"That'd be why we're here." He glared and, as he did, several of his closest, grossest, least couth friends decided they would join him.
"Well, gentlemen, let's get to business," Harry suggested in a tone that contained all the forced geniality he could muster. One of the ones near the port wall spat something thick and viscous onto the floor. How Harry maintained his smile, he wasn't sure.
"You two, take the crates. Don't let the feds spot you with those weapons." Badass Mc'Scarface ordered and stood up. Ab tattoos, why did every loser mercenary from here to the Beta quadrant think ab tattoos were the way to go? "Pretty boy, go and flash some id."
Normally, Harry didn't take much issue with being referred to as a pretty boy, but there was something grating about hearing it from this jerk. He ran his hands through his hair and shrugged nonchalantly.
"Fine," Harry agreed and moved toward the airlock. "Don't mess up the place while I'm gone."
"Shut it and do your job," Scarface snapped back. "And if anyone gives you trouble, make sure they don't."
Harry stared briefly and turned to leave. Someone behind him made a crass comment about what kind of trouble he'd be in, and Harry shuddered as he climbed out of the airlock. This crew was, decidedly, not his professional cup of tea. Harry crossed the bridge and was nearly knocked over by innocuous Goons One and Two as they hauled crates. When he stepped out into the main cargo hold, Harry glanced about and shook himself out.
Now to find security.