So, yes, this is a new fic, and no I don't have any updates on all my OTHER fics. Blame the drunken ADD muse. It's his fault. I didn't do it. Ahh who am I kidding?

Anyway, this is my first strict Pitch Black/CoR fic (though I do have a Reaper!Vaako crossover fic in progress which I probably should have been working on instead of starting this. Oops.) so go easy on me if it comes out a bit odd. I've added a new character to the crash survivors which I know has been done like crazy, but I'm hoping my anonymous OC ends up being something new for all of you.

So yeah, here's hoping you all enjoy!

Obligatory Disclaimer: No I don't own this. I don't own anything on this site that I write except for any OCs. And hell even THEY are claimed by the muse instead of me. Typical aye?

Prologue: Dreaming

I am not awake.

I'm not awake, and this is a dream. It must be. While yes, even someone as sheltered as I once was has heard the horror stories about men more animal than man whose primitive side stayed awake and aware in cryo-sleep, but they are only that: stories. No one really stays conscious during cryo-sleep. It isn't possible.

It cannot be possible.

No, I must be dreaming, though this is as vivid as few of my dreams have ever been. It is so very real. I almost feel I could reach out and touch the chamber around me. Not that I will.

So be it. There is little else to do while I sleep away this journey. I suppose I shall allow myself to dream.

There is no light nor color in this dream, but then I expected neither. Even in my dreams, I am as blind as I have been all my life. There have been times that I have railed against this lack in myself, a failing as painful to me as my existence is to my dear Father.

My dear Father. I daresay he has finally auctioned off the weight around his neck. I doubt the bidding was high; damaged goods like one blind useless daughter would not attract the more wealthy scions Father has so often associated with. No, judging from the dubious class of freighter I find myself on, my future husband is not likely to be a first class citizen.

Unless Father actually had the audacity to offer me to those who might enjoy a bride they did not need to keep in pristine condition. Hmm. That seems more likely the longer I think of it. It would not surprise me in the least to be beaten as soon as the vows are paid for.

Dear, dear Father. If I had even the slightest chance of succeeding, I might simply stow away on this vessel indefinitely. Find some distant world where a young woman might blend in to the masses, start anew as a secretary or librarian perhaps. I am easily learned enough for either role. Isolated as he kept me, there was little to do but learn when I was young.

It does me little good now. Even dreaming, I know better than to think I would survive on my own, handicapped as I am. I can function on a day to day basis thanks to my tutors, but I know it would not be enough. Not without some kind soul at my side.

I am not sheltered enough nor naive enough to think that many kind souls still exist in this universe.

Where am I going, I wonder? I wasn't told my destination, only that I was leaving and away I went. I could be on my way to mythic Camelot or long drowned Atlantis for all I know. Legend or reality, it hardly matters anyway. After all, I will hardly see the world we arrive on, will I?

Enough of these thoughts. Enough. Self-pity is a bitter pill to swallow, and I do not need more bitterness in my life.

So, what else to dream, what else to wonder?

What company am I keeping on this drab little freighter? I passed several others when the docking pilot led me to my cryo-chamber. So, think on them, little dreamer: who might they be?

There was a man, his voice exotic; the syllables rolling of his tongue in a way I had never heard before. His voice was serene, collected, even despite the cacophony created by the young men I heard near him. Was he a teacher perhaps? Or a father with his sons? A father content with his sons...

The others. I should consider the others, I think, before my mind drifts back to bitterness.

There was a woman traveling with a man I would guess to be her husband by the easy way they banter back and forth and the way their scents have mingled into one. Something faintly floral from her hair mixed with pipe tobacco from his breath and the sweat from both their skins. They too speak with an accent I have not heard before. It's rough and strong, and I imagine the woman might be both. Her husband spoke of work and a frontier colony. She would need to be strong in such an environment.

She apparently picked up a bit of a shadow. A street kid judging from the gutter slang. Mouthy little thing. Every other word so far has been one that a lady like myself is not supposed to know, and honestly the usage was rather inspired. I kept mental notes of my favorites.

The next passenger nearly knocked me over, the pompous little weasel. Weaselly voice, weaselly sly movements around me. His clothes felt expensive, but shabby around the edges. I felt at least one hidden patch in his tunic when I kept myself from falling. He actually had to gall to snipe at me for "mussing" his clothing. Ugh. Weasel.

I only remember two others. Two that only teased at my senses before the docking pilot shuffled me quickly by with some mutter of "It's better not to look." Not that I could actually look, of course.

The first smelled of gun oil and something faintly medicinal. The slow liquid drawl of his voice contrasting sharply with the jarring thud of his heavy boots. There was a great deal of humor in that voice. Humor yes, but none of it kind. I cannot help but feel a bit of pity for the target of his taunts. I've been a similar victim often enough, after all.

Victim. There is a word that I doubt actually applies to the second man, now that I think on him carefully. He never said a word; that at the very least set him apart from the others. Why, I wonder? Did he choose to keep silent or was it something else? The latter rings more true. Rings a bit like the chains that rustled around him as he moved. There was no other sound though. Not even his footsteps, and my hearing is quite acute. All of my senses are in the absence of sight.

The silence of him makes me shiver. There menace to that eerie quiet. There's equal menace in the scent of him. It was faint, only a whiff, but there can be no doubting it. Blood tinged with sweat and fury. A very great deal of fury, which to my mind made the silence that much more sinister. There are few who can keep quiet with that much rage in them.

Now he might be awake in cryo. He just might be.

I'm not though; I am sure I'm not. I am only dreaming. Please God, let me only be dreaming.

So let me know what you think! I gotta say that this might get pushed to the side if it doesn't get a decent response. I tend to focus my writing time where I have the most readers!