heymcfly | ic contact

Manolo has no doubt that Marty McFly could find his way to Heropa #15 on his own, but as one guitarrista helping out another, he's practically compelled to meet him at the local Porter. Part of it, too, is probably a way to burn off some nervous energy. He can absolutely help, he's certain of that, but a permanent cure might not be in reach if the injury is bad enough. It's hard to say because every situation is different.

In any case, he's wearing a warm smile when the other imPort arrives. Beneath his concerns is the genuine desire to help, and he's resolved to do whatever he can.

There's a silly voice in Marty's head that's telling him that whatever this guitar guy will do, might work. Somehow, with the power of music, his wrist will be fixed and all of the past woes that race down the highway caused him will disappear. It'll be like magic. Magic can do things that surgeries and countless physical therapy sessions couldn't do, right?

He finds himself porting to Heropa nevertheless. It's probably not hard to spot the 47 year old walking around, spotting two ties and an air around him that reeks of defeat and self-pity. Marty certainly isn't the kid he used to be, not by a longshot.

Now, he doesn't know exactly who he was talking to, but the guy with the ridiculous hair waiting nearby kind of gives him a hint. He walks up with his hands stuck in his jacket pockets. "You know where Heropa #15 is?"

Manolo’s eyebrows raise when the unfamiliar face approaches him, a little hopeful and a little eager at the same time. If anyone knows the power of music, it’s the guy who put the souls of hundreds of tormented bulls to rest with a single song. The dejection in the poor man’s eyes is impossible to miss, and that alone leaves him more determined to do something for him.

“Yes,” he quickly answers. “That is my home. Are you Marty McFly?”

Marty gives a tired little nod, and offers a small kind of smile. Years and years ago, meeting up with someone to discuss playing the guitar would be more than fun. He never turned down the chance to get his name out there, or to improve himself on guitar. Not before the accident, anyway.

"That's me."

Nowadays, looking at a guitar is painfully depressing. It's a symbol of the things he had before, but doesn't anymore. None of it by choice, of course.

He tilts his head to the side. "I forgot what your name was, sorry."

"It's okay," he reassures him. "My name is Manolo Sanchez. I promise I will do everything I can to help you."

He gestures toward the street and turns as if to lead them. "Come, I'll show you the way to my place."

Marty really wanted to say something like 'I really doubt it' because, well, he did. Surgery didn't help, money didn't help. So this guy could sing, and he could cure people? Marty would believe it when he saw it.

But he nods and follows Manolo down the street, hands in his pockets. "So how does this work? You just sing?"

"My power is called 'heartsong', so...basically, yes," Manolo says. It's a bit more complicated than that, though, in the sense that his heart truly has to be in it. Thankfully, music is such a strong part of him that he hasn't had that issue yet.

"It's not enough to just use my voice, though," he adds. "The most important ingredient, I think, is my guitar."

Heartsong. That was actually pretty cute.

Anyway, it has his interest. "Is this your superpower, or whatever? Healing people with your guitar?" Marty shakes his head, looking down to his feet. "Sounds a hell of a lot better than what I got stuck with. Not like having powers with a guitar would do me any good, anyway." Marty snorts. "Gotta be able to play a guitar to have the powers."

He's drowning in self-pity, excuse him.

“I can heal pains in the heart, help people feel lighter, happier, relaxed…those kinds of things,” Manolo explains. “Sometimes my music encourages people too, like before they go into battle. And during battle, I’m able to protect others with my songs. There are other uses, too, probably…I haven’t discovered all of them yet."

His heart really aches for this guy, though, and Manolo lightly rests a hand on his shoulder. “I promise, I will do everything I can to help you”

For once in years, Marty has a little hope. He has to hang onto something here; he's in a world where he can shoot fire from his hands. Maybe this guy can heal his aches and pains. He figures, what the hell.

"Thanks." He looks over to Manolo with a small, tired smile. "It'll be good to give this a shot. A lot of the doctors I've seen said my wrist is too messed up to even fix." He shakes his head. "I don't know what the hell happened in that car crash, but it wasn't pretty. It messed me the hell up. A lot."

He looks over to the musician, tilting his head. "Have you used your magic powers here?"

"It must have," he softly says, "if even modern medicine couldn't help." Manolo can't imagine taking an injury that would deprive him of his music. He'd rather go blind or lose a foot than let anything happen to his hands.

The question leads to happier thoughts, though, and he smiles. "Yes, many times. I have healed injuries of imPorts and natives alike and played for children with cancer at the hospital. I also have a friend with an illness, and my songs bring relief for his symptoms. Every chance I get, I share my abilities with others."

Marty nodded. If this guy could cure things like cancer, then maybe a busted wrist wasn't anything to bitch about. Or doubt, for that. All Marty could do was wait until they got to his apartment. If worse came to worse and this didn't work, well. What could you do.

He sniffs a bit, rubbing the back of his nose with his hand. "We almost there?"

He can’t exactly cure cancer, but he can reduce its symptoms and also restore a person’s vitality and strength after some of the more grueling treatments. This has helped some patients make speedy recoveries, while buying others significantly more time and energy to spend with friends and family before passing on. Chronic, serious illnesses are tricky because completely eliminating the exact cause isn’t usually possible for him – at least, not yet. Mending bones or patching wounds, though…that’s something he can usually do.

“It’s not far,” he assures him. “Just down the street. Look, you can see it from here.” Manolo points to the house in question and, after a few more minutes, leads the way to the front door.

“Have a seat, make yourself at home,” he says as he pushes the door open for Marty. “Do you want some water or juice?”

It isn't until they step inside of Manolo's apartment that Marty feels himself growing anxious. This would be the first time he attempted any kind of recovery at all for a very long time. Decades, maybe? When did he give up? It's been so long, his brain can't even remember the date. It's kind of weird, though; normally he could remember that pretty well. Maybe his memory was going.

"I'm fine. Thanks though." He smiled to Manolo, before sinking down into a chair. This guy was going to try and help him recover his lost music career. Marty couldn't mooch more off of him more than he already was. "Do whatever you gotta do first though. Okay?"

[Doc, being Doc, has arranged for a letter and small package to be delivered to Marty at precisely 9 AM on the morning of his birthday. Of course, the Doc currently a few houses down has no idea this is happening...but that's what pre-planning is all about. There's a knock at the house door, and an address in familiar handwriting. It reads:]

June 12th, 2016 Dear Marty, I fear the congratulations in this letter may be somewhat mistimed. By my rough estimation, owing to our various trips through time, you would have attained eighteen years of age approximately nine days ago. In another sense, one could also state that your eighteenth birthday was thirty years ago. But it's near enough to the date on the calendar on my desk, and dates have a cosmic signifcance all their own, so in my book: you're eighteen. If this were a just world, you'd be back in Hill Valley celebrating with your family. George and Lorraine would dress the house to the nines. Your brother and sister, your band, Jennifer...they'd all shower you in attention and gifts. With any luck, you'll still have that celebration to return to someday. But in this moment, though I feared we'd be temporally separated for all time, we're still together. And if nothing else, I'll selfishly be grateful to the powers in charge of Importation for that. (Had we remained separated, I'd intended to send this to you via Western Union---and I've used this world's equivalent just in case, but the fee was considerably smaller this time. Relatively smaller, after one considers inflation!) But that's quite enough paper wasted already. I'll cut to the heart of what I'd intended to say: In the eyes of the law and society, you've now reached full maturity. You have full legal rights as an adult, barring some puritanical exceptions (that I sometimes almost agree with---that said I fully expect you'll be indulging, just a little. I'll be happy to assist you in returning home safely if that's the case.) And there's quite a bit to celebrate today. You've become a fine and upstanding young man in the years I've known you. I've been fond of you from that first week in 1955 when you told an impossible story beyond my wildest dreams and restored my hope in the future---or as I've come to see it, the very first time you saved my life. I know it will be far from the last. I waited nearly thirty years to properly meet you, and it was worth every second of the wait. The day you slipped into my garage, I knew you were clever, curious...and willing to look past my reputation. I feared that my foreknowledge this time arould would alter the development of our friendship, and perhaps it has in some small way---I may be ever so slightly different from the Emmett Brown in the timeline you've come from--but I'm confident that our thoughts are as one when it comes to you. You've been unfailingly kind, supportive, loyal, and strong of heart. You've beaten the odds more than once and helped to build us a better future. Even now...I have my reasons for abstaining from the hero life, but somehow I knew you'd come to answer the call. You've never stood for attacks on the defenseless or believed baseless rumors about the innocent. You're everything a hero is called to be, and you're one of this town's finest. I don't say these things because I intend all of this to go to your head, Marty, but...especially after what we've been through, I trust you can handle it. You've made me happier than words can possibly describe through your friendship, and I couldn't be prouder of you today. So it's with all those warm feelings and wishes that I leave this to you: Enclosed is an old family heirloom, the very same pocket watch left to me by my father, and to him from his father, and so on and so forth---though it's required some maintenance on my part, it should now function perfectly. Tradition dictates that the watch is passed to each Brown's eldest child upon their eighteenth birthday, but as I am extremely unlikely to have biological children of my own...it goes to you, the best man I know. Happy birthday, Marty, and here's to many more. Your friend in time, "Doc" Emmett L. Brown P.S. I'm expecting you at the house this afternoon. Be prepared for a mess. [The small box is wrapped in silver paper and a white ribbon. The watch itself is a simple bronze piece with ornate hands, polished to perfection. It's meant to be the first of a few gifts...unfortunately the others will be delayed.]

Edited 2016-06-12 13:53 (UTC)

[ Considering the day's events thus far, Marty was a little surprised when a stranger came knocking at his door with a letter. It was way too familiar; if he thought about it hard, he could imagine himself absolutely soaked to the bone from a rainstorm wearing a black leather jacket. Maybe this explained where his Doc went. His Doc, not some guy who sounded like him with a shaved head.

The letter alone left him breathless. He closed himself off in the privacy of his room, where he could shed a tear or two without having his roommates to hover over his shoulder and ask if he was okay. He wasn't right now. Nowhere near it. He only makes it through the letter halfway before he needs a break.

Something wasn't right with Doc. He hadn't been paying attention around enough to see if this was affecting anybody else; shit, he didn't think anything was wrong until a few hours ago. Doc might think that he's been like this since day one, but Marty knows better. It was almost like his attitude and his personality had done a complete 180.

There was something out there that was making him think like that. Before, when Marty was changed into some forty year old, there was a source behind it. This had to be the same with Doc, right? He was tempted to make a post about it, but who could he trust? Someone who was acting weird would obviously say they were okay, and he didn't know a lot of people around here enough to tell the difference.

A million things flip flop around his brain until he can feel the beginnings of a headache pounding behind his eyes. Marty sets the letter aside and opens up the little package. What he sees takes his breath away.

The pocketwatch is absolutely gorgeous. His jaw drops as he looks over the little gadget, observing every little inch. Marty lifts it up to his ear, to listen to it ticking away for a minute or two. That's when he opens up the letter again to see where it came from. The answer fills Marty with pride, but breaks his heart at the same time.

How trustworthy would you have to be to have this given to you? Marty wasn't even a Brown. Doc could have kept this to himself, since, well. He didn't really have any kids of his own. He should be happy to have this. Somewhere in his heart, he was. But just not now.

After another tear or two slips down his cheeks, Marty folds up the letter and tucks the watch away in his pocket. With a sniff, he leaves his apartment. He's got a friend to visit. ]

ic contact - MOM

backdated as hell (pull-point plot)

LET'S DO IT

YEAHHH!!

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

[snailmail]

no subject