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jedibuttercupM; Riddick 'verse; Riddick/William Johns; 8100 words. Self-indulgent time travel fix-it.
If the Threshold had done what he thought it had done... then Riddick was absolutely going to fuck its priests over, much more thoroughly this time. But there was no profit in dwelling on ifs. He'd dived into the abyss. Time to embrace it, and let the chips fall where they may.
Title: they say hope begins in the dark
Author: Jedi Buttercup
Disclaimer: The words are mine; the worlds are not.
Spoilers: Pitch Black (2000); Riddick (2013); etc.
Notes: Details mined from the entirety of Riddick canon, including all three movies, Johns' chase logs on the Pitch Black DVD, Dark Fury, and the clips on Youtube for both video games: "Escape from Butcher Bay" and "Assault on Dark Athena". Though none of it should be ultimately necessary to understanding the story except for the theatrical movies. (Original idea meant for Iddy Iddy Bang Bang 2019, but life's been a little hectic. I set a challenge to myself to see if I could find a way to actually ship Riddick with the younger Johns ... and this very, very self-indulgent fic is the result.)
Summary: If the Threshold had done what he thought it had done... then Riddick was absolutely going to fuck its priests over, much more thoroughly this time. But there was no profit in dwelling on ifs. He'd dived into the abyss. Time to embrace it, and let the chips fall where they may. 8100 words.
Riddick hadn't been sure what to expect when he'd sent the Necro scoutship down the glowing throat of Underverse.
Transcendence, Vaako had said; bullshit, as far as Riddick was concerned. Whatever half-alive, half-dead trick had given the last Lord Marshal his ghostly edge, whatever mysticism Vaako had been seeking, Riddick hadn't believed for a moment there was some kind of deity on the other side of that anomaly.
Granted, a crapsack universe like the one they lived in deserved a higher power that thought all life was an infection that needed to be burned out. He just didn't see what a god like that would want with an army of death-dealing priests. If worship mattered to it at all, wouldn't it want more beings out there to offer it, not fewer? And if it just wanted death... then what would it need with an army to begin with? Death came to all things in the end, no matter how they got there.
The problem was-- Vaako was the only source Riddick had for knowledge about Furya; and finding out what it meant to be the last Furyan was the only goal Riddick had left beyond basic survival. He'd outlived most of the assholes who'd tried to cross him off the list; outlived most of the folks he hadn't entirely hated along the way into the bargain. Nothing left to do, then, but fire up the shuttle and follow Vaako over the ledge.
Thing was, long falls usually had a sudden stop at the bottom. Not some-- impenetrable nothingness, filled only with impossible questions.
Looked like he'd spoken too soon about the lack of deity.
The moment his ship approached the Threshold, hovering at the edge where the beacons disappeared into infinity beyond, gravity tides gripped the ship with vicious strength. Images flashed before his mind's eye as crippling force pressed him back into his chair, like the echoes of fallen Furya that had harried him all the way to Helion Prime. Only these visions weren't animated by someone else's vengeance; the only rage that filled them was Riddick's own. Moments clipped from the chain of his existence, when one pivot point or another might have sent him down a different route-- or sent him out once and for all.
It wasn't difficult to figure out what was happening. Riddick wasn't exactly a stranger to facing judgment. But if there was some kind of a guide to how to respond, the Seventh Lord Marshal didn't know it. What little he'd absorbed of the Necromongers' creed spoke of a test, one that would either return him as worthy-- or not at all. He'd expected that to mean some kind of obstacle course to jump through; he'd become something of an expert at surviving everything the 'verse could throw at him.
Figured that he would end up becoming the obstacle course, in the end. Visions. Memories.
Alternate memories? Alternate paths? Conclusions tripped over in his thoughts like dominoes falling. Riddick could go back to the Necro fleet, augmented by the energy of this place, as all six of the other Lord Marshals had done before him. As Vaako intended to do. Or else...?
The answer came to him like a whisper in his ear. You could choose another.
Uneasiness shuddered through him at the spiral of possibilities starbursting out from that intrusion. How many others besides those six had crossed the Threshold before him, only to vanish who knew when, and who knew where? No fucking wonder Lord Marshal Oltovm had put a Guardian in place, to allow only the most devout to pass forever after. Those were the ones the Necro priests knew for sure would come back out.
But the Faith wasn't Riddick's anchor. He already knew where any god worth the name would send him, and doubted it would hold him any more securely than any other triple max slam. It was where he came from that mattered to him now.
Of course, that would be the one place he still couldn't go.
Riddick had never even seen the planet of his birth, outside of a few distorted visions filtered through ancestral wrath. Couldn't go back to it, because he had no memories of it at all. He'd been told at the orphanage that he'd been found in a liquor store trash bin, strangled with his own birth cord. But was the bin in question even on Furya to start with? Or did it even exist at all? Someone had to have found him. If everyone else was dead, did that mean a Necromonger had saved him? Had that been the person who'd left him at the orphanage? He'd never known the answer.
It fucking figured. Bitterness welled up in Riddick's throat, tasting of ashes and defeat, threatening to drown that last spark of meaningful purpose. After all, if he couldn't go where he wanted, then why bother to go anywhere at all? All of existence circling the drain, just like he'd once reminded the Imam. Too fucking bad the warning had come too late.
Unbidden, another memory surfaced, resonating off that sense of raging loss: that last escape when everything had gone from intermittently bad to always worse, the first serious step he'd taken down the path to where he found himself now. The pilgrimage that had crossed his path with Abu al-Walid's; the world where he had first met the girl then known as Jack. The hellhole where he'd tried to bury his past, only to have it follow him and swallow his future, too. M-344/G: the catalyst for everything that had followed.
For a moment, Riddick could almost see the cursed world in his mind's eye, the way it had looked on the skiff's screens: a vast brown dustball, tumbling darkly through space, skirted by the loose rock of a comet's tail. Then white light burst behind his eyes, blinding and inescapable. Molten steel poured through his veins, jolting him back to awareness in a flashfire moment of unexpected, endless pain. Even after the first rush cleared, there was some kind of dull, burning ache in both his shoulders--
Murmur of voices around him, the scent of a prospector filling the air--
Scent of Johns, too, beyond the blackness blotting out his vision, all sour sweat and sharp edges. Instantly familiar despite the decade since Riddick had watched him being torn apart. Had he reached the Underverse after all? But why the fuck would the blue-eyed devil be the one to greet him there?
"Johns," Riddick murmured, low under his breath, seizing on that detail as an anchor.
The sound of his voice blurred oddly in his own ears, and he finally stirred, trying to move, to speak again... only to recognize the bit shoved between his teeth, and the lassitude that came with a fading dose of cryo. Prisoner transport. A very specific prisoner transport cum cargo vessel, cruising the ghost lanes toward New Mecca. Five years before he'd even heard the word Necromonger.
A more detailed memory offered up by the Threshold? Or....
As if responding to the thought, a new rush of sounds began to fill the void: a sharp succession of strikes like a shotgun tearing through metal; the faint whistle of bleeding air escalating to a roar of wind; the cries of other people waking all around him. Something shattered, shaking the cryochamber that held him; one of his arms suddenly moved, freed from whatever had held it in place--
--and that's when he knew for sure it wasn't just a memory, it was the actual moment. Whether it was still just in his head, or actual fucking time travel via impossible physics, he didn't know. But also, Riddick decided with a sudden, renewed surge of rage, it didn't fucking matter.
This was the day he'd gone from hating the whole universe, to admitting just a tiny corner of it might be worth protecting after all.
This was the day he'd unwittingly sown the seeds for his own destruction.
It was also the day his cat-and-mouse chase with the first merc he'd ever had any use for had dead-ended in disappointment, trading a once-clever dance partner for a succession of ever-uglier hunters on his tail. At least, until Johns' father had brought the pursuit full circle... too little, too late.
Riddick reached with his free hand for the blindfold, then ripped at the other binders holding him in the secure capsule. If this really was the same world, the same circumstances as the last time, he wouldn't be able to escape alone-- but he didn't have to put on as much of a show as he had before, either.
Fucking Johns. Still holding the Dark Athena against him, even though that hadn't been his fault. If they hadn't been 'jacked, if they'd shared Hoxie's ship after Butcher Bay a little longer--
He spat the bit out of his mouth, anger turning back on himself. Who was he kidding? They'd have run into something sooner or later. For every Hunter Gratzner, there was a Kublai Khan; for every New Mecca, there was an Aguerra Prime; for every Furya, there was a Necromonger armada. If the Threshold had truly sent him back... then he was absolutely going to fuck its priests over, much more thoroughly this time. But there was no profit in dwelling on ifs.
He'd dived into the abyss. Time to embrace it, and let the chips fall where they may.
+
This time, Riddick didn't stick around to set up an ambush after he broke free. He didn't need to; he already knew who else had survived the initial crash, what resources were available, and what he'd have to do to make it off that rock alive and unchained. He headed straight for the narrow canyon between the wreck and the old mining settlement instead, pausing only to take two things: a shiv and Johns' treasure box. Morphine might be useful at the other end of things, depending on how it all went, but he already knew what a Johns high and feeling no pain would do. Might as well decomplicate that situation while he was at it.
Some people thought cryosleep was like being frozen in time: that they didn't change at all while they were under. Others knew better. Those like Riddick, who never fully went to sleep in the first place; and those like Johns, who tracked time not by days but by doses. The filtration system that pumped in the cryo drugs also slowly cleared the blood of previous toxins; sleep long enough, and the physical withdrawal was over before an addict even woke. Not that Johns probably gave a shit, the way he'd lit up first chance he got; but it did mean the shakes would stay psychological, and he'd be more useful until the dying began.
Riddick thought about dropping a shackle the opposite direction from the wreck than he had before, as well: toward sunrise rather than suns-set. Send them off searching in a different direction, away from the settlement. Maybe a cull a few with thirst who would have died anyway while he fetched the sandcat and the power cells on his own. But that way would take the weakest first... including twelve-year-old Jack. He might not owe this Jack anything, but in memory of the Kyra he'd failed, Riddick would rather she made it out alive.
...And maybe chose a different role model, this time. Her imitation had amused him before, but that amusement hadn't survived his return to Helion Prime. Knowing what it would cost her in the end... well, she could do worse than fixate on a survivor like Fry instead.
Better not to drop a shackle at all. Let them think he'd broke out of cryo early-- something Johns would believe him capable of, after the way he'd escaped from deep freeze at the Bay-- and been lost with all the other debris in the crash trail. Just a ghost, until he needed to be otherwise.
He left the morphine shells hidden in the boneyard, then went on to the abandoned settlement while the passengers fucked around in the lone surviving cargo compartment. He didn't touch the dried-up old irrigation system yet; too obvious a tell, and the Imam had figured it out before. But he did move the shroud off the solar-powered engines on the coring room's roof. If the kids snuck in again, nothing would be left to eat their faces; the sunlight would send the critters into the depths instead, to join the bones of the last eclipse's victims. Keep the survivors happier; make it easier for him, in the end.
Riddick had just enough time to subtly unearth a few of the clues he'd found before, sneak into the escape shuttle to make sure all was as it should be, and take a few more precautions before voices warned him of incoming visitors. Then he picked a rooftop with a convenient overhang and settled in to watch.
The prospector type was missing, same as the last time. Digging graves, if he remembered right. About to shoot a man for no crime other than survival. He'd probably still be the first one eaten. But the others....
The party was the same size; Carolyn still had that haunted look. Chicks all gathered under the Imam's wing, tracing the irrigation lines and looking for the pump. But badge boy wasn't there; the free-settler woman with the incongruously expensive necklace was instead. Shazza. Sharing quiet words with the pilot, looking around with a shrewder gaze than he remembered. Tempering Carolyn's excitement over the escape skiff with narrow-eyed pragmatism.
Interesting. Had Johns sent them off so he could look for his stash alone? Told them he was making sure his escaped prisoner wasn't stalking the ship? Now there was a consequence that hadn't occurred to Riddick.
He was tempted to go back, see for himself what the merc was up to. But he knew better. Getting caught would close doors better left open, for now. No prisoner to harness like a mule, no reason to drag their feet pulling the cells from the wreck to power the escape ship-- sure, Johns was paranoid enough to figure he was still alive, but the longer he spent as a mirage, the less the group would factor him into their plans. The way Shazza was eyeing the sandcat already, they might even get it all done before the eclipse began.
But not before the dying started. It was already too late for that. Riddick tilted his head as the distant sound of gunshots sent the others scattering, then snuck down for a quick sip at the water tank. Tasted more than a little green-- it had barely started running again, pipes still full of dried-up algae-- but compared to what he'd survived on in other times, other places, it was pretty damn refreshing. Then he tucked himself back under an overhang to take a quick nap, using the salvaged shroud to shield himself from the light.
No point wasting energy. When Johns showed up, then it would be time to consider moving.
+
If Riddick had dreamed at all in the years since Helion Prime, they hadn't been the kind of dreams worth remembering. Fry, pulled away into the storm. Kyra, sighing her last breath out in his arms. A hall full of Necromongers sinking to one knee. Lying on the deck next to Johns in one of Butcher Bay's transport shuttles, pools of blood beneath them spreading to meet in the middle, before Hoxie boxed him up for cold storage.
It wasn't the scent of defeat that had made them nightmares, though. He'd faced a lot of setbacks over the years; found a way out every damn time. The pain, the delay, meant nothing to him. It was the loss that lingered. The things-- and people-- left behind, the sacrifices made en route to freedom.
In the end, freedom had been the only thing he'd ever managed to hang onto.
Well, you got what you gave in this 'verse. Blood and sweat, Riddick had given in plenty. But he'd learned the hard way not to give anything more. The few times he had....
Well. Even now, his dreams didn't feature anything new.
"You're always trying to ruin my paydays, Riddick," Johns murmured, blue eyes crinkled with humor and satisfaction over the barrel of his weapon.
Behind his back, Riddick's fist curled around the tool he'd been using to pry at the shuttle's cockpit doors. Off to one side, the shuttle's pilot slumped; behind Johns, Jagger Valance had sunk to one knee, hand to his gut after Johns' sucker punch. But while the merc might be armed, he was standing way too close. One of these days, Johns would finally learn not to let his ego do the thinking, but that day hadn't arrived yet. If he didn't shoot first, Riddick was close enough to disarm him; and if that took too long, Valance would be back in the picture. And the other prisoner had even less reason to hesitate than Riddick.
(Another ally he'd made-- and would soon lose-- along the way. Had already lost. Just like Jack. Just like Fry. M-344/G might have been the beginning of the end, but Butcher Bay had set him on the path. No chance now, if there ever had been, of going to ground somewhere for good and just... starting over.)
"Now, come on," Johns continued, waving his weapon in a come-hither gesture. "Let's go."
There was a fraction of a second when the gun was off-center, cross-body from Riddick's perspective. He ducked down and lunged in, shoulder blocking Johns' arm from sweeping back, and stabbed left-handed at Johns' back with the tool. It wasn't even really a shiv; just a long, slender spike of metal, shaped like a wedge at the end, originally meant for removing bolts. Whatever story Johns might tell about it later, Riddick hadn't meant to do any permanent harm-- didn't even miss his target. Body cavity shot would weaken the merc, finally give him the opportunity to finish his escape, if things fell out the way he hoped. Maybe even with Johns, to give them a chance to work out some other kind of deal.
But that was the moment his legendary luck finally tipped back the other way: Valance seized the opportunity to lift Johns' dropped weapon... and accidentally shot Riddick instead. Only to be felled a few seconds later by incoming guards.
Ironically enough, the bullet struck Riddick close to where he'd tagged Johns, leaving them both bleeding badly on the deck. Though in his case, it had skipped off a rib, rather than piercing deep. He probably could have kept going, if the stakes were high enough... but the odds weren't in his favor, and there would be another chance. There always was.
Still. It had never been in his nature to just lie down. "You dyin' on me, Johns?" he prodded, turning his head toward his fallen opponent.
"No, not yet. They get you good?" the merc coughed. He still sounded more amused than angry; still so fucking sure of the outcome.
Riddick could smell the rich iron scent of his blood, slightly different from Riddick's own; feel the warmth of the man's sprawled body, almost close enough to touch. Not as different as Johns would like to think they were, in the end. How many times had he caught up to Riddick now? So close, and yet so far.
"I've had worse," he replied in kind.
"I thought that this was going to be the day, Riddick. The day one of us kills the other." Johns sounded almost grieved at the interruption.
"The day's not over yet," Riddick replied, feeling almost as disappointed as the merc.
+
The dream broke up in the middle of the ensuing scene in Hoxie's office, the clang of boots on metal decking blurring into the crunching sound of many feet on gravel. Back to another desert planet, on another legendarily bad day that wasn't over yet. The day that disappointment had drawn out to its bitter end.
Would things have gone differently if Johns hadn't stiffed Hoxie on the med fees? If he'd paid for nano-med healing rather than settling for cheap meatball surgery? Riddick knew Butcher Bay had the tech; had come across it in the guard areas during his attempts to escape. There was very little it couldn't fix. He couldn't blame Johns for preferring to save his funds to get away and drag his quarry to a different slam, rather than ending up further in Hoxie's debt-- but in the end, that had been the grain of sand that broke the bioraptor's back.
Riddick shook that distracting thought away, then carefully stretched, peering out from his shrouded perch. Whole group was there this time, fanning out among the buildings. Picking up the clues. Looking for salvage. He'd wondered if they'd leave someone behind again when he didn't reappear, but apparently no one had volunteered to wait for their water ration.
Not a surprise, really. What was a surprise was that Johns still didn't seem to be their leader. Nor was 'Captain' Fry. Shazza's face was streaked with dirt where tears had run-- still lost her lover-boy, then, as he'd thought-- but she was clearly the one in charge. Once the water was poured and drunk, she gestured the pilot off toward the skiff with the one cell they'd brought to test it, then held a fierce, low-voiced argument with Johns when he hung back rather than follow after.
Johns looked a little drawn, though not physically shaky. Had the craving set in yet? Maybe made him a little irritable, made them start questioning his authority a little sooner? Or was it the fact that he hadn't had anyone to demonstrate his authority on? Easier to question a man who hadn't walked someone at gunpoint in front of you.
Johns' return smile was tight, but every other tell to his body language was patient, placating. Smooth. Looked like it was working better on Shazza than it had on Hoxie, too. Not that she gave in on whatever Johns' point was, but her posture softened, and she waved him off with a conciliatory tone before climbing into the sandcat. A few minutes later, the solar engine whirred to life, and she called out to the Imam. The three Chrislam boys all swarmed into the sandcat with her; then she turned it toward the canyon, pausing to collect an alarmed-looking Ogilvie before heading back to the wrecked ship.
Curiouser and curiouser. Riddick watched them go, then carefully dropped over the edge of the roof. Dry earth shifted quietly underfoot, the sound smothered by the walls of the settlement and the heat blazing down from the blue sun overhead.
He'd considered staying hid until the skiff was ready, then barging aboard at the last moment with his shiv to someone's throat. But that way had its risks, too. He'd be forced to kill or incapacitate most of the others if he didn't want them turning on him the moment he was strapped in. Pilot's seat or co-pilot's, either was impractical with hostile passengers and only one, maybe two weapons. That either meant drugging them all with Johns' morphine-- probably what he would have done, if they hadn't gone back for the extra cells until the eclipse began again-- or neutralizing that hostility first, somehow.
Shazza's determination had just bought him a window. To what end, well; they'd see. Riddick played the hand he was dealt and then cheated for good measure, but people were still people, and nothing came with a guarantee in this 'verse.
He kept to the sides of the buildings-- where shadows would have fallen on any sane world, but at least broke the sightlines between him and the other survivors-- and padded quietly after Johns.
+
He found the other man leaning against the corner of a building, one arm braced against the windworn structure while he gazed in the direction of the skiff. Lines pinched deep around the corners of the merc's eyes as he grimly studied the intended means of their escape.
Riddick paused for a moment to absorb the sight, taking in the short, sand-colored curls glowing in the blinding light, the sweat trickling down under the collar of his dirty white shirt, the tension in the line of his back. Vintage William J. Johns, pulse still throbbing in the hollow of his throat. One wrong choice away from becoming a footnote in the family Bible. Rarely had a death so well earned left such a bitter taste on Riddick's tongue.
He shook his head at his own prevarication, then broke the silence.
"Thought I warned you, Johns," he drawled, with just a hint of menace. He wasn't here for a confrontation, but Johns wouldn't believe him without it. "Statistically, landings are the most dangerous."
A flinch telegraphed through the merc's body like a gunshot. But he didn't reach for the weapon strapped to his thigh; probably half-expecting it to already be gone. Or maybe, finally realizing it would never do him any good. Johns turned slowly to face him, every movement slow and careful.
"No shit," he replied, scanning Riddick slowly from head to toe. Whatever he saw, it didn't show in his steady gaze; but Riddick definitely had all of his attention. Good. "I thought you said takeoffs were. Depending on who you have at the controls."
Riddick gave a low chuckle and jerked his chin in the direction of the skiff, where Fry was still running her checks. "Really don't think circumstances are proving me wrong, here."
Johns made a face at that; point to Riddick. "So, what. You making your case to be the pilot on the way out?"
Riddick shrugged, a careless shift of shoulders that drew Johns' eyes, tightening the tension in the merc's shoulders even further. "And if I was? If I'd thought about pointing out how many survivors there are, and how many passengers the oxygen scrubbers on a skiff like that are rated to support?"
Yeah, there had to have been a reason he'd been staring so grimly at the ship. But Johns didn't back down. "You actually think we're likely to survive long enough for that to make a difference? I'm all for increasing my chances. But willingly boarding a ship with you didn't go so well for me the last two times." He pressed a hand theatrically to the scar on his back, glare sharpening with his temper.
Riddick shook his head, his own mood souring. Usually, he didn't mind taking the blame for unearned tally-marks added to his ledger. Not since those first betrayals, when the 'verse had taught him that truth and justice were only a cruel mirage. The rumors only built his reputation further-- and the fallout was usually entertaining. But he found he'd lost the taste for it, somewhere between watching the light die in an insufficiently valued bounty's eyes and discovering the meaning of transcendence.
"You were trying to stop me from escaping," he replied, irritably. "'Course I stabbed you. Quickest way to slow you down. Maybe you missed the part where I took a bullet aimed your way-- and you still came for me after. Hardly a sharp word for me then. Why rewrite history now?"
Johns' mouth curved into a snarl, and he stepped forward into Riddick's space, stabbing a finger at his chest in dismissal of his earlier caution. "You really gotta ask? You dosed me and left me for dead, Riddick! One minute I'm in cryo with you on Hoxie's transport, the next I'm waking up in a nightmare. D'you have any idea what they were doing to people on the Dark Athena? Or did you even care?"
Riddick swatted the jabbing hand away, then returned the favor, pushing Johns back against the wall of the structure behind him. "I saved your ass from getting gutted and turned into a drone after Gale Revas dosed you. Yeah, you remember her," he added, as Johns' eyes widened. So he hadn't known, then. "Sol Lucia wars. Made yourself an enemy, there. She was real glad to see you when her crew reeled in our ship. Down to me she didn't get the chance to do something about it."
"What, you want me to believe you took her down in my honor?" Johns sputtered. "You still left me there, Riddick. No ship. No funds. If I hadn't been able to steal one of their shuttles in all the chaos...."
"Pretty sure they'd just have turned you back over to the Bay," Riddick scoffed. Johns hadn't gone hype yet, then; he hadn't had any doubt the man would escape. But even so. "Hoxie's successor had a big enough bounty on your head, live capture. Heard them mention it."
"Taste of my own medicine, huh," Johns replied with a glare. Though not quite as heated; some of that anger apparently vented by Riddick's answers. "Yeah, well. I don't come back with you this time, someone probably still will. But I'm not the one who goes behind bars, and you're not going to be my first failure."
"Funny meaning of failure, considering you've already captured me twice." Though given the givens, Riddick couldn't help but wonder if Johns had taken it as personal with all the others. Strange damn way to go about the bounty hunting business. But then, that seemed to be a family trait. "You want to take me down again, we can negotiate that on our own time. But I'd rather not be looking over my shoulder the whole way out. Not if we're going to get that whole bunch to orbit and past whatever scavenger finds us."
"And why, exactly, do you give a shit? Maybe I really am the idiot you take me for, because that makes no goddamn sense. The asshole I know would just kill or strand them all and take the skiff on his own."
"Nah, you know better than that, or you'd have chosen a different tack in the Conga system." Johns couldn't have known about Lynn, the little girl who'd guided him through the vents of the Dark Athena and consequently ensured both their survival. But he'd known there were some things Riddick just didn't do. Endangering kids was one of them. "Seems to me I'm the one with the reason to be offended."
The 'verse was a shithole, and he was a bottom-feeder, sure enough. Collateral damage happened, there was no point crying over it. But there was no need to deliberately drag down the innocent before their time. And before the morphine and the desperation that came with it, Johns had respected that line. He'd been smart and whip-quick to act, able to chase Riddick down on his own merits, even entertained by Riddick's intransigence; the drugs and the pain had taken that from him, and left only the meanness behind.
Johns flushed, temper spiking again at the challenge. "You're a convict," he hissed, stepping right back into Riddick's space. "A murderer who can't be predicted, can't be controlled, and can't be contained. One of these days, all your bounties are gonna be worth more dead than alive. Whatever the fuck you're trying to do here... why would I want any part of it?"
Sometime during that diatribe, the merc had drawn a knife and pressed it against Riddick's throat, just holding it there; the sun-heated metal made a bright, searing line of sensation against the skin. Riddick swept it aside with a short, sharp strike and cupped his hand under Johns' chin instead, pressing him back against the wall once more. He held the other man's gaze, thumb resting against his pulse point, until his breath started to come short, then looked him lingeringly up and down. Want, huh.
Riddick grinned, pulling away again with a parting pat to his cheek. "Johns, Johns. Haven't you learned by now? You catch more flies with honey."
Johns took a sharp breath, eyes a little wild, and Riddick spoke over him before he could screw it all up again. "Now, we're gonna walk out there, and you're gonna say we made a deal. I got no beef with any of them, so long as they don't try to cage me. Give me a ride off-world, and I'll do all the heavy lifting. No chains, no bits... and this time, no shivs."
It entertained him to be the one making the offer, this time; entertained him more to see the way Johns shuddered under his gaze. A different kind of game unfolding. It hadn't been Riddick's intention to take it that far, but he wasn't surprised. Whatever alchemy of frustration and ego had turned that initial chase into an obsession for Johns hadn't left him untouched, either.
He didn't waste time on nostalgia. But another decade's worth of experience and disillusionment might have given him a little more... perspective on the situation. He had a destiny ahead of him to wreck. So why not take a chance on something else, too? Wasn't like things could go any worse than they had already.
"And me?" Johns swallowed, a drop of sweat trickling down his throat. "You said you got no beef with them. But what about me?"
"Like I said," Riddick grinned more widely, "we negotiate that on our own time."
He could see the hint strike home in the widening of Johns' eyes; see the questions there he wanted to ask. The why's. But it would be a cold day on Crematoria before he let his ego down that far.
"I'll hold you to that, Riddick," he said instead, a muscle working at the corner of his jaw.
"Looking forward to it, merc," he said, and gestured toward the skiff with his hands. After you.
+
Fry, seen from up close, was wary and defensive in equal measure. Not as skittish as he'd been expecting, though. Not as trustful of Johns, either. No reason to put a wedge between them, when Johns had never bothered to win her over. She was clearly taking Billy-boy's assurances with a grain of salt.
So did the rest of the survivors, when they returned. But what mattered was that they took them. Riddick dragged the hull repair material up on top the skiff, kept himself busy while sending the occasional leer Johns' way, and kept lulling their suspicions until the job was near done-- and the power cells all wired up and ready.
Of course, it couldn't be that easy, though. Ogilvie had gone back to the wreck one last time, too nervy of Riddick's presence to wait peaceably and too worried about his cargo to leave it all for some future recovery mission-- and he'd taken the Imam, one of his boys, and Jack with him in the sandcat. Riddick kept an eye on the angle of the suns, mentally counting down to the eclipse, and when it got within a hand's breadth he finished the last weld and then slid down to the ground.
"And where do you think you're going?" Shazza asked him sharply, brow furrowed. She hadn't been entirely convinced he'd had nothing to do with her lover's death this time; her hand hadn't been off the antique war pick she'd borrowed off Ogilvie since he'd made his appearance. No oxygen sharing kindness from her this round; he'd had to wait for Johns to bristle up and offer.
Not that he'd taken it. The merc was looking more and more brittle as the hours wore on without pain relief, mood souring again as he tried to keep an eye on Riddick and Shazza both. Riddick wasn't about to give back the morphine, but that didn't mean he had to make things more difficult for himself, either. And Riddick was a lot better adapted to the harshness of the environment any of the others.
"Back to the wreck. Drop ship's fixed. Time to round up the stragglers," he shrugged.
"What's the rush? We have water, and old ration bars; would have thought you'd be more keen for a good night's rest before we cram ourselves into that thing like tinned meat," she replied, warily.
He snorted. "You heard what Fry said about the orrery and the core sample dates, same as I did. You really want to trust our luck enough that it won't happen again while we're here?" He paused for effect then, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes at her. "Especially after what happened to your Zeke. Wasn't me underground. And if there are creatures down there that hunt in the dark...."
"Of course you'd say it wasn't you. Doesn't mean I believe you," she replied, narrowing her eyes at him. "But even if I did, why should it be you who goes? How do I know you won't take the chance to cut down a few more of us? Unlike some of the others, I was listening when Johns read off your record."
Riddick could believe she'd grown up rich, well-educated. Made her own choices, unlike most of her kind. But not bitter with it yet, like Dame Vaako. Be a shame to have to remove her as a threat.
"You think anyone else could make it back on foot at a run? Be my guest." He gestured toward Johns and his cold-sweat tension, Fry and her already-strained face, and the remaining boys in their flowing robes, eyeing the confrontation while they finished loading their scavenged supplies. "I don't want to still be waiting when the sky gets dark, and I can already guess how it'd go if I suggested leaving them."
"You're really serious about doing the heavy lifting, huh," Johns said, mouth pulled down at the corners.
"Said you'd hold me to it," Riddick reminded him with a smirk. Then he lifted a handlight from one of the skiff's storage lockers and turned back toward the canyon. "Gonna let me go?" he challenged Shazza.
She blew out a breath, then nodded sharply. "Well, I guess it's not like there's any other way off this rock. But don't come back without them," she warned.
"Don't gotta tell me twice," he replied, then took off at a swift, even lope.
+
In any world, it turned out, Ogilvie was destined to be an idiot. Antiquities dealer like him, spending half his chronological age in cryo, should have had much better instincts for danger. Instead, he'd valued his booze and his rugs over his life. Fortunately, the Imam had been much more eager to return to his remaining charges. Riddick met up with them halfway back to the wreck, just at the point where their path turned into the canyon.
Unfortunately, he'd misjudged the time. Ogilvie gasped and let off the throttle as they began to negotiate the maze of monstrous bones, gazing up over the cliff top toward the disturbance spearing up over the horizon.
"What do my eyes see?" he murmured in shock, staring at the vast arch of the gas planet's rings.
Riddick had taken a seat in the back with the younger pair; he swore and wrapped a hand in Ogilvie's collar, dragging him bodily back atop a heap of tapestries, then leapt into his place. "Trouble," he growled, hitting the accelerator again. "Wipe the dust off that solar cell! We can't afford to stop before we reach the drop ship."
"Allah," the Imam murmured reverently as the bulge of the planet itself became visible beside the rising rings. It would have been visible for a few minutes already back at the skiff; they'd missed the signs down below the flat level of the dusty plain. "He has created such marvelous things."
"Yeah, and monstrous ones too," Riddick shook his head, speeding up again as the sandcat headed for an arching cage of bones like a ribbed tunnel. The first of the rings crossed the suns as they drew close, turning the ivory bronze as shadows began to fill the canyon. "Down in the back!"
"You speak of the creatures that killed Ezekiel," the Imam realized. "You believe they are a threat to us?"
"I believe we don't want to find out," Riddick observed darkly. The 'cat bounced off the bones as they passed under, collapsing them in their wake; a better position than they'd been before, but still too far for comfort. They might make it to the mouth of the canyon before dark truly fell, but getting all the way to the skiff?
Riddick shook his head and glanced up as the shifting veil crossed the second sun; around them, the sunset-hued light shifted to a darker shade of umber, and the engine began to slow. "Gonna have to ditch the sandcat," he said, lifting the goggles to the top of his head. "Anything you really need, grab it now, and get ready."
"But my tapestries," Ogilvie said, a distressed note in his voice. "My sherry!"
"They worth your life?" Riddick replied. If it hadn't been for the Imam and Jack, he'd have been happy to leave the man to his fate. But everything else he had to do started here. "All right, everyone out!"
The heavy vehicle had finally rolled to a halt; he reached back for Jack, catching hold of her like he had Ogilvie, and hurled her out before leaping down himself. Whistling sounds echoed from the distant caves where the bioraptors were waking; he reached back in for a couple of the tapestries, as much to provide a cushion for the skiff's floor as to shut Ogilvie up, then put a hand to Hassan's back as Imam helped the boy down and gave him a shove in the settlement's direction. "We're on the clock here. MOVE!"
He could hear Fry and Shazza calling to them as they ran; they'd wisely ushered everybody left on board the skiff, gazing with some alarm in the direction of the creatures' calls. Riddick made sure Jack, al-Walid, and Hassan were on their way there, shoved the tapestries into the Imam's arms, then turned back and grabbed Ogilvie again as the man scrambled to fill his arms with expensive sherry bottles.
They made it to the skiff just as the shrieking flock of bioraptor young passed overhead, and hurriedly slammed the button to close the hatch behind them. Ogilvie joined the small heap of salvaged items on the floor, pressing his hands against his face as he shook, and the Imam gathered all three of his chicks close, murmuring to each of them in his own language. Fry was flicking through screens on the skiff's computers, and Jack was with her, staring out the windows.
Shazza? She was staring wide-eyed at Riddick, something brittle and newly re-wounded in her gaze.
"Save it," he said before she could say anything else. He wouldn't lie and say he hadn't partially been looking for that exact reaction; more than just immediately saving his skin, he needed goodwill from the other survivors to cover his backtrail as he took his next steps. It was still gratifying to see, though. And uncomfortable to deal with. "Just tell me we're ready to leave."
"As soon as the nav computer's done figuring a course," Fry called back, acidly. "And someone enters the go-code. Gee, I wonder who could have set that up."
"It's almost like I anticipated someone might try to leave me behind," Riddick replied, smirking at her. Then he turned last to Johns, who'd been staring at him in silence ever since he climbed aboard.
The signs of pain were all over the merc; jittery with craving, face drawn in tense lines. But there was something else, too, in his blue-eyed gaze. The same conflicted relief Riddick remembered from the shuttle at Butcher Bay, grateful they'd both survived but frustrated at the interrupted resolution of their drawn-out dance.
A flash of light strobed into the cockpit as the suns found a gap in the obscuring rings; Riddick was briefly blinded as Johns' profile was haloed with brilliance. Then the glow faded, and true dark fell like a curtain. In that brief gap before someone turned on the internal lights and everyone else's vision recovered, Riddick moved, pressing a hand to Johns' chest as he passed.
"Stay with me, Johns," he murmured. "We aren't finished yet." Then he slid into the co-pilot's seat and took over the controls.
It was the work of a moment to flare the outside lights and fly free; the rain hadn't started to fall yet, and if they were lucky, the Kublai Khan hadn't yet entered the system either. Whoever did find them probably wouldn't be much more altruistic than Antonia Chillingsworth and her collection of mercs and bounties, but they had Shazza and Fry to answer the comms; that ought to smooth over any suspicion they might face.
And if worse came to worst-- they could put that pair in cryo, then dig out the morphine shells he'd smuggled aboard in Ogilvie's tapestries, and put everyone down for the count. Reduce oxygen and food consumption to the minimum survivable amount, limp along to the nearest system.
"Perhaps we should pray," he heard al-Walid say, somewhere behind him.
Riddick tuned him out again, shaking his head. There was only one prayer he'd ever believed in; one that the Threshold, in retrospect, might very well have answered.
Where there's hatred, sow justice. Where there's injury, pardon. Where there's doubt, hope. And may a swift and certain death befall anyone who stands in my way.
He thought about the path that lay before him now, and let his lips curve in a grim smile. Amen.
+
There was no such thing as private space aboard the drop ship. Not for sleep, or relief, or any kind of quiet conversation. But they were in luck: they crossed the path of another transport vessel not thirty-six hours after leaving the eccentric system behind them.
Shazza covered for him. Fry joined the ship's crew; they worked for New Oslo Shipping, the same company that had hired the Hunter Grazner. The rest of them went back into cryo; the ship had been running light, and it was headed in the same direction they'd already been going.
Except for Riddick... and Johns. He hung back 'til all the others had been ushered off, then set a hand on the merc's arm and wordlessly met his gaze.
Johns swallowed, then nodded and told the crew they'd been staying behind. Nine survivors had been too much for the skiff's systems all at once, but it could support two easily enough, especially if the transport ship let them stay docked until they reached the next habitable system.
"So. You got me alone," Johns said, when the doors finally closed again between them and the others. "You that sure this is going to go any differently than it did the last time?"
He was standing in the middle of the skiff's cargo area, newly cleared of all the other survivors and their encumbrances. Riddick reached up to shut off the overhead light, leaving them only dimly lit by the glow of the system controls, and slid his goggles up as he moved to join him.
"No guards chasing me, this time. No Warden trying to stiff your fees. No other prisoners around to fuck things up. No deadline to worry about. Just you and me, Johns." He stepped back into the other man's personal space, reaching out to him with an open hand. "So how do you want it to go?"
The mood in the skiff teetered on a knife's edge, suspended for a long moment between a fight-- and something else entirely. Then Johns seized his hand with bruising strength, and pushed Riddick back against the nearest wall.
They still had quite a ways to go. He'd have to badger Johns into getting back into contact with his father and their guild, accept enough help to get proper healing. Kick the morphine. There was the Necro fleet to track, Furya to find, and that fucker Zhylaw to put down again.
But in this moment. In the dark, grappling with the first man to ever give him a real challenge-- who felt the same about him. They dropped to the deck, mouths clashing as they stripped each other to skin, unerringly seeking out the scars they'd given each other with callused, greedy hands.
Now this was Riddick's idea of transcendence.
+
(x-posted at AO3)
If the Threshold had done what he thought it had done... then Riddick was absolutely going to fuck its priests over, much more thoroughly this time. But there was no profit in dwelling on ifs. He'd dived into the abyss. Time to embrace it, and let the chips fall where they may.
Title: they say hope begins in the dark
Author: Jedi Buttercup
Disclaimer: The words are mine; the worlds are not.
Spoilers: Pitch Black (2000); Riddick (2013); etc.
Notes: Details mined from the entirety of Riddick canon, including all three movies, Johns' chase logs on the Pitch Black DVD, Dark Fury, and the clips on Youtube for both video games: "Escape from Butcher Bay" and "Assault on Dark Athena". Though none of it should be ultimately necessary to understanding the story except for the theatrical movies. (Original idea meant for Iddy Iddy Bang Bang 2019, but life's been a little hectic. I set a challenge to myself to see if I could find a way to actually ship Riddick with the younger Johns ... and this very, very self-indulgent fic is the result.)
Summary: If the Threshold had done what he thought it had done... then Riddick was absolutely going to fuck its priests over, much more thoroughly this time. But there was no profit in dwelling on ifs. He'd dived into the abyss. Time to embrace it, and let the chips fall where they may. 8100 words.
Riddick hadn't been sure what to expect when he'd sent the Necro scoutship down the glowing throat of Underverse.
Transcendence, Vaako had said; bullshit, as far as Riddick was concerned. Whatever half-alive, half-dead trick had given the last Lord Marshal his ghostly edge, whatever mysticism Vaako had been seeking, Riddick hadn't believed for a moment there was some kind of deity on the other side of that anomaly.
Granted, a crapsack universe like the one they lived in deserved a higher power that thought all life was an infection that needed to be burned out. He just didn't see what a god like that would want with an army of death-dealing priests. If worship mattered to it at all, wouldn't it want more beings out there to offer it, not fewer? And if it just wanted death... then what would it need with an army to begin with? Death came to all things in the end, no matter how they got there.
The problem was-- Vaako was the only source Riddick had for knowledge about Furya; and finding out what it meant to be the last Furyan was the only goal Riddick had left beyond basic survival. He'd outlived most of the assholes who'd tried to cross him off the list; outlived most of the folks he hadn't entirely hated along the way into the bargain. Nothing left to do, then, but fire up the shuttle and follow Vaako over the ledge.
Thing was, long falls usually had a sudden stop at the bottom. Not some-- impenetrable nothingness, filled only with impossible questions.
Looked like he'd spoken too soon about the lack of deity.
The moment his ship approached the Threshold, hovering at the edge where the beacons disappeared into infinity beyond, gravity tides gripped the ship with vicious strength. Images flashed before his mind's eye as crippling force pressed him back into his chair, like the echoes of fallen Furya that had harried him all the way to Helion Prime. Only these visions weren't animated by someone else's vengeance; the only rage that filled them was Riddick's own. Moments clipped from the chain of his existence, when one pivot point or another might have sent him down a different route-- or sent him out once and for all.
It wasn't difficult to figure out what was happening. Riddick wasn't exactly a stranger to facing judgment. But if there was some kind of a guide to how to respond, the Seventh Lord Marshal didn't know it. What little he'd absorbed of the Necromongers' creed spoke of a test, one that would either return him as worthy-- or not at all. He'd expected that to mean some kind of obstacle course to jump through; he'd become something of an expert at surviving everything the 'verse could throw at him.
Figured that he would end up becoming the obstacle course, in the end. Visions. Memories.
Alternate memories? Alternate paths? Conclusions tripped over in his thoughts like dominoes falling. Riddick could go back to the Necro fleet, augmented by the energy of this place, as all six of the other Lord Marshals had done before him. As Vaako intended to do. Or else...?
The answer came to him like a whisper in his ear. You could choose another.
Uneasiness shuddered through him at the spiral of possibilities starbursting out from that intrusion. How many others besides those six had crossed the Threshold before him, only to vanish who knew when, and who knew where? No fucking wonder Lord Marshal Oltovm had put a Guardian in place, to allow only the most devout to pass forever after. Those were the ones the Necro priests knew for sure would come back out.
But the Faith wasn't Riddick's anchor. He already knew where any god worth the name would send him, and doubted it would hold him any more securely than any other triple max slam. It was where he came from that mattered to him now.
Of course, that would be the one place he still couldn't go.
Riddick had never even seen the planet of his birth, outside of a few distorted visions filtered through ancestral wrath. Couldn't go back to it, because he had no memories of it at all. He'd been told at the orphanage that he'd been found in a liquor store trash bin, strangled with his own birth cord. But was the bin in question even on Furya to start with? Or did it even exist at all? Someone had to have found him. If everyone else was dead, did that mean a Necromonger had saved him? Had that been the person who'd left him at the orphanage? He'd never known the answer.
It fucking figured. Bitterness welled up in Riddick's throat, tasting of ashes and defeat, threatening to drown that last spark of meaningful purpose. After all, if he couldn't go where he wanted, then why bother to go anywhere at all? All of existence circling the drain, just like he'd once reminded the Imam. Too fucking bad the warning had come too late.
Unbidden, another memory surfaced, resonating off that sense of raging loss: that last escape when everything had gone from intermittently bad to always worse, the first serious step he'd taken down the path to where he found himself now. The pilgrimage that had crossed his path with Abu al-Walid's; the world where he had first met the girl then known as Jack. The hellhole where he'd tried to bury his past, only to have it follow him and swallow his future, too. M-344/G: the catalyst for everything that had followed.
For a moment, Riddick could almost see the cursed world in his mind's eye, the way it had looked on the skiff's screens: a vast brown dustball, tumbling darkly through space, skirted by the loose rock of a comet's tail. Then white light burst behind his eyes, blinding and inescapable. Molten steel poured through his veins, jolting him back to awareness in a flashfire moment of unexpected, endless pain. Even after the first rush cleared, there was some kind of dull, burning ache in both his shoulders--
Murmur of voices around him, the scent of a prospector filling the air--
Scent of Johns, too, beyond the blackness blotting out his vision, all sour sweat and sharp edges. Instantly familiar despite the decade since Riddick had watched him being torn apart. Had he reached the Underverse after all? But why the fuck would the blue-eyed devil be the one to greet him there?
"Johns," Riddick murmured, low under his breath, seizing on that detail as an anchor.
The sound of his voice blurred oddly in his own ears, and he finally stirred, trying to move, to speak again... only to recognize the bit shoved between his teeth, and the lassitude that came with a fading dose of cryo. Prisoner transport. A very specific prisoner transport cum cargo vessel, cruising the ghost lanes toward New Mecca. Five years before he'd even heard the word Necromonger.
A more detailed memory offered up by the Threshold? Or....
As if responding to the thought, a new rush of sounds began to fill the void: a sharp succession of strikes like a shotgun tearing through metal; the faint whistle of bleeding air escalating to a roar of wind; the cries of other people waking all around him. Something shattered, shaking the cryochamber that held him; one of his arms suddenly moved, freed from whatever had held it in place--
--and that's when he knew for sure it wasn't just a memory, it was the actual moment. Whether it was still just in his head, or actual fucking time travel via impossible physics, he didn't know. But also, Riddick decided with a sudden, renewed surge of rage, it didn't fucking matter.
This was the day he'd gone from hating the whole universe, to admitting just a tiny corner of it might be worth protecting after all.
This was the day he'd unwittingly sown the seeds for his own destruction.
It was also the day his cat-and-mouse chase with the first merc he'd ever had any use for had dead-ended in disappointment, trading a once-clever dance partner for a succession of ever-uglier hunters on his tail. At least, until Johns' father had brought the pursuit full circle... too little, too late.
Riddick reached with his free hand for the blindfold, then ripped at the other binders holding him in the secure capsule. If this really was the same world, the same circumstances as the last time, he wouldn't be able to escape alone-- but he didn't have to put on as much of a show as he had before, either.
Fucking Johns. Still holding the Dark Athena against him, even though that hadn't been his fault. If they hadn't been 'jacked, if they'd shared Hoxie's ship after Butcher Bay a little longer--
He spat the bit out of his mouth, anger turning back on himself. Who was he kidding? They'd have run into something sooner or later. For every Hunter Gratzner, there was a Kublai Khan; for every New Mecca, there was an Aguerra Prime; for every Furya, there was a Necromonger armada. If the Threshold had truly sent him back... then he was absolutely going to fuck its priests over, much more thoroughly this time. But there was no profit in dwelling on ifs.
He'd dived into the abyss. Time to embrace it, and let the chips fall where they may.
+
This time, Riddick didn't stick around to set up an ambush after he broke free. He didn't need to; he already knew who else had survived the initial crash, what resources were available, and what he'd have to do to make it off that rock alive and unchained. He headed straight for the narrow canyon between the wreck and the old mining settlement instead, pausing only to take two things: a shiv and Johns' treasure box. Morphine might be useful at the other end of things, depending on how it all went, but he already knew what a Johns high and feeling no pain would do. Might as well decomplicate that situation while he was at it.
Some people thought cryosleep was like being frozen in time: that they didn't change at all while they were under. Others knew better. Those like Riddick, who never fully went to sleep in the first place; and those like Johns, who tracked time not by days but by doses. The filtration system that pumped in the cryo drugs also slowly cleared the blood of previous toxins; sleep long enough, and the physical withdrawal was over before an addict even woke. Not that Johns probably gave a shit, the way he'd lit up first chance he got; but it did mean the shakes would stay psychological, and he'd be more useful until the dying began.
Riddick thought about dropping a shackle the opposite direction from the wreck than he had before, as well: toward sunrise rather than suns-set. Send them off searching in a different direction, away from the settlement. Maybe a cull a few with thirst who would have died anyway while he fetched the sandcat and the power cells on his own. But that way would take the weakest first... including twelve-year-old Jack. He might not owe this Jack anything, but in memory of the Kyra he'd failed, Riddick would rather she made it out alive.
...And maybe chose a different role model, this time. Her imitation had amused him before, but that amusement hadn't survived his return to Helion Prime. Knowing what it would cost her in the end... well, she could do worse than fixate on a survivor like Fry instead.
Better not to drop a shackle at all. Let them think he'd broke out of cryo early-- something Johns would believe him capable of, after the way he'd escaped from deep freeze at the Bay-- and been lost with all the other debris in the crash trail. Just a ghost, until he needed to be otherwise.
He left the morphine shells hidden in the boneyard, then went on to the abandoned settlement while the passengers fucked around in the lone surviving cargo compartment. He didn't touch the dried-up old irrigation system yet; too obvious a tell, and the Imam had figured it out before. But he did move the shroud off the solar-powered engines on the coring room's roof. If the kids snuck in again, nothing would be left to eat their faces; the sunlight would send the critters into the depths instead, to join the bones of the last eclipse's victims. Keep the survivors happier; make it easier for him, in the end.
Riddick had just enough time to subtly unearth a few of the clues he'd found before, sneak into the escape shuttle to make sure all was as it should be, and take a few more precautions before voices warned him of incoming visitors. Then he picked a rooftop with a convenient overhang and settled in to watch.
The prospector type was missing, same as the last time. Digging graves, if he remembered right. About to shoot a man for no crime other than survival. He'd probably still be the first one eaten. But the others....
The party was the same size; Carolyn still had that haunted look. Chicks all gathered under the Imam's wing, tracing the irrigation lines and looking for the pump. But badge boy wasn't there; the free-settler woman with the incongruously expensive necklace was instead. Shazza. Sharing quiet words with the pilot, looking around with a shrewder gaze than he remembered. Tempering Carolyn's excitement over the escape skiff with narrow-eyed pragmatism.
Interesting. Had Johns sent them off so he could look for his stash alone? Told them he was making sure his escaped prisoner wasn't stalking the ship? Now there was a consequence that hadn't occurred to Riddick.
He was tempted to go back, see for himself what the merc was up to. But he knew better. Getting caught would close doors better left open, for now. No prisoner to harness like a mule, no reason to drag their feet pulling the cells from the wreck to power the escape ship-- sure, Johns was paranoid enough to figure he was still alive, but the longer he spent as a mirage, the less the group would factor him into their plans. The way Shazza was eyeing the sandcat already, they might even get it all done before the eclipse began.
But not before the dying started. It was already too late for that. Riddick tilted his head as the distant sound of gunshots sent the others scattering, then snuck down for a quick sip at the water tank. Tasted more than a little green-- it had barely started running again, pipes still full of dried-up algae-- but compared to what he'd survived on in other times, other places, it was pretty damn refreshing. Then he tucked himself back under an overhang to take a quick nap, using the salvaged shroud to shield himself from the light.
No point wasting energy. When Johns showed up, then it would be time to consider moving.
+
If Riddick had dreamed at all in the years since Helion Prime, they hadn't been the kind of dreams worth remembering. Fry, pulled away into the storm. Kyra, sighing her last breath out in his arms. A hall full of Necromongers sinking to one knee. Lying on the deck next to Johns in one of Butcher Bay's transport shuttles, pools of blood beneath them spreading to meet in the middle, before Hoxie boxed him up for cold storage.
It wasn't the scent of defeat that had made them nightmares, though. He'd faced a lot of setbacks over the years; found a way out every damn time. The pain, the delay, meant nothing to him. It was the loss that lingered. The things-- and people-- left behind, the sacrifices made en route to freedom.
In the end, freedom had been the only thing he'd ever managed to hang onto.
Well, you got what you gave in this 'verse. Blood and sweat, Riddick had given in plenty. But he'd learned the hard way not to give anything more. The few times he had....
Well. Even now, his dreams didn't feature anything new.
"You're always trying to ruin my paydays, Riddick," Johns murmured, blue eyes crinkled with humor and satisfaction over the barrel of his weapon.
Behind his back, Riddick's fist curled around the tool he'd been using to pry at the shuttle's cockpit doors. Off to one side, the shuttle's pilot slumped; behind Johns, Jagger Valance had sunk to one knee, hand to his gut after Johns' sucker punch. But while the merc might be armed, he was standing way too close. One of these days, Johns would finally learn not to let his ego do the thinking, but that day hadn't arrived yet. If he didn't shoot first, Riddick was close enough to disarm him; and if that took too long, Valance would be back in the picture. And the other prisoner had even less reason to hesitate than Riddick.
(Another ally he'd made-- and would soon lose-- along the way. Had already lost. Just like Jack. Just like Fry. M-344/G might have been the beginning of the end, but Butcher Bay had set him on the path. No chance now, if there ever had been, of going to ground somewhere for good and just... starting over.)
"Now, come on," Johns continued, waving his weapon in a come-hither gesture. "Let's go."
There was a fraction of a second when the gun was off-center, cross-body from Riddick's perspective. He ducked down and lunged in, shoulder blocking Johns' arm from sweeping back, and stabbed left-handed at Johns' back with the tool. It wasn't even really a shiv; just a long, slender spike of metal, shaped like a wedge at the end, originally meant for removing bolts. Whatever story Johns might tell about it later, Riddick hadn't meant to do any permanent harm-- didn't even miss his target. Body cavity shot would weaken the merc, finally give him the opportunity to finish his escape, if things fell out the way he hoped. Maybe even with Johns, to give them a chance to work out some other kind of deal.
But that was the moment his legendary luck finally tipped back the other way: Valance seized the opportunity to lift Johns' dropped weapon... and accidentally shot Riddick instead. Only to be felled a few seconds later by incoming guards.
Ironically enough, the bullet struck Riddick close to where he'd tagged Johns, leaving them both bleeding badly on the deck. Though in his case, it had skipped off a rib, rather than piercing deep. He probably could have kept going, if the stakes were high enough... but the odds weren't in his favor, and there would be another chance. There always was.
Still. It had never been in his nature to just lie down. "You dyin' on me, Johns?" he prodded, turning his head toward his fallen opponent.
"No, not yet. They get you good?" the merc coughed. He still sounded more amused than angry; still so fucking sure of the outcome.
Riddick could smell the rich iron scent of his blood, slightly different from Riddick's own; feel the warmth of the man's sprawled body, almost close enough to touch. Not as different as Johns would like to think they were, in the end. How many times had he caught up to Riddick now? So close, and yet so far.
"I've had worse," he replied in kind.
"I thought that this was going to be the day, Riddick. The day one of us kills the other." Johns sounded almost grieved at the interruption.
"The day's not over yet," Riddick replied, feeling almost as disappointed as the merc.
+
The dream broke up in the middle of the ensuing scene in Hoxie's office, the clang of boots on metal decking blurring into the crunching sound of many feet on gravel. Back to another desert planet, on another legendarily bad day that wasn't over yet. The day that disappointment had drawn out to its bitter end.
Would things have gone differently if Johns hadn't stiffed Hoxie on the med fees? If he'd paid for nano-med healing rather than settling for cheap meatball surgery? Riddick knew Butcher Bay had the tech; had come across it in the guard areas during his attempts to escape. There was very little it couldn't fix. He couldn't blame Johns for preferring to save his funds to get away and drag his quarry to a different slam, rather than ending up further in Hoxie's debt-- but in the end, that had been the grain of sand that broke the bioraptor's back.
Riddick shook that distracting thought away, then carefully stretched, peering out from his shrouded perch. Whole group was there this time, fanning out among the buildings. Picking up the clues. Looking for salvage. He'd wondered if they'd leave someone behind again when he didn't reappear, but apparently no one had volunteered to wait for their water ration.
Not a surprise, really. What was a surprise was that Johns still didn't seem to be their leader. Nor was 'Captain' Fry. Shazza's face was streaked with dirt where tears had run-- still lost her lover-boy, then, as he'd thought-- but she was clearly the one in charge. Once the water was poured and drunk, she gestured the pilot off toward the skiff with the one cell they'd brought to test it, then held a fierce, low-voiced argument with Johns when he hung back rather than follow after.
Johns looked a little drawn, though not physically shaky. Had the craving set in yet? Maybe made him a little irritable, made them start questioning his authority a little sooner? Or was it the fact that he hadn't had anyone to demonstrate his authority on? Easier to question a man who hadn't walked someone at gunpoint in front of you.
Johns' return smile was tight, but every other tell to his body language was patient, placating. Smooth. Looked like it was working better on Shazza than it had on Hoxie, too. Not that she gave in on whatever Johns' point was, but her posture softened, and she waved him off with a conciliatory tone before climbing into the sandcat. A few minutes later, the solar engine whirred to life, and she called out to the Imam. The three Chrislam boys all swarmed into the sandcat with her; then she turned it toward the canyon, pausing to collect an alarmed-looking Ogilvie before heading back to the wrecked ship.
Curiouser and curiouser. Riddick watched them go, then carefully dropped over the edge of the roof. Dry earth shifted quietly underfoot, the sound smothered by the walls of the settlement and the heat blazing down from the blue sun overhead.
He'd considered staying hid until the skiff was ready, then barging aboard at the last moment with his shiv to someone's throat. But that way had its risks, too. He'd be forced to kill or incapacitate most of the others if he didn't want them turning on him the moment he was strapped in. Pilot's seat or co-pilot's, either was impractical with hostile passengers and only one, maybe two weapons. That either meant drugging them all with Johns' morphine-- probably what he would have done, if they hadn't gone back for the extra cells until the eclipse began again-- or neutralizing that hostility first, somehow.
Shazza's determination had just bought him a window. To what end, well; they'd see. Riddick played the hand he was dealt and then cheated for good measure, but people were still people, and nothing came with a guarantee in this 'verse.
He kept to the sides of the buildings-- where shadows would have fallen on any sane world, but at least broke the sightlines between him and the other survivors-- and padded quietly after Johns.
+
He found the other man leaning against the corner of a building, one arm braced against the windworn structure while he gazed in the direction of the skiff. Lines pinched deep around the corners of the merc's eyes as he grimly studied the intended means of their escape.
Riddick paused for a moment to absorb the sight, taking in the short, sand-colored curls glowing in the blinding light, the sweat trickling down under the collar of his dirty white shirt, the tension in the line of his back. Vintage William J. Johns, pulse still throbbing in the hollow of his throat. One wrong choice away from becoming a footnote in the family Bible. Rarely had a death so well earned left such a bitter taste on Riddick's tongue.
He shook his head at his own prevarication, then broke the silence.
"Thought I warned you, Johns," he drawled, with just a hint of menace. He wasn't here for a confrontation, but Johns wouldn't believe him without it. "Statistically, landings are the most dangerous."
A flinch telegraphed through the merc's body like a gunshot. But he didn't reach for the weapon strapped to his thigh; probably half-expecting it to already be gone. Or maybe, finally realizing it would never do him any good. Johns turned slowly to face him, every movement slow and careful.
"No shit," he replied, scanning Riddick slowly from head to toe. Whatever he saw, it didn't show in his steady gaze; but Riddick definitely had all of his attention. Good. "I thought you said takeoffs were. Depending on who you have at the controls."
Riddick gave a low chuckle and jerked his chin in the direction of the skiff, where Fry was still running her checks. "Really don't think circumstances are proving me wrong, here."
Johns made a face at that; point to Riddick. "So, what. You making your case to be the pilot on the way out?"
Riddick shrugged, a careless shift of shoulders that drew Johns' eyes, tightening the tension in the merc's shoulders even further. "And if I was? If I'd thought about pointing out how many survivors there are, and how many passengers the oxygen scrubbers on a skiff like that are rated to support?"
Yeah, there had to have been a reason he'd been staring so grimly at the ship. But Johns didn't back down. "You actually think we're likely to survive long enough for that to make a difference? I'm all for increasing my chances. But willingly boarding a ship with you didn't go so well for me the last two times." He pressed a hand theatrically to the scar on his back, glare sharpening with his temper.
Riddick shook his head, his own mood souring. Usually, he didn't mind taking the blame for unearned tally-marks added to his ledger. Not since those first betrayals, when the 'verse had taught him that truth and justice were only a cruel mirage. The rumors only built his reputation further-- and the fallout was usually entertaining. But he found he'd lost the taste for it, somewhere between watching the light die in an insufficiently valued bounty's eyes and discovering the meaning of transcendence.
"You were trying to stop me from escaping," he replied, irritably. "'Course I stabbed you. Quickest way to slow you down. Maybe you missed the part where I took a bullet aimed your way-- and you still came for me after. Hardly a sharp word for me then. Why rewrite history now?"
Johns' mouth curved into a snarl, and he stepped forward into Riddick's space, stabbing a finger at his chest in dismissal of his earlier caution. "You really gotta ask? You dosed me and left me for dead, Riddick! One minute I'm in cryo with you on Hoxie's transport, the next I'm waking up in a nightmare. D'you have any idea what they were doing to people on the Dark Athena? Or did you even care?"
Riddick swatted the jabbing hand away, then returned the favor, pushing Johns back against the wall of the structure behind him. "I saved your ass from getting gutted and turned into a drone after Gale Revas dosed you. Yeah, you remember her," he added, as Johns' eyes widened. So he hadn't known, then. "Sol Lucia wars. Made yourself an enemy, there. She was real glad to see you when her crew reeled in our ship. Down to me she didn't get the chance to do something about it."
"What, you want me to believe you took her down in my honor?" Johns sputtered. "You still left me there, Riddick. No ship. No funds. If I hadn't been able to steal one of their shuttles in all the chaos...."
"Pretty sure they'd just have turned you back over to the Bay," Riddick scoffed. Johns hadn't gone hype yet, then; he hadn't had any doubt the man would escape. But even so. "Hoxie's successor had a big enough bounty on your head, live capture. Heard them mention it."
"Taste of my own medicine, huh," Johns replied with a glare. Though not quite as heated; some of that anger apparently vented by Riddick's answers. "Yeah, well. I don't come back with you this time, someone probably still will. But I'm not the one who goes behind bars, and you're not going to be my first failure."
"Funny meaning of failure, considering you've already captured me twice." Though given the givens, Riddick couldn't help but wonder if Johns had taken it as personal with all the others. Strange damn way to go about the bounty hunting business. But then, that seemed to be a family trait. "You want to take me down again, we can negotiate that on our own time. But I'd rather not be looking over my shoulder the whole way out. Not if we're going to get that whole bunch to orbit and past whatever scavenger finds us."
"And why, exactly, do you give a shit? Maybe I really am the idiot you take me for, because that makes no goddamn sense. The asshole I know would just kill or strand them all and take the skiff on his own."
"Nah, you know better than that, or you'd have chosen a different tack in the Conga system." Johns couldn't have known about Lynn, the little girl who'd guided him through the vents of the Dark Athena and consequently ensured both their survival. But he'd known there were some things Riddick just didn't do. Endangering kids was one of them. "Seems to me I'm the one with the reason to be offended."
The 'verse was a shithole, and he was a bottom-feeder, sure enough. Collateral damage happened, there was no point crying over it. But there was no need to deliberately drag down the innocent before their time. And before the morphine and the desperation that came with it, Johns had respected that line. He'd been smart and whip-quick to act, able to chase Riddick down on his own merits, even entertained by Riddick's intransigence; the drugs and the pain had taken that from him, and left only the meanness behind.
Johns flushed, temper spiking again at the challenge. "You're a convict," he hissed, stepping right back into Riddick's space. "A murderer who can't be predicted, can't be controlled, and can't be contained. One of these days, all your bounties are gonna be worth more dead than alive. Whatever the fuck you're trying to do here... why would I want any part of it?"
Sometime during that diatribe, the merc had drawn a knife and pressed it against Riddick's throat, just holding it there; the sun-heated metal made a bright, searing line of sensation against the skin. Riddick swept it aside with a short, sharp strike and cupped his hand under Johns' chin instead, pressing him back against the wall once more. He held the other man's gaze, thumb resting against his pulse point, until his breath started to come short, then looked him lingeringly up and down. Want, huh.
Riddick grinned, pulling away again with a parting pat to his cheek. "Johns, Johns. Haven't you learned by now? You catch more flies with honey."
Johns took a sharp breath, eyes a little wild, and Riddick spoke over him before he could screw it all up again. "Now, we're gonna walk out there, and you're gonna say we made a deal. I got no beef with any of them, so long as they don't try to cage me. Give me a ride off-world, and I'll do all the heavy lifting. No chains, no bits... and this time, no shivs."
It entertained him to be the one making the offer, this time; entertained him more to see the way Johns shuddered under his gaze. A different kind of game unfolding. It hadn't been Riddick's intention to take it that far, but he wasn't surprised. Whatever alchemy of frustration and ego had turned that initial chase into an obsession for Johns hadn't left him untouched, either.
He didn't waste time on nostalgia. But another decade's worth of experience and disillusionment might have given him a little more... perspective on the situation. He had a destiny ahead of him to wreck. So why not take a chance on something else, too? Wasn't like things could go any worse than they had already.
"And me?" Johns swallowed, a drop of sweat trickling down his throat. "You said you got no beef with them. But what about me?"
"Like I said," Riddick grinned more widely, "we negotiate that on our own time."
He could see the hint strike home in the widening of Johns' eyes; see the questions there he wanted to ask. The why's. But it would be a cold day on Crematoria before he let his ego down that far.
"I'll hold you to that, Riddick," he said instead, a muscle working at the corner of his jaw.
"Looking forward to it, merc," he said, and gestured toward the skiff with his hands. After you.
+
Fry, seen from up close, was wary and defensive in equal measure. Not as skittish as he'd been expecting, though. Not as trustful of Johns, either. No reason to put a wedge between them, when Johns had never bothered to win her over. She was clearly taking Billy-boy's assurances with a grain of salt.
So did the rest of the survivors, when they returned. But what mattered was that they took them. Riddick dragged the hull repair material up on top the skiff, kept himself busy while sending the occasional leer Johns' way, and kept lulling their suspicions until the job was near done-- and the power cells all wired up and ready.
Of course, it couldn't be that easy, though. Ogilvie had gone back to the wreck one last time, too nervy of Riddick's presence to wait peaceably and too worried about his cargo to leave it all for some future recovery mission-- and he'd taken the Imam, one of his boys, and Jack with him in the sandcat. Riddick kept an eye on the angle of the suns, mentally counting down to the eclipse, and when it got within a hand's breadth he finished the last weld and then slid down to the ground.
"And where do you think you're going?" Shazza asked him sharply, brow furrowed. She hadn't been entirely convinced he'd had nothing to do with her lover's death this time; her hand hadn't been off the antique war pick she'd borrowed off Ogilvie since he'd made his appearance. No oxygen sharing kindness from her this round; he'd had to wait for Johns to bristle up and offer.
Not that he'd taken it. The merc was looking more and more brittle as the hours wore on without pain relief, mood souring again as he tried to keep an eye on Riddick and Shazza both. Riddick wasn't about to give back the morphine, but that didn't mean he had to make things more difficult for himself, either. And Riddick was a lot better adapted to the harshness of the environment any of the others.
"Back to the wreck. Drop ship's fixed. Time to round up the stragglers," he shrugged.
"What's the rush? We have water, and old ration bars; would have thought you'd be more keen for a good night's rest before we cram ourselves into that thing like tinned meat," she replied, warily.
He snorted. "You heard what Fry said about the orrery and the core sample dates, same as I did. You really want to trust our luck enough that it won't happen again while we're here?" He paused for effect then, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes at her. "Especially after what happened to your Zeke. Wasn't me underground. And if there are creatures down there that hunt in the dark...."
"Of course you'd say it wasn't you. Doesn't mean I believe you," she replied, narrowing her eyes at him. "But even if I did, why should it be you who goes? How do I know you won't take the chance to cut down a few more of us? Unlike some of the others, I was listening when Johns read off your record."
Riddick could believe she'd grown up rich, well-educated. Made her own choices, unlike most of her kind. But not bitter with it yet, like Dame Vaako. Be a shame to have to remove her as a threat.
"You think anyone else could make it back on foot at a run? Be my guest." He gestured toward Johns and his cold-sweat tension, Fry and her already-strained face, and the remaining boys in their flowing robes, eyeing the confrontation while they finished loading their scavenged supplies. "I don't want to still be waiting when the sky gets dark, and I can already guess how it'd go if I suggested leaving them."
"You're really serious about doing the heavy lifting, huh," Johns said, mouth pulled down at the corners.
"Said you'd hold me to it," Riddick reminded him with a smirk. Then he lifted a handlight from one of the skiff's storage lockers and turned back toward the canyon. "Gonna let me go?" he challenged Shazza.
She blew out a breath, then nodded sharply. "Well, I guess it's not like there's any other way off this rock. But don't come back without them," she warned.
"Don't gotta tell me twice," he replied, then took off at a swift, even lope.
+
In any world, it turned out, Ogilvie was destined to be an idiot. Antiquities dealer like him, spending half his chronological age in cryo, should have had much better instincts for danger. Instead, he'd valued his booze and his rugs over his life. Fortunately, the Imam had been much more eager to return to his remaining charges. Riddick met up with them halfway back to the wreck, just at the point where their path turned into the canyon.
Unfortunately, he'd misjudged the time. Ogilvie gasped and let off the throttle as they began to negotiate the maze of monstrous bones, gazing up over the cliff top toward the disturbance spearing up over the horizon.
"What do my eyes see?" he murmured in shock, staring at the vast arch of the gas planet's rings.
Riddick had taken a seat in the back with the younger pair; he swore and wrapped a hand in Ogilvie's collar, dragging him bodily back atop a heap of tapestries, then leapt into his place. "Trouble," he growled, hitting the accelerator again. "Wipe the dust off that solar cell! We can't afford to stop before we reach the drop ship."
"Allah," the Imam murmured reverently as the bulge of the planet itself became visible beside the rising rings. It would have been visible for a few minutes already back at the skiff; they'd missed the signs down below the flat level of the dusty plain. "He has created such marvelous things."
"Yeah, and monstrous ones too," Riddick shook his head, speeding up again as the sandcat headed for an arching cage of bones like a ribbed tunnel. The first of the rings crossed the suns as they drew close, turning the ivory bronze as shadows began to fill the canyon. "Down in the back!"
"You speak of the creatures that killed Ezekiel," the Imam realized. "You believe they are a threat to us?"
"I believe we don't want to find out," Riddick observed darkly. The 'cat bounced off the bones as they passed under, collapsing them in their wake; a better position than they'd been before, but still too far for comfort. They might make it to the mouth of the canyon before dark truly fell, but getting all the way to the skiff?
Riddick shook his head and glanced up as the shifting veil crossed the second sun; around them, the sunset-hued light shifted to a darker shade of umber, and the engine began to slow. "Gonna have to ditch the sandcat," he said, lifting the goggles to the top of his head. "Anything you really need, grab it now, and get ready."
"But my tapestries," Ogilvie said, a distressed note in his voice. "My sherry!"
"They worth your life?" Riddick replied. If it hadn't been for the Imam and Jack, he'd have been happy to leave the man to his fate. But everything else he had to do started here. "All right, everyone out!"
The heavy vehicle had finally rolled to a halt; he reached back for Jack, catching hold of her like he had Ogilvie, and hurled her out before leaping down himself. Whistling sounds echoed from the distant caves where the bioraptors were waking; he reached back in for a couple of the tapestries, as much to provide a cushion for the skiff's floor as to shut Ogilvie up, then put a hand to Hassan's back as Imam helped the boy down and gave him a shove in the settlement's direction. "We're on the clock here. MOVE!"
He could hear Fry and Shazza calling to them as they ran; they'd wisely ushered everybody left on board the skiff, gazing with some alarm in the direction of the creatures' calls. Riddick made sure Jack, al-Walid, and Hassan were on their way there, shoved the tapestries into the Imam's arms, then turned back and grabbed Ogilvie again as the man scrambled to fill his arms with expensive sherry bottles.
They made it to the skiff just as the shrieking flock of bioraptor young passed overhead, and hurriedly slammed the button to close the hatch behind them. Ogilvie joined the small heap of salvaged items on the floor, pressing his hands against his face as he shook, and the Imam gathered all three of his chicks close, murmuring to each of them in his own language. Fry was flicking through screens on the skiff's computers, and Jack was with her, staring out the windows.
Shazza? She was staring wide-eyed at Riddick, something brittle and newly re-wounded in her gaze.
"Save it," he said before she could say anything else. He wouldn't lie and say he hadn't partially been looking for that exact reaction; more than just immediately saving his skin, he needed goodwill from the other survivors to cover his backtrail as he took his next steps. It was still gratifying to see, though. And uncomfortable to deal with. "Just tell me we're ready to leave."
"As soon as the nav computer's done figuring a course," Fry called back, acidly. "And someone enters the go-code. Gee, I wonder who could have set that up."
"It's almost like I anticipated someone might try to leave me behind," Riddick replied, smirking at her. Then he turned last to Johns, who'd been staring at him in silence ever since he climbed aboard.
The signs of pain were all over the merc; jittery with craving, face drawn in tense lines. But there was something else, too, in his blue-eyed gaze. The same conflicted relief Riddick remembered from the shuttle at Butcher Bay, grateful they'd both survived but frustrated at the interrupted resolution of their drawn-out dance.
A flash of light strobed into the cockpit as the suns found a gap in the obscuring rings; Riddick was briefly blinded as Johns' profile was haloed with brilliance. Then the glow faded, and true dark fell like a curtain. In that brief gap before someone turned on the internal lights and everyone else's vision recovered, Riddick moved, pressing a hand to Johns' chest as he passed.
"Stay with me, Johns," he murmured. "We aren't finished yet." Then he slid into the co-pilot's seat and took over the controls.
It was the work of a moment to flare the outside lights and fly free; the rain hadn't started to fall yet, and if they were lucky, the Kublai Khan hadn't yet entered the system either. Whoever did find them probably wouldn't be much more altruistic than Antonia Chillingsworth and her collection of mercs and bounties, but they had Shazza and Fry to answer the comms; that ought to smooth over any suspicion they might face.
And if worse came to worst-- they could put that pair in cryo, then dig out the morphine shells he'd smuggled aboard in Ogilvie's tapestries, and put everyone down for the count. Reduce oxygen and food consumption to the minimum survivable amount, limp along to the nearest system.
"Perhaps we should pray," he heard al-Walid say, somewhere behind him.
Riddick tuned him out again, shaking his head. There was only one prayer he'd ever believed in; one that the Threshold, in retrospect, might very well have answered.
Where there's hatred, sow justice. Where there's injury, pardon. Where there's doubt, hope. And may a swift and certain death befall anyone who stands in my way.
He thought about the path that lay before him now, and let his lips curve in a grim smile. Amen.
+
There was no such thing as private space aboard the drop ship. Not for sleep, or relief, or any kind of quiet conversation. But they were in luck: they crossed the path of another transport vessel not thirty-six hours after leaving the eccentric system behind them.
Shazza covered for him. Fry joined the ship's crew; they worked for New Oslo Shipping, the same company that had hired the Hunter Grazner. The rest of them went back into cryo; the ship had been running light, and it was headed in the same direction they'd already been going.
Except for Riddick... and Johns. He hung back 'til all the others had been ushered off, then set a hand on the merc's arm and wordlessly met his gaze.
Johns swallowed, then nodded and told the crew they'd been staying behind. Nine survivors had been too much for the skiff's systems all at once, but it could support two easily enough, especially if the transport ship let them stay docked until they reached the next habitable system.
"So. You got me alone," Johns said, when the doors finally closed again between them and the others. "You that sure this is going to go any differently than it did the last time?"
He was standing in the middle of the skiff's cargo area, newly cleared of all the other survivors and their encumbrances. Riddick reached up to shut off the overhead light, leaving them only dimly lit by the glow of the system controls, and slid his goggles up as he moved to join him.
"No guards chasing me, this time. No Warden trying to stiff your fees. No other prisoners around to fuck things up. No deadline to worry about. Just you and me, Johns." He stepped back into the other man's personal space, reaching out to him with an open hand. "So how do you want it to go?"
The mood in the skiff teetered on a knife's edge, suspended for a long moment between a fight-- and something else entirely. Then Johns seized his hand with bruising strength, and pushed Riddick back against the nearest wall.
They still had quite a ways to go. He'd have to badger Johns into getting back into contact with his father and their guild, accept enough help to get proper healing. Kick the morphine. There was the Necro fleet to track, Furya to find, and that fucker Zhylaw to put down again.
But in this moment. In the dark, grappling with the first man to ever give him a real challenge-- who felt the same about him. They dropped to the deck, mouths clashing as they stripped each other to skin, unerringly seeking out the scars they'd given each other with callused, greedy hands.
Now this was Riddick's idea of transcendence.
+
(x-posted at AO3)
