AN: Something different, I hope. Please take it all with an open mind and feel more than free to hit me back about it. I adore feedback and suggestions. They're half the reason why I do this. PB fic, and no COR. There may be some OOCness for Rid, but it's more of a different take…And don't worry, I'm not stopping my other fic...in fact, I've got most of the next chapter done. I've just gone insane and am attemtpting to write two at once...

Disclaimer: If I actually owned the Riddick-verse don't you think I'd be a lot busier cozying up to the star? Yeah. Damn, now I'm sad I don't…

Summary: Three years after the escape from the monsters Riddick's life has changed. He's been given a new life, a new start, a new job. And now his world's about to be turned upside down again by a pair of strange, blue eyes…

Cerulean Blue

Chapter 1:

Independent

Ge'roon 2 is not a planet to be sneezed at. While perhaps not the most distant or dangerous or lawless of the Outer Rim planets Ge'roon 2 held its own particular brands of danger. The first of which was the native population; a thin, wispy, wraithlike breed they fed upon death and dying things. And they didn't always seem to care if you were completely dead before they began to eat you. But despite their rather gruesome nature and ghostly appearance they were rather well controlled and kept away from the human population of the planet. They were only really dangerous when they formed packs or swarms and that only happened once in a great while, usually far away from the main cities. It hadn't taken the humans long to learn not to stray from the city, especially at night as the natives were mostly nocturnal.

Appropriately, the second unique danger was the planet's night itself. The planet was one of only three that circled a white dwarf, the leftovers of a star gone supernova at some point in the distant past, and as such the days were short and the nights were long. Day light was faint and washed out lasting only about five hours or so while the night lasted a good eighteen. As an added bonus, Ge'roon 2 had only one, small moon that was in fact quite some distance away from the planet and would probably spin itself completely out of orbit in another millennia or so. As such, the nights were quite dark as well as long with only faint moon light at best and the tiny pricks of starlight blanketing the sky.

But perhaps the most dangerous feature of all was the human population itself. Ge'roon 2 had originally been a prison colony reminiscent of the formation of Australia on Old Earth. It wasn't a hard-line Slam, but instead housed low to lower-medium offenders. That didn't make them less dangerous, though. Just because you got caught on a thieving charge didn't mean you hadn't killed a few people in your past, or that you were a nice guy. Fact of the matter was, you didn't last long on Ge'roon if you were soft, even now when it had ceased to be a prison colony at the end of the Sellan wars and was now more of a weigh station for smugglers, thugs, and people it was better not to ask about. If anything, the place was more dangerous now than it had been when the guards had run it. While still not the most dangerous of places, Ge'roon 2 was nothing you could consider safe.

It was, however, a good place to hide. The people here had long ago learned not to ask questions or speak about what they saw.

It was that last part that interested the figure that was currently ghosting through the shadows. He was a dangerous man, anyone able to catch a glimpse of him would have been able to tell you that. Large in more than stature, he stood slightly over six feet with a wealth of muscles hardened by a harder life, not the kind you got working out in a gym to try and impress. Oh no, these were muscles you earned the hard way…to survive. The black clothes, the shaved head, the shimmering silver eyes winking in the near pitch of night all bespoke that danger. But there was something more, an aura of restrained violence, violence he was comfortable with, calmed for the moment but more than able to spring forth at enough provocation. It was in the way he stood, the way he moved, the way he didn't. He was not one to cross, the message was clear.

There were many on Ge'roon 2 you wouldn't want to mess with, in the years since it had stopped being a prison it hadn't stopped housing criminals. To the contrary. Since the people here knew better than to ask questions or talk about what they saw it had become a wonderful hiding place for those that didn't want to be found. A place to rest, well, rest as much as you could being surrounded by other criminals. A place to recoup. But men like this were still something to be wary of, and everyone here knew better. If they saw him they could tell you the same.

Not that anyone really saw him as he moved tonight, though, sliding through the darkened places, gliding through alleys and over roof tops as silent as the shadow of death. Riddick had used Ge'roon 2 to hide before himself, but tonight he wasn't hiding. No, tonight he was hunting. And the hunter was never, never seen. Not until it was too late.

As he crept along one roofline, invisible to the few eyes that moved along the alley below, he let the back part of his mind wander, trusting his instincts and experience to keep him moving towards his target undetected. Three years. It had been three years since he had escaped that damned, eclipsed planet and its monsters. Three years since he had taken a kid and a holy man with him into the dark of space. Three years since the old Riddick had died and new one had taken his place.

Trouble had been, he didn't know how to be that new Riddick. He knew that there would be mercs on his neck no matter that he had been reported as dead. All it took was for one person to recognize him and alerts would blaze up across the galaxy. Sooner or later it would happen and they'd come for him. Riddick knew mercs, knew them like you know the mildew on your bathroom tiles. When they came after him they would use anything they could to get the jump on him, even if it meant putting innocents in the way. They'd use Jack and Imam to get to him, and Riddick couldn't have that. They were the only people who'd ever given a shit about him in his whole life, the only people he'd ever given a shit about. He refused to risk them.

He'd planned to leave, almost as soon as they set down on New Mecca. He'd planned to stay only long enough to make sure they were settled and safe before he took off, drawing whatever danger was bound to follow him away. That first night, though, plans had changed.

He'd come home late from what he liked to call some 'recon' work. He'd been sizing up ships and freighters, making plans for his exit. As soon as he'd opened the door to Imam's house the screams had hit him. Jack. He'd been upstairs in a flash, shiv in hand, bloody murder in his heart for whoever it was that was making his little girl scream like that. What he'd found wasn't what he'd been expecting.

He'd rushed to Jack's room to find Imam's entire family there. His wife, Assha, holding their two year old little girl, Zeeza, was trying to keep the little child calm herself. Riddick remembered how shocked he'd been to discover the holy man had a family of his own, or how readily they'd accepted him after hearing what he'd done to save Imam's life. Riddick looked farther to find Jack curled into a corner of the room, completely wild, hysterical, and Imam crouched near her trying to calm her. It wasn't working. Riddick strode past the obviously worried Assha and over towards them. As soon as Jack caught a glimpse of him she'd thrown herself at him. For a moment Riddick had thought she was attacking, lost in whatever hysteria had gripped her, but instead she just latched onto him and sobbed into his chest.

A nightmare. That's what it had been. Jack had had a nightmare, though whether it was about that damned planet or something else Riddick couldn't say. Even though she'd been calming she wasn't exactly coherent. Eventually she stopped crying, wound down to sniffles and whimpers, before falling into an exhausted sleep. He'd found out from Imam that she had awoken screaming about two hours before and no matter what they had tried Imam had not been able to calm her. It wasn't until Riddick had come back that she had managed to snap out of it.

Kind of ironic, really. The deadly killer, the big, bad, evil of the universe was the only thing that made her feel safe.

That wasn't the last, either. It was the same the next night and the night after that. Jack would wake up screaming and Riddick was the only one able to calm her. His plans had changed after that. There was no way he was leaving Jack to deal with that on her own. He knew it was dangerous for him to stay, but he didn't have a choice. Somehow he'd have to find a way for it to work. What good would it do to protect them by leaving if Jack went insane? No, he'd have to make sure she got better before he could leave. Now if only he could find a way…

It was easier said than done. It meant he needed to get some kind of work. Imam may be well respected in his community as a holy man, but priests, no matter their cloth, never made a whole lot of money. And Imam had his own family to support. It would be hard enough to feed and clothe one extra body, not to mention two. Riddick had planned to send money back for Jack's care once he was gone, but work would have been easier to get out where he wouldn't have to worry so much about anyone tracking him back to them. Unfortunately, work meant the possibility of being recognized, which meant mercs, which meant danger for his strange little family. And that was unacceptable.

What he hadn't counted on, of course, was his luck. Riddick had always had the oddest luck. It was the same luck that had gotten him crashed on that planet but let him survive the drop. It was the same luck that put him up against monsters that would scare nightmares but got him through. The luck that stuck him with a kid and a holy man, two people that should certainly fear and despise him, and turned them into something closer to a family than Riddick had ever known. It wasn't good luck, it wasn't bad, it was just odd.

A smirk touched his lips as he crouched down on the edge of a roof, letting the memory wash over him…

Riddick had been slinking through the dark, working his way into one of the worse parts of New Mecca. It was in these kinds of places where he might be able to find some work, the kind of work he did. Unfortunately, it was in these parts where he was most likely to be recognized. So he stuck to the shadows, had grown his hair somewhat, and even suffered the itchy annoyance of the goatee on his chin. It had been a month since his decision to stay until Jack got better and he'd started this disguise and he'd yet to be able to find work. He was starting to get a little desperate, that was why he was here.

A slight noise drew his attention farther down the alley he'd been using. It was the scuff of boots, the 'snick' of blades being pulled from sheaths, the click of a gun's hammer being drawn. Riddick immediately shrunk back into the shadows, intending to slip away before the people farther ahead noticed his presence. Usually he didn't worry about trouble, but trouble brought attention, and attention brought a greater chance of recognition. Before when he would have grinned at the prospect of a little excitement now he did his best to avoid it.

"You're dead, old man," a male voice ground out, making Riddick pause. He'd heard that kind of voice far too many times in his life. Hard, cold, cruel, and filled the kind of anger that turned a regular jerk into a killer.

"We're gonna rip you up," another voice said, followed by the harsh sound of two blades sliding against each other.

Without really realizing it, Riddick had moved towards the voices, rounding a corner to take in the scene. What he saw didn't make him happy. There were twelve young men, all armed in one way or another, surrounding an older man who had his back almost pressed up against the wall of the dead-end section of alley. Cornered. The older man had to be at least ten years older than Riddick himself, though larger. He seemed to stand about six-five and though his clothing was loose it didn't hide the fact that his large frame didn't hold much in the way of extra weight. But still, he was one middle-aged, unarmed man against twelve, young, armed ones.

Carolyn had once said she knew a part of him wanted to rejoin the human race. He'd told her he wouldn't know how. It wasn't exactly the truth. The fact of the matter was that he had never left the human race, he just knew more of it. In his years he'd seen the best and worst that humanity had to offer, mostly the worst. Humans, as a species, were inherently violent. They were dominators, by nature, their lack of natural defenses forcing them to develop more cunning and dangerous things in order to survive. Their minds. It was a standard human thought that if they couldn't stand up physically to the predators they would stand above them and make sure the predators couldn't stand up at all. If they dominated, they were safe. It was because of that that they rose to the top of the food chain no matter where they went.

He'd seen it all in his time. Seen people claiming to be 'civilized' put others in chains, in cages, and even to death for the sake of the 'greater good'. He'd seen benevolent governments wage war to protect their own. He'd seen sneak thieves and thugs and killers and worse…each and every one following the same mantra of domination and violence that was humanity's legacy, each in their own way. Each trying to survive. Oh, he didn't have to rejoin the human race, he was most definitely a part of it, perhaps more than most.

People tended to see him as a stone cold killer. It was true. But there were parts they didn't see…that he wouldn't let them see because doing so would endanger his own continued survival. The fact was, he cared. Perhaps he shouldn't and considering all he'd seen and known in his time it was surprising that he could. But he did, he always had. That was half the reason he got into so much trouble. Problem was the cops didn't really care if you were stopping the asshole from raping your fifteen year old roommate, the fact was you had killed and killing was killing. Besides, who'd believe a forgotten orphan in a hell hole like that anyway?

It hadn't really been a conscious thought, but Riddick found himself stepping out of the deeper shadows and lifting his goggles to his forehead to grant him his clearest sight. He could see through them in the night, but it muffled things slightly, usually a sacrifice he was willing to make so others didn't notice the distinctive shine job. But right now he was going to need all the advantage he could get.

"I don't think you want to do that," he drawled. The young men spun around, weapons bared. "Twelve against one…ain't exactly fair odds."

"Who the fuck are you?" one of the men growled out. That was when Riddick noticed something he should have earlier but hadn't since their backs had been to him. Each of them was wearing a badge on their vest…a gang badge. That's why there were so many against one man, this was a gang thing. Shit, normally he didn't mess with that. He may care, he may be good, but he wasn't suicidal. Gangs were rarely a one time thing. They were like cockroaches, stomp on one and twelve more came out of the woodworks. Well, too late now.

"Someone who doesn't like unfair odds," he responded quietly, putting his most forbidding expression on and saw a couple of them pale, probably noticing the shine.

"Well," the apparently leader said, "then I guess you're someone that's gonna die too."

Riddick tipped his head to the side slightly as the leader brought a gun up to bare. He dodged just as he saw the finger squeeze, the blast missing him by a hair, and in the next second had the youth split open. He stared into the shocked face, his own jaw clenched at having to kill the kid. But the fact was that if he hadn't, he'd be dead himself. In this game of domination, Riddick had won.

There had been a moment of shocked silence, and then the night had erupted. In what had felt like an hour but was probably less than five minutes it was over, and the only people left standing in that dead end ally was Riddick and the not-so-old man. Riddick had just turned to leave when he heard the other speak.

"Well, well, well. Never thought I'd run into you of all people. Not like this."

Riddick turned slowly at the voice. It was younger sounding that he had expected, and held the lilt of an Irish brogue that was rare out here in the Hellion system. His blood had gone cold and his hand clenched on his shiv as he turned to face the man. He was standing there, in the dark, with a slight smile on his face, completely at ease.

"So," the man continued, "you're Riddick."

Shit. He'd been recognized, just like he feared. The man must have seen his hand clench tighter on the hilt of the shiv because he held up a placating had.

"Whoa, there, old son," he said, a slight amusement in his voice. "'Taint nothin' to get all riled for."

"You a merc?" Riddick ground out dangerously.

"A merc? Well, now that's just down right insultin'. To think, bein' mistaken for one of those spineless, dickless, cum suckers. I like to think I'm a might better than that, and at least a touch more dangerous than those gutless cred-whores."

Riddick would have thought that he was just trying to be convincing to someone who obviously hated mercs, but the insults rolled too comfortably and well practiced off the man's tongue. Looked like he'd found someone who despised them almost as much as he did. And he was willing to believe the 'dangerous' part, considering that while middle-aged and with just touch of a paunch, the man had managed to drop five of the twelve and come out just as uninjured as Riddick himself.

"So who are you?" Riddick asked, narrowing his eyes.

The man smacked himself on the forehead, a slightly sheepish, still amused look on his face. "Ach, now where are me manners? Me old ma, God rest her ever-lovin' soul, would surely box my ears if she knew I'd let em slip like that. Name's McKellern," he said, holding out his hand and proving his Irish ancestry with that name, "Ian McKellern. Though folks most call me Tracks."

Riddick raised an eyebrow slowly at that, but took the man's hand. It was a surprisingly strong grip. "Odd thing to be called if you're not a merc."

McKellern paused, his paw of a hand still basically engulfing Riddick's, and gave him a thoughtful look. "Tell you what," he said, not letting go, "there's a bit of a pub a touch down the road. Not much to look at but the prices are reasonable, they don't water the booze, and you won't go blind lookin' at the wenches. How bout I buy a drink for the man what saved me hide and I'll tell you 'bout it. Might even have a touch of a proposition for you, Richard B. Riddick."

Against his better judgment Riddick had gone with the man, his curiosity overriding his caution. And there hadn't been a day since where he hadn't thanked Imam's god that he had. Turned out McKellern was as good as his word. The pub was a hole but the liquor and prices were good, and while nothing to really go hard over the serving girls didn't make a man shudder. It wasn't the place, though, that made Riddick so thankful, it was the man himself.

Turned out that McKellern wasn't a merc…he was an IC. An Independent Contractor. He'd heard of them before but until now hadn't really run into any that he was aware of. IC's didn't run the bounty sheets, not unless the person in question had done something to particularly piss them off, and then it was more of a matter of finding a way to get at them without the law getting in the way. The short explanation was that an IC was what a merc might be if they any kind of code or honor. The longer one was a bit more complicated.

IC's were exactly that. They were independently contracted by a number of different types of clients; government, law enforcement, military, private. Some jobs were more above boards that others, some never even saw the boards above their heads. IC's had a basic motto; Morally right. While they did everything from tracking people, running investigations, body guarding, and even full on shadow-type ops that was the definite deciding factor. An IC didn't take a job they didn't agree with, no matter what the price. It was also the deciding difference between them and mercs; mercs lived for the money and they'd do anything for it, IC's didn't give a shit about the creds if they didn't agree with the job. More likely than not, if you offered a bad job to an IC not only would they turn you down, but then they'd go after you.

Considering the very real service ICs provided for different government and law enforcement agencies they were legally licensed for the work they did, even if some of it would be more than enough to stick anyone else in prison. After all, while not talked about it was fairly well known that IC's considered killing morally right given the circumstances. There were strict protocols for getting licensed, of course, and supposedly there was someone keeping some kind of eye on them, but the fact was that the ICs basically did what they wanted. Thank god they were on the side of the angels. Mostly.

Turned out McKellern, or Tracks as he preferred, wasn't just an IC. He was the head of an entire company of them. They were called The Cerulean Blues, Blues for short. There were other companies of IDs, sure, but the Blues were the best. They were one of the oldest ones out there, in fact, they were the first, and their specialties were wide ranging. What was more, it turned out they'd been keeping an eye on him.

"I thought IDs didn't run the sheets," Riddick rumbled, leaning back in his seat in the dark, corner booth.

Tracks smirked and snorted into his drink. "We don't. If we did, do you ken this would be the first time you'd'a meet a Blue?" Riddick's eyes narrowed slightly as the older man took a drink. "Tell me, Riddick, you remember the Foster House on Rysen 7?"

Riddick snorted. "How could I forget."

Rysen 7. It could be called the beginning of his career. That was the place where he'd made his first kill. Sure, he'd done some stuff before that—fights, stealing, running shit for people who would pay—but all of it had been pretty minor and really just to stay afloat in the gutters. But then the Foster House happened. He'd been in and out of more than a few in his life. Tended to happen when you were abandoned at birth. But this one…this one had been hard. That was the one where the House Master had been one cruel, twisted son of a bitch with a taste for little boys…Riddick had never been a target to his darker desires, mostly because even at sixteen there had never been anything little about him. But his roommate…The House Master had come for little Kenny one night and Riddick had stopped him. But the Master put up a fight and in the end Riddick was the one left breathing.

That had been the start of it all, he figured. Usually a sixteen year old would have been sent to juvenile, he'd been in and out of there plenty to. But not this time. Due to his past record for those little things—fights, stealing, running—and his reputation as a trouble maker the judge had decided he would be tried and convicted as an adult. And so he'd entered his first Slam and been branded a murderer on his permanent record. And that ain't shit that can be overlooked.

Still, if he'd had to do it again, he would. Kenny had been a sweet kid, full of hope and bright smiles. The only reason he'd been in that Foster House was because his parents had died in a skimmer accident and his only living relative, his older brother, was away on a mission for the Forces. He wasn't hard like Riddick, hadn't lived in the slime and the trash. He hadn't been raised in misery and despair. Riddick had labeled himself Kenny's protector from damn near the moment he'd walked into their room. There were times he wondered what had ever happened to Kenny…the little Irish lad…wait a minute…Kenneth McKell…

Riddick head snapped up to see the slight smirk on Tracks' face and the slight nodded of acknowledgement.

"Me little brother," Tracks said, his expression serious. "He was a late-in-life-child, as they say, a miracle baby. Lot o' years a'tween us. I was already in Service a'fore he entered secondary school. Had just been sent out on a year long mission couple months before our parents died, and didn't find out about it 'til after I got back. I figger it was three maybe four months after you got Slammed for savin' him. Got out after tha'…hired on to Cerulean Blue. Can't hardly take care o' a youngin' when you could be sent out to yer death at the drop o' hat."

Riddick nodded slowly and took a sip of his own drink as he digested it. "So…how's Kenny now?"

McKellern's eyes flashed up to him, speculative for an instant before lighting with warmth. "Glad you asked. After you killed tha' damn House Master it came out what he was doin'. Kenny and the others got looked after good. He came out it all right, went to school. Got a degree in psychology. We all thought he was goin' to be a coucelor, you know, deal with 'troubled youth' or somewhat. Didn't though…went on, got his teaching license. Opened a training school o' sorts. Takes in kids, most of um street, more of em with a record, finds their strengths, and trains em up to do something. Once done, helps em get jobs. He said it wasn't the kids what were criminals, just that the street didn't give em a choice."

Riddick couldn't fight the smile. Yeah, that sounded like Kenny.

"You know, he always was a gentle soul," McKellern continued. "But he went right ballistic when word came over the Vid 'bout your escape from that Slam. Madder than a fairy he was, especially 'bout all they were saying of you. That's when I found out about what, exactly, you'd done. Done for him. And that's why I'm interested in you."

"What," Riddick snorted, "wanna say thanks or some shit? Save it."

Tracks' eyes narrowed. "You know, there are a lot of kinds of killers out there in the great starry mess. But did you know that you can tell a lot about just what kind o' killer they are by their first?" Riddick twitched a brow. "It's true! There are soldiers or badge men what kill in the line o' duty and generally throw up afterwards. Petty or angry ones what do it for revenge or passion or whatnot. Those is usually one offs. There those what do it for survival, cause they taint got no other way. One that do it to protect, though those are mostly those what come behind em. And then there are the ones you really gotta worry about. The ones what kill early with a smile on their face and a song in their heart. Those ones…well, those ones should be dropped soon as ya find em."

"And me?"

"Well, see, that's why I'm interested. You killed to protect Kenny, never gone that far before. But once you had…well, suppose I don't have to tell you there's no going back, not once you get Slammed for it."

"Suppose you don't." Riddick narrowed his eyes as he regarded the Irish man, not entirely sure what to think. He sure as hell hadn't ever run into anyone like him before. Not many people drew a distinction between different types of killers. At least not the ones he ran into. "So what's the point of all this?"

Tracks smiled at him and lifted his drink, pausing just before it reached his mouth. "I believe I mentioned a proposition…"

And what a proposition it was. Turned out that Tracks had followed his 'career', spurred on by his brother's encounter and his own curiosity. He'd researched each and every report, and some things that had never even made the scanners. And he'd come to a decision. Right then and there he offered Riddick something he had never dared dream even possible…a new life. He would clear his past, erase it, make way for him to start over without it dogging his heals…if Riddick would agree to become an IC. Tracks would train him, show him the ropes, just what he could and couldn't do…and how to not get caught when he did the later. He didn't even insist that Riddick work for him and his company, just that he consider any jobs that they sent his way.

Of course, he hadn't trusted it. Nothing fell out of the sky like this, not for him. He figured that there had to be some sort of angle, some sort of hook waiting to snag him. Until he realized something…McKellern felt guilty. It was subtle, hard to read even for him, but as he detailed some of his life, the things he'd gone through that first time in the Slam, how it had changed him…he saw it. McKellern blamed himself for what had happened to Riddick, blamed himself for not being there when his parents died, for his brother going into the Foster House, for Riddick having to protect Kenny when he should have been there to make sure it never happened.

Blind generosity Riddick didn't understand, but guilt he did.

And Tracks was just as good as his word. He didn't so much clear his record as he changed it. He changed all of the DNA tags on all of his records and all the other identifiers. And he did it so perfectly and cleanly that it was untraceable, so much so that Riddick didn't doubt he'd done something like this before. Now it didn't matter if they ran as deep of a test as they possibly could, there was absolutely no way to ever prove that he was Richard B. Riddick, escaped convict and murder. Even if they ran a face-print it would come up negative, and Riddick didn't even have to change his face so much as an extra hair. It was perfect, his death on the eclipsed planet now complete.

He was issued all new files and information, marked with his real tags. He was given an IC license as real as the one McKellern had and all the credentials to go with it. A complete history was created, one remarkably close to his actual one but with a few minor alterations. Even his shine job was documented, though in the new history it had been done in a legitimate facility instead of the bowels of a Slam. It was as complete and flawless as could be.

And thus, Rick "Tracer" Reynolds was born.

Turned out that Tracks hadn't needed to do much in the way of training. The IC code was actually rather close to his own, and Riddick had spent so much time dealing with and running from the law that he probably knew it better than McKellern. Really the only thing he'd had to learn was just how to go about getting work, legitimate work that didn't leave a hollow feeling inside his chest at the end. Work he didn't have to shut part of himself off in order to do. Work he could actually be proud of all the way around. Riddick learned eagerly.

And then Tracks had given him something else, on top of all the rest. Refractor lenses. They were top grade and hard to get, and Tracks handed them over with a smile as a 'graduation present'. Refractor lenses were specially designed for shined eyes, designed by the same military that had invented the shine job. Shines had actually been developed for Special Forces soldiers in order to give them an advantage in the deep, dark, and deadly they got sent into. But, as Riddick knew too well, there were draw backs. So the scientists had gotten to work and developed refractors. They were like contact lenses, but much, much better and a hell of a lot more advanced. The protected the hyper sensitive eyes from the light, but at the same time didn't impair the shine in the dark. In fact, in the light vision was returned to almost normal and it granted the shine a certain…clarity.

But more than all of that, it gave Riddick something he'd come to terms with never having again, something he'd never even dreamed of. Color, normal color. The shine job necessarily changed the way he saw, erasing the normal colors of the world for the gray, silver, pink, and purple of the shine. Considering it was what allowed him to see in the dark he learned to live with it and be grateful. But now…now he had it back. Sure, the colors were slightly different, a little washed out, a little back lighted sometimes and the richer the color the more it stood out, but they were real. Out of everything Tracks had done for him this one hit him the most.

He'd actually cried when he'd discovered Jack's eyes were green.

Didn't matter that Tracks said there was nothing owed, Riddick owed.

So for the last three years he'd been Tracer, Independent Contractor and allay to the Blue. His new, flawless identity had granted him a freedom he'd never felt. He was able to stay in New Mecca, stay near Jack and his new 'family'. He was still a loner, probably always would be, but he had them. He was able to watch Jack and little Zeeza grow. He saw Jack get better, helped Imam guide her towards a better, decent life, not the dark track he'd gone down. The work did take him off planet a lot, sometimes for months, but now he had a place to come back to. And the money was excellent. Not only was he able to pay for his and Jack's continued residence, but he helped Imam get a new house. He'd wanted to just buy him one but Imam wasn't one to take. Riddick had to respect that. But in the end, with all the minor adjustments he made to the place, Riddick wound up paying most of it.

And then there was the work itself…

Turned out Tracks had been right about that, too. The man had said he thought Riddick would be good at it, that his skills and experience and mindset would lend to it naturally. He'd been almost completely correct. The only part he wasn't was in Riddick being 'good' at it. He wasn't good, he was phenomenal. In three short years he'd managed to build himself quite the reputation, his skills lending almost perfectly to the contracts he took. He was seen as the best there was in tracking and finding, and right up there with all the rest. At first he'd taken jobs strictly from the Blues but it hadn't been long before he was getting them on his own. And as a true IC he took the ones he wanted and discarded the ones he didn't. No longer did he have to do something that turned his stomach, something that would make him shoot up in a cold sweat from a not-so-sound sleep. Riddick was finally someone that didn't disgust himself anymore.

Not that he wasn't still the biggest, baddest thing out there…he just did it for the right side.

While he got most of his contracts himself these days, the Blue still sometimes sent something his way. Usually it was because they thought he could handle it better than anyone they had. Hell, Tracks had started making noises that he wouldn't mind if Tracer worked for them more in a 'closer' capacity. That was really how he'd gotten the contract he was on right now.

Riddick's lips twisted slightly. The fact was that he wouldn't have even met with the man if Tracks hadn't sent him personally. After three years Riddick still felt he owed the man. But the man he'd sent…what an asshole. If he'd really been the slick shit, cold blooded monster he'd been made out as he would have shived the bastard on sight…even then he was sure as hell tempted once he opened his mouth.

The man was money, and it showed. He was dressed and pressed and so shiny he might as well have just stepped out of his packaging. And it was obvious that he thought Riddick was just below dog shit. He had no idea why the man had come to an IC if he thought them so despicable. Then he'd found out the problem.

His daughter had been kidnapped.

It had happened three weeks ago; her skimmer had been shot out of the air with an EMP gun and when it was found the next day, she was gone. Two days later they'd gotten contacted. Seemed the officials had no leads and nowhere to go. The kidnappers were asking five million credits for her safe return but had apparently been acting shady. Riddick had to snort…shady kidnappers, who'd'a thunk? The man apparently wasn't convinced that they would actually give his daughter back if he paid, though he had more than enough to do so. So he'd hired Riddick to track her down and get her back…for two million.

Riddick didn't like the man, every instinct went into alert about him and then felt the need to bathe in bleach. But according to Tracks the job was valid, and Riddick trusted Tracks to play him straight. While he may not like the man, he couldn't let the daughter suffer for that. Sure, she was probably some spoiled princess, but that was probably the fault of the man right in front of him. Probably she was terrified, her safe little world suddenly stripped away. The dark was a terrifying play to be, but it was even worse for the type that had never left the light.

And let's face it, two million credits? Riddick took the job.

And that was why he was here, crouched on the shadowed ledge of a building, staring across the empty space to a deserted warehouse. He'd taken the job and traced the kidnappers back to here. Ge'roon 2. This warehouse. That's where they were and that's where they were keeping her.

Riddick smirked as he dropped down from the ledge silently. Man but was life inexplicable sometimes. Here he was, big, bad, and evil on his way to save a spoiled socialite from a fate worse than taffeta. An ex-convict, he was now playing the role of the knight in shining armor on his way to rescue a princess.

Man did the universe have one twisted sense of humor.

AN: Well, that's the first chappie. Hope you liked it. R&R and let me know!