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.

It always starts smelling more like blood before a riot, she mused, sniffing the air experimentally. Her eyes near glowed as she peered around her. The cement kissed her skin a little roughly as Riddick pushed her to the side, his muscles tense and straining. She placed her hand lightly on his arm, feeling the bunching, rippling, knotting, despite his stillness. His breath came slow, silent in the dark. His skin was hot against her flesh, but she moved closer to the searing arm, and he turned his eyes to her with a quick flick and the barest turn of his face.

Riddick could smell the coming violence too. To him it was the turning of the tide, the changing wind, the turning face of the moon. It was natural, and he felt it deep in his bones, nature calling to one of her forces. There was such calmness in his face, and the glowing eyes seemed for a bare moment to be touched with human warmth. He reached out briefly, the tips of his fingers barely tracing the line of her jaw.

"Storm's coming, Spook, little rabbit." He turned the deep, silvered eyes, hooded beneath the dark slashes of his brows, back to the darkness. His shoulders were stiff, knotted, rippling with the thoughts seething within his head, thoughts of fighting, of death, of blood, of pain. His nostrils flared, taking in huge drafts of the dank, musky air. She wrapped her fingers around his, A small sound escaping her, calling his attention back. "Hush now, Spook. We just need to get back to the hole. Then you tell me what you saw."

"Riddick-" Again he hushed her, brushing the harsh fingers over her lips, turning his head only long enough to frown at her. Her concerns turned into little more than a sigh over his hand, a snort of air and a crease in the brow. He turned his attention away again, tuning her out almost completely.

He was concerned. He was worried, worried that she wouldn't hold up beneath what he wanted. Spook studied the cheekbones, the nose, the way his lips were pursed. He hopes I'll lead him out of here. He doesn't know how, but he hopes, and he berates himself for hoping. I'm not just a girl, Riddick! The vehemence of the though caught her by surprise. She knew she could do it. He was Riddick. She had to live up to his expectations. Didn't she?

I CAN do this! He expects it, and I will do it. He asks, and I will succeed. She nodded to herself. But he hasn't actually asked yet. Ah, that nagging little voice.

He took a slow step. She followed.

He will, though. It is his right, the right of the strong, the right of those who think they are strong. It matters little if they are what they believe. They make the demands al the same.

But this one. This one is different. This one is strong, in body, in mind, in will. He is stronger than I. He will be the one. And he will have me at his side. That is plain.

Then he turned a slight bit, catching her eye with the tail of his. He made a vague gesture with his hand, the movement lost in the dark. And he moved on.

All around us are beasts, nothing more than that. Animals in human guise. You grasp their minds, and only the beast stares back through their eyes.

She tread carefully in his footsteps, his boots the only sound, echoing faintly around them.

All this damn dark. Surrounding her, smothering her. It was forever; that's what everyone said, thought, felt. This place was Hell. Dante, priests, they all had it wrong. Hell wasn't hot or cold. Hell was Darkness. They were right that it was filled with the dregs of humanity, but they had the atmosphere all wrong. There was no brimstone and fire. There was no freezing spiral. Instead there was darkness. Darkness and cement. Darkness, cement, and the reek of blood. All around, the pale shade of death, the specter scent of blood.

Lost in thought, she bumped into Riddick's broad back.

He was frozen in the hall, his muscles tense. There was that inaudible growl, the one that thrummed through his flesh, rattling wherever she touched him. His shoulders were squared, hard matted with aggression, though his arms were loose, the hands open. A muscle along the side of his thigh was twitching slightly. The musculature alongside the base of his spine stood in sharp relief.

And before him, fixed in the balor of his serpent gaze was another man.

This one was near to Riddick's height, and easily his equal in mass. He had skin of such a hue as to melt his form into the shadows, the glint of his Shine visible in the smothering blanket of the dark outlined by the barest shade of his body.

In one hand he bore a blade, vicious and long, with a foreign blade, forked like a serpent's tongue. It shone dully in the darkness, the edges glinting in patches; rough sharpening against the cement floor had scored and scarred the vicious edge.

In his other hand was a shaft of stained white, long and slightly bent, with a nasty shard of metal fastened through one of the wider end sections. It was an axe, fashioned from a broad piece of shrapnel metal and the thighbone of a fallen convict. Spook stared at it, eyes drawn to the gruesome artifact.

A flash of white.

The man was smiling.

"Ah. That be a lovely piece of flesh you have behind you." He spoke with deep, rich tones. Tones that rumbled through the pit of Spook's stomach. "I think I be taking her from you." The axe head let out a grating squeal as it ran its edge over the forked blade. "Just walk away, big man. I promise I treat her nice."

The growl in Riddick's chest grew louder. His calloused hand inched towards his back, reaching for the shiv.

Spook placed her hand on his arm.

And she stepped forward.

And she stared the stranger in the eyes.

"Spook, no."

She only glanced at Riddick, then held out her hands to the side.

"You want me? Come get me." The stranger's eyes flicked from her open stance to the fuming man behind her. The girl only smiled. "You only have to reach me, touch me. If you can manage that alone, then I'll go without complaint."

"Beat him, touch you? I beat him, you're mine. None of your games."

"Without beating him. Walk those five paces to touch me. He won't interfere." She glanced over her shoulder to flash a smile to Riddick.

Still the stranger hesitated.

"What the fuck are thinking, rabbit? I can ghost this one easy."

"Trust me? Please. He won't make it this far. Trust your little Spook. Doesn't she always manage to make things work out when the odds are against her?" And she turned her face away from him again. "I need to know I can do this."

"Do what?"

But the large man seemed to have made up his mind. With another hiss of the axe against the forked tongue of metal he steeled his resolve. He set the blade aside, keeping the longer reaching axe in his hand, resting it against his shoulder. He flashed a startlingly white smile.

He took a step towards her.

Then another.

And he fell, writhing, to the cement floor, screeching in agony. His fingertips clawed at his face. His back arched in violent, wracking spasms, bending himself backwards nearly double. His screaming grew louder. His nails were clawing strips of skin away from his flesh now. All his back was rippling as muscles fought themselves. The thick legs thrashed against the walls. His head was beating against the cold floor. There was blood gleaming wetly in the matted hair. Blood flowed down his face like tears. Blood coated his fingers. The wracking of his back grew more violent, faster, tighter pulls. The screaming grew louder, more frenzied.

Until with a wet, sick crack he fell suddenly silent. Blood pooled around him. He lay, crumpled like a discarded doll, his back in a strange line.

Spook merely blinked.