Chapter Text
The sun was still rising when he arrived on the field. Dew clung to the fake grass as people trickled in. Anthony J Crowley was one of the first newbies to the Soho Marching Troupe, a collection of about four hundred fresh college graduates who went on a few tours, did a few competitions, and got a hefty sum of a hundred pounds at the end of the season.
He was originally in school for astronomy science, mostly to do scientific journals and education, but careers were hard to come by these days. He’d done some small marching band during an abroad program in high school. He enjoyed it, mostly, there just wasn’t as much of it overseas, very much an American thing outside the professional groups under the international corps group. He was never any good at instruments, but he loved to dance.
The color guard had all arrived early in order to tape equipment, all sitting in a circle passing around poles, fabric, and a shit ton of tape. The two directors and two drum majors stood by the stadium, watching them work. The guard was small, about sixteen people, typical for a school but not so much for a band of this size. It just meant that they would all have to bring it, especially seeing that Crowley was the only new person on the guard. It was a little intimidating, but he hoped it would be fun.
“Hey, your weight is on the wrong side.” Popped in a voice. Crowley looked up, eyes meeting a young blonde woman. “I’m Maggie, one of the team captains. Nina is the other one, I don’t think she's here yet though, haven't seen her. Anyways, the weight goes on the top end, it helps the flag spin better.”
Crowley looked blankly at the flag for a moment before shaking his head and quickly switching sides. “Oh, yes, sorry. Forgot. I’m uh, Anthony, but, go by Crowley, haven't done this in years. Im uh, excited to be back at it though.”
Maggie smiled, “Fantastic, we need some enthusiasm around here. The drum majors and directors run a tight ship, but don't let 'em get to you.”
A few moments later, the other guard captain, Nina, waltzed up to the group, fashionably late, coffee in hand. “Sorry guys! Line was horrible. See Maggie’s already got you started though. Shows simple enough, five movements, about fifteen, twenty minutes in whole. Today will be focused on learning the drill and then this afternoon we’ll head in and start learning choreography. Most of you are returning, so you’ll know where to go, but uh…” Her eyes scanned the crowd, finally landing on Crowley. “You’re new! I’ll have uh…” Eyes back to searching. “Anathema, show you the way to the gym once it's time.”
Crowley nodded, more focused on the two angry looking drum majors approaching the section. The drum majors didn’t march, they were basically the conductors of the show, and directors if the directors were gone.
“Nina, what did we say about being late?” The first one asked. He wore a name tag with ‘Gabriel’ printed on the front. He wore half a uniform, clearly fresh from fittings, bibbers still over marching shoes and a grey t-shirt.
“And caffeine… You’re not asking to pass out are you?” The shorter second one asked, more so a statement. They wore a similar name tag, ‘Beelzebub’ plastered over whatever was previously written there. Uncharacteristically for summer activities they wore all black aside from the blood red stripe down their sweatpants, but no one was about to tell them how to follow the rules.
“I’m sorry for being late, and I have a very good reason for the coffee! There's no milk in it this time! And besides, I don’t feel like I want to behead either of you today, so the coffee stays.” Nina defended. There were few rules in the world of band, but caffeine and dairy were strict nos, at least to anyone looking to not get a facefull of turf pellets and a concussion test from the fall. Nina had been there longer than either of them had, both only being third year participants, so there wasn’t much room to argue, and instead they stormed off together, quietly bickering and complaining that the other didn’t push more.
Nina wore a satisfied grin before clapping her hands together and facing the rest of the group. “Alright, anyways, where were we? Yes, flag taping! If I see someone put a flag on a white pole I will smite you.”
**
Aziraphale Fell showed up to the field as soon as the clock turned to seven, right on time. He never officially marched with a group, but, having connections always got you somewhere, and a drum major brother certainly helped. Instrument case in hand, he followed the other people wandering onto the stadium track.
Gabriel and the other drum major stood on tall podiums, whistles in hand and microphones taped to their faces.
“Alright everyone, welcome to the first day of camp! Be ready to work, we have a quick turnaround to competition season with our first performance being in three weeks. I’m your drum major, Gabriel Fell, and this is your leading conducting major Beelzebub! Most of the information you will receive will be from one of us, big stuff will be from our directors up in the announcing booth, but they’re mostly logistics. Here, we run the show.”
Beelzebub waved at him to make him stop talking and let them get to work. “And that's enough of that. I want everyone to block out by instrument. I want low reeds and low brass on the north side starting on the 30, and if you don’t split the sidelines I will come down there and hit you. Next woodwinds except for flutes and clarinets, I want you on the other side of the 50, not on it. Needs to be room to walk if I need to fix you. Percussion line I want you lining the back mirroring frontline. Color guard, I want you splitting half and half. Eight of you blocking out on the other side of the clarinets and the other eight next to uh.. Mellophones. And break!”
In a second people were running everywhere, some racing each other to see who could get into place the fastest. He moved quickly to the edge of the mellophone section, the instrument falling to his side as he watched people weave in and out of others, trying not to hit anyone else, especially the guard.
Crowley's eyes desperately scanned the block, trying to find somewhere to stand, eventually finding his way to a spot next to a mellophone player who looked particularly out of place.
Gabriel began to clap on rhythm, “Five, six, five six seven eight, band ten-hut!”
And with a chorus of yelling in response, instruments shooting into position, practice began.