Stalemate
Chapter Nine
Kyra is sitting in one of the bolted chairs, shoulders slumped, staring off into the distance. Sleep eluded her last night. She managed fitful dozes and nightmares, and now deep circles rim her eyes and her limbs feel heavy.
In front of her is a now-cold bowl of oatmeal substance. It smells of artificial oats and sugar with a dash of possibly real cinnamon. In any other circumstance, it would be gone in a second.
As she sits, she listens to the audible sounds of Riddick shuffling around outside of the mess. It sounds as if he is traipsing between his room and the room where he was tied up, but she can't be sure. He's being loud on purpose, though. Letting her know…well, she's not sure yet.
A month. At least.
She still has trouble wrapping her mind around this colossal idea. This terrifying, yes she'll admit it, idea.
Kyra wonders if she won't sleep until she leaves. And even then she'll be plagued with a small dose of fear. Fear of him dropping his word like a hot pan and killing her quick.
Not fear, she tells herself firmly. Caution, it's always caution.
"You gonna finish that?"
She straightens, turning to face him. "No, it's congealed now. There's more in the food storage."
He looks pleased as he finds another packet and sets out to make it. He seems so casual, like their buddies or lovers setting out for a nice trip through the galaxy.
The microwave beeps three times, and he pulls out a steaming bowl. Sitting across from her, he digs in, unhindered by the heat.
She deigns to just watching him enjoy his food with a spark of irrational jealousy.
Finishing in record time, he stands up again and, picks up his bowl, dropping it in the sink. It clatters loudly, and he roughly scrubs at any residue oatmeal before shuffling it in the little dish washer.
He is gone before she can even form the words for her question: What now?
Kyra stands up to put her own dish away and is faintly disgusted by the thick, cold oatmeal stubbornly sticking to bowl. Frustrated, she just lets it sit the sink full of hot water. That's artificial space food for you, she thinks with annoyance.
She drifts to the social area of the room with bolted couches that remind her of a college dormitory. A book, split at the spine and face down, sits on the tiny wood grain table. She picks it up, leafing through it.
Setting it down, she picks up the worn magazine instead, reading the latest fashions from a year ago. It doesn't take her long to conclude that her own clothes are sorely out of style.
She can again hear noises, a soft thumps at a rapid pace. Her ears perk, and she tosses the magazine aside. With determination, Kyra gets up and walks to the former "prison" room. She can now see what Riddick has been doing all morning.
A makeshift gym is now installed. There are weights in one corner made out of scraps of metal and a punching bag constructed from a large stuffed sheet suspended from the ceiling. It is efficient and simple.
Kyra watches, half-hidden behind the doorframe, his naked back glossy with sweat in just a half hour. His long muscles flex and twist as he pummels the bag. Entranced, Krya almost forgets words.
"Did you do all this?" She finally asks, breaking his rhythm. It's a stupid question, but she is always full of stupid and unnecessary questions around him.
Riddick stops, his taped hand resting on the bag to stop it from moving. He doesn't look at her. "Get out."
"Fine," she mumbles, and leaves quickly, like she is a marionette and he has the strings. Like she is a dog with its tail between her legs. It's pathetic and weak and she hates herself for it.
Anger startles her body, making her restless. Her fury trembles in her muscles and bones. Her teeth are clenched tight, and she can't believe she practically rolled over, belly side up, for him.
In her room, she dukes it out with her pillow, a soft substitute. Her anger surges after each hit, and she is blinded searing red.
She hates this fucked up situation.
Punch.
She hates that she cares for Imam, even in his death.
Punch.
She hates Riddick with his smug superiority and evasive answers.
Punch.
But most of all, she hates the delicious zing that shuddered down to her core at the sight of Riddick's slick, bare back.
Punch. Punch. Punch.