#and martin's made himself (and the game says this) this overachiever wunderkind just to get by bc he doesn't have anything or anyone else

[timechange]

MCFLY JULY ‘24 — out in the desert.

Martin remembers, with great clarity, the first time Citizen Brown took him to the “satellite office.” 

He still hadn’t quite gotten over the novelty of being in a car– as his assistant, he’d accompanied Citizen Brown on some of his rounds, of course, but he’d never been in one for this long– and he’d never been outside the walls of Hill Valley before. Almost as soon as they were out on the open road– and it was really open– he remembered his shoulders falling and taking in the deepest, biggest breath of the fresh air, the free air, he could. 

Then he’d remembered he was in Citizen Brown’s car– sitting next to him!– but when he looked back, an apology at the ready, Citizen Brown had just given him a smile.

“Just wait,” he’d assured, in that low, level tone of his, but with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, “you haven’t seen the best part.” 

And he’d been right. The desert was breathtaking.

He’d never realized there were so many stars or noticed how rich the smell of sun and earth and life really was. The thunderstorms were electrifying and awe-inspiring, the days were long and hazy while nights were crisp and bright, and he could rest without needing to look over his shoulder, sleep without feeling eyes glaring at him from a fuzzy CRT screen, monitoring every move. 

It was perfect, especially now that they were hiding his guitar here, too. 

Out here, he could understand why Dave and Linda had left and never looked back, never came back for him in the three long years they’d been gone. If he and Citizen Brown didn’t have to go back– if Citizen Strickland wouldn’t come looking for them and spoil everything– Martin doesn’t think he would, either.

He smiles as he watches Doctor Brown’s reaction to seeing the secret lab, greeting all the inventions and tools like long lost friends. Evening is settling in and there’s a chill in the air, but Martin doesn’t mind; he just draws his Junior Brown Brigade letterman jacket tighter around himself and lets the warmth of the moment take care of the rest.  

When Doctor Brown seems to settle into a familiar rhythm, looking over Citizen Brown’s notes and muttering to himself, hand fisted into his hair, Martin feels the familiar itch in his fingers as he looks at his guitar in the corner. 

He feels the bounce in his toes, the melody unfurling in his head, the beat filling his chest and threatening to burst out any way it can if he doesn’t do something about it soon. He curls his hands into loose fists, flexing them in an attempt to be still and unobtrusive as he weighs his options. 

“Sir– I mean, Doctor Brown?” He grasps his left wrist behind his back, squeezing. “Would it, uh… Would it be okay if I practiced…?” 

Doctor Brown swivels around in his chair, surprised. Almost imperceptibly, as the situation registers, his jaw tightens, and Martin freezes, before the scientist’s expression morphs into one of concern and tenderness.

“You don’t have to ask my permission, Marty,” he returns, kindly, “Where I’m from, you play your music all the time! It helps both of us think. Anyway, I could do with something with a little life in it after that hellish, egotistical panopticon we’ve just escaped from.”  

“Something with a little life in it,” Martin hums, smiling as just the right song pops into his head. “Alright. I got it.”

He grabs the guitar, flicking the amp on, tapping his foot in time before beginning a bouncy riff, fingers strumming the strings as if it’s second nature. As his hand shifts up and down the fingerboard, something inside him knits back together.

“Better stop dreamin’ of the quiet life, ‘cause it’s the one we’ll never know,” 

Before he can stop himself, he’s singing quietly, the lyrics spilling out of him.

“And quit runnin’ for the runaway bus ‘cause those rosy days are few, and…”

The chords become more confident, his hand remembering a dance he’d thought he’d forgotten the steps to.

“Stop apologizing for the things you’ve never done,”  Proud and more than a little taken aback as his voice soars, he grins at Doctor Brown, who, to his amazement, grins back, tapping his foot along to the beat.

“‘Cause time is short and life is cruel and it’s up to us to change 

This town called Malice!” 

Martin imagines his music, now free, filling the lab, filling the desert, the notes reaching all the way up to the thousands of stars in their sky and the millions and billions beyond.