du contre. Les pros nous profitent énormément. Nous gagnerions une tonne d'argent, notre popularité monterait probablement en flèche et comme vous le dites, nous ne pourrions pas être arrêtés simplement pour la possession d'une arme à feu.” What I’m trying to say is there are pros and cons. The pros benefit us tremendously. We’d make a shit tonne of money, our popularity would likely skyrocket and as you say, we couldn’t get arrested merely for the possession of a firearm. “Mais il y a des inconvénients, qui doivent être aplanis. Cela pourrait potentiellement avantager les autres gangs… Je veux dire, nous ne voulons pas les armer légalement avec nos propres munitions.” But there are cons, that need ironing out. It could potentially put other gangs at an advantage… I mean we don’t want to legally arm them with our own ammunition. Saint feels lighter for saying it, in the hope that his concerns should be seen as care and not the petty jab that they might have been months prior. But now he’d only wanted to see Remus succeed, so he hums, taking the butter and spreading it onto torn open bread.

With Remus’s laughter, a smile cracks through onto Saint’s lips, grinning and exchanging the other’s joy with a chuckle of his own. One that is only silenced by a mouthful of bread and a shrug of his shoulders. “The fucker had it coming. He was talking shit and being a hypocrite, he was practically begging for me to go and piss on his parade.” With an exhale, his posture straightens, praise earned in the solid agreement that spills from his brother’s lips, faith, and enthusiasm for an idea that he’d created himself, becoming more and more real with every person within War he’d approached and been greeted with an open hand. “Thank you, Rem,” gratitude shows in the loss of words, the subtle shock that still resounds from the pair working together. And so in a display of his appreciation, Saint grabs his own fork and willingly eats one of the brussel sprouts hurdled his way. Washing big brother’s concern away with the willing consumption of something leafy and green. “Yeah, I love you too. Just don’t make me sound like a prick in this proposal, ok?” With that, Saint holds his hand out to Remus, signet ring with family crest gleaming in the lowlit bar to be shaken on, “Deal.” 

—

“Yeah, apps are good. Anyone who’s anyone has a fucking app, might as well start there,” he says over the rim of his wine glass, finishing off the first glass as he listens. Once War has a way into the phones of the average citizen, they have an eye and ear into their lives too — a taste of life in a carefully hidden mass surveillance state would do wonders in furthering their future prime minister’s political agenda, creating fear amongst London to keep Wardens in profit and power. “If I were you,” which is typically an eye-roll inducing statement from out Remus Warden’s mouth, “I’d fund the app myself, out of your Bellum salary or wherever else,” as payments from out their trust funds and money made from War would do just fine, too, “and then use that data to lure in some investors. With that lot, words are nice but numbers are better.” After all, you have to spend money to make money, and paying for your own slice of empire costs that much more. Remus has no doubt in his brother’s ability to source funds, plans, or personnel, only wants to help him cut all the unnecessary middlemen out of the equation. 

Watching Saint write down notes, even underlining the important bits for emphasis makes Remus chuckle. Smug as he says it, Remus can’t help but gently tease his infamously stubborn brother a bit — “what’s this? Petit Sainty actually taking some advice? Mon dieu,” Despite the comment, he knows his brother values his opinions and ideas, or else he wouldn’t come to Remus and lay his shiny new plaything at his feet. Unwarranted nutrition or skincare advice still seems to be harder for Saint to swallow, though Remus keeps it up anyway. “Yeah, it might give you some nutrients. And heartburn.” Or maybe that’s just Remus, who’s never too far away from an antacid these days. 

These challenges that Saint raises aren’t unfounded; if Remus plans to run for the highest office in the land, he’ll have to be prepared to answer any problem with an easy solution, no matter the cost. "Avec n'importe qui d'autre au pouvoir, je serais d'accord pour dire que c'est un putain de risque. Mais rappelez-vous que ce serait nous en charge de créer les réglementations, et ce serait nous en charge de les faire appliquer. Plus d'armes dans plus de mains, oui, mais nous connaîtrons chacune d'entre elles par leur nom et leur putain de numéro de série. Nous pourrons choisir qui achètera notre produit avec tout le pouvoir du Parlement qui nous soutiendra.” With anyone else in office, I’d agree that it’s a fucking risk. But remember it’d be us in charge of creating the regulations, and it’d be us in charge of enforcing them. More guns in more hands, yes, but we’ll know every single one of them by name and fucking serial number. We’ll get to choose who buys our product with all the power of parliament backing us. Fork in hand, Remus stabs another brussel spout onto the end, pushing it around his plate. 

“Je vais créer une agence de réglementation distincte remplie de personnes dans notre poche – qui sait, peut-être qu'Astrid y trouvera un bon poste au sein du cabinet. Et avec votre nouvelle entreprise, nous pourrons garder un œil attentif sur nos clients, en veillant à ce qu'ils se comportent bien. Des restrictions plus lâches n'équivalent pas à un putain de fou.” I’ll create a separate regulatory agency filled with people in our pocket — who knows, maybe Astrid will find a nice cabinet position there. And with your new company, we’ll be able to keep a close eye on our customers, making sure they behave themselves. Looser restrictions doesn’t equal a free-for-fucking-all. Growing up under Gabrielle Warden’s watchful eyes, he’s used to having to explain himself, every action and reaction, a constant justification of why he makes every move and how it furthers his plans. Inheriting a sense of strategy from their father and iron will from Maman herself, even if a plan is off-kilter, Remus persists.

Sitting across from Saint, planning out the first fruition of their newly minted partnership, watching a new chapter of War unfold before Remus’ own eyes brings a warm feeling to his chest. What would Juno say if she were here? Every day, he can’t help but ruminate over what their effortlessly perfect sister would do in any given situation, sure to find a way to best her older brother in whatever it is he attempts. Would she be sat beside them, her own signet ring encircling her finger, promising a partnership between siblings as they work towards a common goal? He thinks of only Juno as he shakes their brother’s hand, certain that she’d be proud of Saint for taking these steps, for furthering War’s cause, proving over and over again his place as Seraphim amongst his siblings. “Well, it’s all about sounding like the right kind of prick, isn’t it? Personal brand, know your audience, that kind of shit.” Remus shrugs, busied again by pouring another glass of wine from out the bottle. He briefly holds the glass up in a humbled toast to his brother. “Vers une nouvelle ère de guerre, hm?” To a new era of War, hm?

     It seems the weapon hiccup serves to distract Remus from his aggravations, at least a bit, the crumpling water bottle cluing Domenico in that it isn’t completely dispersed. Not that he’s foolish enough to think he can deflect the stressors of the night that easily. He’s on duty and his composure expresses as much, posture straight and rigid as he remains close to the door. It’s let go enough to release a chuckle and a nod in agreement. “Desperation rarely works out for anyone,” he points out, the thought spurring him to pull his phone from his pocket just long enough to make sure Kai hasn’t tried to get a hold of him. “We did get to see him. Normally I’d be concerned with finding out what they know, but Gabrielle suggested tonight wasn’t the night to let things go. I’m going to review the footage later; I’m sure we got them on camera. I can see if their face pulls up anything more.” Toting around a live one — even knocked out — is a more difficult predicament to keep quiet, and while War has many places to keep someone captive, Domenico is almost certain the thief holds little power, little worth, and it’s not worth their time to spend hours attempting to pull information. “If they’re aligned someone important, we’ll hear about it soon enough.” If they’re a member of Death, then at the very least they’ve taken another body. 

     Remus’ voice drops when he admits he didn’t think he’d have competition so close to home and Domenico feels for him, a pang of sympathy wavering his equanimity, brows drawing together momentarily as he watches his Seraphim. While no one can argue Astrid doesn’t have the talent and ambition, she’s War, and Remus her Seraphim. Whatever she had with Juno doesn’t counter that and the Dominion will stand beside Remus through it all, backing him in every way possible on his path to Parliament. “Do you even know if she wants it? It’s not competition if they aren’t competing.” Perhaps it isn’t his place to say, revealed when he tilts his head back toward the door to listen for any activity, his phone back out as he checks his texts, thumbing an icon to pull up the app that displays the footage from around the hotel. Dark irises search the screen, every square, enlarging them one by one to get a better view, and once he’s satisfied, he closes it down, knowing the cameras in the back halls will alert him at the sight of any movement. 

     “It’s my job to make sure you make it through, isn’t it? And I’m quite good at my job,” he quips, a gentle smile subtly stretching his lips before he continues, “Would you like me to have another shirt brought up? Something less constricting?” He knows it doesn’t have anything to do with the turtleneck, but it’s an option nonetheless, and Domenico will do anything he can to make the night more bearable for Remus. If only he can squash the other man’s anxiety altogether; an impossible feat, no matter the target, though Domenico’s never let the word impossible stop him from trying. There’s a flutter the Dominion ignores at the mention of Cemile and he’s glad to hear she’s occupied, even better that it’s right up her alley — a PR wet dream — and Domenico matches Remus’ laugh, because who else could possibly be entertained by a PR nightmare except for Cemile? At his question, Domenico consciously keeps his features neutral, wondering if Remus’ heard about the night the two of them spent together. It isn’t hard from a man who functions from a place of logical stoicism, and he nods firmly, smile brightening slightly in assurance before he repeats, “She is quite good at her job.”

“Takes massive fucking balls to try and steal from us in broad daylight,” Remus says, voice distant as his mind drifts away, distracted again by reddened thoughts of that fucking MP, of fucking Astrid. It’s not like he didn’t expect comparisons, questions over her long-lived relationship with his sister, where they stand now — he doesn’t expect open support for a campaign in the lobby of his own fucking hotel. The crinkling water bottle is set down to be forgotten as Remus rises from seat atop table to stand, taking a few absent-minded steps across the room. He reminds himself not to pace, a nervous habit that Gabrielle tried her best to wean her son off of. "Fire the rest of the civilian security team, clearly they aren’t worth the money I fucking pay for them. I’ll have Cem start looking for their replacements immediately,” Remus says, forcing himself back into necessary conversation. “Wait,” from his place at the other side of the green room, he stops, turning to face Domenico head on. “You got the weapon back, though, yes?” A fucking nightmare of intellectual property rights, liability issues, and profit losses if Kai’s handiwork slips from their hands.

A visceral reaction follows Domenico’s words of wisdom: It’s not competition if they aren’t competing. His voice grows heavy with frustration. “It is though,” Remus says, feeling petulant even as he says it, reminded of all the time spent looking after little siblings only to help shape them into his eventual competitors. “It’s all just a game, everyone’s settled on picking their friend for best in fucking show." Whether or not any of those ancient, war-profiteering incumbents consider the youthful Astrid Hunter their friend is a question yet to be answered. He catches the sight of a mirror as he paces, deciding to busy his racing mind by suddenly analysing his appearance — is it just these terrible fucking fluorescents, or are those fine lines getting worse? “Lucky for us, money makes for fast friends,” Remus says, voice a bit softer as he runs his hands through his hair, fixing the unruly curls that begin to break from their proper place. A pause, as Remus examines a new patch of fine, silver hairs he hasn’t noticed before. A sigh before he continues on, “and today is all about making the investors happy, so they give us more money, so we can buy more air time to slander the opponents, yadda-fucking-ya.” Said mostly to remind himself, it’s an important goal considering Remus runs on a largely self-funded campaign, money pooled from inheritance and a rather generous Bellum Nova salary to be pushed towards his party.