Rambo was a good man. He wasn't a weapon, he didn't deserve the hell he had been put through, he was just a victim of the war shaped into what the medias recognised as a dangerous man.

That's what his Colonel, Trautman, repeated to him time and time again ever since before he moved in with him and you —his young daughter. And that, exactly those words, were the only thing Rambo would never believe from his Colonel.

He had killed, in the war, for survival. His hands were dirty with blood he still saw during his PTSD episodes, he had clawed his way out of the holes he had been shoved into —made it cave in and bury othe people behind him. He was the sole survivor of the squad he had fought with.

America had turned it's back on the veterans, spat on their name. The teenagers and drunks in the streets yelling filthy proffanities and slurs to the men that walked in militar uniform and the rest didn't care at all. Where had all the respect gone? ~he just wanted his country to love it's soldiers as much as it's soldiers loved their country~.

He didn't feel like he deserved this, living in a warm house under a safe roof. He didn't feel like he deserved living at ease, away from the horrors, with his Colonel and his daughter.

And, moments like these only funded his belief.

He didn't know what had gotten into him, it was a PTSD episode, of course, but why? He barely remembered you, the ever sweet daughter of his Colonel saying something. Something that sounded exactly like what one of his enemies had said to him when torturing him, you weren't at fault for the paralalell.

But the next thing he knew was that he had locked in and chased you down through the whole house. He had you against the ground, in an asphixiating chokehold, and his sharp trusty knife was pressed right over your heart. "traitor" he growled, tightening his grip on you, as if you were an enemy from his time back in the war. "you're with them, aren't you?" He wasn't thinking straight.