A/N: More Depth, more character, more… everything, LOL. I still don't own it though. :-(

A Passage 4:

From Here to There

It was a good thing he wasn't claustrophobic. The large bronze-skinned man had found himself in this particular situation more times that he could count. It seemed the standard way to 'sanitize' the threat he posed consisted of shoving him in a box and chaining it closed or chaining him up and shoving him in a box. It was a good thing he was slightly immune to the drugs that would be soon pumping through his system. Squeezed in tight, held stiff… Cryo lockers were almost like coffins. But he was used to having death as a companion and sometimes he wished he could slip over to the other side and not come back. Not today, though. He had motivation to live, today.

He felt the secure death box weave and wobble as the guards struggled to move its weight into the ship. Richard B. Riddick focused on his senses. Pain was ever present, his over-strained shoulders experiencing a burn from both the previous cage and his rather lengthy stay outside in sub-freezing temperatures while dressed in little more than a wife-beater and cargo pants. The ache faded as it spread down his back. One thing that the cryo drugs were good for was easing pain. For once he looked forward to that side effect. Once the pain was gone he'd be able to work on the details of his escape.

Then there was the annoyance of being inside the box itself. His nose tickled. For one insane moment he wished he could rub it. Or that he'd sneeze and get it over with already. But the tickle wasn't that persistent, settling in more as an irritant because he couldn't move his arms to do anything about it than something that would be solved by a sneeze. And he needed a shave, badly. His head and chin itched with an annoying faint tenacity that would only be solved by the removal of hair with a very sharp blade. Not that his personal blue-eyed devil gave a shit.

The ex-ranger forced his senses away from his personal space a bit, slowing tuning out what he couldn't do anything about. One by one the tickles and itches, aches and pains, twinges and ticks faded out of his focus. They were still there, and likely they would be for a very long time, but all they served to do was distract him from his goals. That aside, his sense of touch told him he was surrounded by metal, bound at the neck, wrists, and ankles and wrapped from side to side in a support that lacked padding. It hit his lower back in just the wrong spot to be comfortable.

His sense of smell was his main tool for gathering information about his surroundings in these situations as the thick leather blindfold blocked his eyesight and the Cryolocker muted his hearing. The first thing he noticed was that the cleaning chemicals used on the chamber had been so weak that the smells of old prisoners was still present; musty faint scents of other dangerous men wafted stale in the already recycling air. If his persuasion had been such he might have found a thrill in that, but as it was, he didn't swing that way no matter what he'd been forced to do to survive when younger. Those memories were something he didn't need to dwell on. The odors he'd get used to, to the point that he'd filter them out. It was a minor discomfort in comparison to his aching arms.

If he tried he could still remember the scents of the spaceport… including that singular one that tantalized him with its mystery. He knew it from some place. But where? He pushed the question aside and gently shifted inside the box somewhat hoping he could tip in over as it moved. The cart they were using was an old fashioned wheeled one and one of the wheels was slightly flatter than the other. Still, he had no luck. At least the metal connectors inside the locker were old and somewhat worn already. That gave him something. He just had to wait.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Johns watched the laboring, grumbling grunts through his own struggle… slightly ill from his need for another fix, feeling the effects of no sleep and little food. Between his rolling stomach and his heavy head he felt like shit. Additionally, the redhead was tense. And in spite the bitter cold wind, sweat was trickling down his back between his shoulder blades and making his scar itch something terrible. The ex-marine shifted from one foot to the other, as he watched the other guards struggle with the death box.

This was taking way to fucking long. And the longer Riddick was awake inside that confined space the closer the big man came to getting free. Didn't these asses understand that? He forced back his somewhat panic tinged anger and plastered on a grim smile as the hacks began to gather around waiting. Gods, it was cold out here… "Why don't you just pick the damn thing up, seeing as there's four of us out here."

"Sorry Marshal, I know this is being difficult. The damn equipment is shit. But I think we almost got it," came the reply as the wheels on the cart finally worked themselves and their cargo over the last bump and the pair in front of the Con caught the box before it could fall.

"Fine," Johns was truly grateful to step inside the old rusting ship and out of the icy wind behind the grunts. A mass of white jump-suited workers hurried in behind him, all acting as though they were on a time constraint that no one else felt. Finally, things would start moving around here.

"Place it about one and a half meters from the wall," the tech directed the heavy addition into place. "Please move out of the way so we can get everything hooked up." The port security workers slid the box off the wheeled cart at hustled out of the ship while the tech crew set to work.

"Fuckin' go on. I'll watch the hacks. It's not like any of you actually know how to fire a gun anyhow." The ex-marine growled at them as the left. Once the box was in place the rest of the work really didn't take long. Johns was rather pleased with how fast everything was hooked in. One of the techs checked the connections and flipped the switch on the box for the drugs to begin pumping. He gave the merc an 'all-go' signal. "Wonderful. I really appreciate it fellas." Finally they could go back inside, and he could take care of his little problem.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Inside the secure chamber, acting as though he was passed out, Riddick heard them leave in a disjointed jumble of feet… heavy boots on a metallic floor. The drugs were coursing through his blood, making time slow and stretch for normal perceptions. His mind rejected those civilized counters as a matter of course and continued to function unimpaired.

He mentally filtered out the musky odor as the stale air became refreshed through the ship's air filters. Aside from the slight hint of dust, the ship had a slightly rusty smell. The powerful engines thrummed through the metal hull, vibrating in their eagerness to be in space. He thought about the different specs for the type of ship this might be. Well, considering where they were, this was no Kovan ship. No. This was an older ship, no bother with carpet or padding… no need to make it look nice.

It might be cargo ship he guessed… Or a long-term sleeper like was popular before he was born. Or a conversion combo of some sort. Most likely, seeing as prospectors were waiting to board, this was a ghost lane regardless. Interesting choice. Surely not the only one Johns could have made. He knew that he could have rustled up a personal 5-seater on Outer Conga that would have made it to Sigma 3 at the very least. But he did have contacts that the Marshal didn't. And, he wasn't quite sure what planet they were on. It certainly wasn't Conga Prime, as that place was humid and warm, tropical to a fault and this place was anything but tropical.

Of course, Conga was bit of a backwater system with little reason for folks to come there. Even Conga Prime was just a stop on the way to better places. Most of the folks that actually lived there wanted to leave but couldn't for one reason or another. As planets went, Outer Conga was the nicer one, cool but not cold, thinner atmosphere than the Prime had made for a better environment all around, even if it was darker there. Not that the folks living there actually cared. Outer Conga could have been paradise but for the way those living there treated it.

But he strongly suspected that this was the Scorpio System. The group home had been here, but not on this planet. He guessed that this might be Scorpio One, as he had heard that the planet had good skiing and quite alpine-like conditions. He'd never been there though, so all he had to go on was heresy. He'd have to look up and see how close to the Conga system Scorpio One was someday.

The con had hoped to make his run all the way back to Old Earth, after killing Johastein, of course… He could have blended in on that world, and no one would have bothered to look for him. Few lived on Old Earth anymore, aside from a few native-culture throwbacks inhabiting the reclaimed wilds and the anti-religious nuts. He figured he'd fit right in.

Although his thoughts were far way, the fact that he was alone drew them back to his current situation. As soon as the last clang of boots on metal faded the ex-ranger began to count the seconds before others were allowed on the ship. It was surprising how long it took. Well, maybe not so surprising… Johns likely needed another hand from Lady Morphine and that would set the boarding back by a good few hours, at least.

Finally he heard them… smelled them… the other passengers' footfalls rippled faintly through the metal as they approached the passenger cabin. He kept still, acting like he was out. But he was anything but under. He counted the voices, the footfalls. Cryo shut down everything but the animal side. Hell, he lived there, in the primitive depths of the mind. It was all he had left that he could call his own, the only thing that they couldn't take from him. He'd learned at his first prison… his first trip into deep storage… how to go there. It came in mighty handy. Cryo did keep him from aging on these long trips, but his mind was wide-awake.

This ship had 40, 40-plus people on it, by his count. And the source of that tantalizing odor was close by. They both must be in the cheap boxes, the ones statistically figured to be the most dangerous. Odd that Johns would agree to place him there, in the cheap seat. Maybe he didn't have a choice though. It was possible that the crew insisted he be far away from the other passengers.

Arabic chatter and the sounds of pilgrim's beads clattering together told him that likely he was being transported the direction of New Mecca. Pilgrims rarely went farther afield from civilization than Scorpio anyhow, unless they wanted to visit the original Mecca on Old Earth. That would have been another route though, not the one he took. Pilgrims didn't risk the pirates and company paid pitfalls that existed in the wilds beyond Conga if they could help it. And Johns wouldn't be taking him through there either. So they had to be heading back into civilized space. New Mecca, Helion Prime…

He went over the list of prisons left in that sector, not that there were many with the 'not in my system' syndrome that ran unchecked through civilized space. Kova? No… Johns didn't deal with them. Hubble? Unlikely. He practically walked out of there last time. Wait -- Tangiers. Johns was taking him to Tangiers. That was bad. They had rights to execute at that prison, and they had dealt with him before, so likely Johns was tired of the chase, afraid the scam was going to be noticed, or both. He was likely going to fry… No wonder the pain was telling him 'last chance.' So what route were they taking? What clues did he have? How much time was left on his clock?

The scent of a woman drifted to him. Rich and earthy, that scent, tinged with oiled metal, sweat, and leather…. He'd smelled the scent faintly back inside the port, clinging to the seats that the guards wandered through. His first impression was that she was a prospector. Now though, there was something else in that scent that he couldn't quite place. Part of him wondered what she'd be like if he could catch her alone. It hadn't been that long ago, really. Considering his run from Butcher Bay had given him time to make a few stops after he'd slipped Johns. It was probably one of the reasons he'd gotten caught. The stop was too predictable. It had been stupid from that standpoint. But he thought it was kind of necessary, considering the intel he'd picked up.

His thoughts pulled away from the gutter as he realized that the woman was not alone. A man with a similar set of odors was near too. A couple. Perhaps not just prospectors… His scent held the strong tang of gunfire. Ah, that was what clung to the woman, so faint that he'd missed it at first. Bushwhackers, then… non-guild killers… interesting. He wondered who they were for a moment, if he'd heard of them. The few bushwhackers he ran into had been the all right sort. The live and let live kind as long as he hadn't crossed them. He knew that Johns likely didn't even realize they were here. They didn't smell familiar to him, but they did give him clues.

Aside from not knowing the couple, their presence on the ship told Riddick quite a bit. Enough to tell that Johns had fucked up. Not only had he chosen an old ship, a slow, sleeper ship at that… but the bushwhackers on board meant that this was a ghost run. Riddick liked ghost runs… They were usually over half a year or more in length with few stops if any, all spent in cryo. He'd gotten out of deep storage at Butcher Bay in less time. Most mercs would limit cryo to one-month jumps just to make sure the "cargo" was still under. Johns didn't have that option here. Coupled with the equipment holding him being old and having wear flaws he could use to get loose… well, things were looking much brighter. All he had to do was wait until they were in space.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

The blast of air from opening the door took her breath away. Oh, gods… it was cold outside. Jack huddled behind Zeke, as he provided a natural windbreak of sorts. Shazza prodded him forward into the ship, noting that the child had no coat at all. Zeke tore himself away from watching the porters load the cargo crate with their gear and hustled Jack inside the ship. Jack's first assessment of it was that it was a bucket of bolts and not really space-worthy.

Then she compared it to the expensive ticket she'd bought to get to Scorpio One. At least there were no stains on the threadbare carpet. That might be because there was no carpet… And the crew looked more rested and alert than the last boat too. Maybe this trip wouldn't be so bad. Shazza and Zeke had lockers up a ways from her death box. Jack glanced at her ticket and found the number of the box. Businessmen and pilgrims across the way from her were settling their carryon bags into place. Jack made a face and tucked her backpack into the tiny area set aside for it. One of the 4 crewies walked up to her. "Hi. Want help strapping in?" She was rather pretty in a way, with her carefully arranged blonde hair, sparkling blue eyes and a slightly troubled smile.

"Yeah. It's my first time and I have no clue…" Jack began taking in the navy suit the woman wore. The satin strip on her breast pocket and the name 'Fry, Carolyn: Pilot, Docking Class' embroidered on it in crisp white thread. One little string looked like it was trying to unravel from one of the dots. The woman's little cap looked like it was not used much, being a darker blue, nearly black, and still possessing that 'out-of-the-package' starchiness of something unworn. In contrast, her uniform was faded slightly; looking like it was more of a soft brushed-twill than a starched lightweight wool.

If Carolyn Fry noticed the child's careful scrutiny she didn't show it, "Well, we all start somewhere. Don't be nervous. It's just like taking a long nap." The docking pilot patted the inside of the box, "Hop in."

Jack climbed into the confined space while the crewie busied herself with the connections that would feed the drugs into her blood and filter her waste out, "So what is it really like?"

The woman mumbled, "A murky sludge of frozen time --" before realizing that she was saying it out loud. She covered with a smile. "No, not really. I'm kidding with you. You won't dream. In fact, you'll go to sleep here and wake up there. It's like there's no time passing at all." But Jack could tell she wasn't joking. The woman hated cryo. Still the sting of the needle was minimized by how gentle Fry was as she finished hooking Jack in. The crewie smiled one last time, "Night, night, Kiddo. I'll see you on Tangiers." The door closed. Jack fought off the feeling of being locked into a coffin. She rolled her eyes… 'Of course, it's a death box stupid. What did you expect it to feel like?'

Jack would find out for herself soon enough, but as it was she had never been in cryo before. Neither the first freighter she'd stowawayed on nor the second that had been paid for put her under. The first one had been long enough, but luckily they had fresh supplies that needed oxygen and warmth, or she'd surely have died. The second was a short connecting trip, very expensive, but not long enough for cryo. But the trip to Tangiers was a long one, forty-four weeks altogether. Forty-four weeks of no dreams. Forty-four weeks of being suspended at death's door, unable to cross either way. It was something Audrey welcomed, but something Jack dreaded. She felt so sleepy… The world faded to black.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Johns watched as everyone got into their chambers from his vantagepoint near his bounty. If not for the crewie there he'd have bit the head off the boy hovering near the other death box instead of being with his family. The blonde had looked at the kid's ticket and offered to help hook him up, which mellowed that reaction some. Who in god's name let their child travel alone? That was just – he guessed that perhaps there was a good reason for it, maybe the family was too poor for a second ticket. Really it was none of his business, but he'd been assured that the 'death box' tickets rarely sold and that they would empty. Clearly that wasn't going to be the case this trip.

The Marshal turned to check on the statistics being displayed by the secure chamber. Riddick was still under. Sometimes the convict seemed to shake the drugs. It looked like he was out. The readings indicated he was asleep. Johns took a deep breath and ran a hand through his curly hair. His blue eyes scanned over the proceedings again as the last of the businessmen was assisted into his slot as he complained about his breathing difficulties and asked for a higher oxygen mix in his chamber. The third crewie assured him that the adjustment would be made once he was inside and got the older man settled in.

Only when the captain insisted he strap down did Johns get into his own cryo-box. After assuring the man that he did indeed know how to hook everything up, the ex-marine hacked with the default settings to trigger himself into wakefulness when the crew was brought around. Damn if he was gonna risk being under with people awake around Riddick. That would be far too dangerous. Riddick could charm the skin off of a rabid bear…who knew what he could do if mistakenly let out by some smuck trying to be nice.

Well, Johns knew, or he thought he knew. Riddick would hijack the ship, kill everyone, and make a run for it…that's what he'd do. Johns fought off the urge to pass out as long as he could, staring the entire time at Riddick's statue-like form. In the end though he went under like the rest of the passengers, his soul caught between life and death until the computer triggered him awake...

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

But something inside Jack was still awake. Unaware of time passing, Audrey was slipping and something else was taking over. Audrey didn't dream but the other entity inside her, Jack, did. Audrey let go…gladly slipping away from life and into the netherworld of lost souls. Jack blossomed; creating a hard shell around the tiny fragment of Audrey that remained. The soul inside her sleeping, suspended, body connected with something deep, primitive, and inhuman. A place for Jack to root and grow. And grow this new entity did, for part of the being inside the cryo-tube couldn't shut down. Like a wild animal in a cage, it grasped at the tiny kernel of the puerile of a personality as it fought to stay aware and awake. The animal darkness that had hidden inside a scared, scarred girl suddenly had something strong to grasp, something to lead it into the light, and most important of all, safety to follow it…

Jack was not sure if the experience was one of dreams or had visions as the male, or more accurately the foreign, personality cycled through the endless days of darkness that existed filled with the smells of rusting metal and oil. For a time there was nothing more than normal nightmares that fled only to leave behind the horrible feeling of being trapped. At some point though different images began to filter into the experience. Smells of nature, complex and as foreign as the personality surging through the captured body were the first sign that something was off. Rich mud, soft rain, crushed leaves, acid and pungent, blended into a whole that was unlike anything Audrey's memories could identify. It haunted Jack.

It haunted with the grayness that it first accompanied the smells, and as time passed uncounted, it haunted with the flickers of soft orange light that reminded Jack of something sweet, something buried deep and untouched…

Then, without warning, the darkness inside the girl who would be a boy was near Riddick. Johns was there. Flashes of memories from Audrey drew parallels with a newscast. Bloody, violent, injured people. Shot with a gun. Shots ringing, echoing, through the empty building echoed to ears that were not, nor had ever really been there. But the cries, the squeals, the death screams were not right. It took Jack a moment to realize the true horror of what was happening. Children. Dead. Bodies lying twisted in pools of blood on a factory floor. Small bodies. Riddick was hiding behind a piece of old machinery. Johns held a gun to child's head. These were scenes not from the newscast. Jack had no doubt that it was real. But from where? Before events could be fully analyzed or accepted, Riddick was giving himself up for the life of the boy Johns was threatening.

Something jolted Jack back into nothingness.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

The ship shuttered.

Riddick tore himself from the puzzle of the scent he'd been working on. A female scent. A young one. Not fully mature, yet. Sigma 3 was where he knew it from. Sigma 3, where all his bad luck started. This was not an exact match, but he recognized it was someone he knew from long ago. And time could explain the changes in the melody that made up this aroma. It aroused feelings that belonged to another lifetime. He pushed them away. The only realistic possibility of her being here was if he was here…and if he was here then Riddick figured that something was very wrong with his previous assessment of the route.

Riddick raised his head as the ship shook again. It was his time to act. 22 weeks had allowed him to wear the metal down to the point that he could pop his wrist restraints loose from the bar holding him rigid. 22 weeks had been enough time to work the neck restraints until the old metal separated enough for him to slip the chains with a twist. Now he just had to bide his time. The door would pop open once he threw his weight at it. Red alarm lights started going off. Riddick smiled behind the bit.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

In the main control cabin the crew were summoned back from near-death by the computer's crisis program. The same signals triggered Johns' awake, too. The moments that it took the crew to gather their wits about them were the same ones that Johns used to assess the situation and pull his release handle. He staggered with the change of pressure as the door opened. Riddick was statue-like. But his position was like that of a coiled viper. Johns stared at him. The bastard was awake. Locked tight, but awake.

The ship shivered like the metal was made of gelatin. Johns grabbed the handrail to keep his feet. He was unaware of the debate going on in the cockpit. Blissfully unaware that the next 90 seconds or so might be his last moments. The ship leveled out some. Johns ventured toward the other wall. A jolt sent him sprawling, grasping for anything solid. His hand caught another handrail. He looped his arm around it. There was another pause nearly long enough for him to fancy letting go of his support, then the wall and the connecting cryo-chambers ripped away just inches from where he stood. Two of the closest chambers were flung past him into the remainder of the ship, while the eighteen others bounced off into a sandy swirling hell.

Dimly the ex-marine noted that Riddick's chamber was one of the ones that remained inside the ship as his panic led him to clutch the bar with both arms. The unbelievable fury of the situation lashed at him, threatening to carry him away with the rest of that side of the ship. Hellish heat blasted over him and he was showered with sandy grit. Johns watched as the back and interior sides of the passenger cabin began to come loose as well. The sight of half the remaining lockers and the back wall of the cabin tearing free burned itself into his brain even as he forced his eyes closed against the harsh superheated grit buffeting him. Three-fourths of the passengers in the 40-chamber compartment vanished into an alien hell of sand and chaos right before his eyes before the ship came to a sudden lurching stop.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

At the same moment the ship connected with soil, Riddick made his move. He threw his weight into the door, forcing it open, calculated by the temperature and noise what was missing, rolled to the intact wall, and jumped. He was only slightly hampered by the rigid cuffs. He could hear his locker scrape the floor as it came to a stop upright against a support bracketed post. The ship lurched and twisted. He let the movement carry him to near a perfect hiding spot. His movement allowed the stiff restraining bar to clatter away from his body as he pulled himself up and out of the way before Johns had any awareness that anything had changed. Johns was too busy fighting against the forces that hungered to rip him to pieces at that moment anyhow.

Suddenly, the ship came to a stop.

In the silence that roared in his ears afterwards, Riddick heard one of the death boxes fall over with a ringing thud. It might have been his box, even. He wondered if the other death-box passenger had survived or if she had gone the way of the attaching wall. The ex-ranger slowed his breathing down to as shallow as he could make it, aiming to bide his time for as long as he could.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

It was the persona of Jack who woke with a feeling of weightlessness. Suddenly she was tossed forward and then onto her side in the death-box, nearly being knocked out again in the process. Take that back…the entire box was on its side. The door was jammed, and the box was facing the wall. The internal animal welled up for a moment, panicked and trapped, before Jack was able to force it down. 'Just try to just lay still and hope someone else lived through the hell that had just happened,' came the internal order. Ears ringing, lungs struggling to catch a breath, all Jack could do was wonder, 'What happened? Had the ship crashed? That had to be it. The only explanation for why the death box was tossed over and against the floor. So had anyone else lived? Please. Please let some one else be alive out there.' Part of the problem was that the body was not obeying the mind and was tugging franticly at the red bar just above her head. The release handle was doing absolutely no good. 'Door to the wall… remember. Okay, don't panic…' Jack forced the tears back. It seemed like forever…

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Shazza had woken up as the ship was shaking. She had always been a light sleeper. Something was wrong. That fact registered just as her blurry eyes were flooded with bright alien light. She could feel the heat through the cryo chamber's door. Crashing… she swallowed and put her hand on the glass. Would her locker go the route of those on the other side of the ship? Where there was nothing left? She was jarred to the side as the ship stopped. Shaking now, she pulled the release handle and slowly pushed the door open. 'Bloody fucking hell…' scattered bits of the ship littered the cabin. She jumped as the door next to her hissed open. Zeke was much steadier. Saying nothing, he hugged her for a brief moment and began assessing the situation. Shazza took her clues from her mate. They had to see if anyone else was alive. She spotted Johns' blue uniform near the huge torn off, missing, wall. He was covered with alien yellow dust. "You in one piece?"

He must have blacked out for a bit. After coughing and getting his ears to stop ringing, Johns realized that it was him that the woman was calling to. "Yeah… yeah. I think so." He was still dazed, not quite believing that he'd lived. Blood dribbled from several small abrasions caused by his closeness to the damage. He thought he might have blood trickling from one ear too. Dust caked to it. Johns felt his lungs struggling in the oven hot alien air to catch a full breath. He stared numbly at the other passengers who were trying to locate survivors.

Shazza turned her attention to the damaged but still in the ship cryo boxes. The empty one was shattered. The death box was tumbled over… She panicked. Jack had been in that box. There was no way to tell if the door was busted or if the passenger inside was still alive. She began to dig for the emergency tool kit hidden under the floor. Much of it was missing, and she wasn't even sure that the torch would light. She shook as she fought with it for a moment. It sprang to life with a reluctant sputter. Shazza put on welder's goggles and adjusted it until it could cut metal. She set to work on the back of the death box… She felt Zeke near, and surprisingly enough the merc had moved over too.

Jack felt heat faintly bleeding through the top of the box. The heat was intense at the shoulder, fading as it dropped down the length of the box. An itch formed along side the faint heat, intensified by sweat and tight elastic fabric. Confusion welled up for a second drawing the 'boy's' attention from 'his' rescue… Just as suddenly, the notion was forgotten. How long had this been what was wanted? Wished for? Prayed for? 'I'm a he. Jack B. Badd… A boy. He. Never been anything but. These people don't need to know any different.' But in some ways it was already too late. The inkling was there that something was being hidden not only from those outside, but from the persona inside…

Heat at the hip level jolted Jack back from where ever 'he'd' fled to, 'Someone cutting the hinges?' The back of the box fell to the floor. Jack discovered the concerned face of someone 'he' knew staring down. It took a moment for the befuddled mind inside Jack to come up with a name for the black haired woman… Shazza. Shazza had made it. Noise alerted the 'boy' to others. Zeke was nearby watching not his lifemate, but the flow of too few survivors straggle past. Johns was among the flow. Jack's ears picked up the elder Imam calling to see if there were more survivors. Relief, oddly, flooded over Jack a moment later the reality set in; "Something went real wrong, huh?" The air was filled with yellow dust, oppressive heat filled the gloom, but something in Jack's voice made Shazza smile as the child rolled and got up. A fast sweep with amber eyes told Jack that Riddick was free. Not only was his 'no early release' chamber in the wrong spot, but also it was busted open. 'Had the crash done it?' Jack wondered, 'or was Riddick that strong?'

Something caught the kid's attention…Johns looked that direction. Riddick. Gone. Johns reached for his gun to find his holster missing. It must have come loose. He begun looking for it. His path took him down a ladder. Not having the best night vision, Johns squinted in the dark. There. He could see the handle of the gun and the faint outline of the shape of the holster. Not thinking about the dangers, headless of the possibilities, the redhead moved towards his weapon. He never saw Riddick waiting to strike. He never had a chance to look up and see the merc-killer spring his trap. Johns felt the metal close around his neck, and the strength of Riddick's legs as the other man nearly jerked his head off. But Johns was not that weak. The struggle for life pumped him full of desperation. He reached for his nightstick and flicked it into a longer weapon. One he thrashed blindly at the man choking him.

Riddick withstood the stinging blows with one thought. He was sure of the scent now. It drove him to stay when he should have run. Just as sure was the fact that Riddick was driven to kill Johns before Johns killed her like he had killed those other two kids. Riddick had given up his life once for her… He was not going to let Johns kill her. His legs tightened with effort, his arms strained to keep his grip on the beam overhead. Johns would get his due now.

The effort required to survive often opened up new untapped strength. Johns knew he had to get his attacker loose from the upper beam. He forced himself into the choke, straining Riddick's arms until the large man lost his grip overhead and came crashing down…

The sounds of a fight reached Jack's ears. Gurgling, metal creaking, then a 'whish' and repeated thudding of something hard on firm flesh. Impulse carried the child over to the noise, following the sounds in somewhat of a daze. There were grunts, more straining metallic noises and a heavy thud accompanied by chains clanging against the bulkhead. By the time Jack reached where the fight was taking place it was over. Johns had a bruise forming on his throat; Riddick was on the floor, prone, shackled, blindfolded, and gagged. One eye faintly glittered at her in the dark through a tiny rip in the blindfold. "Somebody's gonna get hurt one of these days. And it ain't gonna be me," The voice floating to Jack's ears sounded like it was coming from a half–crushed throat. Johns turned to look at the 'boy' almost as if he sensed Jack watching. In reality, he too had noticed Riddick's glance past him. That old soft spot was showing up again… Keeping his face blank until he had his back turned, Jack tightened up his jaw and moved away. Hate welled up at Johns' smug expression.

Riddick sensed the mysterious source of the scent again. Through the slit in the blindfold he saw her. A ring of painfully bright light silhouetted her form, but she was the angel he imagined she'd become. He couldn't believe his luck. He couldn't state that it was good. This was the last place he wanted her to be. This was the last way he'd wanted her to see him. His luck was not rotten either. They had crashed. He had time. There would be plenty of chances to slip Johns and maybe he could save her. He didn't fight as Johns secured him to one of the metal I-beams with his hands behind his back. He didn't make it easy either. Johns was forced into muscling the convict into place, enlisting Zeke's help when he couldn't quite trust himself to do the job alone. Jack watched until a scream pierced the air, causing the youth to move off that direction.

What Jack saw touched something inside and rooted whatever it was with morbid fascination. There was a man, on the floor, with a metal spike sticking through his chest. He was screaming, "Don't touch that handle!" Jack did not hear much else of what went on as a feeling of foreign – emotion—drew, held, captivated—him? No, it? Confusion again surged through the not quite child's body and mind. The unknown part, the savage part, of Jack wanted to study the man's shocked bloodless complexion and ruby frothed lips. It wanted to see the death that it sensed hovering nearby. It wanted… blood – The confusion without, the argument over the medlocker and medicine went on while the creature inside Jack fought with the phony construct that held what was left of the youth's humanity.

Johns literally herded Jack out of the scene, past Riddick's sweaty form and into overly bright sunlight. The movement, the shocking heat and light, chased off the shadowy phantom killer lurking inside Jack's soul. The humanity took control with haste, only to be confronted with new horrors, for what existed outside was no less mind numbing than the screaming man inside. A smoking trail littered with parts of the ship reached back toward the horizon. Two suns hovered at the side of the visage, mocking the scene with too much light, searing the horror of the wreckage into the minds of all the survivors.

Jack stared, blinked, and began to scale the hull of the ship for a better look. Shazza and Zeke joined the 'boy' atop the hull. There was another man too; Paris was his name, one of the businessmen who had lived through the crash. Jack instinctively disliked him. He was whining about not being able to breathe. Jack stared out at the wreckage until sounds of Fry's foot steps echoed as she climbed up to join the others. The youth glanced at her, taking in her short blonde hair and fitted navy uniform. The only crewie who had lived was the blonde woman who had buckled in Audrey all those weeks ago. She was shorter than Shazza, but just as tough looking in her own way. Jack heard Shazza trying to reassure Fry that she had done good and chimed in, "Yeah, thanks for saving our dicks." Fry just looked out at the smoking trench, appearing shocked.

Johns was all business. Something about this place was odd. His compass couldn't get a grip on the direction here. He looked out and scanned the valley that they'd crashed in. The bushwhackers, Shazza and Zeke, were quiet, aside from trying to find out what had caused the crash and trying to get the single crewie out of her state of shock. Things could be worse. At least he could count on Zeke to help keep Riddick in line. The focus the pair had on survival was remarkable. The four pilgrims and the kid were worrisome. Resource hogging, good for nothing, and likely to drag the survivors down. Then there was Paris... another good for nothing piece of shit in Johns' mind. Fry came back down off the hull. "There are pressure suits that we can use for oxygen," she was telling Shazza who was right behind her. "I'll check the water cistern and see what the situation is." The two women went inside. Johns listened to the sounds of them retrieving what they could. Fry reemerged looking ashen. She looked at Johns; "We need to go through the cargo…to see if there's anything to drink…"

"I've got something." Paris replied. "If my cargo survived."

Jack listened. Likely whatever Paris had would only do a few of them any good. Something about the man bound inside the wreck called like a siren's song. The pull made the youth itch to sneak back inside…. Back to Riddick. Analyzing the feeling got Jack nowhere. It seemed connected to the same dark place that the dying man had been. Was he?-- It? -- falling into the trap of insanity? The confusion rose again. 'I'm a boy, damnit. A BOY. Focus on Zeke… yeah, that's better. Zeke and Shazza know what to do, so just focus on Zeke.' So that's just what Jack did for a time, 'he' watched the bushwhacker until the sight of the three boys with Imam praying stole the last ounce of attention away from the dusty skinned man. Then Jack tried helping gather parts that Shazza and Zeke needed to modify the salvaged oxygen containers into working breathing units as Fry, Johns, and Paris talked about taking stock of what liquid they might have to drink.

Watching Zeke as he stripped the parts down with his knife, also kept Jack occupied for a time. But the urge to go back inside never abated. The animal inside, the female animal, needed… The darkness of Jack's soul suddenly pointed out that all of the adults had their attention pointed elsewhere and that everything they needed help with had been done. There was nothing left to assist with. And there was an excuse for going back in… Jack struggled with it, but was slipping. That annoyance of something not being right tickled inside 'his' mind again. The savageness reared up over the human persona's panic and snuffed out the emotion with the softest of whispers, 'Just to help him… that's all. Ease his pain…' It sounded reasonable. Why not slip inside and see what injuries Riddick might have suffered?

Johns, Fry, Paris and Imam began heading off toward the mangled back of the ship, following the scar of blackened twisted metal to what remained of the cargo hold. Jack slipped back into the shadows, back into the ship. If Shazza or Zeke noticed neither said anything. Still, caution caused the youth to pause and wait just to make sure 'he' would not be missed. It also let those honey-toned eyes adjust to the dimness inside the ship. The dust had settled on everything. After a moment, Jack slowly began to move over to where Riddick was bound. The 'boy' walked softly, the extra layer muffling the footsteps.

Riddick heard the approach. The scent was coming closer. He turned his head to find the slim form moving towards him. There was no fear in the figure's body language. Riddick found that curious. He watched the child hunch down. Something on her face he'd not seen in a long time, compassion, caused him to focus on her movements. He turned away from the child's eyes and took in the larger picture. Riddick knew this was a girl. He could smell it. Whatever reason she had for her disguise he figured had to be a good one. She was moving closer.

Jack could see the glint of his eye as Riddick turned his head to follow the movement. Riddick's mouth had sores from the bit. Jack's face betrayed youthful emotion. It was not fair. The creature inside Jack stood up, moved closer and whispered, "I've got some water, the others don't know about it. " With that it produced the water filled balloon. Sure the taste would be rubbery but some water had to be better than no water. She carefully put the untied edge to Riddick's lips and released enough moisture to wet them. The knowledge of how to feed liquid to the helpless flowed from Audrey who had done it for the twins. Now the wild budding femaleness trapped inside the male persona of Jack relied on that knowledge, that control, so that the water entered Riddick's mouth slowly enough so that he could swallow.

The moisture was heavenly. Riddick didn't know why the kid would give up the small supply of water, but he took it. He let it slide over his lips, held it in his mouth for a moment, noticed that she was aware of his action and giving him time. He dared to look into her eyes again. Something stirred inside him, a twinge that he knew he should not be feeling toward a child. Richard batted the sensation away and focused on her eyes again. Bright, clear, eyes fired into glittering sharpness by hardship met his quicksilver gaze. The killer, Riddick, squared off with the human, Richard… and wondered where the hell the human had come from. Shit… Those weeks in cryo, the need to kill Johns, the desire to protect her… No, Richard was dead. He'd been dead for years. Yet there he was, like a ghost, only stronger. And something else was there, underneath it all. The animal that Riddick thought he'd conquered stirring in the pit of his soul… The killer and the human recoiled from the foreign danger and both took refuge in those beautiful eyes. The eyes of his angel. Even the beast inside could agree. Her eyes could save him… His mind filled in the golden-brown tint he could no longer see.

Slowly he came back from the brink. Moving his attention slowly away from the lifeline her eyes had become he allowed himself to look at the rest of her. He couldn't see her hair, hidden as it was under her cap, but he imagined it was brown, too. Way back when it had been spun gold, but if it had darkened as she aged it would now be the same color as her mother's hair. No… best not to think of those times. Best not to look at the child's face for the things he loved about her mother… Best not to… that was another lifetime. One he'd given up. Having her here brought it all back, haunting him with a twinge of humanity he thought he'd squeezed out long ago. His anger coiled inside his gut. Johns would have to die. But first he had to get free. He looked past the child; silently focusing on the one tool he needed to make his escape. It was just too far away. But if he could get her to move it even a few feet closer….

Once the water was gone Jack backed up and looked over the large man's form. 'Are there injuries? Hard to tell in this light, really. Um, he's not looking at me… wonder what has his attention,' Jack turned. There was a cutting torch on the floor, near the death box Shazza had cut the back off of. The youth looked back at Riddick then moved over and picked up the torch. The darkness inside Jack toyed with the idea of cutting Riddick free. It pulled back toward the bound man in slow steps. The human persona, Jack suddenly realized how truthfully stupid this was. 'What? What are you thinking?! If you do set Riddick free what is he gonna do? Pat you on the head? Yeah right.' Riddick would likely strangle the life out of this dumb body that wouldn't allow 'him' the control that 'he', Jack, knew 'he' needed to have right about now… And yet there was something about Riddick that was different. The large man was not like Johns or the man Audrey had fled from. Not safe exactly, but less likely to kill someone for helping out. Or that's what Jack hoped as the two personalities fought to the point that 'he' was sick of it. So how did this thing work?

Ali's voice cut through the gloom, "Jack? Jack are you in there?"

The sound caused Jack to cringe before giving Riddick an apologetic expression. The need to keep Ali from knowing what was happening flared. Jack set the torch down. Riddick held those angel's eyes for a moment then gave a single nod. They both understood. Jack turned back to where Ali was speaking from, "Yeah, I'm here. I was just getting my backpack." With that the girl hiding as a boy moved to the side and picked up the leather pack before exiting. Riddick had gotten exactly what he'd hoped for. The torch was just within reach.

Now that he was alone, Riddick pulled up the training he'd gotten at the Strike Force Academy on Sigma 3's moon. He stood; relaxed his muscles for a moment then double-checked the condition of the I-beam he was chained to. Easy slip. He worked his shoulders in preparation, raised his arms up as high as they would go naturally, then proceeded to lift them up and over his head behind his back and through the crack. Old parlor tricks could come in handy. This one relied on his flexibility, pain tolerance, and double joints. His arms in the front now, he reached for the torch….