Hey all, sorry it's been a while since the last chapter. I gotta admit, the last chapter really discouraged me. I wasn't thrilled with it, and then my reviews plummeted which told me yall weren't thrilled with it either. All in all, my muse got a bit miffed at the whole story, especially considering just how hard it is for me to write technique-wise.
Now, though, now I have an update for all of yall, and there's good news too! It is TWICE as long as my average chapter: that's right 4400 words all for yall! And better yet: the Big Bad makes another appearance. Hallefreakinglujah.
Big thanks to my beta askita btw.. she's been staying up hella late to get these updates ready!
But enough from me guys: Enjoy!
Chapter 7: Confrontation
The water bottle is finally placed back in my hand, only slighter lighter than it had been when I passed it on, and the scent of blood fades with the soft sound of scrubbing. I bite my tongue to keep silent as I finally realize Shazza must have blood on her person instead of merely on the ground before her. I can think of few things more unpleasant than such a sudden shower. I carefully replace the bottle in my bag with the others, Paris's obvious hovering over me making me even more cautious about securing the bag. Shazza's need had been immediate; the rest of us can wait until Imam and the boys have what they need. Especially the boys, I guess. Imam will likely put their needs before his own. I ponder that responsibility he's shown so far wondering vaguely if I might be able to shift it to Jack, Shazza, and myself if all else fails. With Shazza leading our little trio, we are hardly weak, but more allies are never unwelcome.
Shazza turns to head back into the container, and I shrug off Paris's suddenly 'helpful' grasp on the strap across my shoulder. In a move calculated to be disdainful, I reach out for Jack's hand instead, re-thinking my previous thought. Some allies are decidedly unwelcome.
I take only a few steps when a strangled sound reaches my ears.
"What was…" A second cry, this time almost recognizable as Zeke's terrified voice and then gunfire shatters the silence. Shazza screams, and for the first time I hear sheer terror in her voice. She shoves back past Jack and I, knocking me off of the grate and almost to my knees on the ground as she breaks into a terrified sprint. Jack and Paris hurry after her without a pause, and I am left alone in the shade of the container. I strain to hear their footsteps scramble across the rough terrain of sand and rock, once again hating my helplessness.
Zeke's screams are abruptly cut off, and I cringe knowing Shazza's husband's life has ended with his cries. I allow myself to sink to my knees at the thought of yet another life lost in the space of so few moments. I might not have liked the bastard, but damned if I wanted him to die, for Shazza's sake if not his own.
I sink back to actually sit down, lacking the will to hold myself straight for the moment. My hands grip what I can of the ground beneath me, the rocks and sand digging into my palms before I release it again. I smooth out the two furrows I've dug, wanting something, anything to still be untouched by the madness. For a moment, I almost imagine the sand begin to tremble beneath my fingers, like the pavement on Astarte Prime sometimes did just about the Underground train stations, but then I hear Shazza shout again and my attention is drawn away by the sheer rage in her voice.
I have only a few minutes to wait wondering if anyone will remember I'm still here. Then there's sudden a cacophony approaching, Frye and Johns' voices fighting Shazza's strident tones for dominance, and the sound of pairs of footsteps now equal to the number of frightened survivors. The shots must have brought the others running, I think as the group moves closer. Johns storms by the container toward the wreck of the ship, the tread of his boots heavier than normal and a sliding sound accompanies them as if he drags something large with him. I catch a whiff of Riddick's undeniable scent as Johns passes; it seems the murder has been caught at the scene of a murder. It is strange though; I don't smell anything different on Riddick. I would think death would be a recognizable scent all its own. The rest of the group finally draws even with me, and Shazza's rough hand jerks me to my feet and drags me with them. I almost protest, but the venom in her voice as she mutters under her breath stops me. She's just seen her husband die, and I daresay I won't begrudge her a little pain. I want to ask what has happened, but don't dare to do so. Then, as I listen, I find I don't have to ask after all.
"So much blood… that animal… just sitting there with the blade… never says a word then runs like a rabbit.. bloody coward…" Even with my hearing, I can only pick out random phrases from her near-incoherent ramblings, but it's enough to give me the gist of what must have taken place. Riddick, a blade, and blood. Really how many ways can those three elements be combined after all?
But… something makes me pause in my thoughts, and then in my confusion, I speak before I think to stop myself.
"But there wasn't any blood on Riddick." Shazza slams to a halt, wrenching my arm.
"What did you bloody say?" I almost cringe at the anger in her voice, but I have opened the topic and feel I must go on.
"There wasn't any blood on Riddick, Shazza. If there was that much… I mean…" I all but stutter keeping myself from mentioning the fact that she still smells more like fresh spilled blood than the murderer in our midst. "I should have been able to smell it on him, and there wasn't any."
Shazza's hand tightens for a moment and I am frightened by the sudden memory of Johns' hand on me in just this manner, but then Shazza is practically shoving me away from her.
"What the bloody hell are you on about anyway, Blaire? Spit it out already!" she snaps back at me, disgust clear in her tone. I blink back the sudden tears in my eyes and go on.
"He didn't kill Zeke. He can't have." All around me those survivors who haven't followed Johns and his burden to the ship begin to mutter much as Shazza has before, only now the target of their ire is me. As if the sound of their voices behind her is a goad, Shazza's control suddenly snaps.
"He didn't kill Zeke? He didn't fucking kill Zeke. You are full of shit!" She ends in a shout and I can't help cringing back. "You weren't there, you didn't see shit, and I don't care what your bloody nose thinks, you don't know shit!" Heavy steps suddenly storm away, and I hear only one last gripe of "Fucking useless" before the roaring in my ears pushes it away.
The others move around me like a they might catch something if they dare to touch me, and I hear their footsteps following Shazza's toward the ship. A hand on my shoulder startles me, but it's only Jack, her scent filling my nose only a moment too late.
"Shazza didn't mean it. Not really, you know that right?" Her voice is timid and I feel for the poor child suddenly trapped between the two women who have been her companions thus far. "She's just sad and- and mad, you know? It'll be alright. She just needs to cool down some."
I let her hug me awkwardly, and I murmur words of comfort and assurance absently, needing to sooth her since I cannot sooth myself. I allow her to lead me after the crowd silently, knowing she needs to keep me close more than I need to stay the hell away from the others. Especially now with a wound practically ripped into my chest at Shazza's suddenly spiteful words. I've heard them all of course, but they are so much crueler when they come from someone I'd thought to be a friend. Jack pulls me past the murmuring crowd and into the coolness that tells me we've reached the ship before my feet step onto metal grating.
"Is there somewhere out of the way that I can sit?" I ask my little guide quietly. I need a bit of solitude right now, else I will likely fall to pieces any moment. Jack doesn't answer out loud, but after a few more steps, she gently pushes me down to sit on what feels like a metal box or part of a bench against one wall. I reach to either side and am grateful to find more debris or wreckage to either side of me. It might not hide me complexly from resentful eyes, but every little bit will help. Jack stutters another awkward attempt at comfort, and then falls silent, for once out of words. I take a deep breath and begin to lean back when the bag on my shoulders gets suddenly in the way, reminding me of its presence. I maneuver it to one side and pull the three full bottles free, juggling them awkwardly in my arms before holding them out to Jack. "Here, can you get these to the others, please? I'd… I'd rather not face them just yet."
I'm ashamed of the sound of my own voice, ashamed that I have to rely on a young girl to do my own duty, but this time I cannot quite push the feelings away. I shift again, maneuvering the open bottle and my breather unit to the side to allow me to lean back just a bit more comfortably. Then I close my eyes underneath my glasses and try not to cry into the silence.
After a moment or two, I realize it isn't silent. There's a faint echo being thrown my way, as if a conversation is being spoken down a stairwell perhaps. I sit up and listen harder until the voices clarify in my mind. Johns and Riddick must be on a lower deck, just far enough away and speaking in low enough voices that I pick out the tone and rhythm of their speech, but not quite their words. Johns' drawl is sharper now, nerves bleeding into his speech, or so I guess. Riddick's voice is little more than a low thunder rolling to me. I shiver as I listen to it, some glimmer of insight flickering in my mind that I can't quite comprehend yet.
A hesitant set of footsteps comes toward me from the opening in the ship, and I recognize them to be Frye's with little effort. She passes me without seeming to notice I sit there, and in only a few strides the footsteps change to the clamor of someone descending a set of stairs. Apparently Jack has deposited me closer to those stairs than I'd guessed. Her voice joins the duo below, until with what is almost a shout, Johns suddenly leaves the conversation and ascends up the steps and passed me toward the others. I've got quite the ring side seat to all the coming and going, I muse. Frye's voice is somehow more distinct that the men, and I am able to begin to understand the conversation. I listen carefully, darkly amused to hear both fear and fascination in the tone of her words.
Jack returns to me without a word, and I wonder if she's trying to eavesdrop on the same conversation I am. I nod her in that direction, and after a brief moment, I hear her head that way. At least one of us will get to have a little fun, I think. The drone of voices continues, and I drift on the words. It's simply easier than focusing on anything else. Less painful, anyway.
Suddenly the conversation seems to shift below me, and I hear Frye order Jack to leave. After only a moment, Jack clambers up the stairs, muttering furiously under her breath in annoyance at Frye's sharp dismissal. She reaches the top and takes three jogging steps before my outstretched hand snags her sleeve from my little corner. She startles, but only for a moment. She starts to lift me to my feet, but I shake my head silently.
"How many steps?" I say, barely even a whisper escaping my lips. She's quiet for a moment, confused or so I assume, but then she leans in close to tell me 'twelve.' I smile my thanks, and she continues on down the hall without another sign that I am still seated against the wall.
I have only a few moments more to wait until Frye comes climbing up as well, her footsteps slow and sounding almost confident. It's an illusion though, or so I can tell from the quiver of her breathes and the soft scent of sweat and fear. Once she's reached the top, she breaks into a run, as if she no longer has to pretend she's not afraid. Her flight takes her past me without pause, and I know she hasn't seen me. Foolish of her, dropping her guard just because Riddick is chained below. I certainly will be keeping all of my senses alert; with Zeke's killer loose, I cannot become complacent. Especially with my strong ally keeping her distance. I shove back the hurt again, and instead listen hard to catch some of the conversation out beyond the open back of the ship. What I hear surprises me; Frye is actually going to go through with the search for Zeke's body as Riddick has suggested. Johns tries to talk her out of it with no success, and I am almost impressed that the so-far cowardly pilot is holding to her guns.
Then the searchers move out of my hearing range, and I am left alone. I wonder for a moment if Shazza even thinks to question where I am through her grief. Probably not, I decide, my lips twisting bitterly for a moment before I shove that emotion away as I had the hurt.
I have a task, now, I remind myself, one that can only be done while the others are away. I steel my nerve at the thought of facing the convict, especially after our previous interlude. Still, if I am right, he is likely to be my only hope of survival. Assuming he's willing to be convinced, of course. Any hope hinges on that very slight chance.
I take a deep breath to settle myself and then rise smoothly to my feet, turning back only to pick up the breather unit and water bottle from where they've rested beside me. I tuck the bottle back into the sack slung across my shoulder and then sling the breather unit around my shoulders, too. I pace a careful three steps to the staircase which I much prefer to the ladder. It is a steep staircase to be sure, but something I can maneuver more easily than I'd expected. I still cling to both hand rails, but at least I don't have to back down one shaking footstep at a time in front of a predator. I reach the bottom of the steps and try to mentally gauge how many steps it might be to Riddick's side. Jack's presence had distracted me from counting how long it had taken Frye to reach the stairs. No matter, I remind myself. Frye is taller than me anyway; her stride would likely have covered more distance than my own.
"Well what have we here?" Riddick unknowingly comes to my rescue, his voice offering at least a slight clue to the dimensions of the corridor. Only slight, however, as his voice is almost too rich and resonant to echo sharply. I begin to move in his direction, taking one slow step in front of the other, my right hand just barely outstretched to search for a wall. I don't find one and after a moment, I snap my fingers, needing another distance check. There, I tilt my head slightly, allowing my sensitive ears to take in the hint of sound bouncing off a metal wall not far to my right. I scoot closer to it until my fingers brush against smooth metal, and then I continue stepping toward Riddick's now silent form. I skirt gingerly around a pile of something near the wall and then suddenly, my hand brushes the links of a chain. Eureka, I think, allowing the chain the slide between my fingers. This guide, I know, will lead me directly to Riddick's person. Link by link I draw closer, the only sound between us coming from our almost imperceptible breathes. I struggle to keep mine steady as the heady male scent of him tickles my nose the closer I come, reinforcing his presence in the corridor with me. I might have committed to this path, but it didn't mean I was altogether comfortable with it. Finally, I come across the larger link that warned me of what was to come.
I gingerly reach slightly forward and encounter a large powerful hand. He held it in a fist, something I could understand. Had I been a prisoner, I'd likely have done the same, I mused. I softly traced my fingertips across battered knuckles and then the back of his hand, moving carefully down the smooth surface to the sudden interruption of the cold metal restraint around his wrist, then over it to a nearly hairless muscled forearm. I take another careful step as my questing hand reaches the softer skin of the dip of his elbow, then a twitch from Riddick startles me. Likely startles us both, I guess. I doubt Riddick has planned to reveal any reaction at all, no matter how my touch might tickle.
"Sorry," I say softly, somehow unwilling to break the silence, but feeling the apology is needed. He says nothing, so I continue my journey toward him, carefully tracing the powerful biceps up to his shoulder, stepping carefully around the bent knee I brush into before I can fall over it. I reach his neck now, and find it every bit as muscled as the rest of him. Shaking despite my resolve not to, I trace my fingers lightly up his neck to his head, brushing past his ear to his cheek and then-
"Shit!" I can't hold the curse in as my hand is suddenly caught in Riddick's bite, his teeth bearing down on the soft skin between my thumb and the rest of my palm. He hasn't broken the skin, or so I can tell from the lack of blood, but it still hurts like hell. I force myself to stay perfectly still and not jerk my hand away, knowing that retreat likely could cause him to draw blood in reaction. It was a simple lesson I'd learned from a nurse who'd been bitten by a pit trained dog: when a predator bites down, they'll only let go when they choose to. After a moment he does, and I drop my hand into the other, trying to massage away the imprint of pain that still lingers.
"Who gave you permission to touch me, hmm?" His voice is familiar now, still mocking as it was before in the container, but there's an edge of annoyance beneath it I know better than to ignore. Clearly I've crossed a line, not that I had much choice in the matter. I tell him that.
"My apologies, Mr. Riddick. I needed to know where you were." There's a beat of silence and then I feel the heat of him suddenly closer and I guess he's stood.
"That means what exactly?" His voice is overhead now, confirming my guess of his stance, and I'm struck by just how much taller he is than myself. He looms, and I wonder how I missed that in the container. I suppose it had something to do with the sheer terror I'd been feeling. Riddick shifts slightly, and I realize silence has lapsed again without any answer from me. I think for a moment of how to reveal my disability, but choose to be blunt as I usually am about it.
"I'm blind." There's a snort of amusement from above me and then Riddick seats himself again with a faint rattle of the chains.
"You're serious?" His tone is amused again, and I sigh impatiently at the familiar question. I open my mouth to say something cutting, but he breaks in abruptly. "Touch me then." This time his voice is rich with a mocking desire that tempts me to slap the smirk that's likely on his face.
Instead I reach up as he's all but invited me too, this time to find out what he 'looks' like. I reach until I touch his cheek again, very gingerly this time, as I am not totally convinced the bastard won't bite me this time. After a pause, I allow my hand to continue up to a broad forehead and bald scalp, then down across the ridges of his eyebrows and a prominent nose to the other cheek. His features I find are relatively symmetrical and strong. I linger for a moment on his cheek, enjoying the contact even though it's with him. There have never been many people who choose to allow me to see them this way. My own father refused, stating it was not an appropriate contact to allow between a father and a daughter. I always thought he was full of shit, frankly, but I have to admit this does feel somewhat intimate between Riddick and I. I trace lower to discover full lips, and I drop my hand away as my traitorous mind admits he would likely be considered a handsome man by most people. I think back to Frye's response, and decide that's likely true even of the people he terrifies. I shake the uncomfortable contemplation of Riddick's appearance away, and instead lift the mouthpiece of the breather unit out toward his lips.
"Here, I heard you wheezing earlier. We think the O2 levels must be lower than Standard here." I don't feel or hear him take a hit off the breather, and impatiently, I reach up with my free hand to actually guide the mouthpiece to his lips. "Oh, don't be stubborn," I chide as if to a small child. "You know you need to breathe, Mr. Riddick."
After another pause, I feel his lips wrap around the tube and he takes a long deep breath and then a second and a third, each a long controlled inhalation, taking in as much as he can. I dare say he likely thinks it might be the last deep breaths he'll take for a while, and he might be right if the others get wind of my little visit. He lets the tube drop from his mouth, and I allow the breather unit to sag back against my side. Then I twist around reaching for the opening of my bag.
"I've water, too. Not much, though. It was four bottles for all of us. I'm sharing this with Jack and Shazza."
"And me," he says unnecessarily, his voice so low it's barely a rumble in his chest, and I doubt anyone but me could have heard it, even standing as close as I was.
I pull the bottle out and uncap it without saying anything else, feeling oddly shy. I ignore the feeling, and tuck the cap into my pocket, knowing this will likely be more difficult to do without Riddick's hands free. I hold the bottle firmly with my stronger right hand, and the tuck the left along the back of Riddick's neck. I press the bottle carefully to his lips and then pull his head back slightly before allowing the bottle to tip a little, hoping I won't spill the bloody thing all over the convict. I hear the sound of him taking several deep swallows, and then he leans his head forwards again, signaling for me to remove the bottle. I do so, thoroughly surprised we'd managed that without a terrible mess. I wait for a moment to see if he'll ask for more then shrug and twist the cap on, and replace the bottle in my bag. There's a long moment of silence, and I wish for a moment that I could see to judge the emotions on his face. Just when I've almost decided to simply turn and leave, he speaks again holding me in place with his voice.
"You surprise me. It's been a while since a grown woman wasn't afraid of me," he mused aloud. His scent shifts slightly in a way I can't quite recognize, and the strangeness of it distracts me for a moment from what he's said, then I shake my head slightly.
"You're wrong. I am afraid of you, Mr. Riddick." I shrug, forcing back the strange aggravation that I am not as brave as he seems to think I am, and then go on. "But you must remember, I am a grown blind woman who's one of a very few survivors of a ship crashed on a desert planet. Half of the survivors think I am at best an inconvenience, and the others have thought to throw me to the proverbial wolves."
"Meaning me," he interjected and I shrugged again.
"You, or god help me, perhaps to whatever they discover killed Zeke." I cannot suppress a shiver as the memory of the gunshots and screams comes over me again. I shake myself sharply, not caring that he likely will see the reaction as a weakness. "My point, Mr. Riddick, is that right now you are only one of the things I fear. I'm afraid of nearly everything now, with the possible exception of young Jack." Without truly meaning to do so, I reach forward again to brush my fingers against his cheek. "At least now you are a known fear; I have faced you, and that makes me just the slightest bit stronger, I think." I furrow my brow a little. "Or stupid. Damned if I can decide which."
He lets out a bark of laughter, likely startling us both, and I think I imagine him leaning into my hand for an instant. I am not imagining when he twists his head to catch me with his teeth again. This time, however, it's painfully gentle, and I again force myself into stillness. It is not fear that twists in my stomach now, though. He releases me with a brush of his lips and I hear him breathe in deep, taking in the way my own scent has changed despite my desire to hide it. He chuckles again, and I suppress a groan as the sound all but caresses my skin.
"Run along and play, Princess. They'll get back soon, and you shouldn't be here when they do."
I nod a farewell, not trusting my voice, and then turn to go, tracing the same path back along his skin to his chains to the wall to the stairs. I climb slowly, unexpectedly reluctant to leave.
Damn, I don't think I'd want to leave either, how bout you? Anyway, hope it was worth the wait!
