Author's Note: The characters of Doctor Emmett L. Brown, Jules Eratosthenes Brown, and Clara Clayton Brown belong to their respectable creators. All details recognizable are from the minds of the script writer, director, and film crew of the trilogy.


Vignette One: The Inventor Gene

The spring air smelled of late afternoon dew and a wafting scent of horses. This was mostly due to the domesticated mammel the scientist sat upon, heading home. It had been a long, long day for Doctor Emmett L. Brown. One of those days when it feels as if time was purposely moving slowly as a punishment. He let go of one of the reins to briefly straighten his hat, recalling the day's incident.

"I'm telling you Emmett, in a perfect world would something like that come to life." Mr. Stallen had grumbled over Doc's shoulder as the scientist heightened the buggy's wheel. It was not difficult to find the means to create a makeshift jack here. That, however, was not what Mr. Stallen was referring too. What he had been referring to, was bending Doc's ear for over half an hour.

"Keep up the faith, Mr. Stallen." Doc had said. The axel of the wheel snapped off in his hands from its deep crack. This one had to be replaced rather than saved. "Where would any of us in this century be if no one had any faith in progress? We will go on to do plenty of new exciting things."

Mr. Stallen snorted, whether from the stuffy air or the obscurity of the blacksmith's words. "Like heck, Emmett. You can't honestly believe in that bull. Who will do those new exciting things? My boys? My boys just want to climb trees. Your boy? If I'm not mistaken, your son can barely talk!"

Doc straightened at that, eyeing the pudgy man with a dim glare. "My boy," the scientist announced to not only Mr. Stallen, but to whoever in the world was listening, "Just doesn't have anything of interest to say yet."

He had just mounted off his horse when the front door opened. His family stood there, their figures casting shadows, one small and one feminine, across the grassy yard. One shadow-maker dashed out toward him. His arms stretched out and with shouts of "Pada! Pada!" scrambled toward the scientist. Doc's chest warmed as he dropped to his knees with his arms out wide. Little arms wrapped around his neck as Doc wrapped his around the child.

An awkwardness quite heavy befell the stable. Mr. Stallen did not meet the dim glare, only glancing at the ceiling, the floorboards dusted with hay, and the open door to a view of town square. A view of men in leather boots and thick hats and California orange dirt. Horses and saloons, women in lacy dresses, and silver pistols.

Doc picked up a new axel from one of his worktables to fit on the buggy. He had not felt to act upon the annoyance Mr. Stallen had caused him. The parental protectiveness was still new inside him. It churned up every now and then. Mostly whenever a person, anyone really, spoke ill of his son's lack of communication and general normality. Not that he and Clara had created a freak, but little Jules was proving to be rather different from other children. Something that was both refreshing and concerning.

"How's my boy?" Doc asked as he lifted his son up. Jules made a series of unreal words, trying to form those he needed. He talked these for a few seconds as Doc carried him inside their cabin home. Clara closed the door behind them, smiling at the father and son.

"How's the misses?"

The question almost startled him into reality.

"Clara's fine," Doc had answered as he worked. Truth be told, she was getting quite antsy with her new pregnancy. Being cooped up in the house made her almost twitch but with Jules, it wasn't as bad as the first time. "Doctor Gerald said she should deliver in three more months."

"When my wife was pregnant she was an absolute wreck," Mr. Stallen said, scratching at his brown beard. "That was with Caroline. I swear, women get more insane when they're carrying one of their own kind."

"How are you doing?" He asked and put a free hand on her belly. "Is anything wrong? Any pain or strange motions? Have you had fever or chills?"

The baby within gave a quick kick to his palm as its own response.

"Brown!"

Doc and Mr. Stallen turned to see another man standing there. He was tall, had a gut sticking out of an ill-fitting dirty shirt, and enough hair to be suspected of being the wolfman. A jet black beard curled under his thin yellow mouth and under the old black hat a top his head. Under the brim were eyes that were immediately recognizable for the way they could pierce and dare you. Doc was the only one in town, the very few, that could look at them and not become alienated.

"Hello Mr. Tim." Doc greeted, his mouth almost as thin-lined as the new visitor.

"Oh, just as well as yesterday." She said as she put her own hand over her husband's. Both of their wedding rings touched. "Really Emmett, you worry much too much. I did feel tired, but I took a nap so dinner is going to be late. Why don't you get a little work done in the lab?"

"I have a bone to pick with you!" Mr. Tim replied as he made his way over to the scientist. He put all his main weight on his left leg. Doc couldn't help staring at the right leg. It was bent at an angle. Always. There was a rumor that Mr. Tim's nephew, the old Mad Dog, had shot him in the right leg after Mr. Tim allegedly married his brother's wife. The rumor was at least twenty years old and Doc had heard it in his very first year back in 1885. Rumors stuck around. The limp too, stuck around.

"And what would that be?" Doc asked. Tiredness was evident in his voice. Three buggies, six horses, and Mr. Stallen were quite a day. Enough, but Doc had been taught at a young age that even the slightest tiredness should not get in the way of manners.

"You know what." Mr. Tim said. He had a voice as thick as maple syrup but came out crackly like leaves. He limped right up to the buggy Doc was working on. Slamming his fist hard enough on it, he snapped: "I brought an heirloom here yesterday. Big locket, gold of about thirty carrots. Long chain and shaped like a heart."

"Yes," Doc said. He remembered that jewelry. It had quite an intricate detailing. It made him wonder if it truly was an heirloom of a family like that. "And I fixed its broken lock and returned it to you. What about it?"

"It got stolen." Mr. Tim deadpanned.

Doc was confused. "What does this have to do with my services?"

"It happened at your services, Brown." Mr. Tim spat as he reached into his pocket. What he withdrew was just a plain chain. An imitation, Doc realized. Not a good one either. The chain was old and silver without any sort of heart-shaped fixture. "I want my money."

Doc got up, rubbed his hands on his apron, and faced Mr. Tim. "I'm afraid I'm not the one responsible for the theft here, Robert. Your problem is with the law and not the blacksmith trade."

Mr. Tim stepped up to Doc. Their height was equal, neither taller nor smaller than the other. At least, on the outside.

Mr. Tim's hot breath carried the words in a sneer. "No my problem is with you. It happened right outside your door, right when I was getting on my horse-"

"Surely you can't blame Emmett for a common pick pocket," Mr. Stallen interrupted. Doc nodded as a thank you. Mr. Stallen could run off his mouth without his brain, but somewhere he did have common logic.

"Surely I can and do." Mr. Tim grunted. His eyes went back to the scientist's brown ones. "You going to give me my money back Brown? Or am I going to have to-"

Mr. Tim was interrupted again but it wasn't by Mr. Stallen. It was by something heavy that flew from his jacket pocket. The sound it made was metallic as it hit the dusty wood of the floor. Doc's gaze was the first upon the object. Mr. Stallen saw it too and his eyes came back up with a glower as bad as the scowl from his mouth.

Doc reached down to the object, pulling it up between him and Mr. Tim. Its golden heart dangled right in front of their faces. "The pick pocket wasn't very smart if he left two jewelry items without stealing one." Doc said and shoved the locket into the man's chest. "How dare you try to pull this with me. Get out of here. Now."

Mr. Tim scrambled for the locket, grumbling curses, as he pocketed it. Doc could only hear one last grumble as the man left the stable. "Damn old coot."

Damn old coot. Doc let it replay in his mind. Damn old coot. Damn old coot. Damn old coot. At sixty-nine and countless days lost in space-time, yes he classified as old. Physically and only physically. Damn old coot. Mad scientist. Old Man Brown. Residential weirdo. It came back and stung. Stung harder than he wanted to admit. It shouldn't sting now of all times, when in time those wouldn't be said for another decades worth. And those who said it, were few and usually the same person. Doc pushed the words down, deciding to ignore them again. He took a breath.

There was something calming and exciting about his workspace. Calming in that the worrisome world of possible paradoxes and inconvenient times was outside for now. Exciting in a way that his self-created equiptment offered a hideaway of invention and science. The year 1888 was starting to get to him. He knew what was up next for the world but could not move forward with it. He could not mess with time, could not interfere with the natural flow of things. Only the lab was a true free space.

Doc's thoughts raged as he thought at his main desk. Papers littered its surface. Most with scrawlings of new inventions for the house and for another time machine. Just scrawlings and not anything serious. The scientist felt the need to document the brain vomit, at least until the real vision took over. Now, his mind focused on him and his boy.

He had talked by Jules' age now. Jules was reserved except for when excited (that was more Clara). Himself, when young, had a perpetual mischief that resulted in him getting chased after by a nanny. Jules kept to himself and rarely caused any sort of trouble. The child also had Clara's eyes, Clara's hair, Clara's face and nose, and Clara's 100 watt smile. The only resemblance on the outside between him and his offspring was possibly the ears.

Did they have to be the same? Or did they have to be different?

A tug on his pant leg jarred the questions off. Doc looked down to see Jules, that 100 watt smile still on his face. Doc smiled down at him, too. Jules continued smiling as he held up a thing for his father. In his little hands was a rectangular block of wood. Nothing unusual until the scientist noticed a hole drilled through it. Ah, yes he remembered drilling through several when creating that new cupboard for the kitchen. He had tossed the crooked, botched ones on the floor, meaning to pick them up later. But the one his son was holding up didn't only have a empty hole through it. The hole was filled with a flat topped nail, an inch tall and two centimeters wide. It was put into the hole, screwed right in tightly. Could his boy have…

"Let me see that," Doc said as he took the block of wood out of Jules' hands. He turned it over and over, eyeing it closely. It was screwed in nice and tight. A How popped into his brain but the sight of a stray screwdriver (real from the once trunk of the DeLorean) laying on the ground answered it. The scientist kept examining it with his eyes and hands, excitement growing but sinking when doubtful How's and What's popped up. When he turned over the block for the fiftienth time, Jules looked up at him with his big brown eyes.

"Steel and wood," Jules announced. Doc was surprised by the sudden explanation from his young son. Steel and wood? Steel and wood! The steel of the nail goes through the oak of the wood, piercing it! Doc felt like calling to Clara or calling to Mr. Stallen, or calling to anyone that had said "Emmett's boy is just so dull."

"Did you do this by yourself?" Doc asked. Jules was sucking on his thumb and nodded his head. He reached his free hand toward the block, motioning that he wanted it down. Doc gave it to him and watched. Jules toddled over to the screwdriver and held it in his free hand. He, with only a mili-second of fumbling, stuck the screwdriver's tip in the slit of the nail and turned it. To the left, the nail began to loosen. Doc's eyes grew wider and wider as he watched his little boy get the nail out of the wood.

"Here," Jules said as he held the nail up. Doc got up and took it from him. His eyes were still wide and now his heart was beating quick in his chest. All his nerves and all his fatherly glands were thumping and vibrating. Amazement was a total vague term. Jules still held the block of wood in his hand as his father picked him up.

His son…

He had to test it. Doc led Jules over to his other worktable. The one that had all the house inventions on it. Of which resided a toaster he was working on. Just something to make the family breakfast a little easier. Especially with another mouth to feed in three months. Jules pointed to the toaster, making noises of the question "What's that?" and Doc cleared a space for it right in the center of the worktable.

"It's for breakfast time," Doc answered. Jules reached out toward it, as if wanting to feel it all over. Doc recognized the look in the child's eyes. That look of zoning out, of trying to disassemble the object with the mind. He knew that look because he had seen it reflected in a mirror all the time. Now it made Jules' eyes look more like his, or at least have a hint of him.

"Need help?" Jules pronounced slowly.

"Need help." Doc said and picked up the screwdriver and another nail. He held up the nails in front of Jules. "Which one, son?"

Jules pointed to the shorter nail. His father's excitement grew.

"Correct," Doc said and mounted the nail into one of the components of the toaster. He handed the screwdriver to his son but Jules started shaking his head. His pointer finger guided Doc's view to a box of bolts on the table. Yes! Doc got out a bolt and attached it over the head of the nail. Then his son accepted the screwdriver. "Okay, steady now, steady."

Jules' brow furrowed as his focus intensified. It seemed a pretty strong focus for a two-year-old brain. Doc's big hands, looking bigger over his son's, hovered over Jules' so there would be no severe accidents. Anything could happen with a two-year-old around. But Jules had no problems except for the short fumbling at the beginning. He turned the screwdriver in the slit of the nail head. The screw inside the toaster's heat component tightened along with the bolt that held it in. All the while Doc was praising, saying to Jules:

"Good, keep the tool steady… yes, that's right. That's my boy!"

Truth be told, if he hadn't been witnessing it, Doc wouldn't have believed it. That made him feel a bit guilty. What if Clara had been sweeping the lab (not that she ever did) and Jules had did this with a "Steel through wood, Mama!"? After a day like this one, would he have come home to hear that story and believed it? The mental answer, he shoved back down into his head. Jules had used a screwdriver and that was that. His son knew what his tools were, knew what he needed him to do, and just maybe what the toaster was. That was that. No, that was him.

Doc's chest grew warm again. He kissed Jules' forehead and went over to the chair by his desk. "Eratosthenes of Cyrene could not measure how proud I am of you, Jules. Mother is going to be so proud, too."

Jules laughed happily as his father bounced him on his knee. "Steel through wood, Papa!" The boy exclaimed again. Doc smiled.

Indeed, steel and wood. Father and son. So they could be the same after all, or at least somewhat. The hair could be Clara's and so could the eyes, nose, face, and smile. That didn't mean that the boy couldn't carry that spark of curiosity or the knowledge of tool usage in the mind's memory also. The scientist didn't even know where his intensely pondering mind or mechanical inclination came from. Not from his father, nor his mother. It had passed to him was what mattered and now that it passed to Jules was even better. The pride in his heart made him feel as if he might explode. Especially when Clara appeared in the lab, big belly first, to announce that dinner was ready.

"Clara, darling, you'll never guess what Jules just did!"