battle-not-with-monsters

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"Mm," hums Riddick, twirling the Bowie idly in his fingers. Except that "idle twirling" looks more like Olympic floor tumbling, and he doesn't seem to be particularly smug about it. Not even when he murmurs, "Sister, you don't want my kind of interesting hangin' around here for long." And where he's going, there won't be a chance for word of mouth. Not if he plans it just right. He fishes $250 worth of New Meccan currency out of his back pocket and sets the little crumpled bundle of coins and bills on the counter between them. Doesn't want the discount. Not if it means that.

Can’t see past the black of his welders. That’s why he chose them. That, and the sunlight hurts like fuck in his eyes. But just because they can’t see him doesn’t mean that he can’t see them. He doesn’t miss the way she looks up at him, and he can’t resist another one of those toothy smiles. “Not many people are so willing to lose profit on a good set of knives.” He leans against the display case, almost casual save for the fact that there’s a knife in his hand where there wasn’t one before—the Bowie. “What’s the catch?”

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Ask box is open.

It’s been three months since I’ve been on here. I’ve forgotten who I’ve sent messages to. You wanna rp, come at me. I don’t bite.

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Ask box is open.

It's been three months since I've been on here. I've forgotten who I've sent messages to. You wanna rp, come at me. I don't bite.

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Not many people talk to Riddick, though he can never figure why. He was positively chatty, if you touched upon the right subject. So it's a bit of a surprise when Hansen pipes up when they're being led away by their new commanding officer, though the words spoken don't really surprise him at all. "So I've heard," Riddick says through an easy smirk, aquamarine eyes glittering darkly with amusement. "Tough shit. Neither of us is gonna be left alone for a while. Not until he's through with us." Riddick gestures to the back of the man that they're following, brows lifting meaningfully. Their new C.O. wasn't gonna let them piss by themselves, let alone work.

Sigma 3 | Isaac Hansen

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Alright, you little bitches.

Air raid.

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NOT DEAD

I have no internet. I swear I haven't abandoned this blog. I'm in the middle of a move, too. I hope to see you shiners soon. Missin' you.

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Can't see past the black of his welders. That's why he chose them. That, and the sunlight hurts like fuck in his eyes. But just because they can't see him doesn't mean that he can't see them. He doesn't miss the way she looks up at him, and he can't resist another one of those toothy smiles. "Not many people are so willing to lose profit on a good set of knives." He leans against the display case, almost casual save for the fact that there's a knife in his hand where there wasn't one before--the Bowie. "What's the catch?"

The rejected knives are placed under the counter to return to their homes later, her free hand wiping a curly strand of hair that escaped the low ponytail behind her ear. A quick glance at each blade brings a number to mind. “You’re looking at $250, but I’m willing to bring it down to $200 even." Careful eyes look at their own reflection in those goggles she tries to determine his reaction.

Despite the danger, she couldn’t help but be interested in this man. What was he capable of? What has he done? ‘Would he be willing to join in our fight?’ Doubtful, he seems too much like a lone wolf to join a pack. If only she could see his eyes.

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Climbing shelves places her in quite the position, and Riddick takes the opportunity to slide his eyes along her frame. Taut and muscled. Isn't a stranger to work or play, depending on how you view things. The way she leaps is sure and graceful, and he can't help but tilt his head at the way he sees her leg muscles move beneath the fabric she's wearing. But then there are knives, and all of his attention is drawn to the potentials.

He carefully touches the edges, testing each one against the callouses on his fingers, trying to see which one will draw blood. The serrated knife and the Bowie almost immediately come out on top, and Riddick adds them to the pile of knives he's chosen. "These four for me," he murmurs, adding the katana-knife and curved knife to the reject pile. "And these four stay with you. How much?"

Riddick’s eyes seem to follow her wherever she goes. At least, that’s the impression that those goggles give. He can tell that all her clattering is just for show—can see the mistrust and the calculation in those pale eyes of hers. She’s assessing him. Cataloging him. Trying to fit him in one of those mental boxes that people put things in when they see something new, so they can recall it later and make connections in similes and metaphors.

Good luck with that.

Smile turning into a close-lipped smirk, Riddick takes up both straight blades, turning them over and about in his hands, dancing them across his palms and balancing them on nimble fingers. The one on the left is better balanced, so he sets that one aside and repeats the process with the curved blades. In the end, he has two blades and two rejects, knife tip of the straight bone reject tapping carefully against the glass as he watches her move.

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Riddick's eyes seem to follow her wherever she goes. At least, that's the impression that those goggles give. He can tell that all her clattering is just for show--can see the mistrust and the calculation in those pale eyes of hers. She's assessing him. Cataloging him. Trying to fit him in one of those mental boxes that people put things in when they see something new, so they can recall it later and make connections in similes and metaphors.

Good luck with that.

Smile turning into a close-lipped smirk, Riddick takes up both straight blades, turning them over and about in his hands, dancing them across his palms and balancing them on nimble fingers. The one on the left is better balanced, so he sets that one aside and repeats the process with the curved blades. In the end, he has two blades and two rejects, knife tip of the straight bone reject tapping carefully against the glass as he watches her move.

Her inner wolf is on high alert now, not liking how close this potential threat is. Its hard to tell what he’s thinking with those goggles on ‘We’re indoors, why does he still have them on?’ “A hunter. I got what you need." Her hands leave the blade she’s working on to move to the case on his right, bending down to open a few of the selves. Delta’s being noisy on purpose, not wanting to show this guy what he’s capable of as she picks a few of her personal favorites. Standing, the assassin turns to show him four hard steel daggers, two straight boned, two slightly curved. “I’m particularly fond of the curved blade myself, makes it easy to catch those hard to reach places." They’re placed on the counter for him to examine. “Get a feel for ‘em. I’ll get the hunting knives."

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Riddick doesn't move to explore the display cases. Instead, he leans forward toward the woman and crosses his arms over the shop counter, smile still in place. Smells like beautiful and danger, like a butterfly on a knife's edge. Fitting. "I'm looking for particulars. Few small, hard steel knives for skinning and flaying--shit that isn't brittle and won't crumble in the cold. A hunting knife or two. Softer steel with a good whetstone. I'm not planning on replacing them. I want to see your best."

Hidden Blade. Nice name. Way her eyes flick-flick all over him, sizing him up, he can tell she’s no pushover. Sees a big man, lets him know she’s got balls bigger than his head. He likes that. The corners of Riddick’s lips curve up, welding goggles gleaming in the light of the blades shop. He moves into the shop proper, steps unhurried and eyes trailing along the blades on display. “Lookin’ for a knife," he rumbles. “One that won’t rust or be a bitch to clean." He stops in front of the woman, smile widening until there’s a predatory hint of teeth. “Need somethin’ that’ll cut skin and bone for years and not dull. Got that, or do I need to take my business elsewhere?"

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I'm going to have to edit my Comms page to add one very specific "rule" when it comes to dealing with me.

If you follow me, I will go through the first few pages of your blog. If it's all (or overwhelmingly) OOC chatter or things that have absolutely nothing to do with your blog, I will not bother following back.

I'm one of [Insert Draco Malfoy sneer] Those Roleplayers who believe that a roleplay blog is for roleplay, and personal blogs are for whatever the fuck you want to fill them with. I don't want to follow anyone who will flood me with funny anecdotes or witty tumblr one-liners. It's great that you're enjoying yourself. I just won't play with you.

My loss, right? We're all agreed that it's just me being a dick? Good.

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Hidden Blade. Nice name. Way her eyes flick-flick all over him, sizing him up, he can tell she's no pushover. Sees a big man, lets him know she's got balls bigger than his head. He likes that. The corners of Riddick's lips curve up, welding goggles gleaming in the light of the blades shop. He moves into the shop proper, steps unhurried and eyes trailing along the blades on display. "Lookin' for a knife," he rumbles. "One that won't rust or be a bitch to clean." He stops in front of the woman, smile widening until there's a predatory hint of teeth. "Need somethin' that'll cut skin and bone for years and not dull. Got that, or do I need to take my business elsewhere?"

If there’s one thing Riddick’s learned, it’s that everyone around him usually ends up dead or worse. So when the tiny settlement escape shuttle gets captured by the merc ship Kublai Khan after leaving Hades and all the things that lurked in its darkness, his first thought is for the safety of the other two survivors. Well. It’s his second thought, but you can’t blame a man for wanting to save his own ass.

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TAKE ACTION

Post to your Facebook & Twitter: https://www.thunderclap.it/projects/2594-july-4th-protest-nsa-spying

Protest on July 4th: http://www.RestoreTheFourth.net

Find out about other actions: http://CallForFreedom.org

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The aptly named Antonia Chillingsworth is a special type of frigid bitch, getting off on freezing the lowest of the low--murderers and serial killers and the people who belong in that special level of Hell. Which, of course, means she has one hell of a lady-boner for Riddick. Wants to turn him into a work of art, she says, except the way her tongue caresses the word "art" makes Riddick feel like she might spend a little too much time risking frostbite with her fully-conscious captives.

So he rips the explosives out of his neck and kills her little pets and finds a way off of the twisted death trap, except the bitch would rather see him dead than see him skip out on her private collection, and he gets shot. For a brief moment, when Chillingsworth is approaching him, Riddick almost accepts the fact that he's about to die. And then Jack blows Chillingsworth's head off with her second in command's rifle, not a lick of remorse in her tiny, twelve year old body.

That's when Riddick knows that she's gonna end up worse if he doesn't get gone.

He drops her off in New Mecca with the holy man. Imam gives him money for supplies and a cloak to hide his patched-up shoulder, and for the first time in a long time, Riddick experiences the stomach-flipping terror of realising that he's made a friend--a friend who knows him well enough to extend this simple gesture of consideration for him. No words pass between them after this, and Riddick slips out while Jack is still sleeping, disappearing into the streets of New Mecca with nothing but the clothes on his back and the shiv at his belt.

Riddick buys things that will last. Things that freeze well. Things that he can make stretch for as long as he has to. It's not long before he realises that he's gonna need a better knife. Merc knives are good and sharp, but they're not exactly the pinnacle of quality. So it is that Riddick finds himself stepping into a neat little arms shop on the slightly less friendly side of New Mecca, throwing back the hood of his cloak the moment that he's out of the strong sunlight.

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It's entirely possible that I've forgotten who I've greeted and who I've missed. If I've not sent a message to you, darling, feel free to drop me a line.

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Sigma 3 | Isaac Hansen

As a rule, you don't sign up to be in the Company; the Company usually just does that for you and lets you know by hauling your ass in and sending you off to die. Some people, though... Some people think that where they are can't be any worse than where they're going. They're too young--too stupid, actually, because when he looks back on this someday, that's the word he'll use--to know that no matter where you are, there's always somewhere worse. So if a sixteen year old orphan in and out of juvenile detention stints from the lawless Walled City on the shady side of Alabattica scrawls his crooked signature on that enlistment kiosk, you'd better believe that those doors open wide for him and make him feel like this might be where he belongs.

Most rookies deployed to Sigma 3 start off as sweepers--schmucks who have to go down into the tunnels and kill the spitfires. Contrary to outside belief, spitfires don't actually spit fire. Nah. That shit would be much too easy to avoid. These fuckers have motion-sensors for eyes and spit corrosive venom that hits skin like acid. Three sweepers to a unit, two hiding in ambush and one sorry son of a bitch trying to look appetising for the slimy lizard spitting death at you. They choose decoys based on the outcome of a game of dice. A simple thing, really. So, after a few close calls and learning what venom-sizzling flesh smells like, he learns to cheat. Fine by him. He likes the ambush side of things better anyway.

Everybody wants to be in Riddick's unit, cos the guy won't let you die and he learns just where to hit a spitfire so that its venom sacs seize up and it can't deliver a spewing coup de grace as it's dying. Takes a year for the higher-ups to notice him, and when they do, it's straight to Strikeforce Academy on Sigma 3's moon. They train you for two years--teach you all there is to know about killing, like how a well-aimed punch to the jaw can snap a man's neck if you hit hard enough or how clapping a man's ears can rupture his eardrums and cause bleeding in the brain or how to aim your knife for the sweet spot just to the left of the spine fourth lumbar down to sever the abdominal aorta. It's his kinda school. Food's not bad, either.

Eventually, graduation day rolls around and he hauls himself out of bed, buzzing his hair down because he knows that if it's long enough to grab, it's too long by Academy standards. So he tames his dark hair with the blades of the clippers until he's left with nothing but peach fuzz and cleans off the sink until it looks fresh from the store shelf, donning his Academy best and spit-shining his boots until they gleam.

He joins the other cadets outside and gets loaded into a freighter with the rest of them, bound for Sigma 3. When they land, they're instructed to line up in accordance with their Academy graduation credits, so he ends up next to some green-eyed pretty boy--Isaac Hansen from block C, graduated second in his class next to one Richard B. Riddick, full honours and seven recommendations from six instructors and the Academy's headmaster; hell of a left hook and a neat, no-nonsense fighting style, making no more moves than strictly necessary to get the job done and done right; had a tendency to avoid people to the point of working single as a sweeper. Riddick has a tentative respect for someone crazy enough to survive certain suicide.

A handful of Sigma 3's elite security enforcement guards are there to receive them, picking them in groups of two or three. Him and pretty boy Hansen get chosen by a tall, broad man in uniform, much to the apparent displeasure of the rest of the guards. Apparently even guards played to see who got first dibs on the good ones. Riddick flicks his eyes up at Hansen and steps forward to get his new uniform and standard-issue weapons: beat sticks, a vicious-looking military-issue knife, and a two-handed gun. Increased pay and toys. Be still, his heart.

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Deep in the black, there's no place to hide. Backwater trade routes with backwater security checkpoints or none at all. It's the kind of place no one wants to be when your ship breaks down and all power goes to re-air. It could take days for your mayday signal to break over a ship. Maybe more to hit one with people willing to risk their asses to save a sad piece of shit like you. If you can limp along until you hit port, it'd be your best bet. But you'd better hope and pray you hobble your ass there faster than the slavers can find you.

So imagine the delight of a group of worn-out slavers when they happen along a sad little lump of a ship floating through the gloom, all lights but the anti-smash off and listing on its side just a hair too far to be good for getaway. Scans show two life signs on board, in stasis for the long trip to the nearest bay. Not much. But enough. Silent as death, their ship maneuvers over the little crippled vessel and they send out the claws--grips to keep the thing from moving overmuch as they board. If the ship has alarms, they'll be going off by now. Stasis reversing, people panicking. Not that it matters.

It's too late, now.