At first, Jack had thought that the hardest part of the night from her end would be dragging Riddick's heavy ass out of the bathroom and over to his bed.

She couldn't have been more wrong.

Sure, he was the one who was enduring radical changes in body temperature, fits, and delirium. But Riddick was unconscious, and Jack had to merely sit by and watch the whole illness unfold, completely powerless to help him.

The drug she'd slipped him initially only lasted a few hours, the injection she'd given him after he'd fallen unconscious was supposed to cover the rest of the night. Dom had told her the injection would help the withdrawal, but that Riddick's symptoms would still be severe for at least twenty four hours, if not more.

She was still wondering just what Conte had meant by 'severe.'

If he died, her bags were packed and waiting to be thrown hastily into the car for her trip to the nearest port. She had a one way ticket that would take her quite a ways before anyone would ever know what had happened. But she wasn't entirely sure that if he did die, she'd be able to leave him. At that point, there weren't very many things she could think of that would have the power to tear her away from his side.

He tossed and turned all night, sweating profusely. He would mumble sometimes, things that Jack couldn't understand. Sometimes he would shout incomprehensively, almost seizing in a state of panic unlike any she'd ever seen before. Riddick would thrash wildly, and it would take all of her strength just to try to keep him from hurting himself or her as she sat next to him on the bed.

At times, during his calmer moments, she would pat him down with a cool cloth, wondering if she should try to have him drink water to stave off dehydration caused by losing so much water through perspiring. The only reason she didn't attempt it was the memory of Dom's words that dehydration helped get the poison out faster.

After several hours of trying to help him get comfortable, Jack found that he seemed the most soothed when she would sing to him quietly. She talked to him a great deal that night, about all the things she'd done while he'd been gone, about how much she cared for him and the reason why she was forcing him to endure such a harsh trial. She hoped, deep down, that he could hear her. She hoped, he wouldn't kill her when he was well again...


When dawn came, the worst seemed to be over. Riddick had been sleeping quietly for most of an hour, and Jack too had caught a few minutes of shut-eye lying curled up beside him on the sweat-soaked sheets.

With nearly painful slowness, Richard B. Riddick began to stir, waking from the brief sleep that had completely claimed him. When he moved, Jack bolted awake, sitting up to check on him. Nothing had changed, besides the fact that he'd regained consciousness. His body was still covered with a sheen of sweat as he turned to look at her, his light-sensitive eyes shielded by his contacts. Sitting stock-still, Jack wondered what he saw when he stared into her face. At one time he'd told her that people's features appeared to him like a map of planes, lights and shadows that outlined every individual curve and depression. She could only imagine what it would be like to live in a world that was so deeply contrasted.

"Riddick?" she whispered, calling him by the name she hoped he was ready to respond to once again.

But he didn't respond. He didn't say a word as he rose with great effort, and stumbled toward the bathroom.

He'd locked her out, and in more ways than one. Her questions of concern through the door went unanswered. The door remained shut.

At last she resigned to turn back on the TV and try to wait him out. She heard the shower run after a bit, and then she didn't hear anything for a long time.

Jack finally stooped to unscrewing the knob with her pocketknife, allowing the door to swing open. He was still conscious, and standing steadily on his own, staring intensely at his own reflection in the mirror. He didn't act like he'd noticed that she'd once again entered his space. She cautiously approached him as though he were a wild animal, about to spook at any second.

"You were sick because of withdrawal. I think there was something addictive in your Hydrite," Jack whispered, hoping to God he was still him. What if he'd sustained brain damage? How would she ever live with herself?

"I think I need to shave," he replied absently, his tone so detached she was stunned once again into silence.

"Shave?" she repeated stupidly.

He nodded, running his index finger and thumb over the goatee that he'd grown in an attempt to hide his face and better fit in around the office. "Yeah. I think I'm tired of this stupid thing. I think it makes me look fat," he said, turning his head to one side so he could get a better look at his profile.

Jack's eyes remained slightly wide as she stared at him as dumbly as she possibly could. "Okay, Rick, you do that." As if she was on a swivel, Jack turned on her heel and walked out of the room, closing the door behind her and walking over to thunk down solidly on her bed.

'Makes him look fat?' she mouthed in disbelief.

It was impossible. How the hell could he still be exactly the same as he had been? What was the deal? She'd been feeling more like herself as soon as she'd woken up after getting off that stuff. Were the personality changes somehow made permanent after a more extended period of time?

When Riddick briefly walked into her line of sight while collecting his shaving kit Jack could do nothing but let her face fall into her hands.
She'd failed him. She'd come to him too late…

But at least you didn't kill him, her mind whispered. And with that, she could not argue.


Very little was said between them for the rest of the weekend as they passed the time in front of the television. Riddick seemed more than withdrawn. Whenever Jack made an attempt at conversation, his reaction was always sluggish, as if his brain could only process things slowly. In spite of her failure, she hoped that his symptoms would gradually improve, bringing him back at least the ability to function and live normally. It was clear that her attempt to improve his quality of life had been an abysmal failure, a misguided attempt to satisfy her own selfish agenda. She should've thought of him first, should've thought of what she might do to him.

On the drive back Sunday morning, Jack only sank deeper into depression. It was suddenly hard for her to think of Shella as a villain when she, Jack, had finally stripped Riddick of the little dignity he'd had left. What the bitch hadn't been able to do, she'd finished in one day.
It seemed very fitting that it was raining by the time they reached home. The early-afternoon sky was slowly darkening with large thunderheads creeping across the land.

Not even seeing Old Horny again could bring her any lower. She'd hit rock-bottom after all and Shella had won. Jack had already decided that she was going to leave their home the next day in order to allow Rick to live out his days in peace. She would give him no more trouble.

Dom had mentioned being something of a wanderer. She wondered if perhaps he'd let her take up residence on his ship. If she was lucky she might just be able to forget all about Richard B. Riddick and take off on a new adventure to parts unknown with a replacement hero.

But then again, luck had never seemed to be one of Jack's shining attributes, especially when chasing men. She had ended up on the Hunter-Grazner, after all.

So she sat on the couch and endured the endless and sometimes demeaning questioning from Shella's 'girlfriends' about her past, her schooling, her hobbies, and a thousand other things she couldn't remember that they asked of her while Shella was out of the room preparing dinner and Riddick sat in his regular chair, staring blankly at the wall.

She resigned to meekly chew on her nails, warring within herself about more important matters, like if she would inform Riddick that she was leaving, and how she could possibly tell Imam without hurting him that she had no intention of imposing on his kindness any futher...

And then, it happened. The real bombshell was dropped in a war that Shella had yet to realize was even over. When the whole group of them were called to dinner, the blonde pulled Jack roughly aside on her way to the dining room, an evil glint in her eye. The others continued on, seeming not to notice since Jack had purposely been walking last in line.

"Now listen, brat..." the woman whispered so none of her guests would overhear.

Jack roughly pulled her arm from the woman's grasp. "Don't touch me," she growled just as low. She had no intention of attracting attention to herself, either.

Shella's smirk didn't fade in the slightest, so Jack figured that whatever she was about to hear couldn't possibly be pleasant. Well, she had her own ace up her sleeve, didn't she? She'd burst Shella's bubble by not giving a damn about what she had to say, no matter how bad it was.

"You think you're so tough, don't you, Jack? You thought you could play in the big leagues, but now you're sunk. I may not be able to pry your ass out of here with a crowbar now, but soon I won't even have to try. Ricky won't have any choice but to get rid of you when I tell him that we're going to need your room for space by next summer. And just guess why we'll need it, Jack," Shella prodded her harshly. "Still think he's going to choose you over me?"

Jack shrugged. "I think that he's damaged goods. I have better waiting for me over at the ship yards. At least I didn't have to drug Dom into liking me," she accused, but there was no venom behind her tone. She truly was through with all of Shella's shit, and she refused to allow the skank's attempted slights to faze her.

An almost insane look crossed Old Horny's face at the mention of Dom, and Jack's stomach instantly tightened as she remembered that part of the plan that weekend had been for Conte to lead Shella to believe he preferred her over Jack. He'd promised to have her brainwashed to perfection by the time she and Riddick got back...but apparently he'd failed, just like she had.

Her plan had been flawed all around...

She should never have dragged Dom into her mess...

The blonde bitch was saying something to her, something about how Conte wasn't nearly so loyal to her as she was being led to believe.

Jack merely walked away, still living in the haze of the funk that had begun to take her as soon as she'd realized that she was never getting Riddick back.