Author's Note: I do not own Riddick, more's the pity, however I do promise to return him. At some point in the undisclosed future. 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.

"What did you say?"

"I know the mess isn't where you wanted to go." She looked up at the huge man as his coarse hands gripped her shoulders, spinning her, holding her inescapably tight as he glowered down, his breath hot on her face with his anger. He was upset. She had upset him. She had said the wrong thing, known too much again. "You didn't want to come here. I can tell."

Shadows loomed all around Kiran. The heavy metal door closed with a dull, heavy, inescapable click behind her, enclosing her in near darkness, the concrete hall only lit by glowing running lights near the guard station doors, where the guards peered out at her through their night enhanced glass windows on either side of the heavy blast door.

She stood, shivering, her arms wrapped tightly about the small bag holding her three books.

A tinny, microphone-distorted voice told her to move along, then went silent, leaving her alone with the cold stares and the thrumming of her heartbeat. All around her she could hear the echoes of human suffering - cries of pain, the weeping of women, the sounds of men shouting, challenging one another. She stumbled off into the darkness.

The air around her closed in, overpowering with its stench of blood and filth, like she could imagine the smell of the grave being when she became lost in the stories. It made her stomach try to wretch up the last few meals she hadn't eaten. The breeze her skin and hair claimed was there didn't do anything to move the reek of the innards of this foul pit, or else she was so far from the recycling unit that it did no good.

She stumbled on in the inky dark, the floor tripping her up, the walls reaching out for her. Her heart, her feet, her breath all echoed in her ears, down the halls, all around her.

But as she tripped, stumbled, staggered through the darkness, the air began to taste cleaner, smell more pure. Her eyes started to adjust to the rare phosphorescence of the runner lights that peppered this corridor, but didn't spread into the side passages.

And then there he was.

He reeked of death. He emanated danger, sweat. There was a metallic tang to the heavy scent, like wet steel.

The faint runner lights that occasionally studded the halls backlit the massive form, flaring where it caught in the hair that hung in clumped ringlets over his shoulders, haloing the expansive shoulders in red-tinged light.

One thick arm shot out, deft and surprisingly quick, with a speed that belied the substantial form. The heavy hand drew her, struggling, fighting, towards the form. Closer and closer.

And then the other stocky arm encircled her. She yanked her body back, the hands slipping to her shoulders where they gripped her tightly. Something between a purr and a growl escaped his mammoth form.

"Well, well. Looks like I caught me a live one."

The thin shoulders squirmed in the callous grip, pain sparking from where the harsh fingers bruised the pale flesh. Her silvered eyes darkened, a storm over a mercury sea. Her nostrils flared with pain and anger. The soft lips tightened into a harsh line, pursed, tight, severe.

A sudden, violent yank jerked her soft shoulders, now knotted with her own wrath, out of his grasp. She stood, a step away, her face fiercely staring into his, her hair falling in an arc just to the side of her luminous eyes. Those eyes bored into his, the fire smoldering behind the stormy surface hot enough to make him step back. Her upper lip twitched with the desire, the need to snarl at him. Such fury seethed in her small frame, locked within her, causing the gentle, soft lines of her body to go sharp, rigid, malicious. The tightly fisted hands twitched, the fingers longing to snatch for a shiv.

The air itself crackled around her, the smell of ozone harsh to his nose. Riddick turned his head slightly away from her, watching the girl from the corner of his eye, feeling his own hackles rising.

One predator knows another, he thought to himself, his own senses suddenly coming aware of danger wrapped in the small body of the young woman, a shiv in a strange hand, a cornered beast baring fangs. Her scent was different, under the smell of burnt air.

It was stronger, feral.

And then the rage faded, melted away from her, left the diminutive form of the girl he knew, wide eyed, shying back away from him, the hands suddenly up, her arms crossed, hugging her small form. She stood frozen in his gaze.

"Rabbit..." Riddick warily took the step to her taking her wrists in his hands to pull her closer. "You all right?"

Spook leaned in against the huge man, shaking, shivering. Warily slow, he released her wrists to take her into his arms.

"You're right, you know. This isn't where I want to be. This isn't where you want to be either. It isn't where you deserve to be."