Precious was grumbling at the lack of kills, and part of Riddick agreed with her dissatisfaction. Being civilized had never sat well with him, the rules of society chaffing at his nerves.

"It's all right Precious," he murmured, digging his fingers into the ruff at the back of her neck. She made a chirruping purr sound and arched under his caresses, demanding more. He chuckled. "There's plenty more rats where these ones came from, don't you worry. You'll have plenty to play with tonight."

He watched as the captured men and women were bundled together in a rough pyramid of bodies. There were some weak cries, but no attempts to escape. He could almost feel sorry for them. The next time he saw them they'd all be Purified and well on their way to being happy Necros.

Riddick gently shoved Precious away. "Come on, let's go find some more friends to play with."

He jerked his hand at his squads of Necros.

They needed to gather up the scavengers already aboard, then they had to seal the breach in the ship's hull.

The Basilica was the biggest asset that they had. It was up to them to hold onto it.

Gathering up the Necro troops shouldn't have felt so natural. He'd spent most of his life being alone. But they were nearly pack, all of their eyes looking to him for orders and leadership, trusting that he was their Lord Marshall and his orders were theirs to follow.

He didn't understand the impulses that turned them into near slaves with their devotions, but he knew how comforting clear orders could be. Just because he'd never been much of a follower didn't mean he couldn't see the allure of a clear cut chain of command. There was something soothing about always knowing where you were supposed to be.

And I am at the top, he thought with no little satisfaction.

He hadn't wanted to be the leader of a group of intergalactic zealots with a Convert or Kill approach to life, but he couldn't deny that it felt good. While he didn't have to be loyal to them, they were willing to die at his command.

"Let's go," he said. And they followed him, boots clumping against the decking, obedient to his every whim.

.* . * . *.

Fear. Pain. Confusion. The world was a blur of sensation, his sight blocked by the helmet that had been shoved over his head before he was enclosed in the frightening coffin-box.

He flinched when needles were jammed into the tender flesh of his neck. Poison pumped into his veins, burning through his brain.

He forgot his name. Forgot his family, his friends, the life and the person he used to be. He existed in the moment, fire raging through him - burning him out of himself - while voices thundered in his ears.

"You keep what you kill." "Convert or die." "The weak are meat the strong eat."

He didn't know who he was anymore, but he had a purpose and a place. He had a reason for being: to serve the Lord Marshall and spread the way of the Necromongers.

"...til Underverse come..."