It was amazing how quickly things became routine, Fantine mused. She finished the last of a set of 120 pull-ups, finishing her exercises, stretching out to cool her body down. All part of the routine. Light exercises in the morning, then breakfast. It was slop, but it was breakfast and nutritious for all that it didn't resemble anything she would have chosen to eat. Couldn't have the inmates dying left and right of malnutrition, after all. That would look bad.
Hanging around in the common room till noon, meeting people, making connections, talking with people. Putting in the occasional appearance as 'The Fury' so she could arrange her next fight. Then lunch. Some days she talked to Lawson, walking with him around the common areas and in the exercise yard. Some days she talked to Doc, sitting in the infirmary and taking her turn subduing and sedating violent patients or friends of patients. Some days she talked with Keyes, one of the newest friends she'd made in the Slam.
More exercise, a light dinner, then walking or fighting. Anything to keep her strength, keep the whipcord muscle by which she survived on her body. And fighting kept her reputation up, further enhanced the rumors that the Fury was not someone to be messed with lightly. Then some nights she went to bed early, some nights she sat up drinking and carousing with her new- found friends.
Some nights she spent with Riddick.
All part of the routine.
She'd usually been a pretty asexual creature, with her lean body and lack of prominent breasts. Having decided early on that she would never be conventionally beautiful, she had made it a point to become striking. After a couple years she'd added untouchable to the list, finding most people a waste of her time and energy, at least in any sense of a long-term fling. She had no sympathy for people who let their bodies go to fat, and less for people who were deliberately, persistently stupid.
Whether in spite of or because of this her lovers had always been somewhat conventionally handsome, well-muscled, and always very intelligent. Any long-term sexual relationship she had with someone, no matter how careful she was, had the chance of producing offspring. She was just careful enough to never sleep with stupid, ugly, or weak-willed and weak-bodied men; all four traits could breed true. Riddick was a eugenics director's wet dream: strong, agile, healthy, handsome, and clever.
Perfect.
He was also much more sexual than she, so she hadn't been terribly surprised to realize that he'd been making moves on her all along. She'd ignored it at first, entertained the idea after a little while, and eventually come to find him attractive enough to sleep with. They had consummated their bizarre courtship in one of the temporarily abandoned back closets in the tunnels, after a night of violence and alcohol. Nothing had been said: there were no words or even kisses, just hot and mutually passionate sex, bodies moving in the oldest rhythm in the absolute darkness of the prison.
Nicole had given them both very dirty looks when they'd reappeared together that morning for breakfast in the general canteen, reeking of sweat and sex. Both of them wearing identical self-satisfied smirks. Both of them moving with the secret yet significant awareness of each other that came with their newfound intimacy. Fantine figured she was jealous, and ignored her; Riddick found her amusing, and baited her every time he got the chance. Once word got around, though, Nicole was the only person in either male or female blocks who would mess with her. She wasn't sure if Riddick was doing more to enhance her reputation or to degrade it when her hidden status as the Fury eventually came out. Whatever.
Fantine finished her stretches and sat on the bed, thinking. For the first time in a very long time she actually found herself wondering what her parents would have thought, had they still been alive. Well, for one thing, they would probably have pulled whatever strings they could have to keep her out of the Slam. She just hadn't cared enough to buy herself a place in a better prison; by then she'd had better things to spend her money on, and once she'd found out a little bit about the place she'd been curious. A prison in near-total darkness. What must that be like? But now she was actually wondering what her parents would have done, and what they would have thought of Riddick. A far cry from the doctors and lawyers they'd wanted her to marry when she was in university. Marry one of them, raise genius children.
Fuck that. She'd seen what being a genius got her; she'd seen the stronger kids beating the geniuses in school till their brains were so battered they couldn't genius anymore. Anyone she slept with would be strong as well as smart. All the best qualities she could give her children, the advantages she had never had growing up in the brainy but weak-bodied schools she'd gone to. Tactics only got you so far, you had to have the brawn to back it up.
Marriage? Fuck that too. The divorce rate was higher than the murder rate in some cities. Her own parents' marriage was a carefully constructed façade, a sham, a front to put up before the paparazzi cameras. She was a token daughter, the little scholar with all the fancy paperwork, oh so pretty and wise and learned. Behind closed doors she pierced her ears and navel and marked up her arms with bruises from fighting. Her mother binged quietly on drink and drugs until her eyes turned yellow with premature age; her father slept with more women and men than she could conveniently count. There was no part of the marriage vows they hadn't broken, and yet she was expected to conform to the sacrament they had trashed so thoroughly.
Her parents, she decided, would have been completely scandalized by her new lover. Well, they were dead. She didn't even know why she was thinking of them anymore.
Dinner time soon, and then a new fight. Riddick was surprised that her disguise as The Fury had lasted so long; so was she, when she stopped to think about it. It didn't matter, she guessed, that she kept her face and voice hidden. The added mystery was probably what made her so attractive as a fighter. And the really funny part was: how many of the audience guessed why she kept her identity a secret? Probably very few. Maybe none. Women were allowed to participate in the fights; some of them even did participate in the great melees. But none went into the one-on-one rings, because the penalty for losing one of those would probably be rape, and the penalty for winning one (if the guy involved took exception to the threat to his machismo) would be unbearable.
Fantine wondered what would happen when someone found out who she was. Even more, she wondered what would happen when the people she'd slowly become friends with found out about her alter ego. Riddick and Doc Wellers were the only ones who knew. Not even Lawson realized who it was who had beaten him their first night in. Riddick had guessed, somehow, the first night she'd fought. The Doc knew because he was the only one whom she let examine her, ever. Also, she suspected Riddick had told him. Oh well.
She stretched, leaping lightly off the bed and making her way down to the women's canteen for a quick, quiet dinner. She usually ate dinner there on the nights that The Fury was supposed to fight; it made things so much easier. And afterwards she would find Riddick, probably waiting in the corridors outside the arenas as usual. For whatever reason, tonight the thought of him made her blood burn and her skin heat up. Fantine smiled a little... she'd make this fight quick. Tonight, it wasn't violence she wanted. Not the kind of violence that she'd find in the fighting ring, anyway.
Keyes had a sharpster's eye for finding an easy mark, someone who hadn't often gone to the fighting rings and didn't know the Fury's capabilities. There was always some sort of a signal from him when he found one, and then Lawson and Riddick would move in and make a few private bets. Riddick never told Fantine how much they were making off of her fights; he had the feeling she suspected, but he'd never told her. Instead he used the profits for whatever struck his fancy, and as often as not it was arranging precious hours of privacy and luxury. His trysts with Fantine took up a decent chunk of those profits.
Tonight they met in her cell, having arranged for the biggest players in the women's cell block to be distracted for a few hours after Fantine's fight. It wasn't that hard; a few menthols to the right people and the women's block was practically cleared with a riot in one block down the hall, a veritable orgy in the sub-basement, and a couple of spirited discussions elsewhere. They didn't have the floor all to themselves, but they wouldn't be interrupted. A sheet in front of her bars was held in place by a few knives. They didn't need the light.
"Good fight," he murmured laconically, grinning as he watched her slowly disrobe. She had enjoyed it too; she must have, for rather than just stripping off her clothes and pulling him down to the bunk she was making a production out of it.
Her shirt peeled off first, still tacky with sweat and a little dried blood. Her pants next, sliding down her legs as she stood in a pose designed to draw attention as she moved cloth from skin. She stepped out of them delicately, every inch of her moving with deliberation. Her one-piece bra, more of a chest wrapping, was pulled off in such a way as to create maximum exposure of her tiny breasts. No more than a handful, each. He stopped her as she was about to slip off that one last piece.
"Mmm?"
"Wait."
He was a sucker for a good aesthetic. Although there was so little light that even her adjusted eyes couldn't see, to him, she looked beautiful. Balanced lightly on the balls of her feet; she almost always stood like that, as though ready to run or leap-kick at any moment, a good survival tactic for the prison. Eyes wide to capture the most light, head tilted slightly to one side to hear any movement around her. She'd adapted better than most to life in near-total darkness. And she still looked beautiful.
"Come here."
She went. It never ceased to amaze them both how easily they could order each other around. Mutual respect went a long way, she supposed. And not a small bit of mutual lust. He pulled her onto his lap, sliding his hands up her legs and parting her thighs easily around his waist. She locked her ankles behind the small of his back and wrapped her arms loosely over his shoulders. Her fingertips stroked the back of his smooth-shaven head.
"Did you have fun?" he asked. He almost always did.
"Of course..." she grinned. "Santino was a pushover."
"Literally." She'd ended the fight when her opponent had been almost too dazed to stand, literally by stretching out a hand and pushing him over. It had gotten a wave of laughter throughout the spectators. Probably what had put her in such a good mood. "Probably didn't know what hit him."
"Damn skippy."
His hands slid up and down over her sides, thumbs lightly massaging her stomach. She stretched a little, wriggling at the warmth of his hands in the cold air of the Slam. He was always so warm, a walking furnace. She didn't understand it, although she liked it well enough when he was in her bed. She returned the gesture, fingers pressing gently along his neck and shoulders.
"Got anything in mind for your next bout?" he asked as he bent his head to her throat. For a second she couldn't respond, couldn't think beyond his lips over her skin and down to her breast. She took a deep breath, answering as he took his time.
"Not yet." It came out as a whisper. "I'll think of something. No end of bruisers waiting to get their noses broken."
His tongue teased over her skin. "Mmm."
It was almost a game with them, although a game they both willingly lost. Tonight he was making the most of his advantage; her blood was already up from the fight, adrenalin rushing through her veins. It didn't take much for him to drive all coherence from her thoughts. When he finally lifted his head and grinned, eyes flashing silver, she pressed her body to his and rocked against him.
"Easy, there..." he murmured, but his arms tightened around her nonetheless. His strong arms, as big as her legs around, he could crush the wind out of her if he wanted.
She ran her hands down his shoulders, up again, tracing her fingertips over his skin. "Mmm. So, when are we going to see you in the ring?"
"Not until our fight," he chuckled. The sound rolled over her skin like waves of heat, prickling and burning. "You know I don't go in for that sort of thing. Besides, it's much more fun watching you beat people up."
"Ka-pow." She smiled, gently tapping closed fists to his cheek.
He reached up, caught her hands in his and turned the movement into a caress, pressing her palms to his face. She traced the lines of his jaw, slid her fingertips over his mouth. He kissed her fingertip, nipped, rolled her finger into his mouth and flickered his tongue wetly around the digit. She gasped, sliding her free hand to his waist and up under his shirt.
"Ka-pow," he rumbled when he finally pulled back, triumphant. She rolled her hips forward, feeling him underneath her, rewarded with his own small gasp. "Mmm-hmm?"
"Enough talk."
There was no tenderness or artistry to the kiss; she pressed her lips to his and they were gone. His arms tightened around her as he leaned back, pulling her on top of him, then sitting up again to help her tug off his shirt. They rolled around awkwardly for a bit, fumbling their hands over each other's bodies like teenagers, trying to get undressed. Frantic, they ripped ties and laces, pushing clothing off their bodies, off the bunk. And then, as he pulled her back down onto him, it all melted away into calm, almost lethargic rhythm and the heat of their bodies. Sweat and flesh and the little gasping noises they made in the darkness.
The evenness of her breathing, the relaxed rigidity of her limbs told him that she was finally asleep. It was one of the small courtesies they gave each other, never sneaking out of bed and out of the cell block until the other was asleep. If neither of them were in the other's pod, it depended on who fell first. Since they were in her pod tonight, he'd allowed himself to doze a little before getting up and slipping out.
Riddick had always been a pragmatic man and in the Slam, where life was deliberately as brutal as possible, a great deal of that pragmatism was bent towards making his life easier. At first it had been mostly alcohol and solitude. After the Doc had shined his eyeballs he was a little more social, broadening his horizons and preferred habits to include some conversation.
In Fantine he had found an oddity; not only a woman he could hold a decent conversation with, a woman who intrigued and matched him on all levels physical and mental, but also one who was not really unattractive. Although she never would have agreed he actually found her quite pretty; beautiful, even, compared to the beaten-down and haggard appearance of every other woman in the Slam Facility. There was something about the way they were brutalized, or the way they had to turn to brutalizing others that made them all hard and ugly, uncomfortable to be around.
Fantine had intrigued him at first because of her spectacular entrance. She held his attention by constantly surprising him. When she hadn't seem to fade, wilt, or corrupt from the inside out through prison life, he'd started to entertain thoughts of a seduction. It was not, upon reflection, a mistake.
It wasn't what he'd expected or anticipated of his life in the Ursa Luna Slam. But it wasn't unpleasant either. Actually it was kind of nice to be able to interact with people on a less than primal level, to be able to have decent conversations with someone other than the Doc. Not that he disliked the man's company, but it was starting to get old, only one person whose ideas and opinions he could respect.
It was also, although he rarely admitted it to himself, very nice to be able to relieve the stress in other ways. Primal, physical ways. Since making friends with the Doc he'd learned about the contraceptive implants, although he'd known there had to be something. No children in the Slam whatsoever, but that could just have meant that they took them away or forced the women to get abortions. Not something he wanted to deal with. Not with the kind of women found in Slam City, most of them not even the kind he'd spend time with beyond the fifteen minutes necessary to do the deed. Fantine was different, respectable. It was all right.
He sometimes wondered, though, what made it all right for her.
She was at least as standoffish as he was. Lawson, Keyes, even the Doc had more friends than she seemed to. She was friendly to everyone and friends with very few, even from what he heard out of the women's block. She disdained the company of almost all other women in the Slam, not that he could blame her. There wasn't much good company out of habitual victims, which most of the women were, and the rest were too busy jockeying to keep their independent positions. Most of the rest of the population of Slam would be busy trying to draw her into their own little games, their stables or harems or followers. She'd managed to avoid that, somehow. But she'd also managed to avoid making friends.
Lawson he was finding a little more palatable. A little more understandable. The craziness he now knew was due to panic had mostly settled down when he'd realized it wasn't quite so bad of a place. Not for him, anyway, who had made a name for himself surviving as long as he did in his first cage fight. There was still the tendency to run off at the mouth too much when he got nervous or scared, but most of the time he was all right. And he did offer some more introspective, valuable insight into the motivations and thoughts of other prisoners. Riddick didn't usually bother with that head-shrinking bullshit.
He wondered what Lawson would say if he knew anything more specific about Riddick and Fantine's liaisons. Mutual respect and lust went a lot further than cock-eyed love, to Riddick's way of thinking.
Hanging around in the common room till noon, meeting people, making connections, talking with people. Putting in the occasional appearance as 'The Fury' so she could arrange her next fight. Then lunch. Some days she talked to Lawson, walking with him around the common areas and in the exercise yard. Some days she talked to Doc, sitting in the infirmary and taking her turn subduing and sedating violent patients or friends of patients. Some days she talked with Keyes, one of the newest friends she'd made in the Slam.
More exercise, a light dinner, then walking or fighting. Anything to keep her strength, keep the whipcord muscle by which she survived on her body. And fighting kept her reputation up, further enhanced the rumors that the Fury was not someone to be messed with lightly. Then some nights she went to bed early, some nights she sat up drinking and carousing with her new- found friends.
Some nights she spent with Riddick.
All part of the routine.
She'd usually been a pretty asexual creature, with her lean body and lack of prominent breasts. Having decided early on that she would never be conventionally beautiful, she had made it a point to become striking. After a couple years she'd added untouchable to the list, finding most people a waste of her time and energy, at least in any sense of a long-term fling. She had no sympathy for people who let their bodies go to fat, and less for people who were deliberately, persistently stupid.
Whether in spite of or because of this her lovers had always been somewhat conventionally handsome, well-muscled, and always very intelligent. Any long-term sexual relationship she had with someone, no matter how careful she was, had the chance of producing offspring. She was just careful enough to never sleep with stupid, ugly, or weak-willed and weak-bodied men; all four traits could breed true. Riddick was a eugenics director's wet dream: strong, agile, healthy, handsome, and clever.
Perfect.
He was also much more sexual than she, so she hadn't been terribly surprised to realize that he'd been making moves on her all along. She'd ignored it at first, entertained the idea after a little while, and eventually come to find him attractive enough to sleep with. They had consummated their bizarre courtship in one of the temporarily abandoned back closets in the tunnels, after a night of violence and alcohol. Nothing had been said: there were no words or even kisses, just hot and mutually passionate sex, bodies moving in the oldest rhythm in the absolute darkness of the prison.
Nicole had given them both very dirty looks when they'd reappeared together that morning for breakfast in the general canteen, reeking of sweat and sex. Both of them wearing identical self-satisfied smirks. Both of them moving with the secret yet significant awareness of each other that came with their newfound intimacy. Fantine figured she was jealous, and ignored her; Riddick found her amusing, and baited her every time he got the chance. Once word got around, though, Nicole was the only person in either male or female blocks who would mess with her. She wasn't sure if Riddick was doing more to enhance her reputation or to degrade it when her hidden status as the Fury eventually came out. Whatever.
Fantine finished her stretches and sat on the bed, thinking. For the first time in a very long time she actually found herself wondering what her parents would have thought, had they still been alive. Well, for one thing, they would probably have pulled whatever strings they could have to keep her out of the Slam. She just hadn't cared enough to buy herself a place in a better prison; by then she'd had better things to spend her money on, and once she'd found out a little bit about the place she'd been curious. A prison in near-total darkness. What must that be like? But now she was actually wondering what her parents would have done, and what they would have thought of Riddick. A far cry from the doctors and lawyers they'd wanted her to marry when she was in university. Marry one of them, raise genius children.
Fuck that. She'd seen what being a genius got her; she'd seen the stronger kids beating the geniuses in school till their brains were so battered they couldn't genius anymore. Anyone she slept with would be strong as well as smart. All the best qualities she could give her children, the advantages she had never had growing up in the brainy but weak-bodied schools she'd gone to. Tactics only got you so far, you had to have the brawn to back it up.
Marriage? Fuck that too. The divorce rate was higher than the murder rate in some cities. Her own parents' marriage was a carefully constructed façade, a sham, a front to put up before the paparazzi cameras. She was a token daughter, the little scholar with all the fancy paperwork, oh so pretty and wise and learned. Behind closed doors she pierced her ears and navel and marked up her arms with bruises from fighting. Her mother binged quietly on drink and drugs until her eyes turned yellow with premature age; her father slept with more women and men than she could conveniently count. There was no part of the marriage vows they hadn't broken, and yet she was expected to conform to the sacrament they had trashed so thoroughly.
Her parents, she decided, would have been completely scandalized by her new lover. Well, they were dead. She didn't even know why she was thinking of them anymore.
Dinner time soon, and then a new fight. Riddick was surprised that her disguise as The Fury had lasted so long; so was she, when she stopped to think about it. It didn't matter, she guessed, that she kept her face and voice hidden. The added mystery was probably what made her so attractive as a fighter. And the really funny part was: how many of the audience guessed why she kept her identity a secret? Probably very few. Maybe none. Women were allowed to participate in the fights; some of them even did participate in the great melees. But none went into the one-on-one rings, because the penalty for losing one of those would probably be rape, and the penalty for winning one (if the guy involved took exception to the threat to his machismo) would be unbearable.
Fantine wondered what would happen when someone found out who she was. Even more, she wondered what would happen when the people she'd slowly become friends with found out about her alter ego. Riddick and Doc Wellers were the only ones who knew. Not even Lawson realized who it was who had beaten him their first night in. Riddick had guessed, somehow, the first night she'd fought. The Doc knew because he was the only one whom she let examine her, ever. Also, she suspected Riddick had told him. Oh well.
She stretched, leaping lightly off the bed and making her way down to the women's canteen for a quick, quiet dinner. She usually ate dinner there on the nights that The Fury was supposed to fight; it made things so much easier. And afterwards she would find Riddick, probably waiting in the corridors outside the arenas as usual. For whatever reason, tonight the thought of him made her blood burn and her skin heat up. Fantine smiled a little... she'd make this fight quick. Tonight, it wasn't violence she wanted. Not the kind of violence that she'd find in the fighting ring, anyway.
Keyes had a sharpster's eye for finding an easy mark, someone who hadn't often gone to the fighting rings and didn't know the Fury's capabilities. There was always some sort of a signal from him when he found one, and then Lawson and Riddick would move in and make a few private bets. Riddick never told Fantine how much they were making off of her fights; he had the feeling she suspected, but he'd never told her. Instead he used the profits for whatever struck his fancy, and as often as not it was arranging precious hours of privacy and luxury. His trysts with Fantine took up a decent chunk of those profits.
Tonight they met in her cell, having arranged for the biggest players in the women's cell block to be distracted for a few hours after Fantine's fight. It wasn't that hard; a few menthols to the right people and the women's block was practically cleared with a riot in one block down the hall, a veritable orgy in the sub-basement, and a couple of spirited discussions elsewhere. They didn't have the floor all to themselves, but they wouldn't be interrupted. A sheet in front of her bars was held in place by a few knives. They didn't need the light.
"Good fight," he murmured laconically, grinning as he watched her slowly disrobe. She had enjoyed it too; she must have, for rather than just stripping off her clothes and pulling him down to the bunk she was making a production out of it.
Her shirt peeled off first, still tacky with sweat and a little dried blood. Her pants next, sliding down her legs as she stood in a pose designed to draw attention as she moved cloth from skin. She stepped out of them delicately, every inch of her moving with deliberation. Her one-piece bra, more of a chest wrapping, was pulled off in such a way as to create maximum exposure of her tiny breasts. No more than a handful, each. He stopped her as she was about to slip off that one last piece.
"Mmm?"
"Wait."
He was a sucker for a good aesthetic. Although there was so little light that even her adjusted eyes couldn't see, to him, she looked beautiful. Balanced lightly on the balls of her feet; she almost always stood like that, as though ready to run or leap-kick at any moment, a good survival tactic for the prison. Eyes wide to capture the most light, head tilted slightly to one side to hear any movement around her. She'd adapted better than most to life in near-total darkness. And she still looked beautiful.
"Come here."
She went. It never ceased to amaze them both how easily they could order each other around. Mutual respect went a long way, she supposed. And not a small bit of mutual lust. He pulled her onto his lap, sliding his hands up her legs and parting her thighs easily around his waist. She locked her ankles behind the small of his back and wrapped her arms loosely over his shoulders. Her fingertips stroked the back of his smooth-shaven head.
"Did you have fun?" he asked. He almost always did.
"Of course..." she grinned. "Santino was a pushover."
"Literally." She'd ended the fight when her opponent had been almost too dazed to stand, literally by stretching out a hand and pushing him over. It had gotten a wave of laughter throughout the spectators. Probably what had put her in such a good mood. "Probably didn't know what hit him."
"Damn skippy."
His hands slid up and down over her sides, thumbs lightly massaging her stomach. She stretched a little, wriggling at the warmth of his hands in the cold air of the Slam. He was always so warm, a walking furnace. She didn't understand it, although she liked it well enough when he was in her bed. She returned the gesture, fingers pressing gently along his neck and shoulders.
"Got anything in mind for your next bout?" he asked as he bent his head to her throat. For a second she couldn't respond, couldn't think beyond his lips over her skin and down to her breast. She took a deep breath, answering as he took his time.
"Not yet." It came out as a whisper. "I'll think of something. No end of bruisers waiting to get their noses broken."
His tongue teased over her skin. "Mmm."
It was almost a game with them, although a game they both willingly lost. Tonight he was making the most of his advantage; her blood was already up from the fight, adrenalin rushing through her veins. It didn't take much for him to drive all coherence from her thoughts. When he finally lifted his head and grinned, eyes flashing silver, she pressed her body to his and rocked against him.
"Easy, there..." he murmured, but his arms tightened around her nonetheless. His strong arms, as big as her legs around, he could crush the wind out of her if he wanted.
She ran her hands down his shoulders, up again, tracing her fingertips over his skin. "Mmm. So, when are we going to see you in the ring?"
"Not until our fight," he chuckled. The sound rolled over her skin like waves of heat, prickling and burning. "You know I don't go in for that sort of thing. Besides, it's much more fun watching you beat people up."
"Ka-pow." She smiled, gently tapping closed fists to his cheek.
He reached up, caught her hands in his and turned the movement into a caress, pressing her palms to his face. She traced the lines of his jaw, slid her fingertips over his mouth. He kissed her fingertip, nipped, rolled her finger into his mouth and flickered his tongue wetly around the digit. She gasped, sliding her free hand to his waist and up under his shirt.
"Ka-pow," he rumbled when he finally pulled back, triumphant. She rolled her hips forward, feeling him underneath her, rewarded with his own small gasp. "Mmm-hmm?"
"Enough talk."
There was no tenderness or artistry to the kiss; she pressed her lips to his and they were gone. His arms tightened around her as he leaned back, pulling her on top of him, then sitting up again to help her tug off his shirt. They rolled around awkwardly for a bit, fumbling their hands over each other's bodies like teenagers, trying to get undressed. Frantic, they ripped ties and laces, pushing clothing off their bodies, off the bunk. And then, as he pulled her back down onto him, it all melted away into calm, almost lethargic rhythm and the heat of their bodies. Sweat and flesh and the little gasping noises they made in the darkness.
The evenness of her breathing, the relaxed rigidity of her limbs told him that she was finally asleep. It was one of the small courtesies they gave each other, never sneaking out of bed and out of the cell block until the other was asleep. If neither of them were in the other's pod, it depended on who fell first. Since they were in her pod tonight, he'd allowed himself to doze a little before getting up and slipping out.
Riddick had always been a pragmatic man and in the Slam, where life was deliberately as brutal as possible, a great deal of that pragmatism was bent towards making his life easier. At first it had been mostly alcohol and solitude. After the Doc had shined his eyeballs he was a little more social, broadening his horizons and preferred habits to include some conversation.
In Fantine he had found an oddity; not only a woman he could hold a decent conversation with, a woman who intrigued and matched him on all levels physical and mental, but also one who was not really unattractive. Although she never would have agreed he actually found her quite pretty; beautiful, even, compared to the beaten-down and haggard appearance of every other woman in the Slam Facility. There was something about the way they were brutalized, or the way they had to turn to brutalizing others that made them all hard and ugly, uncomfortable to be around.
Fantine had intrigued him at first because of her spectacular entrance. She held his attention by constantly surprising him. When she hadn't seem to fade, wilt, or corrupt from the inside out through prison life, he'd started to entertain thoughts of a seduction. It was not, upon reflection, a mistake.
It wasn't what he'd expected or anticipated of his life in the Ursa Luna Slam. But it wasn't unpleasant either. Actually it was kind of nice to be able to interact with people on a less than primal level, to be able to have decent conversations with someone other than the Doc. Not that he disliked the man's company, but it was starting to get old, only one person whose ideas and opinions he could respect.
It was also, although he rarely admitted it to himself, very nice to be able to relieve the stress in other ways. Primal, physical ways. Since making friends with the Doc he'd learned about the contraceptive implants, although he'd known there had to be something. No children in the Slam whatsoever, but that could just have meant that they took them away or forced the women to get abortions. Not something he wanted to deal with. Not with the kind of women found in Slam City, most of them not even the kind he'd spend time with beyond the fifteen minutes necessary to do the deed. Fantine was different, respectable. It was all right.
He sometimes wondered, though, what made it all right for her.
She was at least as standoffish as he was. Lawson, Keyes, even the Doc had more friends than she seemed to. She was friendly to everyone and friends with very few, even from what he heard out of the women's block. She disdained the company of almost all other women in the Slam, not that he could blame her. There wasn't much good company out of habitual victims, which most of the women were, and the rest were too busy jockeying to keep their independent positions. Most of the rest of the population of Slam would be busy trying to draw her into their own little games, their stables or harems or followers. She'd managed to avoid that, somehow. But she'd also managed to avoid making friends.
Lawson he was finding a little more palatable. A little more understandable. The craziness he now knew was due to panic had mostly settled down when he'd realized it wasn't quite so bad of a place. Not for him, anyway, who had made a name for himself surviving as long as he did in his first cage fight. There was still the tendency to run off at the mouth too much when he got nervous or scared, but most of the time he was all right. And he did offer some more introspective, valuable insight into the motivations and thoughts of other prisoners. Riddick didn't usually bother with that head-shrinking bullshit.
He wondered what Lawson would say if he knew anything more specific about Riddick and Fantine's liaisons. Mutual respect and lust went a lot further than cock-eyed love, to Riddick's way of thinking.