"Uhh..."

Mahone watched as the janitor walked off, running his hand thoughtfully through the mess of light brown hair atop his head. He supposed he couldn't blame the guy- it was a matter for station security, after all, not the custodial staff. Not everybody could be hero out of the old adventure stories. But here was a representative of station security, the young near-human warden, apparently with no clue as to what to do. John never made much of spacer during his time with the Fleet, but a decade of running a second-rate freighter with a lazy, seditious crew had taught him plenty about dealing with insubordinates. He heaved a sigh, and tried to remember what he could of the station's security protocol. Jack had only given it a cursory glance- he was a barman, after all, and dealing with dangerous criminals was not really part of his job description.

"Well, [i]begorra[/i], I don't rightly know what you or I ought to do." He began, thoughtfully, "but I reckon somebody's about to get tossed out an airlock over a paycheck. May as well see what we can do about it, huh? Maybe talk some sense into that [i]hombre[/i]."

Worst to worst, they might make a fight of it between the two of them. He had no idea how experienced the young lady was with that sort of thing- she was fresh out of a criminology degree program, were he to guess- but he'd seen a barfight or two. He'd even participated in a few. He looked himself over briefly. He wasn't terribly handsome, but his body was strong and his shoulders wide. A look of determination crossed his face, and his blue eyes shined with what could have been bloodlust. Maybe he'd read too many stories growing up, but this seemed like just the time for an everyman to engage in some noble, selfless heroics. The barman began to remove his apron and folded it under his arm.

"Yeah. Yeah, let's do this. Do you know where he is?"