by
Fandom: Pitch Black
Rating: R (rape fic)
Pairing: Riddick/Johns
Author's Note: I thoroughly enjoyed the movie Pitch Black. I really glommed onto the tension between Riddick and Johns. The movie made it clear they had a history. This is my speculation on what some of this history was like.
Copyright and Disclaimer: Pitch Black and the characters of William Johns and Richard Riddick are creations & copyright of David Twohy, the Wheat Brothers, and USA films. I make no claims to ownership or creation. This bit of not for profit of modern folklore (thank you Prof. Jenkins) is mine.
Richard Riddick's new found freedom ended in a burst of bright light and a sharp blow to the head.
He woke hours later with the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. Slowly, methodically, he worked the situation out. Face down. Damp cement floor...he could smell the acrid odor of lime and faint traces of mildew. The dull ache in his arms told him that they were cuffed tightly behind him, not that that was much of an impediment to man like him, a man to whom pain was something like air — a fact of life. Besides what were a few moments of agony when compared to freedom? No, the cuffs he could handle, but the shackles around his ankles provided a much more complex set of obstacles.
Cautiously Riddick cracked an eye open, then shut it almost immediately against the painfully bright lights. Shit. Whoever it was, they knew. That flare of light in the alleyway was no dumb luck. It was planning. That could mean only one thing —
"Why don't you roll over and sit up, real easy like? I know you're awake. No sense in playing possum here." The speaker had a laconic, almost Texan drawl.
— William Johns. Riddick took some small measure of pride in this. It had taken the best in the galaxy to bring him to bay. Nobody escaped when "William the Conqueror" hunted them. Nobody. Of course, half the reason Riddick was so feared and the reward so high was that when it came to escaping, he was Johns' alter-ego. He would simply wait until the time was right —
"An' don't bother trying escaping, Riddick. I bring even the meanest curs to heel. I'll just catch you again..."
because no way was he going —
"...back to the Slam, " the deceptively mild drawl continued, "Thought you were going to be much harder to catch. Thought there was going to be some fight in you, but no, you walked smack into my flashlight and billyclub. Talk about dumb luck. Then, guys like you think that muscles and a handsome face will get you through life."
Dumb luck? Bullshit. Riddick thought. It was an ambush, pure and simple, and a damned good one at that. His head throbbing in protest, Riddick slowly rolled over and sat up.
Johns walked over, "Here, I thought you might like these," he said, pushing something over Riddick's head and settling it over his eyes. Cautiously Riddick opened one eye. Goggles of some sort with very dark lenses. Grateful for the small mercy, Riddick opened both eyes and stared his captor in the face. Dumb of Johns to do this, he thought. The lenses of the goggles were so dark they hid his eyes, and one thing life had taught Riddick early on is that you could always read a man by looking at his eyes.
He studied Johns for a moment, casually noting the lean jaw, cleft chin, curly brown hair — golden boy good looks really — except for his eyes. They weren't pretty at all. Blue, but without a trace of emotion. Basilisk eyes, like his own. Johns was as good as they said...the eyes had it.
Casually, Riddick studied the room. Cement. Cinderblock. Damp and dank, lit by several naked bulbs, a table, a bucket, a chair, a small bed, a dufflebag. Looked like a large store room, probably situated in any one of number of abandoned buildings in the run down industrial sector of Nova Kyoto.
The silence stretched out interminably. Johns did nothing, said nothing, simply slouched on the bed and read a magazine. Riddick decided to test him, see how much trust he would be given.
"I gotta piss."
Purposefully Johns strode over, grabbed his left arm, wrenched him up, and marched him towards the bucket in the corner. Riddick, hobbled by his shackles struggled to keep upright. When they reached the bucket, Johns simply reached around, unzipped Riddick's fly, fumbled around for a bit, and pulled his dick out. "Nice piece, y'got there. I hope you bought some tail on the outside, cause it's going to be a long time before you see anything 'cept boy-pussy."
Well, that answered that question. No privacy, no trust. On an outside chance, Riddick asked, "Hey can't you let a man take care of some things on his own?"
Johns smiled in his face. "You must think I'm real stupid," he drawled as he reached up and pinched one of Riddick's cheeks. Overcome by rage Riddick snapped at Johns' fingers, and regretted it as soon as he heard the "snikt!" of a telescoping billyclub. He turned and ducked, but not fast enough. Pain exploded through the back of his skull.
He woke up next to the piss bucket, head throbbing, and his mouth had a strange metallic taste — not blood — in it. As he swam more fully into consciousness he realized that he had a stainless steel bit in his mouth and that his face rested in a warm, slimy puddle of his own drool. Riddick could not restrain a groan of pain as he very slowly rolled over and sat up. Nausea overwhelmed him. He retched violently into the bucket. He had not eaten in hours; he brought up acid and bile and nothing else. When he finished, Riddick slumped against the wall, panting. The acrid taste of his own vomit filled his mouth. His salivary glands kicked into overdrive and before he could stop it, slobber ran off his chin and dripped on to his shirt. Johns smirked at him with dark amusement. When the world stopped spinning, Riddick slowly inched away from the bucket; the foul smell threatened to bring on another fit of puking. Too miserable for any emotion, even fury, he curled up in a ball and let the darkness claim him.
He woke hours later, shaking, drenched in sweat, when something poked him sharply in the ribs. Johns stood over him, frowning slightly.
"You were screaming in your sleep."
Riddick smiled to himself. He had been dreaming about the Walking War again. It was ironic, really. Nobody knew what had happened on that planet, nobody except him. Who could he tell about the general that had sold him and the rest of the corps out? Who would believe him? Hell, they somehow believed that he had killed 500 fellow soldiers — he was good, but not that good — not that Riddick really minded that rumor. It added to the fear he inspired in others, a good thing, a powerful thing.
"Oh yeah, while you were out, I took the liberty of sweeping you down with a metal detector. That was quite a collection of shivs you had on you. Six. Not bad." Johns said, smiling smugly at Riddick.
Yes, but I had seven knives coming in to this room, fuckwad. Behind his bit, Riddick smiled back up at him.
The hours passed...to a man like Riddick who had spent most of his life in prison facilities, he found the structurelessness of the day a bit disconcerting. Oh, it wasn't like the Slam had clocks on the walls, but there were all sorts of routines by which a man, even one in Psych-Level 3, could measure time: mess time, count, rec period, therapy. Here with Johns — nothing. The lights never dimmed. Johns had not slept as far as Riddick could tell. Johns didn't even leave to get food, pulled out an MRE and a chemi-heat pack and that was dinner — for him. Riddick got a half-liter of water forced down his throat to prevent dehydration. As he sat gasping for air, Johns told him not to worry, that tomorrow they would be leaving on the transport ship Hunter-Gratzner for 40 something weeks of hypersleep en-route to the Slam. Bored and still aching, Riddick drifted into sleep.
A faint tinkling, rustling sound woke him. A lifetime of imprisonment had made Riddick a light sleeper. He snapped awake, remaining motionless, observing, deliberately keeping his breath the deep, slow cadence of a soundly sleeping man. Johns sat at the table, his back to Riddick.
Growing up as he did, Riddick had seen people fix before, but what Johns was doing right now...now that was hardcore, normally done by people who had run out of veins, or by people who couldn't afford to have tracks. So...Johns was a skag-head. Perfect. He'd wait a minute or two, wait for the sleep-deprived Johns to go on a nod, then he'd strike. Riddick clenched and unclenched his muscles, waking them up, preparing for action. Johns leaned back in the chair and gradually went limp, the syringe dropping from nerveless fingers to clatter on the floor.
Riddick leapt into action, almost grateful for the bit in his mouth; it gave him something to bite down on. With a double crack, like the sound of giant knuckles popping, he dislocated his shoulders. Eyes watering from the pain, he swung his arms over his head, then flexed his muscles, squeezing his shoulders back into alignment. Panther-like he hopped to his feet, reaching into his boot to remove the knife Johns hadn't found, the one made of obsidian. Almost as silent as a ghost he crept towards Johns.
Perhaps some sixth sense, some premonition of impending doom, or perhaps the slight clink of Riddick's shackles caused Johns to look over his shoulder. Riddick pounced.
The fight was as brutal as it was desperate. Riddick shackled and cuffed, armed with a weapon straight out of the stone age. Johns, reflexes dulled by morphine, none the less managed to deflect the blow and send Riddick sprawling. Out came the baton. Riddick fought back as hard as he could, but in the end Johns gained the upper hand. He flailed away with his baton.
Phasing in and out of consciousness, Riddick had a dim awareness of being dragged to and flung across the table. Within seconds Johns attached a cable between Riddick's hands and feet, rendering him unable to raise his hands from his sides. Then Johns rolled him face down on the table. A wave of vertigo washed over Riddick and he almost vomited. Desperately he fought to hold down the contents of his stomach and clear his head of the fog that shrouded his thoughts. He felt Johns' hands fumbling with the waist of his pants, but before he could figure out what that meant, his pants were around his ankles, and his feet were kicked as far apart as his leg irons would allow.
"You are one stupid fuck, Riddick," Johns snarled low and breathy in his ear, "Y'see, every now and again, I come across one of you guys who just can't figure out which one of us is in charge here. This usually shuts them right up." Riddick could feel a probing at his anus. This hadn't happened to him since he got his teen age growth spurt 10 years ago.
The first stabbing pain caused Riddick to bite down hard on the bit. Damned if he would give Johns the satisfaction of knowing the pain he caused. Each thrust of Johns' hips slammed Riddick's wrists up against the table's edge. It felt like someone was hacking his hands off. He resigned himself to the pain, panting through it, willing Johns' shouts of "Who's the bitch now?!" into background noise. He began to plot his next escape attempt. He had suffered worse during the Walking War. He had suffered worse growing up in the streets.
Within a few minutes Johns climaxed, ceasing his thrusting and panting. With a grunt, he yanked himself out. Riddick felt a trail of sticky warmth ooze its way down his legs.
He would survive.
He always did.
Last Updated: 3/8/2004