August, 1986

The unfortunate irony of time travel was that its effects were not always instantaneous. The ripple effect usually varied as to when it took effect. But the space-time continuum was particularly out of it on this occasion; by all accounts, Doc should have eventually sensed his memories changing as his past self had inadvertently completed his current self's quest to find his missing friend.

As it was, the ripple effect had not kicked in, and as far as Doc was concerned, Marty was still missing. Driving around the streets of Hill Valley had yielded no sign of him, and Doc had even risked briefly taking the DeLorean to the air to get a bird's-eye view of the area—it was through that maneuver that he had managed to spot something amiss near the ravine.

He brought the car down near the tracks, in a place where he could better conceal it, and went to investigate on foot, pausing as he saw a faint shimmering in midair, almost like a heat haze—except it couldn't be that, as neither the ground nor the air was that hot yet this early in the day. As Doc stared through the shimmering, he frowned. What was it? What could it possibly mean?

He didn't get a chance to investigate it further, alas—the shimmering quickly faded into nothingness within moments, as though nothing had been amiss at all.

Doc had just taken a step towards where the shimmering had been when he noticed something in the dirt near the tracks—Marty's skateboard, lying abandoned. He searched around frantically for footprints—anything that could provide a clue to where Marty had gone, but there were no other traces of him. But was it a coincidence that the skateboard had been lying close to where that odd shimmering had been…?

"Dr. Brown?"

Doc turned around, glaring at the voice that had interrupted his thoughts; she had turned out to be a woman in a lab coat—not someone he recognized.

"You appear to be looking for something, Dr. Brown," she continued, staring pointedly at the skateboard in his hands.

Doc's expression turned into a scowl upon hearing her smug tone of voice.

"And you appear to know exactly what I'm looking for," Doc observed. He drew himself to his full height, trying to look as imposing as possible.

"Very well, Doctor. My name is Dr. Jane Egret." She paused. "Does that mean anything to you?"

"I don't really care right now," Doc returned, waving her off. "Where's Marty?"

"Not in this year or place, I can promise you that," she returned. "You may as well give up your search for Mr. McFly. But I can help you find him—providing that you give me the help I need first."

Doc's eyes narrowed.

"What have you done?" he asked, his voice now a low growl.

Dr. Egret was taken aback at the tranquil fury in his voice.

"I had requested his assistance with a rudimentary tachyon device that I'm working with," she said, sounding far less smug. "The machine was activated after we had a… misunderstanding—well, you know how teenagers are."

"I think Marty understood exactly what was going on," Doc countered. "Where and when did you send him to!?"

"Patience, Doctor," Egret advised. "If you give me the assistance I require on my device—"

"So, you're holding Marty as leverage?" Doc questioned. "I think the authorities will—"

"They will not hear a word from you," Egret said. "After how long it took me to find you, Doctor, I am confident in assuming you wouldn't go to the authorities. You wouldn't dare reveal what you know about time travel to the world."

Doc's scowl deepened, and looked away.

"And how did you find out?" he muttered.

"Have you heard of THRUSH, Dr. Brown?" Egret asked, and she gave a satisfied look as Doc suddenly turned back to face her. "Ah, I see you have."

"That is a now-defunct organization run by power-hungry 'elites' aiming to control the outcome of the world's wars, commerce, and resources," Doc recalled. "It was a formidable and dangerous organization, but began to lose control in the 60s before beginning its dissolution in 1972. I remember it well. But it's nothing more than a bad memory now."

"The organization remains broken, but those of us who worked for it still remain," Egret replied. "Our research channels and intelligence—what remains of them, anyway—managed to find information on you that suggested that you might be the one I needed. And based upon your reactions, my sources seem to be correct. My tachyon device was constructed from the notes of a former colleague of mine who managed to obtain information from two notable quantum physicists—a Dr. Rutter and a Professor Gelardan." She smiled again as Doc's involuntary reaction betrayed that he recognized those names—and their work—all too well. "Their research has gotten me far, but your knowledge is the final piece I need—a way to reliably travel through time. My device is limited in what it can do, but with your missing piece, it will be fully functional."

Rutter had worked on antimatter. Gelardan had worked on the wormhole theory. Indeed, all Egret would need now was Doc's flux capacitor.

"So, you want time travel technology to change the outcome of your organization's failures—is that it?" Doc queried.

"Nothing that ambitious," Egret admitted. "I'm in this for myself, Dr. Brown—I wish to reverse the failures that I, personally, experienced. If, in the process, I prevent the organization's collapse, it makes no difference to me, but I certainly won't complain."

"You're asking me to alter history to such a degree that even if what you were asking me to do wasn't as morally reprehensible as it is, I'd still refuse!" Doc shot back. "Your organization was one of many reasons why I kept my research in utter secrecy!"

"But the secret is out," Egret said.

"No—if you're in this for yourself, you wouldn't have let your former colleagues know about me," Doc pointed out. "You're the only one who knows."

"…Touché, Doctor. But you will help me—if you hope to see your apprentice again. Adrift somewhere in time in space, all alone… such a pitiful fate for one so young, don't you think so? His whole life was ahead of him, and now? He's been torn away from everything he ever knew…" She trailed off, intimidated and taking a step back as Doc took a step towards her; her plan hinged upon her ability to lie and make him believe that she really did know where and when Marty had ended up. "Just remember, Doctor—space and time together are virtually infinite. Without my help, you lose the only chance you have at finding him—without knowing his location, you could search the continuum for the rest of your natural life and never find him."

Doc gritted his teeth in frustration, for he knew she was right.

"Go and think it over," Egret encouraged, handing him a slip of paper. "And call me once you've reconsidered."

She headed for her car, which had parked once again near the crossing, and her driver chauffeured her away, leaving Doc staring at the paper in his left hand, while still holding onto Marty's skateboard with his right—and faced with an impossible decision to make.

June, 1932

Marty soon found himself back at the Brown Mansion on Riverside Drive; as with Emmett himself, the mansion seemed familiar, even if Marty couldn't remember the specifics—but something told him that he had, indeed, been here before.

And Emmett was as good as his word—he'd managed to get the Browns' family physician to make a house call. Marty wasn't sure he even wanted to know how much that had cost Emmett.

Emmett had ducked out once the physician arrived; Marty assumed it was to give him some privacy while his injuries were examined, but even after the physician had left, Marty found himself in the empty mansion.

Not wanting to poke around after Emmett had done so much for him already, Marty restricted himself to the living room, quietly taking a look around, once again feeling as though he had been here before.

Marty paused in front of a pipe organ that was up against one of the walls; he glanced briefly at the sheet music resting on the stand, placed a hand on the keyboard, and briefly played the opening measures of the sheet music—which happened to be Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor.

"Marty!" Emmett exclaimed, from the entrance to the living room. "Is that you playing the organ?"

"Yeah, sorry; I just thought I'd…" Marty trailed off as he glanced at the doorway, and then stared for a moment as he saw Emmett staggering under the weight of a dozen heavy books on neuroscience and psychology—and his eyes widened. "Jeez, Emmett…! What are you doing with all of those doorstoppers!?"

"Well," Emmett said, as Marty helped him transfer the stack of books to the floor of the living room. "I'm more of a physicist than a neurobiologist, so there are a lot of questions about amnesia that I'm sure we both have, but I don't know the answer to. But the great thing about science is that, for every question, there's an answer out there—you just gotta know where to find it. And for me, that usually is the library."

"You checked out all of these books?" Marty asked, his eyes still wide.

"Uh-huh. But don't worry about this right now; what did the physician say?"

"Well, he basically confirmed that I've got amnesia, likely brought about by whatever hit me on the head," Marty sighed. "He said I don't have a concussion, though."

"Well, that's good," Emmett sighed. "…Did he say how long your amnesia could last?"

Marty shook his head.

"He said that it could go away at any time," he said. "…But that also means I could, potentially, be stuck this way for the rest of my life if it doesn't."

"I'm sure you'll get your memory back sooner or later," Emmett assured him. "Hopefully sooner."

"Yeah, I hope so, too," Marty sighed. "Oh, and he said he'd send you the bill." He winced. "If I ever make it home, I'll pay you back."

"I told you not to worry about it," Emmett insisted. "And, anyway, I'm sure you'll find your way home, soon, too—your family will be looking for you; I'll keep an eye on the papers for anything about someone with your description missing. In the meantime, you can stay here until someone comes around looking for you."

Marty blinked.

"You don't know my family?"

"Well… no," Emmett admitted. "You never really talked about yourself much—you only told me your name was really Marty the last time we met."

"…Why would I do that?" Marty wondered aloud.

Emmett shrugged.

"Only you would know why. But nevermind that for now—we've got to focus on getting your memory back."

"That'd be nice," Marty sighed. "It's weird. I remember my name, and I remember some random songs, but that's about it."

"You remember how to read sheet music," Emmett pointed out, indicating the organ.

Marty stared at the organ.

"…I did that without thinking about it," he admitted.

"And that's another question to research," Emmett noted. "What was that about songs?"

"Oh! These," Marty said, pulling his Walkman out of his pocket. "It's the new Bon Jovi album. Have you heard it yet?"

"…I haven't even heard of him," Emmett said, with an apologetic smile.

"Where've you been—under a rock?" Marty queried.

"No—in my lab," Emmett replied, with a shrug.

"Oh! You don't know what you're missing! Check this out!"

"Hold that thought," Emmett said, staring in slight confusion as Marty shoved his Walkman and headphones into his hand. Emmett gently handed them back. "I think we're on to something here."

"What do you mean?" Marty asked.

"Sitting there trying to remember specific things about your past isn't working," Emmett pointed out. "But you can remember certain songs and the ability to read music and play an instrument—an involuntary reaction to auditory, visual, and kinesthetic stimuli that is still linked to memory recall."

"…English, please…"

"It's something I remember from back when I was working on the Mental Alignment Meter last fall," Emmett explained, and he paused at the blank look on Marty's face. "Right, you don't remember that, either…"

"Yeah, that's basically it," Marty sighed. "I remember random things and facts, but not events or people."

"Well, the different parts of the brain do different things," Emmett recalled. "I'm sure that corresponds to certain memories, too. The sooner I hit these books, the sooner I'll get some answers. Maybe then we can figure out just how you got injured, and how you ended up by the tracks in those odd clothes."

Marty glanced at his t-shirt and pants.

"What's weird about these?" he asked. "You're the one wearing a sweater vest in summer."

"…I have sensitive skin," Emmett insisted, looking away with some embarrassment.

"Okay, that's fair," Marty admitted.

Emmett now turned his attention to the books.

"I'll get these to my lab and get to work," he declared.

"I'll help," Marty insisted, picking up half the stack and following him to the lab. The lab was, as it ever was and would be, in a state of organized chaos—though Emmett seemed to know exactly where everything was.

"Try to make some room on the table here," he said, brushing aside a stack of letters and placing his stack of books on it.

"What're those?" Marty asked, staring at the letters.

"Those? They're my college acceptance letters," Emmet replied, pride evident in his voice. "Look at these! Four of them are Ivy League—Harvard, Yale, Cornell, and Princeton!"

"That's… college big time, right?" Marty asked. "It's an honor to even get accepted in those?"

"It certainly is," Emmett grinned. "And going to any one of those would definitely be a challenge worthy of me."

"So, it's between those four?"

"Well… no," Emmett sighed. "I wish it was that simple—MIT is pretty prestigious, too, and would also give me what I'm looking for. But all of those schools are on the other side of the country. Caltech would be nice, since I wouldn't have to leave the state. Do I stay in California? Or do I take a leap of faith to the East Coast for the Ivy League or MIT?"

Marty let out a low whistle.

"Heavy…" he commented.

"Oh! Sorry!" Emmett exclaimed, taking the other stack of books that Marty was holding and placing them on the table, too.

"No, I meant… nevermind," Marty said. "So that's what you were thinking about over by the tracks, huh?"

"That's it," Emmett agreed. "Since I swore off the clock tower after what happened the last time, I've found Eastwood Ravine to be a good spot to think things over. …I know it sounds a little ridiculous for a man of science to be saying this, but I have this unshakeable feeling that, someday, I'm going to make a life-altering decision at that ravine. Might as well get a headstart, right?"

"Hmm…" Marty quietly mused. Something about that made sense to him, too.

"But picking a college can wait; we've got to find out whatever we can that could help you get your memory back," Emmett continued. "So, I'll brew up some coffee and get to work reading."

"I dunno, Emmett—picking a college seems really important."

"So is helping a friend."

Marty blinked.

"But what about your future?"

"What about yours?" Emmett countered. "Look, Marty, I've got time before my responses are due; putting it off for a bit won't make a difference."

"If you say so," Marty sighed. "I just feel like I'm putting you out."

"You're not," Emmett insisted. "Pop is on a business trip to San Francisco—he's sitting in for another judge, and Mom went with him. And even if they were here, they wouldn't mind you staying, especially when you need help." He paused. "Look, I'm sorry about how I acted back at the ravine; I didn't realize that you had amnesia at first—I thought you'd just… forgotten about me because you didn't care. But then I saw the bump on your head, and I realized—"

"Hey, it's fine," Marty replied.

"It really isn't. I should've had more faith in you and realized something was wrong from the start," Emmett sighed. "You may have been mysterious and pushy, but I could tell that your concern had always been genuine. You never would've forgotten on purpose."

"Well… don't feel like you gotta do all this to make it up to me," Marty said.

"I'm not," Emmett promised. "I'm doing this because I want to help. But you should get some rest—it might help with restoring your memories. You can grab any of the guest rooms on the first floor—let me know if you need anything."

"Okay," Marty conceded. "Guess I am a bit tired. Oh, but hold onto this…" He handed Emmett his Walkman and headphones again. "You can use it, if you like—it'll be perfect for getting you through an all-nighter."

Emmett arched an eyebrow at the unfamiliar device, but held onto it, anyway.

"I'll keep that in mind," he said. "G'night, Marty."

"'Night," Marty said, but he paused just before stepping out of the lab. "Hey, Emmett? Thanks."

"Glad to help, Marty—anytime," Emmett returned.

He was unaware of just how prophetic his words would end up being.