<div style="background-color:#353535; border:1px solid black; margin:10px 10px; padding-left: 5px; padding-right: 5px;"><div style="text-align: justify;">"Yeah," Mal replied around a mouthful of vaguely moldy cracker. Bitch better be grateful after she'd gotten food and "fixed" his arm. She allowed herself a small sigh. It was hard being the brains of this whole 'get rich or die tryin'-operation. If she was honest with herself, she had not expected the 'get rich' part to be this difficult already. She wasn't going to be honest with Blake, though. All they had to do was get out of this cell, and Mal fully intended on <span style="font-style: italic">breaking</span> out if they weren't <span style="font-style: italic">let</span> out soon. Thinking about consequences was for losers and wimps.<br/><br/>After devouring her cracker, she began examining the door in a manner she hoped made it look like she knew what she was doing. She scratched at the wood around the hinges with her broken nails, knocked tentatively on the bars, all the while making little 'hmmm'-noises.<br/><br/>"How's the arm?" She asked Blake after a couple of minutes of inspection, but without turning around. If the door had weak points, Mal would sure as shit find them, and this inanimate object required her full attention in case it decided to try something funny.</div></div>