Title: Oblivion is Now

Author: Alamo Girl

Rating: Hard PG-13…will be R eventually

Pairings: Riddick / OC

Disclaimer: I don’t own any of the characters from Pitch Black/Chronicles of Riddick. I also don’t own any of the names or characters of other TV shows or movies referred to in this story.

A/N Well, I saw ‘Chronicles of Riddick’, and was bitten by a rabid plot-bunny (and I do mean RABID). I simply had to start on this fic, before the idea escaped into the ether. This is my first PB/COR fic, so be gentle. I’ve been reading some Riddick stories, getting a feel for the fandom and some ideas. I hope I do okay, the ideas I have are gonna prove hard to translate into a story. Life would be easier if I was a director, then I could just show you what I’m talking about on screen…but alas…I am but a humble working stiff…like the rest of us.

Set Up: This is set a couple of years after COR. Even though I loved Kyra, and the idea that she could affect Riddick in her own way, she is still dead. Don’t worry; Riddick still mourns her loss (as she was the closest thing to family he had left yes I’m going for “he still saw the 12 year old Jack in her…the big brother/father figure”. Even though I’m quite aware there was something else going on between them when they looked at each other ) Riddick is still the reluctant Lord Marshal. And I’m gonna jump on the bandwagon of having my OC be a woman from present time, thrown into the future and into Riddick Universe. But she is going to be a “key”…something very important to Riddick’s future and her own. Let’s see if I can put a different spin on past-to-future/Riddick-verse plot that I have read is some great Riddick fics. Character thoughts will be in italics, and some passages and chapters will switch to different POVs.

Chapter 1-- Present Time

Washington DC is cold in December. Very cold, in fact. Especially if one is used to moderate temperatures that vacillate from bitter-damp cold—to tee-shirt and shorts (which can be very depressing for Christmas.) If one is from a state that has as many different weather zones as the entire United States combined, one can be shocked by the gentle changing of seasons that the East Coast sometimes enjoys.

Dallas pulled her coat tight around herself as she exited the taxi and hurried into the Hoover FBI building.

“This weather sucks, big time,” she thought.

But it was at least December-like. Back home, she’d be wearing short-sleeves and getting slapped in the face with the wet-rag humidity that was the norm. She still hadn’t gotten used to the big-city feel of DC—the constant roar of cars, sirens, and hoards of people still made her uneasy. She was from a small city after all, and loved the ability to get away to the quite serenity of the country.

“Morning Dallas! You want your usual caffeine fix babe?” Roger was one of her few co-workers—being an Archivist in the FBI meant you stayed down in the dungeon of the lower floors, and rarely worked with more than a few fellow historians. Roger had a ready smile, and was the only one Dallas allowed to call her ‘babe’. He was the one who gave her the nickname everyone now uses. In fact, not many actually knew her real name—Rebecca—and that was fine with her.

“Yeah, thanks Roge, I nearly froze my ass off comin’ in,” she said in her usual southern accent, as she hung up her coat. She was from Texas—East Texas actually, and that combined with her southern drawl earned her the name Dallas. Roger had said it rolled off the tongue better when she informed him she was from nowhere near Dallas. Other nicknames such as “Lone Star” and “Cowgirl” were tried out by a couple of the other guys she worked with—but she let them know in a hurry that those names would not be answered to. One unfortunate soul whispered “ Hey Tex-ass” with a leer and a grab-ass attempt as she passed by, and Dallas politely reminded him (with her knee to his groin) that she didn’t put up with that shit. Being raised by her father made Dallas one tough cookie.

She gazed at a picture that stayed on her desk—one that showed a beaming little girl with curly honey-brown pig-tails and an apple cheeked grin sitting on a chestnut horse; her father sitting behind her, head tilted forward in laughter. That picture was taken before her mother was taken from them forever—cancer. Her father hadn’t taken it well, he never seemed to smile after that and that does things to a little girl. Daddy had taken it upon himself to teach Dallas the side of life that wasn’t roses and sunshine—although what life really is. He’d been a police officer in their small city in Texas, and taught Dallas from early on how to defend herself, how not to trust most people, and how to be observant. Then, Daddy left her life—getting his throat cut by an unknown assailant in a home invasion case—they never got the guy. That was two years ago, and the empty ache still hung in Dallas’ gut.

‘So here I am in DC. Using my degree at the FBI, and working with the oddest conglomeration of misfits and bookworms the Government ever put in one place.’

“Here’s your Coke babe. Ya know, I really do think you should come over tonight. I finally got the fifth season of Star Trek: Next Generation on DVD!” Roger beamed as he leaned on Dallas’ desk.

“Naw, that’s OK Roge. Your just gonna have to get ‘beamed up’ with out me,” she smiled. Roger was the biggest Trekky she knew. Dallas’ own movie collection could rival any huge video store, in number as well as variety. And truth be told, she was a big Sci-Fi freak…of course she’d never admit that to anyone down there in the Dungeon, as they called it. Roger had even compared her to one of the Trek characters.

“She can read your mind, I swear it,” he’d said to Jim—who was the resident Fox Mulder, conspiracy theorist and alien hunter. “She’s an incredible listener. She just stays so quite and when she looks at you, I don’t know, its like…like she’s feeling your thoughts. Very Betazoid.”

“Some brains are just easy to gain access to,” Jim had replied, receiving a glare from Roger. “Besides, if she really could read minds, the CIA or NSA would have her locked away somewhere…cracking into Bin Ladin’s mind”

Jim was a rare bird all right, but Dallas enjoyed listening to them. And she was a good listener, picking up little nuances in people’s behavior, body language and speech that would put the best FBI profiler to shame. A lot of this she’d learned from her grandfather, whose ranch she stayed at a lot when she was younger—while her dad dealt with his demons. Her grandfather had always said Dallas was special.

“That little girl, there’s just something different about her. She sees things in people…stuff no body else can see. And she senses things, before they happen.” He’d called her his guardian angel…that God had blessed her in ways she’d come to realize later in life. Dallas didn’t see it that way, and her oddities had made her a loner most of her life.

I have a life. I’ve had my share of boyfriends in my29 years.

It’s not like I sit at home on my ass watching movies all the time.

She shook her head as she walked past Jim and Roger discussing who was the best captain of the Enterprise. She walked into the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. She’d never thought of her self as special. Average, was the word that came to mind. She wasn’t strikingly beautiful, but she had the girl-next-door prettiness that made her very approachable and easy going. She lifted weights and jogged regularly—keeping an athletic shape, though she was far from svelte.

I’ve always wanted to be svelte…cut up with that flat stomach all the heroines have in the movies. Not like I have a personal trainer or anything. Hell, I wish I just had the cooks they have, so maybe I wouldn’t eat so much bullshit food.

Her hair was naturally curly and the color of browned honey with highlights of spun gold. It hung just below her shoulders, which were broad—from the weight lifting, yet only accent her curves on her five foot four frame. Her body held the muscle attained by the casual weight lifter, making her curvy and rounded in all the right places—with shapely thighs and arms but not near as defined as she’d like. One man had told her at a bar that she was ‘Stacked like the Library of Congress’—referring to her breast size. Dallas had never thought they stood out that much.

They’re only Cs for Christ’s sake! I ain’t exactly contending with Dolly Parton ya know!

They did make her a little self-conscious though. The one thing that did stand out about her was her expressive eyes. She’d always had a hard time hiding her emotions, for her eyes were large and rimmed with thick, long lashes. They were an interesting mix of dark green and hazel brown. People had told her they glowed at certain times—usually when she was sensing something, or after extreme emotion overtook her.

Yep. Average. That’s Dallas. Content to stay average, in the background and observe everyone else do the exciting stuff until I eventually fade into oblivion.

Cheery thought.

Shit woman, you’re sad sometimes.

Lighting was flashing though the skies as if trying to slice the heavens into a million pieces. Dallas was driving home on the same dark, gloomy road that she always took to get to her apartment outside of DC city limits. She’d just finished her evening work out with the small group of muscle-head jocks she knew from the gym. They were nice enough to her, probably somewhere along the line of her being just one of the buddies. Dallas could definitely hold her own with a bunch of guys—being easy to talk to seemed to put men at ease around her, until she did something weird. Like telling them something about themselves she’d have no way in hell of knowing. Not exactly a conversation-warmer.

“Damn! We got snow flyin’, thunder AND lighting. Since when to all three happen this early in the winter?” she muttered to herself as she tried to keep her car on the road. It was becoming increasingly hard to see, and Dallas had to lean in to her steering wheel to keep all four tires from sliding on the curves. The lightning intensified as she drove through a wooded area, striking a tree branch near her car.

“Shit! This is straight out of Sleepy Hollow!”

Dallas manhandled the wheel as a tree crashed just to the right of her front fender. The car fishtailed in the ice and raining snow, and a really cold sinking feeling began to creep up Dallas’ neck like icy fingers.

This is not right.

Something is really…really wrong here.

The air was humming with something Dallas couldn’t put her finger on. She could feel her heart thudding in her chest—sweat began to bead on her brow and upper lip. She was nearing the bridge that crossed the small creek just a few miles from her apartment. Dallas’ stomach tied into furious knots as she entered the bridge. She’s never felt this fear before—this foreboding sensation that the world wasn’t in sync anymore.

Just then, all sight was gone. All sound was gone—as if someone just hit ‘stop’. If Dallas screamed, she wouldn’t have known it as a colossal bolt of blue-white lightning struck her car, which was careening toward the rail of the bridge.

There was nothing. Silence.

I’m dead.

I know it. I’ve got to be dead. I’m probably the only person in a hundred years to get hit—in her car mind you—by a fucking lightning bolt.

Oh…Lord! Sorry for the curse word…please…please…don’t send me to Hell for it!

I really do want to go to Heaven.

But why does Heaven have such hard cold floors? They feel like metal…metal grating.

Dallas struggled to open her eyes. First try didn’t work, but some pretty awful smells were starting to leak in. And sound…pipes, steam…something hummed through the floor into her chest. An engine? Yeah, it definitely felt like some sort of engine or electrical source.

Her eyes finally began to focus…and she found herself sprawled on a metal corridor. Dallas raised her head.

“Ow. Pain… not good. Moving…not good…” she muttered as she forced her aching joints into cooperation. She sat up and looked around; her head pounding like the bass at an AC/DC concert. All around her, the floor, the walls even her clothes were singed. She looked behind her and saw straight out—into the bowels of some ungodly enormous…what?

Plant? Some kind of nuclear plant?

What else could have all this piping and this…DROP OFF!

Dallas flew backwards a few feet from the doorway. The drop off had to have been a hundred or so stories, but she wasn’t about to look again to make sure. She skittered backwards until she hit a far wall. She heard voices…male voices coming nearer… and they sounded pissed. Dallas stumbled to her feet and hobbled off in the opposite direction.

Then she found herself at another doorway. She heard people—LOTS of people—talking and moving about. She froze, sliding up behind the doorframe. When she peeked around the corner, she was gazing out over a mezzanine—which overlooked a huge hall. There must have been dozens and dozens of people on the lower level, and Dallas shrunk back behind the frame.

Where the fuck am I?

Is that armor I heard chinking down there. Are these guys actually wearing metal armor? Common Dallas, you’re a Historian… for the love of…you know what armor would sound like.

Not that you’ve ever seen anyone in it though.

She glanced down at her clothes. Her favorite v-necked charcoal sweater and blue jeans were rent nearly to shreds. She was now showing a lot more cleavage—her bra showing in some places and the V in her V-neck had been torn down a few more inches. Her jeans looked like something an ‘80s punk-rock back might have liked—holes torn in the knees, thighs and she thought she felt a breeze on the bottom of a butt-cheek.

Oh Nice. Really freakin’ GREAT!

This was my favorite out fit!

Her hands suddenly flew to her neck—feeling for the small silver cross she never took off. Her father had given it to her as a child; it was all she had left from that life. Thankfully it was still in its place on her neck. Dallas finally screwed up enough courage to jump out on the mezzanine behind one of the pillars. She looked down into the hall.

It was straight out of one of her favorite Sci-Fi shows. The statuary was ornate—depicting men in various forms of agonizing torture. It was beautiful, and yet terrifying at the same time. She glanced around, looking for the edge of the set stage. There just had to be some crewmembers off stage…this had to be a movie set. It had to be.

I’m dreaming.

This is one of those dreams where I get to be a costar to one of those hot leading actors I like.

We are on some set of some space ship I bet.

Hang on…why is there no back-stage?

O-o-kaay. Getting fairly disturbed here.

Wake up Dallas… it’s time to wake up sweetie!

A booming voice drew her attention back to the hall below. Dallas found herself staring in utter disbelief at scores of men dressed in silver-grey armor. She couldn’t place the time period, but there was some resemblance to Roman centurion battle armaments. They held an array of weapons—staffs, swords, daggers—and some pretty wicked guns. They were all gathered around something at the front of the great hall. A man was being led, in glowing manacles, to the front of the steps. He was struggling, but one of the guards aimed a small weapon at him and fired a blue electric-like beam into his chest. It seemed to stun him

“Beam me up, Scotty,” Dallas breathed, astounded. She was shuttering, realizing she probably wasn’t dreaming.

“Here is the trouble-maker my Lord Marshal,” announce a very tall soldier with a weird black mow-hawk hair cut that ended in braids. “He has admitted being the one who made the attempt on your life. Shall I,” he paused, taking a huge scythe from someone, “pass judgment on him sir?” The prisoner flinched and tried to back away, as Mow-hawk guy sneered.

Dallas gulped her stomach back down; she didn’t think she could take watching a be-heading.

“No.” The voice was low, rumbling with menace.

I know that voice! Where do I know that voice?

She just then noticed the thrown, and the figure on it. He slouched in the chair, as if this whole affair was terribly boring. Yet his voice made her hair on her neck stand on end. She gazed at the leader, taking in his latte colored skin, baldhead and goggled eyes. He wore a black sleeveless shirt under a long sleeveless coat that reached his combat boots. The muscles in his biceps and forearm were beautiful—perfectly sculpted and gleaming as if oiled. He was enormous… and he seemed to know it. His jaw was clenched, and he moved slowly off the thrown and down the steps with all the grace of a jungle cat. Dallas was frozen.

Oh. My. God.

I KNOW that guy!

He’s from that movie…the one with the murderer helping those people off that dark planet with the scary-as-hell flying creatures.

What was the name of the movie? Oh wait… I saw the sequel too! He became leader of that race of people who enslaved worlds.

Oh shit girl…think! Riddick? That’s his name!

Wait…what am I saying?

Dallas placed a trembling hand over her mouth. She watched the Lord Marshal come to face the prisoner.

What the hell am I saying?

I’m in HIS world…in-in Riddick’s world?

Okay, You have officially gone dumb-fuck crazy! You’ve LOST it!

“Untie him.” Riddick said as he shrugged out of his coat. His shoulders seemed to swell a little more.

“My Lord, he tried to kill you… you can’t”

“My ship, my rules,” Riddick said, his tone don’t-give-me-shit serious, “if this guy wants to try, he can try.” The crowd thinned back, and the prisoner was untied and given a dagger. He crouched into a fighting stance—trying to keep his face steady—the tremble in the knife gave him away.

A slow smile crept over Riddick’s face as he pulled his goggles off with one hand, and produced a curved shiv in the other.

“He does not know who he’s fuckin’ with,’ he almost purred.

The Lord Marshal leapt into the air, much too high for any man, and sent the prisoner flying ten feet back. Dallas’ breath caught in her throat as she watched the men battle. Riddick’s movements were fluid—almost too fast to see, and horrifyingly elegant. He moved as if he didn’t have to think, the blade was a part of him.

Blood began to color the floor as Riddick’s knife blows found their marks. The prisoner didn’t stand a chance. He finally fell to his knees, gasping in garbled choking breaths. Dallas was shaking almost violently as she watched Riddick spin smoothly, throwing his arm out blindingly, and severing the prisoner’s head all in one graceful motion. Dallas tried to stifle a scream, but some sound, however miniscule, must have leaked out.

Riddick’s head snapped up, straight to her. If there was any doubt about who he was in Dallas’ mind, it evaporated when she locked eyes with him. Silvery orbs looked back at her, with something akin to surprise.

No one. No one but him… would have THOSE eyes!

Dallas couldn’t move, even as she heard someone bellow “Get Her!”

“Oh SHIT!”

Then everything suddenly went black.

TBC…

Please Read and Review. Let me know how I’m doing. I’ll hopefully get to update soon, but I’m right in the middle of finishing another fic right now. Oh I hope I get Riddick right!