A/N: This is where we get more inside Soap's state of mind. I hope I've caught his personality in the narrative.

I've never had to wear a neck brace, but I know it's extremely debilitating to wear one, hence the impeded speech. Shout out to Was-In-A-Coma for background experience.

Ch2: Legend

After sleeping for so long, you lose the perception/ concept of 'night' and 'day.' Your body goes on get accustomed to a routine, running on its own schedule. I don't remember falling asleep, but when I woke up, everything was painfully clear. My room has a strange amber glow that barely provides any visibility, the edges of the ceiling backlit with some sort of ambient light. The light directly above my bed is obnoxiously harsh.

The female in grey was gone, but in her place she had left a small plastic cup with a straw peeking out. I curled my left hand into a fist, feeling every muscle respond with intense pain. It meant I was still alive. They had left the restraints off, and for that I was thankful too. I wanted up, and I wanted out, but I knew it wouldn't be something so simple. Too many wires and tubes seemed to run from every other direction from under the blankets. My mouth was still dry, and the damn cup of water looked mighty tempting.

I reached toward the steel tube railing, balling the sheet in my fist as it crawled along the bed. I let my fingers walk up the length of the railing, the metal cold but smooth, like the barrel of a gun. Just a little more, and I feel my hand enclose around the frame.

The cup sits on a small stand that hovers over the edge of my confines, alone, a watchtower surveying my every move. I lift my arm, feeling the gravity of the world pulling it back down and my fingers bumping clumsily at the smooth edge. The stand is jostled, rolling backwards, further away.

It hurt so goddamn much, like molten iron was being pumped through my arm. Somewhere inside, a caged beast raged, and the stand went reeling backwards, the tiny plastic cup bobbling as the water splashed about.

Now I was screwed, and inexplicitly exhausted. As my hand fell back at my side, I felt something hard under it. Small, hard edges, square corners, and smooth except for the raised disk the flexed easily in my grip. Reminded me of a detonator.

It must have worked like one too, because in no time someone dressed in grey was stepping through the door. They paused before making the approached, carting the stand closer to the bed.

"How are feeling Mr. MacTavish?"

The question seemed ludicrous. I had urge to punch this guy's face in.

"Itf ffuckin hurts." I growl, barely recognizing my own voice, but the words sounding less retarded and more threatening. The grey figure steps into the light. It's not that Anna person, and it's not the other female either. It's a middle aged guy, dark hair, grayish eyes and fair skin. He grabs something from the wall over my head, just out of my line of sight and tinkers here and there. Adjusts a small knob that pinches the IV line. The pain starts to ebb, a little more with each drip, and I can feel myself breathing a little easier, except for this bulky collar enclosed around my face and neck. The thought of another restraint irritates me.

"We'll do everything to help accommodate you."

I hear the pen scribing against paper and that corky style clipboard. My head starts to feel foggy, like swimming under water. I lay in silence as the guy continues his work, formulating my thoughts as I feel myself being pulled under.

"Whuft ist tuhday?" I don't know how long I've been out. I don't know where I am. Right now, I'm not even quite sure who I am. All I know is that it's dark out, and I can't make out the thin bars on the clock dial.

"Today is Saturday, the17th of December, 2016."

Great. A date. Just numbers. Because I have no recollection of how much time has passed since…since, I was whoever I was before.

I close my eyes and repeat the date over in my mind, committing it to memory. Useless information as of now, but when this all this shit finally comes together, it'll make sense. Collecting intel, gathering the puzzle pieces. All I do is listen now, and I can still hear him in the room.

"Whuft toim ist ift?"

"It's 0234 hours."

It's early, and it's late all at once. My body feels tired, but my mind is reeling. I'm a prisoner to my own body. I force my eyes open and squint at the hazy clock face, transposing the shapes with the information.

"Can I help you with anything else?" The guy in grey asks. I give a half hearted wave to decline. Just as he's leaving something jumps to mind.

"Waih." I barked. Thankfully, he stopped, pausing to look back.

"Who emh I?"

I make out a smile on his face.

"You're John MacTavish. You're a legend. A hero." And with that, he disappears into the pearly gates that define the border of my room.

John.

John.

John MacTavish.

I mull over that information too. Little pieces. All falling into place in the big picture.

Something itches down my neck, under that damn plastic vice. Warm, slow moving, torturous. I don't have the strength even scratch at it. There's an uncontrollable heave in my chest, like a truck engine struggling to turn over, shuddering. I can't stop it from happening. It starts to feel damp where the brace in pressed under my chin.

Why am I crying?

A/N: The struggle is real. John is lapsing between relearning about the world around him, and the memories of a forgotten life.