Author's Note: Ok, so this is my first time showing any of my fan fiction to the general public. Only two chapters so far, will be working at more soon. I wanted to get a few feedbacks before I posted anymore, because if everyone thinks its crap, I'll just write it for myself. Any feedback is welcome, as is e-mail, but please be gentle! I can take constructive criticism, but downright insults make me cry! = ( Also, this hasn't been beta-read yet, so please forgive any spelling or grammatical mistakes. Anyone out there who is in need of something to beta-read, let me know, because I have a position open for beta-reader/muse. Position holder will be showered with thanks and loyalty. = )
Title: None as of yet (suggestions welcome!)
Author: SkittyKitty
Rating: R for graphic imagery and language, may progress to NC-17
Chapter One: Anything For A Price
Riddick strode to his office, hole-in-the-wall though it was. He reeked of sweat and blood and fear, all of which had come from the people he'd killed tonight. All right, maybe a little of the sweat was his. He smiled wryly at the thought. He was never one to wear fancy colognes to attract attention, quite the opposite. Sweat and dirt was the norm on this planet; if you smelled like anything else, you were automatically labeled an outsider. He'd have to swing by the showers before he left, but first he wanted to check out the file folder that he knew would be on his desk. Routine rarely varied around this place.
Walking into his office, Riddick was assaulted by the foul smell of the place. He'd been meaning to ask Brant, his partner both in crime and the business they operated, if he'd been stashing some of their latest kills in Riddick's walls. He didn't bother opening a window; he'd been around the stench of death his whole life, so it really didn't bother him after the first whiff. He slid into the chair behind his desk and allowed himself a leisurely stretch before turning his attention to the file. It was thinner than usual, he noted. Usually the files they received about impending targets were filled with thick sheaves of paper, full of personal and business history, as well as quite a few identifying photos. But this one…Riddick opened it to find only a couple sheets of loose leaf paper with the crucial information; name, address, height, weight, identifying marks…shit. Riddick's satisfaction about the evening's previous events slowly melted away as the information sunk in. A woman.
"You saw that, too, huh?" Riddick hadn't realized that the words had passed through his lips until Brant answered him.
Riddick didn't bother looking up to greet him. He knew he'd see the same half-smile, half-smirk on the same good-looking face he always saw. Brant was young to be in the business, only twenty-two, but he was as adept a killer as most men twice his age. Riddick didn't care to know the details of why he'd gotten involved in the professional killer business or how he'd gained the skills necessary, so he'd never asked, and Brant had never offered an explanation. But Riddick had worked closely with Brant for two years, and it was hard not to notice the man's obvious military training. If Brant was AWOL, Riddick certainly wasn't going to have a quirk of conscious about it. He'd spent enough time dealing with the assholes in the military to know that if he hadn't been kicked out, he would've left without a goodbye note, too.
"Where's the picture? We're gonna have a helluva time confirming a kill if we don't have a-" Riddick was stopped short by the picture Brant dangled in front of him.
"They musta been short on resources this time. Not enough to go around. So they packed it in my file instead o' yours. You're not offended, are you?"
Riddick only had one ear on the conversation, and that in itself was a feat. He knew that Brant wouldn't have given a shit if Riddick was offended, so he didn't waste time answering him. The real problem he had was the picture of the woman. His heart was beating out its normal rhythm in fast forward. He moved around the desk and took the picture from Brant, studying the face in it. The photo was black and white, so he couldn't determine her exact hair color or skin tone, but the features…take away the long hair and regress the mature face a few years, and it could've been Jack. The eyes that seemed too big in the elfin face were focused somewhere to the left of the photographer. The haunted look that Jack had sported for a long time after the crash was hidden more carefully in this face, under a mask of determination, but Riddick still spotted it.
The sharp ache of his heart at the resemblance would've been replaced with hope of her existence if Riddick hadn't watched Jack bleed to death in his arms three years ago.
"…Riddick?!?" Brant was trying to gain his attention, Riddick realized. "You wanna take that home for a jerk-off session or what?"
Riddick swallowed the desire to punch the little shithead. "No. Just memorizing the face, s'all."
Brant had suspicion in his eyes, but nodded as though he accepted Riddick's explanation.
Riddick grabbed the file from his desk and re-read the information.
Name: Wendy Marie Hopson.
Age: 20.
Height: 5'3.
Weight: 115 pounds.
Identifying marks: Three knife wound scars between shoulder blades, matching knife wound scars on wrists, jagged scar on left upper thigh caused by fractured bone breaking through skin, five cigarette-sized burn scars on lower back.
Weapons efficiency: None
Fighting efficiency: None
Combat training: None
Other schooling: Graduated high school, attended two semesters of local college, dropped out for unknown reasons.
Work: Laundry woman five days a week, 6 am – 12 pm (112 N. Broad St.), cleaning woman five days a week, 1 pm – 6 pm (various locations as assigned by employment agency)
Target to be terminated by single gunshot wound to back of head. Other violence is acceptable but not required. Contractor would prefer murder to look like botched robbery, taking place in her residence (2856 Lilydale Rd. Apt. 4b). Before target is terminated, location of disk entitled "Chrysanthemum" is to be requested. If information is not secured, contract price is lowered by 50,000 credits. Any other civilians in residence with target are to be terminated as well. 100,000 credits will be added to contract price for each additional target terminated.
Contract price: 5,000,000 credits to be deposited with confirmation of kill.
"See any problems?" Brant had taken a seat in the chair in front of Riddick's desk.
"What's the shit about killing anybody else there with her? We've never gotten a request like that before. It's always just kill the target, boom, done." Riddick was surprised at the defensive stance he'd taken. Brant was usually the one with the questions about contracts.
Brant shrugged easily. "Who knows? Jealous ex-boyfriend, maybe. Wants her new sugar daddy taken out too. Who cares, man? It's a damn good payday."
"The creed is greed…" Riddick mumbled. It was a lesson he himself had taught Brant. Anything could be done for a price. "Yeah, who knows. We'll start surveillance on 'er in the morning, job should be done within a couple days." Riddick slipped the picture into his own file folder and walked out, a sure indication that the conversation was over. He left the office immediately, bypassing the showers on his way out.
Chapter Two: A Nightmare Before Bed
Riddick made the short trip to his apartment without remembering any of it. His senses kicked on as he slid the keycard in the lock and did the nightly sweep of his apartment, searching out any other life sources. When he was satisfied that his abode was empty, he stepped through the door and tore off his goggles, flinging them to one side. He'd been wearing them so often that a permanent crease was beginning to appear on the back of his almost-bald head.
Knowing that the fridge would hold nothing but a six-pack of beer, Riddick stepped past it and eased himself onto the couch. He held the file folder on his chest, unsure if he wanted to look into that face again.
"Lights to dim." The pitch-black environment immediately rose to softly lit. He pulled the photo from its sheath in the folder and gazed at the woman portrayed. She must have been at one of her jobs, he mused, when the picture was taken. She wore a handkerchief loosely on her head, holding the hair away from her face but allowing it to fall over her shoulders in waves. She had a few smudges of dirt (or were those bruises?) on her face, and her hand was in motion, as though she was about to wipe them away. Riddick realized, with more observation, that he might not have spotted the woman's resemblance to Jack if it hadn't been for the look in her eyes. Shadowed, hunted, afraid. But with an overlying sense of determination. Jack never had gotten over that cocky little attitude of hers…he supposed it didn't help that she hung around with him.
Riddick turned the picture over. Jack… He'd gotten angry with himself when he first recognized the feelings he'd had after her death. Grief…sadness…guilt. The old Richard "Badass" Riddick wouldn't have wasted his time with introspective emotions. And with Jack gone, there was no reason left to continue his application into the human race. He'd tried to get himself to believe that it was the stupid kid's own fault, that she didn't even deserve a second thought. And he'd been fairly successful in deluding himself…until the dreams started. Always the same. Always the most terrifying thing he'd ever dealt with in his life.
He leaned back and closed his eyes, allowing the fragmented memories of the dream to wash over him. 'Maybe if I get it out of the way before I go to sleep, it'll be sated.' He thought idly to himself.
It started as the event itself had started. He and Jack were sitting across the table from each other, trying to outdo each other by telling the rudest jokes they'd ever heard. She'd surprised him by giving him a run for his money. This thirteen-year-old girl with a toothy grin and in a blonde wig they'd picked up for her was spewing out some language he'd only heard in the deepest darkest slams he'd been in. His booming laughter had woken Imam, and so the competition had ended abruptly in the presence of the holy man. The conversation had turned to what they were going to do next. They'd been picked up without raising suspicion, the somewhat flimsy story they'd concocted holding up to the cargo ship's captain's inquiries. Yes, I'm Richard Fry, this is my son Jack, and this is our traveling companion Imam. Yes, we're the only survivors of the crash. Yes, we've already contacted the authorities to let them know where the crash site was and who the deceased are. No, thank you, we're fine; we'd just like to be let off on your first stop, thank you very much for the ride. By the captain's quick acceptance of their story, Riddick had to wonder if there wasn't something on board that wasn't entirely legal. The captain didn't push the issue of contacting the authorities again to inform them of the survivors' whereabouts; instead, he led them to some comfortably furnished rooms and didn't bother them for the rest of the trip.
The ship's first stop happened to be Hjlen, a planet only a few weeks trip from Earth, and despite Riddick's doubts, Jack had insisted on seeing her home planet again. So the three of them had gone shopping and then boarded the first ship to earth. This time they registered as Richard Paris, his granddaughter Jackie, and their spiritual guide, Ali. Jack had never missed an opportunity to goad Riddick about his "geezer apparel" and carefully applied beard, wig, and wrinkles. Riddick, in turn, made snide remarks about the blonde wig and flowery dresses that Jack wore. Imam's tolerance never seemed to waver when the two began bickering like children, but they both noticed that his chanting and praying sessions seemed to last longer than usual and both of their names were mentioned quite frequently in them.
During this part of the dream, Riddick should have been relaxed, reviewing pleasant memories, but his stomach always knotted during these first few glimpses of happiness. He knew what was coming.
As the three of them sat talking in the dimly lit kitchen area of the hotel they'd chosen on Earth, an outside threat went unnoticed. Riddick had analyzed this scene many times, trying to pinpoint what went wrong and when, and he'd come to the conclusion that after almost five months of traveling without a single hassle, he'd let his guard down. He was in the company of friends and there'd been no sign of mercs or the law. Consequently, the door to their room being kicked in was the first sign of danger that Riddick intercepted.
Jack and Imam had both frozen, their eyes wide and uncomprehending. Riddick had swung himself over the table, his survival instincts kicking into high gear, his thoughts of the other two overridden by the innate, animal need for self-preservation. He'd grabbed his shiv from his boot as he slid across the floor and thrown it at his first target; the first man in the door. The blade hit the bullseye, the man's neck. He'd sputtered and gagged on his own blood before hitting the floor. By that time Riddick had grabbed the gauge he'd hidden underneath the couch and started shooting, still lying on his back and aiming between his bent knees. A small part of his mind had been screaming for him to get Jack and Imam out of the line of fire, but he hardly heard it. The cool, collected killer had taken up residence again. Four men were on the floor before he spotted Jack tugging Imam from his chair. Not an ounce of sympathy rose for her as he noted the bloodstain spreading on Imam's white robes. Jack continued to tug until Imam's body fell onto the floor, and then she just stood in shock for a moment, gazing down at what Riddick supposed she thought of as her surrogate father.
While dreaming this, Riddick viewed himself in his mind's eye and gagged at the disgust he felt. He could find no fault with his own defensive actions; they were smooth and perfected by years of practice. But years of being a cold-hearted killer had also diminished his ability to think in terms of anyone but himself. And that's what disgusted him. Jack and Imam were his friends, people he'd grown to care about in his own twisted way. But when it came down to it, five months of friendship couldn't erase a lifetime of selfish ambition.
The multitude of men coming through the door in special ops mission gear didn't seem to give a fuck about the girl standing off to the side, they were focused on Riddick. And Riddick was just as focused on them. When he'd run out of ammunition for the gauge, he'd leapt up, feeling the bite of bullets embed themselves in his body. He'd grabbed Jack as he ran down the hallway, the only redeemable thing he'd done the whole evening. The only problem with it was that Riddick knew without a doubt he wouldn't have gone out of his way for her. She'd been on his path, and it hadn't really put him out to grab her, actually, it might have slowed him down if he'd had to knock her out of his way. He'd thrown her in a bedroom off the hall, not bothering to whisper instructions or comforting words. He'd only run faster without her in his arms, grabbed the duffel bag full of weapons in his bedroom and exited out the window in a single, fluid movement. He was secure in the knowledge that the men would follow him, so he took the fire escape steps three at a time and landed on the ground ready to run. But after a few steps, he realized that there weren't echoing footsteps behind him. He ducked behind the corner of the building and grabbed a shotgun, sure this was some ploy to catch him off-guard. But a quick scan of the ground and building revealed no gunmen. He realized why a few seconds later. The wail of police sirens were in the distance, possibly only minutes away. The intruders hadn't been cops, then. They had to be mercs. Riddick couldn't help but smile when he realized that either a lot of independent mercs had teamed up to find him, or he'd become bigger bounty and a private company had sent out their army. He must really be the Big Bad he'd always suspected if they'd gotten fed up with one or two mercs at a time and sent the whole lot of them. He suppressed a chuckle and felt his adrenaline begin to subside. The animal was purring contentedly as it stalked back to its cave.
And that's when Jack's image flooded his mind so powerfully that he almost fell to his knees. He'd choked out a quiet, "Oh, god," before he took off up the fire escape again, self-preservation left behind. He didn't care if the cops had arrived already or if there were still mercs in the room…he had to find Jack.
The room was empty of armed men as he climbed back in the shattered window, and he could only detect one faint human heartbeat. He'd prayed as he ran down the hallway, something he hadn't ever done before. 'Oh, God, I know I said I hated you, and I probably still do, but if you let her live I'll try. I promise I'll try. I'll try to…I don't know…but I'll try to do it, whatever it is.'
But apparently God hated Riddick just as much as Riddick had professed to hate Him, because when he reached the room he'd tossed Jack into, the scent of fresh blood was trailing out of it to mix with the other blood scents in the kitchen.
"R-R…ick…" The tiny voice was hard to make out between the gurgling sounds also coming out of her mouth.
"Oh, god, Jack…" Riddick bent to where she was sprawled on the ground, her hand not even big enough to cover the hole that was left in her stomach. He scooped her up and used his much larger hand to apply pressure to the wound. Even as he did it, he knew it was pointless. He'd left enough wounds of this size in people to know that it was an effective way to kill someone.
Jack slowly moved her arm up, as if she was underwater, to wipe off some of the blood coming from her mouth. She gazed up at him without recrimination, and he felt his heart stop when the corners of her mouth tugged up in an attempt at a smile.
"I…I h-held 'em…held 'em off for y-you, Riddick." And then she'd tucked her head a little further into the crook of his arm, closed her eyes, and died.
As if the knowledge that she'd sacrificed herself for his worthless carcass wasn't enough, the dream continued, although these images weren't something from memory…they were the fragments of guilt that had been formless in his mind, but that his subconscious had given faces and voices and set loose in his dreams.
First Carolyn. "Gee, Riddick, guess you really didn't know how to rejoin the human race." He was back on the crashed ship, chained to the wreckage, and she was sitting on a crate in front of him, her relaxed position grotesque because of the huge amounts of flesh that were missing from her body. Claw marks had disintegrated half of her face, but she smiled at him anyway. "I never said I'd die for you. I never said I'd die for you. I NEVER SAID I'D DIE FOR YOU!" The smile dissipated as her voice gained volume with each repetition. He trembled in his restraints as she came closer and closer, her words echoing around him, the disgust tangible in the air. And as she morphed into one of the creatures that had killed her, and he was pleased with the fact that she was going to shred him, the claw that scratched his face turned into a soft, small hand that caressed his cheek.
"What're we gonna tell them about you?" Jack's ghost intoned, mimicking the question she'd asked as they left the planet where so many had died. When her hand left his cheek, he felt the stickiness of her blood drying on his face. Her stomach wasn't where it was supposed to be; instead, a mirror replaced the skin that had been torn away. Jack twirled, laughing gaily. "Isn't it beautiful, Riddick?" She stopped dancing and stood a few feet away from him. His eyes were drawn to the mirror, although he knew what he'd see. A re-enactment of the hotel scene, although with a few changes. In this scene, there were no mercs. Riddick's mirror image simply pushed his chair out from the table, pulled a gauge from behind him, and shot Jack in the stomach.
"No…no! That's not what happened!" Riddick couldn't help the denial spilling from his mouth.
Jack moved closer to him again, staring at him for a moment before climbing up into his lap and resting in the crook of his arm, just as she had died. But this time Riddick couldn't embrace her, couldn't offer any of the comfort he'd tried to when it had really happened. He could only cherish her touch, as ghostly and unreal as it was.
"But it might as well have, right, Riddick? By leaving me behind, you killed me just as surely as you would have if you'd shot me. And to think that I wanted to save you. You." Here the edge of disgust that had eventually come into Carolyn's voice entered Jack's. "You, who wanted to leave us all behind to rot in that cave. Guess old habits die hard, huh? Trouble comes, look out for number one." Jack stroked the underside of Riddick's chin, still tucked neatly in his lap. "No one's gonna blame you…Riddick…strong survival instinct…how admirable." Logically, Riddick knew that Jack hadn't possessed knowledge of his and Carolyn's argument outside the skiff that night. But in the land of the dead, apparently, all guilty memories were open for bid. "No one's gonna blame you, Riddick…except us!" Jack leapt off his lap and punched herself in the stomach, shattering her mirror. She pulled one of the largest pieces out from where it had stuck in her gut, and advanced on Riddick. "Maybe I should carve you a new stomach, too, Riddick."
And just as he felt the shard enter his abdomen, a new set of hands replaced Jack's. Dark hands, weathered hands. Hands that were not pushing the shard in, but removing it carefully and then set about bandaging the wound.
"This solves nothing, Mr. Riddick. You are too obsessed with your own guilt. You will never have peace until you resolve it. And neither will we." Imam's dark eyes met Riddick's shined ones, a brief respite in the insanity, or possibly only more of it, only in calmer terms. "We wait at the gateway, Mr. Riddick. Your guilt has hindered us from passing through. And each day we become more like the hateful, vengeful creatures you imagine us to be. Soon we will not be able to pass through the gate, and will be sent to a much darker fate, because of what you have made us." And on that cue, Imam rose and his robes billowed out, allowing Riddick to see the horrors beneath. Imam's three young pilgrims reached out of his body, their corpses mutilated and bloody. They reached for Riddick, some of their fingers only bone, some of their fingers replaced by the shivs that Riddick himself had painstakingly carved out of bone. And Imam stepped forward, carrying the burden of his followers' bodies, so that they could slice and tear at Riddick.
And so the dream ended, far too long after the point at which Riddick could have just forgotten about it, but too short to give him the death he so believed he deserved.