Chapter 6: Breaking

I nearly tumble back down the stairs as I climb frantically with far too little care for what I am doing. The panic I've fought off since my ears first warned me the crash was happening has finally broken through my control, and my hands shake as I manage to pull myself to the top and onto the metal grating. I am crying, though I scarcely know it, and I gasp out Shazza's name as I founder for the wall.

"Shazza... Sha.. Shazza? Where are you?" I cringe at the helpless sound of my voice, but I cannot help it. I am marked, at the best as an amusing target to taunt, at worst as a toy to play with and discard. I can't stand this! My breath comes out in gasps as I cling to the metal of the wall, trying desperately to ground myself and figure out which direction to go in. I give in and dissolve into sobs, tears pouring down my face and my nose running. Unfortunately, all it does is just disorient me more: my sense of smell taken out of commission and my ears filled with my own keening. "Shazza? Jack... Please..."

I shuffle deeper into the container or what I think must be deeper by the lack of heat against my skin. Shazza should be in here... she told me she'd be in here! I grip harder to the walls and find myself crying out now as I stumble over something in my way. "Shazza!"

Hands grab mine and I shriek. "No don't! Don-"

"Blaire! Blaire, easy. It's me... It's me." It's Shazza, and I sob again in relief, falling into her strong arms as my knees go weak completely.

"Blaire, you OK? Hey, Blaire... what happened? Shazza what's wrong with her?" Jack, Jack is here too, and I loose one hand to reach out and clutch her close to the pair of us. Together, we're safer together. Please god let us be safer together. The women hold me carefully while I sob myself out, sheltered emotionally as well as physically, at least for the moment. It's over quickly; and I realize perhaps, that my panic may have truly been more to do with a fear of being alone, than a fear of Riddick himself. I shudder as the sobs slow and finally halt. I wipe my nose on my sleeve, not caring for manners in the face of my emotionally draining little crying jag. Shazza wipes at the tears that still trickled beneath my glasses and then rests her hands on my shoulders. Jack weasels her way under the arm I've given her, hugging more than merely clutching my hand now. I take a deep shaking breath in and out and then another, finally calming my body back to stillness.

"Blaire, you alright?" Shazza asks quietly, and I shake my head with a hoarse laugh. "What happened?"

"Riddick. He was here, down.. down in the cargo bay." I shake my head again, this time with less strength and no hint at mirth. "While I changed." I lick my lips absently, mouth suddenly drier than in the instant before. "He watched." Shazza curses viciously under her breath, and I thoroughly second her opinion. "He even thanked me for the bloody show."

"Did he hurt you, Blaire?" Jack asks, and I hear just a hint of guilt in her nearly imperceptible words. I hug her closer and shake my head. It's not her fault, but I can tell she's blaming herself for leaving me alone down there.

"No, just... just teased me a bit. To show he could, I suppose."

"Fucking charmer," Shazza breathes bitterly, and I feel her shake her head in an echo of my own movement. "That's it then; neither of you wander off alone until the bastard's back in chains." She releases me carefully and slides the pack off of my shoulders and hefts it with a faint huff at the unexpected weight. "I guess you found what we needed at least. Come on then, we're working down this way."

Jack chooses to lead me this time, and I wonder if her proximity is due to my recent knowledge of her gender or fear of our neighborhood murder, or a combination of the two. It doesn't matter too terribly much to me; I like the little scamp, and it's been a very long time since anyone cared to stick so close to me. Since I was just a child, really, I realize now that I think of it. I lean into the young girl, enjoying the feeling of friendship, of... of kinship I decide. We're alike, I think, more alike than anyone might guess two young women of our separate social statuses and age might be. Even I can't put my finger on why I suddenly decide this, of what detail about the scamp convinces me that she's mine, but there's no doubt in my mind that it is true. It's something in the scent of her perhaps, or the timbre of her voice, but the connection is undeniable. I decide then, as she leads me after Shazza, that I will do everything in my power to assure Jack's survival. I have no idea how I might accomplish it, but I will. I must.

"Here. Jack be careful of the torch; make sure Blaire stays clear." I sigh at Shazza's words; they're a sharp reminder of the fact that I can barely keep myself safe, let alone Jack. "Here, you think you can hold this for me while I tend to this?" Shazza carefully hands me back my bag, and I slip it back onto my shoulders.

"Did you get a bottle out?" I ask quietly.

"No, I'll wait a bit for that. Need to save it as long as possible." Trust Shazza to push her own comfort down as long as possible. I nod and lean against the wall as directed by Jack's gentle hands. There's a pop-hiss and a flash of heat, and I guess Shazza has fired up the torch to continue the patch job my hysterics have interrupted. We stand this way for some time, as Shazza works without pausing. The only break in our companionable silence comes from Shazza's occasional muttered instructions to her young assistant and Jack's questions or comments in response.

I am left to my own thoughts, and I find I am not precisely comfortable with that. At the forefront of my mind is the encounter between the convict and myself. He frightens me, has deliberately frightened me, but as much as I wish to hate the bastard, he hasn't harmed me. Hell, if I am honest with myself, his little touches were practically gentle. There literally had been nothing that might cause me pain. The intimidation, the control he'd had over me had been solely to do with what he could do instead of what he'd actually done. He'd shown more control than most men might considering my state of undress. Many "better" men, or at least men with less of a rap sheet, would have at least copped an actual feel and some might have forced themselves on me without thinking twice. I shy away from the implications of my thoughts. I don't want to know the answers to the questions I'll ask myself next. It's just safer for my sanity not to, I muse.

Of course, that doesn't exactly stop my train of thought. A respectable ship company like the one that owned Hunter-Gratzner would never have allowed a chained passenger without checking out the story of the person holding the leash. Slavery is still illegal on most worlds I know of, and the penalties for aiding and abetting a slaver are vicious. The port and shipping company would not have been able to allow any chance that such a passenger might be a slave. No, they would have checked Johns' credentials and Riddick's lack thereof before ever allowing the pair on board.

Whether or not Johns is actually the authority he implies he is (and I am not totally convinced that he is), the fact remains that Riddick is a convict. Once upon a time, he did something to earn that status, and to have earned a bit or gag, whichever it was that forced the silence I remember from our departure, he must have done something truly violent. He is dangerous, I remind myself fiercely. I cannot allow myself to doubt that. Not and keep my limited sanity.

A metallic thunk jerks me out of my musing, and I straighten, trying to pick out the sounds over the hiss of the torch. I am opening my mouth to ask Shazza to turn it off for a moment, but I'm beaten to the punch by Paris's arrival.

"Tell me that was you just now..." He asks, and I wonder who he's accusing. Shazza answers my mental question unintentionally.

"What are you going on about? He's been right here with me the whole time..." She breaks off as yet another clank is suddenly heard, much louder than the one I'd heard first. Jack shoves by me to the outer wall, and then turns suddenly. It is only the fact that she's all but in my ear that allows me to hear the imperceptible sound of the word "Riddick" fall from her lips. I doubt the other's have heard it at all, but from the sudden complete silence that falls, I guess they at least have read her lips.

Shazza carefully sets the torch down, and I am impressed by her quiet. I catch her sent as she passes by me, and then Jack wraps her hand around mine and leads me after her. I am as careful as I can be to keep my footsteps utterly soundless. It is only slightly more difficult in the flat-soled boots I've retrieved from my trunk than it would have been in the thin slippers I'd worn before. Jack is almost as quiet as Shazza and I, and though Paris's steps seem painfully loud in comparison, I have to grudgingly admit he has some talent for sneaking around as well.

We ease toward the entrance to the container, keeping pace with the heavy footsteps I can hear just beyond the metal outer wall of the container. Those heavy steps... something about then seems off to me. I can't quite put my finger on what it is though. Then the steps stumble, and I realize what is wrong. I have yet to hear Riddick take a single step, and he has certainly never moved with anything but predatory grace.

"Shazza wait-"

"No!" Jack shouts, and I fear my warning is too late and Shazza has struck some unsuspecting stranger. Jack and Paris's deep sighs of relief tells me otherwise, and I sigh too as the stranger, a man judging by his voice, begins to speak.

"Thank god! I thought the only one who got out-" A shot and then another rips through the calm with a pair of foreboding cracks. The scent of blood is suddenly having in the air, heavy enough that I can all but taste it. There is a horrified silence, and then Jack explodes with recriminations and helpless anger.

"Crikey.. I thought it was him!" Zeke, I realize, Zeke has shot a man who'd likely been even more terrified than we were. At least the poor sap had never seen it coming, I thought with a bitter taste in my mouth. "Shazza... Shaz, you OK?"

I cringe at his question and hope he hasn't bloody shot my friend. I realize it isn't likely; she is his wife, after all. I cringe again as I realize that fact is likely why the man was shot. In love and war, there are no rules: Zeke willing shot first and asked questions only after to protect his love. It is an admirable sentiment at least, though I daresay the corpse on the ground somewhere in front of me wouldn't agree.

"I'm alright, Zeke. I'm alright." Shazza has finally spoken, her voice rough and shaking though I can tell from the steel underneath that she's trying to keep it together, likely for Zeke and Jack, who's still babbling slightly under her breath in shock. "I... I'll be fine. Just need to clean up."

"That's a bloody understatement," Paris mutters under his breath beside me, and I have to force myself not to ram my elbow into him.

"You... You'll need to take him with the others, love," Shazza says quietly, and I hear Zeke curse under his breath though he doesn't argue. After amount, I hear a grunt of effort, and then the scraping of something being dragged over sand and stone.

"Least we can offer the poor sod," Paris says, and I suppose I grudgingly agree with him. The man is dead and Zeke can bury him. That's about all any of us can do though; had he lived... Well that would have certainly changed the landscape a bit, but now we are simply back where we started before Paris heard him approaching. I shake off the morbid thinking and ease my way carefully around Paris to where I'd heard Shazza's voice. The scent of blood is thicker here, and I imagine there's likely to be quite a puddle of blood on the metal and sand. I debate on stepping closer, but decide not to chance the likelihood that I might slip in the mess and go crashing to the ground. Instead, I just reach out my hand until I brush against her arm to grip her elbow, comfortingly or so I hope.

"You alright?" I ask quietly, knowing that now that Zeke is gone she might be a bit more honest in her answer. "Think you might give yourself that water break now?"

She laughs mirthlessly and I took that to be as close to a yes as I am likely to get. I slip the bag around my shoulder, pull out one of the bottles of water and offer it to her, ignoring Paris's sudden gasp of interest. I feel the bottle taken from my hand, and then the clicking of the cap being twisted off. I am surprised then to hear the slight plinking sound of water dripping onto the metal grating instead of Shazza swallowing.

"Jack, you got a bandana or rag I can borrow?" she asks, and I wonder just what has happened to my friend.

I'm likely to keep wondering. Friend though she might be, I somehow doubt I'll receive an answer from the resilient woman any time soon.