ph_logs | my heart's dark but it's rising, i'm pulling all the faith i can see (OPEN)

Who: Col. Samuel Trautman (

agoodsupplyofbodybags) & YOU!
What: At the eleventh hour, a heartfelt prayer is heard and answered
When: the morning after the gala & all through October
Where: The Oak & Iron and literally EVERYWHERE
Warning(s): canon typical warnings for the Rambo franchise: violence, PTSD, police brutality, torture, etc.--and any warnings that might come from discussing the gala because the demons would not let Trautman slip free of the visitor's center and into the arms of Mortanne without making sure he also knew the truth about Dahlia Leeds

Visitor's Center - Final Night

For the first time in two weeks, Sam is starting to feel just a tiny bit claustrophobic.

Watching John walk away from the Visitor's Center and into the night, he's more aware of what he's going to lose when he leaves here than he has been the whole time he's been here: this John Rambo, not just living but healing. This John Rambo, at peace with his nature if not with the war. It's a version of Rambo that Sam can take solace in: his finest creation, not just made to win and to fight, but made whole where Sam failed him.

There's more, though. There are others: that boy, Radar. That sweet girl jingling cheerfully with every step, the warmth of Father Mulcahy, the good humored elf that had adopted him as her own--other visitors like that sweet space faring woman who spoke of John with such affection. Meeting them all, getting to know them a little while he tried to help them get to know John better...

He can see why John is doing so well--and Sam can't help but feel an immense sense of loss at being ripped from this strange little community that has embraced this particular man with such ready, desperate acceptance and affection.

He's laying awake in his bed later that night, his very last night, when he's gripped by a strange impulse that has him flashing a wry smile at the ceiling...

"I must be crazy, but...I've done crazier in my day." he murmurs with a soft laugh. "The old saying goes that there's no atheists in foxholes and all--but a soldier the likes of us says goodbye when we sign on. To win a war is to be ready to die...and I...I think that may be wrong. I think that I may have been wrong. So, I'm asking you--all of you ladies that have been so good to my dear friend, John: keep helping him. Hell, maybe even let him stay here. He deserves the peace he's finding here, and if he can help you with all this strangeness then maybe he'll serve you better than he can serve us back home. Just...I hope the things I've shared here will be enough to save him, and if not...show me what else I can do for him."

He hesitates, unsure how to leave this strange prayer...

"...amen? Not sure that works for a bunch of goddesses. Respectfully, I'm on very new ground here. But--thank you. For this--for letting me know he's...gonna be all right."

Sam shuts his eyes--and finally, at long last, sleep comes to him.

* * * * *

When Sam wakes up, it's from a dream the likes of which he's never had before--and hopes he'll never have again. It started pleasantly enough, gently roused from sleep by a white haired woman and escorted through town in a black coach--or was it a hearse?--to the local inn, where he was given a room. There, he seemed to fall asleep again to a horrific nightmare filled with fire, screams, masked men and women and a terrible secret being exposed...

He bolts up in bed, feeling, to be frank, absolutely haggard. Only...he's not in bed. Well, he is, but this isn't the barracks. The room doesn't have the oppressive humidity of the heat at the Thai border, nor the stale smell of stored linen and gritty dirt. The bed, too, is--well, it's damn comfortable.

Sam gets up, looking down at himself as he flicks back the covers--he's not wearing his pajamas or his uniform, but simple clothing that leaves him feeling oddly stripped bare.

Standing up, he moves to the door of his room, opens it--and steps into the hallway of the inn from his dream.

"...well, I'll be a sonufa..."

Chuckling, Sam makes his way downstairs--and the morning after the gala, one Samuel Trautman can be found in the Oak & Iron's main area, having breakfast. and open to saying hello to anyone that feels like approaching him.

And from there, he'll be...well, all over the place. He's here to stay, it seems, and if you recognize him from the visitor's center, he'll be more than happy to share his strange tale.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Sam's eyebrows go up at the mention of the name John Watson, but he otherwise doesn't comment. Well, that's...

Nah. Can't be.

Instead of dwelling, he just nods in understanding.

"If there's one thing I understand as a military man, it's following orders--and that is why I'm not using my rank here." Sam replies emphatically. "Remind myself I'm not calling the shots. What I know and what I can do are very different things, and if I'm hired? I'll adhere to command. Might look up this Agent Jean as well, but...militia's volunteer, I'm assuming? No...military is my career, and I'm a veteran of wars that make me far more amenable to peacekeeping than battle. I'll fight if I have to, but I'd much rather help. You, uh--you can check my references if you like. I served with a local here, John Rambo?"

"I'll be certain to ask him about you." Cerrit nods, his steel blue eyes boring into Sam, like he's weighing the man with sight alone. "The crew we have here is all good folks, and there's some who do not like me or trust me. I can tell you why, or you can ask them for yourself. But I'll say this, I take our duty seriously."

“As you should—and with all due respect, I follow a chain of command. Not idle gossip…if I’m ever guilty of insubordination, I’m the one who will be guilty. Not some little voice in my ear, yours included.”

That, however, brings to mind his dreams before waking at the inn—and the jaw-jacking that has been going on all over town. Visibly unsettled, his brow furrows as he continues with carefully chosen words.

“There is one issue: the recent debacle surrounding that young woman—a Miss Leeds? I wasn’t present for the event, but some force made certain I was aware of exactly what happened, and the nature of her…family tree. I’ll be quite frank…it stinks like bad fish, like all politics do. Having said all that…if I sign on? I’ll arrest her if she breaks the law, I’ll protect her if she’s innocent, and I’ll book the whole damn town if I have to should there be any flavor of an unruly mob forming to, as it were, come for our jobs where she’s concerned. But if this department has any stance on the matter that isn’t informed by, at a bare minimum, the rule of law…then there could be a serious conflict. I will reserve personal judgment for if or when I meet her, and otherwise operate in the middle of the Venn diagram where legal code and good conscience overlap.”

"Sam, I'll be blunt with you: I knew long before everyone else. And I told Dahlia that I volunteer to be eaten, if push comes to shove, rather than some poor sap who doesn't deserve it. I'm biased, that's definitely true. But when push comes to shove, I see it as my duty to recuse myself due to the conflict of interest, not to stand in your way."

He shakes his head. "We're here to keep the peace. The demons? On the whole, they're here to ensure we don't have peace. I don't want to do their job for them."

It's one thing to know, in abstract, but specifics--Sam is still playing catch up, and hearing Cerrit say it outright like that...

He blinks, visibly caught off guard by the mention of being eaten--especially given that the man appears to be a bird of prey himself. In the same instant, he's taken back to John's sentencing, to the letter he wrote--the conversations he had...

The look on John's face when he tried to assure him he did everything he could--the understanding that John knew it wasn't ever going to be enough, and how grateful he was that someone even bothered.

"...is she worth it?"

The quiet question is more than it seems on the surface. It's not doubtful or uncertain--it's asking for far more than whether or not this young woman is worth sacrificing himself for.

Sam is asking how deep his 'conflict of interest' goes. He's asking if the girl needs it, the way John needed it from him, that reassurance that, even in the tiniest way, she matters.

If Cerrit, like Sam, struggles with the inability to do as much as he feels that they deserve.

He nods without hesitation.

"Let me lay it out for you: Japhet Leeds, the man who raised her, made a deal with a demon so he could be the king of this rock. He 'discovered' the island and led the local cult of Aster here. Dahlia was born last of thirteen, and wasn't Japhet's by blood. She was Aster's. She's been a pawn all her life, watching each of her siblings suffer and die. Despite that, she does try to foster community, to participate in life here. Her hunger is not something she can avoid. I've seen her starving, unable to feed. It's shit, Sam."

His feathers ruffle and fluff up.

"I failed as a father, before arriving here. But I don't want to fail her, too."

...that just...fucking hurts.

Sam takes a deep breath, expression outwardly calm, but in every word he hears his own doubts and self recrimination. Knowing John's story, knowing what he became to John...exploiting that to bring him in. Yes, to keep him from ending up dead, but when he watched John fall to pieces in the dark and held himself back in the moment...

You're the only one I trust.

"...so did I." Sam admits after a beat, sighing. "I stand by everything I said, I can't do anything less. But...that includes the overlap between the law and good conscience. I made colonel by knowing when the rules were bullshit, and being able to face myself in the mirror had to be a priority--which, given the last war I served in, was basically impossible. You want to see a failure as a father, just look at John Rambo--that's where I failed, it led to a lot of chaos, and the people on this rock have been picking up the pieces. Hire me. I'll do my job, I'll do it well--and I'll do what's right. Whether or not the law backs me up."

"Oh, you were hired earlier in the conversation. All that's left is paperwork and uniform issue." Cerrit attempts to swing for good cheer, probably misses. "As for John Rambo, I heard he's taken a Paladin Oath in the name of one of the local goddesses."

It's not a miss: Sam blinks, then grins at the other man, offering him his hand again.

"A smartass, I see--I like that." he observes with a chuckle. "And, uh...I did hear about that from John."

He only hesitates slightly before shaking his head.

"I wasn't sure what to think when he told me, but I took my own leap of faith, and it landed me here, where I can do more for him. I'm not really the spiritual type...but John wasn't doing this well even before the war, so I reckon it's a good thing, this...paladin, you said?...this paladin business."

"They're not common in the world I come from, but they're a known quantity. If it's a matter you have questions about, I've worked alongside paladins in the past." Though. What he might have to say about how those workings ended is pretty rocky.

"As long as he's happy and healthy? To be honest...I really don't have an interest." Sam replies honestly, but with a smile. "I'm far more interested in getting to work. Can't very well buy a new friend a drink if I'm not earning. You mentioned paperwork?"

Then, as an afterthought...

"...can--sorry if I'm incorrect--do avians of your ilk drink?"

“Heavily, some nights. It’s cups that are an issue, not what’s in them. I end up with bowls or pitchers, to accommodate the beak.”

Clearly the question is inoffensive.

my heart's dark but it's rising, i'm pulling all the faith i can see (OPEN)

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