A/N: I wanted to break this chapter up, but it needed to go together. Making headway with a little R&R.

Ch4: FNJ 2.0

It starts all over again. Elle's got a game plan and gets me up on my feet in the morning with the assistance of Jakob and Anna. My reflexes might be slow, parts of me crippled, but I wasn't going to let it stop me.

It's by 1500 on Day 2 of my regiment I start to truly grasp how weak I really am. Every other word is a profanity, and I'm adamantly convinced it was the morphine talking this morning. I pass on the entertainment. I feel like I'm dying. I just want to be left alone. Elle gives me the space and minimizes her visits that evening. I brace for impact when I wake up and greet Day 3 with full throttled hostility. It only goes downhill from there. By nightfall they're back at it with the diazepam to curb my attitude.

On Day 4 after my morning routine I find out diazepam is the technical name for valium, and I get a small does of it for breakfast along with the ice chips. The rest of the day slips by -not easier- but more tolerable with the coercion of the drugs. I wake up 0148 hrs of Day 5 and contemplate murder so I can make my escape. I hardly know life outside the walls of my room and the dreadful corridor I've decided to dub "The Gulag" where they force me to walk. Flying blind hasn't stopped me before, and I know I'll be able to adapt. I trust in myself that much. I'm finished laying out the details before allowing myself any rest. I need to act first thing while my mind is still sharp before they get the chance to drug me.

I'm woken up by the sound of Elle's mellowed voice. When did I let myself fall asleep? Did I even sleep? I don't remember dreaming at all.

"Good morning John."

"Mornin Elle." I grumbled, keeping my eyes closed and my jaw clenched. She sounds different. They've already cut back on the morphine. The effects of it has been hitting me in passing waves, some more intense than others. I know she heard the resentment in my voice because she doesn't try to prompt a conversation out of me. I feel her grab my hand though, her thumb counting over my knuckles, back and forth, a small squeeze. This is how my morning always starts.

"I promise I'm not here to torment you today. You've made some amazing progress these past few days. I want you to know I'm proud of you John."

Progress? I didn't realize nearly wiping out on the floor counted as progress. I could hardly balance myself without holding on to someone or the wall.

I open my eyes and Operation Holocaust is immediately aborted. I wonder if she's already put the valium into my IV line that quick without me noticing. She's giving me a sympathetic look, but there's something more going on there. Exhaustion. It's the first sign of weakness I've seen in her.

"Are you going to be cranky today?"

"Might be."

Elle gives me a pensive smile, and I return something like it in return. She's still holding my hand. That's when I realize I'm squeezing hers back.

"Well," she draws the first word out, winding up for the pitch, "I was thinking you might enjoy a day at the spa. Give you some much needed down time after the kind of week you've been having."

The spa? I scoff, blatantly. My lack of enthusiasm comes as no surprise.

"Do I strike you as one of those kinds of fellas?" I think I hear Elle try to suppress a laugh. It's a different sound than I'm used to.

"No, but, that hair. It's my own fault for letting that mop of yours overgrow. Take a look for yourself." Elle digs a hand mirror out from the cart, offering it to me.

I don't even bother trying with my right hand. Come to think of it, I don't recall seeing any mirrors around this place.

It's the first time I actually get a glimpse at my own face. The mirror is too small to see everything, but enough to see my hair is shaggy and the stubble I'm sporting is a bit much. 5 days without a shave tends to do that. I'd doubt they'd trust me with a razor blade in my possession just yet –especially if they knew what I was thinking half the time. A faded line runs down the left side of my face, skipping across my brow to continue down my cheek. It's old, but now I'm curious how it got there.

"I didn't know if you wanted to keep it *really high* and tight, or, be rebellious and let it grow out. It's your choice now. You're at a good intermittent phase to decide. But first…"

Elle pulls the mirror out of my hand.

"How about we start off with getting a few scans of your neck and see if we can't get you out of that brace?"

Elle makes good on her promise. She gets me down to the wing where the CT scanner is housed. A mature woman named Signy runs the show down there and has already prepped the room, and the two of them get straight to business. The hardest part is remaining absolutely still. Elle warns me if I fidget it degrades the image quality. Artifacts or some bullshit technical term. But she's good at her job and gets it done the first time. And after what feels like an eternity of sitting in exam room she returns with Signy.

"Good news John, you are being freed from your shackles today. This definitely calls for celebration."

Signys' peeling apart the brace, and when it's finally off, I feel like my head is still craned awkwardly like a giraffe. I can breathe normally. Swallow. Feel the pulse of my artery. A few range-of-motion and sensory tests later and my chart gets checked off. I was ready to call it a day there. Elle assures me I'll enjoy whatever else she has in store.

And she's not wrong.

It's a lot of 'firsts' for one day. I regain some dignity and take a piss, a real piss with minimal supervision. An actual shower, with all the hot water you could ask for. More comfortable clothes. A clean shave, complete with a hot towel. Turns out Elle's not half bad with a razor. Now it's onto the unsat haircut.

"Have you decided what you wanted?"

We're both staring at my reflection in the vanity mirror.

"No." I drag my fingers through my hair. I feel like it's the most I've probably had in years, though I can't be sure. I decide I don't like it. I can see Elle watching me closely from the corner of my eye.

"Take it off." I order.

"High and tight it is."

I tune into the electronic hum of the clippers while Elle goes to work. She's humming something to herself. It's catchy. Classy. Timeless. I can't place it. It puts a small swing in her hips. The familiarity of the act gives me feeling of normalcy.

"You want me to take a little more off?"

I inspect her work by visual and feel.

"Any tighter and I won't have anything left." But I like it. There's nothing quite refreshing like a new cut. I can't stop touching it, just like my face. I almost recognize myself. Maybe even look a bit like a 'John MacTavish' should. Elle's brushing my neck down with a warm towel.

"Who knew there was such a handsome man under all that scruff and attitude?"

Her comment catches me off guard, and I feel a little flustered. I cock an eyebrow at my reflection so she can see.

"That's the nicest thing you've said to me." I keep a straight face in an attempt to recover from the remark, looking offended even.

"Don't lie John. I say nice things to you all the time." And she's all smiles. She doesn't look as tired as she was this morning either. Like she's found a second wind.

Elle's hands are on my shoulders, moving in subtle ways that are utmost sensational. It feels good after being stuck in that damned restraint for so many days. The muscles in my neck, back and shoulders are tense. Just as she finds the sweet spot she stops.

"We can resume this later. I'm not quite finished with you yet."

My room gets an upgrade, something with a view. This hospital must be off the beaten path because I don't see many roads marking the landscape outside my window.

"Tell me John, are you feeling hungry?"

Come to think of it, I never quite felt hungry in the normal sense. Food hadn't really become a focus as much as managing the pain had. There had been a few times the thought of eating had occurred to me, mostly when I was lying awake at night bored out of my mind, but it never formulated past there.

Elle sets a tray in front of me –a cup of water, and a bowl of some clearish liquid. I drop the spoon in the bowl and give it stir, noting the thin consistency while feeling the warm vapors hit my face.

"Can't say for sure. What's in it?" Cause it sure looks like nothing.

"It's a basic stock. We'll be weaning you off the TNP line and getting you back to eating actual food. We need to start with the basics to re-acclimate your body."

I give her a skeptical look and paw through the liquid a little more.

"Don't try to force yourself. I'll be by later to check in. If you need anything, you know what to do."

She winks at me before she leaves. I dig around for the television remote and find it stuffed between the bed and the metal safety railing. I scroll through the channels until I find some sort of nature program. I don't understand a word of the dialect, but I know a tiger stalking through the grass when I see one. After getting sidetracked for a few minutes more, I look down back at the task at hand. Elle had seemed so enthusiastic about it. Never in my life did eating something feel so daunting.

I give it a taste. It has no distinct smell, and taste flat. It's not terrible either, and I figure I'd make an effort at least. There's no way I'm getting out of this place without making forward progress –or in a body bag- and this happened to be one of the steps along the way.

I get about 2/3's the way through and feel….full, maybe even a bit nauseas. And I'm pretty sure it's not because the big cat is disemboweling some small animal. I take a few sips of the water and pick up on a distinct, sharp taste. Acrid. Crisp. It awakens my senses.

I push the tray out of the way and recline in my new bed, blowing out a huge sigh. My fingers start fidgeting with the port stuck under my collarbone, then to the chain around my neck. I fish it out and study the circular medallion attached on the end. I've felt it there all along but I've never really taken a moment to examine it closely. The edges were rounded and smooth from wear, the polished surface battered and scratched, endured from being in the field. I hold it out and read the inscription;

O POS
2073521
JOHN
MacTAVISH
ARMY
RC

Satisfied, I close my fist around it, rubbing the tag between my thumb and index while I cross exam the information with my medical bracelet. No matter where you go, there's always a number attached. It struck me funny that I had only one tag though. Wasn't there supposed to be another?

Looking at the dog tag made me feel a bit –nostalgic. A sense of belonging, comradery, and most of all –purpose. Right now, I was stuck in a paradox. My goal as of now was to get better, to get stronger. Enough where I can take care of myself and get out of this place.

…And then what?

Elle's words came back to haunt me, 'Consider yourself a ghost.'

The official report apparently said I was K.I.A. I'm supposed to be dead. Six foot under in some shithole no doubt. The paper works trails off from there, as did whatever ties to my old life –not that I had a recollection of those at the moment. Perhaps with a little time my memories could amount to something useful. I wouldn't even know what to do with myself in the outside world. Go back and join the fight? Was the war still raging on out there?

Who am I kidding? They'll never let me out of their sight. I'm a high profile legend with a burn notice. You just don't walk away from that kind of life. Whoever wanted you dead was going to make sure you stayed that way. They don't leave loose ends unattended. I'm not talking phony funeral arrangements with smoke and mirrors. More like an actual corpse with a convincing enough resemblance passed off and probably some doctored tissue samples with altered dental record delivered to some official's doorstep as proof.

Guaranteed someone's already bought and paid for my life. Now that was a sobering thought.

Funny thing is, I don't like to leave loose ends either. Less than 12 hours ago I was contemplating murdering my way out of this joint. I took my shit seriously.

I let myself brood for a bit longer. All these thoughts of vengeance were getting me riled up. Could sure use a little bit of that Valium right about now.

I take another deep breath to focus myself. That tactical pause they taught you back in the recruit days when things were getting too hot. Too bad my busted ribs cut the moment short. After a little bit of effort, tossing and turning, I finally find myself settling back in with the TV. The sun feels good to bask in, and the activity in my brain starts to shut down. I'm able to get myself to where I can defrag my mind and let it flat line. I never knew how much I could sleep in one day.

When I wake up, my room's dark, save for the last fading light outside. The television is still on, but the volume is so low it's inaudible. I know that's not how I left it. With a good hard rub, I shake the sleep from my eyes as they adjust to the low light. The remote has been moved to the bedside stand, along with something else. I sit up and let the queasy feeling wash over me and a harsh chill run down my spine. I know it's because I haven't had the morphine in several hours. Vague memories of withdrawal crawl around in the back of my mind –maybe that's where this pounding headache has started.

I reach over and grab the second item off the table and drag it into my lap. I might have full mobility in my left hand, but my strength isn't up to par. A small blue bow marks the finishing point of the simple wrapping. It's a leather bound journal with a new pen across the front. The color is a rich brown, the material soft, edges gilded, pages blank. The pen is generic, but still nice. Fine tip, black ink, some heft and thick in size. The book is held closed by a small brass button, which is easy enough for me to undo.

Inside on the cover page a small handwritten note is tucked away:

'A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step'

In this case, a page. Everyday is a second chance, John.

No doubt Elle's work. The gift is thoughtful, as it is nice. I crack the book open and run my palm down the open spine, splaying the pages apart. But there's one striking flaw. No matter how hard I try, I can't secure a grip with my right hand. Not one that I could successfully write with. The harder I try, the worse my hold on the pen feels. I'm about ready to throw it across the room. I drop the pen in my lap and fall back in bed, counting back from 10 slowly. When I finish the countdown, I sit up with a sigh. The page has rolled back to where Elle's note sits. I reread it. This is exactly what she meant.

This time, I take the pen up in my left hand, flip back to the first fresh page, and start there. I know I've done this before, and vaguely recall I used to keep a black book with me at all times. It's gone now. Kind of mad because it probably had a lot of important information about my past inside. Oh well, no use getting upset. What's done is done. Time to start with a fucking new journal. 2.0.

A/N: If you're enjoying please at least follow or fav so I get an idea how many of you are out there. Reviews would be appreciated too. Thanks! :D