Disclaimer: No I do not own Riddick, or any reference to Pitch Black.
This is a short that I wrote, With Riddick as he reminisces about his life before he dies.
There wasn't much left to his life and Riddick knew it; he could feel his life ebbing away with every beat of his heart. Closing his eyes, a slight smile touched his lips. Isn't it ironic? He thought stolidly as he hung from the ceiling of his cell. Isn't it ironic that after all the time I've spent evading this shit eaten hellhole, I'm going to die here? Yeah, its fucking ic, in death I end up exactly where I don't want to fucking be. At that thought a feral laugh broke free of Riddicks raw throat.
They had made him stand for two weeks his arms attached to a ring in the wall with a blindfold on and a bit in his mouth. Even the open humiliation they tried to make him feel didn't cut through his exterior of silence. When they had tortured him by sticking burning hot electrodes into his skin he still hadn't given up the information they wanted. They said he was just pocket change compared to the real killers out there, the killers with patterns with no reason to live except for the next kill. I wont let them break me! He swore to himself as he felt the humiliation well inside him, of being strapped prone to the floor of his cell buck-naked. The horror at having to do nothing while the big men violated him.
Now, hanging quietly, he was not broken, he was not beaten. If anything, the injustices done to a nineteen year old kid who got involved with the wrong crowd at a young age made the acceptance of the beast all the easier, the promise of revenge all the sweeter to experience. The dreams he had at night rivaled his hallucinations from years past, yet he trusted in his instincts telling him that when the time was right he would gain the ultimate revenge, yet as time went on, and the boy inside hardened, the voices started, he was still there but his instincts had turned him feral, turned him into a hulking beast that could smell the scent of fear, and pain, and blood. When Riddick fought off his captors, he felt himself move to the background, the whispers telling the beast what to do. Kill him quickly, kill him slowly, and let him suffer to the end! It didn't matter, what ever could be inflicted to cause damage, it was vowed to be done. The justice would be repaid, the humiliation, reflected into someone new, the pain given freely as death called solemnly, death to the enemy, death to the fiend.