He Didn't Come

Well, her secret was out, and neither of them had tried anything yet. After a day or two of holding her breath and eying Riddick’s knife collection—he had four and sharpened them habitually, she noticed, and he had one or two that looked custom made—she was able to relax.

Riddick had noticed her fascination with his knives, though he called them shivs, and gave one to her two days after the bathroom incident. She wondered how he knew that he could trust her. Her idolization was growing. He was quiet most of the time, and seemed self-contained to a degree she had never before encountered. Jack had been self-contained to a certain extent about a year ago, but it landed her in a mental hospital. Her method of self-containment was simply to curl up inside herself and ignore the world around her.

The day after he gave her the knife, she slipped into one of her mood-swings. She got them occasionally. She would just curl up and ignore everyone as she remembered. It drove people crazy at the hospital. This time she was remembering her time with Charles, before the police raid that got her sent to the hospital in the first place. She remembered, no matter how hard she tried to forget.

Riddick was watching her. She kept the tiny hand blade hidden from him, running her thumb distantly over the razor point. Not to cut. Not then. She was too far down in her mental emptiness to have the presence of mind to cut. She just wanted the reassurance that the deadly metal gave her, the reassurance that she had some control. She had to have control.

Imam walked over to her and tried to talk to her. She ignored him. It was like he wasn't even there. She was back in that dark room, tied up, with the nameless man's face looming over her. She clutched the knife, as though she could get up and defend herself from the assault that came almost every day. She couldn't defend herself. She was weak and helpless. She was a victim.

No more. As she turned the knife in her hand, the blade cut into the palm, bringing her out of her trance. She blinked and sat up, shoving her bloodied hand into her pocket. She didn't want Riddick or Imam to know that she was crazy.

Imam spoke to her, but it didn't quite register what he said. She must have made a semi-intelligent response, because he left her alone after a moment. Her eyes were locked onto Riddick's. He knew something was up with her. She knew that he didn't know what. She intended to keep it that way.

~*~

"What's it like to kill someone?" she asked Riddick later that day.

"What?" he answered, looking perplexed.

It had been on her mind a lot lately. The way the 'rats had killed so easily, the way Riddick himself didn't flinch in the face of death by dealing it—all stuck indelibly in her mind.

She repeated, “What’s it like to kill someone?”

“Why do you ask?”

She said, “It doesn’t matter why. I’m just curious.”

Riddick looked amused. “Why are you so curious about it? Think you could do it?”

She paused. She hadn’t really thought of it that way, but now that he mentioned it, she suddenly imagined herself as strong as he. Not necessarily physical strength, but an iron wall that didn’t hide a frightened little girl inside. Inner strength, through and through. If it took killing people to attain it, would she be able to do it?”

Jack shrugged, trying to appear as nonchalant as he. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

Riddick barked a short laugh. “Bad attitude to take, kid. You can’t be indecisive. Decide what you’re gonna do, and stick to it.”

That was her problem. She had never really had a chance to make her own decisions, and therefore had no experience when it came time to stick to her guns.

She tried a different tactic. She wanted to make him keep talking to her. Now that he knew her secret and hadn’t tried anything—hell, he even gave her a knife—she wanted to learn more about him. He was safer. It didn’t make any sense, but she felt as though she didn’t have to keep him at arm’s length like the rest of the world. He was as much a loner as she was.

“So, what’s up with your thing with knives?”

Riddick took his time in replying. After a minute or two he answered, “They’re not knives. They’re shivs. They take more skill than guns. They’re a more personal weapon, and they’re easier to conceal.”

Made sense, she figured. It was easy to picture Riddick waiting for his mark, knife—no, shiv—out and ready to make his move. In her mental image, Riddick’s mark slid soundlessly to the ground, a victim of the impenetrable killer.

How cool was that?

“So why don’t you make them yourself?” she asked, trying to keep the conversation going. It surprised her that she wanted to talk to him. She hadn’t had any friends in the hospital, and her shrinks weren’t exactly people she could talk to. Not that she minded. Jack had been keeping people away for a long time. It was kind of nice, talking to someone.

Riddick shrugged. “I do. It’s something to keep my hands busy.” He looked at her sideways, and gave something between a grin and a smirk. “Why, you thought these were all store-bought?”

The grin took her by surprise, as well. To her, it seemed strange that someone like Riddick, who lived the life he had and did the things he did, would grin like that. She didn’t want to assume that he had to maintain that macho, aloof attitude as a mask. She tried to be distant and strong, which meant that she couldn’t lighten up. Why could he?

He went on, “I like making my own weapons. I take a lot of pride in what I do, believe it or not. Besides, it’s a good skill to have when you’re in a jam. Pick a random lump of something—stone, even bones work well, look around for something to shape it with, and boom, tools for making a personalized, custom blade.” Huh. It made sense to her. He continued, “When I had my old ship, I had the equipment to make the high-quality metal ones, like this one.”

With a gesture that looked long-practiced, he drew a flat, wide blade that seemed to gleam with a special inner shine. Jack was puzzled by the jagged, curvy bits that stuck out on both sides, framing the blade.

“What are those for?” she asked.

“If you look, each one has its own sharp edge. If you stab someone, those edges will do a lot more damage than a normal shiv. It helps if you don’t get someone in a vital spot first try.”

“How can you make your own knife—shiv—out of bone or a rock?”

“Ancient civilizations on Old Earth made knives by flint knapping. You know what that is?”

She shook her head, hoping he wouldn’t be deterred by her ignorance. This was fascinating.

“Same principal. Chipping off flakes from the edges, with a shitload of practice, will eventually give you a shiv like this.” Riddick pulled another blade, this one much shorter than the first. Its handle was only about eight centimeters long, and the blade itself was obviously a part of the same piece of stone. It didn’t look like much, and she said so.

In response, Riddick held up his thumb and drew it along the cutting edge. Blood sprang immediately through the parted skin. He didn’t even flinch. “Don’t underestimate these things,” he said. “This one took me about two days to make.”

“Could I make one?” she asked with puppy-like eagerness.

Riddick chuckled. “When you grow up.”