Lag 6.19b (Preview) (Patreon)

Lag 6.19b

                                        – o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Greg Veder had never been a fan of art.

Then again, what teenage boy really was?

Still, it could be pretty accurately stated that Greg had less appreciation for art than the average teenager. Not to say that he had anything against it, really.

After all, it looked nice, right?

Usually.

It just really wasn’t his sort of thing. Especially art like this.

"What we have here, folks," Greg began, squinting at a peculiar object in the center of the gallery, "is a smashed glass jar turned upside down with shards dumped inside… for some reason?" He tilted his head, blue eyes scrutinizing the supposed art piece. "Someone forget to take out the recycling?"

"It's..." the person next to him stuttered, someone who seemed even more clueless about the exhibit, shrugging helplessly as he spoke. "...Art?" The uncertainty in their voice was obvious, suggesting they were as baffled as Greg.

Greg responded with a dismissive eye roll and a scoff. "Doubt it."

"There's even a plaque and everything," the other teenager protested, sounding almost desperate to justify the existence of the strange exhibit.

With one eyebrow raised, Greg let his gaze drift to the small plaque mounted above the artwork. "Wow… The Folly of Man," he read out loud, a smirk twisting his lips. “Sounds about right.” He was pretty sure he’d seen weirder things on the internet, but who was he to judge the artistic merit of literal garbage?

He let out a snort at that thought. Who am I kidding? I can 100% judge. Especially if they’re going to be this straight-up pretentious about it.

"I'm betting that the artist woke up one day, tripped over their trash can, and thought, ‘This is gonna look great!" Greg continued, voice full of fake excitement. His joke drew a stifled laugh from the boy standing by his side, and even a few smirks from the nearby adults who were trying their very very best to act like they understood the piece.

He cast a glance around the gallery, gaze lingering on several other exhibits. There was one that appeared to be a rusty bicycle wheel attached to an old television set. Another was a tangle of bright neon wires twisted into the vague shape of a cat. A bunch of the art-pieces on the top floor — the twenty-sixth — of the Fosberg had a title just as pretentious, and each one looked as though it belonged in a scrapyard rather than an art gallery.

His lips twitched with a barely suppressed laugh of his own. There was a joke here, even if it was at the expense of someone else's overblown "artistic expression". What else could you expect from a pretentious event like this?

If nothing else, at least it was good for a laugh.

“...look lovely tonight, Susan.”

What it wasn’t good for was enough of a distraction.

Because even from halfway across the ostentatious room, over the sounds of clinking glass, idle chatter, and ambient laughter, Greg could still somehow hear his mom being fucking hit on.

“I couldn’t lie if I wanted to. That blue brings out your eyes so beautifully.”

His hands clenched, knuckles whitening as his jaw tightened, the muscle there twitching faintly but visibly. Shifting his gaze to the person standing beside him, he plastered on a smile that clashed harshly with the icy glint in his eyes. “Theooooo," he drawled his cousin’s name, his voice a hard edge of forced cheerfulness. "Talk to me.”

“What?” The boy in question blinked in surprise at the sudden shift in mood and topic, the word spurting from his lips. "Huh?" He spluttered, visible confusion knitting his brows together. "About what?"

Greg raised an eyebrow. "About what? What d'ya mean 'about what?' Need a topic? My back is hurting from carrying this conversation. Seriously, just talk."

“I… I…” Theo stuttered, lost for words.

“I-I-I-Aye-yi-yi,” Greg broke in, rolling his eyes and laughing - a laugh that rang a touch too hollow. “Let's talk life. The universe. Our lives. It's been, what, three years? How've you been? What've you been doing? How's the sis? Your hot stepmom? Anything. Just work with me here, man."

The faint frown that creased Theo's forehead and the slight spark in his eyes caught Greg's attention, the first hint of actual emotion he'd detected since their reunion. “Hot? K-kayden? That’s really not cool of y-”

“YRight, right, lying isn’t cool. She’s not. Your cousins, though? Aunts? Whatever, the twins,” he waved a casual hand in the direction of the two radiant, near-identical blondes across the room, one's hair spilling over her shoulders in waves while the other's was swept up in an elegant updo. “Smokeshows. Introduce me.”

“What?”

“Theo, it’s okay. I can say this. We’re not related by blood… I’m assuming. Hard to tell sometimes. City’s practically swarming with blondes. Odds are good, I’ll end up kissing my second cousin one of these days.”

“What?” Theo looked genuinely flustered, shaking his head slightly. “I’m… you're confusing me, Greg.”

“Am I? Am I really?”

Greg’s smile didn't falter, but his thinning patience was visible in the blankness of his eyes. He leaned closer to Theo, who instinctively recoiled slightly, looking flustered as he leaned back and away from the taller blond. “No worries. I’ll catch you up to speed then. Hi there, I’m Greg. Your godbrother from another mother. We haven’t seen each other in three years. You’ve gained weight. I’ve gained height. And right now, I’m doing my very best to distract myself with any and everything else so I don’t punch your dad in the face for trying to fuck my mom.”

As his words sank in, Greg watched as Theo’s eyes flicked from him to the spectacle unfolding nearly a dozen meters away... only to quickly snap back. “I… don't think he’s-”

“Max, please,” the sudden sound of his mother's girlish giggle cut through the murmurs of the gallery like a hot knife through butter, making Greg physically cringe. "You don’t have to say that, it’s just me."

A heavy silence fell between them. Theo, floundering for words, finally murmured, "...okay, maybe."

As if this gala couldn't get any more unbearable, Greg groused to himself, forcing himself to keep his attention off both Max and his mother as they did everything short of canoodle. An uncomfortable silence hung in the air after Theo's lackluster acknowledgement. Greg felt a twist in his gut, but he kept his smile fixed firmly in place. Instead of dwelling, he decided to let his gaze wander, trying to detach from the pathetic tableau playing out at the table across the room, and found himself studying the room instead. Stuck on the 26th floor of the prestigious Fosberg Gallery, surrounded by the city’s so-called elites in a ballroom that screamed money, it all looked like he expected.

Sweeping vistas of the Brockton Bay skyline surrounding it, the room was bathed in a soft glow from the city lights. Artwork worth a fortune adorned the walls, a touch of class adding to the posh ambiance, and right below them rested sculptures worth even more that added a touch of trash. Chandeliers hung low, casting a warm, iridescent light that glinted off the elegant glassware and the meticulously arranged table settings. A string quartet added a layer of sophistication, their melodic tunes enveloping the room. Greg couldn’t help but admit that it was kinda pretty. You know, If you were into that kind of thing.

In the middle of all this, representatives from companies, the media, politicians, and the vast majority of Brockton Bay's Protectorate and Wards rubbed shoulders, all there for the noble cause of rebuilding a city that had been pummeled by Bakuda's insane bombing spree. It effectively went unsaid that the fundraiser had originally just been a simple affair to boost the Mayor's re-election campaign, but after the chaos Greg had personally put an end to, its purpose had evolved in a big way.

Figures like Armsmaster, Triumph, Assault, Battery, Dauntless, and Miss Militia were scattered amongst the crowd, their bright costumes standing out against the sea of tailored suits and elaborate gowns. The Wards had claimed a table of their own, Aegis, Kid Win, Vista, Gallant and the new additions, Lady Bug and Browbeat, all relegated to one spot, looking slightly out of place from where they sat at the appointed “kiddy table.” Despite his personal thoughts about the Wards and their lack of a cool factor, his gaze lingered on Lady Bug. Wow.

He couldn’t help it, honestly.

The girl stood out compared to everyone else on her team. Her long curly black hair seemed to cascade down her shoulders, the one part of her costume that remained identical to what he remembered from that night. Clearly, everything else had gotten a makeover. Now, a vibrant red domino mask graced her face, five black spots in an asymmetrical design surrounding her eyes. Below that, she wore a double-breasted peacoat that was just as red, the hip-length jacket adorned with black polka dots, black piping, and cuffs, looked great on her Her skirt was similar in design, with slits at the front, back, and sides revealing black tights underneath, and her boots — red and thigh-high — rounded off her outfit.

Even still, Greg couldn't help but shake his head at the sight of the girl, feeling somewhat bad for the girl he had once partied with when he soloed Lung the first time. "I can't believe she joined the Wards, though," he muttered to himself, "those guys are so lame. She'd be way cooler on her own." He pulled his gaze from her to look elsewhere in the room, trying to find something else to catch his attention.