Title: A day in the Life
Author: Free Spirit
E-mail:
Fandom: Pitch Black/StarWars TPM
Rating/Classification: R, for violence
Disclaimer: I don't own Riddick, Jack, Imam, Darth Maul or Darth Sidious
Summary: Ever wanted to try on someone else's life?
Warnings: This story contains two main characters each sporting a tremendously bad attitude and a number of weapons. Be prepared for some violence.
This was originally posted over at AOV as part of a lyric wheel (which can be a lot of fun to participate in btw). Thanks to L for the lyrics upon which this is very loosely based, to Gunn for Maul inspiration and to Mami for being my beta.

Do you know what it is to go to sleep discontented? Have you ever felt that to be someone else, anyone else, would be better than to be the person you are?

Have you ever wondered how your perspective might change if your wish was granted?

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"Please take me with you." Jack said it over and over in his head even though her lips had stopped moving hours before.

Out of the frying pan into the fire. It was the story of Riddick's life. That better place that dangled in front of him like a carrot on a stick was fucking unattainable. Life had it in for him. God gives Carolyn, God takes Carolyn. God gives Jack, Riddick can't keep Jack. There was only one possible conclusion. God hated him. He hated God, cursed him and swore to continue cursing him until he drew in his last breath. Death was eminent too. He mulled over his final words, wondering what he'd say, figuring it would be totally dependent on the moment.

Head in the lap of the girl he refused to care for but did, fevered and miserable, his flesh rent from the bone, he drifted off to sleep wishing that his life had somehow been different. That he was different.

It was a dreamless slumber.

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Riddick woke, rubbed his face with his hand and nearly leapt out of his bed. Pain lanced through his cheek where his own fingernails cut his face and something else cut his palm. Blinking into the blackness surrounding him, it became clear that he was blind, his hard won night vision failing him. The room was pitch black – and he couldn't see.

Forcing a strangle hold around his growing panic, he closed his eyes, put his hands in his lap, back to the wall and breathed deeply several times trying to get a handle on his surroundings. The air was clean, odorless, none of the scents he had come to know in recent days. No Jack. No Imam. There was a faint hum in the background and a strange, almost electric thrum of something powerful enveloping him. The sensation was overwhelming and he struggled to ignore it, willing himself instead to remember where he was, how he got there.

Memory bubbled up, recalling the creatures, deadly dragons gliding low on bat's wings. He remembered Fry, her final words to him. That memory was too painful to linger on and he pushed past it. He remembered getting on the skiff with Jack and Imam, lighting the sky with the flaming bodies of his enemies. That had been good. He smiled and the thrumming around him increased. Behind the veil of his eyelids absolute blackness gave way to a deep gray. Perhaps his vision was returning. Things might not be as bad as they seemed.

His optimism was fleeting and his eyes opened again to blackness. The thrumming returned to its low background hum. Blinking into the ink, he realized he hadn't seen that much black in years, not since the bowls of Slam City. The room was like a sensory deprivation chamber for him, no sounds, no scents, no sight, just that strange thrum in the background. Unnerved, he cursed, "God damn it."

The voice wasn't his. He knew it wasn't. Accented, soft, elegant, the kind of voice he'd always hated. It was a 'Master of the Universe' type voice, arrogant beyond reason, controlling. He tried it again, certain that it must have been a mistake, "What the fuck?"

Nope, no mistake. It was his chest that tightened to give them air, his vocal cords that lent sound and his lips that formed the words. He spoke again, "Holy shit."

And cursing sounded wrong. Really, really wrong. That elegant voice had no room for his baser vocabulary. He moved to scratch at the side of his head, perplexed, and his fingers hit a bony protrusion and cut the sensitive flesh at its base. Stunned and in pain, he pulled his hand away, panic overtaking his reason.

His first thought was that he'd sustained a massive head injury and that this confusion was just the final death throws of his swelling brain. The survivor in him refused to accept such a fate however. Still wincing from the injury he'd inflicted upon himself below the bone protrusion, he wanted to touch it again, explore the wound, discover its cause and see what could be done about it.

But first things first. Not wanting to make his wounds worse, he felt at his fingertips, discovering sharp, curving claws where fingernails should have been. The mystery of the cuts came clear, creating in its wake a host of mysterious hangers on. What happened to his hands? He raised his hand to his face again, careful of the needle sharp tips and with the backs of his knuckles felt at the bone fragment protruding from his temple. It didn't hurt, except where he'd scratched the skin beneath it. His fingers continued their backhanded journey over his face and head, noting the crown of what he concluded were horns, 10 in all, that rimmed his absolutely bald head. His eyebrows were gone, the scruff on his chin absent and replaced by baby smooth skin. Tracing down his body he discovered that in addition to the hair loss, which seemed to be universal, he'd also lost a lot of weight, his body positively scrawny in comparison to the one he remembered. Wasn't in bad shape though. Nice tool too.

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How much longer must I endure this? I grow weary of submission. I am tired of hiding in shadows, never showing my face. I will be my own master. I no longer need you Sidious.

As quick as they came he banished them from his mind, refusing to entertain the traitorous thoughts that racked through him like fire, like the fire that had coursed through him as punishment for a recent mistake.

It was not yet his time, he reminded himself but his entire body itched for release from his servitude.

Maul's final thought before drifting into sleep was a wonderment about what it would be like to answer to no one.

It was a dreamless slumber.

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Maul woke in strange circumstance. Heavy and light. Both at once. His body felt heavy, fevered, sick. There was an injury to his leg. The stench in the air told him it was infected. The air around him was light, the encompassing envelop of the Force diminished, almost gone. The connection to Sidious that had become such a part of his life he'd forgotten about it was broken. He was alone.

Fear reached for him even as a gentle hand touched his cheek. He flinched away from the touch, mind grasping for the power that always coursed through his limbs. It was not there, but that hand was back again, insistently wiping at his forehead with a damp cloth. He tried to move away from it, but the great weight of his body refused to cooperate. He seethed at his lack of control as the cloth dragged down over his chin to his throat.

"Hang in there, Riddick. You can't leave me now. You promised." The voice was female and young, filled with tears. The language was a variation of Basic, easily understood. What he failed to understand was her concern. Her breath caught each time he exhaled and she seemed thankful for each inhalation. It was as if her survival was tied directly to his.

She had more control over his body than he, pulling his head into her lap. Maul thought of his horns and tried to move his head in an effort to cut her, to put an end to her pity. She seemed to think he was nuzzling though, the shushing and cooing sounds meant to calm increasing. "You'll be okay, I know it."

It further angered him but he was powerless and at her mercy. What punishment or test was this?

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Riddick had thought it all out - in one gigantic circle. His one and only conclusion was that he must look like the living embodiment of Satan and he very well might be in hell. Everything else was as hazy and black as the air surrounding him. Where was he? Where was Jack? If anything happened to her…

He quelled the worry, climbed out of the bunk and stretched. None of the usual pops and cracks accompanied the movement. It felt fluid and serpentine. He bent to the floor, easily dragging his palms across its smooth surface. Got limber over night too, he thought adding that fact to his growing list of unexplainable oddities.

He stood and reached for one of the horns on the side of his head. He'd discovered that touching the flesh at their bases was comforting, almost arousing in a weird way. With the other hand he reached out into the darkness and felt for a wall. The room was small and he couldn't find an opening on the smooth metal walls. There was no discernable door. He was trapped again, caged, and he hated it. Rage welled in his heart as he suspected Imam and Jack of turning him in to bounty hunters among a cornucopia of other dark scenarios. It twisted a knife in his heart to think she would betray him.

An interesting thing happened then. As his anger grew, his vision cleared.

Surprised by the turn of events and overjoyed to have his sight return, his reasonable self took over. Jack would never do that. He was her hero and he was making a damn big effort to act like one. No freaking way his kid, cause that is what she'd become, would turn him in. Having placated himself, his anger faded taking his vision with it.

The lesson was learned in a flash. It was counter intuitive to the old cliché of a blind rage, but what the hell, it worked. Closing his eyes and casting his mind back, he brought forth terrible memories from his time in Slam, allowing the fury that often lead to a psychotic break rise to the surface, just barely within the scope of his control. When he opened his eyes he could see clearly.

The lights were dim in the room, just as he had requested a while back. The violet halo that surrounded objects in his field of vision was gone. It was as if the shine job had never happened. The walls of the chamber were a steely blue-gray and he could finally see the doors. Two doors seamlessly fitted into the walls. Unusual locking mechanisms. The furnishings were spartan, little more than a bunk with drawers underneath it. Hanging from hooks on the wall were a billowy robe and a cylindrical metallic object. When he looked at the cylinder, his hand itched to touch it and it seemed to pull off the wall, as if it had a mind of it's own and wanted to be in his hand. The thrum increased around him. Caught off guard by the sensation, he looked at his hand and almost fell down in shock.

His estimation about looking like Satan hadn't been far from the truth. His hands... no, claws… no, hands with claws, were covered in an intricate pattern of black and red. The pattern ran up his arms, down his torso, his legs. Even his cock bore the strange markings. Licking a finger, he scrubbed at his arm, discovering that the weird red-on-black pattern would not come off.

Both hands started to rub at the horns but their comfort was disproportionate to his rising panic. The notion had been flitting around at the edge of his understanding. He'd batted it away several times like an irritating fly that refused to leave. Now it returned and he let it. As bizarre as it was, it seemed the only explanation. He was not in his body. He was not in his life. He had no idea where he was. No clue who he was.

He sank down on the bunk in despair, lost his grip on his vision-sustaining rage, and slipped back into blackness.

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The return trip to consciousness was painful and it took a moment for reality to set back in, such as it was. Maul was not in his chamber, he was not preparing for the day's training. He could not sense the constant presence of his Master. For the first time since childhood he was alone, or rather, he was somewhere unfamiliar with people he did not know.

His head was still in the girl's lap and she was crying over him. In the background he heard chanting in a language he did not know. Both people in this tiny ship knew him – and feared for his life. Odd though their concern was, it might also be useful and his predatory intellect began to turn the mythic wheels of survival and instinct. The full power of the Force was beyond his grasp, but it was not completely absent. Tiny wisps brushed past him and he took what he could, focusing his energy on healing. Descending deep in meditation, he was only vaguely aware of the girl leaving him.

When the male voice called to him, insistently dragging him out of his meditation, he was not pleased. But he did feel better, his body had begun to mend and his mind felt more centered. He listened to the voice, deep, resonant, brimming over with quiet fear, "Mr. Riddick, I am sorry, but you must wake. There is a ship, Mr. Riddick. I cannot pilot this craft. Come."

He could feel the Force stronger now, nothing compared its usual strength, but it had returned to him in small measure and for that he was grateful. He probed the mind of the man bent over him but found it filled with nothing but prayers. Useless gibberish. Undaunted, he turned his attention to the girl. Her mind was open to him and he rifled through her thoughts and memories, retrieving what he needed.

She thought he was Richard B. Riddick, murderer, escaped convict, savior. Savior? She feared him, worshiped him, loved him in an adolescent way. She'd shaved her head, wore funny yellow goggles to look like him. He was her…hero. Interesting and, perhaps, useful.

Unlike his counterpart, the Sith spent no time in contemplation of the 'whys' of his situation, choosing instead to act as the girl silently begged him to. Her concern was for him, that he not be harmed or taken away. He also preferred it such, needing time to determine a course of action that would return him to his rightful place at his Master's side.

He opened his eyes and faced another shock. Human vision was a strange thing indeed. Grey, violet, and white were the sole colors on the pallet that painted his world. He hated it for its limitations. He hated his head for pounding. He hated his leg for the constant burn as he moved it. Climbing to his feet, he hated the bulk of the body he found himself in, the weight of it, the slowness of it.

The older man moved to his side, put his hands on him in an effort to help steady him. Maul pushed past him and nearly fell, the injured leg giving out. Imam, as the child called him, caught him before he caught himself and again Maul cursed the inflexible bulk of this body. He growled at his benefactor, distrustful of the assistance and accustomed to being completely self sufficient in all circumstances. He had known no other way.

He shrugged off the old man's help and limped to the forward console, pushing the child roughly from the pilot's seat. There was indeed a ship ahead. He sensed its hostile intentions. It was a welcome outlet for the rage that seared through him.

An accomplished pilot, he had believed he could fly anything. But this bucket of bolts was unlike anything he'd ever seen, much less flown. As he studied the controls, the girl moved to his side again, hovering over him, her worry irritatingly loud in his mind.

"Move aside," he growled in a voice not his own. The voice was deep, menacing, almost predatory. It was the first thing about the entire situation that pleased him.

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Riddick had sat still and wallowed long enough. He needed to get off his ass and go find Jack and maybe even Imam. He needed out. His restless anger resurfaced, bringing with it his vision. The thrum that had surrounded him since he woke increased and he finally associated it with whatever power it was that restored his sight. It didn't matter though, the only thing that mattered was getting out.

Getting out dressed would be nice though. Rifling through ridiculously well ordered drawers, he found breeches and a tunic. He also discovered thick soled boots that were surprisingly light.

Dressed and slightly more comfortable in his multicolored skin, he moved toward the door that instinct told him was the way out. As he reached for the control panel the door slid open.

On the other side stood an old man. He was the consummate 'Master of the Universe' type, his air regal and lordly. He wore a cowled cloak that hid his body and much of his face. The thrum surrounding them began to crackle with malevolent energy. Riddick took an instant dislike to the old frog.

"You keep me waiting, Apprentice." The old man hissed, raising his hand in a slight gesture. Without warning, Riddick was slammed to his knee and his head bowed by no will of his own.

Enraged at the invisible grip that forced him into submission he fought against it. His vision became sharper, his will stronger and he rose, battling against the invisible hand that sought to restrain him. Richard B. Riddick bowed to no man. Darth Maul bows only to his Master. The thought was alien in more ways than one, but it knocked the wind out of his enraged sails and he stopped struggling.

"You forget yourself," the old man, whose name alternated between Chancellor Palpatine and Lord Sidious in his head, chastised. Both hands rose from under his cloak and blue lightening sparked from the tips of his fingers sending bolts of pain through Riddick's adopted body.

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If his current situation were a test of his resourcefulness, it was a well designed one. There were no weapons on board the small ship, or skiff as his mind insisted it was called. It was slow as well. He could not outrun or out gun the much larger vessel pursuing him. His power in the Force was still too weak to adequately serve his purposes. Snarling in frustration he leaned back in the chair.

"Riddick, do something! They're gaining," the girls voice wavered as she begged. Her tiny hand touched his arm in encouragement.

"Yes, they are." Maul pulled away from the touch, rubbing at the spot as if she'd soiled him. He could feel her uncertainty, her doubt, her longing for comfort. He sneered at her frailty, wondering why the man she believed him to be would ever have taken under his wing a priest and a child. They were an unnecessary burden. Surely the consummate survivor the girl believed him to be would have dispatched with them long ago.

Jack was watching him, her lower lip trembled but she bit back her tears. He could feel her fighting for control of her fear, fear of his capture and of his rejection. Something in her distress nipped at the part of him that was not him and against his better judgment Maul said, "Just another trial, child, nothing more."

It was the closest to offering words of comfort as he had ever gotten in his life. He hated the weakness inside him that caused him to smile at her hopeful face.

"If we cannot outrun them, what will we do?" The holy man asked, crowding into the small cockpit with them.

"Wait."

"They will board us and if they know anything about the crash, they will be looking for you." Imam's hands were wringing in front of him, his worry and fear permeating the air.

"So they shall." Worth more alive than dead, Maul grabbed the thought out of the air. He almost smiled. That too could be useful.

"But you said…" The girl, Jack, began to whine.

"Quiet," he commanded as he rose from the chair, muscles and joints complaining with loud pops and cracks. He moved around the back of the cabin, seeking something, anything that could be used as a weapon. No light saber, no blasters, not even a knife. His body was injured, his sight was impaired and he felt responsible for the two people huddled in the cockpit. He turned, intent on at least shedding that last burden but an undeniable sense of obligation restrained his hand.

Feeling like a caged animal, he paced the rear of the skiff until his eyes lit on a small piece of curved metal. He bent to retrieve it. The sharp, bladed edge had been wrought with care, the curved handle designed to fit into his large palm.

He made a couple experimental thrusts with the shiv, as a corner of his mind named it, and found it adequate. It felt right in his hand even though it was a far cry from his weapon of choice. Beggars could not be chooses however and he tucked the small blade into the waistband of his trousers.

The little girl moved to his side, holding out a pair of goggles to him. The look in her eyes was strange. He touched her mind. She knew. She was working feverishly to convince herself otherwise, but she knew. Her unspoken question begged for an answer, who are you?

No one to be trifled with, he replied in silence.

Her eyes got wide and her mouth opened, indicating she had heard his silent reply. She took a step back but continued to hold out the goggles saying, "You, you're gonna need these if the docking station is brightly lit." You can see in the dark, but the light hurts your eyes.

He took the goggles, adding this further limitation to his calculations. Feeling the subtle pull of the tractor beam he began to move again, running through a couple practice routines, deciding that the large body he occupied was more to his liking than he originally assessed it. It was strong and imposing, growing more flexible as he worked. The injured leg protested his every move but the pain was manageable.

He could feel the girl's eyes on him again. She had an idea and it was a good one. He turned to her, "You have something to say."

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The pain was terrible, bad enough to usurp the shine job as the most painful experience of Riddick's life. Fire coursed through him and he felt like he was burning from the inside out.

It did little to lessen his defiance. The worse the pain got the more belligerent he became. If this was how he was going to die, he wasn't going out on his hands and knees begging for his life.

As suddenly as it had started, the pain stopped. Exhausted, but still not defeated he struggled to get to his feet. A boot stomped down hard on his shoulder, knocking him back to the floor. A tickling sensation began in his head and he knew the old man was skull fucking him – literally inside his head. He knew it was something Maul allowed, but he would be damned if he'd let the old frog control his thoughts.

"You may indeed be damned, Mr. Riddick." The foot was removed and though no hand touched him, he was thrown back into the small chamber and the door slammed shut behind him.

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Maul was grudgingly forced to admit he admired the child's resourcefulness. She was a street urchin at best, but a smart little thing. Not Force sensitive, but intuitive and creative. The old man was a priest, a sort he generally hated for their false piety and hypocrisy, but he too proved more useful than Maul had given him credit for.

The men had switched clothes and he lay on the floor, his head pillowed in Jack's lap again. The goggles were strapped to his head, tucked under the turban he was wearing. At the onset of whatever happened, he would be at a distinct disadvantage. Being reliant on the child and the priest was not his first choice, but subterfuge was necessary. The predatory ship had a crew of 25. So many opponents would have been a challenge under the most ideal of circumstances, which these surely were not.

The small craft settled with a loud thud.

Jack huddled over him, rocking, her tiny hands caressing his face in a repetitious pattern that belied her fear. Imam, now known as Zeke, flipped the ramp switch, calling out to their captors that he had a severely injured man aboard as it opened.

Tapping the mind of the girl, Maul reached out with the Force and watched the ramp descend through her eyes. As he expected, there were five armed men standing in a semicircle at the bottom of the ramp. Reaching beyond her, he surveyed the ship locating his remaining 20 targets. Three on the bridge, two in the medical quarters, seven slept in their barracks and the remaining eight were in the brig. Three were prisoners and five were guards.

Offering a suitably pathetic moan here and there, he listened to Imam weave a fabric of lies Maul never would have thought a priest could conjure. Riddick was dead. He died in the crash. Maul knew they remained suspicious, unsure and wary but the small group acted concerned. While they doubted his identity, they were willing to help him. If he turned out to be Riddick in disguise, so much the better since he was worth more alive than dead. If he was really the Imam, well, they'd just scored some points with the man upstairs. They suggested getting him to medical quarters immediately.

He listened to the conversation between Imam and one of the men and the all too real sobs of Jack while he maintained the illusion of unconsciousness, allowing their captors to pick him up, internally laughing at the strain lifting his heavy frame cause them. The vivid red of his eyelids and the sterile air told him when they reached the medical quarters.

Using the Force, he reached again for Jack, demanding she take the Imam and go into the next chamber locking the door behind her. He silenced her questions telling her that this gesture was the full extent of his good graces toward her. If trouble found her, he would not fly to her rescue. Her fate was now her own. She was ready to argue but he Force-pushed her toward the door.

The despondent and abandoned sigh that escaped her lips was the perfect segue into her semi-feinted exhaustion and Imam picked up on the act. In seconds, they were led out of the medical quarters to rooms where they could also rest, rooms with locks.

As soon as they were gone, Maul made his move.

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Every inch of Riddick hurt. Even his horns throbbed, something that would have been funny had it not been painful. He was curled in a tight ball on the bunk wishing, not for the first time, that he might wake from his nightmare. He was convinced that was what it had to be. The most vivid and disturbing nightmare of his life, which was saying a lot since he'd had more than his fair share of them over the years.

He wanted to try the door, see if the old fucker had locked it, find out if there was still a way to escape. But he was barely hanging on to consciousness, making anything more challenging than breathing an impossible task.

The thrumming sound remained in the background. He knew that sound now, knew what it meant, what it was capable of. He knew it could be harnessed and that his rage seemed to do that, but he didn't know how to control it. Instinct again told him that he could use this force to heal himself, but it didn't give him the necessary step-by-step instructions.

Instead he suffered, concluding that his own life, no matter how fucked up, was better than this. And Jack needed him…

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In the end, it was child's play. He'd been met with almost no resistance. The humans had not even the most rudimentary understanding of the Force and even in his weakened condition it was easily used against them. Limited though Maul's powers were, they proved more than enough to make this fight the most Force driven battle of his life. Little blood was spilled, the shiv making mince meat of the bridge crew only because he'd mistakenly made a sound alerting them to his presence. All the rest had gone subtly, brain embolism here, crushed airway there, a heart attack or two and it was over. The victory lacked the physical exertion he preferred but was gratifying in its creativity.

There are many ways to win a war, my young Appentice. Do not always be so quick to violence, Lord Sidious had told him. He'd greeted that piece of advice with passive resistant disregard. He'd done that often of late, disregarded his Master's wisdom. He'd even stripped the honorific Lord from his Master's name in recent months. He'd begun to chafe under his continued tutelage, but this battle served to remind him that there was still much to learn.

Small hands made contact with his arm and he whirled on his pubescent molester, drawing back the shiv. She didn't even flinch, so sure was she that he wouldn't harm her. He let the knife fall finding it somewhat odd that he didn't want to cause her pain. Concern written on her face, she asked, "Are you okay?"

Rhetorical question, little one. You know the answer as well as I. And as if his body needed to emphasize the point it tried to collapse. He grabbed onto the pilot's chair to keep from falling.

"You should lie down I think," she said, her hand on him again. When he tried to move away from her she moved with him, her young face firmly set. Standing in the midst of bloody carnage, carnage he caused, she was unafraid. He admired her all the more.

That did not mean Maul was ready to concede victory to her. Groping for a reason not to do as she asked and his body begged, he looked at the monitors. "What is our course?"

Her shaved head cocked to the side and she tugged on his arm. "I don't know. We can figure it out later. You need to rest. Come on."

"We will figure it out now." Now it wasn't his obstinate nature demanding that he fight her good intentions. If he let go of the chair he would fall.

"You have no idea where you are. How long do you think it would take for you to figure it out?" she persisted. The girl knew no fear. He finally understood why Riddick kept her. She could tame even the wildest of beasts. He didn't argue when she continued, "Rest now, figure it out in the morning. The stars will still be here you know."

But will I, he wondered as he let her help him to down the hallway. She taught him another lesson. He could accept aid. Self reliance was good to a point, but knowing when and how to rely on others proved a useful tool. Lord Sidious had also told him that. Odd that it took a child's example for the lesson to sink in.

His arrogance was brought down a peg. What else had he discounted? What other lessons went unlearned because he chose to ignore his Master's counsel? He was consumed in uncharacteristic brooding when Jack dropped him onto a bunk.

The little girl did not leave as he expected. Instead she curled up next to him and fell instantly to sleep. He marveled at her some more before he finally began to drift himself. His final thought before sleep claimed him was, This lesson is learned, Master. What is your bidding now?

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Jack.

Riddick could smell her, dirt, grime, blood, stale fear. She was curled tight against him, her head resting on the crook of his arm. He squeezed her, keeping his suspect fingertips away from her, determined not to hurt her and to take care of her somehow. He would find a way to make sure she grew up better than he did.

His head hurt but it wasn't bad, not compared to the pain that had finally taken his consciousness. He extracted a hand from Jack and raised it to his forehead and felt stubble, no horns. He opened his eyes and the purple halo was back. He stretched, careful not to wake Jack, and was surprised when his muscles didn't complain much. His injured leg throbbed a little but the infection was gone. Aside from that and the headache, he felt great. He almost felt like himself again. Only the thrumming remained from his strange dream. It was faint, so faint it almost didn't seem real, but when he focused it strengthened. He wasn't sure how he felt about it, good thing or bad thing?

He was wearing Imam's robes and they were covered in blood. What the fuck happened here? Quick check of his surroundings informed him they weren't on the skiff. He had no idea where they were.

Jack opened her eyes and looked up at him, her expression questioning.

He didn't beat around the bush. "Where the fuck are we, kid?"

Her face corkscrewed like she had taken the concept of mind over matter a little too seriously. What she was trying to do he had no idea. Finally her concentration broke and a small smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "Riddick?"

"Yeah, who else were you expecting?"

She didn't answer. Just wrapped skinny arms around him and buried her face in his chest. After a long moment she told him what happened, describing it all for him in myopic detail. Unable to sit still, he got up, dragging Jack with him. In the hallway they bumped into a stunned Imam who joined them in their tour. She showed them around the ship, the uninjured dead who looked like they were sleeping, the skillful massacre in the bridge.

Maul was too limiting a name for the man who had done this. What Riddick saw wasn't a mauling. It was…art. He was stunned – and grateful. The black and red devil had given him the chance he so desperately wanted. A ship, a good one. An understanding, however vague, of the power that guided his steps. With the little girl, his little girl, at his side he sat in the captain's chair and plotted his course to the future. It was a new day, and for him, a chance at a new life.

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Maul came back to consciousness and almost in the same instant descended into meditation. He had been punished severely and his body screamed in pain.

When he woke again, the pain had subsided to a manageable level. He was not alone. Lord Sidious was in the small chamber, sitting at the foot if his bed, his face thoughtful. Maul opened his recent memory to his Master.

The Lord of the Sith's fingers steepled under his chin and his eyes closed as he rifled through Maul's memory. He raised his head and said, "The star system was not familiar." It was a statement, not a question.

"No, my Master."

"This Riddick is an interesting man." Lord Sidious sent Maul his recollections of his encounter with the man. Maul was at once chagrinned and intrigued by Riddick's refusal to kneel. Such respect was something he'd never deny his Master. He never denied Lord Sidious. Never.

Riddick bowed his head to no man, consequences be damned. It was the kind of independence Maul had craved. To answer to no one, do as he pleased, live where he wished. But what he saw was that independence was not without price. Riddick was a prisoner of his own free spirit. His determination to have everything his own way caged him. The lesson was that all people lived within the boundaries defined by their society and their standing within it.

Maul's dedication to his Master, no matter how constraining, granted a freedom of its own, an independence that Riddick would never know. The big human would run all his life, hounded by demons of his own creation. Maul would one day be Master, not only of his own destiny but of all he surveyed. Submission now would bring dominance later. Riddick would cling to the illusion of dominance even as he submitted all of his days. Interesting man indeed. "Yes, my Master."

The elder man eyed the younger for a long moment in silence. His face was hooded and his voice expressionless when he asked in a quiet voice, "What did you learn from this experience, Maul?"

There had been many lessons but one common thread through them all. "That I have much left to learn, my Master."

P.O.D.
"Alive"

Everyday is a new day
I'm thankful for every breath I take
I won't take it for granted
So I learn from my mistakes
It's beyond my control, sometimes it's best to let go
Whatever happens in this lifetime
So I trust in love
You have given me peace of mind
chorus:
I feel so alive for the very first time
I can't deny you
I feel so alive
I feel so alive for the very first time
And I think I can fly

Sunshine upon my face
A new song for me to sing
Tell the world how I feel inside
Even though it might cost me everything
Now that I know this, so beyond, I can't hold this
I can never turn my back away
Now that I've seen you
I can never look away

Now that I know you (I could never turn my back away)
Now that I see you (I could never look away)
Now that I know you (I could never turn my back away)
Now that I see you (I believe no matter what they say