The sharp, sudden pain in her swollen abdomen doubled her over. Lajjun was at her side in an instant, arm around her shoulder and ushering her to the bedroom. Kyra barely heard the words as the elder woman patiently explained that her wateer had broken and that it was time. This child was coming and nothing in the 'verse was going to stop it.

Propped up on the bed, she swore fluently with each spasm of pain, cursing everything in existence and gripping the bed-sheets so hard she was cutting her palms through the fabric. Hell, shoot her, stab her, for the love of God beat her brains out...she didn't care, just make...this...pain...stop...

She's finally returned from the Cafe.

She still looks a little ill, but only those that know her really, really well can notice. Which means she has things under control for the most part. She wouldn't have come back if she thought for one instant that she didn't. She couldn't chance it.

Which is why she also leaves a cryptic note for Riddick, asking him to meet her at Imam's house.

It's the only safe place she can think of that no prying eyes or ears will bother them...

Lajjun lets Kyra in very quickly once she sees the state the young woman is in. She knows what pregnant and distraught looks like. She sends Ziza upstairs and tells Kyra to make herself at home before following her daughter.

So this is where Riddick will find her, pacing Lajjun's livingroom.

Prompt: #22- Click
Word Count: 400
Rating: R for language

The following fic contains a major spoiler for the movie Pitch Black. Please do not read it if you haven't seen the movie or have not read the book and plan on doing so.
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( Click )

Kyra's unceremoniously draped on the throne again, watching the Necros go about their tasks as she absently sharpens her dagger.

She's seriously pondering killing one of the weak ones. She thinks the term is 'culling the herd'.

Either way, she's super bored.

...Sigh. Life has gotten so slow ever since she was rescued from these bastards and Riddick took over.

It's a very emotionally tired Kyra that makes her way through Necropolis to the room that belongs to the Lord Marshal. She passes Dame Vaako on the way, and the two share a look of open hatred before one turns a corner and the other heads up a flight of stairs.

Once in the room, Kyra strips off her clothing and takes a look in a full-length mirror. The bruise on her abdomen is fading, the slash still bandaged. She washes the stab wound on her right hip and changes the dressings before crawling into the bed, relishing the feel of the sheets over her bare skin.

She lays staring at the ceiling, sheets covering her breast and tucked under her arms, arms resting lightly on her chest. She rolls onto her side, tucking an arm under her pillow. With a sigh, she closes her eyes, hoping that maybe she can sleep a bit, and clear her head.

"If I owned this place and Hell? I'd rent this place out and live in Hell." -- Toombs, Chronicles of Riddick

( Crematoria )


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Character: Kyra
Fandom: Chronicles of Riddick
Rating: R for brief language.
Word Count: 344

x-posted to splinters_say

Her most recent talk with her otherself had brought up an interesting tidbit of information that had been reinforced by her subsequent conversation with not-their-Vaako in Lunatic Cafe.

Being the truly psychotic person she was, it was no real surprise. Nor was it a surprise in light of their shared past.

Kyra loved Riddick. She thought the convict loved her, too, but really, it was always hard to tell what he thought or felt. He was too private a person. While she and her other-self agreed that Riddick desperately wanted to love and to be loved while at the same time being scared stupid by it, these were mere speculations about a man who one really couldn't speculate about.

So she had decided the time had come to try and crack the nut that he was and find out for sure what her other-self had witnessed in that crazed other-verse she lived in. Kyra also knew that you couldn't just walk up to him and ask. It would be like trying to fend off a Necro invasion with a stick.

Which is why Kyra was hiding, ready to drop on top of Riddick when he walked by, blade ready for the fight...

Prompt: #27 - Stop
Word Count: 562
Rating: R for language.

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( When the running stops... )

After leaving Vaako tied up outside, Kyra had stormed back into the Cafe. As soon as she had entered, she had turned to go right back out and finish what she had started by gutting the bastard but, as her mind was on Necromongers and the Basilica, she finds herself stepping back into the that large, vaulted area.

Not only is she covered in dirt, she has a nasty cut on her arm, a nifty slash across her stomach, along with a wonderfully blossoming bruise from where Vaako's foot connected with her abdomen. It hurt like a bitch.

Her knife blade is coated in blood, and her lips still sport the smeared blood from Vaako's finger.

She shudders violently at the thought of that vulgar caress as she limps farther into the room, walking up to the throne only to turn and fall into it unceremoniously.

[after this]

She looks around. Yeah, she didn't really miss this place. She was almost happy when she fell to the ground, almost dead. Of course, no one mentioned the ledge nearby, and she had fallen through.

So, she's tucked under Riddick's arm, and she's no longer got a gaping wound in her chest. She isn't sure if she's happy about that, but she'll take it.

Prompt: #23 - Eyes
Word Count: 354
Rating: PG-13

x-posted to libraryofwinds
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( Look Me In The Eye )

Word Count: 437
Rating: PG-13


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Time was a fickle thing. It wasn't to be trusted.

Time had carried a misguided youth onto a transport bound for a new life, yet the cost for the privilege was death. Time took the lives of others, as it alternately slowed and sped by. Ravaging heat and icy darkness claimed the payment for safe travel and salvation was found in the unlikeliest of places. For a fourteen-year-old girl who was lost and confused, the solid anchor of direction pulled its strength from the haunted gaze of a man who cared about no one, save himself. And in that direction, the brightest of dawns had spread before her, and life resumed its normal speed.

Time found it fit to shatter lives without remorse. It threw life into turmoil, ripping the soul from the body. The knife-wound of abandonment ran deep and the search for a remedy began in earnest. As surely as one can, she redefined her character, drawing on the inspiration she had discovered in the depths of one man's soul. She hunted him not only in emulation, but corporeally, racing through the stars to catch a glimpse of him. And in the blink of an eye, time landed her in its sticky morass, shutting her off from reality and humanity. Its only benevolence was turning the hunter into the hunted, bringing that which she had sought for so long into her grasp.

Time would have healed all things, had it not had a sense of wickedness about it. She only had a handful of hours to reconnect with her past, to reestablish her sense of direction. And in a few short moments, time had ripped it from her breast once more, this time claiming the life of her saviour. It took her beyond the realm of the waking world and into darkness wholly unknown. As the chill fingers of fate caught her up, she was given one last look at the life she had so desperately wanted. And in those final moments, she came to the realization that she could no longer go back, even though she wanted to, so very much. Time had transformed her once again, and this time against her will. She had fought it to the end, but she was now trapped inside a reality she had no desire living in.

Time had a funny way of clarifying things. It had a way of making poignant observations and truths, which stung as much as any betrayal. The first and final truth it imparted upon both the living and the dead was merely this:

Time was a lie.

And so was she.