Stalemate
Chapter Five
He wakes up sooner than she expects.
She is leaning close, checking his make-shift restraints again, when he groans. His eyes flutter and then squeeze shut against the lights.
"What're you doin'?" His words are slurred and slow.
She doesn't answer as she experimentally tugs the metal cuffs before backing away. The sleeper she gave him has dissipated three hours early. Even his internal systems are strong, she thinks with a smattering of envy.
"You drugged me," he says banally.
"Yes," she replies with equal detachment. He knows the truth anyway, lying would be pointless.
There is another pause, and Kyra busies herself with random scraps of metal she neglected to pick up before.
"We're flying," he speaks again conversationally. "They let you take off?"
She shrugs. "Easily enough."
"Gonna turn me in like the good merc you are?" He asks, shifting a little.
She keeps her eyes trained on every minuscule movement he makes. Again, she doesn't bother to answer. She recognizes that the question is rhetorical.
He grunts as he situates himself, so he appears to be sitting comfortably on the ground, hands behind his back. "So, where're we going?" He asks, like a polite child sitting in a classroom.
She snorts inwardly at the deceptive tone. She almost wants to tell him they are heading for the Solaria System with planets known for their intricate glass structures and bright suns. A place he would struggle in like a fish on land.
His head cocks, a small gesture of curiosity. "Where'd you go, Jack? After I dropped you and the Holy Man on New Mecca?"
She stares at him and he looks back at her like he can see her perfectly. "Nowhere special," she feigns indifference, "hitched with some mercs outta Lupus Five. They were assholes, so I ditched them."
"Holy Man said you spent time in the slam," he draws his words out slowly, as if savoring them.
Kyra bristles. Thoughts of the rank prison make her want to crawl out of her skin, and she tries not to show her discomfort. "Did he?"
"Yeah," he pauses before adding, "He was worried 'bout you." The sentence seems foreign coming from Riddick the Killer's lips.
"Was?" Kyra asks with her own worry tingeing her voice. This is a topic that temporarily suspends their hostile impasse.
"He gave me a letter," he tells her, his head tilting to his lap.
"A letter?"
He nods again to his lap. "Front left pocket."
Cautiously, eyes on his closed ones, Kyra leans forward and her hand edges to said pocket. Finger by finger, she slips her hand in, hyperaware of her position, her straddling his chained body.
It sends a shock of adrenaline—freeing and powerful. It isn't until she notices the lazy smirk on his mouth that she leaps off like she has been burned.
The paper, thin and elegant, fits in her palm, shaped like a crushed rose. Rigidly, she opens it, petal by petal, fold by fold. It takes a few smoothings to make it legible despite the smeared ink.
"They won't hold me forever," he tells her, not bluffing, just stating pure fact. He rattles the chains for affect.
The response 'I know' is perched on the tip of her tongue. The metal is thick, but structurally weak with hasty soldering. He's right. They won't last forever. They may not even last an hour.
"How long?"
"What?" She replies automatically, staring at the letter in her hand.
"How long did ya spend in the slam?" He asks, titling his head again.
"Not long," she says, a feeble lie. It was the longest year of her life. Running, hiding, sleeping in short spurts. Always with one eye open and knife close by.
"Right," he drawls sarcastically, "pigs flyin' out there too?"
Wordlessly, she leaves the room, ignoring his retort. Her gaze is focused on the letter, hungrily soaking up each stroke, each syllable.
Behind her, the rattling, clanging and banging begins.
(A/N: thanks for the reviews! here's the next chapter, so be kind and review--the good and the bad. I know it's shorter, but it gets longer)