Chapter Text
The thing about having a routine is that mornings all tended to blur together after a while. Save for the occasional mission away from home, Jacobi had gotten used to the monotony of just a regular day at the office, and the preparation that came before them. The same old steps, all to the distant sound of traffic somewhere ten floors below.
Jacobi resembled a shrimp under his blankets. Four or so of them—his generous Goddard R&D salary let him afford to blast the AC all night. He rolled over with a groan and slapped blindly at his bedside table until his hand found his phone. His nail caught on one of the cracks on his screen protector as he hit ‘stop’, exactly three ‘snoozes’ later. For a second, he considered calling in sick. At least before his brain began to function and discarded the notion. Kepler would know he wasn’t really sick; he always knew.
“Fantastic,” he muttered into his pillow. Another beautiful day in the corporate surveillance state.
Groaning, Jacobi dragged himself upright and sat on his bed for a moment, leaning back with his hands under the pillows, staring at the apartment around him. Not half bad; if it wasn’t for Goddard—for Kepler, an idiotic part of his head suggested—he certainly wouldn’t have anything like this.
What a stupid thought.
Entirely on autopilot, Jacobi shuffled through his entire routine. A ten-minute shower with 3-in-1 shampoo and a trusty bar of soap, a quick shave, messing with his hair just enough to make it look presentable and not just a nest on his head, a dead stare into the bathroom mirror. Pick his cleanest dirty shirt before the dreaded Saturday morning laundry day arrived. After that, grab an energy drink and some Doritos, then make his way out of his apartment to get his car. Just Monday morning coming down, or whatever shitty song his dad used to play in the car when he was a kid.
The drive to Goddard HQ was always pretty uneventful, save for the straight-from-hell curse of Florida traffic, and Florida drivers.
“How can you drive like shit in a self-driving car?!” Jacobi grumbled as a Tesla cut him off. Always a master of multitasking, he made sure to flip off one of the many Goddard billboards that adorned the sides of the road on the way to campus itself. Massive, neofuturistic ads that talked about a much brighter tomorrow—as evidenced by the picture of the smiling communications officer of their latest deep space mission. Which Jacobi very much regarded with a middle finger, of course; he never really liked Lieutenant Lavoisier, anyway. And ‘advancing humanity together’? The PR idiot that came up with that was the reason for humanity lagging behind. And Maxwell would hear all about that idiot, as well as Daniel’s overall terrible morning, as soon as he reached her hellish dungeon of doom—also known as her lab.
The streets were packed with commuters, and so it took Jacobi around thirty minutes to arrive. Nothing out of the ordinary. With Red Hot Chili Peppers blasting through the speakers, he pulled into the Goddard Futuristics parking lot. The entire campus—objectively a wonder of next-generation, tech-dominated architecture, though he wasn’t the type of man to admire such things—dominated enough acres for it to be a real hassle for Jacobi to make his way up to the bullpen that housed Strategic Intelligence. But by far the worst part was having to dodge acquaintances in other departments (he was strangely popular among the accountants, for some reason), and idiots carrying coffee. At some point, Davis from Special Projects had approached him with some sort of promotional poster in his hands, but Jacobi had managed to dodge her and throw himself in the elevator before the woman could reach him. At least the elevator ride was quiet, except for the soft corporate music that played in the background.
His fingernails, which he’d trimmed too short while he multitasked nail-clipping and his rewatch of season 4 of Breaking Bad, tapped against the metal handrails to the beat of Californication. Or what felt like it, anyway; he’d never been the most musically gifted. Eyes with newly formed dark bags under them glanced up at the digital display that showed the floors he passed. 12…23…29…A good seven minutes or so until the elevator opened with a ding! and Jacobi stepped out into the main hallway of the thirty-first floor. There, he was greeted by the sight of ridiculously gigantic windows, pretentious-as-hell office doors, and his personal circle of hell: the open-plan workspace where he and other unfortunate SI officers were made to pay for their sins. A bunch of desks with minimal physical barriers and nonexistent privacy, because nothing says “this company is family” like making your employees miserable!
Because Daniel was certainly miserable, and he didn’t bother hiding that fact as he ignored flyers up on the bulletin board and dragged his dirty Converse to the desk that had been assigned to him back when he first started. Angled to be perfectly aligned with the door to Kepler’s private office—because of course the asshole got a whole giant place to himself—and right next to Maxwell’s own. A huge mercy, but not one he would be grateful for today.
Speaking of Maxwell, Jacobi spotted her right away. All scientists had the habit of hunching over their keyboards, and those in SI-5 were no exception, but only Alana had the idiosyncracy—the term he’d found Kepler used to avoid saying weird-as-shit quirk—of spinning back and forth in her chair, taking breaks in between typing. It was either that or squatting on the chair without her ass even touching the cushion. And while he could admire the strength in her lower body, he was glad she had opted for the more normal option that day.
“Morning, sunshine,” Daniel grumbled as he reached her desk, leaning against its surface as he watched his best friend type away. Damn, her fingers did move fast. Bored, he watched her for a few extra seconds, not taking offense at the fact that she didn’t even acknowledge his existence, until he went straight to the point. Like every morning, of course. “Is he in already?”
No names needed to be named for Maxwell to know who he was talking about, in less than an instant. The lightning-fast typing didn’t cease, but a nod sent those wild, untamed curls bouncing.
“Yeah. Five-thirty,” she replied, absent, eyes glued to the screen. He didn’t want to ask what she was working on, nor how the hell she was aware of the exact time Kepler had arrived at the office that day. Because, shit, that was early even by uptight-Major-Asshat standards. Either one of her robot friends had told her, or she’d spent the entire night in the lab again. Judging by the amount of empty Monster cans on her desk, his money was on the latter.
Jacobi nodded. His gaze swept over the mess that was Maxwell’s workspace, so cluttered that it would put an ‘I Spy’ book to shame. Even with Kepler’s organization rules, the desk was a jungle. The empty cans were joined by Post-It notes of several colors, all with Maxwell’s remarkably neat cursive scribbled on them. Some in English, some in binary, a few in other languages. The cubicle dividers and monitor were covered in stickers of Hello Kitty and what Daniel assumed was the mouthless cat’s family. A single sticker of a boy Hello Kitty that Maxwell had told him he shared a name with, a frog with a bow tie and a striped shirt, and some white rabbit with a pink hood. There were also a couple of cool rocks Jacobi had found and brought over for Maxwell. Papers and documents made sure to fill all the empty space, because it was a physiological need of hers to have everything as chaotic as possible.
Alana Maxwell was a very peculiar specimen of a genius and a human being, and Daniel was extremely glad to have her.
He let out a hum. “Five-thirty? No way, he’s never here that early.” Not on a normal day, at least. From Jacobi’s careful observations of the man’s behavior—from a place of black ops instincts, obviously, not any sort of personal interest—Warren Kepler was only ever early on the days when four events took place: department-mandated physical examinations, Chicago Bulls game nights, performance reviews, and whenever bad news needed to be delivered. Those two overlapped sometimes, but had happened on occasions separate enough that they each got their own category in the Warren James Kepler Encyclopedia.
Not fully convinced, Jacobi insisted, “are you sure? ‘Cause if that’s true, then he’s probably gonna—”
The sound of a door slamming open and expensive leather shoes tapping their impatience on the polished floor. Then, following closely, the voice of the man himself,
“Jacobi. Maxwell. Office. Now.”
Daniel barely had time to take note of how the blazer hugged his waist, and the way his broad shoulders seemed to take up most of the space within the doorframe between the door was shut again.
Both agents felt exhaustion settle deep into their bones, so infused within their beings that even the stronger of Jaegerbombs wouldn’t bring them back to life. They shared a look, an unspoken ‘do we have to show up?’ hanging between them. It didn’t count as a direct order, right? Kepler couldn’t make them follow so early in the morning.
Moments after, the opaque glass walls of the Major’s office sealed shut behind Jacobi and Maxwell seconds after they entered. Behind the desk, palms planted firmly on it, Kepler stood. Why was he standing when he had a perfectly good chair behind him? One of the many mysteries Jacobi hadn't yet solved.
The office of the Head of Strategic Intelligence was exactly what one would expect from one of the most important people in the company. Floor-to-ceiling smart glass formed the outer-facing wall of the room, currently frosted for privacy and hiding the view of the rest of campus and Canaveral outside. The rest of the walls were lined with a couple of pristine shelves and different sets of screens, displaying footage from the security cameras—he had to play the part of Head of Security for the normal employees of this place. A matte black desk, uncluttered and perfectly organized with only the necessary documents and a computer occupying it, sat in the middle of the office, two chairs for visitors in front of it. The integrated display built into the table’s surface remained dark until needed, leaving the desktop almost empty.
As for personal touches, the space was nearly bare. There was a potted plant in one corner, if that counted for anything, and a tiny portrait of himself during his days as an intern for Goddard’s legal department. On the desk sat a heart-shaped wooden frame. A gag gift, really, from Jacobi and Maxwell for Valentine’s Day. One the Major hadn’t bothered to hide—except for when he had real visitors—and instead chose to display with pride, just to keep the joke running. Never let it be said Kepler didn’t have a sense of humor.
It held a picture of the three of them, standing outside of Cellular Field—though those in the know would've been aware that Kepler never stopped calling it Comiskey Park—during a company trip to Chicago. All in casual clothes, Kepler in a White Sox jersey, all smiling at the camera.
As Jacobi caught a glimpse of the stupid photo, he grinned. He took a seat on one of the chairs, Maxwell following suit without wasting a second, and waited for the Major to speak. All part of their semi-usual routine: when called, sit down, keep your mouth shut, and power through whatever dramatic monologue or direct threat upon your life the Major decided to cook up. Easier said than done, but Jacobi had gotten the hang of it pretty quickly. Better than Maxwell, at least—she was the more stubborn of the two of them.
Dark, warm eyes snapped from the pink frame to an icy blue gaze at the sound of Kepler clearing his throat. Three pairs of eyes stared at each other, then the Major’s hands slid under the desk.
“Oh, no,” Jacobi muttered, SI-5 rule number eight be damned. This wasn’t his first rodeo. And Kepler being so quiet and that goddamn smirk on his face could only mean—
Callused, veiny hands slammed what looked like a poster down onto the table. The not-so-innocent demolitions expert’s eyes were assaulted by a bright yellow background (who the hell printed a poster in yellow?!) with red letters in the thickest and most over-the-top font that would’ve been a better fit for an accident attorney's roadside ad.
GODDARD FUTURISTICS ANNUAL INTERDEPARTMENTAL FIELD DAY! Prizes, fun, food, and family bonding!
Below the text that stretched from margin to margin was a picture of smiling employees, whom Daniel hadn’t seen in his life, participating in an activity that looked like it was made to belittle and humiliate adults.
For the corporate poster of a multi-billion dollar company, Jacobi thought it was the most hideous thing ever made. And they paid some idiot for this?
Memories of sack races, three-legged races, egg-and-spoon relays, and tug-of-war came flooding back. Along with all the faces of his coworkers, whom he’d had to still face the day after the stupid event, because they all worked there and that was the curse. His response, of course, was immediate.
“No.”
Kepler’s eye twitched. As did the vein that popped on his right temple whenever he was annoyed with them. Jacobi would know: completely non-personal black ops instincts, remember? The Major replied, “I haven’t said anything yet.”
“I know.” And he didn’t need him to. Again, he’d played these stupid games before, literally.
“Then how do you know your answer?” Was he seriously two degrees of fury from the blunt force trauma face right now? Talk about a drama queen.
“Because I know that whatever you’re about to ask involves that poster and this year’s humiliation ritual,” and, because he didn’t want to die just yet, he added after a few seconds, “…sir.”
Lucky day, it seemed, because Kepler chose to ignore him entirely. An index finger tapped on one of the faces of the photographed employees—some dumbasses doing a water balloon toss—and the Major simply went on.
“This,” he decreed, “will not happen again.”
Maxwell, who hadn’t spoken up yet, careful as ever, stared at him. She tilted her head to the side, a small frown on her face at the apparent contradiction. “What?”
Jacobi let out a sigh, throwing his head back with a groan—which earned him a glare from Mr. Wannabe Olympian behind the desk—and satisfied her curiosity before Kepler could. “Last year, Special Projects beat us by three points.” She was lucky she hadn’t been there to witness Kepler’s wrath. Then, he wondered if the Nash had events as pointless as this one. “If we lose this year, Major Kepler will probably gut us and sell our organs as a homeopathic remedy.”
Kepler didn’t seem to disagree with that statement, judging by his solemn nod. Of course he didn’t, and Jacobi knew the exact reason why. He wouldn’t say it out loud, obviously, because he wasn’t suicidal, but it was so evident it was painful. Major Kepler was competitive always. But it got so, so much worse when the competition in question was against one Rachel Young. Jacobi knew very well that if Kepler had to look that woman in the eye again after losing to her two years in a row, it would be them who’d be thrown headfirst into a meat grinder.
With a sympathetic grimace, Maxwell shook her head, “that’s devastating to hear, sir, but I’m afraid I will not be able to participate.”
Oh. Not sympathetic, then. Still, Daniel knew she was not getting out of this. And if she was, then surely so was he.
Kepler just raised an eyebrow, ready to hear whatever pathetic excuse she’d cooked up. “Oh? And why is that, Doctor?”
Zero hesitation, Alana looked Kepler straight in the eye—damn, look at the boldness on that one—and deadpanned, “I’ll be on my period that day. Second day, actually. Worst day, sir.”
Eyes suddenly twice their size, Jacobi had to pretend his cackle was a cough. Wow, he never would’ve thought she would use that excuse. He was jealous, though. What could he say? Vasectomy?
Unfortunately, he knew it would never fly with Kepler. Judging by the way he didn’t even flinch, her chances of getting out of this were less than one in a trillion. The Major, lack of a smile obvious despite the cheerful tone that followed, was swift as he countered, “good! Nothing builds character like two things you’d rather not be doing happening simultaneously. I’ll be cheering you on with my full support and iron supplements, Doctor.”
The groan that Maxwell let out had Jacobi patting her on the shoulder. Good try, Lana. It didn’t stop her from slumping lower into her chair in defeat: no further attempts after that. It hadn’t worked for the Christmas party, it wouldn’t work for this.
Satisfied that neither of his subordinates spoke for at least five consecutive seconds (Daniel regretted taking just a bit too long coming up with an excuse), the Major straightened his already-perfect shirt collar and smiled. An honest to God smile that had Jacobi wincing internally, because it could never mean anything good. The memory of that mission involving the counterfeit uranium shipment trekked through his thoughts like a stray dog crossing a busy street, and he had to suppress the shudder that threatened to wreck his body.
Insubordinate as only he could get away with, Jacobi pointed at Kepler. “Don’t.” But he was ignored, naturally.
Kepler reached beneath the desk once more with a pizzazz that had Jacobi thinking he’d pull out a rabbit from underneath; however, not even the greatest magician could have materialized the sheer volume of bullshit that the Major kept hidden in his desk. Just how big were those drawers?!
Simultaneous cries of “oh, come on,” and “there’s absolutely no way!” came from Jacobi and Maxwell, respectively, as Kepler dropped thick binder after overfilled binder on the desktop. One, two, three, four, each hitting the polished wood with enough force to make Maxwell flinch. The stack had to be at least six inches tall, and the Major looked a little too proud of himself for Jacobi’s liking.
“What,” he asked, giving Maxwell a wary glance before carefully staring at the documents, “is that?”
And apparently it was rude to ask, because Kepler looked almost offended with his downturned lips and furrowed brow as he promptly replied, “the strategy package. That should be obvious.”
Right. Because it was so normal to have a whole compendium—more like a collection of them—for a recreational activity. Trust Warren Kepler to turn everything into the world’s most insane competition. How could he have expected anything less?
Jacobi pursed his lips. “Excuse me?”
“You’re excused.” The Major now didn’t look bothered. “The strategy package, Jacobi.”
Maxwell piped up, in utter disbelief, “for…field day?” And hadn’t it been for the warning look Daniel gave her, she would have insisted that it wasn’t that deep.
“Correct.” His boss’ voice, as much as he enjoyed it every now and then, was really starting to get on Jacobi’s nerves. He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again, and was very deeply disappointed to find that the binders were still there.
Both agents, presumably still in deep states of shock, stared in complete silence as Kepler flipped open the first binder, went to the first of seven color-coded tabs, and pulled out a pair of laminated schedules. Jacobi hadn’t seen one since he was in high school, and his for sure hadn’t been goddamn laminated. Judging from the strangled noise that came from Maxwell’s throat, neither had hers. Though, to be fair, he assumed it was different when you went through high school as a toddler, as he so liked to tease his best friend about.
“That’s the programming for this week,” Kepler informed them. Oh, that was just the tip of the iceberg.
“You’ve got to be kidding—” Jacobi began to protest, but was interrupted by Kepler sliding one of the binders his way, then another aimed at Maxwell. They each had their names written on them, and the remaining two were destined for three agents whom Jacobi vaguely recognized as being SI-3. He couldn’t help but laugh in sheer disbelief: this man wasn’t nearly busy enough if he had time for this bullshit. “You recruited people for this?”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Maxwell begin to flip through the pages of her assigned binder. Nosy as only he could be, Daniel spared a quick glance, regretting it as soon as he caught sight of different graphs, charts, and…were those the results of last month’s physical?
The Major took it all in stride. “As you should remember from last year’s obvious disadvantage, Mr. Jacobi, the lack of a minimum number of participants per team is not a blessing. For optimal performance, we require five participants.” He’d calculated the number himself, of course. Kepler had strange ways of spending his free time. “After reviewing available candidates from all Strategic Intelligence units, I assembled the strongest possible team.”
Jacobi gave Maxwell an alarmed look, in his eyes an unspoken ‘are you listening to this?!’ But unluckily for him, the Doctor was too busy reading over—and lamenting—the specialized nutrition plan Kepler had designed for her. With each passing second, she looked more and more horrified. Kepler didn’t seem to notice this. He tapped his finger on the remaining binders, one by one.
“Agent Fleming from Reconnaissance,” Kepler said. Jacobi knew him. Their jobs didn’t overlap much—SI-4 and under were…cannon fodder—but they’d collaborated on a few missions before. Reuben was a nice guy. Calm and level-headed, and from what Jacobi had heard he had a picture-perfect family at home. The guy was a good sport. He could see why Kepler had picked him. Not to mention the obvious fact that he was— “Former Olympic swimmer. Not a lot of water activities planned, but his athleticism is a bonus.” There it was. That was the biggest (and only) selling point, if anyone cared to ask Daniel. And of course Kepler would go out of his way to praise him. “He should be a great addition for tug-of-war, but he’ll give us a huge advantage overall.”
Jacobi rolled his eyes. Why not set up an altar for the guy, if Kepler loved him so much? Or better yet, give him a bath and drink the water afterwards. Would serve him right. Idiot.
Next to him, Maxwell was still in a hell of her own. Too busy to spot his jealousy right away as she usually would, her bright eyes were dull with horror as they remained glued to her new food regime.
Despite not having known her for that long, Jacobi had learned that there were specific stages to Alana Maxwell’s distress. First came the slow blink, much like a cat’s. Then the little furrow between her brows, hiding under the thick rim of her brightly colored glasses—which she used solely for screens, since she had the best eyesight Goddard doctors had seen—pun entirely intended—in decades. After that, her mouth always tightened like she’d bit into a lime. The grand finale was absolute devastation. So overpowering and brutal that it looped riiight back into academic curiosity. Sometimes, Daniel really did think she was a robot.
He watched, curious, as she interrupted Kepler once again.
“Sir,” she began, slowly. As she spoke, each syllable was careful, as if Kepler was some sort of wild animal, “why is there a nutrition section here?” As if she didn’t know the answer already. Either way, Jacobi let out a strangled noise that went ignored by both teammates. He wasn’t religious, by any means, but he had no clue what sort of sins he was paying for right now. He was such a saint!
Kepler, seemingly not bothered by the change of topic, shifted his attention to her. “Because nutrition is the foundation of performance, Doctor. Athletes are made in the kitchen.”
The answer wasn’t satisfying enough for Maxwell, who insisted, “this says breakfast is egg whites, plain oats, and half a grapefruit.” Half? Who the hell ate half something? Though, to be fair, he knew Maxwell: her daily diet consisted of around twenty Monsters and a couple bites of a ham and cheese sandwich. Maaaybe a couple of cheese sticks too, on a good day. Oh, she was going to suffer through this week, maybe even more so than him.
“Correct.” Ugh, could Kepler get any more utterly insufferable?
Maxwell didn’t surrender. “This also says lunch is grilled chicken breast, brown rice, and steamed broccoli.”
“Correct.”
With every passing second, every nonchalant reply from their boss, Jacobi could feel Maxwell’s temper rising. If it wasn’t obvious from her increasingly annoyed, increasingly higher-pitched voice.
“And this says dinner is salmon!” She shrieked. “I’m allergic to salmon!”
“No. You’re not.”
Meanwhile, Alana just looked outraged. “I could be by Friday.”
Kepler didn’t budge. “Doctor, I can personally assure you, you won’t be.” At the distraught, prolonged groan that Maxwell let out—and which Kepler didn’t even acknowledge! Nobody believed Jacobi, but she got away with so much—the Major sighed. “You two insolent hellions should be thanking me. I am the one who’s going to be personally prepping each and every one of your meals this week.”
Under literally any other circumstance, Jacobi would have been unbelievably thankful for that. As much as he was irritating sometimes, there was no denying that Warren Kepler’s culinary skills could put Joël Robuchon to shame any day. But whether the same talent would apply to cooking hard-boiled eggs and protein slop…that was up for debate. And Jacobi’s money was on ‘the menu of doom and despair,’ considering the diet detailed on the project plan.
Project plan for a field day, what a goddamn joke.
“Oh, yay,” Jacobi deadpanned, elongating the only vowel in a cadence so monotone that it surprised even him. He couldn’t please a tough crowd, however: Kepler’s glare was immediate.
Jacobi held his stare, unwilling to back down. But Kepler was as vindictive as Jacobi was stubborn, and so he slammed a fist on the table—seriously, how did it never break?—and gleefully announced the worst detail of the already-worst news Jacobi and Maxwell had received in the last month.
“And caffeine is limited!” The devil wearing a suit and tie smiled at them. They both shouted in absolute horror and outrage at the same time, because they couldn’t survive without it, but a single raised fist like an orchestra conductor shut them right up. “One serving in the morning, one optional serving before training if necessary. Coffee only, no energy drinks. And I don’t care for your excuses, I still expect you here on time for work in the morning as usual.”
Staring straight ahead, Jacobi was not bold enough to look at Maxwell. He could feel her death stare on his neck: presumably where she’d shoot him if she had a gun in her hands right now. Okay, fine, he messed up this time. But surely Kepler would have taken caffeine from them anyway, so was it really his fault?
Complaints successfully shut down, it was right back to their team additions. Kepler continued, “Anyway! The other member of our team for next Sunday. Agent Harper, former Navy SEAL.” She was fine. Certainly didn’t deserve the proud smile that adorned the Major’s lips as he mentioned her. Way too much of a hardass, Jacobi thought she tried too hard to imitate Kepler, but she was pleasant enough when it mattered. She definitely had the SI rule book up her ass, but there was no denying she was talented. Hopefully running around blindfolded would help her chill out a little bit. “If I had to list her skills, which you’ve witnessed in both the Oeiras and Antwerp missions in case you’ve forgotten, we’d be here all day. I need you two to get back to work, so I’ll be quick.”
Maxwell interrupted. “Strategic Intelligence Competitive Advantage Matrix?” She frowned, eyes glued to a paper full of handwritten notes. “What advantage matrix?”
As if the answer was obvious, Kepler shot her a look. “We do have an extensive set of advantages compared to other departments, just so you both know. You, Doctor Maxwell, possess exceptional hand-eye coordination.” And Alana nodded at that, visibly proud of the fact. Best shot in the entire department and she knew it well. As she’d often sigh to Daniel, it was so hard being number one at everything.
Jacobi, however, couldn’t keep quiet. He scoffed, “what, so her nerd videogame skills are gonna win us the egg races?”
Kepler glared, but Jacobi knew he didn’t mean it. He hoped, at least.
“They’re called egg-and-spoon relays.”
He couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Oh, excuse me, sir, for my ignorance.” Jacobi was pushing it, and he knew it. Didn’t mean he would stop. “So you actually researched this stuff?”
Alana answered for him with a serious “yup,” as she pointed out an entire section on one of the papers in her binder. A whole three paragraphs in minuscule font, single-spaced, dedicated exclusively to egg-balancing technique.
Why did he accept this job, again?
“The wrist stabilization research was surprisingly extensive,” the Major admitted. “That one took me three hours.”
“THREE HOURS?!” Came the twin shouts from Jacobi and Maxwell.
The effect was immediate. His glare intensified, forehead creasing as his eyebrows got lower on his face. Both hands slammed forcefully on the table, shutting his agents up in an instant.
“ENOUGH!” Kepler snapped right back. His voice was gruffer, a rough edge to it that he’d been patiently putting off this entire time. He was so generous with them, truly.
Then, he cleared his throat. Relaxing as if nothing had happened, he continued, “as I was saying. Advantages. In your case, Mr. Jacobi, I’ve noticed that despite your…faults…” oh. Oh. Was the asshole smirking? Son of a bitch, he was doing it on purpose! “You do demonstrate a remarkably superior sense of balance.”
Daniel, despite his prior offense, could only blink. “What?”
Kepler raised his eyebrows. “You spent two and a half months infiltrating a cargo vessel in the middle of the Atlantic.”
Huh? Jacobi sure hoped he didn’t look as dumbfounded as he felt. Sure, he did do that, almost a year ago. They needed the intel, and he was the most suitable agent for the job due to his area of expertise. Still, he wasn’t completely sure as to what Kepler was getting at here, exactly. Motion sickness?
“What does that have to do with any of this?”
The Major sighed, and the exasperated look kind of rubbed Jacobi the wrong way. Forgive him for not reading minds, then. And why the hell was Maxwell so quiet, anyway?! She was supposed to be backing him up here!
“It’s for sack racing,” Kepler attempted to clarify. Yup, definitely motion sickness. “You lived in a shipping container.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m good at hopping!” Oh and there was Maxwell, stifling a stupid little laugh. Yeah, right, now she was laughing. Go ahead, WALL-E, just laugh away at his misfortune. Jacobi grumbled something incoherent about it under his breath, and Kepler moved on before he could continue to argue.
“There will also be dress code standards.” It just kept going, oh god. “Seeing as this is an internal affair,” and by that he meant the non-publicly known Goddard divisions, hence Strategic Intelligence and Special Projects, “I expect you in full SI performance uniform.”
Maxwell called him out before Jacobi could. “The gym clothes?”
“The performance uniform.” Trust Kepler to be touchy-touchy about terminology.
“The black gym clothes.” Oh, he could kiss her right now.
“The Strategic Intelligence performance uniform,” Kepler corrected one final time, firm. Maxwell didn’t try to goad him this time. “Compression shirt, tactical training pants, athletic jacket, approved footwear. No modifications. Yes, Doctor, that includes patches.” Oof, got her there. “I see a hint of blue, you’re running laps.”
The doctor scoffed, then crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m reporting that to HR, sir, that’s discrimination.”
“Cry about it.” He turned to Jacobi. “You. No cutting off the sleeves. You are a grownup, you can handle them.” Damn, clocked him.
Jacobi definitely did not roll his eyes. “Sir, respectfully, those pants have, like, sixteen pockets.”
Maxwell confirmed. “They do, it’s so stupid!”
“What the hell am I supposed to store? Tactical eggs?”
The Major didn’t seem to get the joke. “No outside eggs. Special Projects used a hard-boiled egg last year, and I will not have Strategic Intelligence implicated in similar conduct.” Kepler? With morals? Since when? “We will cheat cleverly or not at all.” Yeah, that was more like it.
Beside Jacobi, Maxwell shut her binder. His was still sitting untouched on his lap. Kepler kept running his mouth.
“Training begins tomorrow at zero five hundred.”
In perfect unison, the wonder twins replied, “no.”
“Yes.”
“Five in the morning?” Maxwell demanded. Kepler must’ve thought he had parrots, the way they repeated everything he said. “Sir, I’m barely a person at five in the morning.”
Jacobi snickered. “You’re barely a person ever. Beep beep boop—OW!” He frowned and rubbed his arm where Maxwell’s fist had struck.
Kepler looked thankful for that. Not missing a beat, he shot back, “then I suggest you become one by zero four forty-five.” With that, after what felt like ages of berating and abusing his poor, mistreated subordinates, Major Kepler finally took a seat. Their cue to start packing up, surely, and so they both begrudgingly grabbed their laminated fucking schedules and tucked them into their respective binders.
A familiar smug smirk was aimed at both of them, and Jacobi had never been so aware of how punchable that handsome face was.
“You’re both dismissed.” Bingo. Called it. “Performance uniforms. Gymnasium B. Zero five hundred. Don’t be late. Last one to get there gets to do twenty extra pull-ups.”
That got identical groans from them, and yet they got out of their chairs, gathered their new supplies, and headed for the door. On his way out, Jacobi imagined that was how Napoleon felt after Waterloo, head bowed and spirits at rock bottom.
He opened the door, letting Maxwell get out first. She gave him a weirded out look at the chivalrous gesture, but fled their boss’ office regardless; she wouldn’t dwell on it if not necessary. Jacobi, still holding the door, glanced back.
“All of this because Young lives rent-free in your head? That’s tough, sir.”
He would’ve loved to stay and witness Kepler’s reaction, but Jacobi made a run for it as soon as the quip left his mouth. No worry, he would definitely find out at tomorrow’s training, but it would be worth it. Cackling like a maniac, he returned to his desk to the sound of Kepler barking an “OUT!” as the office door slammed shut.
Hell, if they were forced to do this, might as well be the best at it.