Disclaimer : Still not mine.

Note : And here's some violence. As for where Riddick is, well, we'll find that out soon.

Valley of Death

Chapter Three : Mechanical Pencils

The dim grey light that always precedes dawn greeted Jack's pupils as she opened her eyes again, slightly disoriented because she hadn't realized she had fallen asleep. Her clothes were still damp and her joints were stiff as she moved to stand up, using the wall to balance herself as she climbed slowly to her feet. It was then that she heard them, the faint rustle of clothes and the heavy weight of footsteps crossing the floor.

SHIT!

Jack's head snapped up and she saw them, three by her count and all of them ugly as hell. The closest one leered at her with lustful eyes that hungrily flicked up and down her frame, and she barely suppressed a disgusted shudder. He stepped closer to her, the unpleasant smell of alcohol and dirt invading her nose, and she gave him her best 'don't fuck with me' look. He saw that and grinned, a golden tooth flashing as his buddies let out a laugh.

Unperturbed, Jack stood up straighter, sidestepping and keeping her back to the wall as she watched them. She was tired, hurt, and extremely pissed off at herself for falling asleep in this place anyways, so the fact that this group of ugly fuckers looked intent on having some fun with her placed them at the top of her shit list. Her knee bumped into something, stopping her path of escape and forcing her to focus on the current setting rather than these prospective antagonists. The building used to be a library, she could tell by the bookshelves that were scattered all over the floor and she had just ran into the reception desk.

Looking back up, she saw that they had drawn closer, still smiling in their half-drunk stupors and obviously put on by her apparent attempt at escape. This pissed her off even more, but she forced herself to keep her cool, at least for another few minutes anyway. She leaned one hand back on the desk behind her, fingers running over the dust and the scattered contents of its drawers before closing over something that would possibly prove useful. As she did this she looked directly into the first thug's eyes, suppressing the sudden urge to vomit and keeping her expression as cold as she could manage.

"You look new in town," she observed, coating her voice with ice. "So I'll let you off with a warning."

"Oh really?" the lead thug asked, his words coming out clearly, indicating he wasn't as drunk as Jack had originally thought. "A warning? That's funny."

"That's what the last guy said," Jack replied, gaze darkening. "Before the crowbar smashed his skull."

"I don't see no crowbar, sweet thing," the lead thug remarked, gold tooth flashing as he stepped closer to her, leaning in towards her face.

Enjoy you're last moments, you sick son of a bitch.

That same grin was plastered on his face as he reached out a hand to touch her and that's when she struck. Before the tips of his fingers could even graze her skin, Jack snapped her hand up, shoving whatever it had found on the desk into his throat. A look of painful surprise crossed his scuffed up and dirty face as the sharp end of an old but still intact mechanical pencil was jammed into his throat, leaking blood down his neck. Jack pulled the pencil back out just as hard as she could, causing more than just a chunk of flesh to accompany it.

With a gurgling sound, he fell backwards to the floor with a resounding thud, bubbles of blood bursting from where his vocal chords used to be. Within seconds he had drowned in his own blood and his buddies were staring down at his lifeless corpse with bleary and astounded eyes.

"Holy shit," said one of them, eyes widening. "Jim's dead!"

With that great observation they both looked back up at Jack and started forward, lust replaced by anger at the sudden loss of their comrade, not that Jack cared in the least. She could smell and see the blood, and it was enough to send the adrenaline pumping through her veins. Without much effort she shoved off from the desk, feinting a lunge towards the two of them. They reacted exactly as she expected and at the last possibly moment she kicked her feet up, popping the blades hidden in the soles. The toe blade of her right foot sunk into the flesh of one's thigh, slicing through the femoral artery with almost no resistance. The heel blade of her left foot slammed into his knee, digging into the cartilege just above the cap and causing him to scream out in pain.

Jack fell to the floor, her boots and the legs of her pants now drenched completely in blood. Ignoring this sickly sweet fact, she spun on the ground, sweeping the last thug with her left toe blade, slicing apart his achilles tendon. He went down just like his friend, shrieking at his sudden in ability to stand, but Jack wasn't done with him yet.

With a hiss she slammed the pencil into his chest as hard as she could and it went right between two of his ribs, puncturing his right lung and ending his scream. Jack didn't bother to pull it back out as he thrashed in his last moments of life and instead she pushed herself back up, grunting as she stumbled on the now blood slicked floor. Her clothes were drenched again and the coppery smell of blood had filled the air in those thirty seconds, a satisfying scent so long as the blood wasn't her own.

Turning, she looked down at the only thug still living, his face pale as he grimaced in pain as fresh blood poured unimpended from his severed artery. With a disgusted face, Jack kicked him as hard as she could in the chest, hearing the crack of bones as the impact smashed a rib.

"Told you not to fucking mess with me," she spat, fisting her hands and stepping away. "Warned you and everything, but you just had to push it."

Fucking assholes, now my blades are gonna rust. Shit. I need a beer.

So she turned from the blood and the bodies, making her way back out into the streets and the glare of the sun as it rose over the horizon.

She stumbled back into hercastle by noon, muscles aching and her shirt reeking of dried blood and sweat. Trudging through the crumbling door frame, she hoisted herself slowly up the rope and onto the balcony, pausing a moment to listen to her stomach rumble.

Damn, I hungry. Haven't eaten since what, yesterday? No, not even. Had to have been the day before.

Grumbling, she drifted into her safe haven, past the bed and into the bathroom, kicking the handle on the pump to start the water flow. It creaked as she started peeling off her clothes, tossing them into the sink to wash later on. The water, cold and clear, came pouring down the pipes and into the shower by the time she'd kicked off her blood encrusted boots.

Grimacing, Jack stepped under the icy spray, gritting her teeth against the cold but feeling rather grateful that she didn't have to go around covered in blood. She let the water flow over her body, rinsing her hair and making sure she was completely drenched before picking up the cracked bar of soap on the floor. Sighing, she washed away the blood and dirt, then lathered the soap into her hair, wishing she had proper shampoo.

Once that was done, she stepped out of the shower stall, dripping from head to toe as she snatched up her clothes and tossed them under the spray. That done she grabbed her one and only towel, wrapping it around herself, catching a glimpse of herself in the cracked mirror. Her hair was almost black when wet, though dry it was a shade of dark reddish-brown curls that were a pain in the ass to brush out. She had thought about cutting it again, maybe going back to her old ways of pretending to be a guy, but there was no way she could pass that off now. Despite the toughness being stuck in this war had driven into her, there were a few decidedly feminine aspects of her appearance that couldn't be concealed.

Sighing, Jack went back into her room and pulled out her secondary pair of clothes, donning them before going back into the bathroom to wash the blood out from the others. That task took her more than an hour, during which she contemplated the past few hours. Then, when the full weight of what she had done to those three thugs came crashing onto her, which was about the time she was rinsing out her shirt, she burst out laughing.

I killed someone with a fucking pencil! A pencil! I bet even he couldn't top that!

Jack stopped laughing at the thought of him, finding herself lying on her back in the bathroom, eyes towards the ceiling and the shirt she was rinsing clutched to her chest. She continued to stare up at the roof, tracing the cracks in the plaster in her mind while simultaneously trying not to drown in regret.

Oh yeah, Jack. Keep wallowing in self-pity. I am so fucking sure Riddick would be impressed with that. Hell, who the fuck says he cares anyways?

Tossing the wet shirt aside, Jack rolled over onto her stomach, ignoring the hunger pangs and pushing herself up. Without a sound, she crept into her room and flopped onto the bed. She reached under the mattress for the knife that she kept hidden there and brought it out to examine. Holding it before her eyes she twirled the blade in her hand, admiring the way the sharp edge glinted in the light and imagining the damage she could do with it. She sure could have used it when those fuckers tried their shit earlier, but she wasn't complaining.

Hell, I found another use for writing utensils, ain't that so fucking funny?

Jack burst out laughing again, but the laughter soon turned to dry sobs that she muffled by turning her face into her pillow. In the end she fell asleep, exhausted and hating herself.