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.
And a special thanks to Bear, who gave me a great hand with the dialogue. claps for Bear Couldn't have done it without you!
(Bear, when officially thanked, responded with "I am not doing it for any recognition hun...I did it for you and for the fun of the character.")
He crept forward.
The voices became more plain. He could hear her, her words muffled, angry. Someone was laughing, a low chuckle with no hint of pleasantry in it. A curse was spat, and a few laughs were joined in one.
Firelight flickered brighter as he inched forward. He could smell the char of the burning wood, the smell of heated metal, the press of sweat and flesh. The bitter tang of bodies in close quarters. The smell of old blood, and of new scars.
The peculiar reek of ozone, so particular to the shocksticks and the gauges of guard issue. All nickel-slick and oiled, but still stinking of charred air and burnt metal.
And that soft, yielding scent of her. Laced with fear, that invasive scent wrapped around his senses.
The cement was harsh where he leaned his bronzed shoulder against it. He stilled his breath, staring at the opposite wall with his cold, unblinking eyes. His heartbeat sounded in his ears, creating a staccato backbeat to the clamor within the room.
He could make out four voices above the rest, and those voices were all male. Young voices. Voices deepened with mixed emotion. The baying of young hounds fearing the retaliation of the leader of their pack.
And they were all making suggestions at once, none of which sounded like they'd be at all pleasant for the female on the receiving end.
And then another voice.
A voice harsh and ragged, like it had been torn from the throat then carelessly sewn back in. A voice cruelly masculine. It was cold, and the lips it slithered from were obviously pulled into a sneer. The voice dripped of old pains, of vengeance, of hatred. It sounded with the clarion cry of one on the verge of triumph despite its tattered rags.
And in the ruined harsh of the voice shone tattered remnants of what had once been splendor.
When that voice crawled out, low, ragged, harsh, nearly lost in the shadows and flickering firelight, the others fell silent.
"Come now. This well-ridden little filly is our guest. I don't deny she's clean limbed. A real goer with good wind if ya know the type gents... and you can guarantee she's been to the races more than a few times. Why look at the saddle marks....and the quirt scars. But she IS our guest gentleman. Or at least she is for the moment. It's on account of her that the fine upstanding bastard Richard, and a fine example of why the name is often shortened to dick, but anyway it's her doing that the distinguished Dick will be joining us. And once that's done with, she belongs to Mister Talbot here. Maybe when he's done he'll be kind enough to share her, let you pass her among yourselves, try out some of those charming ideas of yours"
With a classicly aristocratic motion he pressed a stained cloth already spattered with blood to his lips, patting the ruins of his mouth as if he held the finest of silk kercheifs. " I must declare gentleman, I had NO idea that some of you could BE so creative. Why even in the depths of my imagination I don't think I would ever dream of some of the things I've heard planned for the little filly there." A dry chuckle turned into a rasping gurgle as the ripped and shattered remains of his throat temporarily exerted themselves.
"Now of course don't expect any of those charming ideas to impress her much. It's my understandin' that he's had her squealing and saying the filthiest words. But I digress. I am fairly assured that once you wind this little tart up she'll go for days and possibly teach all of you gentlemen a lesson or two.
"Until then, you don't get to do any more than look at her."
Riddick heard a muffled curse, Spook's small voice. The hoarse, brutalized voice laughed again, a bitter, cold sound, scales over stone. He dared a fast look into the room. He couldn't see the speaker, or where Spook was. What he could see was the nervous shifting of six burly men dressed in the shabby drab rags of inmates. They were watching something inside the room, towards him but off to the right. Fire was crackling in a metal barrel in the center of the room.
He heard the shuffle of bare feet, boots, flesh being struck by an open hand. A sharp, short cry of shocked pain and anger.
"Such spirit! No wonder that dog was so quick to cover you. Do tell though, dear, what exactly did you do to make that hound whimper and slink away like that when he was done? Or do you think it was just a slightly tardy sense of shame when he realized how low he'd stooped? But no matter -" The voice broke into a cough. "I fear all of this excitement has made me horribly fatigued. Please entertain yerselves while I partake of a slight restorative. A fine ages old southern bourbon would do." The only vaguely human profile turned in what could only have been a pose of reflection, or nostalgiac revelry. "But in light of my current less than sartorial state I must settle for a mundane nap."
Riddick swiftly bent his head, a momentary glance into the room. Something stirred at the edge of the doorway, but not far enough into view. He swore softly. Whoever it was in there, whatever it was they wanted from him, Spook surely wouldn't have leapt into any deal that would have handed herself over to Talbot. There was no way around that. He had seen firsthand the cautious fear she regarded that man with.
He frowned, shifting against the wall, leaning heavily on one solid shoulder. This was not good. He closed his burnished eyes. He listened.
There were at least a dozen pairs of feet shifting within the room.
He could feel the sticky itch of starting sweat in the stubble of his shaved scalp. The air was close and hot, clinging to his skin. The fire in the room ahead crackled, it's pale light flickering in the stare of squinted silver eyes. It glinted off the cold face, casting the etched lines of the emotionless mask that was Richard B Riddick into deep shadows.
He crept along the wall; the concrete lay its harsh caress on his shoulder as he slid along, a serpent in the dark. His feet touched the floor silently. His hand rested on the wall. His eyes glinted like frozen steel in the wan light.
The men in the room were laughing again; the squeal from Spook was nearly drowned in the harsh fall of voices. Riddick's cold eyes grew impossibly chill, the light in them dulling to only a malicious glint deep beneath the quicksilver pools.
He didn't know just how many men lurked within the room.
But the small, innocuous creature
upon whom all his plans rested was in there, bait in a trap that had all
the chance of being his last one sprung.
What a mess you've gotten me into this time, Spook. The deep eyes narrowed still further. All the time, all the work put into you, be damned if it isn't more expensive to let you hang in the noose you caught yourself in. Stupid Rabbit. How'd you ever last this long?
The low light flickered off the silver eyes. The darkness swallowed him.
"Darlin'," that voice again. Riddick moved still closer. "If your pet killer persists in this ridiculous tardiness, I may be forced into actions which I'd have cause to regret later."
He was close enough now to hear the girl's response; despite the overwhelming odds against her, the small girl spat at the speaker. Again that deep, harsh chuckle, the coughing.
Khyron.
"Ah, the brash, confidence of youth ." An almost affectionate or avuncular chuckle sounded unnatural in that torn throat. The resounding slap however was much more appropriate to the surroundings. Even though he could not see inside Riddick could well picture Khyron savagely tangling his fingers in Spooks now tangled dark hair. Her cheek turned to where the sadistic monster could view his handprint with that particular satisfaction he rarely let show through his cultured veneer. "So spirited, so defiant...so confounded stupid girl. I would think that even if you were no more than his playmate Riddick would have chosen a filly with more sense." Another resounding slap followed by a flurry of what could only be punches and kicks urged him forward.
Riddick moved still closer, the darkness of the corridor clinging to him as he passed, a spiders web of inky black. He could see Spook now, held in the strong, cruel hands of a burly guard, her arms pinned to her sides. She lashed out with one of her bare feet at the figure before her, the bent shape of a man leaning heavily on a crutch. Another in guards uniform, the guard she avoided, Talbot, struck her across the face.
"And now, if you youngsters outside would be so kind ? Y'all escort our guest of honor inside to where I can feast my eyes. Why I declare I NEVER thought we'd get to the entertainin' portion of the evening!"
Riddick started. A shock stick struck the back of his neck. Then another blow as he turned. The darkness flashed, flared, dissolved into spots as he sank to his knees, supporting himself on the knuckles of one hand, his shiv ripping out in an arc as another blow from the vicious stick left him near vomiting from the pain, his mind snarling as it dug into conciousness, refusing to slip.