Story Rating : M/R+

Chapter Rating : T/PG

Story Warning : Graphic Violence, Harsh Language, Gore, Murder, Sex, andControversial Subject Matter.

Chapter Warning : Cursing

Pairing : Riddick/Jack

Disclaimer : I do not own the Characters or Events of Pitch Black. If I did, the sequel would have forced them to invent a new rating system.

Feedback : I love reviews, but I ask those that decide to press the little purple button to please provide me with something besides praise and a demand for an update.

ren3017 – What can I say, I love stories where he's a father too. But all of them are kind of too sickly sweet. I asked one of my friends on DeviantArt to draw a picture of Helena and for some odd reason she decided to do five. Two of them are up :

http/ for what happened between Jack and Riddick, well, it's bad and basically the main reason why this story might get pulled.

AmberDD – Please, I wouldn't kill him off that easily. Riddick's death would be a dramatic struggle with much violence, cursing, and general loathing of the universe. Pffft, poison gas.

njrd – Jack's skin is pretty light, and Riddick's, on the other hand, is, as often described by so many authors, 'caramel colored' which is such a lovely description. This girl would have, oh, a mix of the two. I do apologize for the confusion. Unfortunately it may get worse before it gets better.

Tinca – So glad you liked the fight scene, it did take me a while. And, between you, me, and anyone else who reads these review responses, those 'meaningful moments' have so much much more to do with the story line.

FitMama – Yes, Helena is Jack's daughter and, Yes, she is Riddick's daughter too. And to answer your questions : No, You'll see, Something rather bad, You'll see.

Note : You know, I don't really have anything to say about this chapter other than I hope I did alright writing Imam.

Ghost of You

Leaving

Time : Nine Years Ago

Riddick stood by the window, silently staring.

He had not intended to come back this night. He had not planned on walking the same route through the back streets as he had every night for the past two months. He had not meant to return to the sandstone corner house, through the back door to the kitchen.

He had a ship, he'd bought it earlier that week with money more or less stolen. He could leave, if he wanted to.

The girl was curled up on the couch, fallen asleep from waiting for him to come back. She had sat up, in the living room of the holy man's house, every single night since they had arrived in New Mecca, waiting for him to come back.

It had become almost a ritual.

Riddick always left early in the morning, before dawn. He always came back when it was dark, sometimes just after sunset, sometimes well after midnight.

Most nights she would be awake and she would talk about the things that happened during her day while he ate what was left of dinner. She never asked what he did during the day, which was just as well because he wouldn't have told her anyway.

Tonight was different.

Her face was half hidden a pillow, but the half of her usually pale skinned cheek that he could see was dark with a well formed bruise. He quietly knelt down, peering at her from a distance. By the shape and form of the discoloration on her cheek he could tell how it had been created.

Someone else's fist had collided with her face. Little bigger than her own clenched hand. A slightly different shape to the knuckles. A boy's knuckles, aimed poorly, a lucky shot.

"She wouldn't say how she got it."

Riddick looked up.

The holy man was standing in the hallway beyond the kitchen, a somber look on his eyes. His voice was quiet and even. The concerned expression he wore made him appear slightly older, emphasizing lines in his face that previously had not been there.

"Whoever it was more than likely looks worse," the cleric said, a shadow of a smile crossing over his face. It faded a moment later as he stepped into the room. "Have you found your ship, Mister Riddick?"

Standing up slowly, Riddick nodded.

His gaze was still on the girl's sleeping face. Her eyes were moving quickly beneath the lids, dreaming. One hand was clenched over a fold in the pillow her head was rested on.

The skin on the knuckles of that very same hand were scraped, indicating what he already knew. It made him feel, somewhat, proud, that she had fought back.

"She thinks I do not know that she sits up waiting every night."

He looked back towards the holy man and was fixed with a hard stare. For a moment it felt as if he were being accused of something, so sharp was the glint in those opposing eyes.

"Do you know what would happen if you had not returned this evening?"

Riddick didn't respond, but turned back towards the kitchen, towards the backdoor and the still dark streets beyond. He made it as far as the doorknob.

"She would wait tomorrow, and the night after, and the night after, until it became truly clear that you were not coming back."

Riddick stopped, turning his head to the side. He could see his reflection the back window and beyond it the faint outline of the couch.

He could imagine her doing just as the holy man said. Sitting curled up on the couch, staring at the back door. Falling asleep in the very same place every night.

He could see her eyes devoid of hope as he had seen them become on the skiff.

"She can't come with me, holy man," Riddick muttered, shaking his head as he reached out towards the door. "Its safer here."

He heard the holy man moving, robes rustling as he stepped farther into the room.

"Safer for whom?" the cleric asked, voice sounding out much firmer than before. "She does not just look up to you, Mister Riddick, she counts you as a friend. I do not think she will take it very lightly if you simply leave without at least-"

"At least what?" Riddick growled, straining to keep his voice low. He didn't want her waking up. "Explaining? What the hell is there to explain? I'm a killer, holy man, not a fucking babysitter! I can't keep the mercs off my neck and protect her at the same time!"

"You misunderstand," the holy man returned. In the reflection of the window Riddick saw him shake his head. "It is not her who needs your protection, it is you who needs hers."

Turning around again, Riddick watched as the elder man walked quietly back down the hall and out of sight.

He then shifted his gaze to the girl, still sleeping on the couch. Or so it would appear if not for the lack of movement beneath her eyelids. He did not know how long she'd been awake or how much she had heard.

"You can stop pretending now, kid," he muttered, leaning a hand on the counter. His mind was still digesting the holy man's words.

She slowly opened her one visible eye. Fixating her gaze on him as she raised her head from the pillow, she pushed herself up onto her elbows. It appeared she was thinking.

Riddick's eyes shifted from hers to the bruise on her cheek. He felt a sudden rush of delayed anger towards whoever had given it to her. It caused his fists the clench involuntarily.

He forced his hands back open and shifted his gaze to her hair. It had grown out into an inch and a half of fuzz sticking out all over her head. He wondered, briefly, what it would look like when it was longer.

"You don't have to stay," the girl whispered, drawing his attention back to her eyes. "I know you don't want to."

Riddick stared at her, frowning slightly.

She looked away, biting her lip. He could see, as she turned her head, the faint gleam of moisture threatening to overflow.

She raised a hand and swiped at her eyes.

A moment later she stood up, sock padded feet hitting the stone tiled floor. She walked slowly around the side of the couch towards the hallway the holy man had disappeared down.

She didn't pause before passing out of sight.