Damn it Feels Good To Be a Gangsta'.

A Real Gansta Type Player Plays His Cards Right.

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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.

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Martha was very pleased she'd had a over a day to get rid of the hangover that had hit her between the eyes the minute she'd woken up.

Tina had assured her - in between medically appropriate attempts to stop grinning - that mixing those painkillers with alcohol would have no permanent effect, but that it was no wonder she'd got so drunk, so fast. Martha had attempted to put in a good word for James, and then left, nursing her headache.

Now the headache was gone. And it was just her and this wretchedly handsome smuggler, until his trial could be arranged.

They might be there for *days*.

"Okay," she said abruptly, eyes still fixed on the wall above his head. "Thanks for saving my life. And I'm sorry I hit you" - well, a little bit sorry, anyway - "and I really will testify in your favour at the trial."

There. Now she just had to not look at him, ever.

"Joy and elation, you grant me all I want for in life," Harry retorted a little bit more snidely than was expressly called for.

Now, she was awkwardly not looking at him. It was, perhaps, worse than just outright staring. Harry rolled his eyes and dropped down on the cot-bench again. He kicked up his feet on the end of, it could liberally be referred to as furnishing, he supposed...and leaned back against the wall.

At least she'd finally thanked him even if it was woefully inappropriate.

Augh, stupid hormones. He was such an ass, she'd have to make sure he didn't talk if they-

No, they weren't ever going to because he was a prisoner. Augh!

Martha maintained her silence, and tried very hard not to think about what he could do with his mouth that would stop him from talking.

He'd snapped her back into silence, which was a decidedly mixed blessing. At the moment, time was crawling at a pace only a penal colony could keep up with. A penal colony like the one they were, undoubtedly, going to send him to. He wasn't sure if the bitterness or the indignity tasted worse, but it definitely quelled any desire he'd had for conversation.

Harry managed to maintain his seat for another half an hour, out of sheer bitterness, before his restlessness caught up with him and he stood up again. He paced the length of the cell once, then again, and again. It probably only took him a minute at a mild meander.

"That's it gorram it, after this, I'm officially out of Federated Space."

At least they'd have the decency to gun him down out in the Beta Quadrant. A shot in the leg was far less irritating than detention like this.

"Good," Martha snapped. "Go undermine our enemies instead of endangering civilians."

"In case you've so conveniently forgotten, the only civilian endangered today, was me," Harry replied just as hotly.

"Except for the civilians deaged by the dangerous substances your cohorts were transporting," Martha said, glaring at him.

Not that any of them were *exactly* civilians. But technically, certainly so,

"If by my cohorts, you mean that slavering pack of gorram hyenas who shot me, stuffed us in a closet, and left us for dead," Harry reminded her waspishly, "then I'd like you to note how I wasn't the one who wanted to put a bullet in a passerby over a cracked shipment."

Harry sniffed almost indignantly.

"I don't like to deal in danger, substances or otherwise," Harry added. "It's bad for business."

"Then why were you working with such dangerous men?" Martha asked. "We did some work from the cargo bay surveillance. We don't have firm ID on all of them, but the ones we could identify have long and nasty records."

"Because sometimes business is bad enough that I don't get a choice," Harry said. "They weren't near my preferred crew, and that job wasn't exactly my cup of ale.

"Still, when someone pays enough for a face-man, it's hard to argue," Harry added bitterly as he reminded himself of the cut he was, decidedly, not going to get.

"Honest work being entirely out of the question," Martha said, rolling her eyes.

"Honest work don't pay in freedom, Ensign Landon," Harry replied snidely. With a huff, he adjusted his jacket and turned to face the side wall.

"Just responsibility," Harry said and rolled his eyes.

"My family's honest and free," Martha said mildly. "And if you mean I'm not - which isn't an argument I totally agree with - you have to admit I chose this service. And I chose it freely, too."

Why was she talking to him? She wasn't going to change her mind, and he definitely wasn't going to change hers.

But guard duty was so boring. And he'd called her Ensign Landon, which she was chalking up as a victory.

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