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RICHARD B. RIDDICK,
ESCAPED CONVICT, MURDERER.
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#imagine him - before becoming a criminal social pariah as punishment for being a whistleblower -#riddick having an ounce of semi decent social skills...#n before all the questionable prison surgeries of course#it ain't me you gotta worry about. 「 self 」#also a man with an earring is too powerful and i can easily make this canon with something terrible like a cattletag-like gift from a priso#shoutout to rowan for implanting that thought into my brain (:< for evil
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“Eyes” by Karl Sisson.
#emerging from darkness.............#they kept calling it murder when i did it. 「 musing & aes 」#scopophobia tw
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Liquid barbed wire floods his wounds. In the trickle-down, the smallest lacerations are screaming. Fibers scrape through each new needle hole.
Riddick tolerates. There really isn't any other option, and he wouldn't have it any other way.
In a universe where that old bag had something to ease the pain, anything from Newt's renown toilet wine to top shelf opioids, Riddick would've refused anyway. Discomfort was the body's way of communicating: where to protect; how hard a burden; how deep an injury. This language required mindfulness to translate properly ( right now it was telling Riddick to balance just-so to keep pressure off the foreign object lodged in him; a weapon that he covets). This was not a safe space to surrender to relief and dampen the conversation between him and that pain. That space doesn't exist.
The challenge, the true one, is not withstanding Silas' work (which he does with naked disregard), but willing himself to not react to it. Red-blotted fists squeeze til they're as still as stone. It's been a while since Riddick hasn't hurt someone for hurting him. It doesn't come naturally. It takes work.
"You wanna see another set, you should get out more. My recommendation: go someplace a helluva lot darker." Conversation Silas gets, but hardly any reprieve from those eyes; save, warded off with vampiric intolerance of the light, he blinked hard and for too long. This patient would know all the grisly details of his procedure.
"Somethin tells me they don't teach you about slam surgeries in the Starfleet orientation." Riddick sounds nearly proud. He isn't.
He shifts his bare foot into the runoff puddle. Focuses on the wet and the cold. Alcohol vapors sting at his acidwash vision. Reluctantly, he closes them in earnest, if only for a moment.
His own eyes are faded under the dim yellow light, attentive to the gesture. They crawl from Riddick's ravaged forearm to his sodden shirt, to the flicker of his fingers against his broad palm. The flecks of molten gold that had once been embedded in those eyes are long since dampened, dull and tired, but the pupils dilate with renewed focus and understanding.
It could get him in trouble, leaving Riddick with a weapon, even something so small as the shard leaking red from the man's flesh. But trouble, for him, at least, is not a new thing to contend with, not a thing he always cares to avoid. It won't kill him in the long run, Silas thinks. He, too, is more valuable alive.
"I'll look for you at the sewing circle," Silas drawls, shifting his stance so that his broad silhouette blocks any view of what he's doing from the little window in the cell door. "Book club's on Thursday nights," he adds, reaching up to carefully peel aside the torn fabric of Riddick's shirt to examine the wound, his fingertips calloused but light as a feather against the damaged tissue. "Newb has to bring the toilet wine."
Aside from the grimy state of Riddick's person and their environment, the wounds are fairly clean. Straight edges, no apparent nerve damage, minimal bleeding. Momentarily, Silas retreats across the room to snatch up his bag, pulling out a bottle of distilled alcohol and a gauze pad to flush and wipe the seeping cuts and surrounding skin. It is quick and messy, Silas pouring a generous amount of alcohol over and into the gash on Riddick's forearm, washing away blood, dirt, and sweat. He wipes the area clean, then swipes a red iodine stain across the opening before he stitches it shut.
The process is slow and inelegant with the two of them hovering in the middle of the room, Riddick's bunk too far away from the light to bother sitting down. But Silas is a seasoned field surgeon, and he has steady hands, if nothing else. He expects Riddick to tolerate the pain, the tugging of the curved needle through his skin, the suture drawing the flesh back into a singular plane. There isn't really any other option.
"Why don't you tell me about those eyes?" he asks, making conversation to distract from what his hands are doing. "Can't say I've ever seen a human with headlights."
#exastrisnonnocere#i am worth twice as much alive. 「 thread 」#every now and again i love taking a lil part of my co-writer's reply and working it into my own#i mean it complimentary so i hope you don't mind
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riddick vs your muse in a heated exchange ... just as an eclipse throws black over their world
#then he says something cringe but free w his rich timber like “darkness. my old friend.”#<- man traumatized by the dark but he can see in it now#in honor of im 100% in the path of today's eclipse 8) gonna be siiiiick#a smokescreen. 「 ooc 」#timbre* lmao
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speechless. the pose. the expression. this should be a painting.
#Riddick vs Mercs After His Bounty#this is them coded fr. the bird wanting flight and freedom. the hunter serpent preventing that. sustaining itself on his capture.#but especially thinking of a few dynamics rn...#priceforeverything. 「 johns 」#anarkissm. 「 scar 」#slaughterhouseshowboat#werepyr#animal violence#they kept calling it murder when i did it. 「 musing & aes 」
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#they kept calling it murder when i did it. 「 musing & aes 」#ruben always comin through with these totally riddick snippets... i hold you up in a lil sunbeam...#im gonna keep using that tag because i was right then and im right now!!!
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don't be so loud and so correct @alphateamsfinest
#a smokescreen. 「 ooc 」#you might as well ask him to not breathe :/ being a Pain In The Ass is his only personality trait :/ /lh#tbd
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The Moon That Turns You Back, Hala Alyan
#knee deep in the “seeing yourselves as Other than human. as an animal” trenches tonight#they kept calling it murder when i did it. 「 musing & aes 」
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Dogged, Stacy Gnall
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Trick question, Riddick thinks. Criminals look like anyone that's got a finger accusing them, whose incarceration would satisfy the status quo. He doesn't answer that.
"You?" she asks him, like she might not care about his answer, looking at least as unbothered as him. Riddick doesn't buy that. You'd want to know if you were sharing a room with someone civilized or something monstrous.
He hasn't selected his cards yet. The game is of no importance. The debate that stalls him is between how to answer her: fear, or delight?
"Nothin serious," borrowing her terms, perverting them with his matter-of-fact apathy. Bordering delight. "Killed a couple of coworkers." Planet harvesters, the slaving type. He nearly smiles remembering those he managed to make dead. "Then I killed some more to get out of slam. The law didn't appreciate that much."
All his cards are laid on the table. Sorry hand. A loser, through and through.
"You cheat at cards to get thrown in here?" Expectation edges his grumbling monotone. He's divulged. Now Riddick's wondering if she'll return the favor.
"Do I give off that impression?" It's almost a joke. Almost. She wouldn't consider herself one, but it wasn't up to her anymore. Ripley's quiet rebellion had risen to protests, which did end up becoming physical. That's where they got her.
She quickly looks back down at her cards and throws down two. "There," she says, almost triumphant in her move. It was the one moment that had brought her any kind of odd joy recently. "If you're wondering," she continues the topic from earlier, "I shouldn't exactly be here. I didn't do anything serious, but you know how it is."
They'll throw just about anyone in for doing something perhaps socially unacceptable, but not exactly morally wrong. She sighs, stretching her back before she turns her attention back to him. "You?" Ellen's curious. Was this guy dangerous? Trustworthy? She guessed she'd just have to find out. She hadn't been paying attention to anyone else, focused on herself and getting out of there--if she ever would.
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015, a treehouse in the middle of the woods.
Spindly shadows grip the treestand. Branches in their near-winter bareness overhead. Not a single leaf to offer additional relief from the sun. But they have clean water, a haul of snacks (in varieties suchas dented cans and crinkling bags). Now, a place far from the ground.
"It's a grunt call."
It's a tough looking palm, waiting for the boy. Marks of the past make it that way, hinting at tales Riddick wouldn't himself offer. Waiting for the tool left behind by inattentive hunters. The dust he unceremoniously wipes from the mouthpiece says it has been here for a while.
He demonstrates — "for the deer" — imitating the low bursts that incite challenge in bucks. Air whistles from a dryrot crack.
#soulmissed#idk if august would call it a treehouse instead of a treestand but just know that if he did riddick didn't correct him....#you'd cut me loose? 「 asks 」
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idk why the riddick franchise decided that "magical chosen one from a superpowered race" was a cooler backstory than "man in prison gets liquid metal(?) injected in his eyes by a veterinarian - in order to see ambushes in lowlight prison conditions - without chemical aid because needed to stay sharp - and he pays the guy with a pack of cigarettes that he stole off of a guard." but they were wrong about it and i fixed it...
#they did a disservice cutting ties with Pitch Black's strong characters by killkng them all off. they could have kept Jack n Imam#AND still have introduced more mercs + the necromongers at the same time (without also retconning Riddick's past)#him being human was part of The Sauce that made him larger than life... thank you for reading))#a smokescreen. 「 ooc 」
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"A Little Slice Of Hell" RF Pangborn
#man who has reflecto coat injected into his eyes no pain killers—#depiction of what bright light feels like to riddick:#scopophobia tw#eye trauma#they kept calling it murder when i did it. 「 musing & aes 」
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#he's ok (obsessed)#<- keepin my own tag and askin you all to join me in my delusions#before i embark on reaching back out to everyone to pick their brains and stir the plot pot.#gif#scopophobia tw
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“She wanted to cry out. But the lonely–in the truest sense of that word, lonely–they don’t bother to cry out their despair, since the very act would be meaningless. The deserts don’t hear.”
— Stig Dagerman, from “Men of Character”, Sleet: Selected Stories (trans. Michael Hartman)
#they kept calling it murder when i did it. 「 musing & aes 」#the amount of times riddick was isolated with no interaction and talked his voice raw —#not convincing himself that he was making any sound at all with no one to confirm it—#he's very comfortable in loneliness now
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...continued from here.
That aperture was meant to allow pass-through of bullshit like nutrient bars laced with lab-grown experimental cocktails. Whoever designed it never factored in that a custodian could probe a broom handle through. After this, the powers that be will probably weld the slot shut altogether.
The broom in @janitorialevil 's grip doesn't budge, cement-stuck in the food-slot.
A great force wrenches for control, hauling the broom into darkness. Bristles snap at attention as the too-wide brush head splinters against the too-narrow passage. Strain creaks through the broomstick, but only for a moment before it snaps.
A nearby monitor flickers on, displaying a black and white, stagnant view of the subject in the covered containment cell. A man's silhouette, sporting a shaved head and featureless clothes, back to the camera and blocking his hands.
Inside, Riddick feels his prize: measuring the rod's reach, thumbing the edged junctures where it'd broken, testing the fiberglass for durability by striking it to his legs.
This is quite the haul.
"Strong set of pipes."
It's the same voice as before, layered over a soft digital echo. It's coming from a speaker with its volume set on low, stationed by the live footage.
With all the urgency of a wartime blacksmith, Riddick begins to shape death implements from broom material. Restraining his movements to mask his work from the camera.
#troy screaming like an honorary Slasher Film Victim may have amused riddick more than he would care for me to admit .#until the lights burn out? until you can't see what's eating you? 「 resident evil verse 」#janitorialevil#i am worth twice as much alive. 「 thread 」
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