Mnemosyne

This ends up being six shades of impossible to define. I tell myself every morning that I'm not going to get attached, and yet, I know it's happening. Entire cycles pass where we don't say a word to each other, and somehow, he always seems to know what I'm thinking. Half our day is normally spent in the cargo hold, sparring. The other half is spent either learning about the ship, or causing this undefinable thing between us to hum and grow. But, we don't talk about us. It's never actually brought up. But I see it in the way he watches me, in the way his hands steal possessively around my waist. It's there in the way he lulls the thing inside me to sleep. I don't need it to survive around him. I don't need to be a violent animal, pretending to wear a person's skin. The only problem is: I really don't know who I am if I'm not struggling to survive.

When we do finally begin our approach to Helion Prime, nothing has been resolved. He refuses to let me practice landing on such a congested and regulated planet. Even though we approach on the night-side of the planet, New Mecca is lit up like a beacon, blazing with the power of a thousand living beings all in one place. It's daunting, and terrifying; I find myself nervously tying and retying my boots as Riddick guides the ship toward the port. When he identifies himself to the authorities, he's surprisingly cordial, and using the name Johns.

We're apparently here to visit friends, which I try my hardest not to laugh at. Riddick casts me a glance as soon as we're given clearance, a little grin plays on the edge of his lips. "What? You don't think I have friends?"

"I didn't think you could be nice," I jibe back, grinning as he chuckles.

We mutually leave it there, as he starts concentrating on docking. I can see why he wouldn't want me to even try. I'm novice at best, a complete fuck-up at worse. And the port looks like it's seen better days. He maneuvers around a suspiciously familiar crater, and leaves me craning my neck at the cockpit viewport to get a better look. The city is under reconstruction. The lights I saw from above, illuminate scaffolding and manpower as edifices are repaired. Cosmetically, at first glance, the city seems fine, and the construction seems to be part of an expansion project, but the craters...

"The Necros hit Helion Prime?" The question escapes before I realize I asked it aloud. Riddick just grunts, a sound that I take as an affirmative. "What made them leave? How'd they get driven off? How long ago?"

There's a solid thump as the mag-locks engage to the dock, and it's not until a few lights on the console flip to red, showing the ventilation system opening up and the depressurization complete, that Riddick swivels the chair toward me.

"Little over five years." He answers, pulling his goggles down finally, to keep from squinting in the lights. "They got a new Grand Marshall who wasn't so interested in conquest." End of conversation. I wasn't supposed to ask any more questions after that. I could tell in his tone. Whatever happened here, he was present for it, and he wanted it put behind him. But here we are, chasing what could be a dead end, searching for any trace of my father on a planet that obviously he holds no love for.

I rise with him, expecting to simply head out to disembark, but he grabs my arm before I can get anywhere. He bends low, and pulls the punch dagger from my boot cuff, laying it softly on the console as he straightens.

"No weapons. No attention. We're supposed to be dead." He sounds a little hopeful there. At least, we both hope that Michaels hadn't told anyone which bounty he had been chasing. It gave us a little more leeway before we have to worry about more bounty hunters on our tails. He reaches for my waist, but I intercept his hands. The wrinkle of concern appears above his goggles as I gently push his hands away, unbuckling the holster myself, before tugging at the tie to completely free it.

I lay it all on my copilot's chair, before stepping into his hands. As he always does, he buries his face in my hair, and inhales deeply, his hands warm and heavy on my waist. After a moment, I lean forward, resting my forehead against his chest. We remain like that for a few moments, before he gives my hair a last nuzzle, and begins to draw away. His hand catches mine.

"We should move. It's nearly dawn." Drawing me out of the cockpit, he begins to lead me.. somewhere. I have to trust him. No one gives us a second glance as we leave the port, and head deeper into the city. Wide streets become narrower, and consistently more convoluted, catwalks and bridges begin to criss-cross our path. I fear that without his guidance I wouldn't be able to find my way back. And then I learn why dawn is important...

As the brilliant light of Helios breaks the horizon, the sky overhead is shot with scarlet and gold, from somewhere that I cannot see inside the city booms a voice, amplified and resonant. That voice sings words in a language I'm not familiar with, but it's beautiful and liquid and it causes me to pause for just a moment, before Riddick pulls me along. At it's call, the city abruptly comes to life.

Doorways fling open, and the street is suddenly flooded with bodies. Riddick's hand becomes crushingly tight on mine, pulling me closer through the tide of humanity. Everyone chatters, and laughs around us, children dart between the legs of adults, and they all move like cattle toward the sound of the singing voice. My own feet get in my way, and I stumble, more than once, trying to keep up with the speed that Riddick cuts through the crowd. I start feeling crushed alive, my heart racing. There are too many threats to keep an eye on at once, too many variables, too many people. The worst part is that the crowd does not seem to be thinning out.

Without warning, Riddick yanks me to the side, pressing me into a shallow doorway. I'm shaking when he blocks my view of the street, effectively barricading me from any action. My breathing is ragged, echoing in the small space, and I can feel the restless thing inside me clawing at my control, wanting out, wanting action, wanting freedom, open air, open sky... I squeeze my eyes closed, grabbing the bottom hem of Riddick's shirt in both fists. He doesn't watch as I get a grip on myself, as I force away the fear and concentrate on his presence. I don't know how long we're standing like this, but it's long enough that the singing voice has stopped, and the streets are empty once more. When I take my first steady breath, Riddick is studying the building across the street.

Without explaining, he hoists me up to a balcony, where I pull myself up and over the railing. A few moments later, I hear him make a tremendous leap, and watch his hands clamp down on the deck. I stand back from the edge, as he muscles himself up and over the railing. Together, we push open the double doors to the home, and peer inside. I shadow his footsteps as he makes sure the environs are currently unoccupied. It has a comfortable, lived-in quality; warmly furnished, and pleasantly personal, with images framed upon the walls. I only have time to glance at one or two, putting together a smiling family of three.

The kitchen still smells like breakfast, but Riddick is apparently satisfied that the home is empty, as he starts going through cabinets. I linger in the doorway, while he pulls down a pair of mugs, and snags a teapot from the stove. Tea? While breaking and entering? Either this is complete arrogance, or he's comfortable enough with this family to make himself at home. I can't decide which.

We're silent for a while, while the tea steeps. Eventually, he brings a mug to me, when I don't immediately take it, he lifts my hands for me, and curls them around the cup. With a brief glance up, I know he's concerned. I nearly had panicked in the press of humanity.

"So. Many. People," I breathe the words with a shudder, and I'm amazed to see him suppress a laugh.

"I know what you mean." The amusement in his voice feels misplaced to me, but I choose to simply ignore the levity. He turns away, and settles into a chair at the table, pushing a second one out with his foot to invite me to sit.

"Who lives here?" I finally pose as I join him, placing the untouched tea in front of me.

"The widow of a friend," he answers me softly. Silence descends again, as he stares into his teacup. For a moment, it strikes me how incongruous that seems. Such a big man, capable of such violence and painted with so much death, finding solace in a small, delicate-looking cup of a refined drink. I drop my eyes into my own darkening tea, biting my lower lip and fighting the urge to comment. He breaks the silence again: "Only three of us survived... Me, the holy man.. and..."

"Kyra." I supply the name when he can't. No wonder he'd called out for her in his fever-dreams. Survivors of tragedy almost always stay close. I imagine that behind the opaque goggles, Riddick's eyes are closed, but he nods, only once, to confirm what I'm thinking. He's now the only survivor. Is that his curse?

I leave my mug in favor of circling the table, coming to a stop behind him. It's a small comfort, perhaps even no comfort at all, but I slide my arms over his shoulders, leaning down until my temple rests beside his. It is almost that very moment that the front door of the home opens. I straighten as if to pull away, but Riddick stops me, catching my hand on his shoulder. He holds me in place even as a figure appears in the door.

She's young, barely on the edge of her teenaged years, and possessing a genuine beauty that will become heart-stopping as she grows. Her skin and eyes are both the color of caramel, lighter than Riddick's, but darker than my own. As soon as she spots us, her hand clasps the tooth-pendant she wears.

"Riddick?" Of course she asks it as a question. How many times has it been claimed he's dead? Why wouldn't someone be surprised to see him?

"Ziza." He answers with a smile. "Just the girl I wanted to see."