You weren't very engrossed in your father's work, you knew he did politics and that was about it. What you knew now was that he was laying dead somewhere with his murderer somewhere nearby, apparently they'd killed each other and that had gotten Sam to swing by your house and be the bear-er of bad news as he rested his hand on the hilt of his sword and stood in your doorway. You were small, 11, maybe 13 and he hated having to see your expression drop to a tear-filled cherub-faced expression as he explained the situation. Judging from caution your dad had shown, Sam was almost sure that'd you'd been fitted with nanomachines of your own, though he wasn't sure if you were even properly aware of what they were or what they did.

Sam shifted where he stood as he mulled over the idea of his career as a mercenary before eventually squatting to your level and almost joking stating:

"Can I expect you to be signing my paychecks from now on?" He promptly grimaced and regretted the joke. Holy shit he was bad at delivering bad news.