Disclaimer: I do not own anything connected to Pitch Black, Dark Fury, or The Chronicles of Riddick. Nor am I making any money off of this.

It's purely for my own sick satisfaction ;)


The blackness filtered through her mind like ink droplets in water. She could feel the torture there, the rising pain at the edge of the darkness. It neared her the way it always did, sharpening itself on the limits of her soul, tasting her spirit. This was the moment of crisis, the instant she could extend into either plane of darkness or light.

Closer… Shocks of pain shuddered through her as the shadow spread. Screams echoed in her mind without ears to hear them. Men, women, children— death. Always death.

But another voice emerged. Breaking through the dimness, it called her. The light brightened, then scattered across the infiltrating blackness. She followed the sound into the intensity.


"The Lord Marshal MUST understand," Riddick's eyes flickered onto the pale, emaciated Necromonger speaking with venom on his dead tongue, "the horde cannot truly be led until the commander makes pilgrimage. The breeder hasn't even asked to receive our marks!"

Sitting crookedly in stone thrones, the three robed priests convened their private meeting, humming with displeasure. Guards stood on the outside of the grotesquely decorated hall, their faces blending with the lifeless ones carved into the metal doors. The eyes of the dead, both statuette and real, never managed to reach the height of the shadowed ceiling. It had taken Riddick less than a day to perfect the skill of moving throughout their rooms and ships unnoticed. Disguise combined with the extravagant but poorly lit architecture provided a number of ways to hide, while the massive channels supplying air to the city sized crafts also gave him nonrestrictive access. He explored and searched through most of the armada during his month as Lord Marshal. As long as he made daily appearances with the council and isolated himself in his quarters within their cathedral Necropolis, the Necromongers continued to believe he was secluded on the flag ship, Basilica.

"This is indeed a difficult situation," face scarred by a fire from his past life, this zealot was more reflective. "We have never had an outsider leading before." As he spoke, the priest drew his hands from his lap onto the arms of his chair. Even from the darkened corner where he perched, goggles on, Riddick eyed the disfiguring burns that melded the once-man's fingers useless.

Interesting. The Necromongers were mechanical soldiers. Choosing carefully which survivors of planetary destruction to accept into the fold, they made sure their male converts would be useful in war. The priest didn't fit the pattern. Riddick's eyes narrowed. This one was selected for his mind.

"We have never had anyone but a chosen heir as Lord Marshal. The effects could be catastrophic to our purpose. He's already led the armada out of the Inhabitable Zone. We're weeks from any main planet!" The final priest lowered his hood, revealing completely black eyes against his once warm brown skin. Scaly and dull, the pigment now appeared a murky gray. He pulled a goblet engraved with writhing souls to his lips and drank deeply. A shudder went through him with each swallow. Lowering the cup, his dry tongue licked the last drop of blackness from the corner of his mouth.

This was the priest who had been summoned immediately after Riddick ended the last Lord Marshal. Purifier Rurik had pressed the late leader's cold forehead with three fingers dipped in Necromonger oil before asking Riddick to join him by the fully dead corpse. He pulled himself from the twisted metal throne still reeling from what just happened. In a daze, Riddick slowly stepped forward as the gathered Necromongers again knelt down before him. "You must touch foreheads with your kill," he heard the priest say. Bending, Riddick was distantly aware of words being spoken over him. When he arose, three greasy spots on his brow, Rurik announced him to the horde as the Seventh Anointed Lord Marshal. Traces of the reeking substance still glistened against his skin despite his attempts to remove it. The lingering smell of the liquid assaulted his senses whenever he tried to sleep, a reminder of the death that constantly surrounded him. An amplification of the typical Necromonger scent, light on most of their breaths, it was the sweet and sickeningly sour smell of rotting flesh. Seeing it in pools of dispensation on every corner of each ship, Riddick knew it was the same liquid which the priest drank now. It was the only thing he ever saw any of the Necromongers consume.

"You keep what you kill," the scarred one reminded softly, more to himself than to the other two. The priest stared into emptiness, distracted by his own thoughts.

"We are the Purifiers, the religious head of the Necromonger body!" The shrunken disciple finally spat out what he was working towards, "Why do we not just override this happening?"

"And violate our most principle of edicts?" Rurik's dark eyes glowed resentfully at his subordinate's ill-considered suggestion, "You would have Underverse barred to us all, Purifier Ladon? No, we must stand by our laws or we are no better than the chaos of humanity."

"You KEEP what you KILL," the pensive believer again repeated, this time with a forceful certainty directed at his cohorts.

"Yes, we know Ciro!" the apparent leader responded with annoyance in his voice before taking another long gulp of the thick black elixir.

"No," the burned visage turned slowly to face the derision, a sharp spark of malice glinting in his dead eyes, "you don't."

The scarred smile erupting from the priest's face reminded Riddick of the lethal jaws he'd seen tear through Carolyn Fry. Even a long decade of running and killing couldn't wash that image from his psyche. Carolyn had risked herself rather than abandon an old man and kid, but she'd died rescuing a murderer she owed nothing to, an animal who felt at ease leaving them all to die. The whole thing changed after that…

A fresh memory broke the surface of Riddick's mind before he could suppress it. In an instant, the raw image was pushed back again into the deep void he'd caged it. But her name, the name Riddick couldn't say ricocheted through him. The dark mask he wore of indifference broke as his throat tightened. It had taken over thirty years, but she finally proved he cared about more than his own survival. What would Carolyn and the Imam say to that?

None of it matters. The coldness returned to his features. I failed them all.

"There is no need to dishonor the One Rule," Purifier Ciro's voice wound with arrogant satisfaction through the ominous hall like smoke. "We only need to further it."

"Direct participation in the succession?" Riddick could hear measured consideration in the oldest voice.

Ciro's eyes again stared into oblivion as he began to lengthen his calculations. "Encouragement, really," he offhandedly replied.

"Who do we choose?" Purifier Ladon on the other hand had no qualms about interfering. Eager, he leaned his diminutive frame forward until prepared to bound onto his feet and begin the hunt for the profane leader. Riddick knew who Rurik was considering for Lord Marshal, but it would be interesting to see if the aged Purifier would be able to convince this fanatic. Maybe he won't have to?

Like a fly on the wall, Riddick had seen and heard many intriguing things wandering the Necromonger ships. Their culture had some likeness to various human interpretations, but their take on infidelity was something unique throughout the verse. Riddick had watched a strong allegiance develop between Purifier Rurik and Lord Vaako in the course of the universe's oldest profession. It was the first incidence Riddick had ever witnessed of spousal pimping, but the striking Dame Vaako had vigorously done her part to develop her husband's political strength. With men outnumbering women on each ship ten to one, Riddick had to assume that sharing was a part of the Necromonger existence. Purifier Ladon might already be on the Vaakos' visiting list. Ciro too perhaps? He smirked, appreciative not to have observed that particular performance.

"In the name of Underverse, Ladon, use your head! There is more to this than just choosing a Necromonger to destroy him. A BREEDER killed a pilgrimaged Lord Marshal!" Rurik's head tipped back in exasperation, the dull skin at his throat shaking as he lectured, "Without a true Lord Marshal's voice to lead them, the weaker Necromongers have begun to claim it is a sign that we Purifiers have gone astray. We can't raise OUR hands against him outright without consequence. So how do we abide by the laws of Underverse and still end his blasphemous reign?"

"There are a number of choices," Ciro continued, unperturbed by his superior's inability to be resourceful. "He could have an accident… A large group of soldiers could corner the breeder and relieve him of his breath. Obviously they would all be disposed of before suspicions of our involvement could be confirmed. Or perhaps the human food he ingests might simply disagree with him. Breeders die all the time without obvious cause."

"In either case we'll have groups of Necromongers against each other for the throne. It could lead to a fracturing. We are destined to spread and correct the bedlam of humanity, not destroy our own brothers and sisters," Ladon spoke up again, this time putting his religious defecation to useful employment. "No, only one Necromonger should terminate him. It must be observed by the horde and accepted. We need only to ensure that our choice is capable of killing this powerful breeder."

"The Lord Marshal couldn't even destroy him with the powers he gained from Underverse," Purifier Ciro paused, considering this deeply. "Are we sure that this Riddick will not accept the Necromonger faith? To kill rather than convert an individual of such magnificent power…" A rasp of a sigh escaped his burned lips as he spoke to space rather than his silent companions, "He would be the Lord Marshal to lead the horde across this verse and into the next. With the powers he would gain, the Necromonger forces would become unstoppable. Perhaps absolute power could persuade him?"

"The breeder was quite clear about his feelings on the matter." It was Rurik's time to smirk, "I believe he said, 'They've been trying to ghost me for thirty years, Necromancer. Death don't like me. The feeling's mutual.'"

Riddick's guts tightened, but he remained motionless as the statue in whose shadow he crouched. They hadn't tried to force him into the conversion chamber, but Rurik and the other council members had implied his eventual destination there. The "unnecessaries" of humanity, or so he had been told, were removed from converts before the trial by pain. If they were strong enough to survive the physical ordeal, aided of course by the ever-present black sap, the voice of the horde would claim them and begin to expunge the remnants of human impurity from their minds. It didn't take converts long to forget the entirety of who they had been― with some exceptions.

Her name seared the back of his throat again, but Riddick swallowed it down. Somehow, she'd managed to fight what the Necros planted inside of her long enough to save his life. Riddick would be damned to all the hells of Underverse if he'd ever give up the memory of her or the un-payable debt he owed her.

Bastards. His fingers clenched around the Necromonger blade he'd pulled out of Imam's murderer. I don't keep. I kill. His fingers loosened gradually as reason overpowered the suddenly intense craving to slit their throats. Three full-dead today, three more half-dead tomorrow… The element of numbers was at their disposal, and killing these religious zealots would only make plans for his escape more difficult.

Ignorant of the menacing presence above them, the Necromonger priests calmly considered their options. Purifier Ciro made another semblance of a sigh. He was disappointed, but resigned. "Then we choose the next Lord Marshal and send him to Underverse before confronting his predecessor. The younger the Necromonger is, the stronger his powers will become." Rurik made to speak, but Ciro continued, "This is not without precedent. Lord Marshal Oltovm made pilgrimage minutes before the torch was passed. We can send our choice to the Threshold in secret and wait for his return without disturbing the breeder. It will be some months, but no harm will come from the wait. I only hope that we can choose one among us who is strong enough to defeat him."

"He can refresh the Spring before he goes against the breeder. That will give him a short-term power surge at least," Ladon turned his eyes towards the now seemingly acquiescent head Purifier, "When was the last Seasoning?"

Rurik swirled his cup lightly, staring into the darkness it held for answers, "The Spring was renewed the same day that Purifier Odell was released to Underverse and Purifier Burrlaid was appointed by Lord Marshal Zhylaw." Abruptly the priest stilled his hand and snapped his head up towards his fellow conspirators, "The last Seasoning was thirty-two standard years ago, just after the Furian invasion."

"Shall we take it as a good omen then?" Ciro's distorted hands twitched on top of their stone rests. "The mark of a new era without that particular inferiority to hinder our spread… Yes. Perhaps Underverse is closer for us than we know. Now," the scarred one settled back into his chair, more at peace than before, "which of the council shall it be?"

"Well―," Ladon's face brightened into a semblance of pleasure before he was unduly cut off by his superior.

"They are almost all too old to ensure an energy level sufficient to dispose of our 'glitch.' Baric is older than the last Lord Marshal. Lyles was converted in the same year and both Travis and Gorth can barely be called superior soldiers." Rurik's eyes began to glimmer craftily, but Riddick could see the primed looks emoting from his partners. Even a thousand ships, it seemed, could not hide the clandestine arrangements of political maneuvering. "There is only one suitable choice for the next Lord Marshal."

"It will have to be Lord Vaako."

"I agree."

The hair on the back of Riddick's neck began to rise but he made no attempt to suppress the instinct. The devoted Dame Vaako had done her job well. Lucky man, Riddick thought sardonically as the repulsive image of "beauty" and her four beasts assaulted his temporal lobe.