Annoyed by the waitresses’ timing, he listens to his brother chirp away in polite thanks to the waitress for the wine. Remus himself is quiet as she lingers, mulling over his thoughts and the freshly poured merlot. This is Saint’s first real chance to carve out his a piece of carnal London for himself, a chance to grab hold of something tangible and more steadfast than a simple act of violence — something other than what can be easily shoved away under the guise of ‘horrid gang violence’ in the news. These lofty goals of Saint’s will be accomplished as a pair, no doubt, like they’d agreed; With the two Warden brothers at the helm and all of War at their command, it truly seems anything is possible. Mind moving a hundred miles a minute, he swishes wine in mouth absentmindedly before swallowing, glad that the waitress is finally fucking gone. “No, silly,” Remus says, setting his glass on the table. “That’s Zach. They’d fucking dance for us if only we asked them to.” Sad, but perhaps true, their eager little cousin always looking to impress.
As much as Remus loves to see his brother’s sudden enthusiasm, he can’t help his own nature, launching into logistics and planning even before the first pitch is over. “Yeah, manufacturing is a fucking undertaking, what’s your plan?” Eyebrows furrow together. Remus doesn’t doubt his brother has ideas of his own, but from his own experience navigating their relationship with a manufacturer… “You’ll want to work out your own startup, I assume, so you’ll need plenty of consultants on your side. You’d better start the search for your dream team now, especially if you want to find someone you can actually fucking trust for anything.” Someone they could potentially pull into War, make them an Angel by sudden decree, thus sworn to silence. Sullen French from out little brother’s mouth pulls Remus from his whirlwind of logistics and planning, the reminder of their sister fucking stolen, fucking murdered, paraded around like a fucking trinket to be broken, all caught on tape — he nods in approval of Saint’s point. “I don’t want those rats moving a fucking muscle without us knowing.” He always thought their whole moving headquarters thing was annoying, anyway. But little brother has a point; applications go further than War alone, easily extending the Wardens’ power as far as fucking imaginable.
“Hire hackers, too, to test your cybersecurity shit. Who better than to tell you it’s un-fucking-hackable than the best hackers themselves?” Remus chimes in over rim of his wine glass. “Someone who can actually give Death a run for their fucking money.” Voice lowers as footsteps approach, brothers interrupted again, though the wafting scent of their food softens Remus’ slowly waning patience. Unfolding his linen napkin from around silverware, he glanced across table to Saint’s soup and bread. “No vegetables?” Guessing what little brother might quip back, Remus adds, “a tomato is a fucking fruit. I don’t see any green on your plate.” Ever the overachiever, an interest in nutrition is just one of the many hobbies the eldest Warden tries on for size, infatuation for the latest thing seeping into every corner of his life. Perhaps Saint gets the worst end of this stick, so often at the receiving end of his brother’s constant stress over vitamins and minerals, perhaps just another projection of his own anxieties onto Saint. It’s their natural state, isn’t it — Remus has always cared for Saint this way, prodding and poking at him, even if it’s with a hand that’s extended in love. Remus pushes a few of his oven roasted brussel sprouts onto a small plate before passing it over to his little brother.
Once tapped into a web of security cameras, able to access a slew of home alarm systems and wonderland of CCTV footage…the world is the Warden brothers’ oyster, a prime time feed into their gang and eventually the Prime Minister himself. With Kai’s familiar handiwork lit up on Saint’s phone screen, Remus scrolls through the blueprints, the typical flawless schematics looking almost scarily ready for production; these plans are proof positive of effort poured in, his brother’s careful planning and great accomplishment not going unnoticed. “Very nice,” he says as he scrolls, high praise from a Warden. “Cela fonctionnera bien avec mes plans.” That’ll work well with my plans. He hands phone back over, trading it for his wine glass, a slight nodding his approval accompanying quietly spoken French. “Mais la légalisation des armes à feu ne se limite pas à l'appel aux civils. Bien sûr, nous leur mentirons sur le fait de veiller à leur sécurité pour faire passer une loi, augmenter nos profits – mais les armes légales signifient ne plus être accusées de possession d'arme à feu. nous ne sommes plus suspects simplement parce que nous possédons une arme à feu.” But legalizing guns is about more than just the appeal to civilians. Of course, we’ll lie to them about caring for their safety to pass a law, increase our profits – but legal guns means no longer being charged with possession of a firearm. We’ll no longer be suspects simply for having a weapon. It’s an explanation of his own thought process, an act he’ll have to perform a hundred times over as Prime Minister, something Maman has never once been forced into as Horseman; only recently does Remus truly realize how different gang leadership is from potentially running a country. “Eyes in every home, while we blend in that much better amongst London at large.” Taking a play out of Death’s own book, as much as he hates to admit it.
In response to the news on Simon Wright, Remus bursts into laughter, interrupting a bite of slow-roasted spatchcock chicken. “You’re serious!” he says, clearly pleased with his brother’s handiwork. “Okay, you’ve sold me. But you’re right — you need a pitch, you can’t just go and blackmail all the investor’s enemies.” A brief pause as he passes the butter. “I mean, it might work for one or two of them. You’ll need data for the rest. I don’t know how I’ll have the time, but I’ll make the fucking time, you’re my brother,” Remus points at Saint across the table with his fork, making a point with him that he should’ve made more often with Juno. “and I love you, so. You’ve got a deal.”
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.”
