Killer Instincts

Killer Instincts
by the Alabaster Tigress

the disclaimer bit (aka the don’t sue me bit):
[this is a fan fiction, I do not in any way, shape or form own, or have any affiliation with the character of Riddick, or with any character mentioned from the Pitch Black/Chronicles of Riddick universe. That pleasure goes to Jim and Ken Wheat and David Twohy. The character of Cat, however is a regularly occurring character in my own, original works of fiction, and belongs to me, me and me again.]

~~Many, many thanks to Alaira, who has read this already and inspired me to keep at it, even if my muse is occasionally a pain in the ass and won't let me just get on with it and finish... ~~

Chapter One: Sitting in a Bar on a Rock

She didn’t even bother to look up when another large, sweating male body was thrown through one of the flimsy tables littered about the establishment. What was the point? He was the third in an hour, nothing special, not even worth acknowledging. She simply sidestepped down the bar a ways, avoiding any splashing liquor, her gaze seemingly fixed on the menu in front of her as she rearranged the dark glasses which covered her eyes. “What would you recommend?” she asked the bar tender sweetly, shifting to rest her chin on the heel of her hand, elbow balanced on the bar’s smooth surface to support her perfectly.

“Honestly?” he asked, eyes darting over to the groggy man being hoisted off the now splintered table by his half drunk companions.

“Of course.”

“I’d recommend you eat somewhere else. Gotta have a cast iron stomach to eat here, Lady. Or maybe a death wish.”

Her smile widened a touch, appreciating his candour, and she lifted her head off her hand, her raised arm lowering to fold readily over the other. “I certainly don’t have one of those,” she told him, then paused, her expression going blank as she fluidly turned her head to take in the man who had been standing beside her for some time now. He had been staring off and on for a good ten minutes at least, and she didn’t particularly care for such an abhorrent display in bad manners. “Can I help you, Mr. Riddick?” she asked, inwardly breaking down in torrents of hysterical laughter at his badly hidden shock. Outwardly, she remained cool, collected... very much in control.

Control was the one thing he was trying desperately to regain. He cleared his throat roughly, looking down at the woman from behind a pair of dark tinted goggles. “You know who I am. I’m flattered,” he replied. He didn’t mean it.

“Don’t be. If you weren’t on file, I wouldn’t have known you from Adam.”

His eyes narrowed, she could tell by the way the muscles around those goggles twitched and tensed. She didn’t miss much. “You a merc?” he demanded, squaring off his body in an intimidating fashion. Intimidating to anyone who wasn’t every bit as lethal as he was, anyway.

She knew that word, she never really used it, but she knew it was short for mercenary, and so she shook her head. “Nope. I wouldn’t call it that.” When his weight shifted noticeably, uncertainly, she added, just to stir him up a bit more, “Mercs hunt for the payday, I hunt for the thrill.” Giving him a thoughtful once over, she lowered her dark glasses, and raised an eyebrow. Her white eyes drilled into him, the black pupils and dark corneas separating the iris from the whites the only proof she was looking at him at all. It was eerie, and she knew it all too well. It all went back to control, being top dog in the kennel. Keep potential opponents off their game, and there’s no competition that can’t be beaten into submission. “I’m not much for repeating myself, but since you seem to be having a little trouble with your speech, I’ll cut you some slack. Can I help you with something, or is this just rude bastard day at the bar?” Silence. “Whatever. Enough with the staring, okay? I’m here for a con, but I wasn’t really looking for a payday quite as big as you. Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t take you though, if you don’t start minding your manners. Assuming you’ve got any.”

His amusement shook him out of his stunned daze, and he laughed, a single beat, loud and offensive to delicate ears. It was meant to be offensive, though not in the way she found it to be. It was intended to throw opponents off their game, give him the upper hand, but all it did was make her want to drop him with a sharp left hook. The echo of the sound rang in her ears for several seconds following it’s actual end, making her lip twitch with irritation. Devil may care, was he? That’s what his roar of a laugh said about him. Well, she had time. If he wanted to be that way, she could play for awhile. Besides, his voice (when not braying in her sensitive ears) was quite appealing, low and provocative, every word given meaning simply by the tone with which it was delivered.

This Mr. Riddick was a welcome distraction from the other patrons of the bar. The night to their day. The others, they were dirt encrusted, more absorbed in their next drink than any concern with locating a bath house, of which there were many on this rock. She knew, she had explored the small planet, a moon really, upon her arrival several days prior to her visit to this particular establishment. They could use a good shave, too, and some quality time with a toothbrush. Halitosis was a real turn off, even if you were tracking an individual for the price on his head as opposed to the breath that came out of it.

Riddick, however, suffered none of the foul, stomach turning vices or personal hygiene phobias his fellow convicts possessed. He was sweating, sure, but everyone was. Everyone but her. She seemed immune to the intense heat somehow. She’d been in worse. In fact, the very place she had recently vacated had been twice as hot, easy, and she’d never batted an eyelash under those conditions, either. It was the way she was built, a resistant creature for an unforgiving universe. It was pleasing to discover that, despite the moisture that beaded on his skin, he didn’t reek like the others.

He was clean, his face was shaven right along with his scalp, and he had yet to make a lewd gesture or invite her to explore what he had in his pants. All things which added up to her not finding it necessary to gut him like a big game animal, regardless of his persistent desire to ogle her. That she could theoretically ignore. Look but don’t touch... touch and he’d pull back a stump.

“Never met a merc who didn’t want a payday like me,” he said when it became apparent she was done talking to him. His tone was almost thoughtful, like he was trying to work it out in his head. A big puzzle and he was missing a few pieces.

“Told you, not a merc. I’m a prototype Hunter.” She didn’t know why she told him that. Word got around, especially on a planetoid this small, and she had a price on her neck higher even than Riddick’s in certain circles. Not that anyone out this way would likely have any idea who or what she was, not unless they were big time, like Riddick, and if he was here, other big times could be too. Something about him made her feel like playing however, and play for her kind tended to involve competition. In this case, she knew it would be a case of ‘who’s the most dangerous’. Even she didn’t have the answer to that one, and the thought was oddly stimulating, taunting the animal within to find out. Not yet, she soothed the beast, soon, but not yet. He’s not the one we’re after.

He nearly let loose with that laugh of his again, but one sharp look from her suggested it could be a very large mistake on his part. Swallowing the urge, he cleared his throat, downed his drink, and slammed the empty glass down on the bar. “They don’t exist, entire program was scrapped. Next time try something a little less urban legend.”

She gestured for more drinks, two of them. One relatively clean glass she took into the palm of her left hand, the other she slid over the bar to rest in front of the bronzed man beside her. “Of course you’d think the program was terminated, you think they’d want you knowing what was really hiding under your bed? Not until they were finished. Prototypes were still being altered when that particular rumour went out.” She paused, head turning to the left as the stench of stale sweat and even more stagnant alcohol wafted past her nose. Shivering involuntarily with disgust, she pushed her glasses back up onto the bridge of her nose firmly and acknowledged the newcomer. “What?”

“That your fella?” the grimy man demanded, assaulting her with the stench of his rotting teeth.

“No,” she answered, brow knitting together as she fought a wave of nausea. Bathing would be a top priority when she returned to her room, this place left her feeling contaminated.

“Then you’re with me tonight, baby,” he grinned, revealing the gaps along his gumline where the rest of his teeth used to be.

“Baby? Do I look like an infant to you?”

“Feisty, I like that. Come on, baby, I got booze and a ship docked in the anchorage.”

This had her attention, and she turned her body toward him slightly, indicating her willingness to listen to his proposition. At least, this was the idea she wished to convey. “Do you now?” Her eyes went oddly blank as she ran her files, looking for a potential match with the face in front of her. Ah, there he was, labelled under a rare file with no given name on offer. Fascinating, not many of those left, usually belonging to individuals who had been dumped as infants, naming themselves if they lived long enough to develop a sense of identity. Crash. How sadly unoriginal. Seemed to have a penchant for starting fights and fires... not necessarily in that order. One always seemed to lead to the other with this one, his file indicated.

This could save her some time. If he truly did possess a ship, she could easily dispose of him and claim it as her own. Nobody would question the death of another convict, certainly not around here. If he did not have a ship, she would have to capture him, preferably alive to acquire the full amount on offer for his worthless, stinking hide, and use the earnings to procure one the old fashioned way. A ship yard. Tacky, and you were never sure to get a ship that would actually make it out of the anchorage. “Let me finish my drink in peace, and I’ll meet you out front in five minutes,” she said, smiling falsely at the grotesque con. He gave her a doubtful look, full of suspicion and sudden dislike, but she widened her smile for him, flashing a hint of her pearly teeth, and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll be there. Not like I could sneak out, there’s only one door.”

He nodded, still uncertain, and shuffled out the door to wait.

“Thought you might have a little more class than that,” Riddick commented, sparing only a brief glance for the other convict. He didn’t interest him. She did.

“Believe me, I do. He’s got a ship, I want a ship. End of story.”

“You gonna sell yourself for a ship?” He grunted, shaking his head. “Don’t know about that, seems like a bad idea... real bad.”

“I don’t sell myself to anybody, for anything, Mr. Riddick.” She leaned down slightly to pull a coin out of a pocket low down on the leg of her black trousers, and froze halfway back up. Nostrils quivering as the bar door opened and shifted the stale air, she picked up the scent he gave off, the aroma like an aphrodisiac to the beast dwelling within her. “Oh my,” she said, straightening and tossing the coin onto the counter top for the bartender. “I’ve only come across one other Furyan, but believe me, it isn’t something you ever forget once you’ve experienced it.”

This certainly explained this feeling inside, the one which wasn’t positive she could defeat him in battle. A Furyan was something to be savoured for any warrior, there were too few of them now to be anything but a trophy battle, a victory celebrated by certain warrior races by enslaving the defeated for the duration of their mortal years. Those races with honour would kill the loser, to die in battle was an honourable death, to die in servitude suggested that the once proud fighter was now lower than the household dog.

It was perhaps fortunate for Riddick that she was not of a race which believed in servitude for the conquered. She was not of a race which believed in conquering at all, though, if the need were present, they were formidable fighters. Not formidable enough, she thought briefly, her inner voice melancholy at the reminder that so many of her own people were gone now, too. She was snapped from these thoughts by his hand on her shoulder, pushing at her to regain her attention. “What?”

“I don’t like repeating myself,” he said, a parody of her own earlier words, “But if you’re having trouble with your speech? I can cut you some slack.”

“That’s very clever, Mr. Riddick.”

“How do you know I’m Furyan?” he demanded a second time, all traces of humour gone, leaves in the wind, there then fluttering away.

“I can smell it. Funny, doesn’t say anything about it in your file. Race unknown, it says. Never imagined I’d meet a male Furyan your age. You’re all meant to be dead, you know.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, looking away from her. “I heard that, too.” Thinking about it brought bad memories to the surface, memories he had fought several months to bury. It was all a history he wanted no part of, all he desired was to be left alone. It did serve to remind him that he had been on this planetoid far too long already, however. They would be looking for him, Necromongers, searching for their wayward Lord Marshal. They’d tracked him down once, and only sheer dumb luck had prevented him from being taken back to his unwanted throne. They were certainly persistent. If they wanted him to help them reach the Underverse so damn bad, he’d take them there personally, one fucking Necro at a time if he had to, if it meant they’d be off his back for good. “You looking for company?”

“Not really,” she responded, not rude, just truthful. What he was selling, she wasn’t buying, men like him were trouble, and they liked to share. She was all for the sharing, but this one was a liability, a wanted man and that made him excess baggage she just didn’t feel like taking on. She flashed feral, canine fangs at him before finishing off her drink in one good swallow. “Have a good one, Richard B. Riddick.”

He watched her go, those shapely hips of hers swaying with every step she took toward the door, away from him. Too bad, he thought. None of the other patrons of the filthy little bar had the potential that woman held, the others were cutthroats, ruthless, real bottom of the barrel, but she was different. Clean and full of purpose and direction. That one knew where she was going, and she knew how to get there. Riddick frowned, realising he didn’t even know her name. Not that it mattered. Their names never really did.

A curious, lazy smile appeared at the corner of his lips, and he finished his own drink, the one she had ordered on his behalf. If she was what she claimed to be, it could be worth a trip to the anchorage. The Furyan in him was interested in seeing just how a prototype Hunter would handle someone like Crash, interested in seeing if they were anywhere near as lethal as rumour would have them seem. Besides, he still needed a ride off this rock, and compared with his other options, she was by far the most attractive in every respect. He could wait a little longer, convince her that a little company up there in space wasn’t a bad thing. Not a bad thing at all.

One thing he excelled at was getting what he wanted.