Chapter One- Happy Birthday, Jack

New Mecca: One year, two weeks later

Jack sat, albeit uncomfortably, at the dining room table, baby Ziza on her left and Imam on her right. Holy Woman, as Jack privately called Lajjun, was out, supposedly at the bazaar, but Jack knew that Holy Woman hated her, hated the danger that Jack posed if anyone ever found out who's dogtags she wore.

Richard B. Riddick, her protector, her best friend… The only man she loved. At sixteen, she was more than positive that Riddick wasn't just a crush, wasn't someone that she felt she owed for rescuing her from T-2, the crash.

She reached up and blindly touched the dogtags as Imam told her to make a wish. She'd make the same wish she'd made last year.

That Riddick would put an end to this foolishness and come back before the three years were up.

One year down, two to go, she thought sourly as she blew out the candles.

"Jacqueline, there is no need to frown. Mr. Riddick will come back. Maybe not when you want, but always when Allah wills it."

She muttered something beneath her breath and, fortunately, beneath Imam's hearing. It was tempting to tell him exactly where he could shove his thoughts on Allah, but she was trying to pretend to be reformed at the very least.

Ziza sat there, staring at the pretty colors on the cake like she couldn't wait for a piece. Jack cut a small slice for Ziza and handed it over. She may not care for having to stay on New Mecca, but Ziza was so sweet and nonjudgmental that Jack truly cared for her.

She hated when Imam called her 'Jacqueline'. Ziza could get 'Ja-ja' out and that was the sounds Jack answered to mostly now. But she would kill to hear one deep, rumbling, slightly accented voice go, "Jack." Hell, right now, she'd even settle for "Audrey."

Oh, how fuckin' pathetic. She was being ridiculous. Riddick would keep his promise or she'd ice his ass so fast that his head would be spinning in the afterlife for two days.

x-x-x-x-x-x-

Richard B. Riddick looked at the chronograph when it beeped and sighed. "Happy Birthday, Jack," he whispered to no one. She was sixteen now and prettier than when he'd left. He glanced at the photographs Imam sent him every other week and the progress reports.

Her hair was still growing out. She now wore it in a short braid with a metal ring at the end. Normally, there was a leather sheath around the ring, which was sharpened to a fineness that had Riddick smirking.

In this picture, it was just about to connect with some little fucktard's face. Imam said that the boy had been harassing her for a while at school now. The report had angered him before he saw the pictures and had laughed in the silence of What's-her-name.

Currently, the ship was The Midnight Storm, and he was Michael Canova from Nuova Italia, a man getting a reputation for being willing to transport almost anything without too many questions. The only questions he asked were where did it go and how much was he to be paid.

He leaned back in the pilot's chair, eyes thoughtful. He truly missed Jack, missed how her nightmares would send her quietly sneaking into his room to curl up with him like he was a teddy bear she needed, missed her smart mouth, missed that faint scent.

He shook his head, almost wistful. She'd been willing to come with him that night, but he'd walked away, launched off, trying to pretend that he wasn't looking back. He'd succeeded in the pretence until he'd been in orbit and he looked back, pretending he could see her, even all the way up here, and she was waving to him.

He'd went to Helion 4 after that to fuel up, and then shot directly across galaxy to a small station called Hephaestus Station. It orbited a rather large mining outfit, but the planet wasn't really suitable for space terminals, so they tended to shuttle visitors in and out of the fragile atmosphere with solar powered conveyances.

It was there, six months after leaving Helion Prime, that Riddick had broke and wrote Imam, asking for photos and updates on Jack. They had started arriving every other week after that.

His favorite picture was of her, petting a lion, her arm in it's mouth and her eyes joyful. Imam had actually sent a three-dimensional video of the day and Riddick had watched it at least twice a month every month since.

She had walked straight up to him and whispered something in the lion's ear. Riddick could hear the words 'tough little bastard' and laughed. She'd seen him pull the same trick once.

The lion stretched out when her hands buried in its mane. She wasn't pushing on it, but just keeping her eyes on his. She wasn't afraid, didn't hesitate.

By the end of the trid, she was curled up on the lion, looking like she belonged there. Imam had been furious at her for taking such a risk, for ending up on the nightly news for New Mecca.

In fact, Imam had been so pissed, he'd sent a call out for Riddick under his then name and nearly yelled for thirty minutes. An emotionally-charged Imam was incredibly amusing.

Then, there was the letter Jack had sent that he'd never been able to respond to.

Dear R-

Hah, gotcha, didn't I? You thought I'd address you by your full name. Hear my laughter, fucktard.

Anyway, I'm sure that Imam knows where to send this. Stupid Holy Man thought I wouldn't put it together. Especially with Lajjun acting like she's on her fucking period every other Friday. Haha!

I'm doing well and counting the days. My aim is still a bit off- about five centimeters to the left, if I am right- but other than that, all of my training goes well. It's almost time for school, so I need to go and deal with the stupid motherfuckers in this retarded school Imam put me in.

Love ya!

-J

He had read and reread that note so many times he could recite it in his head. 'Love ya!'

Had anyone ever said that they loved him? He couldn't recall it, and that casual little exclamation at the end of her note meant the world to him when he knew it should mean nothing.

Two more years. I can give her two more years, he muttered in his head. He wouldn't be one of those idiots that just took what they wanted and damned the consequences.