My new story, hopefully giving an alternative telling of how Kyra came to be. Although I can't really guarantee how it'll end up, I don't really have a solid plan. I'm experimenting with style and sequence, so further chapters may be a little disconnected. And before anyone gets frustrated with me, no, the title has almost absolutely nothing to do with the plot. This is a series of moments, collected in my imaginary notebook as the last remaining evidence of this chapter of the notorious Riddick's life. And no, I don't own Riddick, I'm just amusing myself playing in his world.

- -

"I know you're leaving, Riddick." He didn't deny it. He didn't defend it. He just didn't say anything. She knew he had heard, but he hadn't even granted her the pretense of acknowledging her.

Riddick stood in the bare living room, watching newscasts on the deaf setting. The light hurt his eyes to read, but he was too on edge not to keep an ear on the rest of the house. It had been four days on this planet; one to find a house, two to sleep, and today he was simply having a blast not doing anything. But he knew it wouldn't last. Whether evidence proved him alive again or he left this goddamned house, this being dead thing was bound to end.

Darkness and containment can change a man, and Riddick was both preternaturally patient and host to a bad case of get-up-and-move. As most people use the word 'hungry', Riddick would use the word 'trapped'. It was a need, a lack of something unquestionably basic. In his situation, Riddick's choices were either to lay low completely, or run constantly, there was no middle ground. He knew the girl's preference. But he couldn't find a way to explain to her that he might as well be dead as confine himself. In a structure fire, you don't breathe or you breathe smoke, either way you're ghost. But isn't it so much better to breathe the smoke and run? At least then you will have done something.

But this thought was so fundamental, so unquestioned in his own mind, that Riddick lacked the words to explain. He waited three breaths, enough to make it clear that he didn't answer to the kid's demands.

"Bound to end some time." Riddick almost intoned in that deep, meditative voice. Jack had nearly given up on an answer, and was almost inclined to argue with him just for being an asshole. But he had that "don't fuck with me" finality in his voice, and she knew that even if she tried to retort, she would probably be ignored. He was just impossible. But Jack would not be turned away from what she had come for.

"I'm coming with you." She said with practiced firmness.

"No." He didn't turn; he didn't act surprised or expectant. He just stood there, like she wasn't even in the room. Just… All of Jack's well-rehearsed arguments dried up in her throat. Time stretched out hopelessly between them, and she tried to stand it. It could be a test, a test of faith or determination or something, and she had to pass. Silence built and compounded upon itself into an almost palpable thing. It built until the unbearable rejection chased her down the hall and into her room.

Flighty as always, the girl retreated back into the bedroom he had given her. Feet too rushed, door shut too loud; Riddick knew she was upset. She should be, it was best for everyone if they were both clear on the fact that he was not some hero who would look after the feelings of a preteen girl. He had taken them along, had gotten them to where they needed to be. And that was it. Now he had to leave and they had to stay.

He heard crying through the door. Riddick sighed and finally turned to face the place she had been. Damn kid…

Riddick came to the door, stepping heavy to announce himself, but the girl muffled her crying sounds. He had never had to deal with Jack's emotions in a place with so much space, and wasn't sure if that was a sign to go away or try harder. He stood there at the closed door, listening to the strangely hurtful sound, until he realized that there was nothing he could do or say even if he did open that door. So he left her alone.

-

Imam came home to Riddick's presence in the living room, a place that had always been too open and inviting for him to be comfortable in. He stood leaning against the back wall of the blank room, looking at his hands. He hadn't looked up at the older man's arrival, a sign Imam knew meant that there were large decisions on Riddick's mind. But he was here; maybe he had come to discuss it, whatever it was.

"Mr. Riddick?" He looked up, but in a leisurely way. He was on his own time.

"The girl's cryin'." He smirked, a gesture indecipherable. "She wants to come with me when I leave."

"She cannot!" Imam blurted. It was automatic, and although he backtracked back into his realm of politeness, Riddick had seen how he really felt. He knew the thought that had prompted such a vehement response, and while the thought itself was repulsive to him to the point of murder, Riddick couldn't blame him for having it.

"Yeah," he responded in that dark, smoky voice. "My reaction exactly." He pushed himself off of the wall, dusting his hands together in a nonchalant way. He saw Imam almost unconsciously step back; he at least had enough sense to be scared around him. "Her life, though." Riddick tossed out almost as an afterthought, without pausing on his way into the hall. He left the holy man with his back against the door, mind whirling with the sudden change of events.