Author's Note: I do not own Riddick, more's the pity, however I do promise to return him. Eventually. 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 othercharacters not seen in Pitch Black.
The guards peered out from beside the metal doors, watching the pair with suspicion.
No, that wasn't right. They were watching HIM with suspicion. They expected her. The doors before the pair, between the guards, led towards the outer fringe of Slam. Behind those heavy doors lay corridors of metal, gleaming lights. Pain was there, but not the same as the pain that lurked in the dark with the pair.
And past those brightly lit rooms, past the cold tables, beyond the scent of antiseptic and scrubbed metal, beyond the scent of ozone and sedatives, beyond the racks of syringes and blades, there was where her memories led her, where the guidance of the huge man behind her guided her.
"You took me through the pages, Good happiness is shared, Lost in the web of changes, This could be the last dance, Waltzing in the rain, 'Till the Minstrel comes to save us."
She looked at the doors for a moment longer, the soft song hanging in the chill dark. She could feel the quizzical look on her back, the silvered eyes burning on the back of her skull. Slow, steady, she drew her breath.
The air hissed softly, pulling about her. Riddick had stepped back, leaning his broad back against the wall, one booted foot against it, his shoulders rolled against the harsh cement. He stared down at his coarse, heavy hands when she stepped forward, murmuring something to the guards.
"Inmate 892372. Progestin due." The guard merely looked at her through the glass, then tapped a few buttons. He stared beside her, at the glass, his eyes flitting between whatever was being displayed there and her face, identifying her.
"Proceed." came the crackled response.
Spook jumped.
There was a heavy click, and the door unlocked.
Memory spoke to the weight of the door; that it had been ponderous, reticent to open at her touch. One year. Only one year ago for the last time that cold portal had been touched by her hand. And how many years before that had the cumbersome portico barred her path, resisting her entrance with the slow, grating yield that drained away her courage?
But now the cool door swung easily before her. She slipped through its maw, shielding her eyes from the brightness, the scouring lights. She glanced down at the lock.
The bolts were thick. The setting in the jamb looked deep, and all was dully glinting metal. Her fingers brushed over the cold, seven inch deep jamb, silver eyes brushing over the wall where wall and door blended seamlessly. The cold seeped into her pale skin.
That wasn't going to be any help.
She allowed the slight scowl to pull at her lip for a sheer moment before she felt the door blow the cool breeze on her back as it began to close. She kept her face down turned, brows lowered to protect her oh so sensitive eyes from the scalding nuance of the shifting, swirling light and color that danced, twisted, cavorted around the small chamber around her.
A few sullen faced women slouched on hard metal benches. They stared at the slender, lean muscled form where she belatedly realized her hands were still touching the wall by the door. She met the dark points that betrayed one woman's eyes to the shined vision, felt her face fall into the frozen mask, watched the other woman shrink back ever so slightly and turn her face away. Only then did Spook carefully pad across the metal floor, to take her own seat on the opposite austere bench from the women.
The route she wanted to see was to the left, blocked by another set of solid doors, their wired finish dully gleaming, sending the vicious light gyrating through her skull, making her eyes sting and smart. She could see no way to open these doors, but a small pad on the side, a speaker system.
She fidgeted a little on the cold hard bench. The smallest of the waiting women, a small woman with haunted eyes and a decided limp, scars running over her visible face, cross-crissing over her forearms, stood to follow the nurse to the curtained off area.
The chill of the wall could be felt through Spooks hair. From that position she closed her eyes, let her attention focus on the wall, and stretching through it. That speaker meant that there would be a remote location to open it, probably on the other side. It would be manned by one to three people. Three, she decided. It had to be three. That just felt right.
Her fingers slipped up to lightly touch the collar at her throat. It would be so nice to be rid of it, to look just like everyone else. To be able to simply blend in, to fade away.
To be just like everyone else.
At least on the outside.
That train of thought brought a small smile to her pale lips, a smile that was short-lived. She jerked the leash of her mind, calling it back to heel, focusing again on what would be beyond that door.
Memory spoke of a corridor. Long. Lots of doors. Chances of guards behind each one who, should the alarm sound, would pour into that hallway like a tide of hounds on the course of a small woodland creature.
But that hallway was mostly non-military personnel. It was where the nurses and doctors were, where the guards received their medical procedures.
The other side, to her right, that would be heavily guarded.
That was where the inmates healed. That was where the murderers, mad dogs, and psychopaths were treated. So the guards to the left would be a token force at best. No more than twenty-five strong. There was never supposed to be more than one prisoner there at a time, so probably less. Fifteen was more likely. After all, to even get this far in, to this small waiting room, one needed to pass armed guards and get through a locked door. Only guards could come and go freely through the doors without contest.
The next woman stood as the first slunk out, rubbing her shoulder as she left.
That hallway. It was about one hundred yards, perhaps as much as one fifty. The doors were spread at three yard intervals. Then came another steel door. That one would have locks. Thick, heavy tumblers, sunk deep into the massive outer walls.
And beyond that was the destination, the horizon.
"Inmate 892372?" The voice was soft, but it brought her back to herself. A nurse was standing near her, looking down at her. "You fell asleep. We're ready for you now."
Spook murmured an apology as she stood to follow.