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When he woke up, he was in a car. Though he was about two minutes from passing out again - and you could argue that his level of consciousness couldn’t even be considered “awake” - he still knew that he was in a car. His forehead was pressed into the hard material of what he knew to be a steering wheel, and through the aching fog in his mind he could hear the dull blare of a car alarm. And maybe because, somewhere in the deepest crevices of his mind, he could grasp the quickly receding memories of the panic-blind moments before he entered the car. Either way, as his mind started to drift off again, he came to the definite conclusion that he was indeed, in a car.
The next time he woke up was hours later. Everything hurt. He slowly opened his eyes to a blurred world. He blinked a few times and the blurred mess focused into two glove clad hands - his hands - gripping the steering wheel. He gingerly raised his head, squinting as the morning light shone through the cracked windshield and pierced into his growing headache. Glancing around the car he came to a very simple conclusion. This was definitely the weirdest car he had ever seen, not that he could remember any other car he had apparently seen before. Huh… It probably wasn't a good sign he couldn't remember that. Judging from the mostly wrecked passenger side it was safe to assume - or at least most comfortable to assume - that he had just hit his head when the car crashed and now had a concussion and (hopefully) temporary memory loss.
He had to hang on to the hope it was only temporary. He didn't want to think what would happen if it was permanent, not when he couldn't even remember his own name. Not when everything that had happened before that moment was a blank slate… There were only ghosts to reassure him that he
did
have a life… and
shit-
there were people that loved him and were worried about him and he was justbsitting in a
fucking car being usele
- No. No, he couldn't just go around playing victim and wallow, he needed to figure this out. He took a deep breath. He couldn't allow himself to spiral just yet,
all he needed to do was find his family and everything would be okay… he would be okay…
everyone
would be ok.
He moved on to the next most important thought, after the problem of his missing memories and family; why the
fuck
was he in the weirdest car he could ever think of? It was souped up to a degree that weirded even him out a little, looking like some futuristic spaceship that came straight out of a sci-fi movie his- someone would show him. The interior was filled with blinking lights, cracked displays, levers, and buttons - along with all the things that would exist in a normal car. There was one certain display right next to the wheel that especially caught his attention. It was made to show three separate dates, labeled as destination time, previous time, and current time, respectfully. He squinted at it but it all just looked like nonsense to him. Maybe it was for tracking time zones when traveling or… some… other use?
Giving up on trying to decipher the display, he moved on to the second most important thought: why the
fuck
was he wearing a hazmat suit? The only reason he could think of was that the car was irradiated, but if that were the case he would've been dead hours ago - the hood of the suit was off and couldn't have actually protected him from any radiation - wait… He wasn't
actually
dead, was he?! No- no, he could his blood pumping in his ears and could feel his pulse through his hands, now holding the wheel in a death grip. He needed to get a hold of himself… freaking out (more than he already was) would only make his situation worse, and that was the last thing he needed right now.
He took a deep breath, peeled his shaking hands from the steering wheel, and began to shimmy out of the hazmat suit, leaving himself in a button up shirt and jeans. Normal clothes... For the normal situation he had certainly found himself in. He dumped the discarded hazmat suit on the passenger seat next to him, already cluttered with a video camera and a few other layers of clothes he decided he didn't need. Leaning back in the car seat and closing his eyes, he took a few more deep breaths, following a method he knew someone important had taught him, yet it was someone he still couldn't remember.
Oh god… that was probably
the
most important thing - more than strange cars and hazmat suits - why couldn't he remember anything? The longer he sat in that car, the clearer it became that he could not, for the life of him, remember anything about how he got there. It was starting to feel like this temporary bout of amnesia wasn't actually temporary. In fact, no matter how hard he thought, there was only one real memory, one that had been there from the beginning. One he did not want to relive. It was one where the only person he
could
remember - his best friend, mentor, and sometimes father figure - ends up dead. Murdered... He couldn't fully remember how but he remembered how it felt…
Gunshots rang in his ears. Doc was laying on the cold pavement. He wouldn't get up. Red started to bloom underneath his coat and he wouldn't get up.
Marty
screamed his name until his throat was on fire but he still didn't get up. He wasn't getting up, he had fallen and he wasn't getting-hecoudln’tfuckinggetupagain…
He was brought back to his senses by warm tears running down his face. Ah, okay, he did not want to think about that memory anymore. He quickly wiped his face dry, face and eyes burning. He needed to keep going, and to do that he needed to figure out where he was, and to get help. He searched around for the way to open the car door - that being one of the things that was frustratingly
not
normal about that car. When he found it, the door swung up rather than out to the side, like he would've expected it to do.
A gull-wing door,
his mind supplied. Weird. He added it to his mental list of the weird attributes this car had and stumbled out, legs and back aching after lying uncomfortably in a car seat for hours while unconscious.
The exterior of the car followed the same “sci-fi movie car” theme that the inside did, with thick wires wrapping around, connected to a large exhaust in the back. Definitely weird. He stood back, dead leaves crunching under his shoes, and examined his location. The car was crashed on the edge of a forest bordering a farm. The trees were mostly bare and the air was cold, signaling the season to be somewhere between late fall and early winter. A particularly cold gust of wind blew through and he shivered, deciding that maybe the jacket and vest he found in the car would be needed. And so, with newly acquired layers and a new warmth, he set off to find someone that could help him.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
He could vaguely remember the ghost of a memory, one where someone (he couldn’t remember who) was making fun of the amount of layers he was wearing. He pulled the jacket tighter against the chill and made his way through the farmland. The ground was hard and bare, any crops already farmed for the upcoming winter. As he walked he found tire tracks embedded in the soil, presumably left over from the car he woke up in last night (his car?). He followed them in a small bout of curiosity, figuring that maybe if he followed them for long enough he’d find his way home… or at least to some answers.
Stepping over a destroyed scarecrow (and sending a silent apology to whoever farmer it belonged to) he came to the edge of the tracks. They ended abruptly (or started, technically) in the middle of the farmland, with no sign of anything past it, almost as if they had just appeared out of nowhere. And that, he knew, was just
not
possible. The car may look futuristic but it couldn't just
appear
out of thin air
,
it had to have come from
somewhere
…
Deciding this train of thought wasn’t going anywhere, he looked up and scanned the area, looking for a building or a farmhouse of some kind. Where there was a farm, there was a farmhouse, he reasoned, and farmhouses meant people who could help him. Lo and behold, farmhouse there was.
It was a large wooden structure that sat off in the distance, accompanied by a smaller barn next to it. As he wandered closer he couldn’t help but feel a bit of relief that both the house and barn were safe and untouched from whatever had happened last night. He had enough on his conscience with the destroyed scarecrow, he was glad he didn't accidentally destroy of someone else's property.
He figured that it would be best to find the nearest town (that was probably where he lived?), and so stepped up on the porch, took a deep breath, and knocked. And waited. His foot started to bounce nervously as the minutes ticked by and he knocked again. He straightened as an incomprehensible shout was heard from inside.
One minute later, the door opened to a disheveled looking man - the farmer, assumably - glaring at him. “What do you want.” He grunted out, his voice rough and gravely.
“Um, I-”
“What could
possibly
be so important that you needed to wake me up!”
“Well, I jus-”
“On my
day off
no less?” The farmer crossed his arms, glare intensifying. “Do you know how many days off I get?”
“No..?” He shuffled his feet on the ground. His own voice was rough after unknown hours of disuse. He quickly cleared his throat and guessed, “Not a lot?”
“No. Not a lot. So, prey tell, what the
fuck
do you need?”
He gulped nervously, just his luck he already got the first person he met to hate him. “Uh… I was just gonna ask what the way to the nearest town is..? I um- I think I'm lost.”
The farmer groaned deeply and rubbed his eyes, the answer clearly not important enough for him. Not looking, he pointed out the door and past all the farmland. “Just find the main road and keep following the signs for Hill Valley. Now beat it.”
“Than-” The farmer slammed the door in his face, leaving him alone on the porch. “-k you…” He sighed.
Ok,
he thought, turning to look past the farmland,
find the road, follow the signs, got it.
He could do that. He could follow some signs. How hard could that be? He would probably be able to find his parents before nightfall and be back in his own bed before tomorrow. He could do this!
-
Turns out the farm was a lot bigger than he thought it was. An unknown amount of time later, he was finally at the road (he tried to time how long it took with the watch he had on, but it had stopped hours ago, reading
1:26 am
. No amount of shaking was getting it to work again). Stepping off of the dirt path for the farm, he spotted the clearly marked sign for Hill Valley, and started his trek along the empty road.
As he walked, his mind wandered. Mostly to his theory about having a concussion. While he might not have been able to remember the symptoms - did he ever know the symptoms? - he certainly didn't
feel
concussed. He was hungry, yeah, and his legs were tired, and his whole body ached, but that was all from the hours he spent slumped over in a car, and later the hours he had spent walking through the farm. Not a concussion. His mind also felt completely clear, other than his missing memories and a blanket confusion, the fog he had felt when he woke up was completely gone. He was alert and didn't feel like he was gonna pass out or… do anything else a concussion would make you do. Maybe the amnesia was a different thing?
A wave of anxiety spiked his stomach. He was glad, in some way, to come to the conclusion that he in fact did not have a concussion, but now he didn't have anything to blame the amnesia on, meaning that there was some other, huge problem, that he didn't even know about. Maybe he should see a doctor when he finally got to town…? That idea was quelled slightly when a quick pat down revealed that he didn't have a wallet, which meant no money… which meant no doctor. Unless he begged someone to pay for it? He was sure
someone
would take pity on a poor, confused, amnesiac kid with no money, begging to see a doctor… Yeah, no. He was
not
that desperate.
He walked past a sign advertising a new housing complex - Lyon Estates - that was being built for Hill Valley. He was getting close.
The missing wallet brought upon another problem: no wallet meant no ID. Or driver's license. Or anything that he could've used to identify himself. Which meant that he was still on square one with the whole,
“Who the hell am I,”
thing, not that he had gotten anywhere with that before. It was frustrating. He knew he had a name and a family - he knew that for certain - but despite it all, it felt like there was
something
in his mind holding these memories back. And worse still, he wasn’t sure what
would
bring them back. Assuming that he lived (lives?) in Hill Valley, the name should’ve given him some sense of remembrance, but instead all there was a vague passing sense of familiarity, a feeling like he might've read the name in a book once years ago.
He was brought out of his thoughts when he noticed he was suddenly surrounded by buildings. Houses and - as he continued walking - stores lined the streets, with people walking in and out, talking and shopping. They were dressed weird, like he had stumbled on some kind of vintage clothing convention. As he stared, he noticed one specific person's eyes catch onto him and trail him, a weird look of confusion on their face. He noticed more and more people staring at him after that, some whispering to each other, others just looking completely dumbfounded at him. None of them seemed to recognize him either. He was probably covered in dirt from the night before and looked like a complete mess.
Great
. He steeled his eyes forward, smoothed his hair back nervously, shoved both hands in his vest pockets and continued.
He soon came out of the buildings onto what looked to be a town square: a green square of grass surrounded on all sides by stores, with a large courthouse/clock tower standing in front. The clock chimed long and loud, as clocks usually do, and yet it felt weird. Like a clock tower
shouldn't
chime. He ignored that unanticipated train of thought and glanced around the square. He quickly spotted a sign, sitting on grass with “
Welcome to a Hill Valley”
written on it, confirming that he had, indeed, found the town. He took a deep breath. Alright, now time to start searching for his family.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
His search was cut incredibly short by the ever growing (and increasingly non-ignorable) fact that he was
hungry
. He had been walking around the town square hoping for someone to run up to him out of the light crowd of people, wrap him up in a hug, yell out,
“We’ve been looking everywhere for you, we were worried sick!”,
and then take him to a warm home where he could explain all the problems he had, and they'd only hug him tighter and comfort him. Although, hell, at this point he’d even take a,
“Where have you been young man? You are in so much trouble!”
and a grounding. But, alas, neither happened. No one came up to him, everyone instead opting to just looking at him weirdly and then walking away.
When a large growl came from his stomach, he decided it was time to finally get some food.
Jesus Christ
, when was the last time he ate? Where could he even eat? He sat on a nearby bench and weighed his options. He could find a restaurant and, what,
beg
? No, he still had some dignity. Maybe he could knock on a random house and try to pity them into feeding him? No, that was still stooping too low, and he felt bad about using his amnesia to get things from other people. Then what else could he do?
He eyed a trash can and slowly made his way towards it. He wasn't going to actually dig through it, he told himself, just see if there was anything in it. And, fuck it, he was really hungry. On the top of the trash was a discarded newspaper, obscuring anything else that could’ve been in there. Shit. There goes keeping the rest of his quickly waning dignity. He reached in to grab the newspaper, to see if there was anything under it, but was instead distracted by the date printed on it. 1955? He squinted at it. No, that couldn't be right, but… why not? Of course that had to be the date, or at least the year, it couldn't have been more than a few days old, but then… Why did it feel so wrong?
“Oh, and
McFly!
” His head whipped at voice, attracted by… something. Probably just the volume of the yell. “Make sure I don't see you in here again, okay?!” The voice belonged to a teenager, somewhere around his age (how old was he?) but a lot bigger and stronger. He was standing at the open door of one of the shops, laughing evilly with his three friends at someone inside. Presumably the same person he was yelling at before.
Against his better judgement, he abandoned the newspaper and began to inch toward the teen. Something about him seemed… familiar… but he just couldn't put his finger on it. He continued to inch, hoping that this guy - this
bully
- wasn’t actually someone he knew.
The bully, seemingly satisfied with his bullying, turned away from the door and looked straight at him. They made eye contact. He froze. The bully didn't seem to recognize him (which was good), but he still didn't want to be on the receiving end of his bullying (especially since the bully was about a good foot taller than him). The bully sneered at him, “What are you lookin’ at, Butthead.”
“Noth-”
Another kid from the gang pushed him forward and grabbed onto his vest from the back, saving him from face planting on the ground. “Take a look at his life jacket! Dork thinks he's gonna drown!” He laughed, once again pushing him but releasing the vest this time.
The other kids, including the main bully, joined in the unruly laughter, as if what their friend said was the funniest thing they had ever heard. He could only stare in confusion as they pushed past, trying and failing to understand the joke. He wasn't wearing a life jacket? Sure, the vest was orange, but other than that it had no other similarities. Had they never seen a vest like that before? What kind of a town was this?
He shook his head and continued into the store. It turned out it was a restaurant of some kind - a diner or cafe - with a counter lined with stools on one side and booths on the other. There was an older man working behind the counter, cleaning out cups, another teen his age (though much weaker looking) sitting at the counter, and a young man holding a mop (who probably worked there) crouching next to the teen. Other than those three, and now him, the cafe was empty.
“Why do you let those boys push you around like that?” The young man chastised lightly to the teen, putting a hand on his shoulder.
The teen didn't look up from the table. He shrunk down, looking much like he wanted to disappear all together. “Well, uh, they're bigger and stronger than me…”
Ah,
so that was who was being bullied. He almost didn't blame the bully. With his seemingly permanent hunched, awkward demeanor, and greased down hair, the teen was practically holding a neon sign over his head that read, “
HEY, LOOK OVER HERE! NERD TO BULLY WHO WON'T FIGHT BACK, FREE OF CHARGE.
” It was kind of sad. He squinted further at the teen, and couldn't shake the sudden, gripping, feeling that he knew him. Similar to what he felt, looking at the bully, but a thousand times stronger. Why did everyone in this town look so damn familiar?
“Hey, kid.” He was once again thrown from his thoughts, this time from the older man behind the counter. “You gonna order something, or are you just gonna stand there?”
The other two’s conversation ceased and both looked at him. Great. It finally occurred to him that he was in a cafe and that people usually ordered food in cafes. Which was something he couldn't do. It also occurred to him that people don't usually come into cafes, stand in the center, stare at the patrons, and then leave. That was suspicious. Well, shit.
“Uh.” He patted his pockets once again, hoping he had just missed the wallet the first time around. That would've been an easy, not awkward situation, so of course it still wasn't there. “I uh- I don't have… any money.”
“Then what are you still doing here? This isn't a charity, kid.”
He didn't move. The two other people were now staring at him too. Why was everyone he met in this town so rude? He should probably just leave. He couldn't seem to move.
“Beat it, kid. Just cause you're in the coast guard doesn't mean you're gonna get free food.”
Coast guard?
“I’m not-” His stomach growled loudly. Why were they all staring at him? Oh god, he was making a scene.
His face burned. Why did this have to happen to him? He should've just left. No, he shouldn't have followed the bullies in the first place because now he was making a scene in the middle of a cafe. Right after that kid had been bullied too! He felt something wet run down face. Oh no. Oh no nonononon
fuck no,
he will
not
start crying, just because some people were being rude! He should leave. Just walk out the door and sit back on that bench. His legs wobbled but would not move. Okay, that was fine… he could stay there then? He all of a sudden found it hard to breathe. This was fine, everything was fine, he was
fine.
“Uh, I can buy you something? If you want…?”
He snapped up to find the voice. The teen was sitting apprehensively with a hesitant, yet kind, smile on his face. Something about his voice calmed him. He rubbed his face hard with the sleeve of his jacket attempting to dry his tears.
“Sure,” his voice cracked. “Thanks.”
The teen smiled larger and dug some money from his pocket. He handed it over the counter to the older man. “I'll just get another oatmeal, please.” It soon came out and the teen turned around, smiled once again, and patted the seat next to him.
He finally got his legs unstuck and slid into the stool.
“Uh, I’m George, by the way.” The teen- George said, hand extended to shake.
He took George's hand and shook it back. It was sweaty. “Nice to meet you, and uh, thanks again.” He turned back to the oatmeal and began to eat. Oh. That was good oatmeal. Either that or he was so hungry that it just tasted like the best thing in the world. Before he knew it that bowl was empty and George slid over his own, unfinished bowl, for him to eat.
He became acutely aware that George was staring at him while he was eating, expectantly almost. He glanced over and caught his eye.
Why was he staring at him? Did he want something? He wasn't expecting something back for the food, right?
George finally spoke up, breaking the awkward silence, “So… what's your name?” Oh, that was all he wanted. He almost sighed from the relief. George hadn't wanted something to pay back, all he wanted was his name, since he had forgotten to give his back. Ah, wait, no. There was a reason he didn't give his name: he didn't remember it.
He slapped the table and stood up quickly, face stretched with an awkward smile. “Well, I should probably get going! Lot to do! People to see, places to be, I'm sure you understand George.” He walked backwards to the door, waving behind him, “Thanks again for the food, it was really nice to meet you!” He pushed through the doors and started running down the street.
And he continued to run, past houses and people, all the way to the more residential part of town. Why was he running? Maybe something deep inside him didn't want to admit to his first friend just how much trouble he was in. If he admitted he didn't remember his name (or much of anything else) then George probably would've felt compelled to help him. And he had already taken George’s money and food, he didn't want to take over his house and mess up his whole life! He was fine, he didn't need help. He didn't need anyone’s help.
He must've been running for about an hour when he came to a heaving stop, collapsing on the curb. He stayed there for a few minutes, head hanging, trying in vain to catch his breath. When he finally looked up, the sky was quite a bit darker than it was before, it must've been reaching dusk. He looked around, the street was empty, lined with huge mansions set back far from the road. So this was the rich part of town then. Great. He couldn't imagine any of the rich people in those houses would think kindly to a scrappy, dirty, kid resting outside of their
precious
house, but in that particular moment he didn’t care. He was tired, and goddamn, he was gonna rest there. Let them yell all they wanted, he didn't care.
So he continued to sit. He sat there, thinking, until the sky turned a dark shade of purple. He sat until his eyes started to droop. He sat there as he rested his head down on his knees, and he continued to sit as his mind fell into an uneasy, tentative, slumber. And still, he continued to sit and sleep as an older man spotted him from the driveway of one of the mansions.