Mnemosyne

They.

It's like a curse word. When dawn finally rolls around, the weird kind of causal intimacy of the shelter I'd created disappears. He's back to watching me with hungry eyes, following my every move as I reconstruct the small piles of rocks I use as my early warning system. I feel like he has something to say, but he's refusing to broach the subject. My clock is ticking down. Soon, I'll be off this dust-bowl planet, away from the ouroboros, and him. He still won't tell me if he's got a ship planetside, or if he's just as stranded as I am.

I'm getting frustrated. I've never dreaded a pick-up so much in my life. I've never wanted to hit someone so damned hard in my life either. He hasn't been grateful one second for what I've done. Not even an acknowledgment. But I've never seen anyone heal so fast. A break like that should have him grounded for months at least, but he's making himself a walking stick on the other side of camp. One of the reinforced steel bars from the rubble, and the vertebrae from one of the middle-sized ouroboros. I feel like I should be surprised, as he proves himself to be creative. But I'm really not.

I'm starting to worry.

He looks up from his work, and gestures me over. I've been staring at him; he probably felt me watching. He holds his hand out in that wordlessly universal gesture of help-me-up. I eye his leg dubiously. I mean, just because the three-inch hole is starting to fill in with new, puckered scar tissue, doesn't mean that the bone beneath is healing. When I don't take his hand, he growls, and starts levering himself off the ground with the spinal-decorated pole, and his arm.

I swear under my breath, and grab his arm, wedging myself under his shoulder and helping him pick his bulk off the ground. I stay there, his arm draped over my shoulders, mine tucked around his waist, and holding onto his belt loop on the other side, while he tests his weight on his leg.

I wait for him to buckle, to go down. I listen for the snap of bone and flesh. But it doesn't happen. Instead, he tries for what counts as casual conversation for him, all the while increasing the amount of weight he's putting on that leg.

"So, this pick up. Tell me how it goes down."

I rub my nose, glancing up at him. He's not looking anywhere near me, at least, I don't think he is. Those damned goggles hide everything. "Usually they send a dropship. Autopilot. Usually it's a contracted Merc crew. I get a longwave debrief, upload the journal, and I'm usually back into cryo for the jump to Core." I shrug, under the weight of his arm.

"Upload the journal?"

Oh, yeah, I'm not supposed to tell him that. I can feel his eyes boring into me as I look away. "Yeah. The recorder is a hardfile. The only way it transmits is if something happens to me." I hold up my wrist, showing him the face of the watch. It has a read-out showing my heart rate and respiration. "Usually, by the time I get back to Core, they've already waved it out to the people, and I've got interviews to do. I fucking hate that part." I sigh softly, shaking my head. Wedging a hand beneath his bicep, I lift his arm off my shoulders. It's not like he's leaning on me anyway. Stepping out away from him, I turn back. "The Necromongers have destroyed eight planets, all told. This is my fifth... three more, and I'm going to be free of the Company."

He reaches out and grabs my wrist, turning the face of the instrument out towards him. "What if I told you, I could get you free from the Company right now?"

"I wouldn't believe you."

"Why not?" That hint of a smile plays at the corners of his mouth.

"Because you don't strike me as a man to do anything out of the goodness of his heart."

He shifts the crutch to his bad side, tucking it under his arm where I had been standing a moment ago. His hand then moves to cover his heart, and I swear he looks offended that I would think that. "What if I could give you the opportunity for revenge? The chance to strike back at the Necromongers?"

Things are starting to make sense now. I tilt my head at him slightly, and decide that it's time to play my hand. "They took Kyra from you, didn't they?"

It happens so fast. The vertebrae clatter as they hit the ground, and suddenly, my feet aren't touching anything. His fists are wrapped in the last vestiges of my shirt, and he's hauled me bodily off the ground.

"Where'd you hear that name?" Each word is punctuated by a shake. His voice, already so deep, roughed and strained by anger. "WHERE?"

I'm not scared of him in this moment. I'm scared he's going to drop me, yes, or worse, fling me into a wall. But of him, no. Because I recognize what's fueling that anger: pain. I lay my hands on top of his fists, and tell him the absolute truth.

"You called out for her while you were feverish." I stare him straight in the goggles, hoping that he's meeting my eyes, praying that he's hearing the truth. "You talked in your sleep. You even hit me once or twice."

Those corded muscles of his biceps are quivering, and inch by inch, I'm being lowered, until my tiptoes hit the ground. As I feel his fingers uncurl, I move my hands, raising them palm forward until he's fully released me. He's still quivering, still on the edge. And he growls at me.

"I'm going to kill every last one of those fucks. I'm giving you the chance to stop this once and for all." He gestures around at the wasteland, his words growling and low. "I know a surefire way off this rock, into a ship of our own. If you have the balls to do this."

I'm waiting for the punch line. "Ripping the monitor off won't do a thing. It's on a feed from this." I pull aside the collar of my shirt, tapping on a small scar at the spot where my neck and collarbone meet. "So unless you plan on killing me..."

I trail off at the sight of the grin that starts to creep over his face. It's slow, it's dangerous, and it's giving me chills. He reaches forward, pushing my hair away from my shoulder, and he lets his fingers trail over that scar. My throat closes up on me, and my heart starts racing. Those fingers slide up my neck, tracing along my jaw.

"So what do you say, Nim? You got the balls?"

He knows exactly what he's doing to me; it's written all over that shit-eating grin of his. I've unconsciously tipped my head back, giving him my throat, as his fingers have traced along my jawline. What bad could come if I just submitted to him, anyway? If I took that one step forward, and pressed myself against his chest? How bad could he really be? I close my eyes, trying to swallow the lump that's formed in my throat.

Instead, I remember his chuckle, the subtle hint that he was more than just an average ex-con. I plant my hands on his chest, and give him a hard shove backwards. He takes a double-step, limping and favoring his leg badly, but it puts much needed distance between us. I press a hand against my stomach, trying to untie the knots he makes there, while pointing at him with the other hand.

"What makes you think killing me is going to get you a ship? And how the fuck am I supposed to get payback if I'm dead ?"

"I'll bring you back. I promise." At least the grin has faded, and there's a sense of somber truth there. "You saved my life. I'll save yours. And don't you worry, they'll come for me."

I chew my lower lip, retracting the accusing hand, and using it to cover my throat protectively. I've never had an option like this, presented to me. Freedom, for the price of my life? Revenge, maybe finding out if my mother is still alive, facing the Necromongers? Riddick seems to think I should know who he is. He also seems to think that I'm valuable to the Company somehow.

"Fuck." I swear under my breath first, turning my back on Riddick for a moment while I wrestle with this. Do I trust him? Do I not? Is he really going to bring me back from death? "Fuck!" That swear is louder, as I rake my hands through my hair, and kick at a chunk of rubble.

By the time I round back on him, he's retrieved his makeshift crutch, and is leaning on it again.

"Fine! Fine.. what do you need me to do?"