Author's Note: Ahhh, chapter 3! Yay for me! Thanks for the feedback I've received so far; if it weren't for that, I probably would've waited a few more weeks to push myself into writing. I'd love to hear more of what you guys think should or will happen in the story; doesn't mean it will happen, but it gives me good ideas to work off of. I forgot to mention in the first note that I do not own any of the characters from Pitch Black ('cuz if I owned Riddick, I think we all know I wouldn't be wasting my time at the computer. *g*) Brant and Wendy are original characters, so yes, I do own them, but if you think they're interesting enough to have a place in your fanfic world, please feel free to use them! (Just drop me a line so I can see how they're faring. J ) Again, no beta-reader for this piece, still hoping someone'll volunteer for the job. There's a couple parts in this chapter that just don't sound right, but I can't for the life of me figure out how to make them sound better. I'm sure a lot of you wonderful readers and writers out there could give me a couple of hints! Also, although I live for positive feedback, I wouldn't mind a helpful suggestion here or there, either. Thanks, and enjoy!
Chapter Three: Washed Up
Riddick woke the following morning with the woman's picture still clutched tightly to his chest. It was noticeably worse for the wear, something he knew Brant would come to his own conclusions about.
A knock on his door shook the last vestiges of sleep from him.
"Riddick? You alive in there?" Brant's voice was followed by another set of rapping on the door.
"Yeah, hold on." While he put the photo and the papers that had slipped out back into the file, he twisted his neck, savoring the quick succession of popping sounds that resulted.
Brant's expression was a mix of surprise and mocking when Riddick opened the door.
"Never thought I'd see the day that Richard Riddick overslept."
"Yeah, well, everyone's allowed a mistake or two." Riddick grabbed his duffel bag and goggles on the way out the door.
"Not in this business." Brant's tone was serious. Riddick only gazed at his partner for a moment, trying to determine whether the comment was a warning or a threat.
When he replied, his tone was serious as well. "I'll keep that in mind." There was a heavy silence before a beeping from Brant's bag brought the two back to the issue at hand.
"Her shift starts in about twenty minutes. She'll probably be leaving for work in ten. Thought we could trail her." Riddick nodded his approval and the two set out into the harsh light of the planet's two suns. They walked in silence for only a short way before Brant spoke.
"How many women we killed, Riddick?" His voice was muted, something Riddick had insisted upon in public. He hadn't had any trouble with mercs or cops since Jack had died, but he certainly didn't want the general populace knowing that they had a convicted murderer in their midst.
Riddick bit out the answer without having to think about it. "Three."
"Ever have any qualms about doing them?" Brant kept his eyes on the street ahead of them.
Again, Riddick had no hesitation. "No." He was acutely aware of where this line of questioning was going.
"So what's with this one?" Brant stopped under a shop overhang, folding his arms and waiting for Riddick's reply.
"What're you talking about?" Riddick had learned early on that if you didn't want to lie outright about something, you better be damn good at either playing dumb or avoiding the question. He guessed he might have to do a little of both here.
"Don't start with the playing dumb shit, Riddick." He was satisfied despite the unnerving nature of the conversation. He'd taught the kid well. "I saw the way you looked at the picture last night. And oversleeping today? I know the two are related, I just can't figure out how. And if we're partners, I have to know about any possible weaknesses on your part that could compromise our position."
Yet another of Brant's military-instilled talents. The ability to gloss over. He'd basically said, "Tell me what the fuck your problem is so you don't get us both killed."
"Drop it, Brant. I'm not gonna fuck up the job, ok? Just leave it at that."
Riddick began walking again, and Brant had no choice but to follow. Brant wasn't given an opportunity to speak again. They reached the woman's apartment building with time to spare, and carefully arranged themselves outside so they wouldn't look like they were waiting for her in particular.
She didn't disappoint them. Right on schedule, ten minutes before the start of her shift at the laundry shop, Wendy Hopson appeared and scurried right by the two large men standing next to the fruit vendor. At his first glimpse of her in the flesh, Riddick was more inclined than ever to believe that Jack had somehow survived. He killed the instinct to call out to her before he could embarrass himself and ruin the surveillance operation, but began following her a little earlier than expected. Brant was a few paces behind.
Her handkerchief-coiffed head was difficult to keep in sight among the multitude of handkerchief-coiffed heads, but Riddick had caught her scent as she passed. Lilacs. An unusual scent to have. She may be good at blending into the crowd visually, Riddick thought, but she sticks out like a sore thumb with that smell.
They tailed her to the laundry shop and watched her duck inside the employee's entrance. Riddick leaned against an adjacent building, waiting for Brant to catch up.
"Man, you didn't waste any time, did you?" Brant leaned against the brick wall next to Riddick, although he did it out of necessity, while Riddick was just relaxing. Brant waited to catch his breath before continuing. Riddick shook his head. He'd told the kid smoking wouldn't help his agility any. "So, we gonna go in and have our first face-to-face or you wanna stay out here and hold up this building?"
Riddick nudged the duffel bag he'd dropped to the ground with his toe. "Ain't got any laundry, kiddo. You want we should ask her to wash our cameras and hold the starch on the guns?"
Brant wiggled his eyebrows, indicating he thought he had one up on Riddick. He slung his bag from his shoulder and opened it. Riddick recoiled from the smell.
"Jesus, Brant, you been saving up for this occasion or what?"
Brant chuckled and pulled out a few small pieces of equipment, tucking them into his pockets, then wedged his gun into the waistband of his pants. He re-zipped the bag and cocked his head, waiting for Riddick's opinion.
He wasn't keen on forcing friendly conversation with the girl, but he didn't want to break routine, either. This was the way they'd always done it. Trail the target for a couple days, meet up with 'em coincidentally once or twice, get the feel for them. Riddick wasn't as into knowing his targets as Brant was, but he hated a cold kill. If you don't know your target's weaknesses, then you don't know their strengths, either. Or at least not as well as you think you do. Brant had taken that lesson to heart. Or maybe he was just a sadistic bastard, Riddick wasn't sure which. Brant enjoyed getting as close as possible to them, ingraining himself as a friend or lover, learning about their life and then revealing that he was the one that was going to end it. Riddick stayed in the business for one reason: other people's fear. Their expressions when they realized they were going to die by his hand, their choked pleas, the scent they gave off. The whole package was the ultimate adrenaline rush for him. But he'd seen Brant kill enough people to know that the younger man got off on hurt. Pain…emotional or physical. Just as guns were Brant's weapon of choice for killing, betrayal seemed to be his weapon for inflicting emotional pain. Not that Riddick cared. Most of the people they killed deserved more pain than just a quick gunshot to the head or shiv to the gut. But this girl…Riddick would have to pick up the pace to ensure that Brant didn't have time to charm her, to make her care about him, to slip between her sheets before they killed her.
"Yeah, go on." Riddick's voice came out as a resigned sigh. Brant nodded, still smiling about obviously being better prepared than his mentor. As they walked into the artificial coolness of the building, Riddick kicked himself. Here he'd just been devising how to keep Brant from working his magic on Wendy, and he'd missed the opportunity to inform Brant of the change of plan. Brant swaggered up the counter, knowing Riddick would stay in the background; Brant was always the mouth-man. People responded to him much better than they did Riddick. But in this case, Riddick would have preferred to do the talking, the information gathering. He'd rather have the girl be uncomfortable with him than more than comfortable with Brant. Too late now.
"Can I help you?" Wendy was at the counter, and asked her routine question without even looking up from her paperwork.
Even though Brant's back was to him, Riddick could tell by the shift of his body that he was plastering his patented "fuck-me" smile on his face.
"In more ways than one, I imagine," Brant murmured. Wendy jerked her head up, eyes narrowed. Her eyes didn't linger long on her customer, though. Her eyes shot past his face and focused on the very tall, very muscular, very bad looking man standing near the door. Her angry expression softened slightly, and her eyes widened for a split second before she turned her attention back to Brant.
Riddick had seen her reaction to him on hundreds of other faces. The surprise hadn't necessarily been recognition of any sort. Considering that he was wearing the black variation of the only clothes in his wardrobe, cargo pants and tank tops, standing with his arms folded in what he supposed was an intimidating stance, and staring at her from underneath black goggles, he was actually impressed that her reaction wasn't one of fear.
"Excuse me?" Wendy straightened, all five feet and three inches of her drawn up in offended anger.
"I said I have some laundry that needs to be taken care of. I do hope I have the right place?" Brant's voice still held a caressing undertone, certainly not all business.
Wendy raised her eyebrows, allowing only a trace of disdain to seep outwards. She pointedly glanced at the bundles of laundry stacked wall-to-wall, then returned her gaze to Brant.
"No, this is the bakery. Laundry's two doors down. Can I interest you in a walnut cookie? I crack the nuts myself." Her voice started off as monotone, a mockery of bored customer-service employees everywhere, but was little more than a growl in the end.
Riddick had to hide a chuckle by way of clearing his throat, but lost his humor when he saw Brant stiffen. To his knowledge, Brant had never been rebuffed quite so harshly. He'd been turned down, of course, but always with a friendly smile. Women hated to hurt this baby-faced boy who didn't look like he'd hurt a fly. Of course, Brant had never come on quite so strong before.
"Miss Hopson!" A short, rotund, balding man came waddling out of the back room. His cheeks were in high color, although one couldn't be sure if that was from anger or the steam that followed him out.
Wendy started at the man's voice, and all disdain fled her face. She turned to him in an almost, Riddick thought, cringe. How interesting.
"Mr. Harding, I-"
"Miss Hopson, I must say, I am very disappointed in your performance! How dare you treat a customer with such disrespect! The attitude and language you have displayed are most unbecoming to lady." Wendy visibly deflated with each word from his mouth. "I'll deal with you later." Wendy took this as a dismissal, and retreated to the back room without a backward glance. Mr. Harding turned his attention to Brant and began his own brand of charm.
"I apologize for the young lady's behavior, Mr…?"
"Vish. Mr. Thomas Vish." Riddick rolled his eyes at Brant's pseudonym. It had originally been Riddick's, a not-so-clever rearrangement of the letters in shiv. But Riddick had abandoned it after one use, feeling the urge to laugh at the sheer cheesiness of it every time he uttered it aloud.
"Well, Mr. Vish, please be assured that the matter will be dealt with. And to make up for the unpleasantness, please allow us to wash your clothing free of charge." The fat little man must really be desperate for business, Riddick thought.
"Well, it would help, Mr. Harding, but I can't say I'm entirely appeased. Do you usually tolerate such rude behavior from your employees?"
"No, no, of course not. We've had…incidents…with this girl before, but certainly nothing this extreme. Like I said, Mr. Vish, be assured that it will be dealt with."
Brant nodded curtly and threw his bag on the counter. "I'll return for this tomorrow." Then he turned on his heel and walked out the door, not sparing a glance toward Riddick.
Riddick went unnoticed by the owner of the establishment who was turning toward the back room with a fierce determination in his eyes. Riddick hesitated, wondering exactly how Mr. Harding intended to 'deal' with Wendy, but the notion of seeing Brant taken down a peg by a woman enticed him outside.
"Well, that went well." Brant was already walking down the street, heading toward the office.
"Shut the fuck up, Riddick." Brant's voice was an octave lower than normal.
This time Riddick didn't bother to disguise his laugh. "'In more ways than one'?" He let out a belly laugh this time. "That has to be one of the more disappointing pickup lines I've ever heard, Brant."
"Shut the fuck up, Riddick."
"You know, we really shoulda stuck around. She'll probably be heading home in a few minutes. I think you got her fired." Riddick wasn't laughing anymore, but Brant could still hear the smile in his voice.
"Good."
"Aw, c'mon, Brant, s'not like you've never been unsuccessful before. Maybe you've just lost your touch."
Brant's reply was a low growl, and he continued to cut through the crowd on the sidewalk with long, angry strides.
Riddick realized that Brant really didn't need his goading at the moment, but the swift cut-down that the ever-popular boy had received from a lowly laundry girl still had him chuckling. "I'd tell you to calm down, but you're kinda cute when you're angry."
"Shut the fuck up, Riddick."