Capt Samuel Woolheater - Personal Log
Posted on 2026, Tue Mar 3rd, @ 1:28am by Captain Samuel Woolheater
1,398 words; about a 7 minute read
Samuel looked at his quarters now that they were completely empty. His personal things, which weren’t much to begin with, were gone. They didn’t even tell him where they put his things.
Something about not knowing would help.
It was like attending one’s own funeral except not a ghost just yet. When he left these quarters the lock behind would scramble and he’d not be able to get back in. He was wearing civilian clothes now, he was walking like Elias Mercer, talking like him…thinking like him.
Sam sat down in front of the LCARS terminal and recorded what he hoped wasn’t going to be his last log entry.
“Computer? Begin recording personal log.”
The terminal beeped and a new log entry began:
PERSONAL LOG - CAPT. SAMUEL R. WOOLHEATER, SFMC
USS HALO / STARBASE 113
Stardate 80601.7
Security Clearance: Eyes Only / Local Encrypt / Auto-Purge On Fail
(( Recording Start ))
…Alright.
This is Captain Samuel Woolheater. Starfleet Marine Corps.
And I’m recording this now because, if I’m honest, there’s a non-zero chance this is the last time I get to talk like myself.
I’m not making a speech. I don’t need one. I’m not writing a letter home. There isn’t anybody waiting on one. No wife, no kids, no porch light, no dog that knows the sound of my boots.
Just the job.
Lieutenant Voss built me a cover identity that’s better than most people’s real damn lives. Elias Mercer. Reconstruction specialist. Power grids and shield lattices. Environmental systems. The kind of man who walks into a room and sees load-bearing failure before he sees the exit.
That’s the trick. That’s the whole trick. Because Sam Woolheater sees exits.
I went to Medical today to get my tattoos covered. That was an experience. It’s funny, being told to erase yourself for a while. Not metaphorically. Literally.
The starbase doc wasn’t a Marine. She was recommended by Voss because she isn’t a blabbermouth. And, she didn’t talk like one. She had that tone people get when they’ve seen the aftermath but not the fight. She had a calm voice. Which, I’ll be honest, was good to hear …because I don’t know if I’ll ever hear a kind voice like that. She had steady hands. Good, y’know…in her line of work, I imagine…like it’s just another procedure on a list.
She scanned my arms and paused on the ink like it offended the machine.
“Captain,” she said, “I assume you understand why this is necessary.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She nodded once. “Tal Shiar don’t just look at faces. They look at history. Your skin tells a story. We can’t let it.”
Sam shook his head as he remembered,
Then she said something that stuck.
“If you’re captured, they’ll catalogue you like equipment. Every mark. Every scar. Every habit. Every inconsistency. They won’t interrogate you the way Starfleet imagines interrogation.”
I didn’t say anything.
She put the biofilm pack on the tray, clear as water, looked like nothing, like a lie that hadn’t decided what shape it wanted yet. Like a lie that was going to wrap me up in it…and I have to hold my breath until the job is done.
“Dermal masking,” she continued. “It’s good. It’ll fool casual scans. It’ll pass you through a door. But don’t mistake it for armor.”
I almost laughed at that. Almost.
Because armor is obsolete anyway, in the places that matter. And where I’m going…well…my armor will be casual clothes and my wits.
She started applying the layer. A cool sensation at first, then a faint heat like sun on skin. The ink went dull under it. Like the tattoos were being seen through fog. As the fog “lifted” the ink was masked underneath. I could feel…everything. I’ve got pretty furry arms too and this stuff just…melted on like buttah.
She worked in silence for a minute. Then she asked, quiet:
“Do you have a next of kin listed?”
I held my eyes forward.
“I got a chain of command.”
She didn’t push. She just nodded like she’d heard that answer before. And then I wondered, howe many other “assets” came through her front door?
Then she said the part the Trill Lieutenant didn’t say out loud, because Voss lives in probabilities and I live in consequences.
“The Tal Shiar will try to own you if they can,” she told me. “If they can’t… they’ll try to break you into something useful. And if you aren’t useful, they’ll make an example out of you.”
There was no fear in her voice. That’s what made it worse. It wasn’t intimidation. It was medical triage language applied to a human being.
She finished my forearm and moved to the next section.
“Last thing,” she said. “If you come back… don’t try to be brave about what happened. Come to Medical. Even if you’re not bleeding. Even if you think you’re fine.”
“If”
That one word said it all.
“If”…..it stuck in my brain and for, I think, the first time in a long ass time…I felt like I was already dead. I swallowed once.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She sealed the application and stepped back. “There. Your skin tells a different story now.”
I looked down at my arms. Clean. Almost normal. Almost civilian. Like I’d never been anywhere worth remembering.
I met Commander Riley at the bar…day or two ago. I barely know these officers. And I know…this is going to sound…either crazy….or maudelin…
Sam leaned forward as he thought about it.
They’re betting their careers on me. Dead captains complicate reports.
And something else…it hit me, real quiet:
My tats…they’re me. My story. My life.
The ink wasn’t vanity.
It was proof.
Proof I existed.
Proof I served.
Proof I belonged to something.
Even if nobody was writing me letters back.
Now it’s gone, temporarily, but the idea of it being gone in a more permanent way… that sits wrong in my chest.
I walked out of Medical wearing a jacket that doesn’t mean anything. No rank on it. No authority. No “sir.” No “Captain.” No Marine…Just fabric. Just plausible.
And I practiced the posture. The smaller stride. The half-turned stance. The habit of looking at vents and doors and stopping myself.
Elias Mercer doesn’t scan rooms for threats. He scans rooms for failures. So that’s what I’m going to do.
Then, I remembered something. It came back to me right when I needed it too. The uniform doesn’t make the Marine. I am who I am…because I’m a Marine, and Marines adapt. We become what the mission needs. We don’t get precious about it. We don’t get romantic about it.
If Reacher is asking me to do this, then I’m going. I’d follow that man into bad weather without asking what season it was.
There’s something clean about that.
If this goes bad, I don’t want anybody making it into a tragedy. This isn’t a tragedy. It’s an operation.
Sam shrugged as he looked into the camera.
And if it goes good, if we get proof, if we pull Torvak out of his chair, if we cut the Tal Shiar line feeding him,
…then it was worth it.
Not because anybody clapped. Because that’s what Marines do. Because this is what I’m gonna do.
We go where the fight is going to be, before it gets there. We put our bodies in the gap. We do the part nobody wants, and we do it quiet.
And if I don’t make it back?
Then I didn’t make it back.
(( Pause ))
I don’t have anything poetic to add. This isn’t a message to be found in a bottle.
Riley. Voss. You built the plan. I’ll carry it. Admiral Reacher…Torvak; we’re going to get him.
This is just a record that I was here.
Captain Samuel Woolheater. Starfleet Marine Corps.
(( Recording End ))
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