A/N : This chapter's kind of on the short side, sorry.
Bima -You're always one of the first three reviewers on everything I post O.O!and that isawesome.Hugs, Kisses, and other Hershey products for you.
TotallyRiddickObsessed - Yesh, violence is always fun. Here's the next chapter, enjoy!
Chapter Two : Guns and Roses
The crate was two feet by three with an unverifiable amount of cans containing what King suspected to be corn, or some sub-species of it. The problem was that the lid of the aforementioned crate was clamp-sealed on the inside to prevent the contents from being compromised during transport and thus was proving very hard to open using conventional methods. Thankfully he was not utilizing normal means to open the box, which would have required a handheld de-sealant, but was instead prying open one of the corners with a screwdriver knicked from one of the service crews that had repaired the upper vent shafts a few months back.
It wasn't working out very well.
"You know, if you took apart a few of the wires in your light you could magnetically de-polarize the seal," suggested a voice somewhere behind him. King didn't need to look to know that it was Colt; the older man's scratched up voice was easily recognizable. "Brought you somethin'."
"What?" King asked, glancing over.
Colt's face cracked into a smug grin as he swung the straps of two familiar looking guns off his shoulder, holding them out for King to see.
Holy fuck…
"You have my attention," King informed him, laying his screwdriver aside.
"First, I'll need a pack o' cigs, if you don't mind," Colt told him, nodding towards the stashed carton that the younger man kept for trading. King shook his head, but quickly moved to retrieve the cigarettes; he noted that there were only three more packs left before turning and tossing one over to Colt.
"Those things'll kill you," he informed the older man, who chuckled wryly in response.
"That's the fuckin' point," Colt muttered as he hurriedly lit one up, taking a long drag on it before coughing up a storm. As soon as the fit subsided he walked over and set the guns on the crate King had been working on, smug grin returning quickly to his face before he fished in his pockets and pulled out two clips. "Leftovers."
King couldn't help but smile at the sight of the clips, but turned his attention back to the guns, inspecting them; they were of a twenty-first century line, refurbished and remodeled so many times that it was hard to tell what kind of guns they'd originally been. He knew, however, having used similar types himself, though he was far from impressed; M4's weren't exactly comparable to the newer lines of pulse guns that had been on the market when he was last outside.
Still, they'll work well enough…"What else do you want?" he asked, not looking up; there was a dark sticky substance on the underside of one of the barrels that really needed no explanation.
"What was the name o' the fucker who dropped you off here?" Colt asked, tapping off the ashes from the tip of his cigarette. The younger man shot him an annoyed look, eyes narrowed, but he appeared to be undeterred and simply stared back with an even gaze.
"Lenne Merett," King muttered after a moment.
"Well, it may interest you to know that he was just topside a couple o' hours ago," Colt informed him, grin widening. "May interest you even more to know just who he dropped off."
King raised an eyebrow, attention now drawn away from the guns to what the older man had to say; the aforementioned merc was on his blacklist after all.
"Remember me sayin' that the fucker had tags?"
"Vaguely," he responded, throwing in a slightly sarcastic undertone for good measure.
"Six hundred and three kills accounted for," Colt said, puffing in on his cigarette. "Six escapes on record, includin'-"
"Butcher Bay," King finished; he knew those tags but the fact of the matter was that he didn't exactly believe what the older man was trying to tell him. "You have got to be kidding me."
It was a dull persistent ache, like that of a sore muscle, that dragged Jack from the dark void of unconsciousness. She slowly blinked opened her eyes to different kind of dark, pupils adjusting in a lethargically blurred fashion; it was a while before her vision became clear enough to make out her surroundings. She shifted slightly, moving her arm to push away the rough fabric that seemed to be encasing her on all sides, and the pain suddenly flared to a peak, burning at her shoulder.
Gasping at it, she froze automatically, willing it to go away; for a moment it was all she could focus on and she nearly fell back into the void again. After a moment, however, it faded enough so that she could think about something else and so she turned her attention to the sheets, moving her other arm instead to pull them away. Once that obstacle was conquered, she tried to sit up, gritting her teeth against whatever pain that action might bring; she managed it after several long seconds, the springs of whatever bed she was on creaking slightly.
Now she was free to look about the room, though there wasn't much to look at; four bare walls dark with the absence of light, a door, and a window with the shades pulled shut were the only things of significance. There was a nightstand on one side of her bed and a chair on the other, upon which was stacked a variety of clothes that she vaguely recognized. Jack frowned, staring at them until it finally hit her; the clothes were hers, bought especially for her and-
She looked up, stopped from her race down the covered street by a confusion in her mind; there was blood on her shirt, a pain in her shoulder, and horrified look on the face of someone she knew.
Riddick?Abruptly she reached for her pockets, digging through them even as the ache in her shoulder blazed to life again; she ignored it the best she could, searching until her hand came across the glossed texture of the photo strip. Pulling it out, she brought it into view though the darkness obscured it slightly, her mind filled in the frames one by one, dredging up the memory. She ran a thumb over where she knew his face would be, biting her lip against the sudden sting in her eyes.
He shot me…he…Her throat suddenly felt too tight; she stared down at the paper, her frown deepening as she tried to keep any tears from falling, but to no avail. They came, slipping down her cheeks like the slow drip of a leaky faucet; one traced a path down to her chin and fell with a silent splash onto one of the pictures.
"Oh," she cried, quickly swatting the droplet away to prevent it from sinking in and warping the paper, but that, of course, was futile.
Now there was a splotch mark on the middle frame, and for some reason this made her more upset than before; she swiped at her face now, thwarting more tears before they could fall and ruin the pictures even more.
Sniffling, she held the strip of paper away so her tears would fall on her sheets rather than the photos; it was then that she realized her shirt was missing. Momentarily forgetting how upset she was, Jack turned to look for it, which in turn caused the pain in her shoulder to attack her nerves again. This time she cried out and, unable to keep herself sitting anymore, fell back onto the bed; she squeezed her eyes shut, suddenly finding it harder to breath.
Briefly she thought she heard someone shouting her name; a horrified shout, a voice she had grown to know, and realization bubbled to the surface.
Riddick…he…he didn't mean to…he…The photo paper slipped from her hand, falling to the floor though she could make no move to retrieve it; the fight to stay conscious was lost and she slipped back into the void again.
"Let me get this straight," King began, slowly setting down the gun he had previously been inspecting. "That drop, the one that just came in not five fucking hours ago-"
"If I have to repeat myself one more fucking' time I will personally remove your intestines," Colt snapped, squashing the butt of his second cigarette beneath the heel of his boot even as he lit up his third. "Isn't it enough to know who the bastard is without repeating his name every five seconds?"
He let out a cough, then took a deep drag off his new cig, stowing the lighter in his pocket once again; he looked rather irritated.
"Well, Jesus fucking Christ, Colt," King retorted, tilting his head slightly to the side. "Someone a might bit worse than those assholes down east just got dropped on our heads. How many did you say he killed? Five, six? I'd say that's a bit of a fucking problem don't you."
"Yep," Colt said with a nod. "I'd say they'll be lockin' us down within the next hour just to try and throw him and you in solitary, just like I fuckin' told you before."
"Why the fuck would they throw me in solitary?" King asked, standing up; his hair fell in his eyes, but he took no note of it. "I didn't fucking do anything yet!"
"Two dead guards with missin' guns," Colt pointed out, nodding towards the objects in question with a bit of a smile.
Aw fuck…"Asshole," King cursed at him; the old man's smile widened and he nodded.
"Yeah," he replied, puffing on his cigarette as he leaned against the wall. "I've been gettin' that a lot lately. My suggestion, when the alarm sounds, blow out the light."
He coughed again, taking his time about collecting his lungs to continue speaking, clearing his throat and making a few other disgusting, mucus related noises as well. King was just beginning to question whether or not it would be better to remove the old man's lungs or esophagus first, even going so far as to reach for his best knife, when Colt spoke up again.
"Your plan, I'd like to here it," he muttered, turning towards the exit. "If you happen to be alive after lockdown."