(Untitled)

[last_furyan]

Characters: Richard B. Riddick and Open
Location: Apartment complex D
Planet: Coruscant
When: D1
What: What a nice boy, someone should give him some pants.
Rating: PG

Comments

[abovetwinsuns]

Jaina scowled deeply as her eyes scanned the letters and numbers on each of the apartment doorways, cursing herself in every Huttese swear she knew (a lot), when it was beginning to dawn on her that this wasn't where she was going to find either of her brothers. Though she was a Coruscanti native, she was also a native from, if the records at the Temple were correct, four thousand standard years in the future, and a city planet had obviously undergone some revisions in that time.

Her waves of anger and annoyance directed at the inanimate doorways halted for a moment when she saw a man wearing an outfit a little too skimpy to be intentional leave an apartment complex. Not for the first time, she was glad the the Order of this era had lent her some standard Jedi robes.

"Hey," she called, walking somewhat cautiously closer to him, "Any idea where Complex B or C are?"

[last_furyan]

Riddick squinted, silvered eyes picking up way too much of the ambient light. He was going to say that this kid? Not a mugger. Unless she was a fantastic actor. Body language was perfect for innocent bystander.

"I just got here myself," he said apologetically, in an easy, gravelly drawl. "All I know is that this one is D." That much had been on the keycard.

[abovetwinsuns]

"Sithspawn," she muttered, running a hand through her hair and looking at the doors in irritation. Naturally she'd be subject to extreme time travel only to get lost. Naturally.

"Wake up in a strange apartment with nothing on you?" Jaina asked dryly, "Yeah. Seems to be common around here." She frowned, noticing the way he was squinting, "Do you need optical enhancers?"

Tact was never something she excelled at.

[last_furyan]

So Riddick wasn't the only one. He wasn't counting it a bad thing yet-- he hadn't liked where he'd been before this-- the job, the uniform, the leading an army of death cultists who'd killed the last things in the 'verse he cared about.

Her abrupt question shoved him out of that little brood. Tact was something he used as a weapon, a tool-- not as a way of life. He laughed: he could appreciate a straight-forward approach. His grin came easy, and he lifted one hand to shade his watering eyes.

"I'm as enhanced as I need to be," he said. "Something to filter down the intensity, that's what I need. I had a pair of goggles, but whoever brought me here apparently didn't think I needed them."

[*waves hand* There was never another tag with a typo. Carry on.]