Author's Note: I do not own Riddick, much as I wish I did. I'm just borrowing him for a little while, and then I'll return him to his rightful owners in more or less the same condition I found him in.. 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.
Dirt, filth, and grime.
Everywhere he turned, the scum of space, human and refuse, cluttering the outpost. Muscle for hire, repair workers, shifty eyes salesmen peddling second hand, probably wanted craft. Spacers down on their luck and selling their last, nervous flyers handing over command codes to crafts sold unseen, lanky, malnourished women watching with narrowed eyes, calling in wheedling tones.
Many had the haunted look of those pressed into service on ships then dumped, the slightly wide eyed, near-fearful expression. Several were simply dregs of humanity, waiting their chance to find another crew like themselves. Old and young, all with hardened eyes and weathered faces.
Survivors, all of them.
He fit right in.
The outpost reeked of dank, seedy squalor, of the darkest of things done in the darkest of corners. Of the dust from the red soil and storms outside, of the gasping of a dying people clinging to life on a planet not meant to harbor life. The air was filled with the fragrance of sweat and fear, of aggression, adrenaline, grease, oil, burnt metal.
Spacers looked to Riddick with caution, mild curiosity, mistrust. Some moved closer, to get a better look, see if there was anything being obviously carried to be hawked, some skittered away, watching him with wild eyes.
A few nodded, slow cautious greetings speaking silent novels of appraisal and wariness. Dealings stopped whenever they drew within earshot, the parties involved glowering at the pair until they were sure they had moved again out of hearing. A few older spacers leaned on trunks, scrapped pieces of hulls, and watched, their eyes dark and brooding over the body of the girl who scuffed her tread in Riddick's shadow.
Spook clung to his side, just behind his elbow, her eyes fixed on his arm. Her steps were unsure, lacking his brash confidence as he strode through the narrow thoroughfare, his eyes alert behind shielding goggles bought for the meager credits culled from the bodies of the guards. She watched the back, clad in an undershirt salvaged from the last guard exed, stained with blood at the throat, spatters down the front of the white material.
As for her, she wore cast of trews of uniform grey, rolled at the cuffs so her bare feet wouldn't catch on the long legs, a shirt, ripped at the collar, but unstained, a little loose but more snug, looted from off the pilot, her dark hair tied back with a strip of rust-colored canvas.
He paused a few times, murmuring in low, gruff tones with one or another of the spacers, who all nodded and growled their answer, pointing down the path further, towards a pale blue glow.
The glow came from the eerie, flickering glow of torches at a repair yard, surrounded by a semicircle of docking bay doors. There were several workers in the yard, only one of whom spared the pair a glance when they entered the yard.
The one shut off her torch, shed the heavy gloves and mask, stepped forward, brows lowering as she studied the large man and trailing girl.
She was tall, broad of shoulder and narrow of hip, with whipcord muscle showing under skin paled by artificial lights, pinked by torch heat. Her straight, corvid-hued hair was tied in a knot on the back of her skull, a few wisps tucked behind her ears. Drab colored tight fitting pants with large pockets covered long legs. Her shoulders were bared by a black shirt whose sleeves had been forcibly removed at some earlier date.
Her slim lips were pursed as they neared, indigo eyes squinting, dark slashes of her brows lowered over the narrow, hawkish nose. She folded her arms over her chest, scowling darker, rocking back on booted heels.
"A bheil sibh ag iarraidh ìm?" Her chin lifted slightly, the lips taking on an even harsher frown, her jaw flexing.
"We were told to talk to Dillon. Is he here?"
"'S mise Dillon - I'm Dillon. What you want, spacer?"
Riddick tilted his head to the side, taking in her stance, her feet at shoulder width, arms still folded assertively across her chest. Her eyes challenged him, boring into his face with calm hostility.
"Is there somewhere we can talk?" With a snort, she nodded once, her eyes not leaving his face, hand gesturing casually to her right, to a small lean-to made from hull scraps.
It was quite cramped with the three of them within, and there were only two seats; there was a cargo box near the door they entered, and a navigators chair next to a large window, nearly a door itself. Dillon took the chair, crossing her legs, hands resting on the arms of the chair, nails drumming the padded metal.
"Who sent you? If it was Brett, I swear-"
"We have a ship to sell or trade. Shuttle, H-Seven-Zero-Eight-Q nav standard, slight wiring problem. We got it in a trade ourselves, need something a little better suited to a long trip."
Another silence, the pair watching each other, her with cautious wariness on her sharp features, him with a chill calm, his only hint of impatience in the slow clenching of his fist where it rested on Spook's shoulder as she sat on the box, him standing over her.
"What sort of wiring problem, spacer?" She had stopped tapping her little solo on the armrest and was now leaning forward, some of her cool impatience sloughing off, her eyes warming a little as she drank in the deal before her.
"Computer short, doesn't impact navigation or anything critical."
A curt nod from her.
"And you'll want a galaxy hopper in trade."
"Or something like."
She leaned back, steepling her long fingers before her face, the chair shifting back slightly. Again her brows lowered over the aquiline eyes, her lips pursing in that frown. She studied the large man, looking over the massive arms, the broad shoulders, the barrel chest, followed the line of his arm to the girl, her pale face downcast, strangely gleaming eyes glancing between the man's heavy boots and the surroundings, flitting about with a severe case of nerves. Occasionally the girl would shift her head, as if she was hearing someone call a name she hadn't quite heard, despite the relative silence; the only sounds to be made out were the sounds of work in the yard.
And when she would twitch in that manner, the heavy, calloused hand would stroke her hair for a brief moment, then fall back to her shoulder.
"All right. Which berth is your shuttle in? I'll take a look at it, and if it passes muster, we'll get the codes from you and give you the codes for a CG thirty-four-eighty I've got here. The ship's in good condition, just not too pretty, and I think you two are in a bit of a hurry. Poke your heads to the fourth berth from here off the yard to see it."