There wouldn't be no trouble except for that king-shit cop!

[THE LAST VOYAGES] WARDEN APPLICATION: John Rambo

Thu, 15 May 2025 19:59:50 GMT

User Name/Nick: Liz
User DW: this journal works!
E-mail/Plurk/Discord/PM to a character journal/alternate method of contact: PM to this journal is ok, plurk: madwomanwithabox (barely used), Discord: madwomanwithabox (most reliable form of contact)
Other Characters Currently In-Game: None, but just a reference point, you may know me from previous muses such as Allison Argent (TEEN WOLF, Warden w/graduated inmate) and Opie Winston (Sons of Anarchy, Warden w/o graduated inmate)--what can I say? I missed it here. ;P <3

Character Name: John James Rambo
Series: RAMBO movie franchise (please note that holes in the movie character's backstory will be plugged by information from the original David Morrell novel where necessary)
Age: approx. 36-37 (35 at the end of the first film, comes from between movies)
From When?: Between FIRST BLOOD and FIRST BLOOD PART II--after the events of the first movie, John is court martialed and sentenced to at least eight years in prison, from what we know in canon. John will be approached by the Admiral approximately one year into his sentence.

Warden Justification: In the events of the first film, John is put through hell for the simple reason that he's a badly broken man. He's a veteran of a horrific war nobody needed to fight, some people actually envy his valor when he can barely make it through the day due to debilitating PTSD, and on top of that he's a survivor of childhood abuse. FIRST BLOOD badly retraumatized John, time in prison with a steady and reliable routine help him to establish a framework upon which to rebuild his mental stability. It's not much, but it helps him find some focus...yet through the violent events of the first film, we see multiple times that John is capable of horrible things yet never crosses the line even when it would benefit him. Meeting a young boy in the woods while being pursued, he disarms him and lets him go. Rather than killing a reserve soldier transporting arms, he holds him hostage and releases him when he's been taken a safe distance. Even while actively being pursued by deputies and hunting dogs, he uses his combat skills to injure, restrain, and secure his foes but does not kill them.

He's been molded into a soldier, a killer as a teen, his psyche fractured, pushed to the breaking point, has broken, and yet places enough value on his humanity and his morals even past the point of no return there are things he will not do. A man like that is someone the Admiral can use. John has his issues, but he can be a good and productive warden because he is, in his life, in just the place where others who need him are. Going to dark personal places, losing control, and still being drawn to or flat out choosing the better path is something he can share with others to guide them to graduation--and in doing so, find his own personal healing through the revelation that he's not the cheap and disposable weapon he believes himself to be.

Item: John's warden item will be his dog tags.

Abilities/Powers: John is bog standard human, but has elite military training as a Green Beret (American Army, Special Forces) in guerilla warfare, munitions, hand to hand combat, wilderness survival, field medicine, languages, and specialized transport (some piloting and heavy machine operations).

Wardening Strategies and Philosophies: In general, John will be a bit of a ghost for the most part. He keeps to himself, he's quiet, and pretty introverted. A lot of this, however, is by circumstance: thanks to his PTSD, he hasn't socialized much in years and struggles to form relationships. He craves human connection, however, so he will be fare more unobtrusive than antisocial. He'll want to help where he can, get a job to stay busy, and welcome any socialization offered, although he will likely not take the initiative very much at first.

This will also apply to being a warden: he will overall be a soft touch. Having been pulled out of prison and treated as less than for countless reasons, he'll focus on dealing with his inmate as an equal. Extend the hand of friendship, help in the day to day, stay open to conversation and communication. He'll give his inmate every benefit of the doubt and shred of support, but not to a fault.

His biggest flaw will be his skill at violence and his reluctance to use it. He will meet force with force, but default to diffusing a situation rather than escalating to a fight. While he is inherently vengeful, his inmate will take a position in his head as being 'his,' of his ilk and his inner circle and John will treat them as such. Harm to them he will treat as harm to him, but again he will always work in their best interest first. If that means diplomacy, he will go there. If violence is necessary for their genuine benefit, he won't hesitate.

That loyalty and refusal to diminish another person will be an asset to anyone with trust issues: it's going to be real clear, real fast, that he's reliable to his own detriment. Victims of circumstance or those who need an impetus to change will find that in John and his loyalty. He sees himself very much as a tool, a weapon, an instrument, but he's taken great comfort in being a tool for positive change, which will help him to better reclaim his sense of self. Those with similar issues and conditions would be good fits for him as inmates, a little less so with those formerly in positions of power they have abused. His own inherent trust issues may produce too much inner conflict to build a rapport, but then again they could result in some interesting relationship dynamics.

Deal: A full pardon and a fresh start. He's...not so sure what that means yet, but he basically wants to get out of prison and live his life in unmolested peace.

History: Wikipedia link which includes information from both the novel and the films. As previously noted, John's history is taken primarily from the films, but where a conflict arises or a fact is missing, I will be pulling from the novel for exclusively personal background information primarily connected to his heritage, his upbringing, and his life prior to his participation in the Vietnam War. I will also include headcanons pertaining to personal attitudes, personality, and sexuality, but 99% of all headcanons do derive from concrete evidence in the source material (see: eating issues, it's a running joke that John Rambo is too tough to eat because he never eats or drinks in the films. He is, however, offered food in the second movie but rejects it, notably he is in public and on assignment in enemy territory. As such, I've written in that he's developed severe anxiety about eating in public due to publicly seeking out nourishment, and the resulting events of FIRST BLOOD.)

Sample Network Entry:

[VIDEO; open]

[The man who appears on the network looks...rough. Literally, rough: his face is flushed and streaked in a mix of sweat and grime, wild black curls frizzing near his temples and forehead.]

Hi. Uh...

[He smiles sheepishly, shrugging.]

Sorry, haven't been real social in a while. I, uh--I was told introducing myself was a good idea. Name's John, and the--Admiral, that guy, he brought me here to--

[His smile grows a little, but the humor in the way he huffs with silent laughter is...not cold, but definitely edged in something a little bit sharp.]

--be a warden. Anyway, I don't know much about this place, but uh, there a med bay or a first aid station or something? Nothing big, just a splinter's all. Doesn't even hurt.

[A lie, but not intentional. It's just how he was trained, after all: to ignore pain.]

Also, I'm curious: anybody here doing the warden thing...get picked out of a really weird place for the job? Just wondering. Uh...thanks in advance? Sorry, just--gonna go clean up before I find the patch job.

[And because John Rambo is unaccustomed to this technology, he sets his device down, unaware he hasn't turned it off properly. It's at an odd angle, and nothing untoward is seen except for what appears to be the inside of a battered old Navajo hogan.

That, of course, and the prison blues John Rambo is wearing as he walks off screen to head for his new, private bathroom for shower.]

Sample RP: Friend? Foe? Future annoyance? He's still trying to decide, or Warden John meets Vincent.

Special Notes: Take 2, Electric Boogaloo. XD Thanks again, guys! <3

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[THE LAST VOYAGES] APPLICATION: John Rambo

Wed, 07 May 2025 21:56:34 GMT

User Name/Nick: Liz
User DW: this journal works!
E-mail/Plurk/Discord/PM to a character journal/alternate method of contact: PM to this journal is ok, plurk: madwomanwithabox (barely used), Discord: madwomanwithabox (most reliable form of contact)
Other Characters Currently In-Game: None, but just a reference point, you may know me from previous muses such as Allison Argent (TEEN WOLF, Warden w/graduated inmate) and Opie Winston (Sons of Anarchy, Warden w/o graduated inmate)--what can I say? I missed it here. ;P <3

Character Name: John James Rambo
Series: RAMBO movie franchise (please note that holes in the movie character's backstory will be plugged by information from the original David Morrell novel where necessary)
Age: approx. 35 as of the end of the first film
From When?: Just before the end of the film--a gunshot in the final scene before he's taken into custody, rather than missing him, will hit him to end his life and bring him to the Barge.

Inmate Justification: What I'm looking for here is something healthier than what he gets in canon, which is basically hard time in prison where he gets to where he needs to be as a warden. XD At the end of the film, John--who is already struggling with debilitating PTSD and is a survivor of childhood abuse--has been badly retraumatized, struggles with severe depersonalization, and believes he's utterly alone with no one to trust. Working with a warden will make him realize that people do care, and connect back to his own humanity so he can be better equipped to help others.

Arrival: As I really wanted John to be a warden, but feel he got a rough shake in the movies, I want to give him a more comfortable time rehabilitating, so the Admiral will invite him to the Barge for his second chance, hoping to get a future warden out of the deal. But shhhh, don't tell John. XD

Abilities/Powers: John is bog standard human, but has elite military training as a Green Beret (American Army, Special Forces) in guerilla warfare, munitions, hand to hand combat, wilderness survival, field medicine, languages, and specialized transport (some piloting and heavy machine operations). He won't have his favorite weapons on hand, and canonically has been cooperative in a prison environment, so his military skills will be handily managed with standard prison means and methods like confinement in Zero, among other things.

Inmate Information: John grew up in an abusive home rife with addiction: mother died when he was young, father was an alcoholic that nearly killed him when he was young. John's deep ties to his mother's people (Helga Rambo was of Navajo descent) allowed him to defend himself with bow and arrow by shooting his father. He was otherwise a good kid, drafted to Vietnam, and given his early training in hunting, survival, and archery, he was recruited to serve in Special Forces as part of an elite unit during the Vietnam War. Through that time, save for his direct comrades he was treated very much as a weapon, an object, a disposable commodity. Even his direct CO spoke of and to him in this fashion, and yet this man ended up being the closest thing John Rambo has to a father figure.

During the war, John did a lot of killing and caused a lot of harm, but the highlights all focus on forms of self harm and self sacrifice, and he later received countless rewards for valor and bravery including several Purple Hearts and later the Medal of Honor. He was a POW during the War, and forced to engineer his escape by giving himself dysentery, yet was later redeployed. He also bore witness to the horrific death of a comrade by explosive ordinance, a man he saw as brother and friend.

Directly before the action of FIRST BLOOD, John also discovered he was the last surviving member of his unit, which along with leaving him feeling absolutely deserted means he has not yet grieved the loss of a man who was his best friend {and strictly via headcanon regarding John Rambo being bisexual, potentially someone John was in love with}. He later went on to assault multiple sheriff's deputies after an arrest for vagrancy, stole a military vehicle, destroyed a lot of public property via explosives, shot the sheriff of a small town, and was publicly accused of murdering one of the aforementioned deputies.

It's noteworthy that the events leading to these assaults began with his vagrancy arrest, which began when the local sheriff of the town he was passing through quite literally ran him out of town and picked him up on charges when he tried to return. John's behavior was unremarkable at the time and he was posing no threat save that he was essentially homeless. Carrying all his worldly possessions and a bedroll, he walked into town, was passively forced to take a ride from the sheriff, and when asking about a place to eat was told to find somewhere in the next town over.

John's behavior defaults to action and strength, but not to violence per se. Though physically gifted and a combat virtuoso, he is also highly intelligent and meek by nature. He also suffers from severe and likely untreated PTSD. He craves companionship but has been denied human contact due to his condition for years, struggles to hold a traditional job due to his illness, and is quite literally starved for positive physical contact: few occasions in his life have brought him touch that wasn't derived from the war, a fight, or other situations where someone wanted to harm him or kill him. The worst of his issues will be related to trust and self image, but basic decency and physical human contact will go a long way towards making inroads with him.

Path to Redemption: John needs to reclaim his dignity, understand his mental illness better, reconnect with his humanity, and learn to trust again. The path to this will be complex, but easy. He's touch starved to the point where human contact is both a pain point and a source of physical discomfort, so innocent touches or physical affection are something he needs to acclimate to. Initially, John will default to passive yet violent reactions to negative situations: arm himself or lash out, but even if combative he will default to escape, distance, and restraint over trying to actively hurt someone.

The best way to connect and rehabilitate this man is, quite simply, to befriend him. Encourage personal connections ranging from romance to poker or drinking buddies. His ideal warden will become his friend, and milestones will include displays of physical vulnerability like turning his back on them as well as personal admissions to his feelings and his problems. Treating him well and letting him contribute something to the community beyond his military training will remind him that he's a human being with needs and wants, and that he's entitled to have those needs and wants.

Critically (CW: very mild disordered eating habits) through a combination of headcanon and evidence in the films, John has a phobia of eating and drinking in public due to what happened to him in FIRST BLOOD. Seeking out nourishment resulted in what happened, and as such he's going to be incredibly skittish about using the dining hall, likely either struggling to nourish himself or sneaking food to his cabin in order to eat. A clear milestone, and possibly a signal of imminent graduation, will be the first time he's comfortable enough to eat a snack or small meal in the dining hall without illness, hesitation, or struggle.

History: Wikipedia link which includes information from both the novel and the films. As previously noted, John's history is taken primarily from the films, but where a conflict arises or a fact is missing, I will be pulling from the novel for exclusively personal background information primarily connected to his heritage, his upbringing, and his life prior to his participation in the Vietnam War. I will also include headcanons pertaining to personal attitudes, personality, and sexuality, but 99% of all headcanons do derive from concrete evidence in the source material (see: eating issues, it's a running joke that John Rambo is too tough to eat because he never eats or drinks in the films. He is, however, offered food in the second movie but rejects it, notably he is in public and on assignment in enemy territory. As such, I've written in that he's developed severe anxiety about eating in public due to publicly seeking out nourishment, and the resulting events of FIRST BLOOD.)

Sample Network Entry:

[The small device he's given on his arrival is strange, but not completely alien. It's about the size of a radio, but far slimmer, and it has video. Little like one of those pocket TV's or something, and it doesn't have any knobs.

The whole thing is Star Trek as hell, in more ways than one--and John isn't sure what he feels about the fact that it gives him a weird sense of hope.

When he switches on the feed, the rest of the Barge is treated to the view of a man who has visibly been through hell. He's pretty rugged looking, and not just because his face is streaked in sweat, grime, tears, and a little dried blood seeping from a length of burlap tied around his head to staunch a wound. His eyes are a touch bloodshot, shadowed from a lack of sleep over the last twenty four to forty eight hours by his reckoning, and hollow in a way that's hard to describe.

This is a man who's seen the worst of...everything...and it shows.

He's laser focused on the camera, so tense he's nearly vibrating--yet his expression is just a little distant. When he speaks, his voice is quiet, soft, and impossibly deep. He exudes a quiet, gentle, almost meek aura yet is seething just beneath the surface with adrenaline and emotion.]

This is John Rambo, and, uh...I know why I'm here. The...Admiral?...he picked me up.

[He pauses, a huff of air that's only just audible the only indicator of a fairly bitter chuckle.]

Guess it beats the hell out of a federal prison. Least if the 'cell' is any indication.

[Which, if he admits it to himself, is...actually weirdly comforting. The mine entrance where he made camp during the whole fucking manhunt, minus the roast boar and a lot of the grime. The fire pit is some kind of enclosed thing so he can't burn down the joint, with a pretty comfortable looking twin bed and a few other amenities, a healthy amount of rubble blocking any exit but the door in front of him which stands where the open mouth of mine would have otherwise been--all dark, cool stone and hard floor with bits of comfort he doesn't really think are necessary.

They are...well, nice, though.]

I just--I don't know exactly how this all works. What's the SOP around here? Wanna avoid a run in with whatever passes for guards around here if I can help it. Uh...thanks in advance.

Sample RP: John visits the infirmary.

Special Notes: Please feel free to let me know if I've missed anything--I've been away for quite some time! :P

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[notepad] PUMPKIN HOLLOW OPERA

Wed, 16 Apr 2025 19:35:50 GMT

1921
THE SOLDIER: John Rambo
THE COMMANDER:

[LIGHTS UP; SCENE: SHERIFF'S STATION]

[Enter stage left THE SOLDIER, bullet belt slung across his chest. He is clad in jeans and tank top, a scrap of burlap tied around his head. Filth and dried blood streak his face and bare skin, a set of dog tags hanging around his neck. He is tearing open cabinets, pulling out guns, batons, boxes of bullets and heaping them on a desk in the dimly lit office/operations area.]

[Enter stage right THE COMMANDER, cast in shadow. His stature is square and solid but far removed from action, leaner than THE SOLDIER. The music swells--not the orchestral strings and drums of the classical alone, but punctuated by the harsh wail of an electric guitar.]

THE COMMANDER

You did everything to make this private war happen! You've done enough damage!

[THE SOLDIER continues stockpiling more weapons. His eyes are wide, staring--both somewhere else and present in the moment against his will. He is still on task, still on the mission. A heavy bass line is playing, punctuated by the occasional kick of a bass drum.]

THE COMMANDER

This mission is over, Rambo! Do you understand me?...Look at them out there! Look at them! If you won't end this now, they will kill you. Is that what you want? It's over Johnny. It's over!

[THE SOLDIER whirls on THE COMMANDER. The guitar squeals again, with distortion--undiluted pain and fury.]

THE SOLDIER

NOTHING IS OVER! NOTHING!!... You just don't turn it off!

[THE SOLDIER begins to pace slowly, a caged animal looking for a way out when there is none to be had. It's barely audible, but voices are running under the sound of his dialogue, a chorus of shades singing in time with the ambient melody playing just beneath his words. Gradually, they grow louder, more audible, more discernible...over and over as the volume grows...]

THE CHORUS

You didn't hear it
You didn't see it
You never heard it, not a word of it
You won't say nothing to no-one

THE SOLDIER

It wasn't my war! You asked me, I didn't ask you! And I did what I had to do to win! But somebody wouldn't let us win! And I come back to the world and I see all those maggots at the airport, protesting me, spitting. Calling me baby killer and all kinds of vile crap! Who are they to protest me, huh? Who are they? Unless they've been me and been there and know what the hell they're yelling about!

[THE CHORUS is gradually joined by THE COMMANDER, soft but clear, joining THE SOLDIER'S speech in quiet, reasonable song without drowning him out. THE COMMANDER separates from THE CHORUS to speak in similar tones.]

THE COMMANDER

It was a bad time for everyone, Rambo. It's all in the past now.

[THE CHORUS divides now, THE COMMANDER rejoining their refrain. The other half begins a new melody between each line, less a song and more a chant that remains quiet, overpowered by the refrain but unquestionably clear]

THE CHORUS ONE

You didn't hear it
You didn't see it
You never heard it, not a word of it
You won't say nothing to no-one

THE CHORUS TWO

We're not gonna take it
We're not gonna take it
We're not gonna take it
We're not gonna take it

THE SOLDIER

For you! For me civilian life is nothing! In the field we had a code of honor, you watch my back, I watch yours. Back here there's nothing!

THE COMMANDER

You're the last of an elite group, don't end it like this.

THE SOLDIER

Back there I could fly a gunship, I could drive a tank, I was in charge of million dollar equipment, back here I can't even hold a job parking cars!

[The guitar squeals again as THE SOLDIER slams one of the guns onto the desk and staggers back, overcome. He's no longer in the present, but worlds away as he slumps to the floor, back pinned to the wall. His broad, muscular shoulders heave with sobs he can't stifle, his voice is cracking.]

THE SOLDIER

I can't--I just--oh, my God, where is everybody? Oh, God...

[THE SOLDIER drops his head into his hands and begins to sob. The spotlight narrows onto him, the figure of THE COMMANDER no longer visible as he weeps bitterly--harsh wails of fear, of grief, of pain. THE CHORUS TWO is now silent, the original refrain of THE CHORUS ONE taking over completely, a whisper in the background.

THE SOLDIER lifts his head, chest heaving but seemingly, just barely, calmer. Beneath his words, a melody plays--an instrumental of the refrain.]

THE SOLDIER

I...I had a friend--it was Danforth. I had all these guys, man. Back there, I had all these fucking guys, who were my friends. 'Cause back here, there's nothing...remember Danforth?...He wore this black headband, and I took one of those magic markers, and I wrote on it, and it said 'if found, mail to Las Vegas'--'cause we were always talking about Vegas, and this fuckin' car, this red '58 Chevy convertible, he was talking about this car; he said we were gonna cruise 'til the tires fall off...

[THE SOLDIER pauses, breath hitching with a fresh sob...and his voice lifts, quavering...]

THE SOLDIER

...see me...

[He starts to sob as he speaks again, pausing between sobs to sing.]

THE SOLDIER

...we were in this bar in Saigon, and this kid comes up, this kid carrying a shoe-shine box. And he says, uh, "Shine, please, shine!" I said "No." He kept askin', yeah, and Joey said "Yeah." And, I went to get a couple beers...

...feel me...

...and the--the box, the box was wired, and he opened up the box--fucking blew his body all over the place. And he's laying there, and he's fuckin' screaming, there's pieces of him all over me, just...

[THE SOLDIER tears the bandolier off his body and flings it across the room with a piercing wail of song before he continues speaking--shouting, screaming.]

THE SOLDIER

...TOUCH ME!...

...and I'm tryin' to pull him off, you know, and I--I--my friend! That's all over me! I got blood and everything and I'm tryin' to hold him together I put him together, his fuckin' insides keep comin' out, and nobody would help! Nobody'd help, and he's sayin' "Hey, I wanna go home! I wanna go home!" He keeps calling my name! "I wanna go home, Johnny! I wanna drive my Chevy!" I said "With what?! I can't find your fuckin' legs! I can't find your legs!"...

[THE SOLDIER dissolves into harsh sobbing that goes on and on and on. THE CHORUS never stops singing.]

THE CHORUS

Oh, how absurd it all seems
Without any proof
You didn't hear it
You didn't see it
You never heard it, not a word of it

[Gradually the sobs quiet, THE SOLDIER huddled on the floor, his head in his hand, eyes screwed shut against the moment he is reliving, one of many he has been reliving for days. For weeks, months, years, all coming to a head in one instant brought on by two full days of being forced to return to the battlefield he's never been able to escape from--the one that's left him so isolated he came to this place starved for physical touch to a point where he broke in horrific and damaging fashion.

The one that's left him so crowded by the corpses of his most beloved comrades he's choking on the smell and the stillness of it, and has been for years.

The one that's left him so bereft that he is as he appears: alone in the dark, under a single spotlight, with a shadow no one can see as his only companion, his only solace.]

THE SOLDIER

...I can't get it out of my head. I've dreamed this seven years...Every day, I have this. And sometimes, I wake up and I don't know where I am...

...heal me...

...I don't talk to anybody. Sometimes a day...a week...I can't put it out of my mind...

[THE SOLDIER begins to cry again, to sob. Deep, wracking, heaving. The sobs of a child newly orphaned, the sobs of a lover holding his partner's fresh body, the sobs of a farmer watching his crops and cattle burn without a cent or a seed to his name.

He finally reaches into the shadows, sobbing out the words this time instead of singing. The music is silent.]

THE SOLDIER

See me...feel me...touch me...

...heal me...

[LIGHTS DOWN; sobbing continues, trailing off into dead silence.]

FIN

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[PSL INBOX]

Wed, 19 Mar 2025 17:46:30 GMT

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my heart is like a broken cup, i only feel right on my knees

Sun, 26 Jan 2025 06:16:59 GMT

With Cinna settled into his own room after treatment, Katniss catching up with him for a while, and everything else to deal with in a day at Torchwood, John asked Ianto and Jack to put Val down at bedtime. They all needed to blow off a little steam…and there’s a lovely middle ground between sex and a scene that John has been wanting to try for a while now just to see what happens when he tries it.

He’s hoping for a fairly pleasant assault…but there’s also something else that he thinks would be good for all of them.

So, asking Toby to keep an ear cocked for a few hours for Val, John sets up a few things in their room. He has to sneak downstairs to grab some stuff while the other two are getting Val into jammies, but he’s trained in stealth. He even gets to check in on Cinna and Katniss, who are poring over an iPad while Cinna sits up in bed. Satisfied he’s comfortable and she’s eaten for the night—John knows it can be hard to keep up with your body when you spend enough time hungry—he takes his prize back to the room he shares with his fiancées.

So, when Ianto and Jack come in, John has some snacks on hand, three tumblers on the bureau…and a bottle of whiskey he’s just uncapping.

“One time deal.” He explains, pouring the first three fingers of whiskey and offering it to Jack. “We’ve all been in the shit with not enough down time…so it’s allowed. All of us.”

Ianto eyes the alcohol, but finally shrugs. “Won’t affect me, but that’s a good bottle. All right, I’ll have a go.”

John nods, reaching for the second tumbler. “Yes, Ianto.”

Ianto’s eyes snap to John’s face, eyes going dark with heat before glancing at Jack, as if to confirm that he wasn’t crazy and John had just said…that.

“You all right, cariad?” He asks slowly.

John nods, the picture of innocence as he hands Ianto his drink.

“Yeah, Ian—why?”

Ianto just shakes his head and downs half his drink in one swallow.

Right. The gorgeous bastard is officially up to no good.

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[PUMPKIN HOLLOW] a dream of life comes to me like a catfish dancing on the end of my line

Thu, 26 Sep 2024 20:24:06 GMT

"...Colonel?"

Sam is reading a book on the rooftop cafe when he hears it: the familiar, soft cadence of John Rambo's voice filled with quiet amazement. He looks up and over to see the man standing there just a few short feet away, backlit by the setting sun and something in his chest goes tight and sharp...almost painful.

"Johnny?"

"Yeah."

He draws closer as Sam marks his place and pushes back his chair to stand up, and when he can see John's face...

"How will you live?"

"Day by day."

John melts into a smile and offers Sam his hand when he reaches him. Sam slaps it aside and opens his arms, reaching out to embrace him. John goes tight, tense and vibrating like he was that night in Washington, but after a moment he returns the brief, fraternal squeeze before drawing back again. For a second, he starts to relax before drawing away again...

This isn't the man Sam left behind in Thailand, by the Vietnam border. He's so much better...and in some ways, he's so much worse. That tension that's still there, that softness to his voice that never really went away after Danforth died.

He stops himself from speculating and leans back a little to really look at him for a moment.

"Stand back a second, son, lemme look at you..."

He looks so much healthier than he did before--he's put on weight and a lot of it is muscle. When he pats John's shoulder, it's solid--man's either been getting into powerlifting or he's doing a lot of manual labor these days. In the sun, no less, from the tan he's sporting and the way he's dressed in denims and shirtsleeves. His hair's grown out quite a bit, and there's a light in his eyes that had gone out the day he told Trautman what he wanted for his service and sacrifice.

The old pain, it's all still there--the way he holds himself in careful check, like he'll do something unforgivable if he lets himself relax, the sharp focus of his attention--but Sam would never know him as the same man who said that part of him died in Vietnam. Too many of those wounds are so much smaller than they were.

"John...my God, you look good." Sam breathes with a grin.

John's cheeks color as he ducks his head with a shrug. "I'm trying, sir."

"Life here has been kind to you."

John's head lifts, and a shadow crosses his features--but that's all it is. It's not the blackness of the war or the nights he spent talking about his home life, just a cloud passing briefly across the sun.

"Not really, sir...but I'd be worried if it was. But I--I think I'm happy. Or close to it."

Between what he's heard, and what he can see right in front of him, Sam can't help but feel his chest tighten again, a familiar feeling.

You're the only one I trust.

"John, about the chopper--"

John frowns, gaze sharpening, then he smiles again and shakes his head.

"Don't."

"But I--"

"I know. I knew all along--I told Murdock I was comin' for him, and I meant it. I know you wouldn't let me down."

Sam sighs, shaking his own head. "That's not true, John--I let you down in a lot of respects. I see that more clearly than I ever did, and...I'm not sure I can be forgiven for that."

"With all due respect, sir...if I can, you can." John replies, reaching up to touch a pendant around his neck--a bead made of glass, trapping a delicate flower in a transparent bubble of pale green.

"The Mothers forgive a lot."

Sam laughs a little at that, but it's more in awe of this new version of John that seems to have a hope Sam thought he lost.

"Well then," he drawls, gesturing to the table beside them, "why don't you sit down and tell me all about it?"

John grins, settles into a chair...and he starts talking.

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[CALDERA] Inbox

Fri, 09 Aug 2024 17:46:59 GMT

"This is John. You know what to do."

{notes/calls/gifts/smoke signals/etc}

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[PAPERWORK] PERMISSIONS

Wed, 07 Aug 2024 21:54:58 GMT

OOC PREFERENCES:
•CONTACT METHOD: PM journal or madwomanwithabox on Discord
•THREAD-JACKING: PLEASE DO, IMMA STALK IT. XD But I have ADHD and rely on my email for notifs so if I miss something in the shuffle? Please poke me with a sharp stick if I haven't answered you and you want me to. I either didn't see it or I forgot, it's never a slight against you. <3
•FOURTH WALLING / CANON PUNCTURE: Please no active canon puncturing or fourth walling, but recognition is okay! Just please keep it away from my poor boy, he can't handle finding out he's fictional.
•BACKTAGGING: Check with me if it's more than a week out? Blanket answer is 'come at me, bros,' but I'm SO not kidding about the ADHD. XD If I don't have the spoons, I'll let you know, but again: it's never personal it's my fucked up brain and I will SO plot for something later if I can't do the thing this instant.
•AVOIDED TOPICS: For John? Not REALLY, but he'll stonewall a lot and be very reluctant to talk about his service, the whole Vietnam War in general. As for me? Parental death isn't off the table, but talk to me first. I'll reach out if something is triggery or off limits--I'm still learning where my boundaries are, and I'll update this for the things I figure out. I'm a firm believer in communication.
•PREFERRED GENDER PRONOUN: Muse? he/him; Mun? she/her/he/him

IC CHARACTERISTICS:
•CURRENT CANON POINT:

TLV: comes roughly a year into his prison sentence, between FIRST BLOOD and FIRST BLOOD PART II.

•PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION: John Rambo is six feet tall, with dark brown hair often worn long and kept out of his eyes with the use of a headband. He has brown eyes, a tanned complexion, and a perpetual scowl resulting from minor facial paralysis around the jaw, lips, and tongue. A rigorous training regiment courtesy of his military background and active lifestyle have given him an incredibly muscular physique with significant functional strength. He has work-callused hands, and numerous scars, among them being:

- laceration scars on his back & chest from being tortured as a POW in Vietnam
- laceration scar on his arm from falling out of a tree in Hope, Washington

•DEMEANOR: John is very unobtrusive: introverted, soft spoken, kind, cordial, even shy. It is, however, a very small part of his nature that has consumed him due to incredible amounts of trauma, a lack of human contact, and mistreatment at the hands of others. If made to feel safe and not judged, he is largely unchanged but becomes a bit more extroverted. Though still soft spoken, he has a lot more to say, and reveals a sharp mind with an even sharper sense of humor that can trend towards the slightly ridiculous--wisecracks and pranks being at the core of his, to be blunt, love for trolling others, albeit always in the spirit of good clean fun.

When he doesn't feel safe, however, John retreats further into himself. If pushed towards aggression, he will avoid conflict by shutting down, saying almost nothing and gradually reducing compliance to stoic resistance to unwanted contact or behavior. During flashbacks he often goes nonverbal, and if further triggered will respond with a use of aggressive, but nonlethal force to get away from the perceived threat.

•ABILITIES

* SURVIVAL
Learned tracking & hunting from his mother's people among the Navajo, received survival training as a Green Beret: can classify dangerous and useful flora & fauna, hunt, & as commanding officer, Colonel Samuel Trautman is quoted as saying, can "eat things that would make a billy goat puke." He can field dress game, fashion weapons and trinkets out of anything he can get his hands on, and is well versed in the construction of traps, snares, and the art of camouflage.

* MARKSMANSHIP
Trained in firearms by the military, archery by the men of his mother's tribe. John is a highly skilled marksman, a perfect shot with a bow & arrow, and has exceptional range when taking his shots.

* LANGUAGES
Functionally fluent in Navajo, semi-fluent in German & Italian, all pre-draft. During the war, picked up Vietnamese, Thai, Khmer, & bits of other dialects. With an ear for languages, he can pick up words easily and follow conversations in unfamiliar tongues through context clues. However, when he applies himself, he can acquire relative fluency in many languages fairly quickly.

* MIND & BODY
Maintains peak physical condition gained through hard work and military training. Has exceptional endurance, speed, functional strength, and a high tolerance for pain. Also highly intelligent, John can multitask easily and pick up various nuanced skills with relative ease & speed. His memory is also incredibly sharp, allowing him to recall military maneuvers from during the war. Being both intelligent and deeply emotional, some of his physical prowess has a 'mind over matter' component--his commanding officer often states that he was taught to 'ignore' pain, which he appears to be capable of doing up to a point.

•MEDICAL INFORMATION: Vietnam veteran, previously tortured (trained to ignore pain/has high pain tolerance, check closely for injuries), prior exposure to dysentery (self inflicted as a POW), period-specific recognition of PTSD/shellshock, approach carefully or warn about the presence of sharp objects if in visible distress

•CABIN INFORMATION: Bit barn door-esque, with a Navajo tapestry hanging just behind it when opened. Beyond that, the cabin looks like the interior of a a traditional Navajo hogan meets a 1950's-'60's American home. Walls very much match the picture, logs and natural wood mixed with earth, plus the addition of a couple more "modern" windows, indoor plumbing amenities, an outdated television and a full turntable setup. Amid the comfortable clutter and native art there's also a lot of family photos and such, none of which feature John or anyone who looks like him. Everything has a very careworn, threadbare look and feel that's the perfectly comfortable, cozy balance of shabby and cozy.

•OFFENSIVE SUBJECTS: John is touchy about discussion of the war and the military, and about his scarring. Cruelty to children and animals is very triggering for him, and he's uncomfortable talking about cancer or alcoholism. He will also get very defensive about discussions of indigenous populations, and while he has Native American heritage feels uncomfortable laying any real claim to identifying as such given his upbringing and level of privilege.

IC PERMISSIONS:
•MENTAL: Check in with me first.
•MIMICRY: Sure!
•VIOLENCE: Talk to me--John's violent by nature and has PTSD but I am SO up to plan around things. We'll find a way to have fun hurting my boy.
•MAGIC: Yep! Just let me know what you're planning.
•DEBATE: Of course!

Hugging this character: Please do, but be gentle, he's super touch starved.
Kissing this character: Yes, but do check in: John's bisexual, but very repressed and doesn't even realize it's a thing. Coordination will be necessary but yes please God kiss him please be sweet with him
Flirting with this character: Yes, please! Just do it. A lot. It will be amazing. Again, bi, male/female (presenting), go for it.
Fighting with this character: PLEASE. But let's talk first--he's no slouch, and planning the ass-kicking of a muse is FUN.
Injuring this character: Minor, yes. Moderate, use common sense. Major, ask first.
Killing this character: Ask me first, but oh I am SO open to it.
Using telepathy/mind reading abilities on this character: Ask first. His mind is skeery in dere. XD

Warnings: John's canon focuses on the ramifications of having served in the Vietnam War. As such, a lot of content related to his threads will include discussions of PTSD, police brutality, and fairly graphic, violent imagery alongside action movie-typical talk and displays of violence. John's trauma from the events of FIRST BLOOD have also resulted in some very mild disordered eating habits--specifically, an intense phobia of eating or drinking in public (privately, his eating habits are perfectly normal). I warn aggressively in an excess of caution, and I never just write horrors for the lolz. PLEASE talk to me if something is triggering for you and I will censor/delete/warn as needed, if we don't ALL have fun then no one has fun.

Anything else: I'll add as I think of them...come play with me? :P

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PUMPKIN HOLLOW: Notes for Friends (sent the morning before the Cultists)

Fri, 21 Jun 2024 17:14:50 GMT

Sent to John's closest CR...

If you're getting this, I did something and I'm worried it's gonna go sideways.

If I don't answer the phone by the evening you receive this, please check in on my animals at Baker Ranch. Also, please contact Edgar & Radar O'Reilly to make sure they're all right. Let them know what happened, and for the love of God don't let them go looking for me.

I'm trusting you to do this. Please.

-J. Rambo

Sent to ~~his boys~~ Edgar and Radar O'Reilly...

Do me a favor? Bunk at the ranch for a couple of days. Humor me, & I'll explain later.

Don't get into any trouble.

-J. Rambo

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[PUMPKIN HOLLOW] INBOX

Sat, 18 Nov 2023 05:26:52 GMT

{phone calls/notes/misc for John Rambo here!}

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[PUMPKIN HOLLOW] John's Black Book {CR Chart}

Sat, 18 Nov 2023 05:24:17 GMT

Lt. Ari Tayrey

BAKER RANCH

TRADELINER

Met Tay at a poker game for vets in town. Never met a space traveler before, found out we had a lot more in common than you'd think during that big flood some time back. She's seen some shit, but she's still really sweet--something about her that still shines, and she won't let the world take that off her.

She's a good kid.

EDIT: Gone. Miss her.

EDGAR

BAKER RANCH

SCRAPPER

Pretty large influx of people hit town during my first...spring, I think. Edgar was one of those who came on the ferry. He's young, like most he's seen some stuff, but there's a lot he hasn't seen, either. Comes from a much different world, but he's had to claw to survive.

Reminds me way too much of myself at his age, or younger. Kid deserves a home, wanna give him one. Kinda proves the thing I always believe about broken people: you can always trust 'em first, just carefully. Stopped being careful a while ago with this one.

SAM PORTER BRIDGES

~~PARTNER~~ BAKER RANCH

COURIER

Sam changed me, him and his daughter, Louise. Met him in the woods, got spooked and led to a fight. We got close, real close...I fell in love.

Something happened, though. Something bad--I think. I still don't remember what set it off, but there was this big collective dream, and...

Love wasn't enough. Still isn't. Not sure it ever will be. Just because I gave him up doesn't mean I've let him go, though--him and me, we're always gonna be connected.

He's a good man.

L. V. MORGENSHTERN

FRIEND

RABBI (???)

Lev's an odd one. I don't know him well (them? Her? Need to ask that guy Gerry if he'll do another of those seminars on the gender stuff, still a little confused and I don't wanna hurt anyone, especially folks like Lev) but I like him. A lot. He's not strange, not really, just from where I sit he's...different.

It's really good, though. He speaks like no one I've ever heard, a little confusing but makes me think and I like how that feels. He's kind, compassionate, and I don't know much about Judaism but I think he's Jewish. Spiritual, at any rate--really need to hang with him more. Maybe invite him up to the ranch with his mister.

I don't know him well...but I trust him.

LAIOS TOUDEN

FRIEND/BAKER RANCH (???)

COOK

Good egg all around. Heard Tasha over at the Oak & Iron fussing about me, brought me food, we hit it off fast. Someone I definitely wanna see more of. Kinda reminds me of a golden retriever in a human body: friendly, kind, eager, strong. Seriously, put a hand on his shoulder once and he's built like a brick shithouse.

There's more to this guy than meets the eye--but my gut says I got nothing to worry about from him. Maybe I'm an idiot, but I like him a lot. Already thinking about breeding a horse for him. He's just...a nice guy. No qualifiers--been a long time since I met someone like that.

~~I think I might~~ ~~He's adorable~~ ~~He's kinda cute~~

I like him.

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN "HAWKEYE" PIERCE

BAKER RANCH

SAWBONES

First guy I met when I got here. First guy to...help me figure out who I am. That it's not just me, I mean--that being bisexual is a thing. I like him a lot--probably would have tried to start something at one point, but we're after different stuff. Now I just ask him for dating advice.

And I avoid letting him give me poker tips. In all seriousness, trust this guy with my life. One of my best friends here.

WALTER "RADAR" O'REILLY

~~FRIEND~~ BAKER RANCH

COMPANY CLERK

Love this kid. Hard not to, he's another farm boy from the other side of the country. Korea vet, like Hawk, same company and everything. Really is just a kid, nineteen if a day. Scary intuition, or ears like a bat...or maybe he's got a sixth sense. He's got this way about him that makes you wanna take care of him, but I think when he gets a little less green he's gonna be a force to be reckoned with. Big or small, it's the quiet ones that take the least amount of shit--never gonna underestimate this little guy.

AGENT ALEX CONKLIN

BAKER RANCH

VET

Came out of 'Nam, same as me. I was Special Forces, he was a spook, but we both got down in the same blood, guts, and dirt. It's in his eyes: his hands aren't clean. Difference between him and any other higher up is that he knows it, won't pretend otherwise, and he's got enough of a conscience that it bothers him. Tough old bastard, steady as a rock...

I got no regrets about serving under the colonel, he did the best he could...but I think if Conklin even just served with Baker Team, one of us instead of running it? I wouldn't be the last one left.

COMMANDER JOHN CRICHTON

FRIEND

PSYCHO SLUGGER

New acquaintance, but he's a real one. Soldier, sharp eye--smashed the face of a guy I was going after when I got shot in the fucking head. There were these Lovecraftian cultists...long story short, had my back when I didn't even know it. Bottom line, I got his six. No hesitation.

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he can't be trusted

Mon, 30 Oct 2023 21:12:44 GMT

IAN:
Where are you right now?

JOHN:
Just got out of the shower. Why?

IAN:
Take off your clothes and get into bed.

IAN:
Please.

John blinks down at his phone, a little thrill zipping across his nerves--and a laugh bubbling up as he leans back against his bedroom door in a beat up pair of pajama pants he uses to stay decent commuting from the bathroom to his room. He has no idea what's going on, but he's...curious?

And he's seen Ianto take charge. The 'please' to try and soften it is pretty cute, too.

John considers his options for a moment, absently tapping the flat of his phone against his palm...then fiddles with it for a minute or two to try and remember the whole 'selfie' thing to take a picture of himself leaning back against the door, barechested in his low slung loose pants and sends it back.

JOHN:
Or I could just stay here. Up to you.

The little bubble that means someone is typing lingers for what seems like ages.

IAN:
That will do nicely, thank you.

IAN:
God, you are absolutely gorgeous to look at. I can see why Jack loves your chest, but I so love those beautiful shoulders.

IAN:
I've fantasized about riding you, getting my hands on them. Gripping so tight I leave marks.

John's breathing a little harder now, because he can picture it. Buried deep in his body, running his fingers over Ianto's chest. Such a rough, gorgeous contrast of thick dark hair to Jack's smooth muscle...

John has to pause to adjust himself--and can't resist squeezing a little, teasing his hardening cock just a little.

JOHN:
What are you doing?

IAN:
You've not learned about sexting yet?

JOHN:
What? Like phone sex, but like this? Seems like a pain in the ass to try and type while you're jerking off.

IAN:
Then don't type. Just touch yourself and read--you don't have to reply unless I ask you to.

IAN:
If that's all right?

John continues to trail his fingers over the line of his cock through thin cotton, staring at the screen with heat pooling low in his belly. He doesn't have anything else going on--he needs to pack for a trip to Torchwood Two for a few days (he's spoken to Archie on the phone before and he doesn't know what everyone's bitching about, he likes the guy) but he can always do that later.

He wants to see where this goes--and maybe try it with Jack later. And it's a nice, casual way to try this--see how it feels, letting Ianto be in charge a little. If it's good? Could be another scene to try...

John takes a breath, then slides his hand away from his cock to find one of the more sensitive scars on his chest, making his hips jerk reflexively as he lets his nails catch on the edge.

JOHN:
You're good, lover. I'm touching my chest.

JOHN:
Keep going.

JOHN:
Please.

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heavy breathing never sounded quite so nice

Thu, 26 Oct 2023 20:04:55 GMT

[When the video comes on, it shows John Rambo's retreating form, then a moment later he's settled on the couch with his phone propped up on the coffee table in front of him. His surroundings will be familiar: it's the living room of the hotel suite from their 'negotiation date.' John's in a loose pair of sleep pants and nothing else--hair tousled, cheeks flushed with recent sleep. There's even a lingering dotted impression on one cheekbone, where he'd fallen asleep with his head on Jack's chest with the ball chain of his tags pressing into his face.

Once he's comfortable, he offers the camera a shy smile.]

I dunno if this makes it better or not, but you're asleep in the other room, and I'm gonna try to be as loud as I can without waking you up. [He smirks a little, dark eyes warming with desire.] To be fair? I, uh...I kinda wore you out.

[John snickers softly, leaning back against the couch.]

Thing is, I'm doing this 'cause I had a dream just now. About the white dress, and--and it wasn't like a dream. It was the memory, y'know? The whole thing happening in my head, and it was so real--

[John's breath catches, and his eyes darken, gleaming in the low light of the room. His hips shift restlessly, and the thin fabric of the sleep pants he tugged on for decency (and to tease) do little to hide the fact that he's getting hard.]

Those clouds everyone lived in--Nimbus, they were called? Nimbuses?...the night you first dolled up for me, I remember heading for yours. The whole gender thing, I didn't understand it. I was curious as hell...but I remember I was worried it would be something other, y'know? Like seeing you would be different or jarring, something I'd have to get used to. I was ready to have to figure some shit out and yeah: I was terrified of hurting you. Then I saw you...

[His entire expression softens, his breath comes a little deeper, just a little rougher.]

...and I lost my damn mind. But you know that--even if you don't remember like I do right now, you know.

[He takes a deep breath, hands smoothing over his thighs as his posture relaxes, legs stretching out a little, spreading as he gets comfortable.]

What hit me so damn hard was that in all the makeup and satin? You didn't look any different. Does that sound crazy? It does, doesn't it? That you could look nothin' like I'm used to, and just...you looked like you. As much as when you're driving me crazy when you mess with your suspenders...

[One hand shifts on his leg--hesitates--then with a flush creeping up his cheeks, he palms himself through the thin fabric of his sleep pants. John's breath catches, his eyes fluttering shut with a low sound of pleasure.]

I felt like I couldn't breathe 'till I was kissing you, tasting you--those gorgeous red lips, all done up...

[The memory has him now and his head falls back a little. His free hand drifts up to run across his chest, tracing his scars with a breathy moan. For a second he forgets himself and falls silent save for breath hitching, stroking himself through his pants, teasing his nipples and caressing his scars as his hips continue to shift, growing more and more restless.

In his mind's eye, he's kissing Jack--he can taste the waxy sweetness of that lipstick, hear him whining and pleading, feel the shift of that shimmering white satin under his hands...]

...I remember when you asked me to tie you up.

[The words are more breath than sound. He can feel the weight of Jack in his lap, writhing and whining and unable to keep his hands off of John. Fingers in his hair, palms smoothing over his shoulders...]

You were an incoherent wreck already--fucking gorgeous--but when I started bossing you around you suddenly got real clear-headed. Loved that, loved that I could put you together like that and I wanted to take it all apart again...and when I told you to tell me what it would take you asked me to tie your hands so you couldn't touch me. Asked me to make you beg--God, you wanted that so bad, wanted me to make you work for it...

[He stops palming himself through his pants and slides his hand up his stomach. He's not trying to put on a show anymore, not really--well, maybe a little and that feels so awkward--but the memory is so clear right now. Not just the words of a journal, memorized over years, Jack's voice is so clear in his ears. Breathless, softer, sweeter, asking John, begging John--

His hips lift just enough to shove his pants down so he can free his cock, hard and flushed as he takes himself in hand, head falling all the way back against the couch to bare the line of his throat.]

...wanted me to make you mine.

[It's a snarl as he continues to map the lines of muscle and scar tissue across his chest, spreads the moisture of his leaking cock over himself so he can fuck his own fist, nice and slick.]

And I was afraid, but then I saw--fuck--saw how it could be. Everything I knew how to do as a--a soldier, could use it to make you feel good. Make you come, make you scream, make you belong to me, Jack...

[He trails off again, hips rolling slow and lazy into his own hand. All John can do is moan and pant, occasionally saying Jack's name like he can't help himself, like the utterance alone brings as much pleasure as the way he squeezes his cock or brushes a thumb over his nipple.]

Didn't do half what I wanted to that night. Didn't know what I was doing, but if I had it to do again--fucking Christ, Jack, I'd goddamn ruin you and that pretty lingerie. Tie you to the bed, leave a dozen bruises on that gorgeous skin...bite, suck, play with my tags around your neck till you came in those lace panties, tear 'em to shreds and suck you off...

[John's writhing under his own hands now, his whole body moving as he thrusts into his own fist faster, rakes his nails along one of his scars to leave bright red lines and feel the tiniest kiss of sting, making him nearly cry out--a hoarse sound he barely manages to stifle.]

...but I had you, and nothing's ever gonna compare--God--to feeling you grinding in my...my lap, whining and, a-and cursing...white satin 'n lace just every inch 'n angel--all mine--shit--not afraid of my...myself--fuck love you so much, love you angel, love you, love bein' loved by you love you love you--Jack fuck love you Jack--

[His back arches as he comes against his own stomach with a low, animal snarl around Jack's name. He strokes himself through his orgasm, breathing hard and babbling a string of love you and so good and Jack's name until he finally goes limp and his hand falls away from his cock. Gradually, he catches his breath, and he's so loose in the afterglow, so still and relaxed he could easily be mistaken for having fallen asleep.

However, after a couple of minutes he lifts his head, heavy lidded eyes soft with drowsy contentment. He just lays there a moment longer against the couch, giving the camera the fully view of him because he knows Jack will love it.]

Now I gotta shower 'n sneak back into bed without waking you up, so I hope this was worth the effort of learning a new phone.

[Laughing, John pushes himself to sit up, kisses the fingers of his clean hand, and leans forward to touch the camera lens.]

Love you. Hope that was good.

[A moment later, the view jostles, and the video cuts off.]

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The Dream Journal Of John J. Rambo

Fri, 30 Jun 2023 20:28:08 GMT

He goes by Captain Jack Harkness, and I love him.

Jack's an unremarkable man in terms of looks, and I don't mean that as a slight. He's beautiful, too beautiful. Matinee idol good looks: dark hair, blue eyes, chiseled jaw complete with cleft chin. Body of a real soldier, not a machine like me. Average size, but pleasantly broad in the shoulders--muscular but soft, solid as a rock but no sharp edges. There's things I can do that he can't, but he didn't need to learn to ignore pain because he's old fashioned kinds of tough: he's built to take a punch and get back up again.

He's too perfect to be real. Remembering back, I know I saw him out of the corner of my eye earlier in the day--it was the coat. The coat made a bigger impression, because looking at men without worrying was still new to me. I saw him like anyone else, and...he was nothing special. Jack Harkness is a million dollars: very real, very desirable, incredible to see, but to any person on the street? He's too much to get your head around, he doesn't feel real. He's nothing you can understand, nothing you'll ever have access to.

Then he approached me. He approached me. Didn't ask to join me, he asked to sit with me. I was in a bad place, he saw it...and gradually, as we talked, I actually got a good look at him.

That's the first thing you need to remember about Jack, or you'll miss him. He wears masks, and they're all plastered with the same smile. They're each and every one of them factory made in all the worst parts of his mind where he thinks he has to wear them. He has one smile he doesn't show anyone else. Just you. When you see it, things will be okay.

That's what I mean when I say I got a good look at him. Not at his face, not really. Into his eyes, maybe: I got a look under the masks. I saw him.

Jack's a commander, that's why he's more human than machine. I mean it in the truest sense of the word, because a true commander was once a soldier and Jack is a fighting man to the core. He'll scrap, he'll bleed, he'll smile if you hit him and expect you to smile back when he returns fire. He'll readily serve on the front lines, but commanders always stay a step back. Still, he carries the weight of his men. Every life, every injury, every name, he keeps them and looks after them. He's lost, he's fought, he's bled, and when he sends a man into battle he does it with the full knowledge of what it means to them and what will be lost if their life ends in the fight.

The thing about Jack, though, is he believes his own hype. His looks, he knows he's attractive and he exploits it. He also thinks that's all he has to offer--he literally propositioned me during our first meeting. In a really sweet way, offered sex almost like therapy because he thought that was all he had. To be fair, though, I also kissed him at the same time--but I turned down the offer of sex. Not sure if that shocked him or not.

When we talked, I told him everything in that first conversation. And I mean everything that happened in Hope. Told him things I didn't even mention in my court martial because I knew they didn't matter. They mattered to him.

Jack listened, and he offered to keep on listening.

That's who he is. You might think a good looking man like that, too good to be real, might be hiding something horrible underneath. I started calling him 'Angel' as a pet name, as a joke because he can't die.

That's another thing, by the way: research quantum mechanics, maybe? Jack's a fixed point in time, he can't die.

Anyway, the pet name was a gag, but it's actually true. Jack is every bit an angel, my guardian angel, and that's why you have to find him. That's why you love him.

He's not perfect, not by any stretch of the imagination. He's not pure, he's not innocent. I don't put him up on a pedestal, he doesn't need one. He's broken and he's flawed and he's kind of a bastard sometimes--but he is a good man. The best I've ever known...and like all good, flawed men, he's strong. He can withstand anything.

You have to find him because you have to protect him. He's strong, he can withstand anything--and he will withstand anything. He'll go until he breaks, until he's ruined, until those sharp edges of his broken pieces are worn smooth and he stops being careful with them--stops using them as weapons against the dark and gives them away so he forgets he was fighting for something.

The most important thing you have to remember is Jack Harkness--because you have to save him. Everything you learn here, everything you do going forward, has to be about finding him, getting to him safely, and protecting him no matter what it costs you.

The most important thing you have to remember is that you love him, because once you're together again, you'll hopefully have found a way to stay with him--and he's going to end up hating you for it.

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[INBOX] inbox for torchwood_four

Wed, 28 Jun 2023 14:09:38 GMT

{phone, text, mail, gifts, smoke signals, Morse code, etc. for John Rambo}

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[PERCHANCE TO DREAM] you can fight, fight without ever winning, but never ever win without a fight

Tue, 20 Jun 2023 20:08:48 GMT

One minute, he's putting up a target outside--cobbling together a modified shooting range so he can teach Jack how to handle a bow...

...and the next, he's in the dark.

John still doesn't know how to do this, but it's happened enough at this point that he understands what can help. He doesn't recognize this nightmare, and it's clearly already in progress, just like his. Just like Vietnam...

God knows how long Jack's been here. God knows what's happening to him.

He concentrates on the war--and when he emerges from the shadows, he's in full black fatigues, bow and rifle in hand.

He keeps to the walls, staying out of sight. In the low light, John finds a door with a control panel and figures out how to get it to slide open.

"There are colonies out there. The human race would survive in some shape or form."

John freezes in the doorway, raising his rifle without stepping into the room before him.

"But you're the only Daleks in existence. The whole universe is in danger if I let you live!"

John doesn't know the voice, but the tone...the way it says that word. Dalek. He's only ever heard one person say that word in just that way...

"D'you see, Jack?"

...wait, what?

"That's the decision I've got to make for every living thing...die as a human or live as a Dalek. What would you do?"

"You sent Rose home. She's safe. Keep working."

John's heart starts trying to beat out of his chest. He very nearly steps into the room...

"But he will exterminate you!"

Now that's a voice John will never forget. Inhuman screaming, buzzing in his ears, seeing the fear it evoked in his soul reflected in the Doctor's eyes...

"Never doubted him. Never will."

John steps back, doors hissing shut in front of him. Jack's voice was just slightly distorted, a hum of digital noise to it--he wasn't in the room.

Neither was the Dalek...but what if it was in the room with Jack?

He had to find Jack. He had to find Jack now, because if he didn't...

...he couldn't let himself think about that. One of those things getting anywhere near Jack...

He'd die before he let that happen.

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[PERCHANCE TO DREAM] there’s beauty in the pain, it makes me feel alive

Sun, 11 Jun 2023 04:26:53 GMT

Three days never passed so slowly before in John’s entire fucking life.

He didn’t get antsy last time, but that…hadn’t been recreational. Letting Jack take over that night was all about needing the push—to run headlong into the fear of Jack abandoning him and choosing his own destruction, and knock it flat. He took the jump, Jack was there to catch him—and turned the whole thing into something totally different that gave him so much more than he ever stood to lose.

This…it wasn’t something John needed, it was something he wanted, borne both of reliving his last capture and the balm Jack had provided to soothe that nightmare…both with how he lashed out and his scene with John. He felt safe enough to try and confront this thing, but also felt strong enough to reach for something he desired.

For another chance to…feel desired. He still felt it, couldn’t look at himself anymore without remembering Jack’s hands on him, his own fingers tracing every line of scar tissue with Jack growling fucking worship in his ear as every fiber of his being blazed with pleasure…

There was something about that singular focus, though. Of being able to not just feel it, but allow it to consume him for a little while, having Jack be his whole world, having the way he loved him be more than a feeling, but as true a fact as Jack’s existence. John wanted to feel it again.

But, this time Jack was going to tie him up—and he had to wait three days.

And…and he was nervous about it.

He kept going over things in his head—concerns he might not have addressed properly, triggers for one of his episodes that might have escaped his notice. Jack assured him there would be no honorifics again, and John insisted he wanted Jack to decide everything when Jack double and triple checked with John about that lack of restriction. Nothing else came to him, no matter how hard he wracked his brain.

By the time the day of the scene arrived, John was jittery as hell. It felt like years, goddamnit, and even putting in a little extra work with some time expanding the dugout cellar that was gradually turning into a glorified underground shelter didn’t expend enough nervous energy to let him relax. He resisted the urge to try and cut out early, despite finishing his rounds on the ranch ahead of schedule, and settled on finishing his day with taking Delmar out for a ride.

That helped a little, and by the time he bedded him down after the jaunt around the paddocks, John was less jittery and back to plain old nervous again. When he got home, he took time to clean up a little in the kitchen and grab a snack before showering—which helped calm him further, not realizing he’d been hungry this whole time.

By the time he was out of the shower and changed into a loose pair of pajama pants, he was…not calm, but bore a passing resemblance to calm as he went looking for Jack.

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[PERCHANCE TO DREAM] with our final breath, we'll fight to the death, we are soldiers

Sun, 28 May 2023 00:01:57 GMT

It's stupid...but John's lonely.

Everything's been fine, but Gray, Jack's brother...he's been out of sorts. Nothing bad--John knows he has a lot of the same kind of baggage Jack has, so that means a lot in the grand scheme of things--but the two of them have been working through some personal shit. Recovering lost memories, sharing their common history in different worlds...

They need time. The two of them, together, so John spends a couple days going through the stuff stored in the loft of the barn, and satisfied that his old camping equipment is still good, corners Jack and threatens him with bodily harm if he doesn't make use of it and take care of his brother.

...okay, so not bodily harm. More like promises Jack a future date with him, a nice dinner, and an evening by the fire with a book John found in the library showing some shibari suspensions he wants to try.

John's even gone so far as to pick out a horse to offer Gray, if he wants it. Once Jack agrees to the impromptu little camping trip, John takes Gray out to the stable and introduces him to the skittish but affectionate black mustang stallion. A stallion who John can't get close enough to groom without twenty minutes of cajoling, but who spends five minutes with Gray letting him eat carrot sticks from his hand, then another half hour just standing there with his nose tucked into Gray's shoulder, snuffling in quiet contentment.

Gray names the horse Mickey, and after some discussion the brothers Harkness head out to one of the far corners of the ranch. It's maybe three miles out, give or take, so not terribly far, and Jack has his pendant with him--and zero excuses. John's heard about things like the Beacons, the ranch is mostly flatland...he's not going to let them go anywhere or do anything that would make them even feel unsafe.

Jack still swears they're only going to be out there for three days, including travel time. John threatens to sleep on the couch and wear baggy shirts for a week if Jack shows back up early or with any sort of punctuality to indicate the brothers were rushing.

That was yesterday, and John is already lonely. It's pathetic...but at the same time, it's also kind of nice. It's been too long since he had someone in his life like Jack, someone he could miss because of something as stupid as a weekend vacation with his little brother.

So waking up alone in bed sucks, but it's a sweet disappointment. Eating breakfast alone feels hollow, but it's an emptiness that hums at the edges, waiting to be filled. Taking care of the horses that afternoon is weird without having to negotiate Estelle's endearingly prissy behavior or enjoy Jack's company while he keeps her in line, but there's an anticipation to having that all put to rights in a few days.

John is lonely by the end of the first day, and it’s stupid…but it’s also a good problem to have, being lonesome for someone who’s coming back.

The next day isn’t as lonely. It’s nicer, because he’s missing Jack less than he is looking forward to him coming home. The morning of the third day, John gets a message saying they’ll be back by early evening—and John only agrees not to punish Jack because they’re heading back early to visit a little creek they found about a mile and a half from the house. John knows it, remembers it fondly from his childhood…and starts considering a future camping trip for just him and Jack out that way. It could be a lot of fun…

It’s early afternoon when Jack seems to finally get lonely, too—or just horny, based on the messages John starts getting. He’s grinning the whole time he’s trying to put Jack off, but he does have to fix one of the paddock gates again and he needs to concentrate…and to keep his head together. His last panic attack was set off while doing that.

I’m leaving my pendant in the kitchen. Bring it to me when you get home and we can pool our feathers, get a couple phones, and have phone sex you psychotic old lech. Promise—love you, pet Estelle for me, see you tonight.

John drops his pendant on the kitchen counter with a smile and heads out to the barn to get his toolbox.

When he emerges from the barn, the toolbox is a rifle, there’s a torture-ravaged American soldier at his side, and the ranch is gone.

”Rambo!”

John’s heart shatters at the sound of that voice. Turning to look over his shoulder…

She’s the same as he remembers. Big, dark eyes wet and desperate, shoulders squared, fighting every impulse she had to follow him.

Co Bao—the one that got him out. The first one that believed in him…the one he killed by caring.

”…you not expendable.”

Just for a moment, John’s eyes shut and burn, the words ripping a hole through him. The hole that was there when he heard them the first time—the hole those words smoothed the edges of so Jack could fill that hole in the present with dozens of touches, kisses, more words—with a night spent rendering him completely senseless with how much he’s valued.

John nods, opening his eyes.

He can do this. Get through the nightmare. Get out—get back to Jack.

Get through what he knows is coming next.

Leading the POW to the rendezvous. Standing against soldiers that never stop coming, trying to remember it’s not real.

When the recoil of the rifle shakes him to the bone. When the panic rises as the chopper overhead starts to turn, and he catches the pilot’s eye.

“Don’t leave!!!”

Get through. Get out. Get back to Jack.

He tries to remember as the rifle finally slips from his fingers. As he gets hit—as he’s taken back into the camp.

Get through. Get out. Get back to Jack.

As he’s stripped and humiliated, as they start trying to break him again in a river of shit, as leeches leave behind new wounds, sap less his blood or strength and more his pride.

Get through. Get back to Jack.

Hour after hour.

Get through. Get to Jack.

…after hour…

Get to Jack. Get to Jack. Get to Jack.

As he’s hauled from the filth and beaten. Hosed down and brought to the Russians—mercifully, back into an arena he knows better, a circle of Hell he’s built for: torture.

Jack…Jack…Jack…

It’s all he can remember. It’s all he can focus on.

It’s the only thing he has left to hope for.

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[TORCHBLOOD] when dignity rattled me on the back and my rebel mind needed to attack

Wed, 24 May 2023 20:23:15 GMT

When John opens his eyes, he expects darkness, the flicker of the campfire--the smell of fresh blood and cooked meat, the crackle of the radio emitting his call sign, and so much pain...

"Mornin', sunshine."

John's eyelids open to unfamiliar surroundings--white, medicinal, austere. There are overhead lights, powerful ones, but they're off--everything is gently illuminated by minimal safety lighting and a couple of strange screens. There are distant sounds of footsteps, beeping equipment, water dripping or running. He's not huddled on the hard packed earth within the mouth of an abandoned mine, but on a gurney that...probably shouldn't be so comfortable.

"...Captain Jack Harkness?" John asks, flinching at the sound of his own voice, rough and tight.

The man who spoke to him, a lean and mousy younger man in a labcoat straightens in the chair he's occupying, leaning over to set a restraining hand on his calf.

"Limited speech, please--the cryogenic procedure you were subjected to kept most things in good working order, but your vocal chords are weak, your circadian rhythm's fucked, and you're badly dehydrated. And that's not including the genetic fuckery I've turned up thus far. Here, start small: you still tired? Or you wanna sit up?"

John opens his mouth--then shuts it and gestures up. Obligingly, the...doctor?...elevates the gurney for him, then pours him a cup of water.

"Drink before talking, nod or gesture when you can. Now, basics: yes, Jack's real and he's around--in bed, if Ianto's down in the bunker with him. He said you might ask about that. I'm Dr. Owen Harper, you're in Torchwood Three--Cardiff, Wales--the year is 2007, and you've been back in the land of the living for the last three days. Just asleep. Real sleep this time, no alien tech. Questions?"

John took a sip of water, clearing his throat.

"Harkness...he ok?"

"Not remotely, but that's his baseline." Owen replies cheerfully. "Seriously, though--he's fine, mate. Anything else?"

"...million que...questions."

"Well, then--let's save your voice and fetch pad 'n paper, yeah? Keep you entertained until Toshiko takes over the bloody beside vigil..."

* * * * *

John stays in what he learns is the autopsy bay for two more days. Dr. Harper runs a million tests, all of which John endures without complaint. Everyone comes to introduce themselves, save for Jack--he pokes his head over the railing a couple of times to say hello and smile at John, but he's gone quite a bit. Something to do with the Rift they've mentioned to him, and an increase of sightings of something called a Weevil.

And John's pretty sure they don't mean the bug.

By the time things start to calm down, Dr. Harper gives him a clean bill of health. His voice is recovering nicely, the cryogenic stasis procedure he was subjected to prevented any muscle atrophy, and the rest is being treated with a strict sleep schedule, non-habit forming sleep medication, and a quart of some lurid green fluid he has to drink every day for the next week that smells fine, but tastes like bitter lemon.

On his first day of freedom, Ianto Jones shows him around this place they call the Hub. John's leery at first--he's well aware this is all unquestionably some kind of European black site operation, but Ianto explains that his presence is being handled internally: the US penal system has no authority over him any longer, UNIT handed him over to Torchwood--their organization--and Jack was, to be delicate, 'unhappy' about what was done to him.

Ianto didn't say it in so many words, but John got the message: he was technically a prisoner, but had been, after a fashion, adopted by this odd little group. Officially, according to Ianto's decisive word, when the resident fucking pterodactyl had accepted a bar of dark chocolate from him, then spent five minutes chirping at him and trying to 'groom' his hair during their introduction up by her nest at the top of the Hub.

"...so that's...M-Y-F-A-N-W-Y?" John asks as they returned to the main floor of the Hub.

Ianto beams. "Excellent! Jack still struggles to spell it sometimes. You've a flair for languages, yeah? I read your file."

"Yes sir. That something you could use around here?"

"Not unless xenolinguistics are your thing...are you asking to join?"

John shrugs. "You people saved my life, so...yes. If you'll have me."

Ianto snorts, glancing up towards Jack's office, where he knows the man's making someone at UNIT miserable on John's behalf via phone.

"Don't say that where Jack can hear you, he might actually try." Ianto snorts with a grin. When silence is his only answer, he looks over to see John gazing up at the office, eyes strangely wide--and cheeks bright red.

That's when Ianto remembers what time period John Rambo came from.

"Ehm...perhaps there's some things you ought to know about the 21st century, Captain..."

Later, when Jack's off the phone and searching for the keeper of coffee, he'll find Ianto and John in the conference room, sharing some of Ianto's aforementioned coffee plus a plate of biscuits and deep in conversation. Up on the meeting screen are a few images that have been apparently used for visual aids, among them images of computers, cell phones, the rainbow pride flag, and photos of the US presidents that have served during the last two decades.

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[PERCHANCE TO DREAM] in the mood

Mon, 22 May 2023 03:50:01 GMT

Still got my doubts on if giving you any heads up will keep my duds in one piece, but figured I'd give it a shot.

Now you’re in trouble. When I finish up work? Give me an hour, plus time for a shower, and meet me downstairs. Then you’ll be sorry.

The photo Jack included with his little message made it a hard fucking threat to make—but the last couple of times Jack ambushed him with this shit gave him ideas, things he’d been considering since the beginning. That first day at the house, the box of photos…dancing in the living room.

So…John’s been planning a little ambush of his own. He just needed a chance to set some stuff up—things he couldn’t keep on hand. And, of course, because he made the mistake of not asking Jack to amuse Estelle for a couple hours that afternoon while he groomed her?

John really needed that shower.

So after he finished up with work for the day, he made his arrival back at the house audible. He grabbed a couple things, headed outside, then slipped upstairs when he heard Jack in the bathroom to make sure he didn’t spoil the reveal. Grabbing some clothes, he showered in the downstairs half bath, taking a little extra time to…well, dressing up wasn’t something he was really good at, but he tried to at least match the effort. He tied his hair back, put on his best pair of boots, and put on a pair of black jeans he’d found in the city a little while back, along with a snug fitting black Henley t shirt he didn’t bother to button.

It felt a little…much, but when he realized the end of one of his scars was visible if he left it open, he couldn’t help the little flare of warmth that lit in his chest—one that came with the immediate visual in his head of Jack seeing it and getting that one particular look in his eye. The one that made it clear he found shirts offensive—mostly when John was wearing them.

For the first time, John was actually anticipating that look.

Once he put his jade pendant back on and decided he was ready, John amused himself with looking through his records while waiting for Jack. He wasn’t going to use any of them tonight—not since he’d discovered the miraculous little contraption that held actual hundreds of songs and could even make something like a mixtape—but if he spotted something he wanted to add at the last minute, he was pretty sure he could figure out how to add it in to the songs he’d picked out…

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[PERCHANCE TO DREAM] you can't erase us, you'll just have to face us

Mon, 15 May 2023 20:24:02 GMT

“Jack?”

“Hmm?...”

“Delivery for you.”

“...come again?”

Looking up from the file Owen had handed him, he watched Ianto saunter down into the autopsy bay with a small manila envelope in his hand.

“Just came in.” he echoed. “Courier delivery, not post.”

Crossing over, Jack set the file on a nearby instrument tray, earning him a peevish look from Owen, and took the envelope from him. Sure enough, his name was written across the front, and when he flipped it over, the Torchwood logo was stamped on its seal.

Tearing it open, Jack pulled out a folded note—and just barely managed to catch an object that tried to slide out: a sturdy leather cord, and dangling on it...

Frowning as something touched the back of his mind, Jack lifted the pendant into view. Pale, bright green jade, carved in the shape of a laughing Buddha, smooth and gleaming...

“Sir? You all right?”

Jack blinked, realizing with a start that he was trembling. Just a little, the pendant swinging slightly with the motion of his hand. Instead of answering Owen, he moved to open the note and read it silently.

A good luck token
to keep with you in all of
your angelic forms.

Jack's eyes kept moving down the page, stumbling over...something. Something missing, a signature...

“Jack?”

He blinked his eyes, looking up as Tosh's delicate features appeared over the railing, the fleeting moment of something close to memory vanishing.

“What've you got, Tosh?”

“You said to keep silent unless I found a matching breach? Well, I've got one.”

Glancing over at Owen on the other side of the exam table—mousy, fierce, industrious Owen Harper, nervous and brave and quiet at all the right moments—he beckoned for him to leave the bipedal snail creature they'd been examining and follow him up to Toshiko's work station.

“What'd you find?” Jack asked.

“You were right: our surveillance feeds were tapped roughly six months ago.” Toshiko explained, calling up a data feed Jack only barely recognized as some kind of live feed not connected to the Torchwood servers. “No record of any attempts to retrieve information, just piggybacking off our CCTV. Quite literally, whoever is on the other end is just...watching.”

“And today there was a breach?”

“Approximately ten minutes ago. What's strange is that no information was downloaded. It was an upload.”

“A virus?” Owen asked, leaning over Toshiko's shoulder—then flinching when he realized how close he was to her. Jack watched as Tosh blushed, then brazenly listed to one side so her shoulder was touching Owen's chest.

“No, an actual file transfer.” she corrected. Watching her screen, Jack saw her pull up a folder labeled 'QPM.' When she clicked it open, there were dozens of files, images and text documents alike. He watched her mouse fly across the screen, clicking on a few at random and then organizing them across her monitors with the efficient grace of a conductor leading a symphony.

“Is that...” Jack trailed off, catching one of the document labels in his visual scan of the files.

Toshiko nodded. “It is...I-I don't think it's complete, but this appears to be a research file from...”

Jack couldn't help but smile, reaching up without thinking to grip the dog tags still hanging outside of his shirt. Looking over at Owen, then beyond him to where Ianto stood by the stairs, something strange and tremulous and light was vibrating in his chest.

“Ianto? Get Gwen. We've got official contact from Torchwood Four.”

* * * * *

“There's not much, but what we have appears to be one of what would be Torchwood's earliest studies into multidimensional travel.”

Gwen, Jack, Toshiko, and Ianto were seated around the conference table as Owen stood up front, explaining what they found in the files they'd received.

“Can't be done without destroying dimensions. You need special craft to traverse the Void.” Ianto pointed out.

Jack glanced at him with a raised eyebrow. Ianto shrugged with a roll of his eyes.

“Torchwood One, remember?” he reminded him. “I did some data analysis on the Void Ship they were studying at Canary Wharf.”

“Hey, smart is sexy.” Jack replied, winking. Ianto returned the wink with a smirk, despite the dismissive way he turned his chair away from Jack.

Owen cleared his throat, cheeks turning pink before taking a breath. “Right, so—er, yes. However, to even think about traveling the Void, you must first break through the walls of reality, which is decidedly not good. Which is why, if this information is correct? We know where the missing branch got to, and what's more? There's a good bloody reason Torchwood Four's been so cautious about reaching out.”

Using his tablet, Owen brought up a page from the file, featuring some handwritten case notes.

“This is an excerpt from research notes circa 1901—they detail successful incursion into another reality through the Void, and an encounter with an entity...whose name has been redacted. Reason isn't clear.” Owen explained.

Jack found himself reaching up to toy with the blank dog tags, thumb running over the empty surface with a sense of discomfort. A mixture of fear and something warmer, brighter, lit in his chest.

“Incursion into the Void isn't possible, you said it yourself.” Jack replied. “Canary Wharf is well documented in terms of what can happen. It's a threat to reality, it can't be done without destroying everything.”

“Apparently, there's a theory that says it's possible.” Owen argued, bringing up another page. “It's the name of the project, the QPM: quantum probability matrix. It's a bridge that, theoretically, can exist between two realities on the foundation of a multiverse singularity.”

“What's that?” Gwen asked.

“Er—well, it's a significant event that occurs exactly the same way in two realities. Same people, same day, same occurrence with precisely the same timing. Down to the nanosecond.”

“It's nearly impossible to achieve,” Toshiko added, staring intently at the screen to read the notes, “because it has to be confirmed across realities. It's a paradox, it can't be done.”

...except in dreams.

“I'm sorry?”

Jack blinked, not realizing he'd spoken aloud until Tosh's voice touched his ears. He was staring at his hands—gripping the jade pendant between thumb and forefinger, running the leather cord through the fingers of his other hand.

He glanced at Owen then—Owen, who was watching him with keen interest, chewing on one thumbnail.

Uncertainly, Jack shut his eyes and did something he tried never to do.

Gripping the jade pendant, Jack opened his mind completely...

* * * * *

He writes for nearly two days, never stopping. He's not sure where the spiral bound notepad came from, he asked and one of the kids got it for him, that and the pen. They bring him food and water, which he picks at.

He writes until his fingers cramp. He writes until the words blur on the page, in his head, writes until the words and the images begin to run together...until he can no longer fully recall his face, can't be sure if his eyes were blue or green.

Can't recall his true name without looking. The one he locked away inside himself, to protect him from his own past.

When he's done, he has a record of things he shouldn't know, from places he's never been. Evidence of people that may not even exist, because the dream is fading. Everything is fading, nearly gone...save for the first line, and the visceral emotion that rises in his chest when he reads it—that can't be anything but completely real.

He goes by Captain Jack Harkness, and I love him.

* * * * *

“Where will you go now, John?”

He smiles slightly at Colonel Trautman, then goes back to surveying the sparsely beautiful desert landscape. They've got a couple hours drive yet to get to their rendezvous point.

“Might come back home, if you can help me with something, sir.”

“Of course. Name it.”

“Long shot, sir, but in Washington...ever heard of an organization called UNIT?”

“...I'm not at liberty to say.”

His smile grows into a full on grin.

“Works for me, sir...any chance you're not at liberty to make a phone call for me, too?...”

* * * * *

“John Rambo?”

“Sir?...”

“Captain Jack Harkness, nice to meet you.”

“...no, you're not.”

“...no. No, I am not—but I hear you're looking for him. That's why UNIT called me. You know a lot for a small town Green Beret in 1991. We could use someone like you at Torchwood.”

“With all due respect, sir...I can't. I can't get near Torchwood Three for at least another fifteen years.”

“Good. I don't want you for Torchwood Three—I'm here to invite you to join Torchwood Four.”

* * * * *

“...who?”

Jack's eyes snapped open at the sound of Ianto's voice, breathless as he meticulously put his psychic shields back up.

“John James Rambo—run a search. Green Beret, Vietnam War.” Jack replied, dizzy with the way his heart was suddenly racing. “Look for recruitment to UNIT's American division in '88 or '89. Gwen? Cross reference the name with any past cases involving Torchwood Three. If that man so much as looked at a map of a location where we caught a Weevil, I want to know about it.”

As Ianto and Gwen left the room, Jack refocused his attention on Owen, who was still chewing on his nail and looking ready to vibrate out of his skin.

“Owen, do the notes tell us where Torchwood Four accessed this QPM?”

“Er...no, sir.”

Jack watched his hand drop, his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed, eyes widening.

“...do you know where this QPM is?”

His eyes lit up. “Yes, sir.”

“And are you at liberty to give me the location?”

Owen grinned, bright as the sun.

“Yes, sir—yes, I am.”

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[PERCHANCE TO DREAM] the end is where we start from

Thu, 04 May 2023 20:21:55 GMT

“...that's definitely your signature.”

“I know, Ianto.”

“...but I thought you said Torchwood Four disappeared.”

“It did.”

“Well...if it disappeared, how did it transfer our own people back to us, and why did you authorize it?”

“I don't know, Gwen. Because I didn't.”

Jack continued to stare at the digitized copy of the file Owen had given him that was up on the monitor in the conference room. Beside it, on the screen, was Toshiko's—provided from her desk once Owen allowed her to start moving around.

Both of them, with fully authentic transfer orders. Both of them, with his signature. Easy enough to forge, but...

The dull bite of steel stung his chest.

Jack blinked, looking down to find himself rubbing the front of his oxford shirt, pressing the tags that sat against his skin into his chest to feel the smooth metal, the dig of the rolled edge. What was missing was the pressure of the name, a name that he couldn't chase down no matter how hard he tried...

“But I did say we'd find it one day.” Jack mused aloud, looking back up at the screen.

“That you did.” Gwen pointed out. He didn't need to look at her to know she was smiling.

“Let's just hope they're not as bloody strange as Archie.” Ianto murmured, making Jack laugh softly with a shake of his head.

All the while, his hand never left the lump of the tags under his shirt.

* * * * *

“Easy...easy, love...there you are...”

Jack watched in complete shock as Owen guided the Weevil back into the cell, the creature trilling softly as Owen offered it the plate in his hand. It curled its hands around it, then darted to the corner of the cell with a roar, without attacking.

Owen calmly walked out of the cell, adjusted his glasses—and only slumped against the plexiglass door, shaking and gasping for breath when it was shut.

“Owen, that was amazing!” Toshiko breathed, moving swiftly to his side. “I've never seen anyone subdue a Weevil without force before, how?...”

“Low level telepathy.” Owen gasped, leaning into Toshiko as she set her hand on his shoulder, the other wrapping around his arm to help support him. “Weevils share it to communicate with each other, but it also means they've got access to primitive psychic fields. Instinctive empathy, if you can approach 'em completely calm, you can manipulate 'em with the right impetus—like raw hamburger.”

Jack watched the Weevil in question continue to attack its plate, greedily devouring the treat it had been given. In truth, it was impressive as hell, and before he was fully aware, Jack was watching Owen again.

Owen, who was trading shy, triumphant, wary little smiles with Toshiko. Tosh, who visibly gathered up her courage and reached for Owen's hand, meshing their fingers together. Owen, who looked fit to burst with nerves and sheer joy.

“That something you learned at Torchwood Four, Harper?” Jack asked.

Turning towards Jack sharply, Owen shook himself—but didn't let Toshiko's hand go, even while he tried to do his best impression of standing at attention.

“Yes, sir. Been studying Weevils for quite a while, and working a bit with the man I knew as Captain Harkness. None of us have even low level psychic ability, but we've all had a bit of instruction anyway. Since, eh...since I formed m-my hypothesis about the Weevils.”

Jack strode forward a couple steps, feeling a burst of pride. This version of Owen was twitchy, nervous as Toshiko, maybe moreso...but God, was he brave. Absolute grace under pressure, and while he missed Owen—his sharp humor, his bitter but refreshing cynical brand of pragmatism—this Owen from a world that ran in mirror opposite to his own was as strong and capable in his own right.

Yet still, Jack just wanted to save him. Protect him.

I'm here.

“Good job, Harper.”

Owen blinked, then beamed. Toshiko shared his smile, gathering his captive hand between both of hers.

“Tosh? If you're here longer than another hour I'm suspending you.” Jack continued. “It's only been two weeks since you got shot, I'm pretty sure I told you to stay home.”

“There's plenty to do here without field work or overextending myself!” she started to protest as he led the pair to head back up to the main Hub—

A deep, mournful lowing filled the room just then. Stopping dead, Jack backed up and turned to the Weevil, watched it...watch him.

Like it knew. He could almost...feel...

The Weevil abandoned its food and shuffled towards the door. It was...

A hand went into the pocket of its jumpsuit. A small, glistening object was pulled out.

Hesitantly, Jack used his vortex manipulator to unlatch the door. He pulled it carefully open, extending his hand to the Weevil. Feeling strangely disconnected, he watched from a disjointed third person perspective, somewhere over his own shoulder, as the Weevil placed the object in his hand.

“That's nothing even I've seen before.” Owen admitted as Jack shut the cell hastily and returned to them. “What is it? What'd it give you?”

Jack held up his hand, staring at the object with his heart beating in the middle of his head. Smeared with streaks of greasy fat from the raw meat on the Weevil's hands, it was a polished brass Christmas ornament, a flat sheet punched out into shape, gleaming in the low light of the holding cells.

“It's an angel.” Toshiko observed. “What's it mean?”

“Haven't the foggiest.” Owen replied, nearly in a whisper.

Angel.

I'm here.

“It's from Torchwood Four, isn't it?” Jack asked, looking over at Owen as his fingers wrapped around the ornament. “The Weevil.”

Owen's eyes widened behind his glasses, but after a moment he nodded hesitantly.

“I...suspected.” he confessed. “Thought it might be Brad. Think I was right.”

“Ours was Janet.” Toshiko replied softly, a laugh in her voice. “How funny.”

Jack was only barely listening. He was gripping the tags through his shirt again, but he wasn't sure why. Something about them...something about Torchwood Four...

“...Jack?”

Jack blinked, realizing he was being spoken to. By Toshiko. “What?”

“You all right?”

“Yeah—sorry, was thinking about something. A lead.” He replied, realizing at the last moment that he wasn't lying.

“I asked if you thought we should scan the Weevil for a tracker. If it escaped from Torchwood Four, maybe it was deliberate? It was carrying...some sort of message for you.”

Jack's grip on the ornament tightened a little. So did the grip on the blank tags.

...I'll know you need me...

With shaking fingers, Jack reached up, found the chain of the tags, and tugged them out into the open, letting them rest against his shirt. He felt exposed, strangely naked for it, but the feeling soon melted into one of...calm was the only way he could describe it.

“Tosh, can you see if our CCTV feeds have been tapped?” he asked.

“You think we're being spied on?”

“I do—but if you find anything, don't tell me, and don't terminate the connection. Not unless you find any matching breaches in Mainframe. If all they're doing is watching, let them.”

Jack stole another look at Owen. He tried to guard his features, but he didn't have their Owen's poker face.

His eyes shone with pure relief.

“If it's Torchwood Four, I think they'll be in touch. Soon.”

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[PERCHANCE TO DREAM] to die, to sleep...

Tue, 25 Apr 2023 18:37:19 GMT

Thank you.

He was down for days, but for him it was...much longer. Felt like seconds. Felt like a lifetime.

Everything felt right. Gwen's smile, radiant and relieved. Tosh's desperate, clinging embrace, Ianto's uncertainty and the salty taste of tears as he kissed him. The collapse of Owen into his arms, letting go of seven different kinds of grief under the burden of Jack's forgiveness.

He was back. He was home...and yet he had lost everything. That beautiful dream, that space between...that beautiful man with a body built for sin and a heart too warm for such a cold, unforgiving world...

He couldn't be real, though. That much Jack was sure of.

He was a dream, and like all dreams, he faded gradually from Jack's memory. His name, his face, his touch...he had Ianto, he loved Ianto. He had everything he needed, everything he wanted. Eventually, he even had the Doctor back, and Martha Jones--glorious Martha Jones.

In time, Jack forgot. It was okay, because it wasn't real. The people, they mattered, the real people he'd known and loved. The dream--he made that up.

So Jack forgot. His name, his face, his touch.

Even if, in the rough moments, he started heading for the Hub exit, uncertain as to where he was going. Even if, when he came back from the cold void of death, he clutched his chest not in pain, but to look for an invisible weight that wasn't there. Even if, sometimes, when he woke from rare nights of sleep and dressed for the day, he lingered over buttoning his shirt cuffs and fastening his wristwatch, rubbing a spot on his wrist and feeling like something was missing.

He forgot, because it wasn't real.

Then Gray came back. Tosh and Owen died.

"The end is where we start from."

Three days after the world ended.

That was when Torchwood Four reappeared.

* * * * *

"Jack!"

"What is it?"

"It's Owen."

“...that's not possible.”

Jack ran for the morgue, Ianto hot on his heels.

When they got there, they found Gwen beside an open cryopod, arms wrapped around a shivering, blue-tinted Owen Harper, sitting up and looking around with wide, uncertain eyes.

“Owen?...”

Owen blinked, squinting at Jack with a total lack of recognition, then flinched and seemed to shake himself.

“T-t-trousers...T-t-t-Toshiko...hurry.”

* * * * *

They opened her drawer in the morgue and found her as they left her: eyes shut, pale as death.

Only now, she was bleeding.

“How--”

“No time—Gwen, crash cart, third drawer.”

“Fourth.” Ianto corrected.

“...right, sorry. Forgot—fourth drawer, why would he do that?...”

It took fifteen terrifying minutes. Her heart stopped twice--again--but when she opened her eyes, took one look at Owen, and burst into tears, everyone else in the room followed suit.

* * * * *

“And you say I authorized it?”

Toshiko nodded, still ghostly pale against the sheets of the gurney, staring at the tiny capsule Jack held aloft between thumb and forefinger. “I received a letter in the post last month, telling me where it was located. It was in your handwriting and everything. Kept it in my work station until the temporal lock unsealed, read the instructions...told you all I was anemic and took the pill every day.”

“Alien tech from—well, from my end of things.” Owen explained. “Once Tosh...er...my Tosh, worked out what it did, we collaborated to reset it and develop a program for human use. Essentially, it's a backup drive for the body. Completely organic, that's why none of the equipment twigged to it when she was examined. Takes a complete biological snapshot of the body every hour, saves the data, and dissolves if no interruptions in electrical activity are detected within twenty four hours, so we used the equipment to produce roughly a thirty day supply. Restoration of the snapshot takes roughly seventy two hours—last one must have been just after she was shot.”

Jack held the capsule up to the light. It was vaguely translucent, and a strange, shocking shade of purple that...unsettled him for reasons he couldn't explain.

Lowering his hand, he turned to Owen. “And you're...not our Owen.”

He smiled apologetically, reaching up to adjust his glasses. “'Fraid not, I'm sorry, sir.”

“And we've never met?”

Owen hesitated visibly, ducking his head.

“Not, uh...not in so many words, sir. I'm quite familiar with Captain Jack Harkness, but where I come from? That's not you—and I'm sorry, I'm not at liberty to say anything more.”

Toshiko frowned. “Were you given transfer orders, too?”

Glancing at Toshiko, Owen slowly nodded. “You as well?”

“They were in the letter with the pills.”

“Transfer orders?” Jack asked. “I haven't issued any transfer orders.”

Owen and Toshiko shared a look, one that caused Jack's chest to tighten and his stomach to sink with a feeling he knew all too well—a feeling he hated.

The feeling that someone was up to something.

“Found the box, Owen—right in the archives where you said, temporal lock open.”

“Er...thanks, Ianto.” Owen replied, glancing over at where Gwen stood beside Jack. “Sorry about the confusion earlier, Gwen. Back where I come from, you're a bear about anyone else going through your files.”

“Absolutely mental, that.” she laughed by means of accepting his apology, crossing over to rub his arm. “It's all right, sweetheart.”

Accepting the box from Ianto, Owen took it to the autopsy table. Opening it, he began to go through what appeared to be his personal effects, withdrawing a folder he opened, then flashed at Tosh. She squinted at it, then nodded.

Wordlessly, Owen handed the folder to Jack.

“Erm...transfer papers, sir.”

Taking the folder, Jack opened it and began to read. With every line, the sinking feeling grew, and the tightness in his chest pulled harder until it felt like his lungs were being crushed.

“...yes, right! Sorry...”

Jack blinked, shaking his head. He'd...disconnected, lost time. It sounded better than 'spacing out,' because he didn't, couldn't space out. That wasn't him.

...except he had, and he was clutching at his chest again. For some reason, that had Owen rummaging through his personal effects again, this time producing an envelope he passed to Jack wordlessly.

“Sir? What's goin' on?” Ianto asked softly as Jack accepted the envelope. It made a sound that set off a reaction he could only barely contain.

“Jack? Are you all right?”

Jack nodded. “I'm fine. You heard them. Process them as transfers—I'll be in my office.”

Voices, both confused and reassuring, faded into white noise behind him. Jack managed not to stagger until he was collapsing into his desk chair, folder and envelope clutched tight between his hands. The envelope made that sound again, a sound that made his knees weak and his head spin.

I'm here.

Jack tore the envelope open with shaking hands and tipped it, letting the pair of steel dog tags slide into his hand. He checked them for a name, but they were blank. They felt wrong in his hand, stung his skin even though they were cold to the touch with dull edges.

Without thinking, he slid them on over his head and tucked them beneath his shirt. Only when they settled against his chest and started to warm to his body heat did he feel...

Relief. Safety. Strength. Strength enough to reach for the folder again and open it, reading over its contents with clearer, calmer eyes.

Owen Harper's personnel file...and his transfer orders from Torchwood Four.

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[PERCHANCE TO DREAM] Inbox

Fri, 07 Apr 2023 19:06:14 GMT

[IC messages, videos, voicemails, smoke signals, morse code, etc. for John Rambo in Perchance To Dream]

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[TORCHBLOOD] in this life there’s no surrender, there’s nothing left for us to do…

Fri, 31 Mar 2023 05:19:49 GMT

WASHINGTON, 1987

“Sir? We have a problem.”

“Let’s see…what’s this one?”

“Admitted 1985–subject’s name is John Rambo. Diagnosis of combat fatigue, convicted of—well…”

“…that’s a hell of a court martial. How many cases of assault?…”

“Suffice to say, his sentence was a slap on the wrist. He was recruited for a special op in ‘85 to do recon for Vietnam POW’s. Went rogue on the op, was brought in and recruited as a subject for Project Wizard. Forcibly, from the looks of it.”

“Hmmm—not good. Wizard—that’s the one utilizing the tech we harvested off that ship in ‘74, right? Showed promise with behavior modification?”

“Yes, sir. Subjects placed in chemically induced comas showed improvement with use of the device over a period of six months to a year. It allows us to program a dream state that gives the subject an opportunity to recover from psychological trauma through repeated exposure. Repeat events with different behaviors to produce a more beneficial outcome, altering the memory and therefore correcting the root of unwanted behavior. The subject is due to be woken up today.”

“So?…”

“Well, that’s the problem, sir…we can’t rouse him. Rambo isn’t responding to the stimulants, and the device refuses to disengage. To be blunt, sir…he’s stuck, and we don’t know how to get him out.”

CARDIFF, 2009

“Bloody UNIT rummage sale—“

“It’s not a rummage sale, Owen, it’s a routine transfer of archival information and technology they’ve been unable to make any headway with.”

“Call it what you like, Tosh, but I’m sick of goin’ through it. It’s three AM and I’m knackered! Who knew they had so many damn wet specimens? Fine—fine. Let’s see…set that jar of tentacles on the big box there—yeah, that one. The mobile cryo unit…”

*****

Inside of a mobile cryogenics unit, deep asleep and trapped by a small, glossy black metal block adhering to his temple, John Rambo is trapped in hell, and has been for twenty two years.

The first five years was the worst—there he was stuck in the War, fighting and tortured again and again. It took time to become aware of what was happening, to remember there was an outside world and how he got here. It took another five years to work his way out of the repeating nightmare of Vietnam and into another nightmare—one that was at least familiar to him. Hope, Washington—his own country, his own language, and when the cycle repeated even his own commander coming to claim him from the sheriff’s station.

For five years he lived in that loop. Being picked up, arrested, running, attacking—breaking down and being apprehended. He’d be led out of the sheriff’s station, ushered into a squad car—and then find himself out on the open road as the nightmare cycle began anew.

Five years he was stuck—fifteen years to reach this point, navigate his own psyche to try and escape this hell, to hold on to hope.

Then…he just couldn’t bear it any longer. The knowing, the remembering a world outside his own head.

So he let it go. He forgot, and he became the nightmare. The never ending loop. There was nothing else…there could be nothing else.

Picked up. Arrested. Running. Attacking. Breakdown. Apprehension. Picked up arrested running attacking breakdown apprehension picked up arrested running attacking—

Time ceased to exist. There was only the loop…

…until one day, while Torchwood Three slept, while Owen and Toshiko catalogued UNIT’s castoffs—it changed.

John launched himself from the brush, knife in hand, pressed to Teasle’s throat…

Except it wasn’t Teasle. It was someone else, someone John didn’t recognize. Someone…someone that reminded him of something he had forgotten a long time ago…

He could only stand there, knife pressed to the lean line of a World War 2 soldier’s throat, and stare into the brightest pair of blue eyes he’d ever seen.

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