Warning: graphic violence, sexual situations, adult content, strong language, etc.

Disclaimer: No, I obviously do not own Naruto or Riddick. It would be way, way awkward if I did.

A/N: A quick thank you to all of my previous readers. You guys are my crack. I'd also like to say that this is kind of like a preview chapter. This is meant to tease and hook you to the story that I am still currently working on. I hope it works. As always, read and review. I love you,

Tara

There were habitable worlds, and there were inhabitable worlds. Granted, there were also worlds that were rendered mildly habitable, but shouldn't have been. The most popular of the latter was a hellish, melted, and re-formed planetary body of unremarkable size, and it appeared with a lacklusterness so broad that no one seemed to bother with it. The name was simple enough; it had long been supplanted by the inhabitants of the planet. Or, rather, the inmates.

Crematoria.

Crematoria was a world of heat and emptiness and death. The people who worked there knew that. The people who were imprisoned there knew that. It was a world where sunrise killed—it blistered the skin before blasts of gaseous flames consumed them until they were nothing. It was a planet of nothing. There was no life on its surface. Any life that ever tried to bloom was washed away with each new murderous dawn. The smell of burnt flesh and sulfur lingered there.

The guards knew all this; still they lugged their burden along the rough, jagged path that wound its tortured way through the scarred, twisted lava field. They moved with the urgency of men assigned to the unpleasant duty they had tried, and failed, to avoid. The fact that their load consisted of once of their own engendered no additional sympathy on their part. The fact that the dead man they carried was a former colleague and friend didn't make his demised corpse any less heavy.

Relieved at having reached their destination, they finally came to a halt near a shallow depression that had been machine gouged from the reluctant rock surface. The small hollow wasn't empty, however. It was scattered with ash, from which protruded a few angular objects. On closer inspections, one became recognized as a human femur; another was the bleached remains of a skull. What had once been human remains were now dust and ash and bones. No artificial agency was needed to reduce the bodies down like that.

They only had to wait for sunrise.

The two men extracted the body from the container, wincing at the sight of its mangled form. It wasn't in tact. It was marred by deep bruises and harsh lacerations; one glance was enough to know that the wounds hadn't occurred in some freak accident. The unfortunate had been involved in a fight that he had obviously lost. Among the few effects that were still adorning the corpse was the ident-card that hung around his bloodied neck. A grim picture with bold letters underneath read "V. Pavlov" on the little slip of plastic. Some ruttin' wag back in the prison had jokingly said the guard died like a dog (1). No had laughed.

The two charged with taking the former V. Pavlov to his last resting place glanced around anxiously. The uneasy pair were plainly in a hurry to get away from where they were. There was no idea of digging a grave. It would have been a waste of time. Any sort of tablet or tombstone would be wasted. Crematoria would see to that.

"Should we, uh, say somethin'?" The shorter of the two glanced up at his partner nervously. "I mean, I know Pavlov pretty well. He warn't a bad guy."

On Crematoria, that could've been considered a complement. Neither guard nor prisoner was exactly "good". His companion was too busy gazing worriedly to the east, his eyes locked on the horizon. The dull maroon glow that had been seeping over the jagged, twisted mountains was beginning to pale toward crimson. Very soon, it would fade to pink. Then yellow. And then white. When it turned white, they had better hope that they were underground. Deep underground.

"Sure," he nodded, gesturing to the motionless body of their former colleague. "Recite a whole sermon, if you want." I'm sure Vlad won't interrupt you. Take all the time you want. I'll wait for you—inside."

His friend's gaze strayed over to the coming dawn. The coming hell. He was already backpedaling away from the morbid scene. "Maybe later. I knew Vladimir. He wouldn't want us to be late for breakfast."

The other man had already started for the nearby access tunnel. "Shit, if it was your or me, he'd already have gotten the hell out of here."

It was as appropriate a description of their surroundings as it was of their situation.

No noise came from the box. No trouble. That suited them just fine.

Occasionally, one of the gruffer guards would bend slightly and peer through the air vents that riddled the container. He took in the lithe, almost feline, form. The choppy hair that hung in a narrow face—a face made of practical perfection. Te contents of the box growled, low and dark, but it didn't look at him. Just as well. There were rules. As a guard on Crematoria, they could bend the rules, but only with considerable risk to their status. If they bent them enough, they might end up on the other side of the social divide. It was always tempting, but never worth the fatal choice. So the guard kept his thoughts to himself and concentrated on work instead of what other noises the wiry from within could make.

They entered a large room, passing a large kennel as they did. Something with murderous bright eyes moved closer to the bars of it's cage and started howling. It's neighbors quickly joined in. No human could ever make those noises, but they could definitely hear them. One of the guards cringed and cursed, catching the attention of the large beast closest to him. It's shining eyes swiveled to focus on his, and it snarled deep in it's throat. The guard looked over, briefly anxious that it might break out simply because he spoke in it's presence. He calmed almost immediately, knowing the cages were strong enough to withstand it.

Another growling sound pierced through the air, and the beasts in their cages simpered empathetically. Gleaming eyes latched on to their friend's captors, and the promise of death and blood hung dangerously in the air. The guards tried to ignore the strange reactions that their animals made. They always got so riled with this one around.

Tone spiked with agitation, the man in the lead looked back at the box. "Oughta know better by now. You act like an animal, gonna slot you up like one. Those are the rules. You shoulda worked it different."

While carrying out his duty, the speaker's nearest coworker was experiencing a moment of unusual thoughtfulness. "Poor fuckin' Pavlov. Never had a chance—one-on-one like that."

"He shoulda watched 'imself. Always relyin' on his size, underestimatin' the opposition. Never, never do that. Size don't mean nothin' if you ain't got the moves—especially in this case." The speaker replied, less than sympathetic as he directed his words to the inhabitant of the crate they carried. "You know all 'bout that, don't ya, Big Bad? You get what you give 'round these parts. But when you get it—aw, that's the thing… When."

It wasn't a direct threat, but the implications in his voice wouldn't go ignored or unacknowledged. However, the inhabitant of the box seemed unimpressed. The observation was met with silence.

Still muttering to himself, the other guard in the front continued to remember his over confident dead colleague. "This one's always been trouble. I know it from the beginning. First time our eyes met. I smelled it."

Finally reaching their destination, they set down the box in front of the open, empty kneel slot. Safeties were slid simultaneously off the box and weapons. Operating as one, the pair at the front of the box worked the seals until the doors clicked open. Almost immediately, they stepped back. Fast.

The Animals howled louder, objecting to kenneling the beast they revered. Fingers tensed on triggers. Eyes focused with unblinking intensity on the small space between the open kennel and the open box. Nothing happened.

Maulsticks emerged next; they pulled them from their belts and jammed them through the small air vents. Muttered curses filled the air. They wanted this job done. Delaying the inevitable just meant that other duties were being delayed. They were already in a bad mood; the tensions were high all around. The box occupant's recalcitrance wasn't helping their irritableness.

It wasn't improved any when one of the maulsticks were ripped away—only to be turned and shoved through the owner's hand. The guard howled in pain, a sad parody of the hellish growling that came from their own creatures. He grabbed his hand, screaming profanities as he tried to stopper the blood off. Disgusted, the man in charge of the quintet moved forward. His maulstick still hung from his belt, waiting to be used even as he grimly raised the muzzle of his riot gun.

He never got to use it as a blur of bronze skin and dark clothes went by the crack between kennel and box. It was so fast he almost didn't register it until the automatic locks slid shut on the kennel door. They were old and well used, but they functioned well enough. Transfer complete, the guards let out a loud sigh of relief. The idiot who'd been gouged by his own maulstick whined pitifully as the leader slapped him over the head. The moron got what he deserved for his carelessness.

Relaxed now, they filed out of the room, ignoring their secured prisoner and the howling of his inhuman kennelmates. Behind them, their delivery pressed back against the wall of the kennel, a tired sigh hanging on his lips. He was beautiful, in his own way. In his early twenties, the occasional battle scar marred his almost flawless skin. Light blonde hair hung in his face as he folded himself in the metal cage, his knees drawing up to his chest. A deep, wise azure gaze peered from under perfectly mussed bangs, and a low snarl rolled from his throat.

"This is such shit," he grumbled, plucking at his skintight wife-beater uncomfortably.

It was fucking hot in that metal box. The tighter the clothes, the hotter he felt—but it had to be tight. Tight meant it was less likely for anyone to get a hold of him. He'd learned that back in the day. Back before he needn't care who or what caught him. Back before he had the ability to shred any opponent he met to pieces. Granted, he'd never do that on purpose. He felt sick over what he did to Pavlov—no matter how much of a ruttin' ass the man had been. He hadn't deserved to go out like that. Letting out a bitter sigh, he stared at his shaking hands with distaste; they were capable of so much harm. He knew that if he very well wanted, he could tear out of the place with hell on his heels. He knew that it wouldn't be happening for a long time. Not while he was out there… Searching.

Howls and whines and yips kept the small room alive with noise. His companions know what he was and were protesting his captivation. They knew what he was—how strong he was. They detested such power being locked up. They pleaded with him to break loose. To be free. But he refused. He had enough blood on his hands for a thousand lifetimes.

"Could we cut the goddamn noise?" He finally erupted, feeling his inner-demon bellow with frustration.

He could feel it crawling under his skin. The power he had. The power he wouldn't use on such feeble, breakable humans. He felt the longing again. The beasts in their cages fell silent, resting submissively in their respective kennels as their Alpha fumed silently. His skin itched for him. He felt the desire—the never ending urge just to be near him. His mate. His eternal one. He craved him dreadfully. Ardently. But he'd never give in. He could only hope that, wherever he was, he would give up the search. That the urge wouldn't drive him to the ends of the universe searching for something that was only halfway done. Searching to complete the bond he'd started. Searching for the bond that he, himself, was hiding from.

The prisoner seethed. At himself. At this place. At the 'Verse. He wanted to be with him. But he'd be damned if he let himself make another suffer the way he had in his long, long life. He wasn't supposed to be happy; he didn't disserve a "Happily Forever After". He was the Big Bad, and you know what? He was just fine with that…

…Kind of…

tbc.