It was a better ship than he was expecting. A Flattery C-19 undercutter—low-slung, handsome, contemporary, and brand new. It was exactly the kind of vessel a pack of mercs would utilize. Doubtless it had cost Toombs and team a pretty credit or two. Now it belonged to someone else: him.

The locator said that the ship was empty. He entered through the part as warily as if the compact craft were crammed with waiting, heavily armed representatives of the law. It was exactly as empty as the locator insisted it was. He settled himself into the command chair, methodically coaxing the metal beast to life. Though he wasn't a professional pilot, he definitely knew his standard skiff. Though some of the indicator markings were unfamiliar, the controls were basic enough.

With the ship alert and waiting, he paused to delve into the internal database. Yet another useful talent. His lips twitched slightly as his own record appeared, glowing softly with the details of his personal history. Alone, much to his chagrin, he read silently to himself from the section catalogued under "LEADS".

"…Now known to have survived emergency reentry and subsequent vessel crash on the triple-star system M-344/G. Likely killer of Class-I mercenary William J. Johns. Possible sighting on Lupus III. Reported seen on… Reported seen on…" There were quite a few of the latter. He frowned at the extensive list, knowing he'd been to everyone of those places searching. His jaw clenched slightly at the thought of it. He'd been searching a long time. Almost five years of riding in the wake of the one he most desired. He had questions that needed to be answered, and a need that had to be satisfied.

With a deep huff, he searched through the read out until he found the part labeled "PAYDAY". Generally, the rates only ranged from three hundred thousand K up to seven-fifty. It all depended on what slam was paying. This time, however, was a glaring exception. One point five million credits. Universal denomination or specific currency of choice. Hard cash. Riddick hit it, opening the file to see who could possibly want him that much. The words private party came as no surprise, but the location of origin was a bit of a shocker.

Planet: Hellion Prime. Region: New Mecca.

"So even friends have their price," he murmured to the screen. It didn't reply.

Quickly typing in coordinates, he hit the autopilot and the ship got ready for the long haul. There was no reason for him to remain awake and every reason to enter cryosleep. Without artificial aids, humans didn't last long under the stresses of supralight travel. Lights dimmed overhead. Cryosleep tubing automatically attacked onto its single occupant, taking over functions, preparing his body to cope with the stresses of extended deep space travel. His eyelids fluttered close after he pulled his goggles off.

It was good to sleep. He hadn't been able to do so without concern for a long time. At least in the safety of the pilot's chair, nurtured and looked after by the ship's life support systems, he could relax. He could dream. He could imagine tan skin, blue eyes, and a wicked smile. That same smile he'd been hunting for so long. Five years of searching. He doubted that he'd ever wanted anything so much as those eyes and that smile. He knew part of the drive was unnatural—the note he'd left behind had told him as much. The note that had almost crushed any good, human part he had leftover. Almost.

The honest truth of it was, it made him angry. He'd stayed for a while after he left, but that couldn't last long. Not with the desire and rage bubbling just under his skin. Not with the longing to complete the bond he'd made itching at the back of his mind. He left of a mission—rampaging through planets in search of answers as to why he'd left him that night. The only person he'd ever put a little trust in had left him. Left him confused and befuddled and hurt. But in the end, Riddick wanted him back. Badly.

Granted, that had been explained in the note. The quickly scrawled, two page nothingness that had him staring at a wall blankly for the longest time. The note that told him they weren't mates—not yet. The note that told Riddick he was "sorry, but I have to leave". All because the want would be too strong if he stayed, and he didn't want to force a life of "immortal loneliness" on him. Riddick had scoffed at that. It was so melodramatic of him. So predictably selfless—and the exact reason he was hunting him so avidly. Exactly the reason he could let himself fall in love with him.

He pondered those unfamiliar emotions with a wary acceptance. Meanwhile, the small but sturdy vessel he sat in went about its business. The machine wurred along, taking note of inhabited systems within its range. Each planet appeared momentarily on the monitor even though no organism's eyes were active to absorb them. When one identified a passing system as Furya, the unconscious man in the pilot's chair stirred slightly.

"They say most of your brain shuts down in cryosleep. All but the primitive side. The animal side."

Riddick tensed in his seat, hands clutching on the armrest as the familiar voice purred in his ear. It was a teasing whisper just before a ghost of heat fluttered over his eyelids. It was a caress. With sincere effort, he dragged his eyes open. The smell of danger and sweetness made him lick his lips—he knew that smell.

He reached out, eyes still fogged over with the drugs in his system. His fingers brushed against soft material and warm skin. Waiting, his eyes searching but not quite seeing what he wanted. He felt the shallow breaths and the rapid heartbeat. His hand was brushed aside and a body pressed to his, lips hovering by his ear as Riddick wrapped his arms around the lithe form.

"I need you," he whispered, mouth brushing the hell of his ear; his breath scorching his skin in all of the right ways. "I need you, Riddick. Come find me."

And then the body and heat and relief was gone. Riddick jerked in his seat, eyes finally clear, but the cryosleep restraints kept him still as he glanced frantically around the ship. He was alone. He was goddamn ruttin' alone. Something was wrong. Or if not wrong, at least not right. He had been there with him—talking to him, touching him, pressed to him. He had been there. Riddick didn't mistake such things.

There was a reflection in one screen. A glimmer of movement. Nothing on the ship should've been moving. With a single touch, the pilot's chair spun around. A lesser individual might've screamed at what he saw. Riddick didn't. He just sat there, tubes and connectors still leeched into his right arm, staring, studying, trying to make sense of the sight before him. He was having a hard time doing so.

He was, after all, no longer alone.

Even though she was slender and delicate looking, the woman before him conveyed an inner hardness. He felt he ought to know her even though he'd never seen her before. The impossibility wasn't insane. Dreaming perhaps, but not insane.

Behind her, the ship was gone. It had been replaced by something older and earthier. Metal had transformed into a world of trees and undergrowth and picture perfect skies. The ground was littered with objects whose purpose and shape had changed little in thousands of years: gravestones. He had no time to study the eerily familiar surroundings as the woman moved forward with a slow, confident stride. His mind fought violently against what he was seeing—trying to replace the scene with cold metal and unforgiving flashing lights.

As he struggled, more and more of the ship vanished. It was all replaced by more forest and grave stones. There were a lot of the latter. Too many. Perception blurred as a hot hand fell on his shoulder, and he glanced up, seeing his boy at his side—but he was different. Colder, stronger, and still unbelievably gorgeous. He finally seemed the age that he was. Riddick tried to move; he tried to reach out for him again, hoping that he was real—that he was there. But as the edges around him blurred and shimmered he knew it was an illusion. Those blue eyes fell on him for a moment, and they flickered red for a moment before they turned angrily on the woman.

His boy let loose a snarl as the woman smiled gently, Riddick finally glanced back. "I am Shirah. Think of this as a dream, if you need to.

"But you know better. He knows better." She gestured to the blonde man, and Riddick had the feeling that wherever he really was—he was caught in their illusion, too. "Some of us know the true crime that happened here, on Furya." Drifting dreamily, one hand gestured to the nearest gravestones, but her eyes never left the half demon's—as if she didn't trust his presence. "We'll never have them back. But we can have this world again. Someday. You can have this world again."

Riddick's brain had been tuned to coping with the unlikely, the unreasonable, the unacceptable. It refused to dismiss the information his eyes and ears insisted on conveying. This world he felt he knew. This woman he felt connected to. The fact that his boy—his demon—was there, somehow, protecting him.

"Once you remember, you will never forget," placing one hand over her chest, the woman waited until it began to glow softly.

Riddick could catch glimpses of the bones in her fingers as she removed it from her chest with a small gasp. Approaching, she reached toward him, fingers extended. An almost blood curdling growl was released from the man next to him, and he was suddenly between Riddick and Shirah, her fingers brushing over bronze skin. Her eyes widened, and she let out a low sound of frustration before disappearing and taking her world with her. Riddick tensed as his boy gasped and stumbled back.

All he wanted was to see those eyes again. See them before he had to wake up—because, surely, he was sleeping. But he wouldn't face him. He seemed to tremble—his whole being wavering against the metal background.

"I'm sorry, Riddick." He whispered, but it sounded almost robotic—like he was speaking through a jammed radio. "I'm sorry… I didn't know—I couldn't have known."

The blonde before him twisted, facing him marginally, but his eyes were downcast. He saw the tear slip down his cheek, and watched as it fizzled out before it hit the ground. The lithe form flickered in and out of being, but Riddick's silver gaze widened as he caught sight of the almost bluish glow on his chest in the shape of a hand. He tried to reach out to him.

"I've seen worse," he muttered with a self-depreciating smile. "I've done worse. But I'm still sorry."

Something jolted him awake. His dream hung ominously overhead, and he already missed the sight of him. His skin started to itch for him, again. With a low sigh, he glanced at the ship's instruments, and saw what had woken him. He had just entered at me, and he was closing in on his destination.

Clearing its electronic throat, the ship's communicator snapped him forcefully into a world without his demon. Something banged against him, and the merc ship bounced violently. The windshields blew open, light flooding through, and Riddick groaned and turned from the blinding light. Grabbing his goggles, he yanked them on with a growl. The cryosleep tubes left him as he took the skiff off of autopilot. He waited for a moment, to see if anything was screaming for attention because of danger, but the hull integrity seemed fine. Swiftly, his fingers began to dance over the manual controls.

There was only one sip on him. It was a wicked looking little one-pilot job, its external elegance reflecting the advanced state of Helion technology. A second bump had the ship jolting awkwardly, and Riddick grit his teeth. Taking a dive, he waved to the other ship and quickly rolled into a stratacloud. Just as he expected, the law enforcer followed him into the mess. It barely took him a moment to tuck under the other ship and lift with a twist. The Helion fighter spiraled away, damaged and possibly out of control.

Riddick watched it disappear into the distance while shaking his head slowly, "Never mess with a guy with a loner."

He checked the monitors. He's sustained some damage from the deliberate collision, and the longer he flew the more likely that damage would become fatal. With a small sigh, Riddick steered the ship out of the clouds, and peered out the glass to see the world below him.

The ocean was green. Riddick had seen oceans of liquid methane as different in hue as they were brilliant. The color suited him. He'd always had an affinity for the water. He fought to slow the ship as he started his decent, and blue-green waves gave way to those that were colored yellow and white and beige: sand dunes. He wouldn't have minded spending his days on these beaches with that tan skin and those laughing blue eyes. He could happily imagine taking a tumble in the sand and racing to the water.

Jaw clenched, the ship touched down in a most ungentle way. He slammed into the thickest dune, jerking slightly in his seat. Sand cascaded over the metal as Riddick killed the machine and got out of his seat, slipping from the pilot's harness. He had arrived.

Somewhere else. Without him. Again.

Tbc.