Greg Vs: Lag 6.23b (Patreon)

Lag 6.23b

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

May 20, 2010

The bell rang, a shrill sound that cut through the chatter filling the halls of Winslow High. Greg Veder strolled into Mr. Gladly's World Issues classroom alongside a bored-looking Axel Ramon, his blue eyes scanning the room with a mix of amusement and detachment. The desks, ancient relics that had seen better days, groaned under the weight of students as they settled in, their conversations a cacophony of teenage interests.

"Yo, did you see that new Thrillshot music video?" one guy asked, his voice rising above the noise. "The special effects were insane! They said they got a Tinker working for the band."

"Nah, man, I was too busy trying not to fall asleep during detention," another replied, slouching in his seat.

Greg plopped down into his chair, the plastic creaking beneath him. He glanced over at his best friend, Sparky, who was already doodling in his notebook, golden eyes focused on the page. A smirk tugged at the corner of Greg's mouth as he leaned back, his gaze drifting to the front of the room over to Mr. Gladly, a short, baby-faced blond with a smile that seemed permanently etched onto his face as the man stood before the class. Really, he looked more like a student than a teacher, his expensive clothes and well-groomed appearance setting him apart from the sea of hoodies and ripped jeans.

"Alright, everyone, settle down," Mr. Gladly called out, clapping his hands together. The chatter slowly died down, though pockets of conversation still persisted.

"Hey, anybody seen Hess today?" a girl whispered loudly, leaning across the aisle to her friend.

"Probably skipping again," the friend replied, rolling her eyes. "Has she been here since school got back in?”

"So, for your next project," Mr. Gladly continued, his voice cutting through Greg's thoughts, "I want you to put your desks together and…"

As the teacher droned on about the assignment details, Greg's mind wandered. He glanced around the room, taking in the peeling paint, the flickering fluorescent lights, and the three outdated computers lining the back wall. He wasn’t even sure why he bothered with Winslow. He could make all the money he ever wanted in less than a month and it wasn’t like college was something he was ever gonna bother with. Not even sure I could handle it without losing my fucking mind. Twelve years of school is already torture.

His gaze landed on Sparky again, and a grin spread across his face as he twisted his chair around and scooted the attached desk  across the floor with a loud groan to meet his friend’s own. Greg leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk. "Hey, Sparky," he whispered, his voice low and conspiratorial. "Did you hear what Gladly wanted us to do?”

Sparky glanced up from his doodles, one eyebrow raised. “Did I hear? Yeah. Did I pay attention? Nah, brah.”

Greg huffed out a laugh, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Cool, me neither. Now, check this out.” And with that, he pulled out a sheet of paper and started scribbling. 

The blond could tell Sparky was interested in what he was writing, even though he kept his bored expression. Yeah, gonna make those eyes widen up real quick. Try to act nonchalant about this. With a self-assured smirk, Greg finished scribbling down the lyrics he'd just brainstormed and passed the sheet to Sparky, eager for his friend's approval. Sparky, his golden eyes scanning the page, glanced down at the paper. 

A second later, he glanced back up. "Yeah, nah," Sparky said under his breath, shaking his head as he tried to avoid drawing attention from the rest of the class.

Greg's face contorted into a look of confusion. "What?" he shot back, his voice barely audible to anyone without enhanced hearing like Sparky and himself. "What's wrong with it?"

Sparky narrowed one eye, tapping the paper in front of him. "Okay… 'carving the streets, I'm Hardcore, blazed…'"

"Uh-huh," Greg nodded, seeing nothing wrong.

"'...Katana so sharp, it's a bloody parade…'" Sparky continued, his mouth pursed.

"Inspired writing, honestly," the blond replied, his tone nonchalant. Greg leaned back in his chair, the picture of ease, even as the aged plastic creaked beneath him.

"...okay, let's skip to the end here," Sparky said, both eyes narrowed now. "'Fire like a comet, I'm the talk of the town, villains drop like flies when I'm wearing my crown…' You see nothing wrong with this?"

"No," Greg answered simply, his smirk never wavering. 

"...what crown?" Sparky finally asked, his voice low but his expression making it seem like he'd yelled. "What. Crown."

Greg gestured to his messy bedhead, his blond locks sticking up at odd angles. "It's a metaphorical crown," he explained, his tone suggesting that it should have been obvious. "It represents my best, that I'm the king. Boastfulness in rap is part of the culture."

"The culture?" Sparky shot him a look, his eyebrows raised in disbelief.

"The culture," Greg affirmed, his voice unwavering as he leaned back in his chair, the plastic creaking under his weight. He met Sparky's gaze head-on, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

Sparky rolled his eyes, clearly at least a little frustrated. “Why do you even want a rap? I can write you a sick theme song with some guitar riffs and drum solos.”

“Bro, heroes do rock and pop.” Greg snorted quietly, pulling a face. “You don’t know anything.”

Gold eyes went slightly cold as Sparky tilted his head to the side. “...wanna rephrase that?”

“Nah.” Greg shook his head. “Like I was saying you don’t know anything. Edgy superheroes and vigilantes get rap songs these days. Villain rap, vigilante rap, it's the new edge music. Self-empowerment and a challenge to the system but as a cape. Don't act like you haven't heard Razr?"

Sparky's golden eyes narrowed, his expression a mix of disbelief and exasperation. He slouched in his seat, his long hair falling over his face as he shook his head. "Wannabe villain from a gated community who acts like he grew up in the hood. Yeah, I heard Razr."

Ooooh. I touched a nerve. Greg's smirk only grew wider. He leaned forward, elbows resting on the scratched surface of his desk. "Hater," he accused playfully, his voice barely above a whisper. "He was on the soundtrack for the first Ex-Heroes movie." Greatest zombie movie in fucking history. 

Sparky scoffed, one hand reaching up to toss his hair back. "Brah, you're gonna need to tell me how i'm the hater for speaking facts on th-"

"Because you're disrespecting a legend," Greg interrupted. His voice rose slightly with the last word, but remained low enough to avoid drawing attention from their classmates as his  fingers tapped against the desk. "His album was amazing."

"Tracklist was trash, let's be real," Sparky countered, his tone flat and unimpressed. He leaned back in his chair, the plastic groaning slightly again.  "Dude does pop rap and acts tough."

Greg opened his mouth to retort, but Sparky held up a hand, his fingers outstretched as he began to list off his points. "Does music for game trailers, gets featured on movie soundtracks. His power is that he can claw things with his hands," he ticked off each item, his voice low and steady. "He used to be on a TV show for teens. And committed one crime, assault without using his powers."

Greg shrugged, his expression nonchalant. "...I don't see your point," he replied glibly, eyes flicking around the room. God, Winslow really looks like shit. Do we not get money from the government or what?

"Of course you don't. Razr as an artist depends on you. You a white kid from the suburbs, brah," Sparky said with a slight hiss, his fingers tapping against the scratched surface of the desk. His golden eyes narrowed as he leaned forward, his voice still low.

Greg fought back a laugh. "What does race have to do with anything?" he asked, doing his best to keep the mocking tone out of his voice. He’s serious about this. Love it.

Sparky shook his head, his long hair falling over his face. "Cus you're literally his target demogr-"

"What are you two talking about?" A high-pitched voice piped in from behind them, interrupting Sparky mid-sentence. "Are you even doing the wor-"

"Shut the fuck up, Julia," Sparky snapped, twisting in his seat to shoot the tan, brown-haired girl a withering glare. His golden eyes flashed with annoyance, mouth set in a firm line.

Julia's mouth dropped open, her eyes widening in shock. "Y-you can't talk to me like tha-"

"Julia," Greg cut in, voice dismissive and confident. He leaned back in his chair, the plastic creaking under his weight as he fixed the girl with a steady gaze. "Were we talking to you?"

"...no?" Julia's voice was small, uncertain.

"Mmmm…" Greg raised his eyebrows, smiling at her with a closed mouth. "Logic would dictate you should mind your business then."

Julia stared at Greg, confusion etched across her features. Her gaze snapped from him to Sparky, then to the other boy sitting across from her who had chosen to ignore his partner's argument. Her mouth opened and closed silently, like a goldfish gasping for air.

Greg watched as her gaze flicked back to him, uncertainty warring with irritation in her eyes. He could practically see the gears turning in her head as she tried to decide what to say.

The blond barely suppressed a flinch as thoughts of his girlfriend, Emma -  currently lying comatose in a hospital bed - hit him like a hammer at the reminder of how he recognized Julia. The trio of Emma, Sophia, and Madison had once ruled the sophomores and freshmen of Winslow Highs with whatever the teenage girl version of an iron fist was, their popularity and social status unquestioned. But now, with Emma out of commission and Sophia thoroughly humbled, the balance of power had shifted. With him basically beating up any bully he saw being annoying, it was mostly in his favor.

And then there was Julia, one of Emma's "friends." A hanger-on, a satellite that orbited the trio's star. Without their protection, without their status to shield her, she was just another face in the crowd. From what Emma had told him about how this social shit worked, someone who wasn’t popular or respected for a specific reason like sports or being pretty or having a cool after-school job, like Julia, they couldn’t really say anything to someone above them and expect any back up or something like that.

He didn’t really pay much attention.

Greg leaned back,  his elbow resting on the back of his chair as he fixed Julia with a steady gaze. "Now turn around," he twirled his finger in the air. "And do your work."

Julia's face flushed with frustration, but she did as she was told, turning back to face her own desk. Greg could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Heh.

"Nice," Sparky chimed in, his voice a low murmur.

Without even looking, Greg raised his hand, meeting Sparky's in a high-five across the table. "When am I ever not?" he asked, a grin spreading across his face.

Sparky snorted, leaning back in his seat once more. "Also, 'logic would dictate'? Really?"

Greg shrugged, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "What? Too Spock?"

"You watch Star Trek?" Sparky asked, one eyebrow raised in surprise.

"Yeah, the movie?" Greg nodded, his blond hair flopping over his forehead. "It came out last year."

Sparky shook his head, his long hair swaying with the motion. "I didn't see it."

"Why?"

"Zac Efron as Captain Kirk, really?" Sparky's tone was disbelieving, but Greg understood why..

"Jesse Eisenberg wasn't my first choice for Spock, either," Greg admitted, his shoulders rising and falling in a casual shrug. "But he pulled it off. Something about him speaking super-fast as Spock soothes my soul."

Sparky fixed Greg with a skeptical look, his eyebrows knitting together. "Wait… you have a soul?"

Greg scoffed, his hand flying to his chest in mock offense. "Being blond makes you evil. Being ginger means you have no soul," he shot back, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Don't mix them up. It's rude."

The two friends shared a look, their eyes locking for a moment before they both devolved into snickers. The sound was just low enough that only the two other groups seated near them paid them any attention, their heads turning to shoot the pair curious glances.

He leaned back in his chair, his eyes drifting to the front of the classroom where Mr. Gladly droned on about the project. The teacher's voice was a distant buzz in Greg's ears, and wow, he actually kinda sounded like the trombone off Peanuts. Crazy. Womp-womp-womp-womp- wompwomp. Hehehehe…

Sparky's voice cut through Greg's mocking thoughts. "Oh also, someone made you a theme song and they added it to your Henshin bullshit right before you fought Lung." He reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone with stealth and sliding it across his desk to Greg’s own with a smirk.

Greg's eyes widened, his mouth falling open in surprise. "Wait, someone made an AMV of... me?"

Sparky rolled his eyes, shooting Greg a playfully harsh glare. "... first of all, it's not anime, so it's just a music video. Second... shut up. Third... people are loving it. Look."

He pushed the phone even closer towards Greg, the screen already lit up with the video in question. Picking it up, Greg hit Play, his smile widening as he watched himself transform into his white knight armor, the footage cutting to him flitting around the screen, engaging in a fierce battle against Lung. A rock song played in the background, the heavy beats and guitar riffs perfectly synced to the action on screen.

"Sick," Greg breathed, his eyes glued to the screen.

"Greg, Sparky!" Mr. Gladly's voice rang out from the front of the classroom, startling the two boys from their reverie. They jumped slightly in their seats, their heads snapping up to face the teacher. "Are you boys doing your work?"

"No," they both said in unison.

Blue eyes met gold, and for a moment, there was silence. 

Then, the snickers started.

They didn’t stop.

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

"And that's when Mr. Gladly kicked us out and told us to go to you," Sparky said, his golden eyes flicking over to Greg as he spoke.

"Well, he kicked Sparky out and I just kinda went with him," Greg interjected, voice quick and confident. "He didn't really say anything to me. I think you should really give him some diversity training. Little bit of prejudice, maybe?" He glanced at Sparky, one eyebrow raised, a smirk playing on his lips. "Maybe?"

Sparky hesitated for a moment, his brow furrowing as he considered Greg's words. "Maybe. First time, I noticed but it was a little weird. Maybe."

Greg nodded, his expression one of fake solemnity as he turned back to face the owner of the office the two were standing in. "And yeah, that's pretty much how we got here."

Principal Blackwell, a skinny woman in a gray pantsuit, stood by the side of her thick wooden desk. Her dirty blonde bowl-cut framed a face set in a severe frown, her hazel eyes speaking of exhaustion despite the rest of her appearance remaining as harsh and unforgiving as it usually was. "Mmm," she hummed, her gaze flicking between the two boys. "And the part about you walking in slow-motion as you entered Mr. Gladly's class and doves flew out from behind the two of you. Mr. Veder, Mr. Ramon, tell me please… how was that relevant or…" A barely audible hiss escaped her before she spoke again, her voice strained, "...factual?"

Greg faked a cough, his hand coming up to cover his mouth as he fought back a grin. "Well, Gangsta's Paradise was also playi-"

"We're sorry about that, Principal Blackwell," Sparky cut in, a grin on his face as he let out an awkward laugh. He slammed a hand over Greg's mouth, muffling the blond's words. "So very sorry. He's an unreliable narrator. You can never trust his perspective, really."

Blackwell shot her gaze over her glasses at Greg, her eyes narrowing as she studied the boy. Greg simply shrugged, his shoulders rising and falling in a fluid motion, not feeling the need to remove Sparky's hand from his face. He could feel the amusement bubbling up inside him, the urge to laugh barely contained.

The principal closed her eyes, two fingers meeting the bridge of her aquiline nose as she rapped hard on the desk with her other hand. She looked as if she wanted to wipe her face with her hand, said rapping hand squeezing into a tight clenched fist when it wasn’t knocking against her desk. A loud sigh escaped her, the sound filled with a mix of frustration and resignation.

Sparky lowered his hand from Greg's face, both boys shooting the principal expectant looks. They stood there, shoulders nearly touching, waiting for her to say something.

Finally, Blackwell opened her eyes, a clearly fake smile plastered on her face. Annoyance and exhaustion warred for dominance in her gaze as she spoke, her voice tight. "It’s 2 PM. Get out."

Greg's eyes widened, his mouth opening to protest. "So… no detent-"

"Getoutofmyoffice!" Blackwell interjected, her words running together in a rush of exasperation. She pointed at the door, her smile never wavering even as her eyes flashed with barely contained irritation.

Greg glanced at Sparky, a grin spreading across his face. 

The other boy returned the look, his own smile a mirror image of Greg's. “Your house?”

“Where else?”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Greg and Sparky lounged in the Veder living room, the soft blue walls and plush furnishings creating a cozy atmosphere. Greg, in his usual fashion, had draped himself upside down on the couch, his feet dangling over the back while his head hung off the edge, blond locks brushing against the carpet. Sparky, on the other hand, had claimed a spot on the floor, his back resting against the front of the couch as he sat cross-legged on the woven white rug.

The two teenagers were engrossed in an episode of CAPES, a popular TV show that delved into the cutthroat world of corporate cape life. On the rustic coffee table in front of them, cups of orange soda sat half-empty, the condensation leaving rings on the wooden surface.

"So, when's this Mike Ross guy gonna get caught?" Greg asked, his voice slightly strained from his inverted position. He kicked his feet playfully in the air, the rhythmic thumping of his heels against the back of the couch punctuating his words. "It's been like three seasons. You'd think they would find out he used to work for a villain before."

Sparky snorted, his gaze flickering from the TV screen to his phone as he idly scrolled through his messages. With a shrug, he let the device drop back into the pocket of his baggy black-and-yellow hoodie. "He's the main character, brah," he replied, shaking his head in amusement. "He goes to jail, show ends."

"I know, I know," Greg conceded, his upside-down eyebrow quirking as he drummed his fingers against the couch cushions. "M'just saying. It's like every third character threatens Hotshot with this secret at least once a season. You think he'd just say fuck it and leave already."

Sparky frowned, his shoulders rising and falling in a noncommittal shrug. "Corporate bread is too good, brah. You see Ross's new apartment? You see how Closer's place looks, the cars he buys, brah? I wouldn't give that shit up easy if I was Hotshot."

"Hmmm… true." Greg nodded, the movement somewhat awkward given his inverted position.

A comfortable silence settled over the room, broken only by the dialogue emanating from the TV and the occasional slurp of orange soda. Greg's mind wandered, his thoughts drifting to the recent changes in his life. Being a superhero had its perks, sure, but it also came with a whole new set of responsibilities. 

As if reading his thoughts, Sparky glanced around the living room, his gaze trailing up the stairs towards the second floor. "...your mom asleep upstairs again?" he asked, his voice tinged with a hint of concern.

Greg shook his head, the movement causing his hair to sway like a golden curtain. "Nah, dude," he answered calmly, his tone fully sidestepping the slight worry that gnawed at the back of his mind. "She's at a friend's house in Downtown."

Sparky leaned back further against the couch, fixing Greg with a cock-eyed look. "And you… aren't worried about her or nothing?"

A laugh bubbled up from Greg's throat, the sound slightly strained as he waved away his friend's question with a dismissive hand. "Come on, man. Of course I am. That's why I got some of my boys watching her."

"...some of your boys," Sparky repeated slowly, his gaze intense as he focused on Greg's upside-down face.

Greg fought back another snort, amused by Sparky's apparent inability to accept the fact that he now essentially ran what used to be the ABB. It was a strange turn of events, yeah, but one that Greg had embraced wholeheartedly. After all, with great power…

And if that responsibility included keeping the streets safe and his mom out of harm's way, well, he was more than happy to shoulder that burden.

"Yeah, some of my boys," Greg confirmed, his tone slightly mocking as he echoed Sparky's words. He could practically hear his friend's just barely unspoken concerns.

Sparky's frown deepened, his brows knitting together as he studied Greg's face. "And you trust them?"

"Yeah, they used to be criminals but they're loyal, dude. 'Sides, I told them anything happens to my mom happens to them," Greg shot back, voice firm and unwavering. He knew that his new authority might seem strange to Sparky, but he also knew that he had the power to back up his words. "They're super-de-duper vigilant, trust me."

"...If you trust them, I trust them, brah," Sparky conceded, throwing his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "We already had this convo, anyway."

"True," Greg blinked, the realization dawning on him as he recalled their previous discussion. Has it really only been a week? he thought to himself, marveling at how quickly time seemed to pass. "Crazy how it's been a whole week since that… that went down."

Sparky nodded, his expression somber as he stared at the TV screen, his mind clearly elsewhere. "Right. I… honestly can't believe it. It already feels like a whole year. More even. I'm jumping over buildings and shit now."

Greg let out a low whistle, his upside-down face scrunching up in a mixture of disbelief and awe. "That… that Friday escalated quickly, like…," he paused, taking in a deep breath as he tried to find the right words. "Like, that really got out of hand fast."

"It jumped up a notch," Sparky agreed, his hands clenching into fists at his sides, the fabric of his hoodie bunching between his fingers.

"It did, didn't it?" Greg mused, his gaze drifting to the ceiling as he replayed the events of that fateful day in his mind. 

Sparky's voice broke through his thoughts, the words oddly calm despite the weight they carried. "I killed two dudes. Maybe three. Probably three." He fell silent for a moment, his voice dropping to a barely audible whisper. "Definitely three."

Greg nodded, his own memories of that day flooding back in vivid detail. "Yeah, I think I saw one of them coming up the stairs."

"Did you?" Sparky asked, his tone a strange mix of heaviness and lightness.

"Guy who fell down the stairs and smashed his head on the wall?" Greg clarified, tilting his head to look in Sparky's direction, his blond hair brushing against the couch.

Sparky didn't meet his gaze, his eyes still fixed on the TV screen. "Yeah."

Greg hesitated for a moment, weighing his next words carefully. "Also, did you take out the second one with a chair leg?" I remember seeing that, when I checked that floor.

"First," Sparky corrected, his voice flat and emotionless.

Oof. "Wanna talk about it?"

"...No."

Greg nodded, understanding his friend's reluctance. It's not like I'm jumping at the chance to relive it either, he thought, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Kinda lost my shit a lil. "Felt. My end was crazy too. Kinda lost my shit and squeezed a guy's skull till it popped."

Sparky's head snapped towards Greg, his eyes wide with shock. "What."

"Yeah, it was all crazy. There were guns and knives and one of those guys fucked up and set himself on fire, and… basically, yeah, I threw a fire extinguisher on one of them cus it was broken. Fire stopped. I don't think he died though."

"Wow… we're kinda fucked up, aren't we?" Sparky mused, a humorless chuckle escaping his lips as he turned back to watch the TV. “Like, big kinda.”

"Yeah, both wanted for murder," Greg agreed, eyes focused on the show. “Like multiple counts.”

“I think you technically count as a serial killer,” Sparky mused.

“And you’re right there next to me,” Greg said with a slightly airy laugh.

"...yeah."

"Yep."

"Mmhmm." A beat of silence passed between them, the gravity of their situation hanging in the air like a thick fog. Sparky was the first to break it, his voice hesitant and unsure. "You think we should get some… like… therapy?"

Greg considered the question for a moment. Therapy? Nah, that's for normal people with normal problems. We're superheroes. We don't need therapy. We need… to wreck shit. "...nah," he finally answered, his tone decisive.

"Same," Sparky agreed, a hint of relief in his voice.

The sound of the doorbell ringing cut through the silence, startling both boys from their thoughts. Greg tilted his head, a grin spreading across his face as he realized what it meant. "Oh cool, the Chinese food's early."

He glanced over at Sparky, his olive-skinned friend looking back at him with a raised eyebrow and bored golden eyes. "You mind…"

Sparky rolled his eyes, a long-suffering sigh escaping his lips. "I do, but I'll get it anyway."

As Sparky stood up and made his way out of the living room, Greg focused his attention back on the TV, his eyes drawn to the stunning redhead who played Closer's assistant. Man, Harvey Spector, you are one lucky cape, he thought, a smile tugging at his lips.

"YO, GREG!" Sparky's voice rang out from the front door, pulling Greg from his musings.

The blond angled his head towards the sound, his voice carrying across the room. "CASH IS ON THE DINING TABLE, BRO!"

"THAT'S NOT IT!" Sparky yelled back, his tone urgent. "SOME FAT KID'S HERE LOOKING FOR YOU!"