Summary: Beka knows her job. Double drabble, two hundred words.
I lean against the side of the Maru, watching Tyr and Rommie making nice with the locals. Making nice meaning waving large guns around and making threatening… threats. I wear black leather and keep my little gun in its holster and lean against my ship smoking a cigarette. My job is to look cool, seductive and dangerous and clean up the mess that my two psychopaths leave behind. This is because I am too screwed up to be diplomatic. I'm not heartless enough to go around shooting indiscriminately, however I'm not nice enough to smile prettily and go along with whatever I'm being told. That's not my fault, but it's why they take me along when they go blowing stuff up. I'm their anchor. I can always pilot them out of trouble. One day, I'm going to leave them on their own to die. But not today. So I lean against the Maru and wish I had some Flash, because then I could go kill things along with Tyr and Rommie. Of course, I don't. I light up another cigarette, and I can practically hear the theme music in the background as I slide my gun out of its holster.