This journal is for a character in a Torchwood RPG. The character of Professor Ewan Harrow (English approximation) is an original creation, but anything related to Torchwood and Doctor Who is the property of the BBC and/or Russel T. Davies. Ewan McGregor - my PB - is an actor I admire and is also, in no way, related to me, this character or this journal. Just playing, folks. Nothing to see here. These are not the 'droids you're looking for. Please move along.
Secured: For Torchwood Eyes Only. Clearance Required By: email@example.com and firstname.lastname@example.org.
Where do I bloody start?
My name is Professor Ewan Harrow, from Glasgow, and I'm in charge of Torchwood Two, a branch of an organization out to protect the world from alien invasions, secret societies, faeries, bad fast-food chains, movies with no plot or acting talent, and anything else that comes on the radar.
There's only me and about a dozen or so others up here in the north. We maintain Torchwood House, which is an historic site you all should tour if you haven't already, keeping the library there in order as it grows with more unusual volumes every week, it seems. I also have this wee office in Glasgow, which really only holds me and piles of papers and a computer that still runs DOS, if you can believe it. I live on my MAC laptop.
Bloody, stupid, fucking office. I hate it.
Other than that, I'm doing research for a thesis paper. No, really, though I don't know if it will ever be published. A wee problem with some parties off-world. They don't know I'm here - I hope - so shhhhhhhhhhhhh...
Half of what I'm telling you is bullshit, but I'm supposed to fill out this space with something. As only Torchwood employees can read it, I suppose it doesn't really matter, and the whole story isn't here anyway.
Oh, and the other half is the Truth, though you'll have to figure out which half, or whether or not I'm just mad or 'that odd fellow up in Scotland', trying to drive you stark, raving bonkers. Or maybe I'll just scare the shit out of you. Depends on many factors, including how smart you are, how flexible you can become, and whether or not it is a Wednesday.
So, I'm not an alien life form, but a Human from the future. Wait - I am an alien, in self-imposed exile from people who want to kill me. I have a bounty on my head, which is, apparently, rather valuable. Off I went to get a higher education and a good thing, too, or I'd be long dead. Or I'm some fucking nutter with a wee dram in me, having a lark with you.
Nah, I'm full of shit.
Piss me off and I'll eat you.
This space used to say something different, something very professional, but I changed it after Canary Wharf. Hartman would have taken me seriously long enough to cut me in little pieces and put me in a series of jars for later research. She's gone now, along with so many...
But the words here were just so bloody boring to read that I changed them.
And now, aside from me being in dubious charge of Torchwood Two, you're probably no further along in knowing who I am, or what to believe about me.