She was alive. Alive, but unable to open her aching eyes. It took her more than a few agonizing moments to regain her bearings. Somehow, in the impact, Erica had been torn from her position, and the rebar had come with her. She realized this as she attempted to move her heavy limbs. The jagged piece of metal scraped the ground and made her whimper in pain. She was laying atop something solid, but soft at the same time. At least softer than the hard metal of the cabin's floor. She could feel small movements beneath her, a steady rise and fall. It was alive! She forced her eyelids to open, and stared down at who lay beneath her. That same face that had terrorized her earlier stared back. Riddick. His goggles sat askew on his forehead, revealing closed eyes.
She barely dared to breath, and her thoughts were torn between the agony of her injured extremity and the sickening fear that knotted her stomach. Yet the immensly strong and dangerous criminal made no move to discard her, in fact he made no move at all. He wasn't dead. Dead men didn't breath. But unconscious? She hoped with all her might he would remain that way until someone found her, until someone could help her, could alleviate her horrible pain, could secure him in some way, shape, or form. She could only imagine the torture it would be if he woke and decided to shove her roughly aside, causing more damage to her torn muscle. Her heart hammered out of control in her chest, her breathing quick and ragged, though she fought to control both reactions. What if no one else had survived? Would he just kill her? Leave her?
Her lower lip began to quiver and she bit it, her teeth pressing down so hard on the flesh as to draw blood. She could taste it's saltiness on her tongue. Perhaps moving would be the best option, she thought. Carefully, she must move carefully. Her arms were folded underneath her, her hands flat on his broad chest. Slowly, and drawing on her last reserves of strength, she pushed against his still body, lifting away from him.
She had only begun to shift her weight when he stirred. She froze, panic flooding her entire body, filling every nerve in her being. All she could do was stare, wide-eyed, as the convict known as Riddick began to awaken. It seemed to happen all at once. His eyes flew open in an instant, revealing dark pools of black that contained an eerie glow that shone out of their depths like a beacon. Like a predator. But he did not move in any other way. He didn't try to sit up, to roll her off of him or anything of the sort. Erica didn't know what to do, what to say. The paralysis that gripped her she managed to shatter like a layer of ice. "Please," she whimpered, her tone begging him not to fling her about, not to kill her, and to help her, though the thought was more desperate than hopeful. She noticed suddenly that tears dampened her cheecks and she attempted to blink them away. Something inside her demanded that she master her fear and toughen up, something akin to a warrior's instinct. She hadn't the slightest clue where it came from. Riddick said nothing, but stared at her for a tense moment and then his jaguar's eyes shifted, and she knew he saw the thin metal pole that protruded from her flesh.
In the next second he had begun to move, surprising her as he enclosed her waist with his powerful arms. Before she knew what was happening he had rolled onto his side and was lunging to his feet, carrying her limp body with him. The movement was so swift and fluid that she barely knew what had happened, the aching pain in her leg none the worse for the action. And here she was, dangling in this stranger's arms, this alien looking murderer. For another moment he stared at her, seeming to consider the woman he held, and then he surveyed the area about him. It took him mere seconds to make a decision. Holding her tightly to his side with one arm, he began to move through the wreckage, pushing through debris with ease.
What was he doing? she wondered frantically, but she wasn't about to disallow the aid, whether aiding her was what he intended or not. Once or twice the rebar that was currently a part of her being brushed against some stationary obstacle and she would gasp sharply, gritting her teeth against the tears that threatened to spring forth, but for the most part Riddick kept her from suffering. Not that he intended it, but that he moved with grace and surety. And then they were outside and Erica blinked, squinting against the sudden harsh light that attacked her sensitive eyes. Riddick threw his free arm up to shield his face, grasping the strange goggles that straddled his forehead quickly and pulling them down over the glowing lights that were his own orbs. They were in a desert, a vast neverending desert with an enormous sun shining down upon them. Where in the hell had they landed?
In the next instant Erica was down on the ground and the escaped convict was grasping the jagged metal that protruded from her thigh. He looked into her startled eyes as if to prepare her for what he was about to do and then reached out to cover her mouth roughly with one large hand. He pulled. It was swift and clean....and agonizingly painful. This time Erica couldn't stop the salty drops that welled up and streamed down her face. She gritted her teeth and would have cried out. It came out as a muffled whimper against his callused palm. As this seemingly benevolent criminal tore a strip from her tank top and began to tie it tightly about her wounded leg she bit down on her tongue, focusing on this new sharp pain to take her mind off of the injury. Her tear filled eyes watched him as he focused on the task, knotting the make-shift bandage.
"Why?" she asked in a hushed tone barely above a whisper. He stopped, still for a moment.
"Hostage," he said simply, the first word he had spoken. Erica was shocked. Firstly by the word, by his intentions. This was why he had been so kind to her, so helpful? She was to be a hostage? For what purpose? To keep Johns at bay? Did this Riddick even know if Johns had survived the crash? Secondly, and some might not think that this should be of consequence in a dire situation such as this, was his voice. It was deep, deep and rough and at the same time very sensual. And at any other time, and if he had been anyone else, it might have made her knees weak and her heart flutter. But the main thing was that....it was familiar.
And then her survival instinct kicked in. Would he kill her? She had no way of knowing what would happen to her if she allowed him to drag her along as a captive. No, she couldn't let that happen. There were other survivors. There had to be if he was taking her hostage. Johns. Johns was alive. Who else would he need to keep at bay. Riddick knew he had survived, could sense it somehow, like an animal. She was money to Johns, she knew it. Riddick knew it. He was intelligent, it shone on his face. She remembered. She knew he was a cunning creature. But how? How did she know? She roughly shoved the questions from her mind. Her attention must focus on the here and now.
Her benefactor had paid Johns well to transport her. He would tread lightly to keep his merchandise alive and healthy. She needed to be with Johns, Johns could give her her memory. Could Riddick give her that? She paused, staring at him, a dark silhouette against the brightness of the blazing sun. Could he? A spark of remembrance lit in her eyes, but then died just as quickly. She blinked them. No, he would bring her death. He was a convict, a murderer. She must remember that.
He was still crouched down near her, looking out over the desert sands as if calculating his next move. It was her chance. Rolling her weight onto her right hip, she struck out with her good leg, using her arms for balance. The movement was swift and clean, surprising her. How had she learned that type of manuever? How was she so fast? But Riddick was prepared, ducking out of the way. How had he known she would try something like that? She rolled backwards as he moved to pin her, springing to her feet with the grace of a gazelle, balancing easily on one leg.
Riddick smirked slightly. Erica furrowed her brows. He found this funny? And then her anger boiled. I'll show him funny, she thought, diving sideways to grasp a sharp piece of loose scrap metal that dangled awkwardly from the ceiling of the mangled craft. The immensily strong convict moved easily to meet her. She drew up short, intending to leap to the side in a counter manuever, her years of training that had taken place in her clouded past coming into play. Her right foot came down on the steel floor, her wounded muscles giving way. She stumbled.
Erica cried out in pain as she toppled forward into her captor, grasping his muscular arms to keep from collapsing to the ground. He stood as still as a statue, looking down at her through his dark goggles.
"I wouldn't advise trying that again," he cautioned her, a hint of dark humour in his voice. She glared up at him, angry and flustered at the same moment. Her hands came up to his chest in preparation to push away violently, but his arms were around her in that instant, holding her in a vice like grip. "Temper, temper," he said, in that same low voice. This whole ordeal seemed to amuse him to no end. He was smirking now. They were close, too close for her comfort.
She attempted to push away once more, struggling in his arms like a butterfly against the crushing jaws of the spider. Heat radiated outward from his body, from his rock hard muscles. He felt like thinly padded steel to Erica, and she attemtped to push away the sudden attraction that berated her senses. His breath was in her hair. She felt her anger melting into a mixture of fear and a feeling she coudln't place. She shivered unknowingly. And then he laughed, every so slightly, and bent his head to whisper in her ear. She tensed, her breath catching in her throat.
"You're better off with me than Johns," he said, his words barely audible, "you really think he's a do good merc? There is no such thing." He spun her in one quick motion so that he now held her back to him, so fast that she gasped in surprise. "You are just a piece of merchandise," he whispered, his lips actually brushing the skin at the nape of her neck. Goosebumps rose on her flesh, though she was unsure if they were pleasant or otherwise. He seemed to be waiting, for her to say something, for a response, she didn't know. Her mouth worked to reply but nothing came out. It was as if he had trapped her with his words, his voice, his actions. Finally, after a few tense moments, she managed to croak out a response.
"You're a murderer," she mumbled, and it was barely intelligible. Riddick understood. He released her all at once and Erica nearly fell flat on her face. Somehow she managed to keep her feet, spinning around to face him and limping back a few steps.
"Have I killed a few people? Yes," he said in that deep, rumbling voice, "Will I kill you?," he paused to look her up and down, not a sexual gesture but a calculating gaze, as if gauging her strength and abilities, almost as if he were boring into her very being to judge her soul. "It depends." The statement didn't make her feel any better.
You mean if I become an inconvenience, a threat? she thought, a combination of fear and anger knotting her stomach. There was a sound then, a metallic thump, and both Riddick and Erica turned their heads to follow it. The burly convict seemed to consider her for a moment, and then his gaze swivelled once more toward the source of the noise. It only took him a moment to make his decision. Before she could blink, Riddick had slipped away into the recesses of the wreckage. She slumped down on the floor in exhaustion and relief. Her leg ached more terribly than ever, but she fought to ignore it.