Author's Note: I'm so glad people are enjoying the story. Thanks SO much
for the reviews, it makes me want to write even more! I can't tell you how
much fun I'm having with it (I love it when the characters practically
write for themselves). I do want to apologize, up front, for this chapter.
It's depressing and maudlin. It depressed me to write it LOL. I just
really felt Riddick needed his story told. I promise the next chapter
won't be, though.
Oh, and as a special note to Arien :P LOL Love you too, Sis!
Chapter 7 - Riddick Revisited
Carnal Pleasures was the name of the bar Riddick had finally walked into after leaving Jack standing in the dark warehouse, thinking the name held promise. He found a table in a dark corner and sat down, ordering a shot of Black Hole whiskey with a beer chaser from the pretty waitress. A scantily clad woman danced on the stage, gyrating to the beat of the synth- metal music pounding through the sound system, but he wasn't paying attention to her. All his attention was focused on the drink he was spinning absentmindedly on the glossy surface of the table, the neon lights sending hypnotic ribbons of light dancing through the dark liquid.
Riddick did not, as a rule, believe in indulging in self-reflection and contemplation of the universe. As far as he was concerned, it was a waste of time. More often than not it was a depressing pursuit that seemed like little more than an excuse to find things to beat yourself up about. Well, he figured there were plenty of other people wanting that privilege, so why should he bother. Whenever he felt the need for self-reflection rearing it's nasty little head, he usually found some other pursuit to occupy his mind and/or body. But being alone for most of your adult life left so much time for possible introspective moments that it was sometimes hard to escape.
He hated the look that had been on Jack's face when he'd last seen her. Hated even more that he'd caused it. Like she found out he'd just killed Santa Claus and had cooked Rudolph up for a New Year's barbeque. *Damnit!* Why should it matter what she thought anyway? What was she to him? For that matter, what was he to her? The answer was nothing, and that left him feeling emptier than usual. Sighing heavily, he drank the shot, slamming the glass back down on the table hard enough for the heavy glass to ring.
Contrary to popular belief, Richard B. Riddick wasn't an animal that enjoyed killing people. Just because he was good at it didn't mean he liked it. And he hadn't started out in life wanting to hurt people. Even as a child, thrown away by his own mother, who'd grown up in a state-run group home, he had been a dreamer, a believer. There was a time, a long, long time ago, when he'd actually thought he'd make something of his life.
Once upon a time Riddick had thought he could make a difference. At eighteen he'd left the public home he'd lived in all his life, and the girl he loved, and joined the Rangers as a chance to see the galaxy and maybe do something good. Maybe become a hero. Make something of himself. Prove to everyone that a throwaway could amount to something. It hadn't taken long to figure out that Sigma 3 wasn't the best place to become a hero. Running around in the dark tunnels, flushing out Spitfires, mostly you just tried to keep from getting dead. He guessed the miners that didn't get fried probably thought they were heroes; he just figured he was bait.
The day after Riddick turned twenty, the Company had sent him off to become one of the Elite. He thought *this is it, now I can become somebody, do something important,* but all they'd done was taught him how to be a killer. Well, reality was a bitch, if anyone should know that it was him. But he did what they expected of him, learned what they wanted him to learn. When he finished his training, he was one of the best, or worst, depending on your point of view.
He did what they wanted him to do. He figured nobody gave a shit anyway, he knew no one in the Company did. It was just a job, right? But after a while it got to him. He saw and did more heinous things than anyone should ever have to see or do and when he couldn't sleep at night anymore he said, "enough is enough."
Of course, when he'd tried to do the right thing, when he'd tried to be a hero, when he'd tried to expose the Company and all their cruelty, it had backfired spectacularly. At the ripe old age of twenty-two they'd sent him to prison, buried him in a hole so deep and dark they figured he'd never see the light of day again, at least not alive. They left him to die there, be eaten up by the scum of the galaxy, monsters in the endless dark. But he'd shown them. Instead of being eaten, he'd become exactly what they'd trained him to be, one of the monsters.
It took three years before he managed to escape, to make his way out alive but not unscathed. His soft brown eyes hadn't been the only things he'd sacrificed while he was there, he also sacrificed whatever had been left of his heart, whatever little bit of the dreamer that had been left. While the doctor was shining his eyes, he nearly passed out from the pain, the only thing he could do was try to focus on something else. He called up the memory of Samantha, the day they'd lost their virginity together.
They'd been awkward, neither of them knowing what to do, but trusting each other enough to try. Afterward they lay there, her long black hair spread wildly over the plaid blanket they'd taken out into the woods and had lain over the bed of autumn leaves. She had snuggled closer to him, looking up at him with her big, blue eyes, and told him that she could just look into his eyes forever. She'd made him feel loved, made him feel special.
He supposed it was appropriate for him to think about that. There was probably some psychoanalytical reason for it, losing the girl/sacrificing the eyes. But Samantha had made it clear after he was sent to prison that she was moving on with her life anyway, so what did it matter if his eyes wouldn't be brown anymore? Who cared what color your eyes were in the dark? And this way he would be able to see what was lurking there. In some of his more poetic moments, he remembered someone had once said "the eyes are the windows of the soul." What did that say about him?
His time there hadn't been all useless, though. He had learned three very important things in the slam. One, never trust anyone. Two, always watch your back. And three, be the last one standing. Those rules had kept him alive while he was in prison and they helped him stay out.
It took two years before anyone caught up with Riddick and then only because he'd tried to get into the Company's computers to find something, anything that would exonerate him. All it had done was alert them to his whereabouts. It had been Johns that caught up with him, tried to take him while he slept, but Riddick had gotten away and Johns ended up in the hospital with part of Riddick's knife still lodged in his back. Riddick always figured it was more revenge than any real sense of justice that caused the merc to hunt him through the galaxy. Their last run-in, three years later, had ended with Johns killing two kids and threatening two more unless Riddick gave himself up. Riddick had always had a soft spot for kids.
So then Johns had made the error of booking them passage on the HG, and, for once, Riddick's shit-ass luck had worked for him instead of against him. The crash had also changed his life. When Carolyn had asked him if there wasn't some part of him that wanted to become part of humanity again, he hadn't lied when he'd told her he wouldn't know how, but he hadn't answered her question either. The truth was he wasn't sure how he felt about it.
He'd been so ready to leave them all, justifying to himself that he wouldn't have been able to make it to the skiff with them in tow anyway. If he hadn't left them in that cave and gone on without them, no one would have made it. Even then it had been Jack that pulled at his heart, made him question his decision to leave them there. He'd destroyed his light belt so he'd have an excuse not to go after them. But in the end Carolyn's strength had made him go back and when he'd seen the look on Jack's face, he was glad he had. Even if he'd died, he would have died trying to help them, and that made it worth it.
Three days off the planet, the skiff had been picked up by a frigate heading to the Scalian system. During the month it took them to travel to the transfer station, Riddick had a chance to remember what it was like to be part of the human race. Jack had followed Riddick around like a puppy, asking him the most off the wall questions that he rarely answered, but he found he just liked listening to the kid talk. She seemed like a good kid, smart, tough. He liked her. He even got back into playing chess with the holy man each night after sending Jack to bed. It was almost...normal.
When they'd gotten to the transfer station, though, he knew he was going to have to go his own way. "You must follow your own path, Mr. Riddick," Imam had told him. Though Jack had begged Riddick to let her come with him, he knew she needed to go with Imam. If she didn't want to go home there was probably a good reason, but the holy man would take good care of her and Riddick wanted that for her. He wanted her to have a good life. A chance to be something. Living through the hell she had back on that planet, she deserved it. Jack would never know how important she had been to him. Just knowing that there was even one person who believed in him, believed he was a hero, meant something to him.
And now he was here and Jack was all grown up and he was having a really hard time calling back up that old memory of her face, the one that told him he wasn't as bad as everyone said he was. Every time he tried, though, he kept seeing her how she was now. He kept seeing her face lit up with a beautiful smile. He remembered her scent, the feeling of her heart pounding so hard he could feel it beating against his arm as he held her in place. The complete trust she had in him, even while he had the point of his knife pressed to her throat. He found himself wondering if she'd trust him not to hurt her if she knew the thoughts that were going through his mind now. *Jesus, Riddick,* he thought, running a hand over his head, *she's young enough to be your daughter.* Up until an hour ago he would never have thought of Jack and sex in the same thought. Now, well, now was different. Sighing, he finished off his beer and called the waitress over for another. He needed to get laid, maybe once his hormones were under control he'd be able to think more clearly. Maybe then he could put Jack back in her proper role in his mind.
Chapter 7 - Riddick Revisited
Carnal Pleasures was the name of the bar Riddick had finally walked into after leaving Jack standing in the dark warehouse, thinking the name held promise. He found a table in a dark corner and sat down, ordering a shot of Black Hole whiskey with a beer chaser from the pretty waitress. A scantily clad woman danced on the stage, gyrating to the beat of the synth- metal music pounding through the sound system, but he wasn't paying attention to her. All his attention was focused on the drink he was spinning absentmindedly on the glossy surface of the table, the neon lights sending hypnotic ribbons of light dancing through the dark liquid.
Riddick did not, as a rule, believe in indulging in self-reflection and contemplation of the universe. As far as he was concerned, it was a waste of time. More often than not it was a depressing pursuit that seemed like little more than an excuse to find things to beat yourself up about. Well, he figured there were plenty of other people wanting that privilege, so why should he bother. Whenever he felt the need for self-reflection rearing it's nasty little head, he usually found some other pursuit to occupy his mind and/or body. But being alone for most of your adult life left so much time for possible introspective moments that it was sometimes hard to escape.
He hated the look that had been on Jack's face when he'd last seen her. Hated even more that he'd caused it. Like she found out he'd just killed Santa Claus and had cooked Rudolph up for a New Year's barbeque. *Damnit!* Why should it matter what she thought anyway? What was she to him? For that matter, what was he to her? The answer was nothing, and that left him feeling emptier than usual. Sighing heavily, he drank the shot, slamming the glass back down on the table hard enough for the heavy glass to ring.
Contrary to popular belief, Richard B. Riddick wasn't an animal that enjoyed killing people. Just because he was good at it didn't mean he liked it. And he hadn't started out in life wanting to hurt people. Even as a child, thrown away by his own mother, who'd grown up in a state-run group home, he had been a dreamer, a believer. There was a time, a long, long time ago, when he'd actually thought he'd make something of his life.
Once upon a time Riddick had thought he could make a difference. At eighteen he'd left the public home he'd lived in all his life, and the girl he loved, and joined the Rangers as a chance to see the galaxy and maybe do something good. Maybe become a hero. Make something of himself. Prove to everyone that a throwaway could amount to something. It hadn't taken long to figure out that Sigma 3 wasn't the best place to become a hero. Running around in the dark tunnels, flushing out Spitfires, mostly you just tried to keep from getting dead. He guessed the miners that didn't get fried probably thought they were heroes; he just figured he was bait.
The day after Riddick turned twenty, the Company had sent him off to become one of the Elite. He thought *this is it, now I can become somebody, do something important,* but all they'd done was taught him how to be a killer. Well, reality was a bitch, if anyone should know that it was him. But he did what they expected of him, learned what they wanted him to learn. When he finished his training, he was one of the best, or worst, depending on your point of view.
He did what they wanted him to do. He figured nobody gave a shit anyway, he knew no one in the Company did. It was just a job, right? But after a while it got to him. He saw and did more heinous things than anyone should ever have to see or do and when he couldn't sleep at night anymore he said, "enough is enough."
Of course, when he'd tried to do the right thing, when he'd tried to be a hero, when he'd tried to expose the Company and all their cruelty, it had backfired spectacularly. At the ripe old age of twenty-two they'd sent him to prison, buried him in a hole so deep and dark they figured he'd never see the light of day again, at least not alive. They left him to die there, be eaten up by the scum of the galaxy, monsters in the endless dark. But he'd shown them. Instead of being eaten, he'd become exactly what they'd trained him to be, one of the monsters.
It took three years before he managed to escape, to make his way out alive but not unscathed. His soft brown eyes hadn't been the only things he'd sacrificed while he was there, he also sacrificed whatever had been left of his heart, whatever little bit of the dreamer that had been left. While the doctor was shining his eyes, he nearly passed out from the pain, the only thing he could do was try to focus on something else. He called up the memory of Samantha, the day they'd lost their virginity together.
They'd been awkward, neither of them knowing what to do, but trusting each other enough to try. Afterward they lay there, her long black hair spread wildly over the plaid blanket they'd taken out into the woods and had lain over the bed of autumn leaves. She had snuggled closer to him, looking up at him with her big, blue eyes, and told him that she could just look into his eyes forever. She'd made him feel loved, made him feel special.
He supposed it was appropriate for him to think about that. There was probably some psychoanalytical reason for it, losing the girl/sacrificing the eyes. But Samantha had made it clear after he was sent to prison that she was moving on with her life anyway, so what did it matter if his eyes wouldn't be brown anymore? Who cared what color your eyes were in the dark? And this way he would be able to see what was lurking there. In some of his more poetic moments, he remembered someone had once said "the eyes are the windows of the soul." What did that say about him?
His time there hadn't been all useless, though. He had learned three very important things in the slam. One, never trust anyone. Two, always watch your back. And three, be the last one standing. Those rules had kept him alive while he was in prison and they helped him stay out.
It took two years before anyone caught up with Riddick and then only because he'd tried to get into the Company's computers to find something, anything that would exonerate him. All it had done was alert them to his whereabouts. It had been Johns that caught up with him, tried to take him while he slept, but Riddick had gotten away and Johns ended up in the hospital with part of Riddick's knife still lodged in his back. Riddick always figured it was more revenge than any real sense of justice that caused the merc to hunt him through the galaxy. Their last run-in, three years later, had ended with Johns killing two kids and threatening two more unless Riddick gave himself up. Riddick had always had a soft spot for kids.
So then Johns had made the error of booking them passage on the HG, and, for once, Riddick's shit-ass luck had worked for him instead of against him. The crash had also changed his life. When Carolyn had asked him if there wasn't some part of him that wanted to become part of humanity again, he hadn't lied when he'd told her he wouldn't know how, but he hadn't answered her question either. The truth was he wasn't sure how he felt about it.
He'd been so ready to leave them all, justifying to himself that he wouldn't have been able to make it to the skiff with them in tow anyway. If he hadn't left them in that cave and gone on without them, no one would have made it. Even then it had been Jack that pulled at his heart, made him question his decision to leave them there. He'd destroyed his light belt so he'd have an excuse not to go after them. But in the end Carolyn's strength had made him go back and when he'd seen the look on Jack's face, he was glad he had. Even if he'd died, he would have died trying to help them, and that made it worth it.
Three days off the planet, the skiff had been picked up by a frigate heading to the Scalian system. During the month it took them to travel to the transfer station, Riddick had a chance to remember what it was like to be part of the human race. Jack had followed Riddick around like a puppy, asking him the most off the wall questions that he rarely answered, but he found he just liked listening to the kid talk. She seemed like a good kid, smart, tough. He liked her. He even got back into playing chess with the holy man each night after sending Jack to bed. It was almost...normal.
When they'd gotten to the transfer station, though, he knew he was going to have to go his own way. "You must follow your own path, Mr. Riddick," Imam had told him. Though Jack had begged Riddick to let her come with him, he knew she needed to go with Imam. If she didn't want to go home there was probably a good reason, but the holy man would take good care of her and Riddick wanted that for her. He wanted her to have a good life. A chance to be something. Living through the hell she had back on that planet, she deserved it. Jack would never know how important she had been to him. Just knowing that there was even one person who believed in him, believed he was a hero, meant something to him.
And now he was here and Jack was all grown up and he was having a really hard time calling back up that old memory of her face, the one that told him he wasn't as bad as everyone said he was. Every time he tried, though, he kept seeing her how she was now. He kept seeing her face lit up with a beautiful smile. He remembered her scent, the feeling of her heart pounding so hard he could feel it beating against his arm as he held her in place. The complete trust she had in him, even while he had the point of his knife pressed to her throat. He found himself wondering if she'd trust him not to hurt her if she knew the thoughts that were going through his mind now. *Jesus, Riddick,* he thought, running a hand over his head, *she's young enough to be your daughter.* Up until an hour ago he would never have thought of Jack and sex in the same thought. Now, well, now was different. Sighing, he finished off his beer and called the waitress over for another. He needed to get laid, maybe once his hormones were under control he'd be able to think more clearly. Maybe then he could put Jack back in her proper role in his mind.