Author's Note: I do not own Riddick, I'm simply borrowing him for my own nefarious purposes. 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.

"We've got an unauthorized launch! Hangar bay, please respond." Static crackled on the frequency. "Hangar bay, do you read!"

Still the quiet hiss of static, the crackle where voices should sound.

"Shuttle Eight-Omega-Lambda, do you copy?" another static-filled pause. "Fuck! Send someone down to check the bay!" An alert lit on the panel before the young man. "Shit! The shuttle can't be brought under override control! It's crashing! Get a pilot and guard crew down there now! We're getting whoever has that shuttle before the asteroid does!

Booted feet skidded to a halt within the bay, horrified murmuring breaking out as the three guards and pilot took in the open door, the shattered bodies, the bloodstains flowing, pooling, thickening on the metal floor.

"We've got a breach!" the voice was awed, shocked, scared. "How the fuck did this happen?"

"Oh god! It's worse!" Another man pointed down the hall, through the open door back into Slam, down the gauntlet of carnage. "Whoever did this did a damn thorough job. Left nobody to raise an alarm, but how they did it without someone raising hell…"

"Over here! Hurry! We've got to get out there! The shuttle's going down!" The young pilot was keying in the access code, opening the hatch to the shuttle now queued up to the launch doors. The guards jogged over, hopping with practiced ease into the shuttle, checking over their guages again as they settled into the interior.

They took up their places in the seats suspended from the framework, feeling them give slightly into the space behind them, between the framework they were bolted to and the curved shell of the shuttle. They grimly watched one another. The pilot keyed the hatch closed, slunk to the control panels, began fanning his fingers over the pads, the shuttle humming, shuddering, shivering to life.

"Yeah, control, this is shuttle Zero-Epsilon-Omicron, launching now."

The engines whined.

With a rolling heave, the shuttle began to move, the launch doors opening before the domed nose. The track rose upward. Ahead lay the launch shaft, lit by running lights, the track ending about halfway up its length.

With a dull, convulsing echo, the doors closed behind the shuttle.

The engines grew louder.

The small ship spread its wings, began to hasten in its ascent.

Ahead, the forward doors opened, clearing the view to the steady shine of stars, to the rising of the curve of the planed the asteroid orbited, shimmering through its atmosphere in greens with swirls of white. There was a slight dropping heave as the shuttle left the track and rushed away from the shaft, hurling itself out into the darkness, spinning beneath the pilot's hands to search for the swiftly descending insectile form of the falling shuttle that had escaped.

"Control, shuttle Zero-Epsilon-Omicron clear of the launch shaft, beginning reconnaissance sweep now."

And then a guard sputtered suddenly in the silence, blood rushing from his mouth, his eyes wide with shock. The other two in the cabin reached to their harnesses, unhooking themselves from the seats, cursing, fingering their guages.

Then another guard, across the way, coughed, spattering blood, falling forward, his guage clattering across the floor.

The back of his seat was stained, coated with wetly gleaming crimson, the same crimson that now soaked through his shirt, onto the floor.

"Fuck!" The last guard rose, his eyes wide, moving to the center of the compartment, his boots making a strange ringing on the curved floor, his frame whipping back and forth, training the guage first on one side, then the other. "get this beast down NOW! We've got company here!"

But silence was his only reply.

The guard whipped around again, facing the pilot's compartment.

Leaning in the gated doorframe between the two compartments was a hulking behemoth of a man. He stared at the guard with eyes as steady and as chill as a snakes, casually tilting his head to watch the guard. Blood dripped from the shiv that he held in a relaxed grip in his hand, his wrists against the metal, his colossal frame leaning slightly forward through the gap in the grate.

A small bunch of wires were held in his other hand.

"Sorry, boss." A woman's voice, quiet and soft behind him. "He got up too fast."

A soft hand fluttered to alight on his shoulder, the thumb against the nape of his neck, a hand cool against his skin.

"Please, drop the guage." Her voice was gentle, a silken caress against his ear. "I tend to get nervous when people point weapons at him, and if you were to shoot, we'd both die in flaming glory."

The guard spared a glance to the pale form beside him. Her eyes were fixed on the larger man, regarding him with a strange light in the shined gaze.

The massive killer brought the attention back to him with a harsh snort.

"The pilot's dead, and your little playmates are cold on the floor of this ship. The most you can hope for is to last until I've landed somewhere more appropriate so I can take care of the bodies." The guard's knuckles turned white as his grip tightened.

He glanced at the girl again.

Her eyes were half closed, something like a smile on her lips as she listened to the rumble of his voice. The smile was nothing, he decided, to do with what the cruel-voiced murderer was saying, but instead everything to do with her own contentment at the sound of his voice, perhaps something else, the hint of triumph barely visible.

He turned his attention back to the man.

He had moved his titan body closer; he was now only a stride or so away, his vicious eyes staring down from the tawny face. His muscles were relaxed, yet held ready. His stance spoke volumes of his ease, his complete mastery of the situation, his complete disregard for the guard who stood before him.

He tossed the wiring before the man.

"They can't recall this shuttle."

He didn't speak; he purred his words, low and cold, full of his satisfaction, tinged through with his victory.

Viper fast, the guage was ripped out of the guard's numb hands, whipped around, re-aimed.

Then the barrel was dropped, the guage cast behind the massive man, into the pilot's compartment, where it skidded up against the limp arm of the cast form of the pilot, the butt of the guage resting near the death-filmed, staring eyes.

And the killer held out his empty hand.

The girl, for she was small, young despite the gauntness of her and the age in her eyes, moved closer to him, floating, drifting into the nook of the heavy arm.

And two pairs of shined eyes fixed him, one set quiet, calm, glowing with a certainty, the other dark, brooding, watching him intently.

The killer bowed his head, eyes still on the guard, murmured into the girl's ear. She tilted her head back, smiled, rubbed her cheek against his.

And he turned away, stepping back into the cockpit, stooping onto the controls.

"Ghost his ass, rabbit."