Title: me, i'm just passin' through

Author: Jedi Buttercup

Rating: T

Disclaimer: The words are mine; the 'verse is not.

Summary: Johns had collared seventeen out of seventeen convicts since embarking on his present career, but not a one of them had had a record like Riddick's. 3000 words.

Spoilers: Pitch Black (2000); other Riddick-verse mentions

Notes: For pronker, who asked for: "In Pitch Black *haven't seen any others* Riddick was captured by Johns, but how?" Featuring Johns the Younger, this time; originally posted elsewhere 10/9/2015.

The door opened, admitting the fifth new patron since William J. Johns had taken his seat at the bar, on the third night since he'd picked that particular spaceport dive to lurk in. The image reflected in the mirror behind the bartender was tall and well-muscled: so far, two for two on his checklist. But a shift of cloak exposed the generous curves of a woman. Nice, but not the bounty in question.

Ah, well. His hunch hadn't paid out so far, but he still had high hopes for that evening's influx. His loaner ship's software had logged three small craft about the right size and vector entering orbit over the course of the day, and there were only so many bars around the port with the qualities Johns thought Riddick might be looking for. Even better, he hadn't recognized any other mercenaries among the patrons; if Riddick did walk in, there'd be no competition to deal with.

No surprise there, of course. Most mercs that went after Richard B. Riddick tracked the escaped convict as they would an animal; they started with the last place he'd been seen- usually the last slam to lose him- then worked outward, searching transport routes, food sources, watering holes, and potential cover for hints of sign. Places convenient to shadier travel lanes, where names and credit checks were less important. Where a big man with a rough voice, a shaved head, and a predator's walk might have a hope in hell of blending in. Criminal haunts, most of them: the kinds of places that stuck with a man like a bad odor if he lingered there long.

Sometimes those mercs did get lucky. Riddick had been in and out of slams for years, and he sure as shit hadn't walked into them voluntarily. When a man's legal options for getting around were limited, there were certain bottlenecks he had no choice but to pass through; eventually, someone looking for a quick buck would see him and tip off the mercenary network. But Riddick's skills were no joke; he was unrelentingly lethal and skilled at evasion, and never let his guard down when he knew he was being chased. The price tag on him was as high as it was for a reason: more often than he got caught, the people hunting him ended up dead.

Johns didn't like those odds. But he did like the money Slam City had put up for Riddick's capture, not to mention the boost it would give his reputation when he brought the man in. Johns had collared seventeen out of seventeen convicts since embarking on his present career, but not a one of them had had a record like Riddick's. So when the message had reached him with the contract, he'd put a little more thought into the hunt.

There certainly was a feral side to Riddick; some of the shit he did was clearly just meant to fuck with his pursuers, or establish himself at the top of the local food chain. Living up to the legend that had built up around him, posturing like a hellhound raising its hackles or a poisonous snake baring its fangs. The sheer quantity of names to his credit had a quality all its own, as well. Riddick really was a vicious, murderous asshole, who more than deserved the bit, the shackles, and the bars ahead of him as far as Johns was concerned.

At the same time, though, Riddick was no demigod; he was still a human being under all that mythmaking. He still put on his underwear one leg at a time, as Johns' old man would have said. So if looking for him in all the wrong places wasn't getting results... Johns had figured it was time to look in some of the 'right' ones instead. Changing up the patterns would only muddy the waters the next time, of course, but Johns figured after he wrapped Riddick up for delivery it would be some other son of a bitch's problem if he ever got out again.

The scent of damp, fuel-tainted evening air rolled in as the door swung open again, and two more patrons slipped into the bar. The second one's face teased vaguely at the back of Johns' mind; not someone he'd chased himself, but maybe a known associate, or someone his dad's crew had run down in the past. But neither man was tall enough to be Riddick. Johns raised a finger to the bartender, then accepted a fresh glass with a nod and a fold of cash tucked under the empty.

According to the few public records Johns had found, Riddick had been abandoned as an infant, assigned his name by the state and raised in a series of government homes and juvie facilities. Good genes, to grow as big as he had on public funding. He'd escaped the moment he could legally wear a uniform, and for a while, had turned himself into one of the rare bootstrapped success stories. He'd earned promotions, elite training, and eventually a posting with some cachet to it on Sigma 3. But soon enough it had all gone to shit, just like everything else in his life. Several of his fellow Rangers had turned up dead, and he'd been sent to Deep Storage with their blood on his hands. Less than three years later, he'd made his first escape, and the rest was history.

There were a few curious facts littered amongst his crimes, though, that Johns would bet few mercs read far enough past the imposing death count to discover. Like the fact that Riddick seemed to disdain guns outside of combat. Or the fact that he'd never bothered to change his style, even to grow his hair out. Or that he'd actually no-shit joined a merc company once between slams, back during the Wailing Wars when both sides had been desperate for soldiers. Johns had still been a Marine MP then, which meant they must have actually crossed paths somewhere out there... and given all the givens of that fucked-up conflict, it made him pretty damn curious what had actually happened to the other 500 men in Riddick's supposedly wiped out platoon.

Somewhere deep in Riddick's mind, Johns figured, the brutal felon must still subconsciously think of himself as that orphan. Still that soldier, betrayed by every authority he'd ever answered to. He probably hated most of humanity by now, told himself he was better off alone- but if Johns guessed right, he hadn't yet managed to shake that instinctive urge for familiar human contact. It would neatly explain the periods he fell off the merc network's radar, only to turn up again like a bad penny where he was least expected.

Stupid fucker. Johns had been told more than once that he had a massive chip on his own shoulder about authority figures. Hard not to, when Boss Johns had spent more time in cryo than actually being a father while Johns was growing up, and the less said about what had happened to Johns' mother, the better. But he hadn't let his history handicap him like that. Which was why he was the merc here, and Riddick was the bounty.

That reasoning was why he'd picked this planet as the likeliest transit hub for Riddick to ditch the ship he'd stole from Slam City: it was neither too built up nor too run down, mostly populated by the kinds of people Riddick would've known during his brief legit years. Working-class folk down on their luck, rather than the dregs of society. And this bar was the nearest to the port that catered to such folk, rather than the planet's minimal tourist trade.

He took another long sip of his cheap beer, then shot another covert glance around the smoky room. Johns had dressed down to match the locals, leaving his guild-branded gear behind, grinding a little grease under his fingernails and trading in his usual shotgun sheath for a concealed sidearm. He'd even decorated his second-hand coat with a set of faded wings and updated his cover identity to match, presenting himself as a pilot having trouble making ends meet. The kind that might be willing to take a bribe to smuggle a passenger on the down-low. But otherwise neat and clean-shaven, hair not much longer than regulation length. An inherently familiar look, to another former military man.

With any luck, he'd seem a part of the landscape to Riddick, just another local- albeit one with the potential to be a useful resource. Rather than Johns intruding on a wary felon in fight or flight mode, Riddick would intrude on Johns, his guard as far down as it probably ever got.

Johns smiled to himself, picturing the expression on his father's face when he commed with the news. That would be a fun call. Then he looked up at the mirror again as the door creaked open to admit another customer. It was another tall one, clad in dark colors, shrouded against the evening's chill by a hooded cloak. Anticipation thrilled through him, though it was impossible to be sure yet.

Then a gust of wind tugged at the cloak as the door shut behind the man, and Johns' breath caught. He covered it with another long draught of the beer, glancing away to keep the reflection of his eyes from snagging his quarry's attention, and made a victorious fist under the shelter of the bar with his free hand.

It was definitely Riddick: between the hood and the dim lighting the man's face was obscured almost entirely by shadows, but there was no mistaking the stubborn lines of that jaw, the height, the muscular way he filled out that snug shirt, and the fluid ease of his walk. Almost a stalk: naturally aggressive, alert but comfortable in his environment and his assumed place in it. Electricity thrummed under Johns' skin as he tracked Riddick's progress through the bar out of the corners of his vision.

Johns had chosen his seat at the bar carefully; not the furthest seat from the door- the one with the best view of anyone following him in- but the next one down, a cozy distance from the far wall. It had been a carefully calculated move; most of the bar's patrons came in pairs and trios, and those that didn't usually found a seat closer to the door. He'd only had to shoo off two people, a guy he'd bought off with enough cash to settle in with a bottle at home instead, and a gal who'd been looking to ply some business of her own. On another day, he might've taken her up on it. But he'd had a different kind of adrenaline rush in mind tonight.

An irrepressible grin tugged at the corners of his mouth as Riddick settled onto the empty stool, rumbling out his order. But that was all right; with Riddick's history, the man probably picked up on dishonest emotions faster than Boss Johns in a disciplinarian mood. Johns glanced up from his drink to look Riddick over, and tempered the grin to an appreciatively friendly smile.

"Hey, man," he said, scanning Riddick from denim-clad thighs to the bald dome of his head as the convict pushed back his hood. "Haven't seen you in here before."

"Haven't been here before." Riddick's dark eyes were surprisingly expressive as he raised an eyebrow, examining Johns in turn. Skeptical, but warmly so rather than suspicious, as if humoring Johns' casual curiosity.

"Passin' through, huh?" Johns let the smile turn wistful, as if remembering better times. "Good place for that."

"Seems like." Riddick's gaze dipped to the wings on Johns' jacket then, but he didn't follow up immediately; he cast his eyes around the rest of the tables as he drained his glass, taking in the rest of the patrons. Johns didn't fidget; he'd done the same his own first evening there, and unless Riddick already had a contact in mind, he knew there'd be no one else who'd seriously draw the convict's attention.

Sure enough, Riddick turned slightly in his seat a few minutes later, angling himself to keep an eye on both Johns and the door. "You pass through here a lot, then?" he asked, voice low.

The bait had been taken; now for the hook. Johns shrugged, tipping his empty glass. "Depends on if you're talkin' fun, or business; and lately, there hasn't been all that much business, if you know what I mean."

"Not enough going around? Or not enough coming your way?" Riddick replied. The twist at the edge of his mouth had a sort of commiserating, wry shrewdness about it.

Impressive, for such a tiny shift of expression. All of him was pretty fucking impressive, in fact; so far, Riddick was proving to be the rare bounty who actually lived up to his billing. Johns shifted on his chair just a bit, reminding himself not to get too lost in the role, and offered a shrug. "Little bit of both. My company's not one of the big, shiny concerns, and traffic with the colonies past this sector has gone a little flat lately."

"Flat how?" Riddick gestured for a refill, then thumbed the bartender toward Johns' empty glass, too.

"Hey, thanks man- the thing is, nobody knows for sure. Some of the runs go fine; some of the colonies go years between orders anyway; and sometimes, you send a ship and you never see it again. The Boss ain't got so many ships he can afford to lose a few finding out which is which. So he's shifted us to the safer runs, in towards the Cazar system, sometimes Lupus or Tangiers."

All but the final sentence of that was true; and that last, improvised from the possibilities of where Johns figured Riddick might be planning to go. The Helion worlds were a little on the clean and orderly side for someone who had to keep ducking law enforcement, but with so many transients coming and going from New Mecca, Riddick might figure to go unnoticed. And as for the others, well; they had their own attractive qualities for a man of Riddick's record.

"That boss of yours ship living cargo, or just inorganics?" Riddick mused. "Bet all kinds of interesting things transit through this system."

"No shit. The less cargo comes through, the higher value it tends to get. Make the run worth the cost, you know? Nothing officially living, but hey..." He smirked and lowered his voice, deciding to draw it out a little; wouldn't do to anticipate Riddick too well. "Boss don't bother with cameras anywhere but the holds, so what he don't know, don't hurt him. Smuggled a barque cat once; some trillionaire's kid paid to have it snuck away from a Navy breeder. Snootiest animal you ever saw, but I ate pretty good off that trip for a while."

Riddick looked intrigued by that; but also annoyed, which Johns hadn't expected. "Bet you did. Barque cats are fine animals. Not that the kid probably knew how to treat one proper."

"Not my problem," Johns shrugged. So Riddick had opinions about helpless critters? Interesting, but not where he'd intended the conversation to go. "I get paid for the transit, not for whatever happens before or after."

"Not your problem, huh?" Riddick snorted, a knowing glint in his dark eyes. "How 'bout if it was a person?"

Johns returned the look. Now they were getting to the point, and Riddick had even brought it up himself. "Now that would be telling, wouldn't it?" As good as a yes; but also a cue that he could be paid extra not to talk.

Riddick made a considering noise, then raised an eyebrow as a woman slid onto the seat that had opened up on the other side of Johns. Johns was distracted a moment by the interruption, unable to shoo her away as firmly has he wanted with Riddick listening- and when he finally got a chance to naturally swing his attention back, Riddick was already pushing away from the bar, draining his glass.

His sense of triumph drained away in alarm. But the nod Riddick gave as he turned to go still seemed more sociable than distrustful, and he leaned down to murmur in Johns' ear as he passed.

"I got some business to take care of. You got a comm code I can reach you at later... maybe for another off-the-books transit job?"

Johns raised both his eyebrows then, nearly breaking script in relief. "Any time, man," he managed, then rattled off the alphanumeric code for his comm, followed by his cover name. "Can't promise where I'll be shipping next, but..."

"We'll talk about it then," Riddick promised warmly, then clapped a hand on his shoulder and walked out.

Johns couldn't help but notice he hadn't given his name or code in return. Probably even odds he was planning to off his new friend or lock him in cryo once they got past orbit. But Johns had already managed to outmaneuver the man at his own game; taking him down at the dock would be a piece of cake after this. He as good as had the bounty in hand; Riddick was going to walk himself right into a merc's hands without expecting a thing.

Johns grinned to himself again, planning where to go next as he finished the beer Riddick had bought him. Slam City didn't want their convict back, despite putting up the money, so Johns would probably try the triple-max at Butcher Bay; he owed the warden there a few UDs for some trouble a while back, but Riddick was worth enough to clear things with Hoxie with a nice hefty slice left over.

Plus, of course, all the bragging rights in every merc bar on Lupus V.

Lucky number eighteen. Johns chuckled to himself, then got up to head for his ship.

-x-