RATING: PG-13 ( L - V - A )

SUMMARY: Four and a half years after the crash of the Hunter-Gratzner, now-18-year-old Jack is released from the juvenile facility she's lived in for four years. Due to her refusal to help the authorities capture Riddick, they've done their best to ensure that her future will be as bleak as possible. But a reunion with an old friend is about to change everything.

DISCLAIMER: As much as I wish I could claim responsibility, the brilliant people at USA Films are responsible for the creation of this wonderful world that I am borrowing. And the only thing I'm getting out of it is joy and feedback, I promise!

1. Jack: "Riddick's Bitch"

Every morning when she woke up and every night before she fell asleep she told herself Riddick was dead. It made the pain easier to take.

She knew that he really wasn't -- the death of Richard B. Riddick, notorious serial killer, would be the biggest story on every planet's newscast if it happened. But pretending he was dead made things easier. It kept the dreams at bay, the ones in which he showed up and rescued her from her purgatory and took her away with him again.

This morning was different. Riddick could live today -- she was Getting Out.

Jack waited until the other girls on her floor were done before she headed for the bathroom to shower. She gave herself extra time -- it was her Last Day, after all -- and dressed slowly. Almost everything of hers was already packed. Today was about formalities. If she had to observe them, then she was also going to take advantage of them.

She was the last person into the dining room and she could feel the stares and the whispers. Everyone was watching her go through the Last Day rituals. Nobody would miss her after she left but it was still an Event. She'd kept them all at a distance for the last four years -- no close friends, no confidants -- so nobody would be coming to say good-bye or give her a hug before she boarded the shuttle. Nobody ever had before, so she didn't care.

If she had no friends at the shelter, she also had no real enemies. The specter of Richard B. Riddick kept them at bay. A few whispered about her, calling her "Riddick's Bitch" when they thought she wouldn't hear, but none of them had been willing to take the risk of being on her bad side if her infamous protector actually did show up.

She made a point of enjoying her last meal at the shelter, although breakfast was her least favorite meal of the day. It was missing too much. It was missing him. Breakfast had been the one meal they had consistently eaten together during their few months on the lam, and he had never ignored her when they did. They would talk. He would tell her stories about life in Slam and life on the run, the places he'd seen and the people he'd met, and the lessons of survival he'd learned from them. It was the best part of her day, in those days, when she had him all to herself and didn't have to deal with the cheap sluts he played with or the desperate scumbags who hired him for jobs she didn't want to know about.

Finally she was the last one in the dining room, toying with her oatmeal and thinking about the man who might not even know she was still alive. Might not even care. She waited, knowing that eventually someone would come to take her through the next step of Getting Out. Finally they sent Mrs. Baxter to fetch her.

She followed the cold, prim woman through the quiet halls. She always got a kick out of Mrs. Baxter, who managed to look like a nineteenth-century maiden aunt even in the current times, and even in a standard-issue jumpsuit. They went to Parker's office, of course. That was the routine. There was no other possible destination at this stage of the ritual. She'd play the game just right for them, and then she'd be gone.

One wrinkle in the routine appeared almost immediately as she entered the office. A man in military garb stood beside Parker's desk, watching her intently as she walked over to the traditional seat. That was new. She remembered the man, too. She'd spat in his face four years ago and instructed him on how to do some things that were supposedly anatomically impossible.

"Please sit down, Miss Kowalczyk," Parker instructed, as if she hadn't done so already. She waited silently. If the rules of the game had changed, she was going to hear them defined before she started playing.

Parker glanced through her file. "Audrey J. Kowalczyk. Eighteen years old, real-time... nineteen years and five months from nativity. Daughter of Pyotr and Josephine Kowalczyk, deceased. Ran away from your uncle Boris eight years ago shortly after your parents died in a loader accident. Taken into custody four years ago, while in the company of Richard B. Riddick. That's quite a career."

She shrugged, waiting for him to get to the point. This was, in theory, the last day that anyone would be able to see those records. Tomorrow, and every day thereafter until she died, they would be sealed, inviolable.

In theory.

"You've been a most uncooperative young lady, Miss Kowalczyk. We've done everything we could to help you reintegrate into society, but you have continued to display disturbing anti-social tendencies. If there were legal grounds for us to continue holding you, be assured that we would."

This part was a complete lie and it angered her. She bit down on the anger and hid it away, retreating behind the bland, deadpan face she'd perfected long ago. She'd been a good girl for the past four years, diligent in her studies, correct in her behavior. The only defiance she'd ever displayed was in her continued refusal to lure Riddick into a trap. She turned and glanced at the military man, one eyebrow raised. Letting him know she knew the truth.

The silence drew out for a moment. They seemed to be expecting her to say something. She didn't bother. They'd strayed off of the script and she had no obligation to them until they got back to it.

"Be that as it may," Parker finally continued, "it is my duty to inform you that your stay at this correctional facility is at an end. You are legally an adult and will be released on your own recognizance."

"Thank you, sir," she answered softly. Her voice was perfect, polite and diffident, utterly correct, utterly unimpeachable.

"I understand that you have requested training as a pilot. It is my sad duty to inform you that, despite your good academic standing, you did not test highly enough to be offered a scholarship to the flight academies. Your academic records have been forwarded to a placement agency. They will see about arranging an apprenticeship for you on a vessel."

Another lie. Jack was an adept hacker and she had seen her test records long before now. Her score had been perfect, top percentile. But nobody was going to give a scholarship to "Riddick's Bitch."

"Thank you, sir," she said again. Deep inside, she substituted another, cruder word.

"Lieutenant Jarvis here, however, would like to discuss another possible option for you," Parker finished.

Jack turned her attention back to the military man. Lieutenant Jarvis. Yes, she remembered him well.

He tried for an avuncular approach. "How are you, Audrey?"

"It's Jack. I'm fine. I don't even walk with a limp anymore, thanks." The last was said with as much sweetness and light as she could muster, but she hoped it stabbed into him. It was his fault; his bullet.

"Jack." He accepted the correction with some distaste, not understanding why she would hold onto such an unfeminine name. Fuck him. Riddick had understood her logic, and that was what really mattered. "I'm glad to hear you're doing well."

Sure you are, dickhead. Get to the point. You want me to sell out Riddick, right?

"I have been authorized to make you an offer... Jack... by the Military Intelligence department."

Now there's one hell of an oxymoron.

Jarvis picked up a file folder with the official seals of the Tribunal on it. He held it out to her. "We would be willing to incur the expenses of training you as a pilot, and provide you with an immediate, honorable discharge afterward, should you wish to return to civilian life. In exchange for--"

"Riddick, right? You want me to rat him out." She locked eyes with him and then dropped the folder to the floor, letting its contents scatter. "No deal."

"Miss Kowalczyk, this is possibly your one chance to acquire the normal life you seem to want. I don't understand why you're throwing it away for someone who abandoned you four years ago."

"I've never had a normal life, Lieutenant Jarvis. And thanks to your bullet, I never will. No picket fences and rug-rats for this lady, right? Anyway, I wouldn't know what to do with a normal life if I got one. Thanks anyway."

Jarvis had flinched when she mentioned his bullet. Damn well should, you shithead. You're the reason Riddick had to leave without me.

She turned away from him without another word and fixed her attention back on Parker. He looked deeply offended. Too bad. They were the ones who decided to go off the page. It wasn't her fault if they didn't like her ad-libs. They could've stuck to the script. The silence spooled out for a long moment, growing increasingly tense. Jack merely watched Parker expectantly. It was his line now.

Finally he cleared his throat and returned his attention to her file. "Very well. Here are your travel documents. You will be going to New Ecuador, as you requested. The Herkimer Placement Agency has been forwarded your records and will assist you in obtaining an apprenticeship contract on a ship. Your shuttle leaves in two hours. I wish you the best of luck for your future."

The scene, thank God, was concluding. Jack rose, collected the documents from his desk, and shook his hand. "Thank you, Sir," she said one last time. Still perfectly poised, perfectly correct.

She left the room with her head held high, pretending not to hear the angry muttered "Bitch!" one of them uttered just as the door swung closed.

She followed Mrs. Baxter down to the building entrance, where her bags were being loaded into the school's transport. Finally. She was almost free. She could begin building a life for herself, a life of her own. In fourteen more hours, she would officially be eighteen years of age, and her records would be permanently closed to the galaxy until her death. She'd be just another woman.

The thought carried her to the shuttle terminal, until she saw the stiff man with the "Kowalczyk" sign waiting for her. His expression, as she approached him with her baggage cart, was one of extreme distaste.

"Miss Kowalczyk," he began impatiently, "I am Matthew Saunders of the Herkimer Placement Agency. I will be accompanying you to New Ecuador. I want to be honest with you. With your history, it is going to be very difficult to find a ship willing to take you on as crew. Your association with Richard B. Riddick is not the sort of thing that inspires confidence. It will probably take a while to find a Captain willing to take the kind of risk you pose."

Understanding flooded through her and she realized that she'd been royally fucked. No wonder they'd let her leave a day early! It had been their backup plan, in case they couldn't convince her to become their stooge; they'd release her while her records were still public knowledge, so that everybody would know who she'd been. No clean slate for her. When her records were hidden from the public in fourteen hours, it would be too late. Everyone who counted would already know she was "Riddick's Bitch." They'd made sure of it.

Fucking bastards. She was well and truly screwed.