* Rated M for Graphic Violence and Strong Language. *
He groaned and pushed himself up into a kneeling position.
Where am I?
He tried to look around but there was too much light. He dropped his head down and stared at the black-glazed concrete floor beneath him.
A galaxy of droplets stared back.
Blood...
Fuck.
Mine.
The tip of a steel-toed boot connected with his temple and he went down....hard.
He hadn't actually known what had happened until after the fact. Until after the pain lessened enough to be identified, compartmentalized, and ignored.
Riddick had never marveled at this ability to ignore pain. Never wondered if a distant ancestor's genes had mutated suddenly or if the Furyans had courted this gene, selectively picking out young boys and girls who possessed a high threshold for pain. Never wondered exactly how anyone might find a way to discover this high threshold.
Never wondered. Because it Didn't. Fucking. Matter.
A low murmur hit his ears. At first he only heard indecipherable whispers - voices muttering strange hateful things. Then, slowly, the voices began to feed off each other, growing more agitated with every passing second.
How long have they been here?
Fuck...how long have I been here?
Without looking up he knew he was surrounded. They numbered in the hundreds, formless shifting shapes on the periphery of his vision. They were close but unseeable. He knew they would not step in to help or hinder his adversary. They were only watching, waiting for his blood.
When the boots finally stepped into view, he was ready. His hand shot out, jerking the owner of the boots forward while he heaved himself up and dug a well placed elbow into that soft spot right behind the knee. With his enemy falling backwards, all Riddick had to do was twist around, unsheath Irgun's dagger and let gravity do the rest.
Only none of that actually happened.
His hand shot out at precisely the right trajectory but it grabbed only empty air. Nothing was where it should have been.
That boot, for example, the very same steel-toed boot, which had very recently met his temple, was now on top of his hand, crushing it with far greater pressure than any single person could possibly exert. The gravity, which had been so helpful in the purely theoretical scenario of how things should have gone, now worked against him.
Before Riddick could reconfigure his actions, rectify his apparent mistake, there was an expected but unwelcome sound – the meaty crunch of bones breaking and ligaments being torn apart.
As Riddick let out a low resentful grunt, the crowd around him exploded in a paroxysm of depraved euphoria.
Identify.
Compartmentalize.
Ignore.
Silence.
Silence is good.
But...
Something's different.
Not wrong...different.
It was the darkness, the kind of deep darkness that his shine couldn't penetrate. It was something he hadn't experienced for a very long time.
He felt a hand grab his neck, choking him hard enough to set his head throbbing and his lungs straining. Defending himself proved impossible. His hands, while not restrained, felt heavy, pulled down by some invisible force - the higher he tried to lift them the heavier they got.
Fuck.
"You ever stop to think Riddick?" a faraway voice asked him. "What it's like to not be you?"
The hand left his throat, leaving him gasping. He arched his back, opening up his chest to gulp a few extra mils of sweet air.
"You listening Riddick? Or do I need to refocus your attention," the voice hissed. "I'm trying to be patient here but you just aren't getting it."
He knew what was coming next but there was nothing he could do about it. The sharp heel of a boot came down on his solar plexus and he blacked out.
Riddick opened his eyes and found himself lying on cold concrete.
He was laying on his side, and felt a hot throbbing down the length of his left arm. Illumination from a spotlight above encircled him but left the rest of the darkness untouched.
He glanced at his left hand.
Not good.
When he heard footsteps approach from behind, he did not roll over. What was going to happen, would happen - he did not need to see the boots.
"This is so unlike you. You've only yourself to blame you know."
The boots stopped right next to him.
"Nobody made you do anything - and now look where you are," the voice chastened. "You had more freedom in the bowels of Butcher Bay."
Riddick didn't move when his companion knelt over him. He could feel the heat from a hand that hovered just above his scalp.
"Seems like you built a fine little cage for that primal side of yours."
The voice closed in until it was a feather light whisper in his ear.
"You ever seen a wild animal in a cage, Riddick? A real wild animal - living like that?" Every syllable was spun out slowly. "I promise you, it's one of the saddest things you'll ever see."
The only sign that Riddick was listening was a slight rippling of his jaw muscle.
The voice turned petulant, almost pleading. "I'm trying to help you. Why can't you see that?"
Incisors sank into the fleshy part of his ear. A warm trickle slid down his neck. He rolled his head over just in time to see a grinning girl spit out the lobe of his ear.
Riddick stared.
"This isn't happening," he said dully.
After delicately swiping the bottom edge of her mouth with the back of a forefinger, she smiled and leaned forward.
"And why not?" she cooed wickedly. The tip of her tongue flicked out to take care of a small smear of blood left on her lips.
Riddick scanned every inch of her exquisite face and then slowly rolled his head away to face the infinite darkness.
Quietly, he answered.
"Because Jack's dead."
AN: Thanks for reading!
Rediscovered my Riddick love recently. Might post more depending on whether a plot works itself out.