August, 1986

As much as Doc had repeatedly insisted at one point that he had wanted his time machine destroyed, he was, in fact, grateful for the temporal clone of the DeLorean surviving—the lightning bolt that had created it, upon striking the original, had knocked out the original's flying circuits, yet had preserved them in the temporal clone. Its compact size made it easily maneuverable when compared to his Time Train, as well as easily camouflaged as an ordinary car—making it far easier to take it places without attracting much attention.

And Doc couldn't resist adding to the DeLorean's modifications—or plan for further ones. In the drawing room of the Brown household, Doc was hard at work on sketches of what would be, he hoped, the next breakthrough for his original pet project. Clara was on the settee, dividing her attention between her husband and their sons, who were reclined on the rug, watching MTV with Einstein the dog; Marty's enthusiasm for the new Slippery When Wet album had rubbed off on Jules and Verne, and the boys were hoping to see some of the new music videos—and Clara was keeping a watchful eye out, remote in hand, to make sure they weren't seeing anything they shouldn't.

Doc suddenly stood up with a "HA!" of triumph, prompting his family to give him their attention.

"I think I've done it!" Doc exclaimed, attaching his latest sketch to an easel that had been set up in the room. "Look at this!"

The sketch was of an x-shaped design that paralleled the y-shaped design of the flux capacitor.

"…The spatial disperser?" Clara asked. They'd talked about it before—his goals for further improving the DeLorean…

"Yes!" Doc replied. "With this, in theory, the DeLorean would be able to travel through space as well, instead of just through time."

"It looks rather like the flux capacitor," Jules observed.

"Yes, that fell into place when I remembered to factor in the dimensions…" Doc mused. "The flux capacitor's ability to travel through time is one axis—the y-axis, in this case. So, to travel through space, we need an x-axis!"

"Would Mr. Fusion be able to power it, too?" Verne asked.

"It should," Doc beamed. "Of course, it'll take time to construct a working version—though it might speed things up if you boys were willing to help. …And it could be even faster if Marty could lend a helping hand, too!"

"Marty will be so pleased to know that you're still working on the DeLorean," Clara smiled.

"Yes, he was there when it had its first test run, after all," Doc recalled. "Even before he knew what it was, he was helping me in the lab with bits and pieces of it. I hope he can spare some time to work on it; it'd be like old times."

"I don't know why he wouldn't," Clara pointed out. "He'd be here in the blink of an eye if you asked."

"I know he would," Doc agreed. "But, at the same time, he's at a very important crossroads in his life right now—I wouldn't want to distract him from his decision-making. He has the opportunity to further his education or set off on a career—when I was his age, I spent weeks trying to make a similar decision. I had—"

"—Acceptance letters from a half-dozen of the best schools in the country," Jules and Verne both chorused.

"…Alright, so I've told this story before," Doc shrugged, as Clara daintily raised a handkerchief to her lips to hide her amusement. "It won't hurt to hear it again—you boys will eventually have to make similar choices, too. As I said, I spent weeks trying to figure out where I wanted to go to college, and I did it by focusing on making the right choice—I didn't let myself get distracted by anything…" He trailed off as the phone rang, instantly getting distracted by it.

Einstein picked up the phone in his mouth and darted over to Doc, who accepted it, giving the dog a few ear skritches as thanks.

"Hello?"

"Dr. Brown?"

"George! How nice to hear from you again! We were just—"

"Doctor, I'm so sorry to interrupt, but I need to know—did Marty stop by your place at all last evening?"

"No, he didn't; I haven't seen Marty since earlier this week, when he was showing Jules and Verne that new cassette tape," Doc recalled. He arched an eyebrow as he heard George sharply inhale—and he thought he heard Lorraine suppress a sob in the background. "George? Is something wrong?"

"Marty went for a ride on his skateboard last evening," George explained. "But he never came home."

"Great Scott…! Are you sure!?"

"We were hoping he might have come home late last night, but his bed hasn't been slept in," George fretted. "I know he's been under a lot of pressure lately because of thinking about his future—"

"—And that's partly our fault," Lorraine acknowledged, her voice on the verge of cracking.

"But Marty isn't the type to run away or… harm himself under pressure," George finished, reluctant to even think about the possibility.

"No," Doc reassured him. "No, he isn't. Nor would he intentionally do anything to worry any of us."

"Then… something must have happened," Lorraine realized.

Doc didn't want to confirm her concerns, but he knew it must be true.

"You haven't heard from the hospital, or…?" he began, but trailed off, not wanting to finish his thought.

"No, but Marty didn't take his wallet with him—he wouldn't have any ID on him," George said, knowing exactly where Doc was going, and not wanting to think about that possibility, either. "He didn't intend to be out that long at all. But I did call the hospital—they didn't see anyone with Marty's description."

"We tried to file a missing persons report, but we apparently have to wait 24 hours to report him missing," Lorraine said, clearly frustrated.

"Well, that won't do—keep trying," Doc said. "George, have you checked all of his favorite haunts?"

"I have Dave and Linda doing that now—I'll go and see what I can find, as well."

"And I'll drive around the rest of town," Doc promised. "Lorraine, keep trying to get that report filed."

"Yes, Doctor," she sighed, suppressing another sob. "Let us know if you find out anything."

"Of course," he promised.

He said his goodbyes and ended the call, and then glanced back at the rest of his family, who were looking back at him. The smile had faded from Clara's face during the call itself; though she hadn't known the exact details, it had been clear from her husband's end of the conversation that all was not well with Marty.

"Clara, can I see you for a moment in the hall?" he asked.

She nodded and followed him out, closing the door to the drawing room behind them.

"Something has happened to Marty?" she surmised.

"He went missing at some point last night—not a word from him," Doc said, with a hollow nod. "If he was in trouble, he'd find some way to let us know. And like I told George and Lorraine, he'd never try to worry us on purpose."

Clara paled.

"Then, do you think he's…?"

"No, but whether that's intuition or just denial, I don't know," Doc admitted. "And, in the end, it doesn't make a difference—you and I wouldn't be standing here talking about it if Marty hadn't interfered with our timelines and ensured that the both of us lived. If—and by God, I hope that's an 'if'—the worst has happened, I will return the favor without hesitation. But, for the moment, I want to hope that it won't come to that—I just need to find him before it does. I'll go get the keys to the—"

He was cut off as he reopened the door to the drawing room—and was met with Jules and Verne, each standing with a glass to an ear, having had them pressed to the door to eavesdrop. Doc merely glanced at his sons and sighed.

"Who taught you how to do that!?" Clara chided.

"Marty," they chorused, immediately.

"…And I taught him," Doc admitted.

"Is Marty going to be okay?" Verne asked.

"He will be, if I have anything to say about it," Doc vowed.

"It would seem that you do," Jules observed.

"Of course I do," Doc said, getting the keys to the DeLorean. "Marty has always been like family." He paused on his way out to give Clara a quick kiss. "Check in on Lorraine every so often—she must be beside herself with worry."

"Right," Clara promised.

She watched in apprehension as Doc waved to them all as he headed out the door, hoping that this would all end happily. For now, she would take solace in knowing that if there was anyone in the space-time continuum who could find Marty, it would be Emmett Brown.

June, 1932

Clara would have no way of knowing just how correct her intuition was—although it would end up coming true in a way she hadn't foreseen.

Dr. Egret's tachyon device had sent Marty backwards in time, but not very far in space. But, at that moment, Marty had no way of knowing where or when he was; he was still dizzy and disoriented from hitting his head on the tracks, and he was beginning to panic as he realized that things—important things—were somehow slipping from his mind.

He was still half-collapsed by the tracks, clutching at his head in one hand as stars continued to dance before his eyes. And he was barely aware of another presence headed in his direction, clearly very preoccupied and not aware of Marty's presence—and muttering something to himself quietly.

"There's Cornell and Princeton… Harvard and MIT… And Yale, too… But the East Coast is one heck of a long haul; Caltech would be closer but…" There was a growl of frustration. "But the Ivy League is… Yaaagh!"

Marty yet out a yelp of his own as someone tripped over him, letting out a high-pitched squawk as he just barely managed to avoid faceplanting into the ground. Even through the stars obscuring his vision, Marty could see the unfortunate young man glance back at him with a look of utter vexation at having his train of thought derailed.

"I… I'm sorry…" Marty began, but he trailed off as the young man's expression was quickly replaced with a look of wide-eyed surprise.

"Marty!?"

Marty. Yes, that sounded right; that was his name—one of the few pieces of information that he'd managed to hold onto…

"Marty, it really is you!" The look of surprise was quickly replaced with one of confusion. "Where have you been all this time!? …And what are you wearing!?"

Marty didn't know how to reply; his fragmented memory couldn't recall who this was—only that he was familiar. Cautious, he backed away slightly as this familiar-yet-unknown guy approached him, much to the other's surprise.

"Marty, it's me—Emmett," he said. He blinked as this got him no reaction or even a sign of recognition. "Emmett Brown?" he offered. "We met last year when you wanted to borrow my rocket-powered drill, and then when Kid Tannen was arrested? And then again at the Hill Valley Expo?"

Again, Marty could only offer a blank stare.

"…You really don't remember," Emmett realized aloud. He sounded upset.

"I'm sorry…" Marty offered again. "It seems like I know you, but… I just can't place you."

"…I see. Guess it can't be helped," Emmett said, though he still seemed upset by it. "What're you doing near the railroad tracks, anyway?"

Marty concentrated for a moment, trying to figure out the answer.

"…I can't remember."

Emmett rolled his eyes. He knew from last year that trying to get straight, coherent answers from Marty was like pulling teeth. Perhaps this was just Marty's latest method of avoiding having to explain things—though he really seemed convincing. But did that mean that Marty had just up and forgotten about everything, after claiming to have been his friend? So much for that…

"Of course not," Emmett sighed, after a moment.

"Well, wait a minute!" Marty exclaimed. "Just what were you doing out here by the tracks?"

"I came here to think about some things," Emmett returned, frowning slightly. "I used to go on the clock tower roof for that kind of deep thinking, but since I… fell off last time, I decided this was safer."

"You fell off a clock tower?"

"You oughta know—you were there."

There was a slight frostiness to Emmett's voice, and Marty assumed that he must've been affronted by something Marty had said or did.

"…I don't remember that, either. I'm really sorry, Emmett," he said again. "Look, you were obviously busy thinking about important stuff, so I'll just let you keep doing that, then." He shakily got to his feet. "See you around, I guess…"

Emmett's frown faded as Marty started walking away, realizing he shouldn't have been so cold; he was just about to offer an apology of his own when Marty passed under a nearby streetlamp—and Emmett got a better look at him.

"Great Scott! What happened to you!?"

"Huh?" Marty stopped, looking back as Emmett now ran to catch up with him.

"Look at yourself! No wonder you've got amnesia! You've got a bump on your head the size of—"

He instinctively reached a hand out to gently touch it, but he hadn't been gentle enough, apparently—

"OW! Knock it off!" Marty exclaimed.

"What? No, no, no—giving you another knock on the head isn't going to cure your amnesia," Emmett said, misunderstanding the future slang. "I don't know where that cliché started, but it's definitely wrong."

"…Thanks, I'll keep that in mind," Marty replied, utterly baffled, both by his own situation, and Emmett's sudden change in attitude.

He started to hobble off again, prompting Emmett to grab him by the arm.

"Where are you going!?"

"I dunno," Marty shrugged. "Home, I guess?"

"And where is that?"

"Um…" Marty trailed off, unable to remember. "Maybe it's on my ID…" He reached into his right pants pocket, and froze as he found it empty. In a panic, he turned out all of his pockets, coming up with only his Walkman, some spare change, and a few guitar picks. "I've lost my wallet! Perfect!" he groaned.

"…Maybe you were mugged," Emmett theorized. "They stole your wallet, and you got hit on the head in the process."

Marty wasn't so sure; if he'd been mugged, why hadn't they taken his Walkman, too? But that didn't matter now.

He offered a helpless shrug to Emmett and attempted to walk off again.

"Now where are you going!?"

"I'll figure it out," Marty insisted. "You go back to doing what you were doing; don't let me stop you."

"No, no—that can wait. You shouldn't be wandering alone with amnesia—you need to get your head examined!" Emmett winced at his poor choice of words as Marty gave him an indignant glare. "…I swear I didn't mean that the way it sounded."

"Hmph."

"Really, Marty. I mean that you shouldn't be left alone when you're in that state," Emmett clarified. "Look, you probably can't remember this, either, but my pop is Hill Valley's judge—his name carries a lot of weight in town, and I'm sure I can get you an emergency visit with our family physician."

"Yeah, well…" Marty mumbled, holding out the handful of spare change.

"Don't worry about paying for it—I just told you, Pop's name can get us far, and even if that isn't enough, we can afford it. I know times are hard, but we're luckier than most. Come on—let's get you some help."

Marty hesitated for a moment, but then nodded. Even though he couldn't remember, he was sure that Emmett was someone he could trust.