Metallic
folder
M through R › Pitch Black
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
10
Views:
2,751
Reviews:
4
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
M through R › Pitch Black
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
10
Views:
2,751
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.
3
3
***
Richard Riddick had no friends; he wasn’t even sure he had the social skills necessary to make a friend, let alone actually wanting one. He had acquaintances, sure – a man of his gifts was always sure to meet new and interesting people. But he had no friends, and that was exactly the way he liked it.
Still, there was one thing he’d admit – having a friend on Centauri could’ve helped. That way he wouldn’t have been staying in a dirty boarding house just east of the centre of Centaurus.
The mattress squeaked as he stretched out on the low bed, his arms up above him, his head resting on his hands. The place was a hole. A filthy, bug-infested hole, right next door to a brightly lit and raucous bordello. He could hear all the noises of sex loud through the walls. The whole place stank of it. It lingered in the air and he could taste it in every breath he took. It brought a smile of amusement to his lips just thinking of all those sweat-slicked limbs and carnal pleasures. It crawled under his skin and made him want to kill.
He shifted, lay his head on the pillow and his hands by his sides. A cockroach – or what passed for a cockroach on Centauri – crawled over his hand. Riddick turned his head to look at it, all hair-thin legs and deep red-brown shell, antennae twitching over the fine hairs on his arm before it wandered off onto the bed. For a second he thought about scooping it into his hand, maybe squashing it between his fingers, but the thought only lasted a second. He watched it make its way down the mattress then down the foot of the bed to the floor, where it disappeared through a crack in the bare wooden boards. He just let it go.
Riddick lay back and closed his eyes. As he’d landed on Centauri he’d thought briefly about looking up a few of those old acquaintances, maybe finding a place to stay. Keller, a gunrunner he remembered from the Ribald Correctional Facility, owned a bar in South-West Central, rented rooms; he’d always told Riddick that if he ever needed a place to stay, he should look him up. And Jacks Almeida, a cellmate from Hubble Bay, had a restaurant way up in North Centaurus. It was a relatively upmarket neighbourhood – relative, of course, to the slums of Central Centaurus, but still halfway decent. Johns wouldn’t think to look for him there.
It might have been good to take a few days out from the chase, catch up with a familiar face or two. It might have been good, to anyone but Riddick. He hated the idea and couldn’t believe he’d wasted a full minute to entertain it. He’d as soon gut Keller and Almeida as talk to them, let alone ask for help.
He didn’t want to see any familiar faces. That wasn’t what Centaurus was all about – it was a place that crims came to disappear, not to look up old friends. And Riddick had no friends. Which, he reminded himself again, was just the way he liked it.
And he didn’t want to hide in some gunrunner’s basement for the rest of his life. In fact, he didn’t want to hide at all. He never had. The filthy hole was fine by him. In fact, it kinda suited him.
He left the bed. He picked his shiv from the dresser and walked into the small en suite bathroom. He didn’t bother with the lights; he’d half blinded himself once already, tugging on the light cord and looking up into the bright white strip light, and he didn’t need a repeat performance. He leant forward over the grimy, formerly white sink, soaped the crown of his skull and started to shave.
He loved the metallic scrape of the shiv against the stubble. Razors were no good for shaving. He’d take a shiv any day, the soft rasp of the blade over hair, the subtle vibrations of it in his palm, the control. It was perfect.
There was a slight twinge in his wrist but he ignored it. He’d tweaked something on that filthy thief back in the alley, when his shiv caught for an instant on the guy’s trachea, but it’d be fine in the morning. If there ever was a morning on Centauri 2. He knew there wasn’t. Give it ten hours, then. The night’s festivities had been worth a little twinge. He could still taste Johns’ blood in his mouth.
He’d seen the question in the merc’s eyes as he’d tossed him the thief’s shiv. Why the hell had he saved his life? Riddick smiled. It had to be driving Johns insane, and he liked that. He was in his head. Soon, when Johns came down off of his inevitable morphine hit, he’d started asking himself why the guy he’d been tracking, why a guy he wanted to ship back to Slam City, had saved his life. Then he’d start asking what Riddick had even been doing there, back in that alley. He’d enjoy explaining that to him.
But not yet.
Riddick looked up into the mirror, into his own gleaming eyes, metallic eyes without irises that had once been a dark, deep brown. He didn’t need colour in the dark.
And he smiled.
No, not yet.
***
***
Richard Riddick had no friends; he wasn’t even sure he had the social skills necessary to make a friend, let alone actually wanting one. He had acquaintances, sure – a man of his gifts was always sure to meet new and interesting people. But he had no friends, and that was exactly the way he liked it.
Still, there was one thing he’d admit – having a friend on Centauri could’ve helped. That way he wouldn’t have been staying in a dirty boarding house just east of the centre of Centaurus.
The mattress squeaked as he stretched out on the low bed, his arms up above him, his head resting on his hands. The place was a hole. A filthy, bug-infested hole, right next door to a brightly lit and raucous bordello. He could hear all the noises of sex loud through the walls. The whole place stank of it. It lingered in the air and he could taste it in every breath he took. It brought a smile of amusement to his lips just thinking of all those sweat-slicked limbs and carnal pleasures. It crawled under his skin and made him want to kill.
He shifted, lay his head on the pillow and his hands by his sides. A cockroach – or what passed for a cockroach on Centauri – crawled over his hand. Riddick turned his head to look at it, all hair-thin legs and deep red-brown shell, antennae twitching over the fine hairs on his arm before it wandered off onto the bed. For a second he thought about scooping it into his hand, maybe squashing it between his fingers, but the thought only lasted a second. He watched it make its way down the mattress then down the foot of the bed to the floor, where it disappeared through a crack in the bare wooden boards. He just let it go.
Riddick lay back and closed his eyes. As he’d landed on Centauri he’d thought briefly about looking up a few of those old acquaintances, maybe finding a place to stay. Keller, a gunrunner he remembered from the Ribald Correctional Facility, owned a bar in South-West Central, rented rooms; he’d always told Riddick that if he ever needed a place to stay, he should look him up. And Jacks Almeida, a cellmate from Hubble Bay, had a restaurant way up in North Centaurus. It was a relatively upmarket neighbourhood – relative, of course, to the slums of Central Centaurus, but still halfway decent. Johns wouldn’t think to look for him there.
It might have been good to take a few days out from the chase, catch up with a familiar face or two. It might have been good, to anyone but Riddick. He hated the idea and couldn’t believe he’d wasted a full minute to entertain it. He’d as soon gut Keller and Almeida as talk to them, let alone ask for help.
He didn’t want to see any familiar faces. That wasn’t what Centaurus was all about – it was a place that crims came to disappear, not to look up old friends. And Riddick had no friends. Which, he reminded himself again, was just the way he liked it.
And he didn’t want to hide in some gunrunner’s basement for the rest of his life. In fact, he didn’t want to hide at all. He never had. The filthy hole was fine by him. In fact, it kinda suited him.
He left the bed. He picked his shiv from the dresser and walked into the small en suite bathroom. He didn’t bother with the lights; he’d half blinded himself once already, tugging on the light cord and looking up into the bright white strip light, and he didn’t need a repeat performance. He leant forward over the grimy, formerly white sink, soaped the crown of his skull and started to shave.
He loved the metallic scrape of the shiv against the stubble. Razors were no good for shaving. He’d take a shiv any day, the soft rasp of the blade over hair, the subtle vibrations of it in his palm, the control. It was perfect.
There was a slight twinge in his wrist but he ignored it. He’d tweaked something on that filthy thief back in the alley, when his shiv caught for an instant on the guy’s trachea, but it’d be fine in the morning. If there ever was a morning on Centauri 2. He knew there wasn’t. Give it ten hours, then. The night’s festivities had been worth a little twinge. He could still taste Johns’ blood in his mouth.
He’d seen the question in the merc’s eyes as he’d tossed him the thief’s shiv. Why the hell had he saved his life? Riddick smiled. It had to be driving Johns insane, and he liked that. He was in his head. Soon, when Johns came down off of his inevitable morphine hit, he’d started asking himself why the guy he’d been tracking, why a guy he wanted to ship back to Slam City, had saved his life. Then he’d start asking what Riddick had even been doing there, back in that alley. He’d enjoy explaining that to him.
But not yet.
Riddick looked up into the mirror, into his own gleaming eyes, metallic eyes without irises that had once been a dark, deep brown. He didn’t need colour in the dark.
And he smiled.
No, not yet.
***