(Writer’s Room, USS Octavia E. Butler)
Jania Nis had nearly forgotten about the second time Samuel Woolheater saved her life. The first time stayed with her in the form of nightmares, or accidental glimpses at the scar on her arm, the one no dermal regenerator had entirely fixed. The Herald had been unlike anything she’d ever encountered, or even expected to encounter, and its memory sometimes seemed like it would never fade.
So when Sam stopped some mercenaries from putting a knife to her throat, it seemed rather tame compared to that.
Besides that, she had tried her best to put the mercenary incident behind her, like with many of the minor acts of violence she had been exposed to in her time in Starfleet.
That’s perhaps why she never really took the time to thank him for saving her. It was only after finally getting some downtime this shore leave that she really dwelled on it, and it dawned on her that even if she needed to tell herself that the mercenary situation hadn’t affected her, what Sam had done was important and should’ve been recognized.
Nis: Hey Sam! Over here!
Woolheater: Response
As he approached her booth, she adjusted the three things she had on the table: one silver box and two glasses of Southern Comfort.
Nis: Sit down, sit down.
Woolheater: Response
Nis: Just sit down already. Here, have some of this. We read online that marines like it.
Woolheater: Response
Nis: We’d hoped to see you more during shore leave. We got pretty busy …
Woolheater: Response
Jania took a sip, and her face brightened.
Nis: This is like alcoholic syrup. It’s great.