(AN) I am ashamed to admit I lost my director's cut of COR. If anyone has the dvd (and too much time on thier hands...) and could pm me the dialogue from the scenes with Shirah, I would be eternally grateful. If not... well, I guess I'll have to look harder.
Movement woke him. Demarco felt the warmth in his arms pull away, and groaned in protest.
He opened his eyes. Kyra was sitting cross-legged beside him. She stared down at him with a thoughtful expression on her face. She had no clothes on, but it didn't seem to be bothering her.
"Hey," Demarco rasped. Then he rolled over to look at the clock.
Eight-thirty. Hell.
When he glanced back at her, she hadn't moved.
"What's up?" he asked.
She blinked, then finally glanced away.
"You're a good friend," she told him.
He frowned, before realizeing what she was referring to. Then he wondered what she meant by it. Was she thanking him? Telling him she didn't expect more? Or was he reading too much into it?
She slipped off the bed. He saw her wince and put a hand to her head.
"You can stay," he said. "Sleep it off some."
She paused, staring at him again. Maybe she was picking at his words, wondering what he meant by them.
He hadn't meant anything. She just looked like she could use the extra sleep.
She shook her head. "I've got stuff to do. Thanks, though."
"Anytime," he said. Then he rolled over and went back to sleep.
X
Kyra stopped by the club for a change of clothes.
Sitting on her dresser was a box, wrapped in bright colors with a shiny bow on top. Propped up beside it was an envelope with her name on it.
Something inside her relaxed a bit. Lynn had taken the time to buy her a gift.
She reminded herself that everything she had here was temporary—that when the time came (it would come, eventually) she would walk away and not look back. She would leave Lynn and Demarco and Eric all behind, and they would probably be better off for it.
But for today, Lynn had gone out and bought her a gift and wrapped it all up in eye-catching paper. The time hadn't come yet. She was glad.
X
The man had seemed alright, at first. He'd stopped the street vendor from hitting Eve, and paid for the apple she'd stolen. She'd known he would want something in return, but she'd never thought it would be something like this.
He'd told her his name was Rich. Short for Richard.
It hurt. He'd said he would be gentle, but it hurt.
She watched him warily as he got up off the bed.
"I'm gonna get a drink," he said. "You want something?"
She shrugged.
"I'll bring you some water," he told her.
He left the room. She pulled the blankets higher, up to her chin.
A few minutes later he was back. He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching her.
Then he jerked. His mouth dropped open. His eyes widened.
There was a woman behind him. He fell forward. Blood gushed out of him. It was all over the woman, all over her, and she held a knife that was painted red. For a second all Eve could think of was the apple that had brought her here. Then she saw that Rich was dead.
The woman was frozen, staring at Eve.
The woman had just killed Rich.
Eve screamed. The killer turned and ran.
X
Kyra was starting to run out of hot water. Eric would bitch at her for using it all. She didn't really care at the moment, though.
She should have been feeling great. Her list was one name shorter. But that girl—
She stopped the thought there. Tried to.
That girl—
No.
She thought of the man instead. Richard Kavlove. The knife had slid so smooth into his back, and then the blood had just flooded out of him. So easy.
"The sweet spot…" whispered a memory.
The sweet spot. Why the hell hadn't she thought of that until now? She'd been trying for years to block those memories, but she never thought she'd succeed—not to this degree. She'd killed a man who shared his name, using the method he'd described, and she hadn't thought of him once.
Seeing the girl must have thrown her even more than she'd thought.
No. Forget the girl.
The sweet spot. Just to the left of the spine. The forth lumbar down. The abdominal aorta.
She'd found it. Without a moment's hesitation, she'd found it and slammed the blade home. But she hadn't thought of him. Why?
She thought of him now. She thought of his eyes and his strength and the way he moved when he killed. She wondered if she moved in a similar way, wished she could watch herself and find out. She kind of hoped she did, even if the idea made her a feel bit sick. She thought of his broad shoulders, and the bullet that had pierced one of them. She remembered his chest, hard and scarred and perfect. She remembered asking for the stories that matched the marks on his body, and being blown off every time. And why hadn't he had those removed, anyway? She hadn't thought to ask, back then.
Kyra herself didn't have a single scar on her body—it was ridiculously easy to find a clinic that didn't ask questions. It was safer—less identifying marks. So why hadn't he?
She wondered if he'd had it done by now. She wondered where he was. She hadn't wondered that in a long, long time.
He was real. He was flesh and blood. He existed. Somehow she'd forgotten that, in the process of trying to forget him. He wasn't a fucking idea, everywhere and nowhere all at once. No, he was out there somewhere, and he only occupied one spot in the entire verse. Not even that, for all she knew—he could easily be dead and rotting by now. And if he wasn't, eventually he would be, because he was a sack of meat and nothing more, like everyone else. Just blood and meat and skin and bone.
For a wild moment, she thought of abandoning her list and going after him. If the fucker had to die, then she should be there.
Shot or stabbed or torn apart by monsters. There would be blood—there had to be blood, for him. There would be blood, and it would be boiling hot and beautiful, dazzling crimson, and it would smell like death and taste like freedom. And it would hurt.
But she was used to pain. And maybe she was wrong, maybe his blood wouldn't be any different from anyone else's. She'd seen so much blood, and it was always the same.
Blood on her mother's hands, when one of her rings split Audrey's lip. Blood on her father's shirt, when he'd told her to pack her things. Blood in the grave, baking under the suns. Her own blood on her fingers, licked clean in near-darkness. Blood pooling as she clutched a smoking gun, and Riddick's heart kept beating. Blood in her dreams, night after night. Blood on Litner's dick.
Kyra shivered, told herself it was because of the cooling water.
Blood on sheets and scalpels.
Blood in a bag, saving her life. Drip, drip, drip.
Blood all over the gym floor, the time Eric broke her nose.
Blood soaking an old couch, as she squeezed the trigger one more time and realized the gun was empty. Blood in her hair. Blood in a former brothel. Blood all over her, earlier tonight.
Blood between that little girl's legs?
Kyra's eyes stung. She looked down, saw rust swirling through the drain.
Blood between her legs.
That wasn't right, was it? No one had touched her in years. She was strong now. She could stop them.
Her stomach rolled.
She'd been behind the man, hadn't she? She hadn't been in the bed. That was right, wasn't it? She hadn't been in the bed.
Pain. There had been pain. Which side of it had she been on?
She took a deep breath, swallowed back a gag. She'd been the killer, not the victim. She wasn't weak, she wasn't fucking helpless. She was the monster, not the meal. She wasn't that girl, not anymore. She wasn't, dammit.
Was she?
X
He found her sprawled, naked, on his bathroom floor, with her head resting on the toilet seat and blood flowing from her cunt. He could smell the vomit from the door. Eric felt a jolt, felt something twist in his gut.
He turned off the shower and then crouched beside her. Drew wet hair back from her face, saw that her eyes were red and swollen. Another twist. He wondered if this was what it felt like to be a father, wondered if Dr. Frankenstein had ever ached for his monster's tears.
There was a hair tie on the counter next to her clothes. Eric grabbed it and pulled her hair into a sloppy ponytail. Then he got up and left.
Her bag was on the kitchen table—he rooted through it, found a tampon. He got a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water.
She hadn't moved.
"Rinse your mouth," he commanded, and held the water to her lips.
She took a gulp, swished it around a bit, and spit in the toilet.
"Good girl," he said. "Here."
He held out the tampon. After a moment, she took it.
"Get yourself cleaned up," he told her. He waited until she nodded, then stood. This time, he shut the door behind him.
It took her ten minutes. Ten long minutes. When she emerged, he was lounging on the couch with his latest gun magazine, very carefully unconcerned.
"Sorry about that," she said softly.
He just shrugged.
Her skin was very pale, bleached like old bone. Her eyes blazed. The sweatshirt she wore—one of his—hung off her shoulders, made her look frail. A sharp reminder of the night he'd met her. He remembered thinking she was pretty—but really, she'd been nothing but skin and bones and harsh eyes.
She was more than that now. Most of the time. It irritated him, seeing her look like this again.
She sat on the couch, by his feet.
"You shouldn't put your boots on the furniture," she said.
He snorted.
"Yeah, well, you're not the one who has to deal with the stains," she responded.
He slid further down, put his feet in her lap. She winced.
"You hurt yourself?" he asked, lifting his feet.
"Landed on my hip," Kyra replied. She drew his boots back into her lap, started untying the laces. "Bruised it pretty bad."
"What happened?" he asked. "Problem with the hit?"
"No, the hit went fine," she said evenly. "Just felt sick. I think maybe I'm coming down with something."
She pulled his right boot off his foot and set it on the floor.
"Bullshit," Eric said.
She removed his other boot, tugging a little harder than she had to.
"Why you say that?" she asked.
"You're my protégé, Kyra. A little nausea isn't enough to make you cry. Or it better not be."
She gave him a small smile. "You got a point. But it's not the kind of thing talking will help. I… I lost control, for a minute."
He knew there was more to it than that. Kyra didn't 'lose control' without something to trigger it.
"Not good, Kyra," was all he said.
"It was just a minute," she replied. Her head fell back, baring the line of her throat. It made him think of pagan sacrifice, of virgins led to slaughter. Strange thoughts.
"Sometimes a minute is enough," he said.
"I know," she answered. "Hasn't happened in a long time, though. I've gotten better."
"Yeah, you've gotten better," he conceded, once again thinking of the wraith she'd been.
Her eyes closed.
"You're a good influence on me," she whispered.
No, I'm not, he thought. His lips curved a bit as he remembered all the people he'd sent her to kill. I'm really, really not. But I am a steadying influence. And that's what you're really looking for, isn't it? That's what you really need.
"Glad you think so," he said. Then he went back to his magazine.
X
Eric was concerned about her. It was really starting to get on her nerves.
"I'd be gone almost a month," he told her. "You really think that's a good idea? After that freak-out last week? I can reschedule."
She rolled her eyes. "There will not be a repeat of that 'freak-out'. You need to stop fussing over me and do your goddamn job."
"Something's off," he said. "You think I can't tell?"
Kyra thought of the case files Lynn had hacked, and the child who had witnessed a murder.
"Nothing's off," she lied. "This is stupid. You said he'd be dead within three weeks. That needs to happen. Clients need to know you're reliable, or they'll go somewhere else. It's business. You know that, Eric, you're the one who taught me."
He eyed her—she gave him an exasperated look.
"Nothing?" he asked.
"Nothing."
"Fine," he said abruptly. "I'll see you when I get home."
X
Riddick studied the clouds beginning to churn above him. Then he looked down, at the tracks in the snow. He pulled out a blade.
He needed the meat, but he'd have to hurry. He had to get to shelter before the storm hit.
X
Two hands slammed down, one after the other.
"Mine!" Kyra cried, scooping up the cards. She shook her hand. "Damn, that stung."
"Stop whining and play," Lynn told her.
There was a knock at the door. Kyra didn't move. After a moment, Lynn sighed and got to her feet.
"Ignore it," Kyra said. "If it's important they'll come back later."
"If it's important we should deal with it now," Lynn replied.
There were two men at the door. One was in uniform.
"I'm Detective Rider," the other said, holding up a badge. "This is Officer Malone. We're looking for Kyra Moloch."