Author's Note: I do not own Riddick, more's the pity. I did not create Slam, merely this interpretation of it. I did not have any hand in the creation of Pitch Black. I did however create Spook, and the other characters not seen in Pitch Black.
He frowned in the dark, his feet dully hitting the cement floor. He had followed several laid tracks, all to less than satisfactory results. The frown turned into a deep scowl, his eyes blazing in the dark corridor as he carefully skulked his way back to the little cell he shared with Spook. He ran a heavy calloused hand over his head, feeling the harsh grain of growing hair.
Everything was still so quiet.
A few fights had broken out in areas he'd been passing through, but they were quite minor. Nothing more than scuffles between starving, weak, scarred curs too stupid to recognize what a threat the big bad was when he slunk past. There was a small crimson stain on his arm, a testimony to the one fool who had possessed the audacity to collide with him during one of those fights.
But his trails so far had all gone cold, dead in the silent bowels of the deep. Stale tracks, silent rumors. A whole hold full of tons of nothing. His feet found their way towards home, following the back roads, the long ways. Habits were your enemy in the stygian pit.
His lip twitched. He longed to snarl. His hands twitched, fingers itching to feel the cool curve of his shiv handle resting against his palm. His nostrils flared in the stagnant gloom, sucking the subterranean, earthen air deep into the broad chest. He tasted the stale air, rolling it over his tongue with the next breath.
Something wasn't off, but wasn't right either. Like a smell too far out of range, too faint to be properly noticed, it pulled at the corner of his mind, setting off alarms in the recesses, where impulse whispered and nature coiled its grip around nurture, crushing silently, strangling in the dark.
He slowed, slinking forward, one hand on the wall, his shiv balanced carefully in his thick fingers. The handle was cool, heavy in his hand, and the chill metal reached into his soul, stilling the clamor of the nagging unknown, that strange something he couldn't place. The familiar weight stilled his mind. It sent its soothing grip deep within him. The familiar feel conjured the memory of the heat, the smell of copper, the quieting of the cruel nagging of his soul that came with the sweet bitterness of blood.
He hung in the inky pitch of the hallway outside the gaping maw of the cell he shared with the small woman. Sure as the eternal darkness of Slam, Spook's scent kissed the area, faint and fading, creeping shyly from within the cell. The musky scent, like some long forgotten warmth, lightly caressed him, filling his thoughts for a brief moment.
But the scent wasn't fresh.
It was a few hours old.
She should have returned. She should be inside, curled up with one of her precious books, pouring over the well known words like a familiar lover. She should be laying there, the book resting under those long hands. She should look up when he entered, tensed for that moment of panic, then sag when she recognized him. There should be that brief touch of light behind the Shine.
That mysterious trust.
But instead he paused in mid step, listening intently, scenting the air like the beast Hell had done so much to forge him into.
No other scent. No sounds.
He moved within the confines of the little cell.
The cots lay empty.
The books were stacked carefully
where they had been when she'd left for the mess.
Peter and Wendy. That one
was good. But perhaps The Corsair... The prose of Byron again.
And it was dark, epic... He thumbed through the book, growled, tossed
it onto the cots behind him.
Where was she?
The cell was exactly four strides across beside the cot. He had counted it several times.
His lips pulled away from startling
white teeth in a snarl.
She couldn't have figured it out,
could she? She hadn't been acting different... I've been careful not to
let her know. She can't know. Impossible.
He paused in his steps near the door, peering out, mercurial eyes slitted.
Where is that little rabbit?
Hands planted firmly on the doorposts. He leaned his broad shoulders through the maw of the door.
He inhaled sharply.
Dust, damp, cement, metal.
Human sweat, blood, death.
He strode out, listening to the silent echo about him. The slight movement of the air caressed his bronzed skin. He moved off down the corridor, carefully listening, placing his feet near silent on the cold floor, his boots thudding dully on the harsh, stained cement.
Darkness rolled over his broad shoulders. It writhed against him as he passed, trailing shadow fingers along the stubbed cheek, staring deep into the silvery glow of the Shine before recoiling. The empty dark of Slam spread before him, and somewhere deep within it hid his quarry.
Where would she go? Does she
really think I won't hunt her down? Has she forgotten who I am? What I
am? That little rabbit's made her last mistake... there's not a soul alive
who betrays Richard B Riddick and survives.
Not even that little rabbit.
A feeling nagged at the back of his mind, drawing him along in the tight dark of the passages of Hell. He paused at the splits of the halls, and that strange pull would draw him one direction. His nostrils flared in the gloom, sucking in the musky-scented air.
I trusted her. I trusted her,
let her live, let her stay so close to me. And now she runs away. Runs
off into Slam without any thought.
He paused at another intersection,
peering into the eerily glowing darkness. He glowered down the passages,
scowling as he sought his way. Then again, that nagging feeling deep
in his mind, the clamor of instinct. His feet chose to follow the passage
to the right. The corridor flowed past him as he moved, his body sliding
through it's stalking gait, moving like a serpentine beast out of a fairy
tale on its way to steal the maiden away to her death in the mountain cave.
A few more turns, his body knowing the way without direction from his mind.
Then he stopped.
Ahead was light.
Around him was her heady scent, that low, teasing smell, taut with the flavor of sweat, salt, and the silent musk of her body. The scent was a quiet, embracing sort, and it wrapped itself around him, binding him within its gossamer touch before he fully noticed it.
I protected her. I looked
out for her. I got her the Shine. I watched over her while she healed.
Without me she would be dead or worse.
She owes me now, and for this
I'll take my payment.
He slowed, his feet touching silently
on the floor as he flowed forward, reaching behind him to draw out the
shiv.
Twisting around her smell was the heavy, dirt and sweat scent of men, the smells of violence, blood. Metal. Ozone.
Guards as well as inmates, then.
But was she still in there with them?
Light flickered from around the
corner. It sputtered, danced, glowed with an orange sheen. The murmur of
several voices crept about the corridor, echoing slightly.
I'll find her, and may whatever
powers exist have mercy on her, because I'm not going to.
And then we'll see if her blood is as sweet as the rest of her.