Damn it Feels Good To Be a Gangsta'.

A Real Gansta Type Player Plays His Cards Right.

See me rollin' - Timeline
It begins, too much sun on Venutia.

Distress calls, work every time.

No one can say no; gangsta's roll with the flyest bitches.

The man is always patrollin', trying to catch me riding dirty.

A little chat with my ladies, we have work.

Let's start this game, chat me up a pilot.

I don't know how to say this, but, I'm important. People know me.

Sculpting my guns, no, we don't need the grenades.

The clink.
Beat Up (Far)
Harry flopped on his back in the holding cell, rolled onto his side, rolled onto his other side, lamented the state of the cot...or bench, whichever it was, and decided that standing was preferable.

He hadn't registered in the system yet, or if he had, they hadn't told him about it. No one had come storming in calling him Harry and that was a fact with which he took no issue at all.

That blonde woman, one who was quickly becoming the bane of his continued comfort, was assigned to guard him. Stony silence was alright, for some, but it irritated Harry. Despite that, he had no urge to chit chat with the woman who'd managed to cost him his freedom and his job contract, and had slugged him in the eye for all his troubles.

Right ungrateful, that one.

Still, without talking, he was left with a mighty powerful amount of nothing to do.

A New Crowd, A New Paycheck.
Not kidding
"So this is where we're making the drop?" Harry huffed and adjusted his jacket with a quick, sharp tug. The man next to him was imposing and rougish in that scar-across-your-face-that-makes-you-look-like-a-badass sort of way. He sneered back at Harry.

"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.

Respectable Joes. [Wobbletime, other side of the planet.]
Backlight (Close)
Lordy almighty, these crates were a lot easier to hoist in zero gravity.

Harry gripped the edges of one of the boxes, lifted with his lower back and shoulders, and slid it into place atop its brothers. His back gave out a right ridiculous twinge of protest which he answered with a flurry of language unbefitting a man of legitimate business. Magda shouted something smart at him and he rolled his eyes.

"Git' all this up and out of the bug, Benny'll git her up and workin' an' we can drop all this off at Joes."

It really didn't matter who he shouted that in front of. These docks weren't exactly known for their reputability. 'Sides, every other sidewindin' jackass this side of the third moon was busy running his own gigs.

Harry tromped back into the bay to get the second dolly and the personal affects boxes. Less worthwhile than the medical gear, but thrice as satisfying to rip off. Damn if that pool table didn't look nice in the corner.

Box of lamps, box of classic leatherbound books, box of...what in the sam hell?

"Well lookie here..." Harry proclaimed quietly and plucked a lacy black undergarment out from the space between the boxes. If that wasn't just a delicious looking piece of fabric, well he'd be hog tied. Withough pausing to think, Harry dropped the tidbit in his pocket and continued about his tasks.

"Ladies we don't want to be late, none, an' make a bad impression," Harry called into the ship.

Five Finger Discount. [Technically, early Day 2.]
Space Suit (Helmet)
Now it was true, draining all the air off a ship did make it a might harder to navigate. But really, oxygen, heat, and gravity were for suckers, and Harcourt Fenton Mudd hadn't spent five years as a Salvage Entrepreneur for nothing.

A good kick with a magnetic boot had the aft airlock propped open and the power cut. He could see the Lightning Bug through the thresholds, running lights off but main windows a glow. Their warp containment was shot, but they didn't really need it at the moment. A tether launched from the back of the ship, and connected with the side of the outer-airlock threshold. If the ship moved when the line hit it, Harry didn't notice.

True, they could just drift it all straight into the bug at this angle and distance, but snapping it to a zip line just made Harry feel better about the whole proposition.

Ruth and Eve had done a bang up job getting everything moved. Everything expensive had been well hidden, and everything cheap was being rounded up while Harry dealt with everything expensive. Magda was on the bug, playing catch the crates of medical equipment, and life was good.

Ultimately, they had three hours before the Starfleet Engineering core was supposed to be on the ship, and five hours before they'd actually show up. Naturally, Harry took his sweet time hooking crates to the line and sending them over to the bug.

"Maggie, you be careful with these," Harry warned over the comm in his helmet. "Ain't a one of them worth less than' a hundred thousand, gold pressed."

Cards. (Harry, Open)
Starfleet had no taste, it was a fact, but it was hard to keep from smirking about his digs while walking around the ship. This suite was about half as nice as it was worth, nothing but cheap junk. But listening to feds bitching left and right about close quarters and room-mates, was fucking hi-larious.

Harry threw his feet up on the table and stretched out on his couch.

Needed something to do, though. Being superior was only so much fun.

It was about time for the girls to drop in. Just needed to occupy his time till' they did, and lord knew he wasn't going back to the Gym for a while. Still couldn't wash all the grime off himself, like it were burned right in there. Harry fished his deck of cards out of his pocket and shuffled them.

Oh look, a meme.

Well don't that just beat all? How'd that happen...Ladies?

The gun show, you have tickets to it. (Open.)
Uh duh
Seriously, though, what kind of fucking parents name both their kids James?Collapse )

The gym was packed. Half the machines were taken, the sparring mats were covered in sweaty security ensigns, and there was a yeoman doing Yoga.


Harry stretched his arms up and eyed the nearest treadmill. All he'd have to do was work up a light sweat, then the showers, then paydirt.

And seriously, the sooner he got out of this Starfleet courtesy tanktop and jogging pant combo, the better. Feds had no taste at all when it came to fabrics.

Alcove Shopping (Harry, TOSKirk)
Science labs, locked.

Medical labs, locked.

Botany, unlocked, but all the good stuff was in a cabinet with three card readers.

Gorram'it, a man could only pretend to be looking for the bathroom for so long before it started to be suspicious.

Aside from the pool table in Rec 4, there wasn't a single fucking thing on this ship worth stealing. He'd have to start gutting the walls to make a profit. No, wait, he hadn't found an unsecured route to the cargo-bays yet. Maybe one of the prints he'd lifted of the equipment, or that pilot kid's pool cue would do the trick.

Had to get on that, really.

Harry sighed as the door to botany shut behind him. Nothing but space-flowers. Not something he could fence worth half a damn. Cost more to transport it then he'd make.

Where else was left?

"I wonder if this ship has a lounge," he murmured to himself. Some real liquor, now that'd be worth stealing.

Friends don't let friends drink and fly.
Message to Senior Pilot, Enterprise: ...routed to Hikaru Sulu (pilotforflowers)

Hello there, m'good man! Greetings and Salutations!

Who might I be? Well, Captain Leo Francis Walsh, Captain and Pilot of the ship you're graciously towing. I had a recent sit down and chat with your Captain and he told me that we might get along, quite keenly.

As I have nary a friend on board, would you care to have a beverage or two...particularly of the alcoholic persuasion. And perhaps some cards? Pool? Discussions about the new XR525-b Engine class?

--Leo Walsh


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