Mai sat down on the wooden bench which formed the sole furnishing of her cell, except for a bucket which gave a much too clear indication of its intended use by its smell...
Arrested! And on her first run, too! It felt wrong for her to be so relaxed about it - there was the death penalty for drug smugglers, after all - but first of all, the whole situation had not sunk in completely yet. And secondly, she was not your random disposable drug mule. She was the daughter of a drug boss, and that meant protection. He was a loving father, and she knew he had his ways. Evidence could be "lost". Cops could develop odd money-related memory flaws, and there was a good chance she would walk.
However, she knew very well that this was only true as long as she did not talk more than necessary. All-too-talkative drug runners fell into the category of "evidence" themselves, and the drug cartels were all to happy to "lose" these morons by denying any connection to them and letting the hangman dispose of these failures. Father or not, he was also a businessman, and she knew that if she made the mistake of blabbing, he would not hesitate to cut off any ties to her. It was a tough law, but one she understood.
Still, that would not be her problem. She would not talk. Plain and simple. They could torture her, sure, but in the past, pain and suffering had only made her angrier, and she could strangle a water buffalo when she was really pissed off. Her physique - of average (short) height, stockier than the city folk, with the tanned skin of a farmer and long, black hair tied into a practical pigtail - showed what her rather delicate face hid: She was a farm girl through and through, and used to hardships. This was just another hardship she would have to endure...
Arrested! And on her first run, too! It felt wrong for her to be so relaxed about it - there was the death penalty for drug smugglers, after all - but first of all, the whole situation had not sunk in completely yet. And secondly, she was not your random disposable drug mule. She was the daughter of a drug boss, and that meant protection. He was a loving father, and she knew he had his ways. Evidence could be "lost". Cops could develop odd money-related memory flaws, and there was a good chance she would walk.
However, she knew very well that this was only true as long as she did not talk more than necessary. All-too-talkative drug runners fell into the category of "evidence" themselves, and the drug cartels were all to happy to "lose" these morons by denying any connection to them and letting the hangman dispose of these failures. Father or not, he was also a businessman, and she knew that if she made the mistake of blabbing, he would not hesitate to cut off any ties to her. It was a tough law, but one she understood.
Still, that would not be her problem. She would not talk. Plain and simple. They could torture her, sure, but in the past, pain and suffering had only made her angrier, and she could strangle a water buffalo when she was really pissed off. Her physique - of average (short) height, stockier than the city folk, with the tanned skin of a farmer and long, black hair tied into a practical pigtail - showed what her rather delicate face hid: She was a farm girl through and through, and used to hardships. This was just another hardship she would have to endure...
