The first week passed by rapidly, amid flurries of construction and deconstruction with the train. Things were coming along steadily. As suspected, Emmett's few hours of teaching three mornings a week was barely noticed. Doc and Marty were well equipped to handle what came about, and the lab was fairly familiar to both visitors, since it was almost identical in layout and setup to the one they were used to in their world. And in spite of being offered the opportunity to gracefully bow out, the local Marty was around more often than not, pitching in with his own skills.
Even Jules, Verne, and Emily wanted to help out with this unusual project, around their schoolwork obligations. Emily was satisfied by running the painfully basic tests required for the software verification, while Verne and Jules were old enough to assemble circuitboards, so long as there was someone directly supervising them. The visitors couldn't stop their initial reactions to the eldest boys, as Jules was uncharacteristically incompetent with things like circuits and electronics, and Verne was much better at it -- although his science-related interests clearly lay in something a bit away from computers and electronics. Biology, specifically animals, were more his passion, and he talked excitedly about how he wanted to be a vet or zookeeper someday, maybe. Jules was set on being a rock musician, and the conversations he had with either and both of the Martys blew the visiting one away. He wished he could take video of this kid because he knew that the Jules back home wouldn't be able to buy it in a million and one years!
It was quite possible, of course, to do that. The tapes of the Back to the Future films were proof enough that video media could survive in a different dimension -- though Doc wasn't sure how long it would last before the electromagnetic tape began to deteriorate. The visiting inventor had managed to see all three of the films, in odd moments here and there, along with his counterpart. Doc thought they were fascinating, but not as much as the kids in this world; they begged for copies, seeing it as almost a home video archive of their parents before they were born, even if the events at the end of the third film were not reflections of their lives. Emmett, however, was quite firm in his refusal to allow that. If it was seen by the wrong people, it could cause a lot of problems. The visiting Marty really had no interest in seeing the videos, but his counterpart was as fascinated as the inventors and kids were -- more so, even. Often when there was a spare moment or three, he would be in the study watching the third one, particularly the last half hour of it. Marty thought it was borderline creepy, but no one else seemed to think it was worth commenting upon if they noticed.
Since the first full day they had been in this reality, there had been no real problems with reactions from the foreign dimension. Marty, as Doc had guessed, had absolutely no memory of taking that first jump in the DeLorean; he directed a completely blank look to the inventor the following morning, when Doc had asked him how he had enjoyed that the night before, and in fact thought that his friend was putting him on until Emmett and Clara corroborated the story. Every day since then, around eight or nine in the evening, Emmett would turn the keys of the DeLorean over to Doc, and both visitors would take a quick hop to a minute ahead. Both found the experience faintly unnerving at first -- it had been four and a half years since Doc's DeLorean had been destroyed in a brutal car accident in the future -- but the inventor soon seemed to enjoy them, in spite of the renovations Emmett had given his time machine.
On Saturday night, the work went later than usual, not shutting down until around midnight. Marty was in bed and asleep by one -- before waking up to the cries of Clayton in the room next door. That the baby was wailing in the middle of the night was rather unusual, as the youngest of the Browns had apparently mastered the art of sleeping through the night early on. But even after Clara went in to check on him, the kid wouldn't stop crying. Marty lay in the sewing room staring up at the ceiling, hearing Jules, Verne, Emily, and even Emmett come out to grumble or ask what was wrong. Clara finally took the upset baby downstairs, but Marty could still hear Clayton's unhappy cries -- just more distant and muffled.
The damage had been done, though; now he was awake and, without the distractions of working on repairs or interacting with the local Browns, Marty's mind began to run away with worries. What if everything they were doing was pointless; what if it wouldn't work? What if they never got home again? What if they were here for more than a few weeks? The relentless pace of his brain kept him up the rest of the night, even after Clayton had been settled down again.
Sunday found him dragging most of the day, feeling acute pangs from the loss of sleep he had suffered the night before. That afternoon, around four, when Emmett had gone into the house to grade some midterm exams and Doc had been sent out to the hardware store for more parts, the not-so-unthinkable or unexpected happened.
The local Marty had gone up to the loft to find some plans that Doc had drawn out the night before, in anticipation of recreating one of the circuitboards that controlled the output of power between the fusion generator and the flux capacitor on the train. The visiting Marty had climbed the stairs, some question nagging him that had to be asked at the moment to the local. His biggest complaint was about being tired, and that it didn't seem to be helped much by the couple of Pepsis he'd consumed over the course of the afternoon. Marty was almost to the top of the stairs when the world seemed to sort of skip on him, like a record needle that hit a scratch and suddenly went careening forward.
When the world snapped back into focus, he realized he was lying face up, the edges of the stair steps biting into the back of his spine. The bridge of his nose throbbed painfully, and his own face was staring down at him, pale and scared. It was such a weird sight that Marty had to blink a few times before he became convinced this wasn't some strange hallucination or dream. The physical discomforts helped on that, too, cutting through the rather spacy, tired feeling dogging him.
"You okay now?" the local asked his prone counterpart. "Can you talk?"
"Uh-huh," Marty muttered, still dazed. "What happened? Did I faint or something?"
"I dunno. I heard this thud on the stairs and when I ran over, I found you face down a couple steps from the top. You're lucky you didn't fall back -- or over the railing! I rolled you over and your eyes were open -- but you didn't blink or anything! It was creepier than hell."
Marty raised his hand up and rubbed his aching nose. No doubt he must've landed right on a corner of a step there. "It sounds like one of those dimensional reactions," he admitted. "That's what happens to Doc and I when our bodies start to freak out from being in a different dimension. That's why we have to take a jump in that DeLorean every night. But I shouldn't be having one of these now...."
Even as he said the words, Marty knew why he had probably been struck prematurely. Exhaustion made the body more prone to it, and caffeine could make such dimensional incompatibility worse, not better. He sighed to himself, realizing he should've remembered those things earlier and opted for an afternoon nap instead of Pepsis.
The local Marty looked only slightly more at ease with the diagnosis. "So if you go in the DeLorean, you'll be better?" When the visitor nodded, cautiously sitting up, the local jumped up from the stairs and scooted past his counterpart, heading for the study. As Marty leaned back against the railing, feeling a little lightheaded, he had to ask.
"What are you doing?"
There was the sound of a drawer or two being opened up in the study. "Getting the DeLorean keys," the local Marty said a moment later. "I know where they are; Doc showed me in case there were ever any emergencies."
The visiting Marty's brain was still a bit slow. "And what are you gonna do with the car?" The solution occurred to him before his counterpart could say it. "You wanna jump me forward?"
"Why not?" the local called back. "Both the Docs are busy, and if this will keep you from taking nosedives on stairs, we might as well do it sooner than later. I know my Doc wouldn't mind." Local Marty walked back into view, stuffing something into the pocket of his hooded sweatshirt. "He's been waiting for me to want to time travel again."
The visiting musician started to frown, stopping when that aggravated the ache in his nose. "Are you sure that's all right? Your Doc probably wouldn't care if he had to come out here to take me a minute ahead...."
"We don't need to bother him," Local Marty said, heading down the stairs. The visitor pulled himself up to his feet with the aide of the railing. "He's probably behind on his grading with all the other stuff going on, and I can do it. Trust me."
Visiting Marty supposed there wasn't any reason not to. And if this was something the local wasn't supposed to be doing, it wasn't like he, the innocent victim, was going to get into trouble at all. Plus, the idea of getting rid of the light, spacey feeling in his head sooner rather than later was most appealing. He followed his counterpart after a moment of hesitation. By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, Local Marty already had the car doors unlocked and was inside messing with the time circuits.
"We only need to go a minute ahead," the visiting Marty mentioned as he made his way over to the passenger side of the car.
"Yeah," the local said a minute later, sounding slightly preoccupied. He finished inputting the data for the destination just as Marty reached the other side of the car and plopped down in the seat. "Is the fusion generator loaded?" Local Marty asked as he reached for the keys, already in the ignition.
"I dunno."
"Can you check?"
The visitor rolled his eyes at the command. "Fine." Marty got out of the car, checked the small device mounted on the back of the car, and dumped a few things from the trash can in it for good measure. He wasn't sure how often it had to be reloaded, since this was a better model than the basic Mr. Fusion unit from 2015. Better safe than sorry, though, he guessed.
He had closed the unit and was stepping away from the car when the local started it up. Marty frowned, thinking this was pretty impatient of his counterpart. It wasn't as if he was going to fall apart in a matter of seconds, or even minutes. Maybe he simply wanted to get the chore out of the way. He returned to the DeLorean and had hardly shut the door before the vehicle lurched forward, a bit roughly.
"Sorry," the local apologized, his eyes fixed on the outside world beyond the large lab doors. "I'm not used to driving this car at all."
"You'd better make sure you can get it into the air -- and that it's not visible."
"I can do that," Local Marty said, sounding faintly insulted with the insinuation he could not. The time machine stopped for a moment as the driver fiddled with those needs, then, once it was invisible and airborne, the local Marty made a wide turn to accelerate over the back of the property. They reached eighty-eight in less than a minute.
And then the visiting Marty gasped when the transit completed. Instead of seeing the same slate grey clouds hanging in the sky, and a rather dim and wintery world, they were surrounded by blue sky and sunlight.
"What the hell...?" Marty began to ask, turning his head towards his counterpart. The local Marty was already reaching into the pocket of his sweatshirt, and in one quick move pulled something out. The visitor recognized the device in the local's hand immediately; it was the sleep inducer, and it was aiming itself right at his face!
Completely on instinct, Marty screwed his eyes shut and whipped his face away, turning towards the passenger window. His reflexes, and the splintered attention span of his counterpart as he tried to aim and use the inducer, while driving, is what saved him. "What the hell, McFly?" the passenger demanded, keeping his eyes tightly closed.
"Look at me!" the other musician demanded.
"Are you outta your goddamned mind?! No! Where the hell are we? Where did you take us?"
The local Marty did not answer, but he really didn't need to. Visiting Marty had a hunch almost immediately. "Are we back in 1885?"
There was still no answer, but Marty could feel the car start to descend and slow down. Keeping his face aimed towards the window, leaning so close to it that his forehead touched the glass, the musician cracked his eyes open a smidge. When there was no blinding flash of oblivion, he opened his eyes even more in order to see what was below.
In a word -- not much. But it definitely looked like the 1885-era of Hill Valley, with the rust-colored dirt and wide open spaces. Squinting down at the land below, Marty thought he could make out the thin, silver line of the railroad tracks.
"You can't be serious..." he muttered aloud, half to his counterpart. "Do you know how screwed up you're gonna make things if you're thinking of doing what I think you're thinking of doing?"
"I know exactly what I'm doing," Local Marty snapped. "And you're supposed to stay out of this."
"I'm supposed to stay out of it? Jesus, I never wanted in it! If you didn't want company, you sure picked an inconvenient time to take off and do this!"
Once again, Local Marty chose not to respond. The now-unwilling passenger sighed, frustrated, still feeling more confused than anything else, although that spacey feeling in his head had thankfully abated with the shift in time. He continued to face the window, paranoid about the local giving the sleep inducer another try. "Why are you doing this?" he asked, even though he thought it was a pretty stupid question. "You're gonna mess so much up..."
"No, I won't," Local Marty insisted stubbornly. "There's plenty of time -- it's only 7:30 A.M. on September seventh. I can check out the track and make sure it's clear when the DeLorean comes by. The accident didn't happen until about 8:40 or something."
"And how long are you planning on staying here?" the visitor asked. "Until you make sure history is changed?"
Local Marty ignored the sarcasm that oozed out of his counterpart's words. "Until I make sure that I got home on time, instead of five years off. I don't care if you're around, but you're not gonna stop me. I'm not letting you blow this chance for me!"
"Then why the hell did you decide to do this with me here?" Marty asked, not getting it. "Or did you lie to me in the lab about your Doc being cool with you using the DeLorean?"
"I didn't lie... entirely. I haven't gone anywhere since I got home ten years ago. And Doc's never actually offered to let me take the DeLorean anywhere, but he never went out of his way to stop me, either."
"So you think that's like an open invite? Jeez.... Hasn't he told you a million times that preventing you from staying here for five years is a bad idea?"
"He's being paranoid," Local Marty said. "And he won't know about it. Things will change around him at home."
"But what about you?" Marty asked, thinking that his other self was really naive about all this stuff. "You'll either go home to a place you don't even know, or fade out!"
"I'll go home," Local Marty said. "And I'll find a better life for myself there, married with Jennifer. The way it should be."
Visiting Marty started to open his mouth to tell him that this wasn't necessarily so -- but another realization struck him temporarily mute. If the local succeeded in his bizarre mission, then more than his future would be different. Could it be possible -- likely, even -- that the visiting Doc wouldn't be there anymore? Since it would then be a different world and reality with different results? And if that happened, was the visiting Marty completely and totally screwed for ever getting home?
Marty turned to look at his counterpart for the first time, caution flying out the window now that his mind was seizing on a very valid concern. "I can't let you do this!"
The local's guard hadn't relaxed a notch. "Try and stop me!" he snapped.
Marty intended to do just that, and started to lunge over to grab the wheel from his counterpart -- and, what then, he wasn't sure -- but the local's reflexes were a step ahead. Local Marty simply let go of the wheel and made his own lunge towards the passenger seat. He grabbed the visitor's shirt in one hand, pulled him forward, and shoved the sleep inducer in his face with the other. This time, Marty didn't react fast enough to avoid it. He saw a brilliant flash of white light, and then everything faded out.
* * *
Oh shit....
Those words were Marty's first conscious thought, along with the feeling that all was not right with the world. That, in fact, things were decidedly wrong. Although intensely groggy, he managed to drag open his eyes to see what it was that was sending out such strong, bad vibes.
The first thing that he noticed was that he was in the DeLorean. In the passenger seat, to be more precise, leaning against the door rather awkwardly. The driver's seat was empty, the door closed. Marty blinked a couple of times, trying to clear his head, then sat up to better take in the world.
The DeLorean was parked on the ground, perhaps fifteen feet away from a set of train tracks. Outside, Marty saw himself (or, he realized after a very confused moment, his counterpart) on his hands and knees around the tracks, his attention fully focused on the ground along the rails. For about three seconds the Marty in the car was completely and totally baffled -- and then the memories from before came back to him with such a hard rush that he gasped.
Am I too late? Did he already 'fix' history?
Marty reached for the doorlatch, oblivious to any risk to himself. Being subjected to the sleep inducer again didn't even cross his mind. Even if it had, the risks were too great with not stepping in and keeping Local Marty from making a very serious error. He looked at the display of the current time as he pulled the doorlatch. September 7, 1885 at 8:31 A.M. There was still time. Probably.
As he was about to exit the car, his eyes happened to drop upon the driver's seat -- and there, lying in plain sight, was the sleep inducer. Marty grabbed it and slipped it into his back pocket, eager to get it away and out of the hands of his other self.
Local Marty did not look up when his counterpart left the car. The visiting Marty didn't understand why this was so until he glanced back at the car -- and didn't see it. The invisible holographic disguise was apparently still in place.
When the local counterpart either heard or sensed his approach, and glanced up, Local Marty's first reaction was a sort of flinch back. Visiting Marty fixed him with a squinty glare, his eyes not quite used to the bright sunlight outside yet.
"Get away from the tracks!" he said, his annoyance ringing clear in his voice.
Local Marty looked back down at the dirt around the rails. "Not yet," he said. "Go back in the car; I'll be done in a minute."
"Why should I listen to anything you tell me to do? You -- you knocked me out!"
"Well, you weren't cooperating." Local Marty paused a moment, raising his head and looking behind him. "Do you hear something?"
The visiting musician wasn't about to fall for that ruse. He continued to stare at his counterpart, annoyance shifting quickly to anger.
Somewhere not-so-distant, the faint whistle of a train could be heard. A few short blasts. It slipped past Marty's attention for a moment -- and then he blinked, realizing what that meant.
"The train is gonna be here soon!" he told his counterpart.
Local Marty nodded once to himself, then returned his attention to feeling around the rails. "I know. We've probably got a few minutes, though. In that movie, Doc blew the whistle a few times before we started to move onto the switch track. Probably did that here, too, but I don't remember."
The visitor took a few steps forward, unsure if it would be better to keep a cautious distance or close in. "What's the last thing you remember before the accident?"
"Going after the train, after the showdown with Buford," the local said. "Then I was waking up in Doc's place, totally confused, with a hell of a headache. I thought maybe everything was some weird dream -- but it wasn't."
Marty risked a look away from his counterpart to peer in the direction of the train whistles, curious to see if anything was visible in coming yet. After a moment of straining his eyes, he thought he detected a wisp of smoke. Things had to be stopped -- now.
"How do you know what went wrong?" he asked the local. "Maybe it was some fluke -- or something you can't even fix."
Local Marty snorted as he continued his exam. "Doc checked out the tracks after it happened," he said. "I went with him when I was able to. Nothing on the rails was bent or messed up. He figured it was something on the tracks, like a rock or a -- bent spike! Here!"
The musician leaned in close to the left rail for a moment, his body blocking Marty's view. A second later he sprang to his feet and lunged in the direction of the visitor. Marty scrambled out of the way, half expecting another attack, but the local ran right past him for the invisible DeLorean. He slowed only when reaching the immediate vicinity of the car, stretching his hands out for the exterior. They found it a moment later, vanishing under the illusion. A moment later the driver's door was open, giving one a view of the DeLorean's interior, seemingly hanging in midair. Local Marty reached inside and popped the trunk, shut the door, then hurried over to rummage around inside the hood of the car.
The train whistle sounded again, once, a quick blast. It was definitely closer, now, and Marty thought he could almost hear the rumble of the locomotive. A distant thunder-like roll. He looked in the direction of the sounds, then back at his counterpart. Local Marty was running back to the rails with a hammer clutched in one hand. It didn't take a rocket scientist to know what his intent was.
"Don't!" Marty said, taking a step towards the local as he passed by, reaching out for him. The musician easily dodged the attempted interception and skidded to a halt next to the crooked spike. He fell to his knees and began to bang at it with the hammer, the metal-on-metal sound worsening a headache the visitor wasn't aware he had, until then. Marty hesitated only a moment, then hurried to his side.
"Stop it!" he demanded, trying to grab the hammer from the local's hand. The idea was flawed; Local Marty kept swinging it, deliberately ignoring him. His jaw was set forward in a hard, tense line. A few whacks later and he stopped, bending close to examine his handiwork.
"It's not moving!" Marty overheard him mutter. "Damn!"
"Get away from the tracks!" Marty told him, feeling a faint vibration under his shoes, now. "The train's coming!"
The local ignored him. He slammed the hammer down once more on the crooked spike. The head of it wasn't sitting quite flat enough on the rail. Marty had to wonder if that flaw was exclusive to this reality, or if it existed in his world and simply hadn't been a problem. Then there was the possibility that this wasn't even the issue that had derailed the DeLorean. Marty decided to keep that last thought to himself.
The vibrations in the ground grew stronger. The visitor looked up, and this time it took no eyestrain or imagination to see the approaching locomotive. The sunlight glinted off the surface of the pushed time machine. It was probably a couple of miles away, still. But coming quickly. Before Doc had tossed in the Presto logs, they had been moving at about 25 miles per hour.
"Look, give it up," Marty told the local counterpart. "There's not enough time to fix this -- and you shouldn't be messing around with this, anyway!"
"Says the guy who's life is perfect!" Local Marty suddenly spat out without warning, his tone thickly sarcastic. He threw a quick, disgusted look in the visitor's direction, then went back to his project.
Marty took another look at the approaching train, then decided he was through with being remotely nice. "The train's gonna be on top of us in a minute," he said, taking a step forward. "You'll be seen by yourself and Doc -- and how are you gonna explain that?"
A couple of bangs was his only answer. Marty came forward quickly, desperation propelling his feet. "Get back!" he said.
Local Marty pointedly ignored him once more. The visiting counterpart made a grab for his arms, intending to wrench the hammer out of his hands. The local saw the intent. "Leave me alone!" he bellowed, furious, jerking his arm back. His elbow caught Visiting Marty in the stomach and the musician bent over, gasping in surprise and for air. Still, he wasn't intending to give in and give up.
Jeez, he's totally possessed!
"You think this will make it all better?" Marty snapped at him when he had enough breath. The ground was definitely shaking now from the approaching train, and the sound of the chugging engine was loud enough to cause the need to raise one's voice a bit. "You think this will fix all your problems? You're so stupid, McFly! You need to grow up and accept that all the shit you're dealing with now is because you can't move on from something that happened fifteen years ago! There are some things you can't change -- that you're not supposed to change -- and this is one of 'em for you. Deal with that. Live with it -- if you even know how anymore!"
Local Marty turned around, his eyes wide with either surprise or anger. That confusion over the emotions of the local lasted only until he opened his mouth. "You don't know anything about this, about me!" Local Marty yelled, raising his voice to be heard above the thundering locomotive barreling down, no more than a quarter mile away, now. His hand tightened around the handle of the hammer. "You got out of the past. You got Jennifer. You got your family to turn to. You're happy!"
The train's whistle blasted a couple of times, no doubt to edge both of them out of the way. Local Marty was standing in the center of the rails, and the visitor was a half step away. He made another grab for his counterpart's arm, intending to pull him out of the way. "Move it!"
Local Marty jerked his arm back, just as the visitor's fingertips brushed his sleeve. "No," he snapped. "It's gonna end here."
Marty's skin prickled at his counterpart's tone, sensing something more behind the words than simply the urge to right a past wrong. He looked him dead in the eyes, seeing for the first time a desperate and slightly frantic gleam in the gaze. "Not if I've got anything to do with it," he said softly, his words easily drowned out by the train.
Local Marty's body tensed, as if anticipating a blow or a reaction from the visitor. He was not disappointed. Taking a deep breath, Marty lunged forward, throwing all of his weight in the direction of his double. Even the anticipation of something was not enough to keep the local on his feet when the collision came. He fell back, away from the tracks, and the two of them rolled a few feet down the mild incline of the rails -- but if Marty was expecting the local musician to be passive, he was sorely disappointed. They had hardly hit the ground before Local Marty was squirming and struggling under the weight of the visitor. As they weighed about the same, with the identical build and evenly matched strength, it was a fierce battle for each.
"Let it go!" Marty grunted, speaking about both the hammer and the local's bitterness about the whole situation. He tried to close his hand around it, but the local jerked it away, waving his hand around so that it became all but impossible to get a hold on it.
The ground was shaking underneath them, and once more the whistle of the train sounded, so loudly that Marty's ears were left ringing when it trailed off. He risked a quick look up, towards the tracks, seeing with a crystal clarity the Doc gasping at them from the cab of the train. Behind him, unseen by the inventor, Clara was barreling down on a horse, shouting. Any second, now, the log was probably gonna explode, and then....
Local Marty's struggles dragged him back to the more immediate task. The visitor turned his head back to look at the musician -- just as the local's right arm slipped from the grasp that Marty had had on it. Local Marty brought his arm forward, his hand clutching the hammer -- and before the visitor could draw back or duck away, the hard metal head caught him squarely in the side of the head, none too softly. Hot, sharp pain exploded above his left ear, streaking through his entire skull -- and then the world went abruptly silent and black.
Things seemed to fall apart simultaneously from the local Marty's point of view. As he shoved back his counterpart with his right hand, clocking him squarely with the head of the hammer, he heard a bang that could only be the explosion of the first Presto log in the train. Then, just as the visiting Marty went limp on him, quite heavily, there was a horrible screech of metal-on-metal and several loud thuds and booms that vibrated the ground underneath Local Marty's back.
The local musician looked over in time to see the DeLorean rocket off the tracks, pursued immediately by the train, parts deteriorating and flying off the time machine as it went. The driver's side door was bumped open with the first jolt as the car went off the tracks, and there was a quick blur of motion as the earlier, younger Marty was ejected. As he left the car, the top of his head clipped the gullwing door, the blow looking painful enough to elicit a wince from his future counterpart. Through the window of the train's cab, the local Marty got a glimpse of Doc's frantic expression as he tried hard to pull the emergency break and stop the train. On the back of the wood car, he could see Clara clutching the ladder that she had grabbed seconds before the log had blown, her eyes huge in her face.
The DeLorean continued to be propelled forward, bouncing violently up and down, as the train jerked off the tracks. Pieces of the car broke off in its wake. At long last the train slowed, then stopped, but not before creating a huge field of debris. By that time, the DeLorean looked more like a modern art sculpture than a car, and the front of the train was partially resting on the rear deck of the car. Marty closed his eyes a moment, the sight suddenly making it hard to breathe. He wasn't allowed the luxury of mourning, though.
"Emmett!"
Clara's voice was the first to break the stillness that had settled, once all vehicular motion had stopped. Marty opened his eyes in time to see her drop down from the back of the wood car, visibly shaking from all she had experienced and witnessed. "Emmett, are you all right?"
Doc had already climbed halfway out of the cab's window when Clara's call came. He froze halfway into the maneuver, his eyes bugging out and scanning the area frantically. "Clara?!"
"Yes!" Clara followed the sound of his voice and finally caught sight of him in the window of the train. "I came after you to let you know that I believed you and that.... Oh my goodness, are you hurt? What happened?"
"I'm fine," Doc said, though Marty could see a small, bleeding cut on the inventor's forehead. A comparatively minor injury, though, considering the entire accident. "I don't think Marty is, though. He's over there and he's not moving, Clara."
"Marty?" The schoolteacher's voice was puzzled. "Who's Marty?"
"Clint! Clint Eastwood is Marty! And I think he's hurt."
The schoolteacher immediately saw what Doc was pointing to and made her way over there, her face white and pinched with concern. The Local Marty shoved the dead weight of his unconscious counterpart off his stomach, to the side, and sat up, curious to see the events unfold. No one seemed to notice him at all, which was good. He was going to have one hell of a story to share later, especially with another version of himself there.
The seventeen-year-old Marty was sprawled face down on the ground, not moving, no more than two feet from the rails. Clara reached him first and stretched out a hand to turn him over. Doc's shout stopped her.
"No, wait! Don't move him! He could have a spinal or neck injury!"
Clara's hand recoiled as she turned to look at Doc, who had climbed down from the train -- which was hissing and groaning, but not going anywhere -- and was carefully picking his way around the debris. He reached her side a moment later.
"He shouldn't be face down, Emmett," she said as he knelt down next to Marty. "I don't think he can breathe clearly."
"I'll handle it," Doc said, preoccupied, his face pale. "Clara, can you run to town and get the doctor? I'm sure the law authorities are already on their way."
Clara nodded without hesitation. "Certainly," she said. "And I think you should be looked over, too. Your forehead is bleeding, Emmett."
Doc reached up at the cut and wiped it rather absentmindedly. "It's just a scratch," was his distant response. "Marty?"
The name was directed to the face-down teen, and evoked no reaction. The version fifteen years older began to creep closer for a better view, crawling on the dusty ground. He glanced back for a moment at his very still counterpart, his conscience nagging him at the sight.
Christ, he's out cold!
Marty hadn't meant to do that, not really, but the guy was really pissing him off, what with his lousy insisting that the accident was "meant to be" and that preventing it would screw up the world. The local Marty's heart gave a hollow skip when he realized once more that he had done absolutely nothing to stop the incident from happening. When he went home again, it would be to the same depressing, lonely future that he had left. And he was probably going to get a scathing lecture from his Doc about his irresponsibility and such.
Marty pushed those thoughts away for the moment, feeling like there had to be some way he could still change things. Later. But right now....
In spite of his instructions to Clara about not moving Marty, Doc very gently rolled his friend onto his back. The teen was unconscious, his eyes closed, and a very angry-looking welt was rising on his forehead above his right eye, already swelling into dark bruising. Doc hissed through his teeth, concerned. He started to reach out to touch it, then seemed to think better of that and drew his hand back. "Damn," Marty heard him whisper, sounding both frustrated and horrified.
Local Marty crept forward a little more -- and his knee caught a patch of gravel. The crunching sound wasn't too loud -- not compared to the sounds of the accident -- but Doc's head immediately snapped up. His eyes homed in to the source of the noise. At the sight of the crouching Marty, his mouth fell open a little and he gasped, falling back to sit on the ground. "Great Scott!"
Marty smiled thinly. "Hey, Doc. Don't go freaking out on me, now...."
The inventor glanced at the younger Marty, then back to the older one. "How did you get here? What are you doing here?"
"Uh, well, that's kind of a long, long, long story...."
Some of the shock that had been clouding up his friend's face suddenly began to fade. Doc blinked a couple of times, then narrowed his eyes shrewdly at the local musician. "You! It was you that I saw on the train tracks! What the hell did you do?!"
This was going in a direction that Marty hadn't anticipated. "Nothing," he said, holding up his hands -- and only then did he realize he still clutched the hammer. He let it drop to the ground, lest Doc think he was planning on using it anytime soon. "I wasn't trying to make this happen; I was trying to make it not happen!"
Doc frowned. He looked like he had a lot more questions, but a sudden hissing from the train seemed to remind him of more pressing matters. He looked over at the locomotive, then back at the unconscious teen next to him. "There's no time for this now," he muttered. "Get out of sight before the authorities come!"
"Right," Marty said. He stood up and started to turn around, then stopped, literally seeing a problem. Specifically his counterpart, as out cold as his younger self. "Uh, Doc, what about the other version of me....?"
"The other version of... what are you talking about?" Doc asked, plainly baffled. "Your younger self won't cause any problems if people see him."
"But he might." When Doc didn't seem to get it, and simply stared at Marty with a blank look, the musician reluctantly elaborated. "There's another version of me from a different world. He came back here with me and I... uh... kinda knocked him out. He was trying to keep me from stopping the wreck. He's over there."
Doc left the teenage Marty's side to stand and walk a few steps, until he could spot the prone figure of the counterpart. His eyes widened once more. "Great Scott! Two of you! Is he all right?"
"Probably," Marty muttered, feeling the faintest prickles of guilt, then, about his counterpart's state. "I don't think he'll be waking up very soon, though. When I've gotten hit on the head, I'm usually out for a few hours, at least...."
Doc turned to look at him shrewdly. Marty expected another question or two then, but he was spared for the moment. "I think you... and the other you... need to get out of sight. Can you get to my place from here? As soon as Clara returns with the doctor, I'll be heading that way."
For a moment, Marty was completely baffled as to how that problem could be solved. Then he remembered the invisible DeLorean. His eyes slid uneasily in the direction of the car, but it was undisturbed by the wreckage of the train. It wasn't until then that he realized it was a very lucky thing that original DeLorean hadn't smashed into it's invisible counterpart. "Ah... sure, I think I can manage that. But didn't you want me to do anything here?"
"No," Doc said. "I can't have you interacting in events that you never had, originally. Go to my place. I'll be along as soon as I am able. And don't let anyone see you... especially if there's two of you, and you're dressed like that!"
Marty glanced down at his jeans and sweatshirt. Definitely not 1885 attire. "Sure," he said. He paused a moment, uncertain on how to go about the task -- should he move his counterpart to the car, or the car to the counterpart? -- then figured that he might as well move the visiting Marty to the car. No need to let Doc see more than he needed of the future technology.
A wicked and painful-looking lump was already forming just above the visiting Marty's left ear when the local returned to his side. Local Marty grimaced as he grabbed the visitor under the arms, planning to drag him the twenty or so feet to the invisible DeLorean. "Sorry," he muttered to the unconscious counterpart. "But you really should've just let me deal with this on my own.... And it's not my fault you got in the way of the hammer!"
Doc wasn't looking as Marty reached the disguised time machine and managed to get his other self into the passenger seat; the inventor's attention was fully focused on the seventeen-year-old Marty. Even at the distance he was, the local musician could see the lines of concern etched into his friend's forehead. Funny. He would've thought that seeing him would've made any concerns about his younger self's health go away.
Marty had just settled himself into the driver's seat when he heard the sound of rapid and frantic hoof beats approaching. He closed the door just in time; a second later several men on horseback rode onto the scene. The musician could pick out Sheriff Henry Rogers, and Marshal James Strickland as two of them; the others he didn't immediately recognize, but they looked official. They drew their animals to a halt at the sight of the wrecked train. Marty cracked his window open a quarter of an inch, to hear the conversation.
"What in the name of hellfire happened?!" the sheriff exclaimed as he dismounted. "Emmett -- are you all right?"
Doc looked up at the question and nodded once. "I'm fine," he said. "It's Ma--Clint who's been injured. Clara-- ah, Miss Clayton -- went to fetch the doctor. She happened by right after the accident."
Marshal Strickland was slower to get off his horse. Even from two dozen feet away, Marty could see the suspicion on the man's face. "What happened here?" he asked. "We had a report that the train was hijacked by two men."
"It was," Doc said rapidly. "Clint and I went after them, and we tried to stop them with a rail vehicle I was working on... but it derailed the train instead of stopping it. The two men took off on foot; they weren't hurt."
The marshal's eyebrows arched up. "You derailed the train?"
"It was an accident," Doc said. "And I think there are more important things to worry about right now."
Based on the look that the Strickland had on his face, Marty somehow doubted the man shared that very sentiment. "That's a serious offense, Emmett...."
Doc looked up, frazzled. "I understand," he said. "But I think that can wait until later. Clint's hurt, and I don't intend to relax until I know that he's out of danger."
The marshal nodded once, then knelt down next to the inventor's side, likely to have a look at the teen. After a moment he stood and shouted an order to the sheriff, who had drifted in the direction of the wrecked locomotive. "Henry! Ride into town and fetch a buckboard!"
The bearded man stopped and turned around, uncertain about the order. "Marshal?"
Strickland nodded curtly. "Mr. Eastwood's wounded. Make haste."
The sheriff hurried back over to his horse and mounted him quickly. He galloped off in a cloud of dust, just as more people were trickling onto the site, likely drawn by all the noise from the derailment -- or simple curiosity. The marshal took charge very quickly. "I don't want nobody touching nothing!" he bellowed. "This accident is going to be under investigation; this is all evidence. Beckett, Banning, I want you both to ride out and look around for these outlaws. Did you get a good look at them, Emmett?"
It took Doc a moment to answer. "Ah, no, it happened so fast.... They both had masks over their faces."
It didn't seem to matter. Two of the men set off on the task. The marshal ordered a few other men to secure the sight, and they immediately spread out in a rough sort of perimeter. Marty supposed it was a good thing that the rail line the accident had occurred on wasn't being used yet, and led to nowhere. He wondered how much history that would've screwed up if they had to shut down all the trains to Hill Valley because of this snafu.
The musician lingered at the sight until he saw Clara arrive with the town doctor, then decided if he wanted to beat the crowds back to Doc's stable he'd better go now. He felt a little nervous turning the key, sure that the sound of a gasoline engine would draw the attention of those in the immediate area. But the train was still making enough racket as it cooled and settled that it wasn't noticed. Marty took the car up carefully, his skills at piloting a flying vehicle rather rusty; in fact, he couldn't remember ever doing it before today. Fortunately, it wasn't too hard to pick up. He flew around invisible and unnoticed in the skies above Hill Valley for a few minutes until he was able to orient himself and locate the downtown square. Doc's livery stable/home looked to be deserted. Marty landed the car carefully behind the building, and once more shut it off.
Then he had a bit of a dilemma. Should he leave his other self behind in the car, or move him inside? The first option was mighty appealing; the visiting Marty was still out, having exhibited no signs of stirring. He was also a bit of a challenge to move, never mind that the local was the same size and strength. But the bump on his head looked bad, and there was the fear that maybe the visitor would wake up and decide to drive straight back home, ditching him in the past. That last worry, as irrational as it might've been, was what made the decision for him.
Keeping the car invisible, the local went around to the passenger door, opened it up, then grabbed his other self under the arms again and dragged him in fits and starts through the back door of the livery stable. Marty wasn't quite sure where to put him, so he made for the cot that he had used in the early days of 1885-living. By the time he had gotten his other self settled there, a fine layer of perspiration was covering his skin, and he was gasping a little from the maneuvering and exercise. When he had to go back to the DeLorean, he vowed, Doc was either going to help move the visiting Marty, or the guy would walk on his own.
After he had caught his breath, and made sure the car was undetectable in the back, Marty checked out the condition of his other self for the first time. He wasn't sure he liked what he saw. The mark from the hammer had already formed an nasty, swelled bruise, though the ugly marks were concealed nicely by hair, and the visitor's face was on the pale side. His breathing wasn't weird, though, and when the local checked his pulse, it seemed fine. That was about the extent of his medical knowledge and skills, but Marty thought it might be a good idea to get some kind of compress on the bruise, if nothing else than to cut the swelling down. It was probably gonna be impossible to hide from everyone back home, though.
Sheesh. At least it isn't bleeding....
There was a part of him that was telling him to take off right then -- to go home and to face the music. But the local still thought, hoped, and prayed that there might be another way around the problem of his younger self being sentence to a life in the past for five years. He didn't want to leave until he knew how to fix that. Marty knew that once he went home, that was it; Doc wasn't going to let him get anywhere near a time machine again for a long, long time, if ever.
Dammit. I should've planned this thing better!
Marty scowled to himself as he walked over to Doc's bedside and poured some fresh water into the basin next to the inventor's bed. He had wanted to go back before, of course, and change things. But over the years it had become little more than just an idle wish or thought -- especially since Doc was so adamantly against it. Having a counterpart arrive from another dimension -- a dimension where he had gotten home safely -- had rattled him enough to make the thoughts much more serious. But even he was a bit surprised by this spontaneous trip back. The circumstances seemed perfect... well, except for having to have his other self with him. But the sleep inducer was supposed to take care of that right away; the local had planned to just tell his counterpart that the whole trip was some kind of dream. And it would've worked out nicely if Visiting Marty hadn't reacted as quickly as he did. There was no way to convince him that this was a dream, now. Especially not with that lump on the head.
The local found a towel nearby, soaked it in the room temperature water, wrung it out, then carried it over to the cot. He had just folded it and set it down on his counterpart's bump -- which provoked not so much as a twitch from Visiting Marty -- when there came the sound of hoof beats and voices outside. Marty froze for a moment, standing over the cot, then when they grew closer and seemed to be coming in the direction of Doc's place, he started to panic.
What if someone comes in here? They'll see two of us!
The problem was solved in three seconds. Marty spotted the quilt folded at the foot of the cot, grabbed it and shook it out, then draped it over his unconscious counterpart. Once he was covered from head to toe, the local then dropped to the floor and rolled under the small bed. It wasn't much, but so long as whoever came in didn't poke around too much....
The door opened and a woman ran in. "Hello?" she called out, tentatively. "It's Clara...."
Marty blinked once, his chin on the floorboards, then realized that Doc must've sent her over. "Clara," he called, as he pushed himself up -- and slammed the top of his head right into the bottom of the cot, sagging under the weight of his other self. "Ow, dammit!"
The exclamation and apparent disembodied voice made Clara jump nearly six inches. "Goodness! Where are you?"
The musician rolled out from under the cot, rubbing the top of his head tenderly. "Right here," he said, raising himself up on his knees.
Clara's eyes widened once they located him, her mouth falling open an inch. "Oh, my! Clint! Emmett told me that you would be here but... how can you be in two places at once?!"
Marty wondered if he should tell her then that there was actually another version of him inches away. "Ah... well... that's a long story. I'm kind of from the future. I'm an older version of the guy with Doc right now."
Clara took a few steps in his direction, her brow furrowed into a mess of lines as she struggled to comprehend the incredible. Marty hoped she had a really open mind, because it was going to get even more far out from her view. "He said you were hurt," she said, uncertain. "He sent me ahead of himself and... you... to tend to your wounds. But you look well enough to me."
Marty cleared his throat, suddenly nervous and wishing he didn't have to be the one to make the announcement and give the explanation to Clara. Doc probably figured the musician could handle that, though, and the current inventor really knew little about the situation. But at this point in time, Clara barely knew him, or Doc. Marty's memories of the pre-marriage days of the teacher and the inventor were fairly sketchy now, since he'd had so many more pressing concerns at the time. Still, Clara never really struck him before or since as someone who could deny proof when it was staring her straight in the face.
"I'm fine," he said. "Doc was talking about my other self. He's... right here."
As Clara gave him an even more puzzled look, Marty reached down and pulled the quilt down to Visiting Marty's waist, revealing his overly familiar face. The schoolteacher had to come much closer before she could see what it was that the musician was trying to show her. When she saw who was on the cot, she gasped, her hand going up to her mouth. "Oh! But how...."
"Long, long story," Marty said, before she could even try and ask. "I'll probably have to tell it all to Doc when he gets here."
Clara's face was pale as she looked at him, but she didn't immediately pry for any more information. Instead she knelt down next to the cot and lifted up the towel on the bump. At the sight of the injury, she hissed a breath through her teeth. "What happened to him? Was he struck by debris in the accident?"
Marty squirmed a little, not really liking the taste of the truth in his mouth. "No. I did that to him. He was trying to stop me from doing something."
The schoolteacher glanced at him, surprised, then looked back to the patient. "It might be prudent to have the doctor look at him," she said. "But I don't quite know how you can explain this to him."
"He'll be fine," Marty said, knowing that Doc would really be against that idea. "He can see someone at home, probably."
Clara frowned as she dabbed the towel on the visiting Marty's cheeks and forehead. "Home," she echoed faintly. "Where is that, exactly? The future? I don't believe I've seen clothes quite like yours before...."
If there was one thing Marty didn't want to do, it was give Clara the whole long backstory about who he and Doc really were. That was Doc's job, and the musician was more than happy to let him deal with it when the time came. "Doc will tell you everything," he said. "I probably shouldn't even be talking to you now.... Is he on his way back here?"
Clara nodded. "They had settled... you into a buckboard wagon and had started to bring it back here. Emmett sent me ahead and told me that I would find another Clint to tend to, and to make sure that he was not to be seen when the doctor brought the other one in here." She sounded terribly confused as she spoke. "I didn't know there would be two of you."
"Three, technically," Marty said.
The schoolteacher gave a faint smile and replaced the towel on the visitor's bump. A moment later there came a racket from outside -- voices, hoof beats, and the sound of a wagon. Marty would've laid money down that this was the arrival of his younger self and Doc. "Shit," he swore softly, not sure of where to go. His eyes roamed the barn quickly -- and came to rest on the hayloft above the door. It seemed promising. Quickly, he ran towards the main doors, grabbed the ladder, and scrambled up it. He landed on the floor of the hayloft, amid a collection of both stable and Doc-like gizmos, a moment before the door opened. Doc and the town doctor, William Peterson, came in, carrying between them the seventeen-year-old Marty McFly. The older version of Marty inched forward to peer cautiously over the edge, his lofted perspective giving him a great view of almost the entire barn.
Clara stood at their arrival, having replaced the quilt over the older, alternate counterpart, so that the cot simply seemed to be filled with blankets and not a person. "How is he?" she asked as she left the cot's side and headed towards the two men.
"Still out," Doc half grunted. "Let's get him over to the bed." His eyes flickered quickly to Clara as he spoke, searching perhaps for her approval to the suggestion. She nodded once, meeting his gaze, understanding the unspoken question. The medical doctor and Doc lugged the unconscious teen over to the bed and settled him down on top of the covers. A small group of people followed them, trickling inside, drawn by the commotion. One of them was Seamus McFly, who looked quite concerned by what he had witnessed or heard. He hovered near the doors with about four or five other of the townsfolk, clearly reluctant to intrude on what was a serious matter but worried enough that he wanted to be there.
Once the teen was settled on the bed, the doctor paused long enough to gently remove the sarapé Marty wore, along with his boots and pants, until he was clad only in his long underwear. The doctor then began to conduct a quick examination with the aid of a lantern and a few tools in his black bag. Marty couldn't see much from where he was perched, and his words to Doc were pitched too low to reach his ears. After several minutes he seemed to share enough with Doc so that the inventor felt it was logical or polite to give a report to the waiting audience clustered about the door.
"The doctor's having a look at him now," he said softly, once he had joined the crowd. "I know you're all concerned -- I am, especially -- but so far he is finding nothing seriously wrong. No broken bones, nothing worse than bruises or scratches." Doc paused, glancing at Clara who stood a few feet away, her hair still hanging down loose and her dress a bit ragged from the ordeal with the train. "He's taken a hard blow to the head, though, and is still unconscious."
There were a few sighs of relief from his report -- perhaps because the locals thought the scenario was far worse than this. Doc went on before they could ask any questions.
"I know that you're all concerned, but I'd like to ask for some privacy right now. There was an accident on the rails, and I'm still a bit shaken up from that... from everything today." The scientist smiled faintly, wryly. "And it's not even noon yet."
There were a few murmurs of understanding or apology. As people politely left -- with a few pausing to offer food or drink or their prayers for Doc and "Clint" -- the inventor added, "I will certainly let you know if and when things change, when there's more news to share."
Seamus McFly lingered behind until the others had gone, perhaps feeling more of a connection with Marty's welfare than the others. "I'm very sorry, Mr. Brown," he said softly, almost too softly for the older musician to pick up. "What was it that happened? There be rumors flyin' about town."
"There was a train accident of sorts," Doc said. "I'm sure you'll be able to read all about it in the next edition of the newspaper. Ma--Clint was thrown from the vehicle."
"And you?" Seamus asked, no doubt noticing the small gash on Doc's forehead. It had stopped bleeding, but it was puffing up rather nastily. "Are you all right?"
"I'll be fine once my friend is out of danger," Doc said.
Seamus took that as his cue to leave, after pausing to let him know that he and Maggie would be praying for Clint. A moment after all the townspeople had cleared out of the barn -- leaving only Clara, Dr. Peterson, Doc, and the three Martys -- the medical doctor seemed to finish his examination of the teen Marty. He covered the young man with a blanket from the foot of the bed, then made his way over to Doc, who was staring out at the doors with a rather numbed look on his face.
"Emmett," Dr. Peterson said, startling the inventor. Doc turned to look at him. "You'll be relieved to know that I can't find any signs of injury to Mr. Eastwood, beyond some bruises and scratches. The wound to his head is ugly, but I think a cold compress can cut the swelling down. His breathing and pulse both seem steady enough."
"So what, then?" Doc asked. "When will he wake up?"
Dr. Peterson sighed. "It's difficult to say. It could be a couple hours. It could be tomorrow. If he hasn't regained consciousness twenty-four hours from now, let me know."
"Could he be in a coma?" Doc asked bluntly.
"It's far too soon to think that," the doctor assured him. "He has been unconscious little more than an hour, right? Keep an eye on him, and let him sleep this off. He's young and in good health; I imagine that he will pull through fine. He's quite fortunate to come away with nothing more than a concussion from the accident."
Doc nodded once, though based on the look on his face, Marty could tell he didn't quite share in that sentiment. The doctor headed back to the bedside to collect up his tools, and perhaps check on the patient once more. Clara stopped him before he could leave. "Could you look at Emmett's head?" she asked. "He was injured, too, in the accident."
Dr. Peterson nodded in agreement, though Doc looked less than thrilled by the prospect. "Miss Clayton is right, Emmett. You promised me yourself to let me take a look at that cut once I examined Mr. Eastwood."
The inventor grumbled a little, but gave in. It didn't take the medical doctor very long to look at the cut, clean it up, and give Doc approximately the same bill of health as he had for the teen -- scratches and bruises, but no serious injuries. He was warned to take it easy, though, and after another quick check of Marty, the doctor left.
Once they were alone, Doc immediately stood up from the chair that he had allowed the doctor to plant him in and looked around. "Where's the other Marty, Clara?"
"One of 'em is right here," the local called out from the loft. The inventor jumped at the response, clearly not expecting it. Marty quickly climbed down from the loft, though he moved a bit more slowly once he was on the ground, not sure of what to expect.
Doc looked at him a moment, his expression completely impossible to read. "Where is the other one?"
"On the cot, under the quilt. He's still out, I think."
The inventor made his way over there, Marty and Clara both following. "You shouldn't be here, you know," Doc said as he reached down to pull the quilt back. "Neither or both of you."
"It wasn't supposed to happen like this," Marty said. "It would've been fine if he hadn't gotten out of the car and tried to stop me from fixing things."
"Fixing things," Doc muttered under his breath. He lifted the damp towel from visiting Marty's head and frowned at the sight of the swelled bump. "How did he get that?"
"Me," the musician said, not elaborating. "It was an accident." Sort of.
Doc turned around to look at him, his gaze sharp and no longer numbed by shock. "You're from the future? Both of you?"
"Yeah. But the one over there--" Marty pointed towards the bed, where the teen lay. "--is me. This one--" He pointed to the figure on the cot. "--isn't. He's a different version of me. Like when we were in that alternate 1985, and there were weird versions of us and Mom and Biff and my brother. He and another you showed up about a week ago in--"
"Don't tell me!" Doc said sternly, raising his hand to stop the words Marty was going to utter. "I shouldn't know that -- I shouldn't know about you or about this situation." He paused a moment, staring down at the older, unconscious Marty. "You shouldn't be here -- neither of you should," he said once again.
"All of us shouldn't," Marty said flatly. "Not you, me, Clara, or the other me's." Marty sighed, sensing the inventor's irritation. "I just need to fix what went wrong, Doc. I need to get home before... lots of time passes."
The scientist drew his lips together in a tight, flat line. Clara, who had been quiet so far, chose that moment to speak. "What is it that's your name?" she asked Marty tentatively. "I gather it's not Clint Eastwood."
"No, it's Marty McFly," the musician said. "Clint Eastwood was just a cover that I picked when I got here; the first people I ran into were my great-great-grandparents, and obviously I couldn't give 'em my real name."
Clara blinked, then her eyes widened as understanding sunk in. "Oh! You're related to Seamus and Maggie McFly! I see it now...."
"You need to go home," Doc told him before Clara could carry the conversation elsewhere. "Now. He needs to see a doctor." The inventor nodded towards the visitor on the cot.
"But -- I need to fix what went wrong with the train! It shouldn't derail, Doc! It didn't for him...."
"But he is not you, unless I'm misunderstanding what you just told me," the inventor said flatly. "If you're a version of Marty from the future, and your intent in being here was to seriously change his -- your -- history, then the most responsible thing you can do right now is to go straight home! Great Scott! Do you realize the problems that could have come about if you had succeeded in altering this past event?"
Marty scowled at the words, which were almost identical to his counterpart's persuasive efforts. "You don't get it, Doc! I won't be messing anything up -- this wasn't supposed to happen--"
"How do you know that? Granted, I didn't want the derailment to happen, it wasn't intended or planned, but... it's done. The time machine is probably damaged beyond repair." Doc's voice faltered a little, as if he only realized that fact just then. "If we're stuck here, I certainly can't allow you to go back and change history!" The inventor turned to regard him with a look of scrutiny. "Clearly enough time has passed that it would create serious havoc with the space-time continuum and set off any number of paradoxes!"
Marty put his hands on his hips, his temper stirring at this completely paranoid and untrue opinion. "No it won't, Doc! It'll just make my life a hell of a lot better! The future sucks!"
The inventor sighed. "I'm sorry if you feel that way, Marty -- and keep your voice down; you don't want anyone outside to hear you -- but you can't go around trying to right every wrong in your life. Things happen for reasons. It took me a bit of time to learn this. Knowing what I know now, I wouldn't have taken you and Jennifer into the future to help your kids out. The future's not written, and you're the only one who has the responsibility to make it satisfactory... or not."
The musician clenched his hands into fists, frustrated by the lack of understanding that seemed to plague everyone around him. "Doc!"
He was stopped from a full on tirade by a weak moan from nearby. All eyes looked down to the cot where the visiting Marty was beginning to stir. "Doc?" the visitor mumbled hoarsely.
The scientist looked stricken, as if he wasn't sure whether or not to respond. "I'm right here, Marty," he finally said. "Take it easy, now."
Visiting Marty's eyes fluttered open, though he closed them almost immediately. A look of pain was clear on his pale face. "Oh, God, my head.... What happened?"
Doc looked at the local for the response. Marty sighed, frustrated. "I nailed you with the hammer in the head," he said flatly.
At the sound of his own voice -- so to speak -- the visitor's eyes popped opened. He blinked once, zeroed in on the source, then sat up before Doc could stop him. "You--you asshole! You... oh, God...."
Doc caught him as he started to tip to the side, off the edge of the cot. "Settle down, Marty," he said as the visiting musician moaned. "You've probably got a concussion... how do you feel?"
"My head hurts... I'm so dizzy...." The visiting Marty managed to raise his head enough to look at Doc, his eyes clearly having trouble focusing. More guilt began to nibble at the local Marty's conscience, even in spite of his anger and frustration.
God, I hope I didn't do any permanent damage....
Doc gently pushed the visitor back down to the cot. "Close your eyes and try to relax. I want you to see a doctor as soon as you get back home."
Visiting Marty's response was a half whimper as he followed orders. Doc stood and grabbed the local's arm, pulling him away from the cot. "Clara, can you keep an eye on that one?" he asked the schoolteacher, gesturing to the visitor. She nodded once, sitting tentative on the edge of the cot. Doc pulled Marty to the back of the barn before he finally let him go and turned to face him.
"You've got to go straight home, right now," he said in a low voice, his eyes for a moment flicking over to the still form of the youth on the bed nearby. "Get him to a doctor -- don't linger here any longer, Marty. We'll talk about this all later, since I'm sure I'll remember this when you get back."
Marty groaned softly. "He's fine, Doc -- he's awake, isn't he? Look, you keep an eye on him for a few minutes, and I'll run out and take care of things and--"
"Absolutely positively not," Doc said, his voice gaining a hard edge. He gave the older Marty his full attention now, his dark eyes practically daring him to say anything in response. "I'm going to go out on a limb here and assume that my future self knows nothing about you being here -- and why you're here with another you, I really don't know and shouldn't know right now."
"I'm not going back until I do what I came to do," Marty said stubbornly, folding his arms.
"Emmett?" Clara called out. "He... this one... wants to speak with you about something very important. Right now."
Doc glanced over at the schoolteacher, then back to the local. Based on the look he was given, it was clear that the inventor was strongly considering dragging the musician back to the cotside with him, but in the end he simply said, "Wait right here," and hurried across the barn.
Marty rolled his eyes, his mind spinning even as he stood still. His eyes flickered over to the back door two dozen feet away, beyond which was the time machine. This is probably a good time, he reasoned. If he ran outside now, Doc couldn't stop him in time -- especially once he was in the invisible car. He took a couple of steps in that direction, moving slowly lest he alert the scientist too soon about his motives.
Doc bent over the cot and spoke to the visiting Marty in a low voice. His back was blocking the local's view of the visitor. Marty paid it little mind, set as he was on his goal, now. Twenty feet away... eighteen... fifteen... ten....
"Marty?" Doc asked, causing the musician to freeze in his tracks. The inventor was now a couple of feet away from the cot, walking in his direction. "Where do you think you're going?"
"Uh...." was Marty's unoriginal and vague response. He looked at the door, looked at Doc walking rapidly towards him, and made his decision. He took off at a run.
Doc's reaction was so quick that he had clearly expected such a move from the musician; he ran right after him. As he was closer to the musician than the door, and his stride was longer, he caught up with Marty just as he reached out to shove open the door. "Oh no, you don't!" the scientist snapped, grabbing his arm and yanking him to a stop. "I can't believe your behavior, Marty!"
Marty tried, unsuccessfully, to pull away, but months of living in the past and wielding iron and hammers with blacksmithing had made the inventor's grip tighter than a vise. "Lemme go, Doc!"
Doc shook his head once. "No," he said -- and then he raised his free hand, in which he clutched the sleep inducer from the car. "I'm sorry, Marty," he said as he engaged the device. "This is for your own good."
The local was so surprised by the mysterious appearance of the futuristic device that he didn't have enough time to react. The device pulsed the light right in his eyes.
Oh no, no--
And then Marty slumped forward into Doc's arms.
The visiting Marty heaved a sigh of relief at the sight of his other self finally getting what he deserved -- knocked out by the sleep inducer. He had completely forgotten about sticking the device in his pocket, and might've continued to forget about it, what with his head aching and spinning the way it was, if it hadn't poked at him rather uncomfortably when he was lying down. Doc caught the local before he could fall very far, then dragged him a few feet, over to an armchair.
"What did you do, Emmett?" Clara asked, looking terribly confused. Marty couldn't blame her. He wasn't sure how long he had been out, or what had happened since then, but either way she had to be reeling a lot from the simple news that Doc was a time traveler.
"I knocked him out with the sleep inducer," the inventor explained, though that probably didn't help the woman's bewilderment. "He should be out for at least an hour, I think -- though this device looks to be a bit more sophisticated than the one I got in 2015." Doc left the Local Marty in the armchair and headed over to the visitor's side. "I'm glad you had that with you."
"Me, too," Marty said with a woozy smile. "I'd better get him back before he wakes up and tries something else." He started to sit up, doing his best to ignore the nausea and merry-go-round dance that the room was pulling. He didn't realize he was starting to fall to one side until Clara's hands were on his shoulders, steadying him.
"I don't think you should be going anywhere right now," she said gently. "Emmett?"
Doc frowned, concerned, as he joined the schoolteacher at the cot. "You can't drive anywhere in that condition, Marty."
Marty nodded -- or thought he did. It was hard to tell with everything spinning and tilting. "I'll just take it slow, Doc," he said softly. "I can't stay here any longer, I don't wanna screw up your history. It's not even mine."
Doc and Clara looked at each other. It was clear that the inventor, in particular, was torn. "What if you pass out behind the wheel?"
"I won't pass out," Marty muttered, gritting his teeth against the dizziness and unbelievable headache. If it was this bad sitting, he wasn't sure if he wanted to know what it would be like standing. "At least not until it won't kill me or the time machine."
There was a long pause from the future couple. Doc broke it with a sigh. "I hate to ask -- considering this is probably a lot more than I want to know about my future -- but where is the machine right now? You're in no condition to get to it on your own, let alone move the other Marty in there."
The visiting musician moaned softly, both from the question and from the pain in his head. "I dunno," he said. "I dunno how I even got here. It's probably invisible, though."
"He was heading for the back door, wasn't he, Emmett?" Clara asked, speaking of the local Marty.
"It appeared so. And I never did see him leave the accident site.... If the machine is invisible, how does one find it? Is there a remote or something of that nature to reveal it?"
Marty started to nod, but immediately stopped when it bumped up the pain in his head several notches. He reached up and cradled his head, trying to steady the world. "There is," he murmured. "But I dunno where it is, if he has it on him, or the keys are still in the car."
"The car," Doc muttered aloud, his tone a bit strange.
"The DeLorean," Marty clarified, not thinking about it.
"DeLorean." Clara repeated the word, as if it was foreign to her. Which it probably was. Damn. Having a head injury in a place where one had to watch what they said was really a pain! And not just literally....
"Sorry," the musician apologized meekly. "It's just so hard to think straight when I can't even see straight...."
Clara patted him on the shoulder as Doc sighed again. "Is there a way to find the vehicle without the remote? Or the keys, I should say?"
"If you run into it -- and I mean that literally -- yeah."
While Clara urged the visitor to lie back down -- a matter that, as tempting as it was, Marty was inclined to refuse, since he knew it was going to be that much harder to sit up again -- Doc briskly headed over to the back door and went outside. A few minutes later, during which the visiting Marty concentrated on the simple act of swinging his legs over the side of the cot, and sitting up on the edge of it, the inventor came back inside, his face filled with tension, curiosity, and relief. "I found it," he said. "It's in the pasture out back -- thank God the horses aren't in there right now. And the keys are still in the ignition."
Marty grunted his answer, rather than chance speaking. He had both of his hands braced on the cot, leaning forward with his head bowed. It didn't seem to help ease the headache, dizziness, or nausea. His heart skipped a little as he replayed Doc's earlier question about piloting the time machine back to the future. What if he did pass out behind the wheel and crashed the car somewhere? Oh God....
But what choice did he really have? He didn't dare stay here -- he probably had some kind of concussion or whatnot. And then there was the matter of the local Marty, who was clearly in no condition to be reasoned with -- unless he was unconscious or asleep. The musician gritted his teeth again, trying to ignore the not-so-ignorable. It was just a short drive in the time machine. Nothing more strenuous than that. He could hang on that long... probably.
"Are you sure you can handle this?" Doc asked, returning to his side. "We could wait until your... other self wakes up."
"He won't wanna go home, Doc," Marty murmured. "He's obsessed with not having the train derail and... oh, God, did it do that or not?"
The inventor nodded once, rather grimly. "Yes. Marty -- not the one who came with you -- hit his head in the collision, and is still unconscious." Doc glanced up, in the direction of his bed nearby, where the teen no doubt lay, blissfully unaware of the chaos around him. The visiting musician almost envied him, but if he had remained out longer, his counterpart probably would've gotten away with the time machine to right the so-called wrong to his life. And then he would've been really screwed.
"He'll come around... later," Marty said. "But I guess you already knew that since his future self is over there." He tried to smile at the inventor, but the expression halted almost immediately. Just that simple facial expression seemed to make his head hurt more.
Doc saw the grimace on his face and once more tried to talk him out of leaving right then. "I don't know if you can make it, Marty...."
The musician took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I can handle it, Doc. It's just a little drive. Just get my counterpart in the car, and help me out there, and I'll be good to go."
The scientist gave him a skeptical look, but he stopped trying to persuade him. "All right."
It didn't take Doc more than five minutes to carry the other Marty out to the car, get him settled in the passenger seat, and then return to help the visitor. This proved to be more difficult, ironically. Although both Doc and Clara helped him stand from the cot, the rush of blood from Marty's head caused him to actually black out for a second; he came back to earth as the couple tried to lower him back to the cot, and put up such a fuss that they reluctantly decided to proceed. After a few wobbly, shuffled steps, clinging to both Clara and Doc, the latter finally decided it would be easier on all of them if he carried the visiting Marty out to the car as well. The musician found little energy to protest this, and in a few minutes he found himself in the cab of the DeLorean, behind the wheel. It was rather surreal; he hadn't sat there in the driver's seat since before his Doc's DeLorean time machine had been destroyed in 2030.
"Go straight home," Doc advised him from just outside the door. He seemed rather reluctant to look into the car or spend more time near it than he had to -- and he hadn't even seen the exterior at all, since it was still hidden by the HIS.
"Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars," Marty muttered under his breath, leaning back into the seat and wishing that the world would stabilize for more than a minute.
Doc didn't crack a smile at the joke. "I'm quite serious, Marty. You need to see a doctor. I'm sure that I'll remember this incident later -- I don't really think I can forget something like this -- so I really doubt you'll have any trouble convincing me of the urgency of your situation. Now I'm going to ask you one more time: Are you sure you can and want to do this now?"
Doc's face briefly faded out of focus as he was talking. Marty blinked a couple of times and it snapped back, but the incident left him feeling chilled and weak. "Sure," he murmured.
The scientist looked so unconvinced by the answer that he seemed about ready to call the whole thing off. Clara, oddly enough, stopped him. "Emmett, let him go back home. There's very little we can do for him here; we certainly can't ask the doctor here to look at him."
Doc hesitated a moment, looked at her, then nodded once. "All right," he said. "But please take it slowly and be careful."
"Don't worry about that," Marty said. "Can you close the door?"
The inventor obliged. Marty started the car and looked at the time circuit display, which was different from what he was used to -- a flat panel LCD, not digital readouts. "Shit," he muttered, not sure of how to program it. There was a keyboard right below it and, tentatively, he tapped the keys. After a moment of fiddling with it, Marty was able to put in the destination time: November 19, 1995, at 4:39 P.M. -- five minutes after the last time departed.
"Good," he mumbled aloud, gripping the steering wheel tightly. "Let's get this over with...."
The car responded without a problem, raising up as the hover conversion kicked in. Unfortunately, being in a flying vehicle only increased Marty's vertigo, which was bad enough lying down on his back in a stable environment. The musician groaned aloud as he struggled to turn the car around, away from the town. He slouched down lower into the seat, leaning back in hopes of easing the symptoms. It didn't work so well.
Oh please, just let me get back to the future in one piece....
Marty swallowed hard, trying to focus on the driving rather than the distractions of his body, then accelerated fast. He shifted carefully through the gears, watched the speedometer climb up to eighty-eight -- and then the flashes of light and the sonic booms hit him. He hit the breaks immediately, feeling like the car was doing corkscrews through the air. Through the window he glimpsed the Brown home, perhaps a mile distant.
Gotta get there, at least.
Marty tried to sit up straighter and leaned forward, his skin breaking out in a cold sweat. Everything was spinning... he felt like he might puke... his head felt like it might split in two... his vision was getting more fuzzy and blurred.... He gripped the steering wheel as hard as he could, as if that alone could maintain his tenacious hold on reality and consciousness.
I'll just land in the backyard. Someone should see me.
Marty took down the car fast, feeling panicked now. The world blurred around him once more; he felt like he was stuck in some kind of amusement park ride from hell. There was a jolt as the car landed on the back lawn -- not very softly -- and he bounced in his seat from the impact. Naturally, he wasn't wearing a seatbelt, though Doc had strapped his other self in. The top of his head slammed into the ceiling of the car. He gasped at the surge of agony in his head, then fell forward against the steering wheel. His foot slipped off the gas, and the DeLorean rolled a few more feet before coming to a stalled stop, no more than ten feet from the back porch of the home.
Marty raised his head enough to look up through the windshield, see that the car hadn't been wrecked and had arrived back in one piece -- and then he sighed and let his head fall back down on the face of the steering wheel. He heard the car's horn begin to blare under his cheek, the noise making his head ache even more... and then he passed out.
* * *
When he woke, he was still in the car -- or was he? Marty's vision was still blurred when he opened his eyes, and things still felt sickeningly unstable. But after he blinked a couple of times, he realized that he wasn't in the cab of the DeLorean any longer; rather, he was belted into the passenger seat of what appeared to be a minivan, with Doc at the wheel, driving. It was really impossible to tell which inventor it was, especially in his dazed and blurry state.
"Doc..." he managed to mumble.
The inventor turned his head to look at him at the sound of his voice. "Shhh, Marty. I'm taking you to the emergency room."
The car hit a bump, which kicked off a fresh wave of dizziness for the reeling musician. His stomach rolled at the sensation. Marty moaned aloud, reaching up to touch his forehead. His skin was slick with perspiration. "How long... how long've I been out?"
"If you drove yourself here in the DeLorean, then perhaps twenty minutes. I heard the horn from inside the house and came out right away. I found you and my Marty in the car. Clara's looking after him. We couldn't find any signs of injury to him, and it threw me a minute until I remembered what happened on September seventh."
This was the local Doc, then. And he knew everything. Good. It saved him the trouble of explaining. "Is he awake, yet?"
"He wasn't when I left. But Clara remembers what happened, too, and doesn't intend to let him get near any of the time machines again -- or leave the living room, where we've got him sequestered, until I get home. I'm going to have a good, long talk with him." Emmett's tone darkened a little before shifting to one filled more with concern. "How are you feeling?"
Marty groaned as a response. He felt even worse now than he had earlier; the car ride was no doubt not helping matters. In fact.... "Can you pull over for a minute?"
"We're almost there, I promise."
"I can't wait.... Pull over, Doc!"
There was a desperate pitch to his voice that apparently reached Emmett. He slowed the car and pulled off the road, onto the gravel strip at the side. Marty sat up, fumbled with the door latch, and ducked under the shoulder harness. The door popped open and he leaned out just in time to avoid mussing the interior of the minivan with the remains of his lunch. Things got a little hazy for a few minutes; bending over didn't make his headache feel any better, and the entire world seemed to be one big spinning blur. When the worst of the nausea passed, and he was able to raise his head again, he found Emmett's hand on his shoulder. Possibly the only thing, beyond the lap belt, keeping him from toppling out of the car.
"Better now?" Emmett asked softly.
No, Marty thought. He slumped back into the car seat and managed to pull the door closed. "It's my head," he muttered.
"You've got a concussion, Marty. Don't worry," Emmett added, checking the traffic on his left. "We're almost to the hospital. I'll do all the talking and they'll simply think that you're my Marty."
Marty closed his eyes as the car began to move forward again, touching his the side of his head tentatively where the center of the pain seemed to be. He drew his fingers back almost immediately, hissing at the pain that provoked. "And what're you gonna say when they ask how this happened?"
There was a pause. "That you fell, I suppose -- unless you have a better idea."
"You're the doc -- or one of 'em."
As promised, the emergency room was reached a few minutes later. Emmett pulled the car up near the sliding glass doors and honked the horn a couple of times to summon someone from the inside. A nurse ran out a moment later and, after one look at the pale and shaky Marty, grabbed a wheelchair and took him inside. The inventor joined him several minutes later, after parking the car, in one of the small curtained examining areas. Marty had been instructed to lie down on the bed, and informed that a doctor would be coming by shortly to look at him. One of the nurses had already taken his name and the problem down, along with his vitals.
Emmett said little to him as he took a seat in a chair next to the bed to wait with Marty. It was just as well. Consciousness got a little spotty for a while. He wasn't sure if it was ten minutes or a couple of hours later when a doctor finally showed up to conduct an exam. Emmett explained to him the circumstances of the injury; something about tripping and falling down the stairs and cracking his head on a table at the bottom. The man didn't seem to question it; no doubt he had probably heard stranger things in his hours as an emergency room doctor. After looking over Marty, and listening to his list of complaints, he seemed concerned enough to suggest a CAT scan, just to make sure that things were all right.
"It's probably a mild to moderate concussion," he said. "But I'd just like to rule out a couple things, including any bleeding in the brain."
Marty paled even more at this suggestion, horrified. Emmett looked surprised and distressed at the possibility.
"Do you really think that's possible?" he asked.
"It can't hurt to check," the doctor said. "I'm concerned that he vomited on the way over here -- but I can't find anything wrong with his reflexes. He's probably fine, but I'd feel better knowing for sure. If there's any bleeding in the brain, it may require emergency surgery."
The assurance that the medical doc thought he was "probably fine" did little to make Marty feel better. He groaned as the doctor left to make the arrangements. "Oh, God, this is perfect. When I get outta here, I'm gonna kill my other self...."
"He won't be getting away with this without some consequences," Emmett said. He looked at his watch and frowned. "I hate to do this, but I should call the house and let them know what's going on. My counterpart has got to be climbing the walls about now -- he wasn't home yet when we left -- and I'd like to see if my Marty is awake, yet."
"Go ahead," Marty told him. "It's not like I gotta go anywhere."
Emmett left to use the phone and Marty passed the time lying back on the bed with his eyes closed, about the only thing that would ease his headache a little -- until he noticed yet another physical discomfort to add into his list of complaints. Specifically, he had to pee. He opened his eyes with a sigh, realizing that this would require movement on his part. Not unless he wanted the experience of using a bedpan, and he wasn't feeling quite that bad.
The musician got to his feet, rather wobbly, but this time was spared any blackout spells. He left his little curtained off area and headed in the direction of the hallway, figuring that the restrooms had to be located somewhere along there.
Rounding a corner, he was nearly knocked off his feet by a figure moving in much more of a hurry than he was. The collision slammed him back into the wall, knocking the back of his head into the plaster. He yelped in pain and surprise as the person stumbled forward. A cascade of small objects hit the floor and rolled across the off-white tiles.
"Oh, damn, I'm sorry."
The voice of the hurried stranger was familiar, but Marty was too busy trying to stay on his feet to notice. As if getting hit in the head with a hammer wasn't enough, he had since gotten bounced into the ceiling of the DeLorean, and now slammed back into a wall.
Cripes. Maybe a CAT scan isn't such a bad idea after all....
"I'm really sorry. Are you okay? I didn't see you-- Oh my God! Marty!"
Marty -- who had screwed shut his eyes in reaction to the new ache on the back of his skull -- cracked them open at the sound of his name. The person standing before him was a woman, but her face was too fuzzy to recognize. He had to blink a couple of times before her features sharpened into focus -- and found himself face to face with Jennifer Parker.
"Jennifer!" he exclaimed, thoroughly shocked.
Jennifer nodded once, managing a faint smile, though her face was filled with worry. She looked different from Marty's own wife, back home. Her hair was cut and styled a bit differently, in what seemed a more contemporary, layered style, and her way of dressing seemed slightly less casual; she was wearing a pressed white blouse and grey skirt, high heels, and her face was carefully made up. In her hands she held a small purse -- the contents of which were now scattered across the floor.
"How are you doing?" she asked. "Are you all right? You look pale...."
"I.. uh...." Marty wasn't quite sure what to say. "I thought you weren't in Hill Valley anymore?"
Jennifer didn't answer the question, leaning forward for a closer look at his face. "Are you hurt, Marty? Is that why you're in the ER? Oh my God, did I just throw you into the wall when you're already hurt?" She looked horrified.
"Uh, well...."
"Oh, I'm so sorry! I shouldn't have been running, I should... oh, damn, my purse." Jennifer dropped to her knees to scoop up the various items that had fallen out. "I'm just... scattered right now. My dad picked me up from the airport -- I just flew in today -- and then we get hit by a car! We're okay... I guess," she added before Marty could even ask. "I just got some bruises and Dad broke his arm, but it's... I think I'm still shaken from it." She laughed nervously as she collected the rest of her things from the floor.
"Beats a concussion," Marty muttered, finally stepping away from the wall. He reached up to gently feel the back of his head where he had collided with the plaster. He wasn't pleased with the dizziness, or the pain, but it wasn't any worse than earlier, really.
Jennifer heard his remark. She straightened up and looked at him, aghast. "You have a concussion? How did that happen?"
"Uh... I fell and hit my head," Marty said, feeding her approximately the same story that Emmett had given the doctors. "They wanna give me one of those CAT scans before I leave."
"Oh! Oh, I'm so sorry!"
"It's not your fault." Marty looked at her, not sure what else there was to say. The sight of her face made his heart give a little twitch, though; he didn't realize how much he missed his own Jennifer until right then. "Well, uh, you were in a hurry, so you'd better get going...."
Jennifer blinked, as if only then realizing she had been deterred in her journey. "Oh, yes. Marty," she added as he started to turn around. He paused rather reluctantly. His reason for being on his feet in the first place was still there, and it wasn't getting any better....
"Yeah?"
Jennifer looked down into her purse, fumbling around for a moment before she pulled out a business card. She held it out to him. Confused, Marty took it from her. "What's this?"
"I'm in town for the next week," Jennifer explained. "For Thanksgiving -- and one of my friends from college is getting married. If you'd like -- I mean, if you're not busy -- give me a call. I'd like to catch up over a cup of coffee or something. I saw they opened a Starbucks in the square."
Marty looked at the card, then looked at her face. She was smiling at him, and looked genuinely happy -- and a bit concerned, probably because of his injury -- to see him. There was something else, too, in her eyes, that he couldn't quite read. He managed a faint smile for her and slipped the card in his pocket. "All right," he said. "Thanks."
"I hope you feel better," Jennifer said before she finally left, her pace a bit less frantic now. Maybe she was scared at toppling another hospital patron. Marty watched her go for a minute, wondering if this was some weird dream, then turned around to continue his search for a restroom.
I wonder what the local Doc will have to say about this?
He also wondered if he should even tell his other self. Since Jennifer thought that's who she was speaking with -- and had clearly, thank God, not noticed that this Marty had a wedding ring on -- it seemed only fair to do that. On the other hand, after everything the guy had done that day....
"He really doesn't deserve it," Marty muttered under his breath, finally spotting the men's room at the far end of the hall. But even as he thought that, he felt a little guilty. One of the reasons he thought his other self seemed so screwed up was that he never got what he had wanted so much in the past -- Jennifer. And if she was finally willing to try things again, and he just squelched that possibility before it could develop....
I'd be just as much of an ass as he is.
Marty pulled out the card to look at for a moment as he pushed open the restroom door. I'll run this by the Docs later, he decided, slipping it back into his pocket. And, as long as the other me didn't screw up my head enough to make me have surgery... I guess I'll let 'im know.
* * *
Emmett was waiting for Marty when he returned from the bathroom, with the news that Doc was indeed back at the house and "a little concerned" about his friend, and that the local Marty was awake, oddly silent, and putting up no fuss whatsoever at being confined to the Brown's living room until they returned. A few minutes later the doctor took Marty up to get the CAT scan -- a tedious and slightly claustrophobic experience -- and then the local inventor and the visiting musician endured a wait of half an hour before the results were in.
Fortunately, it was good news; there was no sign of serious damage, and the doctor cleared him to go home with instructions to take Tylenol for the headache, and to rest -- but he was to be woken up every two hours and watched carefully. If anything got worse, or he couldn't be woken up, it was back to the emergency room. Marty rolled his eyes at the instructions -- "How's this going to be any better than staying the night in the hospital?" he complained on the way to the car -- but Emmett just nodded and gave his word that it would be done.
By the time they finally returned to the Brown house, it was almost eight P.M. Emmett headed straight for the living room, where the other Marty was still waiting, while Doc immediately barraged the visiting Marty with so many questions, the musician finally had to plead the fifth -- or at least tell him to talk to Emmett about it later. The visiting inventor finally backed off -- sort of.
"You and my other self didn't go out of your way to convince the doctor to let you come home tonight, did you?" he asked as Marty was settling himself on the couch in the family room. By some consensus with the other adults in the house, they decided that it would be best if Marty spent the night there, instead of in the sewing room. Doc had thought it was only logical; if the visiting musician had to be watched, it would be easier to keep an eye on him in a location that had a lot of foot traffic. Marty seemed less than thrilled by this idea -- as did the kids, who found themselves booted out of their favorite hangout room -- but as the family room had a television, and the sewing room did not, he didn't put up too much of a fuss.
"No, Doc, they said I could go," Marty said, easing his head down on the couple of pillows that Clara had pulled from his bed in the sewing room. "Everything's fine -- except for, you know, the obvious. But I'll live. I just hope that Tylenol kicks in soon...."
Doc frowned, still worried. He didn't like the peaked cast to Marty's face. "Nevertheless, I think you can be exempt from the work tomorrow -- and I'm going to stay down here with you tonight. Someone has to, and it might as well be me."
The musician sighed as he reached for the television remote. "Just don't take it personally if I want to rip your head off for waking me up every couple of hours." He looked over suddenly at Doc. "Hey, the DeLorean's okay, right? I didn't mess it up when I landed, did I?"
"It's fine. I took a quick jump in it myself, before you got here. You really shouldn't have driven it in your condition, though."
Marty snorted softly. "Like I had a choice."
The visiting inventor sighed at the answer, then left the family room for the kitchen and, subsequently, the back door. If he was going to be sitting up all night, he might as well make the time productive. There were some circuitboards he could bring inside to reassemble....
Doc stopped as he stepped into the kitchen, the sound of voices -- specifically, the voices of his and Marty's counterpart -- distracting him. Without really intending to, he moved closer to the door that led into the dining room... and began to listen.
"You just don't understand, Doc. You really don't."
"I certainly don't understand how your mind is working right now. Great Scott, Marty! Your behavior this evening was completely reckless and out of line. If you had prevented that train from derailing--"
"My life would be a hell of a lot better than it is now!"
The cry was filled with enough anguish that Doc leaned forward, pushing open the door an inch to peer inside. Beyond the dining room table, in the adjacent living room, were the local counterparts. Emmett was on his feet, pacing about the room, and Marty was perched on the edge of the sofa, looking as if he was about to jump up to his own feet. At the sound of Marty's interruption, the local scientist turned to look at him. Doc could only see part of his counterpart's face; his expression wasn't terribly empathetic.
"That's not true, Marty. How many times do I have to tell you -- your life right now is the way it is because of you. Not me. Not from the circumstance that was beyond your control. But you."
"Don't feed me that bullshit, Doc," Marty said bitterly. "You and I both know where I'd be now if I hadn't had to spend five years rotting away in the past."
Emmett's frown was clear. "If you're looking at the other Marty's life as a template--"
"Yeah, I am," Marty said, a challenging glint in his eye. "I saw those movies, Doc."
"Those movies? Marty -- those are cinematic representations created in another reality! They should be taken with more than a grain of salt as a projection of what your life would be like. And your counterpart's life is not yours. He's from a parallel, alternate reality. There could be a number of differences and factors other than just him getting back home from 1885."
The local Marty lifted his shoulders in a sullen shrug. Emmett's tone grew softer. "Marty, you've got to move past this. It's turning into an obsession -- an unhealthy obsession. It's been ten years. I'm very sorry that things didn't work out between you and Jennifer, but--"
"Christ, you think that's what this is about? That I'm trying to change things just for her?"
Emmett was silent as he simply stared at the musician. "I do think that's a great deal of the matter, yes," he said. "But it's been ten years, Marty. She's moved on -- and you need to do the same."
Marty threw a hot glare in Emmett's direction. "Easy for you to say -- you've got Clara."
Emmett frowned again, looking perturbed, though Doc wasn't sure if it was from the musician's words or the look he was giving him. Probably a little of both. "Would you prefer I was alone and miserable, too? Don't blame me for your unhappiness, Marty!"
"Why not? It's your fault my life is all screwed up...."
Emmett let out a single chuckle, moving his face out of view from Doc. His tone made his scorn perfectly clear. "That is one of the most flagrant copout excuses I have ever heard -- and, believe me, between the boys and Emily, I've heard my share!" The local inventor took a few steps forward, closing the distance between himself and Marty. "I did everything in my power to help you out, now and in the past. I think I've been very patient and tolerant, Marty, under the circumstances. Especially considering your frequent forms of careless behavior over those years. We're fortunate nothing had an influence on history."
"For Christsakes, I was a kid, then, Doc...."
"And you're acting no better now!"
Doc winced at the angry tone in his counterpart's voice. There were only a few times in his friendship with Marty that he had sounded and felt that thoroughly disgusted or exasperated with his friend. Of course, if his Marty had pulled half the stunts that this one had in the last day....
"You're twenty-seven years old now, Marty -- or thirty-two, if you want to look at it from a technical standpoint. When are you going to grow up and realize that the world isn't perfect? That, specifically, a time machine cannot make the world perfect?"
Marty's lips were pressed together so tightly they were white. "I don't have to listen to this shit...." He started to get up, but Emmett's hand promptly pushed him back down to the couch.
"Oh, yes, you do -- especially after what you've done today! I think we should've had this discussion a long, long time ago. You crossed the line today, Marty -- and not only did you injure your other self, you put the space-time continuum at a great risk. If you had succeeded in your goal, you would've erased yourself right out of existence, and created a hell of a paradox."
"No, I wouldn't, Doc. Nothing would've happened!"
Emmett's back was to Doc, but he could practically hear the other inventor roll his eyes at the rebuff. "Not so, Marty. Did you ever stop to think about what your life would really be like without the accident? Specifically, if you were able to prevent it from happening, and you got home as you should have, how could you have known to come back and do what you did to prevent the accident in the first place? That's a paradox -- and the fabric of time can't deal with a contradiction like that."
"And how do you know it can't? Have you tried setting something up?"
"No -- but I don't need to jump off a cliff to know that it would kill me. If, by some stroke of luck, you didn't cause the universe to unravel, then you would essentially kill yourself by erasing the person that is you from existence. You wouldn't be around if you changed history and allowed yourself to get back home as planned. You wouldn't be the same Marty McFly; you wouldn't have a place to go home to."
"So what? My life sucks...."
Emmett's sigh was loud and long enough to be audible to Doc's ears. "I don't think it does, Marty. You've got a successful career going with your music -- isn't that what you always wanted? Your parents and siblings are doing well, and you've got your health. From an outsider's standpoint, you've got a lot to be thankful for."
"But I don't... there's more to life than just that stuff." Now the local musician's tone grew softer. Emmett sat down on the edge of an ottoman nearby, allowing Doc a clear view of both of their faces once more.
"There is indeed," the scientist agreed, nodding once. "But what you feel you lack -- happiness or a family of your own -- I cannot provide. Only you can do that by the choices and decisions you make in your own life. You can't go back in time and hope to get those things by rearranging previous events in your life, Marty. Look to the future; that's far more within your control than something that happened yesterday, or fifteen years ago."
Marty looked down at his hands, and the floor beyond them. A grimace crossed his face, and for a moment Doc glimpsed the pain and misery that this version of his friend was feeling in his life. Emmett saw it, too. His tone grew even more gentle as he continued to speak. "I know you loved Jennifer, Marty. Even in that first future I visited in 2015, as many problems as your family had, you were both together. But things can change." He paused again, and Marty remained silent, continuing to stare intently at the floor. "Have you tried contacting her at all since high school?"
"No," the musician said softly. "Why bother? She dumped me, Doc. Why the hell should I let her reject me all over again?" His voice broke on the question and he paused a moment to compose himself. "She's on the other side of the country, now, all successful and well-known. She's probably engaged to some hot shot anchorman and forgotten all about me."
Emmett's lips moved into a faint, sympathetic smile. "Well, then, you need to move on. There are many other young women out there, Marty. I know some have been interested in you in the last ten years--"
"But none of them are Jennifer," Marty said, looking up, the words coming out before he could stop them. He clenched his jaw once they were said and abruptly lowered his head before Emmett or Doc could really see his face. This was news that he obviously didn't want to share with anyone, though it was painfully obvious to everyone.
The room was quiet for a moment; Doc could clearly hear the ticking of the grandfather clock in the living room, and the faint sounds of the TV from the family room where his Marty was camped out. It reminded him he was neglecting his duties of observation, but curiosity continued to hold him rooted to the spot. Oddly enough, he felt no guilt from essentially spying and eavesdropping. When it was yourself -- or a different counterpart -- it seemed permissible, somehow.
"You need to get over her, Marty," Emmett finally said.
"I know, Doc," Marty half whispered, staring at his lap. "It's like my head knows it, but I still feel... I still want her and miss her. God!" He laughed once softly, almost bitterly. "I'm a total nutcase, huh? Sometimes I wish I could go back in time and just stop me from ever meeting her. That couldn't hurt as much as keeping the train from derailing...."
"No," Emmett said flatly, clearly in no mood to even jest about the matter. "Have you ever... well, thought about talking to someone, Marty?"
"You mean a shrink?" Marty snorted. "No way. They wouldn't get it, and the second I'd bring up time travel, they'd have me in a padded room faster than you could blink."
The local inventor nodded once, rather ruefully. "I suppose it would be difficult to get successful therapy if you couldn't tell them quite everything about the past circumstances."
Another silence fell between the two locals. Marty finally looked back up, first at Emmett, then over at one of the clocks nearby. "Are you done talking to me, now? I'd kinda like to go home, if that's okay. It's been... a long day."
Emmett stared at him a moment, hard, before grudgingly nodding. "But you realize I really can't trust you anymore, Marty. Not around the lab or the machines. You violated that trust."
The musician shrugged as he got to his feet, as if he could have care less. "Maybe it's a good thing," he said. "All this dimensional shit is too weird and depressing, if you ask me." He headed for the closed french doors that led to the foyer, Emmett following him. Doc stepped back, letting the swinging door from the kitchen fall completely closed. He let out a deep breath, glad that the fireworks had been brief and that things seemed to once more be at peace between his and Marty's other self.
Well, more or less.
There was still enough to feel troubled over, and Doc mulled it over as he went out to the lab to get some things to work on, and bring it back to the house. He half expected to run into Emmett when he came back in, but the local wasn't anywhere to be seen -- or at least wasn't in the kitchen, or downstairs hallway, or family room.
His Marty was still lying on the couch before the TV, watching what appeared to be an Indiana Jones movie -- unless Harrison Ford was in a different film with a whip and fedora in this world. The musician glanced over as Doc came in with the box of parts in his arms.
"What took you so long?" he asked.
Doc didn't think that what he had witnessed was private enough to purposely keep from Marty, but there was a better time to share the news. He wasn't too comfortable with the idea of talking about it, and having his counterpart walk in, either. "It took me a bit of time to collect all the parts that I needed," he said instead, setting the box down on the coffee table. "How are you doing? Is your head feeling any better, yet?"
Marty shrugged, reaching up to touch his forehead. "I dunno. If I don't move, it helps."
"Well, why don't you try to get some sleep, then? That will probably help the most."
"Until you gotta wake me up, anyway...." Marty muttered, his eyes drifting back over to the television screen. He didn't say anything more, and Doc went about spreading out the parts and tools on a TV tray nearby, his mind shifting gears from the problems of the counterparts here to the very real one in his own life with the time machine repairs. Things were perhaps a week away from being done. And if they lost the other Marty's helpful hands....
The inventor sighed softly as he set the small bag of wires down, thinking about how much time they had already been away from home, and how much more time it was going to be before they got back. If they were able to patch things together good enough to make the jump.
Of course we will. We can't spend the rest of our lives living like this. It will all work out fine! It certainly can't get much worse....
Doc was quick to throw himself into the circuitboard work, deciding that doing something productive was much more important than worrying at the moment.
Around ten, Emmett finally came into the family room, his intentions more to check on Marty than anything else, as made evident by his first question to Doc.
"How is he doing?"
The visiting inventor looked up for the first time in a while, over to the couch. The TV was still on, and tuned to the action movie, but Marty wasn't watching it anymore. Rather, he had taken Doc's earlier advice and appeared to be sleeping, his face turned away from the flickering glow of the television. "Fine," Doc said. "So far as I can tell."
Emmett made his way over to the couch. "How long has he been asleep?"
"Uhh... I'm not entirely sure. But if you want to wake him to give yourself peace of mind, go right ahead. It saves me the trouble at least once."
The local decided to do just that. He shook Marty gently by the shoulder. The musician reacted after about ten seconds, with an irritated groan.
"What?" he croaked, not even bothering to open his eyes.
"What's your name?"
"Marty McFly. My birthday's June 7, 1968, and I'm in some weird alternate world right now." Marty yawned. "Does that prove to you I'm not going comatose?"
"Almost. Can you open your eyes for a moment?"
Marty grimaced, but complied. Emmett held up a finger. "Follow this with your eyes, all right?"
The musician did so, and the local seemed satisfied, then. "Is your head still hurting?" he asked when he was done.
"It is when I'm awake," Marty said, pulling up the blanket from where it was hovering near his waist and tugging it up around his shoulders. He rolled over, away from Emmett, until he was facing the back of the sofa.
The local inventor took the hints and backed off, picking up the remote from the coffee table and clicking the TV off during the middle of a bad guy's death scene. "You should probably wake him again around midnight," he said softly to Doc. "Just check his eyes like I did to make sure nothing's changed, and talk to him for a minute."
"Of course," Doc said, knowing that Marty almost certainly had to be listening to this right now. He changed the subject before the musician could voice any objection or complaints to the advice. "I was looking over some of the progress we've made on the train, while you were both at the hospital. I think we're only halfway done, if that."
Emmett sighed, as if this was old news to him. "Yes. And I'm afraid work is going to go even slower for us the next few days. Marty is under doctor's orders to take it easy for a couple of days -- and my Marty has a few things to tend to in his own life right now. I'm not sure if he'll be helping us anymore."
Doc asked the question, although he already knew the answer to it. "Oh? Are you not comfortable with his assistance after today's incident?"
"No, not entirely." Emmett paused, his eyes flicking over to the lump of blanket on the couch. "Marty is just going through a difficult time in his life, now -- or, rather, is still going through a difficult time. I'm not trying to make excuses for his behavior today, at all -- frankly, he still owes both you and your Marty a sincere apology -- but I think it might be better for him if he doesn't have to come here every day to work on the repairs. Besides, he does have responsibilities with his career, and I know he's been pushing some of that aside in the last week."
There was a faint movement from nearby as Marty rolled onto his back and raising himself up on his elbows to a half sitting position, squinting at the two men. "I almost forgot," he said. "I ran into someone at the hospital who thought I was the other me."
Emmett and Doc both winced, almost simultaneously, from this revelation. Marty, though, smiled faintly. He fumbled around with something under the blanket, the withdrew his left hand and stretched his arm out towards the inventors. Something small and rectangular, like a business card, was dangling between his middle and forefinger. "Here," he said. "She gave this to me."
Emmett, who was still on his feet and standing between both Doc and Marty, was the one to take it. He looked at the front of it and his eyebrows almost leapt off his face. "Jennifer? Jennifer Parker gave you this?"
Marty gave a small, slow nod as he eased himself back down on the pillows. "She's in town this week for Thanksgiving, and was in the ER because I guess there was some kind of fender bender. She told me to give her a call and we could go out for coffee or something to catch up." The musician yawned, closing his eyes against the light of the couple of lamps in the room. "I thought about not telling anyone about it, but what the hell...."
Emmett looked at Doc, his eyes wide and surprised. Doc shrugged, taking the card from his counterpart's hand for a look. "Interesting," he said. "I imagine that your other self will be quite eager to hear this, Marty."
"Quite," Emmett echoed, still sounding surprised. "I suppose I'll have to call him over here tomorrow -- and I'll let you give him the news, Marty, since you can probably tell him all the details he wants to know."
"There's not much more to tell, unless he wants to know how she looks," Marty murmured. "But tomorrow works, as long as he's not gloating about giving me a concussion. That's still pissing me off...."
Doc set the card down on a corner of the coffee table, next to the remote, where he thought it would be safe for the night. "You'll probably feel more charitable tomorrow," he said to Marty. The musician grunted faintly at the words, skeptical. Doc looked back to his counterpart, who still wore a look of complete and thorough shock on his face. "I take it you weren't expecting anything like this?"
"Uh... no, not really," Emmett said.
"Does that mean you never looked at your Marty's future since that first trip to 2015?"
Emmett moved his eyes until he was staring at Doc dead in the face. The look was clear. "Do you really have to ask that question?"
"And what did you find?" Doc asked, curious. He didn't mind if his Marty overheard this; it wasn't his future, after all.
"Ah... variations," Emmett said, vaguely, looking a little uncomfortable. "After he and Jennifer broke up, I didn't see him married to her any longer -- or anyone else for that matter. He seemed quite successful, professionally, but... well, perhaps that future won't come to pass, now. I hope not."
"He wasn't happy, there?" Doc asked.
"No," Emmett said. "Not so far as I could tell. But there's only so much you can glean from news articles and viewing someone from afar. Especially when they turn downright reclusive." The local's eyes flicked to the business card and he sighed. "Well, the future changes constantly, and I haven't peeked for a while at what it has in store for my Marty. Who knows? Maybe things are better now."
"Maybe," Doc said thoughtfully, feeling a strange tickle of disquiet at the thought. Before he could put his finger on it, though, it had vanished.
"Well, I think I'll turn in early tonight to get an early start tomorrow. You're staying out here the whole night?"
"Someone should -- and it might as well be me, since this is my Marty. We're overtaxing your family enough with our presence here."
Emmett smiled faintly. "I think they've enjoyed it," he said. "Let me know if anything changes with Marty, all right?"
"Of course. Good night."
Left alone, once more, Doc frowned, trying to figure out what that almost-thought and realization had been a moment previous. The more he tried to remember, the more in the dark he felt, until he finally just bellowed a sigh and picked up the wire clippers again.
Whatever it was... it'll come again.
Much to Marty's chagrin, Doc was paranoid enough to actually follow through on his word, and the doctor's orders. Every two hours, the musician would be dragged awake to answer painfully simple questions, and forced to open his eyes so he could track the inventor's finger and prove that there was nothing wrong. It bugged him the first couple of times, and really started to tick him off by the wee hours of the morning. When Doc roused him again at a quarter 'til eight, Marty was unable to stop himself from letting him have it -- as much as he could half awake, anyway.
"Stop this!" he moaned pitifully, his face half buried in the pillow. "I'm fine! If something was gonna happen, it would've by now. Can't you just let me sleep more than a couple hours?"
The musician clearly heard Doc's sigh from above. "I suppose this technically constitutes as morning, now," he said. "This will be the last time, Marty. Now, could you please look at me...?"
The musician reluctantly raised his heavy head, squinting hard against the early daylight and lamplight in the room. The inventor looked tired himself; but, of course, if he had been sitting awake all night, making sure Marty wasn't going to go comatose, it was to be expected. After going through the same eye motions once more, Doc nodded, pleased.
"Good," he said. "And how's your headache?"
Marty let his head fall back on the soft pillow. "Not as bad as yesterday, but still hanging on," he murmured around a wide yawn. "I should probably take some more Tylenol."
"All right. I'll go get some for you."
But by the time Doc returned with the medication, Marty had fallen back to sleep. And the inventor wisely let him be.
So when he found himself being shaken, once again, back to awareness, Marty reacted as anyone might have if they had been awakened one too many times in the last twelve hours. "Go 'way before I hit you," he mumbled, his face to the back of the couch. "How d'you expect me to feel any better if you keep waking me up?"
"Sorry," said someone who was definitely not Doc. In fact, it sounded just like his own voice, meaning it was probably the local Marty. The visiting one groaned softly, in no mood to deal with his counterpart. Especially after the day before. "Doc said I could come in and wake you up."
"Which one?" Marty muttered, annoyed.
"Mine. Yours is taking a nap, I guess, since he was up all night."
So he couldn't get mad at Doc, then. All right. Marty easily transferred his irritation past Emmett and directly to his counterpart. He didn't say anything, hoping the guy would get the hint and go away, but when a minute passed, the local Marty decided to speak again. "Doc called me and told me to come over. That there was something you wanted to tell me.... Sorry it's so early, but I have a meeting at ten with my local agent."
Marty didn't know what the hell he was talking about for a minute, before the memory of Jennifer came back to him. He