Marty McFly

[Actiony rescue - Locked to Pilouette, Jack Holden]

[Marty’s pretty sure that last he recalls, there wasn’t a single snowflake in Hill Valley, let alone wind-sculpted snow dunes as far as he could see. He’s pretty sure he had been in the garage, dressed in sleep-rumpled clothes from the day before and gawking in dazed admiration at the sweetness which was his (his!!) new Toyota 4X4, gleaming with two fresh coats of wax. (Thanks Biff, but not really.)

He’s also pretty sure he hadn’t been stared down by a territorial, testosterone-fueled buck snorting and pawing at the ground (and where the hell did the deer come from, anyway?).

And at this exact point, Marty does what any sensible, almost-adult-who-doesn’t-like-being-called-chicken would do: scream and wheel around, running like he’s never ran before and vaulting over every log and boulder in the way.

 
[Action – come one, come all!]

[First stop – clothing shop. Because holy shit is it cold around here, not to mention it’s a little unsettling to have woken up in clothes that aren’t his. But really, ‘clothes’ is generous way of describing those drab white pants the Malnosso outfitted him with. Lack of style aside, it’s something he thinks he’d expect to see in a hospital or an asylum and he’s not sure how he feels about that.

Marty manages to find the stuff he had worn the other day, grouped for his convenience, and ducks into a change-room to tug it all on and make sure he's presentable. The down vest is pretty warm, at least, and he's grateful to have several layers on.

He'll also poke through the item shop, searching for his Walkman in vain.

Afterwards Marty makes his way to the coffee shop. Or more like he reels his way there, staring in wide-eyed disbelief at everything around him. He sits himself down near the front counter and leafs through his journal, but after ten minutes he hasn’t made all too much progress. It’s hard to absorb everything, much more so when his back is aching something fierce from his feather-pulling stunt. It’s largely for that reason that he has barely touched his Diet Pepsi (or whatever sugarless pop he was able to order, and for free, too. That’d take some getting used to.)

He passes a hand though his hair, reaching instinctively into his denim jacket pocket for one of his well-worn tapes to jam into his Walkman in the hopes that the familiarity of it alone would help smooth over his nerves a little. But then he remembers he hasn't found any of his belongings, clothes aside.]

…Perfect.

[Sighing, he looks up and around like the lost kid he is as if Doc might show up out of nowhere and help him make sense of everything - or try. It wouldn’t be the first time, and Lord, did he need it more than ever.]