Queen of the Bay

Glory Interlude

(1.2-A)


She used to love flying on patrol. It harkened to the days of freedom, of bright hope and optimism. That real heroes were out there, making a difference. Standing for what was right and decent. And it was fun.

She still flew on patrol.

But it wasn't like the old days.

It hadn't been for a long time now.

It wasn't about freedom or hope or making a difference anymore. It wasn't about standing for law and order. And it sure as Hell wasn't about it being fun anymore. When she flew now … it was out of obligation. Duty. Responsibility.

The world was a darker, crueler place than Vicky Dallon remembered. Sure, it hadn't been rainbows and sunshine even before the Bug Bitch had taken over the Bay—but back then, it seemed there was hope.

The PRT had all but given up. The Protectorate ENE was down to four capes now with Beatbox moving to Washington last month. Reinforcements? Replacements? Oh uh, yeah, sure. We'll uh … we'll get right on that. Vicky snorted. My ass they will.

The national teams kept promising that they would be reinforcing the locals really, really soon now—considering that they had been saying that for ten years now, Vicky wasn't going to hold her breath on that score. The PRT should really have something like a dozen or more capes considering the ratio of villains in the Bay. But any local hero cape with a half-decent power that popped up was quickly poached and transferred out while the Bay got stuck with the dregs and rejects that nobody in their right minds wanted were dumped here.

Armsmaster might have been a douche with a giant stick up his ass and a whole lot of uncomplimentary things too—but one accusation that no one would ever stick him with was that he was a slacker.

Vicky never thought she'd miss Ol' Halbeard but he had been a damn sight better than the current crop of freeloaders or incompetents transferred in. Like Flak—or Flake as she not-so-privately called him.

The PHO Boards claimed that Flake had been shuffled off more important or prestigious assignments; essentially exiled to a place of no importance because they had no time or tolerance for screw-ups like at the Simurgh Containment Zones and no one really cared of potential collateral damage here.

She could believe it.

Because while others might charmingly call it 'friendly fire', Vicky and anyone else who had gotten accidentally shelled by Flake's bombardments had a far different opinion of them.

And friendly wasn't anywhere close to what they were thinking.

About the only damn good thing about Flake was that anyone complaining about Vicky's lengthy list of property damages had a new and far more deserving target. In a single afternoon, Flake had managed to exceed Vicky's more spectacular rampages accrued over a period of several years.

And he was simply the latest in a long list of third-raters shuffled off here at the Bay. Or as it more popularly known these days—Bugton Bay.

Vicky scowled and clenched her fist. She hated that name. Hated the fact that it was practically a defiant fuck you to the rest of the United States that the Bug Bitch ruled here. A gleeful taunt to the rest of the PRT and the Protectorate and the fucking world—Come at me bro, I'm not fucking worried.

Even the rest of her family had abandoned this broken city.

Her family had begged her to come with them to Chicago. The PRT had pleaded with her to join the Protectorate dozens of times. She had been tempted but once she did, she had a feeling that they would immediately find some excuse to transfer out of here. Guilt-trip the fact that she was her generation's version of Alexandria and they desperately needed her raw power for some emergency situation, promising that it would only be temporary deal.

No. She couldn't. She wouldn't. She couldn't abandon the Bay. It had been her home. It was her home, dammit!

She glared out at the large dome-like structure that enclosed a sizeable portion of the Docks. The HQ to the Warlords of Brockton Bay, a dark fortress mirroring the PRT's Rig, and home to the Queen. It wasn't accidental that the design of the gigantic interlocking hexagonal honeycomb-like panels resulted in the Dome's nickname as The Hive. Tall and thin spires studded the Hive with dark, dense clouds billowing out from them. A casual observer would dismiss them as being smoke or vapor. Vicky knew better.

The 'clouds' were so dense and so thick that they blotted out any light as they swirled and wheeled in midair.

They were insects. Hundreds of them. Thousands of them. Millions of them.

All moving in perfect coordination in one direction. One purpose. Via one implacable mind.

She cursed at the terrifying sight even as she reflexively shivered. Vicky had never been all that fond of the creepy crawlies even before the Queen had emerged. But her distaste had risen to all new heights after she had been flayed alive by one such Swarm years ago.

She held her position in midair even though some part of her hind brain was shrieking at her to flee as fast and as far as she could. Don't show fear. Don't show fear, she reminded herself as she could feel her muscles tensing at the horrifying sight of the Swarm. Remembering.

Years later and she could still feel them crawling all over her body, in her nose, in her ears, biting, clawing, ripping, her skin feeling like it was on fire, like it was dipped in acid, like she was being electrocuted—the Swarm biting over and over and over—she closed her eyes and shuddered, remembering herself shrieking in agony. Resolutely, she turned away from the Swarm.

It helped that she was completely covered these days rather than her old skimpy outfit with the skirt. It was a shame though, she really missed that cute little skirt. Her current outfit was designed more for protection and to be bug-proof rather than for aesthetics; although she still retained a cape for some modest butt concealment. The new suit tended to ride up in the crotch and she had no real desire to give the pervs a free show. Getting the Award for the PHO's Most Photogenic Rear a second time was not something she aspired to.

Maybe if I ever manage to remove the fucking Queen Bitch from the Bay, I could start wearing it again, modified of course—booooom!

Vicky whirled in midair, instinctively orienting herself in the direction of the dull muffled thump. Explosion, her mind catalogued reflexively. Not close.

She saw the Swarms reacting, agitated at the sound. She smirked and arrowed her profile, forging her way through the atmosphere in the direction of the explosion. See ya later Queenie, she mentally cat-called along with a healthy raspberry. She narrowed her eyes even as she tapped her helm, letting the tinker-tech sensors do their job, giving her a telescopic enhancement and thermal read-out. Hmmm, no fires or obvious bright spots, she zoomed in searching.

BOOOOOOM!

Another explosion and she reoriented herself once more, fixating on the point of origin. Oh crap, please don't be another fucking Bakuda-wannabe, she prayed. Hmmmm… the Downtown Harbor? Vicky grinned. Flashes of light and thermal blooms. Gunfire. She dove downward. Hero Time…


TO BE CONTINUED…


A/N: For those of you complaining of all of the OC's, have a chapter featuring the future Glory Girl or Glory as she's renamed herself. And yes, Taylor will be making an appearance soon. The first couple of chapters was more for setup, to see what alterations that Taylor has wrought in this Alternate Future of Brockton Bay.

She's not Skitter. Not even close. She is in effect, the Queen of Brockton Bay. She's an omnipresent presence over the whole city. She might not be seen, but the mere fact of her reign affects everyone. There are still independent groups around—the E88, the Merchants, even the Protectorate but they're not the real power of the Bay anymore and they know it. Taylor/the Queen is considered an S-Rank Threat with a Kill Order on her head but no one is willing to follow through on it akin to the Ash Beast or Moord Nag. She's tolerated because she's not a full on homicidal psychopath like Nilbog or the Slaughterhouse 9.