Title: Roommate Exchange
Fandom: Harry Potter, Riddick
A/N: Okay, so now that I have sort-of figured out what I want to do with this fic… Here's a new chapter.
"Damn?" The man, known solely as the Master of Death, quirked a brow and smirked as he repeated Riddick's single word statement. Striding closer to the killer, chuckling as he swerved around furniture, silver eyes trained on his every movement, the green-eyed man settled himself on a simple sofa before teasing, "Is that all you have to say? A man of your drives and you make no movement?" He sighed, sounding put-upon. "I suppose I'll have to go elsewhere for fun."
"Naw, beautiful," Riddick frowned. "You're not going anywhere."
A musical laugh issued from the mystery man. The green luminance from his eyes flickered as he blinked before he locked gaze with Riddick. A sexy hum slipped from his lips before a smirk lit his features. "And what, pray-tell, makes you think you have that power?"
Riddick smirked back. "Bold words from an unarmed man." A preternatural leap forward threw Riddick into striking range, sweeping swiftly in for a killing blow to the heart. All the dagger tagged, however, was cushioned furnishings.
A jeering laugh sounded from behind him. Growling, Riddick turned, this time sweeping up for a blow to the neck. Missed again. Little fucker moves fast! The brushing of heated digits across his hip forced Riddick into an unnatural twist, turning, hoping, to knock the spritely being bodily back onto the couch. No such luck. Huffing, he pounded his fist against the back of the mutilated seat. "Look," he sneered wearily. "I'm tired. Could we play this game another time?"
He started slightly as those verdant eyes appeared inches before his own. "Okay," was the cheery response.
Riddick gasped, jerking upright in bed. The sound of a booming knock issued from other parts of the spartanly opulent room. When? He could not recall moving from the living area into the bedroom. The unnerving situation certainly was decidedly un-helped by the lack of armor on his person. The dagger, blessedly, remained clenched in his hand. Groaning and disoriented, Riddick slid upright, carefully stretching out his senses, not sure if he wanted the pest from before to be there or not.
Silence and stale ship air were all he could discern separate from the incessant knock from his front door. Growling and uncaring of his half-nude state, Riddick prowled through his chambers to the hall-side doors. Absently, he noted that the furniture showed no indication of damage. Did he imagine last night? Feeling the pulsing beginnings of a headache, Riddick dismissed his finely tuned instincts for a more suited moment. Preferably after silencing the foolish one at the door. Stalking swiftly through the final feet to the door, Riddick could hardly restrain the feral grin that crept across his face in appreciation of the well cared for locks and their smooth inner workings.
The door was still swinging open when the poor puddle of piss that had graced Riddick with the booming pounding of the door was on his knees, dagger at his throat, Riddick's own knee pressing his skull into the door jamb. Riddick almost mewled in disappointment when the only response from his victim was an unsatisfying breathy gasp and not a hint of fear in his speech. "Your breakfast awaits, Lord Marshal, if you so desire." These Necros were dull. No properly respectful cowering.
With a rumbling growl, Riddick shoved the subservient one into the hall. "In a minute," he grumbled gruffly, slamming the door closed.
Days melted into weeks, on into fortnights, and months passed before Riddick's phantom roommate showed again. The lack of appearance didn't mean Riddick or the ghost remained idle. They just didn't meet face-to-face.
The first morning, Riddick asked the commanders about the Master of Death. Blank looks were all he received. Vaako, the stealthy bastard, inquired as to who such a being was. The subtle inquiry had him quickly crafting a legend about Death being a man who carried others into the after with the Master being the one who could order Death's hand, and looks of zealous interest followed. Riddick thanked the idiocy that was the devoutly religious and vowed never to place himself in such an unsteady position again. Any further questions would be one-on-one, and behind closed doors.
He asked the newly appointed Purifier, and a number of the smarter high ranking individuals, using physical descriptors instead of the possibly fabricated title but no luck. His roommate, for all that he could find, didn't exist. No one else had ever seen him, heard of him, or even held the mildest idea of who he could possibly be. Riddick might have even accepted it as a weary mind playing tricks, but the random movement of items in his quarters and the slightest whiff of that wooded spring scent lingered in varying degrees of intensity.
It was during one of his explorations of the ship's many hidden and not-so-traveled spaces that Riddick spied his spectral pest again, but not exactly the same as before.
One of the lesser known facts about the Necromongers was the exact method in which the young joined their ranks. Between the ages of five and fifteen, a half-dose of their hallucinogen solution was administered and if the young charge survived, education would be sanctioned for their day-to-day until the end of their fifteenth year, at which point a full conversion was mandated. The usual subjects were covered: logic; combat; math; science; language; and, as with most religion-based communities, religion. But in the Necromonger religion, a book was not a major prop. Holographic representations of battles fought, recounts of generals' major feats, and orally presented doctrine was the weekly fare.
It was at one of these services for the young that Riddick met up with his puckish poltergeist. In all honesty, Riddick almost dismissed the encounter in its entirety. If not for the pure luminous nature of the specter's eyes, he would have. A short procession of half a dozen children had passed him in the corridor, neatly ordered, hands clasped tightly behind their backs.
Well, neatly, except for the last one. The last one, shorter in stature and definitely one of the youngest, darted sideways to swipe his side against Riddick's shin and shimmied sideways toward the door. Whipping about, fully intent on frightening the urchin with a solid scare, Riddick froze as those laughing green orbs pierced the darkened interior of the ship corridors. Could it-? Unwilling to shake away the feeling of familiarity, he followed the urchin into the teaching chamber.
The short storm was settled into seats already when Riddick crossed the chamber threshold. "Lord Marshal?" The education matron chimed out from the dais to the side of the room, her tone that damned Necro level not-startled-but-concerned reverential tripe that Riddick hated to hear. The woman was the wife of one of the training knights, or most likely anyway, Riddick couldn't be bothered with remembering the specifics. The women who worked were those connected to men of lesser importance. None of his generals' wives worked, except as rumor mongers and harlots trying to position themselves further up the line. Not a day passed when one of them didn't try to persuade him into offing their weak attachments and take them as his own. Riddick thanked whatever deity the universe offered that Dame Vaako never offered herself in such a manner.
"Milord?" Right, off target again. Riddick's concentration constantly strayed these days. He gave his customary grunt of dismissal as he prowled the edges of the glorified classroom. A phalanx of conversion techs swarmed the auditorium, tearing off in trios at each of the occupied seats, adjusting injector feeds just so in the egg shaped stalls. It had disturbed him greatly the first time he witnessed a session, seeing the children wrapped placidly in place, needles piercing their necks. His fury had forced him to vacate at that time. One of the educators later explained, after he had demolished a private physical training chamber. The children were conditioned to accept the feeds at an early age to facilitate the conversion later. As young, they were fed nutrients and enhancers to ensure physical perfection as much as possible without altering the purity of the original form. Necros weren't up with the idea of genetic tampering. The idea left Riddick in laughing hysterics whenever he attempted to compile all the conflicting Necromonger ideologies.
The swarm filed out, and the lesson started. Carefully ensuring that he would not be suspected of anything untoward or unbecoming, Riddick adopted his vulturine stance, eyes roving the urchins' faces, surveying them all in wont of his unintended roommate. There! Front row, nearest the entrance, sat the imp. Those malachite orbs peered back at him, mocking him from afar.
For some inexplicable reason, Riddick took no offence for the challenge offered him from his demonic shadow. Riddick was no moth, and he was bound and determined to steer clear of this taunting flame.
A gleaming smirk overshadowed the radiant eyes for a second, causing Riddick to blink. In that moment, the specter vanished from his seat. Riddick's eyes darted across the room, seeking out the mischief maker. No sign, not even a whisper of a movement.