Lag 6.19a (Unbetaed Final Draft) (Patreon)

Lag 6.19a

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8:15 PM EST

May 15th

Downton, Brockton Bay

Susan Veder couldn’t remember the last time she had a night out like this.

Has it been three years? She felt a frown form on her face at the self-directed question, unable to actually answer it definitively.

Maybe four, if she was being honest.

Back then, nights like these had been a fog of glittering parties, champagne-fueled chatter, and the constant swirl of her ex-husband’s eccentricities. The last part, especially, had left its mark on her memory.

The last year of her marriage had been... hazy, to say the least.

A good amount of alcohol had been involved, really.

Regardless of exactly how long it had actually been, it had been quite a long time since she’d attended an event at all, let alone one as big as this.

A gala.

A swirl of celebrities, wealth, and fancy clothes that seemed to have no end.

A night where even the valets were as pristine as the cars they parked, a detail she had completely let slip her mind until a few minutes ago. Just one of a small mountain of important details about events like these had slipped through the cracks in her memory.

God, Suzy, you’re such an idiot! Idiot! Valets were a given for things like this, she should have remembered that. How did a simple concept like that slip her mind? She hadn’t even given it an ounce of thought until she had already pulled up to the event to see those same valets pulling away with Mercedes and Bentleys from those who had pulled up to the red carpeted entrance.

And her with her simple hatchback — a humble candy blue Nova Pulse. She was lucky Greg had seemed occupied with his phone, because otherwise, she’d have to explain why the red on her face was visible from a distance, she was sure of it. I can’t drive up there with this basic mom car, she groaned to herself as she fought the urge to introduce her forehead to the steering wheel, feeling like a stupid teenager lost in a world she had long left behind, I’d be a complete joke.

So, she didn’t.

Maneuvering around the block for a few good minutes until she found a suitable garage, Susan parked her car and began making her way down the street. The high-rise buildings of the city cast long shadows in the waning daylight as she and her son, her dear, confusing, bewildering son, walked down the street, the gallery's hulking, crystalline form standing tall in the distance.

Heading towards the gallery with her son on her arm had felt like being transported back in time more than anything else. The Forsberg Gallery, a towering asymmetrical art-piece of a structure in the distance loomed ahead, a twenty-six story architectural marvel surrounded by the bland buildings of Brockton Bay. From a distance, she could see photographers' flashes slicing the dark like miniature lightning, their cameras visible even under the massive flood lights that framed the gallery itself, the collective murmur of the crowd a dull roar, growing louder with each step they took…

This was the sort of nostalgia that was entirely uninvited and still managed to overstay its welcome — the kind that gnawed at her heart and left a bitter aftertaste.

Striding past the initial set of velvet ropes arm-in-arm with her son and still nearly half a block away from the red carpet proper, Susan Veder felt herself recalling her past, the wandering paths that had led her where she was.

From a frightened, depressed, near-suicidal teenager to an unexpected mother, and then suddenly a wife in a rushed marriage, it had been nothing but a whirlwind of events. Life happened so quickly, and she was always playing catch-up. Any potential dreams she might have had for herself died early under the fog of her depression, thickened by the sudden death of both her parents.

Then, like a streak of sunlight piercing through the dense fog, he appeared.

Him.

Her Prince Charming. Her knight in shining armor, complete with blond hair, muscles and a stunning smile that stole her breath away. A chance encounter on a crowded street had led to a whirlwind romance that felt straight out of a fairytale.

Tall, rich, handsome, and with a jawline chiseled from marble, the young man standing in her way that day on the sidewalk didn’t have to do much more than smile at her before she felt her heart skip a beat. With a simple and deep “Hey”, Susan knew she was smitten.

In very little time, she ended up in the arms and then the bed of some rich boy who treated her like a fairytale princess. Her life had transformed overnight. From a struggling lower-middle-class existence to one where she brushed shoulders with the city's elite. It was magical, intoxicating.

For the first time in what felt like the longest time, Susan Marie White had felt happy.

Truly, deeply happy.

But fairy tales don’t last.

In her case, it hadn’t even lasted a full year.

All of a sudden, she was pregnant and her Prince Charming was suddenly a completely different man than the storybook prince he had been in her eyes. He was a brat, spoiled, entitled, violent, a man-child wrapped in the veneer of adulthood. Yet she couldn't shake off the memories of him—the memory of what he had promised her.

It didn’t even last a full year.

Either way, she did her best to hold onto the feeling but her old Prince Charming continued to prove that what she thought she had was only a fantasy and in his place, he left a spoiled brat of a man that never had to grow up.

Even though it had been quite some time since she had seen her old Prince Charming, let alone heard his voice, sometimes she couldn’t help but think back to when she first met him.

Years after their separation, memories of their time together would sneak up on her. She was reminded of it most recently when she looked at her son, more often than not. Especially now, as he led her towards the bustling gala.

As they passed the snaking line of uninvited attendees waiting for their turn to enter, an irritated voice pierced through the clamor. "Excuse me?" The protest came from a balding man in a well-tailored navy blue suit as mother and son walked past him on the sidewalk, displeasure clear on his pinched face.

"You're excused," came the nonchalant reply from her son as he turned around to casually dismiss the man. He wore a look that rang with bored indifference — a polite, albeit vacant, smile — but it wasn’t enough to hide the slight hint of amusement in his eyes. Susan recognized that expression.

She knew it all too well.

Rowan wore it often whenever he saw a potential opportunity to kick sand in someone’s face, sometimes literally.

The older man stepped forward, bristling at Greg's dismissive response. He pointed to the queue behind him, the single-breasted jacket of his worn suit straining at the action. "What do you think you're doing, young man? There's a line,” he huffed, gesturing at the people waiting patiently.

Susan glanced up and down said line, making eye contact with some familiar faces as she was met with a slight nod and a smile. While those she recognized chose to say nothing, many more unfamiliar individuals kept quiet all the same, clearly interested but keen to steer clear of any drama.

She glanced back to see her son’s smile rise slightly, his bored look gaining a hint of playfulness as he turned around properly and let go of her arm. Greg reached into the inner pocket of his luxurious jacket, the dark blue stripes on top of white fabric embellishing the suitcoat. "We have tickets... sir."

"Son, we've all purchased tickets," the man reiterated, the depth of his frown increasing. His robust, grey mustache quivered with ill-concealed annoyance, his hand clenching around his own white ticket. "The line exists for that reason," he made a sweeping motion with his hand, indicating the multitude of people obediently queued on either side of him.

"Exactly, you bought tickets," Greg's words rang clear, a mocking smile making his intentions clear as he pulled his hand from his jacket pocket. Held loosely between his fingers was a sleek booklet of black cardstock, the embossed silver letters glinting in the artificial light. A ticket, equally dark, was nestled within it. “That’s why you’re behind the line and I’m not. Mind your hairline before you mind my business, old man.”

With a casual roll of his eyes, Greg snorted at the stunned man, turning on his heels to stride confidently towards the relentless strobe of camera flashes.

For the first time in at least four years, Susan experienced a familiar sense of embarrassment, raising her hands in a conciliatory gesture towards the line of disgruntled guests, Greg’s words apparently not sitting well with some of them. The balding man himself stood aghast, his mouth moving soundlessly as he gripped his expensive ticket as though it were his last lifeline. "I am genuinely sorry. About all that." She offered him and everyone else an apologetic smile, the words rolling off her tongue with well-practiced ease, her voice carrying the sincerity of past experiences. “Honestly, I am. I don’t even know what… He’s never been here before either.”

“Mom!” His call came loud and sharp, Susan flinching slightly at the call.

"He's not usually this… rough," she stumbled over the words, trying to ease the older man's injured pride as best she could. "He's a good boy, it's just...adolescence and…"

“Mom!” Greg's voice reverberated through the night air once more, a clear note of impatience edging his tone. "Get a move on, already!”

“Coming, Greggie!” A glance behind her had her chuckling nervously before she scurried off after an awaiting Greg. “Again… a good boy.”

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The journey to the entrance of the Forsberg Gallery took a surprisingly short amount of time. Susan moved with a rush of anxious energy, her steps hurried and uneven as she clung to her son's arm. Greg, in contrast, strolled along the sidewalk with a casual, confident stride. Despite their differing pace, Susan couldn't shake off the feeling that she was the one moving slow somehow.

In no time, they made it to the front and Susan’s gaze craned higher and higher as she took in the Fosberg up close. The gallery was a behemoth, intimidating in its asymmetric grandeur. It towered overhead, with steel, glass and art deco touches shimmering under the illumination of floodlights like some deranged architect’s personal kaleidoscope.

As they actually neared the red carpet, an obstacle appeared in the form of a stern-faced security guard with a shaved head, the silver crown badge on his suit denoting him as a part of Medhall’s security team, the company seemingly doing more than just sponsoring this extravagant event. Their path was momentarily interrupted, but with a swift exchange of their invitations from Greg, the security man's suspicious gaze softened. He scrutinized the booklets, his eyebrows visibly raising behind his dark sunglasses at the name "Max Anders" clearly visible once he opened it, before giving them both a cursory once-over.

And then, they were on the red carpet.

On both sides, the path forward was neatly marked by velvet ropes, an ocean of flashes from photographers and journalists armed with microphones, still cameras and video cameras lined up behind them.

Susan Veder, thirty-five years old and more experienced than she'd ever wanted to be, found herself immersed in a world she had once known. It was a world filled with extravagance and grandeur that was both comforting and disturbingly alien. Oh no. Suddenly, the bright lights felt too glaring, the noise too loud. Panic seized her, and she came to an abrupt stop on the carpet, the anxiety in her chest spiking for a moment. I can’t do this. Not again. Her heart pounded like a drum as she glanced around to stare an eager reporter in the face, not for the first time wishing she had her ex-husband at her side. Not without him.

“Mom?”

The person holding her arm wasn’t her husband.

Susan Veder raised her head to stare into a pair of blue — so blue — eyes that radiated care. At times, she couldn’t help but feel like her son was just like his father, to a degree that she found it outright disconcerting.

Other times, though…

“You feeling okay, Mom?”

Susan stared back into a rounded face that was undeniably her own, despite bearing some of the markings of a different man. Get it together, Suze.

She nodded back at Greg, a slight smile on her face as she nodded. “I’m fine. Just fine, don’t worry. Let’s…” she gestured with her chin at the gallery door, “...how about we get inside, okay?”

The raised eyebrow from her son told her he didn’t exactly buy her words but he didn’t protest, shrugging his shoulders as he let out an audible “Sure.”

The walk along the plush red carpet felt like a journey through a field of lights. Yet, somehow, despite being the only one among the two of them to have done it before, Susan felt like the outsider while her son strutted along with an easy confidence that made it seem like he had walked it at least a dozen times, if not more.

His short golden blonde hair gleamed under the bright lights, each strand seemingly coming together to form a radiant halo around his face. His youthful skin, essentially unblemished, seemed to glow, perfect under the ruthless scrutiny of the high-definition cameras, adding to his charm.

Susan had spent time picking out his suit over a month in advance but a recent growth spurt had effectively thrown her planning out the window, leaving him without any suit that he could wear on short notice. Thankfully, Greg was able to get that taken care of on his own. At first, she’d had her doubts but Susan couldn’t help but feel her little Greggie had outdone himself with what he’d put together. She knew how hard it was to get something that both looked good and fit your own style and personality. Honestly…

Well, he didn’t fail at either.

Especially with so little time to prepare.

All in all, Greg managed to do both even better than she could ever have hoped for.

The white jacket, embellished with thick, vertical stripes of a dark blue and an understated red, along with thinner stripes of cobalt blue in between those, fit him impeccably. Beneath the jacket, a simple cobalt blue vest and white shirt made a statement of their own. The vest, void of any distracting designs, was punctuated with simple black buttons that matched his suit lapel along with a black tie. Pinned into the collar of his crisp white shirt was a thick, gold chain, accompanied by a striking red pocket square peeking out from his jacket's pocket.

The bottom half of Greg’s outfit was just as striking. Black trousers, adorned with delicate white pinstripes, added depth to the whole thing. His footwear, a pair of black and white wingtip oxfords, was both classy and fashionable, and just plain perfect.

Beside him, Susan, despite the unfamiliarity of the scene, matched her son's pace, her own ensemble complementing his vibrancy. She had chosen a graceful blue dress, which cascaded down to her ankles, and her blonde hair, curled into near-ringlets compared to her son's carefully untamed mane, fell in soft waves around her face. Her feet were adorned in complementary silver heels, just tall enough to lend her an air of elegance without compromising comfort, leaving the overall effect simple yet captivating.

However, as she swept her gaze around the red carpet, Susan's heart rose with the recognition of familiar faces and quickly sank as those same faces seemed to do their best to avoid acknowledging her in return.

Lillian Weiss, a woman whose dinner parties were known for their vivacity and style, had been Susan’s confidante just a few years back. Their shopping trips had been something Susan looked forward to every other week. Now, she looked at Susan from the corner of her eyes, hastily looking away when their gazes met.

Edward Monahan, a vibrant man known for his charitable works and infectious laughter, was another blast from the past. He was someone who had always had a story to share, a joke to crack, a convenient quote at the ready. Yet, as their eyes met, Edward merely raised his chin in her direction, wide smile not quite managing to reach his eyes.

Cynthia and Patrick Barrington, a power couple working to expand the reach of Brockton Bay’s independent superhero industrial complex in the corporate sector, had once been regular dinner companions. Cynthia's animated talks about her travels and Patrick's deep discussions on world economics were staples at every gathering. But tonight, they merely nodded at Susan, their expressions a blend of shock and awkwardness.

Finally, there was Mary-Anne Cross, a fellow art-lover and an avid admirer of Susan’s ex-husband. His face broke into a surprised expression when he saw Susan, quickly replaced by a vague nod and a swift change of direction. Susan was actually glad not to get more than that from her. Seeing the woman in her bed had been the last time Mary-Anne had ever witnessed a smile from Susan directed towards her.

Some friends, I guess, she thought bitterly as she continued to make pointed eye contact with specific faces among the well-dressed crowd. They were people she had once considered part of her extended social family, sharing meals, laughter, secrets. And now, with her wealth and status stripped away with her marriage, their amicable nods had become frigid, their warm smiles replaced with polite indifference. It’s so weird that the only one who never stopped talking to me was the closest one to Rowan. Never thought in my life that I’d ever be looking forward to talking with-

“Susan?”

Caught off guard, she blinked, yanked from her train of thought. Is that?

Susan turned carefully, mindful of her elegant heels, to see a familiar man making his way toward her. The man in question, light blond hair coiffed to perfection and resplendent in a bespoke charcoal gray suit, had just emerged from the grand front doors of the gallery. His presence was commanding, impeccable attire drawing eyes like a magnet. His suit was cut to perfection, flattering his lean build. The jacket hung beautifully off his broad shoulders, and his trousers were pressed with military precision, adding to the impression of length in his confident stride.

Her eyes widened in recognition as she took in his approach, surprise making her voice louder than expected. "Max?"

The man strode towards her, as composed as ever and just as elegant. As much as her husband’s presence had overwhelmed that of his best friend, she’d always noticed. For as long as he had been in her life, he had served as the perfect mirror to her husband, equal albeit different. Composed where her husband had been boisterous, caring when he was cold, perceptive as opposed to indifferent, it reflected all the way down to appearances as Max stood lean where Rowan had taken up space with muscular bulk.

“Susan.” A smile lit up his face as he properly caught sight of her, now just a few meters away.

She smiled back at him, actually glad to see an actual friendly face for once. She couldn’t blame the man for being so distant during the last few years. He had been going through his own divorce and that on top of losing his previous wife. Even still, Max had managed to remember birthdays and Christmas, always being there with lavish gifts for both her and Greg. “Max,” she replied back, her own smile widening unintentionally as the single syllable left her.

"Greg!" A new voice chimed in, causing two pairs of eyes — one blue, one gray — to turn their attention away from each other.

A grinning Greg Veder quirked an eyebrow at the man approaching his mother as both faces turned his way, amusement twinkling in his bright blue eyes. “My bad. Thought we were doing a bit.”

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