The Chronicles of Riddick © Universal Pictures
I own nothing.
In the middle of the vast blackness between the stars, situated midway between the Orion and Sagittarius Arms of the Galaxy, drifts a rogue planet. This planet has no sun to light up its skies, nor moon to bring comfort in its eternal night. Indeed, the only light that reaches the surface of this lonely world is the soft glow from the center of the galaxy. This planet is called, quite simply and unimaginatively, Prison.
For that is what this piece of God-forsaken rock drifting through the black is. It is a prison for the worst criminals that humanity and all its offshoots ever produced from the deepest recesses of society; a trash heap for the refuse of the human race and all of its affiliated collateral branches.
There was no spaceport on Prison, there were no wardens, there were no ships coming and going, with a chance for escape. The Prisoners were deposited via single-use reentry pods ejected into the upper atmosphere. They were given nothing but a knife, a rope, and the clothes on their backs. The only sentence was eternity.
At this particular point in time, Prison played host to a grand total of one million four hundred and fifty-four thousand eight hundred and thirty two Prisoners. There are eight hundred thirty-eight thousand and six human murderers, and forty-six thousand one hundred and five are non-human murderers. There are three hundred sixty-four thousand seven hundred and twenty one raving war criminals, one hundred forty-six thousand crazy religious cultists, forty-two thousand and twenty-one sociopathic hemophiles, fifteen thousand eight hundred and twenty psychopathic cannibals, two thousand and seventy-five genocidal fanatics, forty one psychotic geniuses, thirty-four megalomaniacs…
And one Furyan.
