Metallic
folder
M through R › Pitch Black
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
10
Views:
2,756
Reviews:
4
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
M through R › Pitch Black
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
10
Views:
2,756
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.
8
8
***
Twelve hours later and Riddick hadn’t shown. Johns guessed that if he hadn’t shown by then he wouldn’t show at all, and slipped out of the building while Stacey was sleeping at the desk.
Five minutes later and he was soaked again. He couldn’t wait ‘til he got off Centauri, and if he never saw the place again it’d be too fucking soon.
He hailed a cab after three blocks and rode back to his own boarding house. He kept rubbing at his forehead or the back of his neck and instantly regretting it – the graze on his forehead stung evilly and the cut on the back of his neck just kept opening up over and over, staining the back of his one good white shirt. He paid the driver and left the cab wishing he were back on Earth and dreaming of the canisters of morphine sitting on the dresser. Ah well, he guessed at least he wasn’t shaking. He wasn’t entirely sure why he wasn’t.
He could almost hear the ting of the metal as he loaded up the needle. He could almost feel it pierce him, slide into him, dulling his pain. Pain? What fucking pain? A little scrape on his forehead and a scratch on his neck? A bruised hand? So fucking what. He hadn’t needed the morphine since that last gunshot sound had healed. But he quickly silenced his rational side with a quick thought of the sleep he’d get under the drug, free from the sound of the rain. Maybe he’d dream of someplace warm, someplace where it didn’t rain, ever. Someplace where it was always light.
But he didn’t get that far. He opened the door, and before he could register the gleam in the dark, the blow had been landed and he was sinking from consciousness.
***
***
Twelve hours later and Riddick hadn’t shown. Johns guessed that if he hadn’t shown by then he wouldn’t show at all, and slipped out of the building while Stacey was sleeping at the desk.
Five minutes later and he was soaked again. He couldn’t wait ‘til he got off Centauri, and if he never saw the place again it’d be too fucking soon.
He hailed a cab after three blocks and rode back to his own boarding house. He kept rubbing at his forehead or the back of his neck and instantly regretting it – the graze on his forehead stung evilly and the cut on the back of his neck just kept opening up over and over, staining the back of his one good white shirt. He paid the driver and left the cab wishing he were back on Earth and dreaming of the canisters of morphine sitting on the dresser. Ah well, he guessed at least he wasn’t shaking. He wasn’t entirely sure why he wasn’t.
He could almost hear the ting of the metal as he loaded up the needle. He could almost feel it pierce him, slide into him, dulling his pain. Pain? What fucking pain? A little scrape on his forehead and a scratch on his neck? A bruised hand? So fucking what. He hadn’t needed the morphine since that last gunshot sound had healed. But he quickly silenced his rational side with a quick thought of the sleep he’d get under the drug, free from the sound of the rain. Maybe he’d dream of someplace warm, someplace where it didn’t rain, ever. Someplace where it was always light.
But he didn’t get that far. He opened the door, and before he could register the gleam in the dark, the blow had been landed and he was sinking from consciousness.
***