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It would be very easy to dismiss the Elite Beat Agency as a silly and whimsical organization, with its rather informal workplace, famously flashy operations, ridiculous-looking agents and hell, the whole idea of it. Hard to believe it was a branch of the US Government, but it was, and that meant that despite all of the rumors of non-stop fun and adventure and the glitz and glamour surrounding them, even the Elite Beat Agents had to sit down in their pristine black suits (like a convention of Blues Brothers) and have long, boring meetings once a month. Just don't let Four-Star Commander Marcato hear that word, "boring"—he took pride in the professionalism of it, which is why it drove him absolutely mad when his meetings were undermined by the likes of Agent Brass showing up 15 minutes late with Starbucks.
"Sorry I'm late," Agent Brass announced too-loudly as he strode in, interrupting Commander Marcato. A hush fell over the room.
"...I was on my way but, like, I heard a call for help so, y'know," arms up, making vague gestures with cup in hand as he stood in the doorway. No one dared look at the condemned man. "Agent's gotta do what an agent's gotta do!"
The tense silence in the room stretched on, near tangible. If one had the music sense that was the mark of an agent, they might begin to feel the faint discord now building, the tempo of the meeting thrown off. Marcato said nothing, but even behind those shades all agents customarily wore, everyone could feel the white-hot glare he was shooting across the room at Brass.
That only seemed to encourage the insolent young man, his grin widening, gesticulations growing wilder. "Kid's first job, right, as a barista. Pretty nervous, already gettin' the sizes mixed up. Just helped 'em fill a few orders, y'know, get a few names right... You shoulda seen how fast the kid was pumpin' 'em out with my help!" He finished with a demonstration of one of the dance moves he used, a confident high-kick against the establishment. Among the agents seated, a quiet sob sounded.
"If that had happened, Agent," Commander Marcato's words seeped slow, venomous, "we would have received an alert on the console there. You know this."
So he did. Brass stared at the very console, contemplating its treachery as he took a long drink. His usual, good s**t.
"Take your place, Agent."
"Hey, tell me your usual, maybe next time—"
"Sit down!" Marcato roared, and Brass wasted no time loping over to the single, conspicuously empty seat. The Commander's right-hand man finally took this moment to speak up, calling over after him what sounded like his usual, and Marcato swung around to hush Henk up with a harsh reprimand Brass didn't hear because the agent beside him, codenamed Cobb, kindly decided to inform him of how screwed he was after this meeting. Yeah, yeah.
Really, Brass wondered who was in for it worse now: himself, or Henk, the God of Groove that acted probably more insubordinate than anyone else here despite being the second highest-ranked agent at their base. Or maybe that was why he could get away with it...? As Marcato composed himself, moving right along back into his updates and assessments, Brass met Henk's gaze (all agents just knew where they looked despite the shades, alright, it came with the territory), mouthing at him to just tell him his usual later, and under the brim of his cowboy hat, Henk waggled his eyebrows in affirmative.
The rest of the meeting passed uneventfully, which bored Brass, who couldn't pay attention because the meeting was so boring, because it couldn't hold his attention. Boring. It was only near the end, when their Commander mentioned a new arrival to the base, that Brass sat up and listened to the ensuing discussion.
"—however, as our base has no non-admin agent yet experienced enough to teach him, we will have to wait for another transfer from HQ."
The mention of HQ was enough to get other agents murmuring excitedly to themselves, "Will we get a Diva?!", shouting out guesses as to what Legendary Agent may show, "I bet it'll be Foxtrot!", and giving suggestions, "But what about Agent Alec?"
At the mention of his name, of finally being acknowledged, the oft-overlooked Captain of Soul started in surprise, then looked around gratefully for who could have remembered him. Was this finally it? His time to shine? Would he finally be able to stand out and actually use his authority to—
"Hey hey hey wait! I can do it!" Brass cried out, waving his arm like a schoolboy eager for the teacher's attention. "C'mon, I can teach the new kid to dance!"
Alec shrank down in his seat, returning to the shadows of obscurity once again, other agents around him already forgetting he was mentioned at all to scoff at Brass or laugh and volunteer themselves along with the joke. But Brass was serious.
"I'm serious! We rely way too much on other the other bases, man! Isn't it about time we did things ourselves? Forget the transfers! We got another rookie on our hands, we should raise 'im up our way!"
Some of the incredulous laughter actually subsided as this was considered. Despite Marcato's best efforts to keep things professional, it was times like this that the Agency was shown to be quite different from other branches of the government, indeed.
Challenges between agents were as common and expected, even, as their penchant for working together. That was their infamously informal workplace. One could even go so far as to say rank was partway decided in these shows of superiority, pecking orders established and agents clawing their way up by winning respect through contests and dares alongside formal missions.
Naturally, rivalries between bases could run deep, but rivalries ran even between co-workers of the very same base. Really, with the nature of their occupation, it took a special, flamboyant, prideful kind of person to become an agent. It was only inevitable that such large personalities would clash, and even Commander Marcato was not immune to falling into this trap.
"You think you can teach a Trainee, Brass?" Their Commander didn't even try to disguise his contempt, still very obviously sore from the earlier interruption, and much like a schoolyard a low, enraptured "oooooh" rose up. A challenge was brewing, they knew, and already agents were placing bets. Everybody loved to keep up with a challenge.
"Yeah, I do," Brass answered back, lifting his chin defiantly. "Better'n Foxtrot, even—" their audience only grew more aroused at that, and he had to raise his voice to be heard over the heckling, "—'cause he'll be taught the Treble way!"
Some of the more passionate agents couldn't help but cheer, while loyalist others who had been instructed by HQ agents only shook their heads. The agent who had sobbed earlier turned to open weeping. Sure, good for Treble to finally come into its own as a base, but to have Brass take a rookie under his wing...?
"If I wanted to show the other bases what the 'Treble way' was, Agent, I would choose a better example than you."
Just as the challenge was building up, it seemed to fall through. Another unnatural quiet fell on the meeting room as Brass gaped at his Commander, who stared back in that familiar stony silence. And still, despite his unforgiving look, Marcato immediately felt like he might have overstepped things. He didn't have long to ruminate on it, though, as Henk's burst of wild laughter broke the dramatic pause.
"Sounds like Marc's serious!" The God of Groove clapped in sadistic delight, ignoring his Commander's lip-curl of disgust at the nickname. "Hear that, Brass? It's about time you redeemed yourself. Go on, take the rookie. Show us you're not a disgrace," Marcato hissed another warning at his second as the disgraceful agent in question bit his lip, trembling with barely-suppressed rage, and still Henk continued, "Maybe you'll actually better yourself while you make a good example of him, too. That is what we want to see!"
Eager to get this mess of a meeting over with, Marcato cut in. "Meeting adjourned. Brass, in my office."
And just like that, he was off, stalking out of the once-again noisy meeting room with Henk trailing after, laughing. "Better let him cool down first!"
Agent Brass really did need to cool down, still burning with the sting of humiliation and indignant rage, but he wasn't given the chance as other agents mingled to see what would happen, or swarmed him to give him support, a good ribbing, some cajoling, and it finally took Brass shouting "Just buzz off, alla you!" to get the sympathetic and amused others to give him some space, dispersing as he stormed through to get to Marcato's office.
♩
By the time he left that private meeting, he was no longer angry. The Commander had apologized to him, which surprised him—the Commander never apologized to anyone—and in fact left him feeling rather smug. It wasn't much of a victory, though, because what Brass really wanted was an apology from Henk and he wasn't even there, probably dicking around with his aquariums instead. Well, screw him, he wouldn't get that p***k his coffee next time after all.
Bringing his hands under his trademark red shutter shades to wipe at his eyes, finally alone and wanting to keep it that way, Brass made his way to the roof of the office building their base was disguised as. No one was allowed on the roof but to hell with that, Brass did his best thinking while high. Up in the sky, that is. Like, physically.
The sunlight and the view as he emerged onto the roof and the deep breath of the fresh air he took calmed him instantly, allowing him to clear his mind. It was here that he would begin his game plan and figure out the hell he was actually supposed to train that stupid rookie he was stuck with now—
But just as he was about to settle down and read the file, Brass realized he wasn't alone, spotting another black-suited man leaning against the railing to stare out over the city. His heart skipped a beat and that was enough to get the other agent's attention. He quickly looked over and revealed himself to be Cobb, what a relief, Cobb didn't give a s**t about anything so he wouldn't be bugged.
Sure enough, the famously apathetic agent returned to his view. Brass decided to bug him.
"Hey, Cobb!" He swaggered over, slapping a hand on his shoulder and shaking him. "Don't do it! You've got so much to live for!"
"I really will jump if you keep shakin' me like that."
Brass laughed but quickly withdrew his hand anyway, only to even more obnoxiously replace it on Cobb's head. "Where's your hat, bro?" Most agents made do with an over-the-top, always (!)unique hairstyle, but Cobb was one of the few who wore a hat instead, his hair an overwhelmingly boring buzzcut underneath. Poor kid, he probably secretly envied Brass' completely unique (!!) two-tone mohawk-pomp fusion glory.
"It flew away."
For a second there, Brass stared bewildered, wondering if his friend was in fact the different kind of high up here, when it dawned on him why Cobb was staring so intently out at the city.
"What! You mean you ********' lost it? Dude but that was, that was your hat! Your special hat!"
"Yeah."
Most times Brass liked Cobb's badass, don't-give-a-s**t attitude, especially because it meant he could get the agent to go along with his schemes, but it was times like these that he wanted to throttle him.
"Well we gotta go get it!" Brass was more worked up about the hat than its owner, that was just wrong. For an agent to go without his trademark, however, was even worse. Gripping the rail in one hand, Brass leaned over dangerously far, the breeze tousling his caramel-colored hair as he tried in vain to spot where the hell the hat could have fallen.
Cobb was meanwhile more interested in the folder clutched tightly in Brass' other hand, and jerked him away from the rail by the tail of his suit. "So who's the fresh meat?" he asked, ignoring Brass' fearful cursing as he stumbled back from the edge.
"Hey, don't ******** around like that!" He scolded back, straightening his suit. Then, acknowledging the question, Brass looked down at the folder in his hand. "...Dunno yet. Marcato just told me what all the rookie's gotta know 'n' s**t. Just gave me this file to look through."
"He really burned you today," Cobb felt the need to remind him as he stepped curiously closer.
"Shut up."
"Henk burned you worse."
"Shut up, I said. Are you with me or against me, Cobb?" Brass snapped, glaring coldly at his increasingly infuriating companion. His fists were trembling again, threatening to rip the folder in two.
Cobb wasn't too concerned, though, already moving ahead to the next topic that interested him. "Did you mean what you said?"
"What?" Brass' anger already forgotten, replaced with confusion. Cobb knew what he was doing. "About what?"
"About the Treble way," he explained, tone as disinterested as ever, but Brass was surprised the b*****d even remembered that. Or had even been paying attention in the first place.
"Oh. ********, no. That was all BS just to get the Commander to think about it, get everyone on my side," Brass explained, rolling his shoulders in a self-conscious shrug. Suddenly conspiratorial, he learned in close, voice dropping to an excited whisper. "Listen, Cobb, if I do this, I'll get a rank-up, I bet. I'll finally move up to Captain of Soul, and after that..."
An abrupt pause stretched between them. They both knew what Brass was getting at. After Captain of Soul was Three-Star Commander. They both knew a Three-Star.
"...I just wanna stick it to him, alright? Him and everyone else who thinks I'm a ********' disgrace," Brass finally finished, disgust and hurt thick in his voice even as he stared Cobb down like he could possibly be against him, too.
They were close enough that, if Cobb still had his hat, there'd only be that bill's length between them. Close enough that Brass could see the agent's eyes behind his shades, meeting his gaze fearlessly.
"I'm with you."
As suddenly as the tension had mounted between them, it broke, Brass straightening back up with a pleased smirk. "Good," he said simply, understating the surge of gratefulness he felt towards Cobb. He never took his companion as the affectionate type, anyway, and was ready to move onto the, up until now, rather neglected folder he held between them. "Now, let's take a look here..."
Cobb moved to stand next to Brass as he, in one fluid, over-dramatized motion, flipped the folder open and grabbed and pulled the paper clip holding the pages together within, tossing it over his shoulder like the pin of a grenade. "Bam!" Unnecessarily giddy, he smoothed the fluttering first page out. "Here's our boy!"
Predictably, the main thing both senior agents were chiefly interested in was the photo provided of their newest recruit. Cobb gave a low whistle of admiration. "Check out them scars."
Brass could have given a whistle, too, but of a different sort. Could have, but he felt himself paralyzed, arrested by the sight of the man he would be teaching, gripped by one sharp, terrible thought: OH NO HE'S HOT.
"I bet he's a real tough guy," Cobb guessed, and likely would have continued speculating to his suddenly strangely silent partner if not for the photo now taking flight, along with several other papers, right out of Brass' clammy grip, carried by the breeze to join Cobb's hat in the tangle of the city below.
That brought Brass out of his infatuated stupor nicely. "Aw ********!" he shrieked, springing to snatch the escaping pages right out of the air. "********, ******** ******** <********> Cobb, the ******** pages!"
"What did you think would happen?" Cobb waxed philosophically, bemusement taking him as he collected the photo stuck fast to the railing. He watched more pages fall below. "My hat..."
"Shut the ******** up and help me you stupid—oh ********, that was classified s**t, I'm so ********," such was the babble he received in reply.
"You shouldn't have thrown the paperclip away." Wisdom.
"He's comin' today, man!" Brass screeched, shoving saved pages back into the folder as still others scattered like his horrified thoughts. "I can't lose this s**t! C'mon, we gotta go get 'em!"
"The Agency works fast," Cobb's final, sage truth revealed before he was pulled away by a frantic Brass back into the base, down countless floors, drawing dozens of concerned looks, dodging numerous shouts, borne into one bustling city to find who knows how many pages of a classified document just to save a career or two.
♩
The duo had spent about two hours outside of the base. Brass, in his panic, had run out into traffic chasing after a fluttering paper and had nearly been hit. Cobb, in his dutiful non-panic, had been hit—by a child who refused to hand over the page he had found. The lil slugger had bruised Cobb's pride more than anything, really, as the resulting torn page had counted as a failure.
They scoured alleys, crawled on all-fours to check under cars and benches, jumped fences, explored still more back-alleys (to be kept in mind for future patrols, now), made a few mistaken grabs at fliers and trash instead, and once even had to pause their search for a detected cry for help. By the end of it, the two agents were, to make an understatement, looking worse for wear.
Meanwhile, the collected pages were in even worse shape, most crumpled at best and left unreadable at worst, and Brass' treatment as he shoved them back into the just-as-abused folder didn't help. "Alright, alright. I think that's all of 'em," he sighed, daring to take a quick flip through. "********. I hope that's all of 'em."
"Found my hat," Cobb announced, emerging from behind a dumpster and venerably replacing his retrieved crown where it belonged once more. Brass stared at his fellow agent, with his stained suit, open jacket, filthy and scuffed shoes when those were the pride of all agents, and somehow the moron had even managed to lose his tie but, Brass suspected, more likely he had trashed it on purpose because Cobb hated wearing the tie. Oh, but at least his hat was pristine!
And yet, Brass knew he looked no better, having earned a nice tear in his suit when it had caught on a fence, even. "...Let's just go," he finally decided, defeat heavy in his voice despite how hard he tried to convince himself he had gotten all of the pages. He had no idea of really knowing, never having read the damn thing, now leaving it mostly unreadable anyway, and even if it was still legible, he wasn't sure he'd want to look through it anymore. Brass felt suddenly exhausted with the whole business.
They walked back to the base in complete silence, Brass trying not to think of the Trainee and failing, Cobb probably successful in not thinking at all. But surprisingly, it was he who eventually broke the silence once they reached the entrance to Treble, standing before it with such hesitation that it almost seemed like their first day on the job, too. "Think you can do it?"
How dare Cobb doubt him now! How dare he make Brass feel as though his own self-doubt was more obvious than he thought! And despite these thoughts, Brass couldn't bring himself to sound angry once he answered. "C'mon, bro, of course I can," couldn't bring himself to sound as cocky as his words called for, either, "I'm a Master of Dance, aren't I?"
"And you'll be a Captain of Soul after," hearkening back to the sort-of plan they had spoken of.
"I've already got soul, but I'm not a soldier," Brass was quick to point out.
"I am." Cobb gave a single nod, content.
"That's right," Brass, somewhat annoyed that the musical moment he had been building up was abruptly halted, could see why the kid was just a measly Soldier of Song after having earned it a year into joining the base and never moving from it thereafter despite his supposed prodigy-status. He was clueless. "Now, do your old pal Brass a favor and go in there, would you? Come back and tell me if he's here already."
"Okay." Clueless, but reliable.
Once Cobb had slipped back into the base (gone before Brass could think to remind him to get looking decent again, and he slapped his forehead in annoyance once he realized), the entrance was deathly quiet once more. No, not quite—things were never truly quiet for an agent, but all the same, Brass felt terribly alone. The file was like a lead weight in his hands, though a bit late for that, and the dread even heavier. Good sense told him he should at least take one decent look at the legible contents, but Brass couldn't bring himself to do it anyway. If he were to be completely honest to himself, and he never was, he felt like he had made a mistake in demanding this position. But there was no going back now, especially because Cobb had finally shown back up.
"Yeah, he's here."
"Alright." Brass swallowed, resolute, holding onto the folder as a poor drowning b*****d would grip a life ring. "You're comin' with me, dude. I need moral support."
Cobb only nodded and followed after Brass as they walked into the Agency, before he could think to remind him to get looking decent again, and he winced in horror once he realized. He was so pre-occupied in realizing a forgotten realization, in fact, that he hadn't realized Brass had abruptly stopped and thus walked right into him, wincing again.
"What the <********>, Cobb!" Brass hissed in a dangerous whisper, turning on him. "Why didn't you tell me that a*****e was here?"
It took Cobb a moment, but a quick glance over Brass' shoulder answered his question. "I thought you knew already. Don't all twins have a telepathic link?"
Brass couldn't tell if that was Cobb's try at a joke or not, but it certainly wasn't very funny. Roughly shoving the bill of his cap down over his face, he made to punch his now-struggling ex-partner. "That's it. Buzz off. I don't need you, you useless—"
"Agent Brass," a carefully measured voice called out to him, "Am I right in believing you'll be instructing this Trainee?"
"Yeah." Brass slowly lowered the fist he had aimed at Cobb, the file crumpled in it, but made no move to turn around. "Yeah, that's right."
"...Did you just come from outside with that folder?"
"What?" That and the sound of approaching footsteps got Brass finally whirling around to face his reflection, disgustingly closer now, and he hugged the file to himself like the papers within were trying to escape once more. "No I didn't. None of your business."
"Agent," there he went, starting with that distancing "agent" BS all higher-ups liked to do to remind everyone of what big-shots they were, "Classified documents are not to leave Agency premises. If you took that outside, that counts as a severe security breach and—"
"For ******** sake, I was only getting Cobb's hat," Brass quickly blurted out. "Ask 'im."
"It only landed right outside the door," Cobb confirmed, straightening the cap that was key to their shoddy lie so that it was no longer blinding him. "It was quick."
"And how did it end up there, Agent Cobb?" His patient wrath turned onto the blankly staring youth. Of course, he already knew the answer to that question, denying Cobb the chance to speak for himself. "You know very well the roof is off limits—"
Brass could tell, just knew he was only going to keep finding reasons to scold them and take his sweet time unravelling the shoddy lie he already knew was a shoddy lie just to make them squirm. If he didn't interrupt him now, he would probably be called out on the state of his uniform next, on Cobb's missing tie, all just to waste their time. "Am I ******** doing this or not, Reed?" he cut in, nearly shouting despite only a few feet between them now, and Brass was pleased to see him flinch.
"...You don't speak to a commanding officer like that, Brass." Commanding officer, of course. He displayed his three stars prominently enough, didn't he.
"You know, speaking of commanding officers, it was Marcato himself who appointed me to teach the kid." Reed may have had rank over Brass, but Brass had something better. A nasty, hateful tone, "If you have a problem with that, Reed, you could always bring it up with him," spoken with a sweet, helpful smile on his face. Anyway, Commander Marcato was a Four-Star and everybody knew that 4 > 3. Even that idiot Reed had to balk at that.
And he did balk, finally falling silent. Brass watched him, wondering if that b*****d was actually contemplating an argument with their commander, heart pounding despite how unafraid he tried to look. He knew Reed was studying him right back, and they must have looked bizarre to the others present, facing off like this. Certainly, Cobb always felt rather disoriented when the two brothers were present in the same room or, hell, even in the same building.
He'd never forget that time he mistook Reed for Brass. The less said about that incident, the better.
Fortunately for everyone, Cobb could tell them apart now, and at times like these it was especially easy. There were the obvious cosmetic differences they had as EBA: Brass wore red shutter-shades, while Reed's own red-framed shades were, well, not shuttered. Brass wore the usual black-suit uniform of all basic agents, while nowadays Reed generally wore his three stars as a lesser commander more prominently, presumably to differentiate himself from his underachieving brother further (Cobb felt guilty, wondering if That Incident helped speed that decision along). Brass wore his two-tone mohawk-pomp fusion glory to the right, Reed had his to the left. Easy enough now, yeah.
But beyond that were the less-obvious differences one could spot when the brothers were together. Wiry Brass, all legs, standing suddenly tall on them, laidback and loose manner abandoned for a tense lean forward like a dog at the end of its leash. Reed, just as slender and rigid, but looking more like he was ready to use those long legs of his to retreat, and there was the odd thing about his legs—he seemed to always be favoring one.
It made Cobb uncomfortable to watch them, because he didn't see his friend Brass anymore, or that Three-Star Commander Reed from the other base. He saw only the vicious scowl on Brass, the tired and beaten face of Reed he never noticed before, and it made him lose respect for both of them. Cobb suddenly wanted to say something if only to break the trance of the cobra and the mongoose (or maybe the lion and the wounded gazelle was more apt), but he found himself more familiarly staying silent, looking over at the Trainee, wondering what he might be thinking, if he might see what he saw, and if wanted to say anything, too.
Reed spoke up instead, apparently also remembering the Trainee. He gave up on Brass and Cobb, for the first time since he had met the new recruit finally turning and looking at him fully, speaking to him as a person rather than speaking about him as a piece of cargo to shuttle from base to base.
"...Good luck," Reed offered in a tone that suggested there was nothing good to be had here at all, and without pause or acknowledgment of any possible answer the heels of his smartly-polished shoes were clicking down the hall in an uneven staccato, carrying him away from the scene and, to Brass' relief, nowhere near the way to Commander Marcato's office. Really he would have preferred the stuffy b*****d left completely, but it was a victory nonetheless!
To Reed's retreating back, Cobb gave a salute in farewell, and Brass was so tickled by the seemingly sarcastic gesture that he forgot he'd been angry at Cobb just a moment ago, laughing light-heartedly in such sharp contrast to the tense atmosphere of the room that it somehow sounded harsher than if he had just straight-up spat out curses after his brother.
Cobb hadn't forgotten that Brass had been angry at him, though, and was eager to in fact buzz off as he had been told. He moved to hand him the final missing object of the file, then uttered a flat "Bye."
"Wait, where're you goin'?!" Brass called out in confusion, not even looking at what Cobb had handed to him as he watched his supposed-moral support leaving.
"I need a new tie," Cobb lied, prompting Brass to remember again how indecent they looked, and he slapped his forehead in annoyance once he realized. But, the slap was dulled by something in his palm, and he finally looked down at what Cobb had handed to him.
It was the photo of the Trainee he had been tasked to instruct, the cause of today's terrible ordeals, and yet somehow constantly set aside in his mind so he could deal with other fears and frustrations. Well, there was no forgetting him now, because as Brass turned around and looked up from the photo to the real deal, he saw that they were finally, terrifyingly alone.
"...Sorry I'm late!" Agent Brass announced too-loudly as he stood there, trying desperately to interrupt his own frantic thoughts.
He was even hotter in person.
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