Fiona and Jack were helping Shazza cut open another of the compartments when Paris made his breathless entry. Riddick had returned.

Shazza and Jack went on alert. Paris hung back nervously, too terrified to be any help. As Jack and Shazza moved to opposite sides of the doorway, weapons raised, Fiona crept to one of the rents in the wall, peeking out. Someone was approaching, and it wasn't Zeke. She glanced back at the others, weighing the possibilities.

Maybe I should just walk out and say "hi" to him.

Shazza whirled, the war-pick in her hands arcing down, even as Fiona was thinking it. Jack shouted a warning, barely in time to deflect Shazza's aim away from the dazed stranger standing in the doorway. The man stared at them, his eyes rolling like the eyes of a maddened horse.

"Oh my god, I thought I was the only one who got out of the crash ali--"

It was as far as he ever got. His blood splashed all over Shazza as Zeke shot him down, mistaking him for Riddick. In the aftermath, as four stricken survivors bent over the man's remains, Fiona's attention was arrested completely.

Riddick was sitting on top of the crash ship's hull, in Paris' chair. As she watched, he raised one of Paris' wine bottles in their direction, in a mocking toast, before taking a long swallow. She could feel his eyes on her.

Hide, she thought urgently, hoping somehow he would feel the weight of her thoughts. They'll kill you if they see you. Hide!

Almost as if in answer, Riddick stood, stretched once, and dropped lightly to the desert floor, disappearing behind the ship.

Fiona was deep inside the cargo bay when Zeke was torn apart. She didn't even know that anything had occurred until she heard the frenzied shouting. She emerged into the middle of a violent debate.

Johns and Fry were dragging Riddick's prone, unconscious body toward the crash ship. For one horrible moment, Fiona thought he might be dead.

"Just kill him," Shazza screamed. "Why the fuck won't you just kill him?"

Imam was attempting to restrain her, with very little luck. She broke free, darted forward, and kicked at Riddick's ribs. He groaned softly but did not regain consciousness. Fiona sidled over to Jack.

"What happened?"

"Riddick killed Zeke," Jack whispered urgently.

"What? How?"

"Cut him up or something, out by the graves."

Fry and Johns emerged from the ship, arguing. From what Fiona could overhear, Fry was asking why, in the light of how Zeke had died, there was no blood on Riddick's knife or clothing.

Good question, she thought to herself. It deserves some answers. Soon.

First, however, Shazza needed comforting. She vaguely remembered that Shazza had held her during the worst of her grief. However Zeke had died, whoever or whatever had killed him, the woman deserved the same comfort.

The debate swirled around for several minutes. Paris and Shazza wanted Riddick killed immediately. Imam and his boys retreated from the fray altogether, leaving Riddick's defense to Jack, Fry and -- oddly enough -- Johns. Holding Shazza in her arms, Fiona didn't feel able to speak up for Riddick, as much as she wanted to. Finally, Fry stalked off, muttering that she was going to question the man. A moment later, Jack sneaked after her.

Jack returned first, looking disgruntled. Fry emerged from the hold a few minutes later, deeply disturbed.

"We're going to find Zeke's body," she snarled at Johns when he began to question her.

Shazza stiffened in Fiona's arms, then stood and followed Fry. Soon Fiona was alone by the ship, watching the group troop off toward the pinnacles. After a minute, she turned back to the cargo container.

She found what she was looking for almost immediately, in Paris' locker -- a bottle of unflavored Absolut vodka. It would have to do. From her sister's locker, she fished out a packet of cotton cosmetic pads, then carried her finds back over to the crash ship. In the distance, she could see the others clustering around the hole where Zeke had died.

Riddick had been chained differently this time. The chains ran through one of the ship's ladders, then looped around some of the other bulkheads, forcing his arms wide. Oddly enough, he almost looked like he was sitting on a throne, rather than imprisoned. She took a moment to examine him in the filtered light. No blood.

"I didn't realize you'd studied to be a tepanyaki chef," she told him.

His head came up with a quizzical frown. "Pardon?"

"Well, that's the only way I can think of that you could have filleted somebody in less than a minute without getting a drop of blood anywhere on you. Takes talent, not to mention training. I didn't know they offered those courses in the prison system."

A sly smile spread across his face. "What can I say? I have more talents than even I know about."

"You didn't kill him." She wasn't asking; she knew.

"No," he replied softly, a new look of respect dawning on his dark features. "I didn't."

"So what did, then?"

"Something very, very fast," he answered after a moment. "Something much more dangerous than I've ever been."

Fiona stepped closer, walking over to his side.

Riddick stared in amazement as she approached. She put the package of cotton pads down, resting it on his thigh, and began to struggle with the top of the vodka bottle.

"That'll make me more thirsty, not less," he commented.

"It's not for drinking," she muttered, wrestling the top off. "It's for your cuts. Closest thing to rubbing alcohol or hydrogen peroxide I could find. Shame we lost the bloody med-locker."

Smart girl. He looked her over again. She was all business now, opening up the package of cotton pads and taking one out, then soaking it in the alcohol. He could study her at his leisure while she worked. Her skin glistened with perspiration from the hot suns. She'd put her hair up rather haphazardly, and he felt the sudden, intense urge to run his fingers along her throat, then bury them in her hair. The alcohol on his wounds was cold on his skin and stinging in his cuts, which somehow enhanced his arousal. His pants suddenly felt uncomfortably tight; he wondered if she noticed.

"You never told me your name," he murmured huskily.

She looked up at him, meeting his unprotected eyes for the first time. He watched as amazement crept across her face. "Fiona Cavanaugh. And you're Richard Riddick."

He let his voice drop lower, letting some of his arousal show. "Delighted to meet you."

For the first time since the crash, she smiled. It was a wan smile, but a real one. "A pleasure."

"You do realize that you're going to get in trouble with Johns again," he told her.

"Fuck him," she muttered, soaking another cotton pad.

"I'd rather not. He's not really my type. You, on the other hand..."

She laughed slightly. "I am not fucking him."

"That wasn't what I was suggesting."

Her eyes met his again, and he watched as a flush crept up her cheeks. It was interesting to watch her without the goggles, seeing the movements of her body heat as it shifted across her skin. If he looked carefully, he could almost imagine that he was seeing through her clothes.

He was gratified to hear the answering huskiness in her voice when she spoke. "Turn your head a little." He complied, and let her carefully swab the large bruise that Shazza had given him on the side of his skull. Gentle as she was, he still winced when she touched it. That one was going to hurt for days.

As she finished, he heard the sound of the merry little group returning. They sounded agitated.

"Sounds like they found Zeke's real killers. You'd better scoot. Don't want Johns yelling at you again, do we?"

"I don't want him doing anything to you, either."

Riddick smiled at the girl. "He won't. Don't worry about that."

The worry on her face was plain, and truly amazing to him. "You sure?"

She was still close to him. Abruptly he leaned forward and brushed her lips with his. "I'm sure. Now you'd better go."

She looked a little flustered as she gathered up her makeshift first aid kit and stood. She started out of the darkened room.

"Fiona." His voice was soft, but brought her to an abrupt halt nonetheless. She turned to look at him. "I'll see you soon," he told her, slipping as much promise into the words as he could.