The story's a little fluffy, I know, but I promise it will get more hardcore later on. But I don't think Riddick was always so harsh, I believe he had a heart once. The girl's name is actually coincidence, I swear. This began as an independent story, and she named herself forever ago, I coulnd't just change it now. So enjoy and review! Don't worry about sugarcoating or anything, I love to hear how I can improve.

btw, although much of this is my own, Riddick himself is not. Although it would be rather interesting if he was.

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The girl was sitting outside of a second-rate ice cream shop just outside the respectable part of the city. She had been walking the back roads and alleyways and hadn't intended to stop, but the tables had caught her eye. The seats weren't connected to the concrete, instead they were held to the table by bent horizontal bars that all around the table formed a swastika. She had decided at the spur of the moment that she just had to sit in one, eating ice cream like she hadn't noticed. It seems like a sick interest, and I suppose it probably was, but that wasn't the point. It was funny, and she wanted to be part of it. The ice cream had drawn her attention to her quickly depleting stash of credits, but she decided that wasn't really the point, either.

So she was eating ice cream and entertaining herself with a slightly nonsensical fantasy about living on Old Earth back when it was habitable when the most amazing pair of boots came into view, closely followed by a pair of black cargo pants. Now, normally this wouldn't be such an amazingly cool thing to see. But the events following these shoes made it important.

The figure in the boots had completed his turn around the corner, and he seemed about to pass on when he noticed a girl sitting at a table at the ice cream shop. Girls were everywhere, of course, and rarely of any consequence, but this was different somehow. She had a mane of black curly hair and bright almond eyes; the innocence in them was plain to see even from the street. Then he saw that she was staring at him.

Now here is a remarkable scene: a girl in delicate jeans and somehow revealing but innocent tank top, holding a forgotten ice cream, staring. And a boy in war gear dyed to black staring back, standing awkwardly on the sidewalk. Mind you, only he thought himself awkward. Nothing of this young man spoke of awkwardness; between the altered military fatigues, aggressive build, and what looked suspiciously like weapons stashed absolutely everywhere, he was instantly pegged by most to be a thug. Mind you also that not everyone involved here is still among the living. Which makes the whole scene looking back that much more interesting, don't you think?

But the world has no time for speculation. The world moved on, and the moment ended. The boy turned and continued walking, and the girl sat at the table. Before she even knew what was happening, she was moving. She had to know. Something that beautiful needs a name, if only to enter in a diary when the day ends. This was her only thought, despite how it sounds. Hitting on people in the street had never crossed this girl's mind in her life. But he was unique, and she wanted to know his name. She ran after the boy in black boots.

"What's your name?" she asked. Her face was flushed from running, and seemed… open, like the kind of little kid that gets kidnapped for assuming everyone is nice.

"Richard Riddick… You?" he replied hesitantly. His voice was shockingly low, and for a second she didn't even process his actual words. His eyebrows raised at her, and she realized she had missed something.

"Oh." She hadn't thought ahead to after her question. She started looking hesitant herself, stuffing her hands into the lace-edged pockets of her jeans. He almost-smiled down at her in an exasperated way, and she noticed how tall he was. Although perhaps a bit slimmer that he would later be, he was very in proportion, plus, well, she had been looking at his feet. "Well, I'm…"

He allowed her time to collect herself. He didn't get why it would bother her so to be asked, especially considering she had asked the exact same question of him. He looked past her at the melting cup of ice cream she had abandoned, and saw a worn backpack and equally worn mail bag lying on the concrete next to her table.

"Where you headed?"

"Oh" She glanced back at her bags. "North."

"Just 'north'?" he asked.

"Yeah… You?" she replied, smiling at her imitation.

"Home." he answered curtly, and he turned and left before she could catch him with another question.

She stood there and watched him go. He seemed so alone, and almost… sad. She wondered how many people saw far past his threatening look, and it hurt somehow to think that he was alone.

"…Carolyn." the girl said softly to no one in the fading light.

You're not giving up, are you? Of course I am, she thought to herself. All I wanted in the first place was his name. Really now? Yes. Stop lying to yourself and follow him, Carolyn.

She stood indecisive for a moment, then ran back to her bags. She scooped them up as fast as she could and began to run back. Someone that lonely needs a friend. And it wasn't like she had anyone herself.

Riddick heard her running behind him, but did not stop for her.

"Carolyn!" she shouted at him from a half a block away. He turned to face her, a smile forming almost against his will. So she would trust him with a name after all…

Now, a block away, he was again smiling down at her. And this time she smiled back.

"Carrie Johnson," she repeated. She put out her hand for an introductory handshake. He either didn't notice or ignored it, but he asked casually but cautiously if she was headed the same direction. Carolyn nodded, obviously not getting the implications of the question. As if her answer had decided something, he reached down to take her backpack. He slung it over his shoulder and started to turn back to continue walking. He looked at her expectantly.

"'Coming?"

Her smile burst into a grin, then a laugh. It made her sound… he couldn't find a word. He struggled mentally for it, for anything to say, but the closest he could come was the image of a prism of light made by a glass flower. He smiled at the surprisingly poetic image as much as just smiling at her. She fell into step beside him, as if she had always been there. And he put himself between her and the street.

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Please review! You know you want to... ;)