Metallic
folder
M through R › Pitch Black
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
10
Views:
2,749
Reviews:
4
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
M through R › Pitch Black
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
10
Views:
2,749
Reviews:
4
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
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.
2
2
***
The bright lights of Centauri’s capital city burnt Johns’ eyes, and he wasn’t even outside. He was lying on a bed. His head felt heavy, his eyes hot. The pink and blue neon light of one of the numerous strip clubs shone in between the slats of the window blinds. He wanted to move, to shut the blinds and lie down and drift to sleep in the dark, but when he sat up his head started to spin. He lay back down.
Centauri 2 was the only populated pt int in the Centauri system. Immediately before and after the death of their suns, the Centauri people had elected to pool their resources, and the inhabitants of Alpha Centauri and Centauri 3 had joined their neighbours on the system’s largest planet, Centauri 2. There they instituted the pro program, complete with orbital weather regulators and underground water treatment plants.
The Centauri people had been great scholars and artists for centuries. Centauri 3 had been home to the largest museum in the known galaxy. Alpha Centauri had housed the greatest scientific institute ever created. Yet with all their scientific genius they could not avert their greatest disaster, and the Centauri civilisation degenerated along with its suns.
Caught between two bright-burning stars, the Centaurans had lived in perpetual light. In perpetual darkness their artistic soul died. One hundred years later, their one over-populated planet became an outlaws’ haven, home of all from the lowest of thieves and petty thugs to the gunrunners and assassins, pirates to the upper echelons of galactic organised crime. Centauri 2 became a place where the wanted disappeared.
And its capital was the vast, sprawling chaos of Centaurus. It spread out to cover each square metre of the largest of Centauri 2’s three continents, its tallest buildings stretching some three miles from the planet surface, up into the lower atmosphere. Perhaps once it had been a wonder to behold, all gleaming silvered spires glittering in the bright artificial light of the atmospheric regulators, shimmering in the falling rain. But the lights had been allowed to dim and the city had fallen to darkness. The glory of Centaurus was no more.
Its streets were lined with bars and strip clubs, gambling establishments where the smell of gunfire hung heavy in the smoky air. Hookers in short skirts and impossibly high heels catcalled to the passers-by from under their blue-glowing electronic rain shields. Boarding houses sold themselves on the number of r par patrons who hadn’t been shot or hauled off-world by mercs. It was a bleak and lawlworlworld, ruled loosely by the highly corrupt Centauran government. There was little wonder that the lawless had claimed it as their own.
And it was to Centauri 2 that Johns had chased Riddick.
Lying on his bed in the boarding house, pink lights glowing through his eyelids, Johns remembered his last visit to Centaurus. He’d been with the Marine Military Police then, chasing three soldiers, AWOL from the Wailing Wars. Three days on the planet and he’d tracked them through the wet streets, into a bar that smelled of rot and cheap whiskey. The floor was slick with rainwater and every hour a young topless barmaid set to it with a mop; he remembered being fascinated by the sway of her breasts, the youthful sexuality of it, how she couldn’t have been more than fifteen but looked like she’d been doing it all her life. It had disturbed him to see her like that. It disturbed him even more when one of the men he was tracking tried to grope her on her way back to the bar. But she didn’t seem to mind. He’d never quite shaken that feeling of unease.
The heat had been turned up so high that Johns couldn’t tell if his shirt was wet with rain or sweat. After an hour and a half inside, all he wanted to do was stand outside in the rain. They said there was an additive in the rain there that got you hooked if you spent too much time in it. He’d thought the story was bullshit the first time he heard it, but looking back, he wasn’t so sure. He’d left the bar to stand outside, to let the cold Centauri rain calm him.
Fifteen minutes later the soldiers left the bar. He shot one of them and took the other into custody. Johns sighed. The MMP had a lot to answer for. Three months later he’d received a clean discharge, and was addicted to morphine.
The red box of red shell casings sat on the dresser by the bed. He reached out for it, spilled half of the shells on the floor, cursed, and scooped one up.
He loved the sound the needle made as he slid the vial into place and snapped it shut. He loved the sound the needle made as it sprang into position. He even loved the sound of the needle as it slid into his tear duct. He loved the feel of it in his hand, the smooth metal resting lightly on the soft skin between his thumb and forefinger. He’d injected there a couple of times, just to see how it felt. But it left marks. He preferred to use his tear ducts. It he was careful, no one would ever know.
Soon his head felt lighter. Soon his hand didn’t ache so much. Soon it didn’t matter that his pillow caught on the cut at the back of his neck, that he was bleeding into the dirty bed linen. Soon the lights dimmed and he drifted back to sleep.
***
***
The bright lights of Centauri’s capital city burnt Johns’ eyes, and he wasn’t even outside. He was lying on a bed. His head felt heavy, his eyes hot. The pink and blue neon light of one of the numerous strip clubs shone in between the slats of the window blinds. He wanted to move, to shut the blinds and lie down and drift to sleep in the dark, but when he sat up his head started to spin. He lay back down.
Centauri 2 was the only populated pt int in the Centauri system. Immediately before and after the death of their suns, the Centauri people had elected to pool their resources, and the inhabitants of Alpha Centauri and Centauri 3 had joined their neighbours on the system’s largest planet, Centauri 2. There they instituted the pro program, complete with orbital weather regulators and underground water treatment plants.
The Centauri people had been great scholars and artists for centuries. Centauri 3 had been home to the largest museum in the known galaxy. Alpha Centauri had housed the greatest scientific institute ever created. Yet with all their scientific genius they could not avert their greatest disaster, and the Centauri civilisation degenerated along with its suns.
Caught between two bright-burning stars, the Centaurans had lived in perpetual light. In perpetual darkness their artistic soul died. One hundred years later, their one over-populated planet became an outlaws’ haven, home of all from the lowest of thieves and petty thugs to the gunrunners and assassins, pirates to the upper echelons of galactic organised crime. Centauri 2 became a place where the wanted disappeared.
And its capital was the vast, sprawling chaos of Centaurus. It spread out to cover each square metre of the largest of Centauri 2’s three continents, its tallest buildings stretching some three miles from the planet surface, up into the lower atmosphere. Perhaps once it had been a wonder to behold, all gleaming silvered spires glittering in the bright artificial light of the atmospheric regulators, shimmering in the falling rain. But the lights had been allowed to dim and the city had fallen to darkness. The glory of Centaurus was no more.
Its streets were lined with bars and strip clubs, gambling establishments where the smell of gunfire hung heavy in the smoky air. Hookers in short skirts and impossibly high heels catcalled to the passers-by from under their blue-glowing electronic rain shields. Boarding houses sold themselves on the number of r par patrons who hadn’t been shot or hauled off-world by mercs. It was a bleak and lawlworlworld, ruled loosely by the highly corrupt Centauran government. There was little wonder that the lawless had claimed it as their own.
And it was to Centauri 2 that Johns had chased Riddick.
Lying on his bed in the boarding house, pink lights glowing through his eyelids, Johns remembered his last visit to Centaurus. He’d been with the Marine Military Police then, chasing three soldiers, AWOL from the Wailing Wars. Three days on the planet and he’d tracked them through the wet streets, into a bar that smelled of rot and cheap whiskey. The floor was slick with rainwater and every hour a young topless barmaid set to it with a mop; he remembered being fascinated by the sway of her breasts, the youthful sexuality of it, how she couldn’t have been more than fifteen but looked like she’d been doing it all her life. It had disturbed him to see her like that. It disturbed him even more when one of the men he was tracking tried to grope her on her way back to the bar. But she didn’t seem to mind. He’d never quite shaken that feeling of unease.
The heat had been turned up so high that Johns couldn’t tell if his shirt was wet with rain or sweat. After an hour and a half inside, all he wanted to do was stand outside in the rain. They said there was an additive in the rain there that got you hooked if you spent too much time in it. He’d thought the story was bullshit the first time he heard it, but looking back, he wasn’t so sure. He’d left the bar to stand outside, to let the cold Centauri rain calm him.
Fifteen minutes later the soldiers left the bar. He shot one of them and took the other into custody. Johns sighed. The MMP had a lot to answer for. Three months later he’d received a clean discharge, and was addicted to morphine.
The red box of red shell casings sat on the dresser by the bed. He reached out for it, spilled half of the shells on the floor, cursed, and scooped one up.
He loved the sound the needle made as he slid the vial into place and snapped it shut. He loved the sound the needle made as it sprang into position. He even loved the sound of the needle as it slid into his tear duct. He loved the feel of it in his hand, the smooth metal resting lightly on the soft skin between his thumb and forefinger. He’d injected there a couple of times, just to see how it felt. But it left marks. He preferred to use his tear ducts. It he was careful, no one would ever know.
Soon his head felt lighter. Soon his hand didn’t ache so much. Soon it didn’t matter that his pillow caught on the cut at the back of his neck, that he was bleeding into the dirty bed linen. Soon the lights dimmed and he drifted back to sleep.
***