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Violet Eyed Angel
folder
M through R › Pitch Black
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
5
Views:
3,015
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
1
Category:
M through R › Pitch Black
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
5
Views:
3,015
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
1
Disclaimer:
I do not own Pitch Black, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
00B Angel
Prologue: Angel
They say that, in cryo-sleep, most of your brain shuts down. All but the primal side. The primitive side. The animal side. No wonder I’m still awake.
And I know he is, too. Riddick. The murderer my brother has hunted so passionately since before I was even born. The black-eyed devil with the angelic light in his eyes. The man who could very well be twice as old as my brother, who, though looking twenty, is actually eighty-seven.
Naturally organic humans didn’t live as long as say, the Nocturnal specie, or even the semi-mechanical humans. I have a sneaking suspicion that Riddick is one of the Nocturnes. I myself am a semi-beastial human, crossbred with the longevity DNA patterns in elephants, whales, and the strange, marina behemoths, the Moosica Leviathans, who live for centuries.
So, Riddick and I have something in common. Neither of us is truly human.
I can’t smell Riddick, like he can smell me, and that kind of upsets me. I enjoy breathing in his scent, the contradictory smells of arctic ice, hellish fire, fresh summer rain, and human blood. I love how Riddick smells.
I can’t smell him from where I am in my cryo chamber, but I can sense him, see him with my mind. He’s chained, blindfolded, with a steel bit between his strange, perfect, white teethe. I feel sorry for him, sorry that such a magnificent, powerful creature as he must be kept caged. It was monstrous, inhuman, to do that to anyone, as I have often told Michael, but I also know if we don’t, Richard B. Riddick, multiple murderer and con artist, will escape and maybe kill us.
Well, kill my brother, anyway.
See, I expect Riddick to kill Mike one of these days, since Mike fucks with him enough and he sometimes gets careless, but the tall, powerful man with the shined eyes won’t kill me. We have a deal, and he knows I won’t do anything to make him think I’m better off dead. If I do, then he can kill me.
Despite his “monstrous” past and “inhuman” ways, I like Riddick. He’s like me, only... worse. Darker, richer, more evil. But not... evil, evil, just... inhuman, I guess. He’s somewhat sociopathic. But, then, so is Michael, my brother. The murders he committed, for the reasons he committed them, would be considered inhuman on an emotionless level, but he did what he had to, and I can do no other than admire him for it.
I’ve known him since I was a little girl, and he, despite what my brother chooses to believe, was actually a positive influence on my life. He taught me some of my martial arts moves, the times when, for a brief taste of freedom, he and I would visit in the Slam. He taught me how to... not be tough, exactly, but how to bear the things most six-year-olds would cry about, like black eyes and bloody noses.
My brother had paraded Riddick on video before me when I was young, to show me that my big brother, Michael G. Johns, could capture and bring down the infamous Richard B. Riddick. I hadn’t cared what Michael could or could not do, I just wanted to see Riddick, talk to him. He fascinated me back then, fascinated me. It had been love at first sight, at least on my part, when I first saw Riddick. He was human to me, not a monster as my brother had said. He was a mystery, a puzzle. As I said, he fascinated me. He charms me now. He has the knack of it.
I remember the first time I met Riddick, as an innocent little girl, eager to hear his side of the story, to bring him a small bit of justice. I had wanted to help him... but it doesn’t matter now, I realize.
What matters now is that the sixth sense I’m so grateful for, which Riddick thinks is a plus point, is screaming, alarm bells shrieking in my head. The fear that is always present in me, the fear that spikes every now and then, is spiking now.
Something very, very bad is about to happen.
oo8oo8oo8oo
Please feel free to leave a comment!
Anything at all: If you noticed a typo, if you don't like a characterization or description, if you thought a line especially funny or poignant or interesting, if there was anything you particularly enjoyed … I am really interested in what my readers think about my writing.
You can leave a public comment (signed or anonymous), though if you want me to respond to it, signed is best, OR send me a private message, though I do prefer comments and reviews.
Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed this chapter.
Disclaimers: I don't own anything you recognize.
They say that, in cryo-sleep, most of your brain shuts down. All but the primal side. The primitive side. The animal side. No wonder I’m still awake.
And I know he is, too. Riddick. The murderer my brother has hunted so passionately since before I was even born. The black-eyed devil with the angelic light in his eyes. The man who could very well be twice as old as my brother, who, though looking twenty, is actually eighty-seven.
Naturally organic humans didn’t live as long as say, the Nocturnal specie, or even the semi-mechanical humans. I have a sneaking suspicion that Riddick is one of the Nocturnes. I myself am a semi-beastial human, crossbred with the longevity DNA patterns in elephants, whales, and the strange, marina behemoths, the Moosica Leviathans, who live for centuries.
So, Riddick and I have something in common. Neither of us is truly human.
I can’t smell Riddick, like he can smell me, and that kind of upsets me. I enjoy breathing in his scent, the contradictory smells of arctic ice, hellish fire, fresh summer rain, and human blood. I love how Riddick smells.
I can’t smell him from where I am in my cryo chamber, but I can sense him, see him with my mind. He’s chained, blindfolded, with a steel bit between his strange, perfect, white teethe. I feel sorry for him, sorry that such a magnificent, powerful creature as he must be kept caged. It was monstrous, inhuman, to do that to anyone, as I have often told Michael, but I also know if we don’t, Richard B. Riddick, multiple murderer and con artist, will escape and maybe kill us.
Well, kill my brother, anyway.
See, I expect Riddick to kill Mike one of these days, since Mike fucks with him enough and he sometimes gets careless, but the tall, powerful man with the shined eyes won’t kill me. We have a deal, and he knows I won’t do anything to make him think I’m better off dead. If I do, then he can kill me.
Despite his “monstrous” past and “inhuman” ways, I like Riddick. He’s like me, only... worse. Darker, richer, more evil. But not... evil, evil, just... inhuman, I guess. He’s somewhat sociopathic. But, then, so is Michael, my brother. The murders he committed, for the reasons he committed them, would be considered inhuman on an emotionless level, but he did what he had to, and I can do no other than admire him for it.
I’ve known him since I was a little girl, and he, despite what my brother chooses to believe, was actually a positive influence on my life. He taught me some of my martial arts moves, the times when, for a brief taste of freedom, he and I would visit in the Slam. He taught me how to... not be tough, exactly, but how to bear the things most six-year-olds would cry about, like black eyes and bloody noses.
My brother had paraded Riddick on video before me when I was young, to show me that my big brother, Michael G. Johns, could capture and bring down the infamous Richard B. Riddick. I hadn’t cared what Michael could or could not do, I just wanted to see Riddick, talk to him. He fascinated me back then, fascinated me. It had been love at first sight, at least on my part, when I first saw Riddick. He was human to me, not a monster as my brother had said. He was a mystery, a puzzle. As I said, he fascinated me. He charms me now. He has the knack of it.
I remember the first time I met Riddick, as an innocent little girl, eager to hear his side of the story, to bring him a small bit of justice. I had wanted to help him... but it doesn’t matter now, I realize.
What matters now is that the sixth sense I’m so grateful for, which Riddick thinks is a plus point, is screaming, alarm bells shrieking in my head. The fear that is always present in me, the fear that spikes every now and then, is spiking now.
Something very, very bad is about to happen.
oo8oo8oo8oo
Please feel free to leave a comment!
Anything at all: If you noticed a typo, if you don't like a characterization or description, if you thought a line especially funny or poignant or interesting, if there was anything you particularly enjoyed … I am really interested in what my readers think about my writing.
You can leave a public comment (signed or anonymous), though if you want me to respond to it, signed is best, OR send me a private message, though I do prefer comments and reviews.
Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed this chapter.
Disclaimers: I don't own anything you recognize.