Disclaimer: None of the characters belong to me. No copyright infringement is intended.

WARNING: This is a NOT NICE story, marked Mature for sexual content and violence. If you don't like smut, or reading about sex or violence or violent sex or sexual violence, PLEASE DON'T READ THIS. It's not for the squeamish or the prudish.

Background: This was written after a discussion among friends in which it was suggested that a lot of the Pitch Black/Riddick fanfic is written in such a way as to make Riddick out to be a nice guy at heart. A killer with a hert of gold. One friend said, "Either he's a dangerous, violent sociopath and everyone is right to be afraid of him, or he's just a poser." No one agreed over which he was, but I came away with a challenge: to write the smutty sequel to Chronicles of Riddick and not to wimp out. My assignment was to keep him as a man who is so dangerous, evil, and dark that the Helions wanted, needed, him to fight the Necromongers. I was charged to keep him a "dangerous, violent sociopath." He is. The friend who originally gave me the challenge called the end product "appalling but fascinating." Consider yourself warned.

Soundtrack: I recommend Rammstein--that's what I wrote it to.

If you enjoy this, please review and let me know what you liked.


I bring her back from the Underverse. Pull her soul raw and gasping across the Threshhold, and carry her like a white hot seed inside me until I think it's going to consume me. To make it happen, I tear at the world, pollute and bring havoc. The Necromongers put her back into flesh. Her own skin, but new. They don't have a choice. They're more afraid of me than they are of their god. They see me as their annihilating savior, but it's only for her. Their destruction, their Underverse, their god, their souls, so much shit and nothing.

I don't see her reborn, even though I've carried her back. Nothing a man would want to see done to the woman he loves, they say. Is that what she is? The woman I love? Or just the woman I'm willing to destroy the world to get back? Maybe it's the same thing. I believe when I hear her screams coming from the darkest place I've ever gone. Her screams running up from deep chambers, into the throne room, like wolves sated on blood but still hungry for death.

I'm a patient man. I run planets and galaxies through my hourglass waiting for her. When they bring her to me, she's new and awkward in her body, moving stilted between two attendants, like a princess out of some goddamned fairy tale, woken after a thousand-year sleep. Her skin is like a baby's, never touched by the sun, unmarked, all the scars undone. She's alabaster statuary, her hair coiled like sunning snakes on her head. Her attendants step back, leave her swaying in front of me, and the court gathers around to see, to witness the Lord Marshal's approval.

Only when I get close, so close I can smell her, do I see the life in her eyes. It's brutal. Her flesh may be new, but her eyes are full of ghosts—mine, hers, every ghost, every betrayal. Like a shine job on the soul. She can see me, the way no one else ever has. She can see into me. And it's like some part of me has gone missing and she has it. Whatever part of me she has, though, she's mine now.

Made for me. Dead for me. Reborn for me.

I rape her there on the floor of the throne room to an audience of hundreds. Tearing at that ridiculous dress constricting her. Clutching, clawing, my mouth on hers, ravaging. Trying to consume all of her, the haunting ghosts in her eyes, the new flesh of her throat and breasts, her her her. Devour her. To take her into me and keep her there.

When it's done, I'm cock-deep in the blood between her thighs, and fat, hot tears tumble out of the corners of her eyes faster than I can catch them. Her eyes aren't full of ghosts anymore and I'm finally the monster they always said I was.

"Sorry, kid," I say. She didn't even fight me.

I'm not sorry I did it. I'm sorry I didn't do it sooner. That I didn't do it on Crematoria. Didn't do it on T2, when she smelled of the sweet taint of puberty and menstrual blood. Should have fucked her then and fed her to the monsters, exorcised whatever hold she has on me now.

Standing over us, looking at what I've done, Vaako says, "She is the Lord Marshal's to do with as he pleases."

I'm going to kill him slowly.

"Keep her away from me," he said, when they carried her out of the throne room, but he didn't mean forever. He came for her again. Again. Again. Again.

Through repetition, it got less painful, the act itself, him forcing his way into her. After that, he seemed to pride himself on finding ways to augment the pain, to make up for the familiarity of that particular stabbing sensation. He bit her, pinched her, slapped her, bruised her to the bone with his bare hands, choked her, found new and ugly ways to violate her, used his shiv to cut her open and drink her blood. Jack wondered if he wanted to kill her and couldn't bring himself to do it. Or if he just wanted it to last longer. Worse, she wanted him to finish her, return her to the sterile, emptiness of the Underverse, but he never did.

Instead, every time, he disentangled himself from her, pulled up his pants—he never bothered to take them off, or his shirt or his boots—and left. At the door to her room, her prison, he always said the same thing to her attendants: "Get the doctor."

Each time the doctor came and did whatever needed to be done. A week later, there would be no sign. No proof. Nothing to remind her in daylight. He stayed away for weeks after each visit, to let her heal or to save up his fury. From her two dead-eyed attendants, Jack learned the names of the worlds being Converted. The worlds he was destroying. The Lord Marshal, they called him, in a little whisper of awe. She never called him that. Never spoke about him at all. Never asked where he was. She got stronger, slowly recovering the things the Underverse had stripped from her. Remembering things. Imam. Monsters. Him. He'd kept what he killed and that included her.

The memories came in dreams, and she had long since lost any sense of day and night. The lights were brighter in the day, she supposed, and at night they only allowed her a small yellow bulb that cast a circle against darkness. They only gave it to her because the doctor was worried that she didn't sleep. Couldn't sleep in the dark. Always, when she woke in the dark, something was there. A monster waiting. A woman she'd been made to call "Mommy." Some quick-slithering, flapping, sharp-toothed hungry thing. Or him.

Riddick. She'd finally remembered who he was.

The next time she woke up in the black, she smelled him. He had turned off her light, put her in darkness. Sitting up in bed, she said, "Riddick," testing it in her dry mouth and gagging over it. That was what had allowed him to drag her back into life. The way her dead heart leapt at his name.

"Jack. I was starting to think you'd forgotten my name," he said, and then she remembered the grin. Handsome. She had thought he was handsome. How long ago was that? How long had it been since she looked at him and thought he was handsome?

"My name isn't Jack. It's—." She hesitated. What was it? "My name is Kyra."

"I don't think it is. When I stood at the Threshold and called you, you answered to Jack."

"You—you brought me back. I was in the empty place and you made me come back."

"Say my name again," he said. It sounded like a question instead of an order.

"No." It had betrayed her once already.

The bed shifted under his weight as he stretched out beside her. One of his heavy boots scraped against her bare ankle and she jerked in surprise. She tried to move away from him, but he caught her wrist and pulled her against him, his hand twisting a burning stripe on her skin.

"Put the light on," she said.

"Since when do you tell me what to do?" His other hand explored the neck of her nightgown, then abruptly gathered a fistful of fabric and tore it open.

"Please," she said.

"Please what? Say my name."

She didn't want to say it, but she wanted the light. Needed the light, that little glowing circle to keep back the monsters. Wanted it so badly that she forced the word past the knot in her throat. "Please, Riddick, the light."

"Let there be light," he said, laughing low in his throat. He rolled away from her and the lamp cast back the black. He stood over her, his hand on his belt.

She looked at him closely, filling in the gaps in her memories. The shape of his shoulders, the way his hands moved, that darkling spark in his eyes. He reached for the torn edge of her nightgown and with one stroke, ripped it the rest of the way. The other hand drew his belt out slowly. Holding it by the buckle, he shook it out.

"Who's in charge here?" he said in a sinister voice.

When he put the first stripe on her with the belt, she made a small hiccupping noise but didn't try to get away. She was quiet after that, took it all in silence, her head turned so that she could look at the pool of light she'd begged for. There were moments he wasn't sure she knew he was there, fucking her. When he finished, he pulled his pants up and put his belt on. He stood over her and considered the shape of her—small on that bed—and the amount of blood on the sheets. Nothing serious; she didn't even need the doctor tonight.

"Why did you bring me back?" she said.

"I wasn't done with you."

"You could have just raped my corpse," she said. "Saved us both a lot of trouble."

She lay on her side, facing the light, but her face was covered. Leaning over her, he smoothed back her sweat-matted hair, looked at her closely. Her eyes were empty, gazing far away, but she was actually smiling. She'd made a joke. As fast as it came, the smile left.

"When will you be done with me?"

"Never," he said.

He didn't know if it was true, if that gnawing thing in him might not eventually burn out, but he liked how scared she looked when he said it. Made his cock hard again when her blood on him wasn't even dry. He stroked her bare ass, welted and bruised, and fingered the cut under her right shoulder blade, deeper than he'd thought. Maybe the doctor after all.

"When you're done destroying the world? Will you be done with me then?" Was that another joke?

"Is that why you're looking forward to the end of the world?" he said.

"I didn't know I was. I've forgotten some things, but I remember I died trying to help you save the world. Wasn't that what I died for? Didn't I die to help you kill the Lord Marshal? Not to make you the Lord Marshal."

"Was that it? I thought you died because you loved me."

"Something like that would kill a person," she said and met his gaze. The thing was there again, in her eyes. The part of him that she had. Sometimes he liked seeing it in her eyes, but most of the time he wanted to get it back. That was when the urge to hurt her was strongest.

She didn't flinch when he sat back down on the bed, and she kept her eyes on him as he ran his rough hands in slow circles over her breasts. Her nipples rose, went hard and he caught them between his fingers, squeezed. He took one into his mouth, rolled it under his tongue, stroking it and then sucking. Going to the other one, he did the same, and for several moments he moved back and forth between them. He indulged in her flesh, even as he considered her as a problem. Had he made a mistake in bringing her back? That was easy to fix.

If only the rich smell of fear and halting arousal weren't so good. She was getting turned on and that was new. Of course, he hadn't exactly made any effort in that arena.

He shifted on the bed, opening her legs, and lowered himself to taste her cunt. It was good, salty-sweet, with a tang of blood and semen, and something mysterious that was all her. He loved the way her thighs went tight as he eased his tongue against her. She didn't like it, didn't want to enjoy it, but when he glanced up, her eyes had gone hazy with the tease of pleasure. She was still looking at him. Into him.

When he pushed into her again, she winced and turned her head away in embarrassment. Ashamed of her own pain, or her pleasure? No, she was ashamed because she knew him. He wasn't just some stranger doing this to her, like the slavers who raped her. She knew him. That was a new excitement and for a moment it supplanted all the usual ones. The beast in him wanted to go fast, to consume her. It always did, but the new excitement held him in check, made him go slowly, gently, to see how she reacted.

An hour before, he might have managed to give her real pleasure, but at that point he'd already hurt her too much. Left her raw and aching. Still, as he worked into her, she got wetter and restless. Her hands stopped lying dead on the sheets beside her; one twisted into the fabric and the other came to rest on his shoulder. Did she intend it as a caress? She never touched him unless he made her.

Her breath shifted with his, got faster until she was panting out of her mouth. When he brought his lips to hers, it was a real kiss, an exchange instead of an assault. Her tongue against his, slippery and tasting him. Oh, he bit her a little, he couldn't help himself, but not too hard, and he kept the beast in check. There was a way she moved her hips, a lift of invitation followed by a sudden retreat, that left him straining at the bit. She was in pain, but she liked it. After that, he went at her two ways. For every thrust of pain, too hard and deep, where he knew she was hurting, a thrust of pleasure, slow and smooth to scratch her itch.

At the end, though, when darkness descended on him, there was no two ways. It was all pain, pain, pain, until she made a wounded sound in her throat that sent him over the edge. Usually, that was how he got the missing bit of himself back. After he'd finished using her, abusing her, he was free and eager to leave. It was stupid and superstitious, but the moment when the ghosts left her eyes, he had his soul back and he needed to leave while he still had it.

That night it felt different. He lay back beside her, sated for the moment, delighted with her, how she had found something to want. Instead of lying quiet beside him, she sat up and looked down into his eyes. She was all there, no frosty distance, no thousand yard stare. It was Jack looking down at him, looking into him and she was still holding part of him.

"You're right. I died because I loved you," she said. "I wanted to save you, to help you save the world, because I loved you. Why did you bring me back? To teach me to hate you? Could you not stand knowing anyone loved you enough to die for you?"

"I told you, I'm not done with you," he growled. Something else new grabbed at his guts and that was one new thing too many. "You think I'm trying to teach you how to hate me?"

"Am I supposed to learn anything else watching you destroy the world?"

After that, things got ugly, but when it was over, he had his soul back. She was a whimpering, wounded animal in his arms, a cruelty that was high on the list of his favorites. He was the one to hurt her and he was the one to comfort her. When he tried to go, she clung to him, pleading, "Please don't leave me."

Glancing toward the door, he found the two attendants standing in shadows.

"Get the doctor," he said.

The doctor was always close by. He knew the routine, and he rarely had anything to say as he fitted the pieces of Jack back together. That night, while he put a layer of dermal weave across her bloody ass and right into the cleft of it, where things had gotten rough, the doctor looked up with something dangerously like disapproval. They considered each other over her naked back, her head cradled in Riddick's lap.

"Let me call for the Theokrat. She needs to be Converted," the doctor said. That was as far as his disapproval went.

"She already was."

"Before. She has come back…different. You see the way her eyes are wild, holding onto life. She is erratic, unrestrained."

Like me, Riddick thought, but nobody was brave enough to suggest he needed to Convert. Unconverted, he'd gone to the Underverse and come back. He was the thing that Converted, not the other way around. The Necromongers, though, it troubled them how Jack had come back herself. That the Conversion hadn't stuck, that their god had maybe undone it himself.

"She would be more obedient, less emotional, if she were Converted."

"Not what I want," Riddick said. He didn't care if she was obedient. All he wanted was for her eyes to stay alive. If she were Converted, would that little piece of his soul be Converted? Or would the scar her soul had left on his fade?