Disclaimer: I don't own Jack or Riddick, nor do I own Pitch Black.

A/N: My first JR fic...not Kyra. My pairings in PB/TCoR seem to be endless now...

I'd seen a lot of fucked up things in my life.

I mean, real fucked up. Not the kinds of things that anyone could just scoff at, say "That's fucked up" and walk away nonchalantly like you didn't care what happened.

I meant the major leagues: death, blood, theft, rape. Some said it was too much for a kid like me…hell, even my foster mother had been a little surprised at some of the things I told her, and Deborah never even batted an eyelash when the other foster kids yelled obscenities and pulled their hair at her. I liked Deborah. She was one of the good ones.

But the most fucked up was not even violent or gory or sad or angry.

It was Riddick.

I had a choice when Imam had left me at the children's home. He said I could either come with him and live and breathe Chrislam or find a new family. I saw the glistening tears in his eyes as my twelve year old voice demanded to stay in the children's home. I'd never been religious so I saw no point in trying to start. So he left me. Sure, he wrote me letters and sent me things and I appreciated it, but he had to move on. I had. I never saw a psychiatrist because I didn't believe in them – let me deal with my memories and past the way I want to. It wasn't like I was having nightmares every night anyways.

Some said Riddick had been caught in the Helion system and sent back to Butcher Bay but I knew he didn't. Even seeing his picture on the vid screen during study hall when I should've been doing definite integrals assured me that those silver eyes weren't going back to Butcher Bay. He'd told me so on the skiff, the makeshift Hunter-Gratzner. It was one of the only things in my life that I knew for sure, even if definite integrals were indeed definite.

I didn't even escape religion in this new life. Catholic schools were strict and the outfits…well, they were bearable. I had my growth spurt, got taller, grew my hair out and basically regained my female identity. It was nice being a woman, when someone wasn't there to sniff you and rat you out to everyone else. I'm sure Riddick was chuckling about it now. I graduated, went to college, graduated in two years and was now working in the justice office of the Helion system, mostly filing papers and taking notes during trials. The government had switched their use of computers to make sentences by reinstating the idea of democracy: jury of your peers, speedy trial, et cetera. I got a good stipend and it was enough to afford my own apartment and a public bus ticket, the latter not being so glamorous but it proved I wasn't poor anymore. The government paid for my suits for work and all my supplies, for that I was grateful. Squeezing money out of the fat pockets of the government had been my dream, given my childhood of nothing.

I remember it was a Tuesday, a basic court day, where the sun was shining for those of us who could enjoy the free air. I had to fill in for Marcus, who had apparently turned green with some sort of virus that, indeed, turned your skin green. I rode with the prosecuting attorney, my boss, in a small cab until we reached the pristine white court building. Up a few flights of stairs and we were sitting in our seats, discussing.

"You seen the convict?" she shoved the white plastic folder toward me and I ran my fingers across it. Her smile was distinct, "He's a looker."

I opened the folder and closed it immediately. No.

No. No. No. No.

"Jackie, is there something wrong? You need some water?" her blue eyes trailed to the folder in my hand and I pushed it back. I didn't want to look anymore. Eight years and I hadn't seen that mug shot. She opened the folder again, looked at the man, and then looked back at me.

"You gonna be okay?" she blinked and I swallowed the lump that had appeared in my throat. He'd recognize me. Sitting, chained up and cocky as hell, he'd notice me.

"W-What happens if I kn-know the man in that folder?" My hands were as cold as ice.

She laughed, throwing her head back momentarily, cheeks flushing, and then looking back at me. "You know Richard Riddick?"

"Scarcely…"

She cut in, "You've spent time with him?"

"In a sense, yes…"

She leaned in. "What'd you two do to get yourselves together?"

"I wasn't a criminal if that's what you're inferring. And nothing happened. He saved my life a long time ago and I guess he knows it." Yeah, he did. Riddick struck me as the kind of person who never forgot his debts. She sighed and closed the folder, crossing her arms across her waist.

"As long as you didn't sleep together…"

"I was TWELVE," I replied sternly. I knew it was going to end up like this. A male and a female couldn't possibly be together two seconds without wanted to have sex, right? But I was twelve and he was thirty. That was bordering on sick.

She sighed. "The court cannot bar you from continuing with me on this trial. It's a personal decision. Do you want to see Richard or not?" Richard…it was such an old man's name. With a name like Richard Riddick, anyone would expect a grey-haired man chomping on a cigar and wearing a sweater vest.

Sweater vests and Riddick seemed like a huge oxymoron to me.

"I'll stay." The compassionate side of me wanted Riddick to see me and feel at ease in this big courtroom. A familiar face, maybe.

A nervous Riddick was also an oxymoron.

Riddick was just one big fat walking and talking irony.

Just then, the doors opened and the sounds of chains dragging the floor filled the courtroom. I turned around painfully. He was being shuffled along, hands and ankles bound, straight to his upright seat beside his lawyer. He sat down heavily, letting his chains slam down and slouched, bringing his fingers up to his lips and rubbing the back and forth. His head tilted to the right slightly and I turned my head away. I knew what he was doing. Surveying the crowd, look for minor inaccuracies so he could pounce on them if the need came.

I wasn't ready for him to see me. It would be chaos.

"He looks nicer in person." Then you're a fool for thinking that. I looked at the attorney sitting beside me and took a deep breath. THIS was how Riddick reeled them in. He did it to me too, but I was twelve and a child. Eight years had taught me a few things about trust.

"He's not nice he's just..." I looked at him quickly, "Riddick."

She shrugged and looked at him again. The judge emerged from his chambers and we all stood, watching the old man with snowy hair stumble to his seat and wave his hand, motioning us to sit down. We obeyed and the trial began.

"Richard B. Riddick. Two counts of vehicular homicide and one count assault with a deadly weapon." Riddick cocked his to the side and covered his mouth at the bailiff's words. Probably hiding that smile that had crept on his lips. The judge pondered at these charges and then looked up at Riddick.

"Mr. Riddick, you are unbelievable." Disgust laced the edges of his words and Riddick only smiled broader. He loved pissing people off; it was his cocaine.

"You think he's guilty?" she whispered to me and I almost laughed out loud.

"No, I know he's guilty."

She said nothing else, turning her head toward Riddick's lawyer who was making his opening statements. He pulled the sympathy card: found in a liquor store trash bin with his umbilical cord around his neck, the last known Furyan, blah blah blah…even I knew Riddick was rolling his eyes. But juries liked sob stories – they wanted to believe he knew he was wrong and felt bad about what he did.

Riddick probably only felt bad about getting caught.

My attorney began and lashed out with our only attack: multiple murders over his whole lifetime equaled no conscience and probable intent. At this point, I wanted him to see me. See how I'd changed and wasn't his tag-along anymore.

God, I sounded like a self-righteous bitch.

Damn, and it was good!