Early the next morning, as promised, Marty found himself back outside and ready to do battle with....a dummy. Yes, a dummy. He’d had a hard time believing his eyes when he’d left the cottage and found a dummy of a horse and knight rigged up in the yard. Next to it was a pile of metallic equipment.

"What is all that?" he asked Doc, nodding to the collection.

Doc tugged the white horse into the yard, glancing at the gear on the ground. "That’s everything you’ll need for the jousting. Most of that equipment is your suit of armor."

"My suit of armor?" Marty repeated, staring at him. "You’re kidding me."

"This is so rip-roarin’, Marty," Verne broke in, his choice of words earning him a baffled glance from the teen. "Look at all this stuff you’ll get to wear!" Verne picked up a shield propped up against the post the dummy was nailed to and nearly fell over. He looked at the piece of equipment with wide eyes. "Wow, that stuff is heavy!"

"So I’m going to be dressed up like a knight?" Marty asked, turning back to Doc.

"Basically, yes. You’ll need all that protection on you when you fall off the horse. And you will fall, trust me." Doc glanced up at the sky, overcast and grey. Clouds had rolled in sometime during the night. "Luckily it appears to be cool out today. You’ll be grateful for that."

Marty walked over to the armor and sorted through it. "You sure this will fit me?"

"It should. But we can adjust it a little if it doesn’t." Doc came over to the pile. "We’d better start to get you in all this gear. It may take a while."

The first step in suiting up was putting on some heavy padding that quickly made Marty feel as if he was an oversized oven mitt. Next came the chain mail -- a flexible suit of tiny metal links woven together. Then, finally, the really heavy stuff -- different plates of metal that had to actually be screwed and strapped on, from Marty’s feet to the helmet on his head. It took over an hour before Doc had placed the last piece of armor in place. By that point Marty felt like he couldn’t even move. The stuff weighed a ton!

"Can you walk?" Doc asked, peering at Marty through the metal grate that protected his face.

Marty took an awkward step forward, the metal creaking as he moved. "Sort of," he said. "But if you expect me to be able to get on a horse in all this, you’re dreaming!"

"We’ll assist you." Doc glanced at Jules and Verne a few feet away, who had helped hand him the pieces of armor. "Boys, can you get a few of those crates from the cottage and bring them out here?"

"Sure," Verne said quickly, running inside. His brother followed at a slower pace, frowning faintly all the while. Marty reached up slowly, the metal joints in the armor groaning, and pushed the grating over his face back. Cool air washed over his skin and he took a deep breath. The air inside the helmet was stuffy and stale.

"How can people stand wearing these things?" he asked Doc. "It’s like being stuck in a tin can!"

"It may be uncomfortable, but they did protect men from harm during the jousting. Just be thankful that it’s overcast today."

"Yeah," Marty agreed. "It’s already hot enough in this thing. I’d hate to see what it would be like with the sun beating down on it."

Jules and Verne emerged from the cottage, each dragging a couple crates. "Where do you want us to place these, Father?" Jules asked.

"Next to the horse will be fine," Doc said. The boys stacked the crates beside the white horse, who was patiently munching on the grass.

"Marty, can you come over here?" Doc asked, heading towards the horse, on the opposite side of the yard.

Marty eyed the distance warily. "I don’t think I can," he said slowly.

"You’re going to need to learn how to move in that armor if you want to win this thing," Doc warned. "This distance is very brief."

Marty sighed. He stepped forward, feeling like he was trying to walk under water with lead weights strapped to his body. With the second step he felt wobbly, off balance. "Whoa!" he said, starting to fall to the side. Jules and Verne rushed over and grabbed his arms, saving him from hitting the ground. "Thanks," Marty breathed as he regained his footing.

"Take your time, Marty," Doc said from the other end of the yard. "Learning how to maneuver around in that suit will take some practice."

Marty started across the yard again, the armor creaking. I sound like that tin man in The Wizard of Oz, he thought with some amusement. He took his time, moving slowly, getting used to the way the suit moved and how much the weight of it threw him off. He reached the horse and Doc a few minutes after he first started his journey.

"Okay," Marty said, slightly winded. "Now what?"

Doc pointed to the saddle on the horse. "The next step will be getting you up there."

"Will I get to use those boxes to get on the horse?" Marty asked.

"That was the plan." Doc frowned. "I just hope they can hold all that weight."

Wonderful, Marty thought.

But the crates proved strong enough; though they did groan a little, Marty got safely on the horse. Doc’s next step was having Marty circle the horse around the yard a couple times, so he could grow accustomed to controlling the animal with the armor on. Marty found the task quite easy, much easier than walking in the armor. Then Doc had him stop and added in the difficult parts -- a large, cumbersome shield and a long wooden lance. The weight of the accessories nearly pulled him off the horse!

"You expect me to hold these things up while having the horse gallop and aim for that dummy’s shield all at the same time?" Marty asked Doc, wondering if he was understanding this right.

Doc nodded. "That’s correct. The object of jousting is to stay on the horse while attempting to knock your opponent off. The one who is able to stay on their steed the longest will be declared the winner."

Marty was speechless for a moment. "I don’t think this’ll work," he finally said, knowing it was the understatement of the year. "I can hardly sit up now, holding this stuff! How can you possibly expect me to do it when I’m moving and stay on the horse?"

"Practice," Doc said. "Lots of practice."

Marty stifled a groan, reminding himself that this was going to be the only way to get Clara back. "Okay," he said after a moment. "Let’s get this over with." He started the horse forward slowly, trying to hold up the gear at the same time.

"You’ll need to go faster than that," Doc called out.

Marty dug his heals into the horse’s sides. As the speed grew greater, he had a more difficult time keeping hold of the weapon and shield in his hands. "Hit the dummy’s shield with the lance!" he heard Doc yell as he approached the object.

Marty struggled to raise the lance, gripping it tightly with his right hand. He managed to hit the dummy but -- because he was using all his energy and concentration on the aiming -- he was not prepared for the recoil from of the blow and lost his balance, falling off the horse. He hit the ground hard, on his back, knocking the breath out of his lungs. Marty lay there for a moment, struggling to breathe, only vaguely aware of the running footsteps heading towards him.

"Marty, are you okay?" Doc asked, kneeling over him. Marty sucked in a quick, frantic breath, unable to answer right away. Jules and Verne appeared at his side a moment later.

"Can you speak?" Doc asked, his face melting into a mask of worry and concern. Marty took in another gulp of air, trying to nod at the same time. He would be able to talk -- once he got his air back.

"Minute," he managed to gasp out. Doc, Jules, and Verne all watched him carefully as he slowly got his breath back. A couple minutes later he had the energy to sit up.

"I’m fine," he said softly, still gasping a little. "I just got the wind knocked out of me."

"Do you want to take a break?" Doc asked. "You look a little pale."

Marty shook his head. "No. I want to try it again."

Doc helped him to his feet. Marty felt a little weak and shaky, but didn’t say anything. He got back on the horse, accepted the lance from Jules and Verne, and headed back towards the dummy. He hit the dummy and fell off the horse again. And again. And again. Each time Marty picked himself up off the ground and tried the ordeal again, despite a growing headache and the accumulating bruises. He didn’t think the armor was doing its job very well.

Doc finally insisted they take a break for lunch, with very little progress having been made. It was during lunch that Doc brought up using technology again. "I have an idea," he began, looking at Marty. "I know you said last night that you didn’t want to use any future technology, but I feel that we’re going to have to with the jousting match."

"What’s your idea, then?" Marty asked, open to almost anything now. He was really sick of falling off that horse!

"Basically, loading some strong magnets into the seat of the saddle that would be able to hold you in. That way, even if you were to be hit by the lance that King Tannen will have, you should be able to stay on the horse. And you will stand a much greater chance of winning that match, which will help you out if you happen to fail in the archery or sword play match."

"Do you think that would cause any suspicion?" Marty asked doubtfully.

"Not if the magnets were concealed," Doc said.

Jules turned to his father. "I think we should make them electrical," he said. "Perhaps hook them up to a battery. If they’re not electrical, we’ll have a difficult time getting Martin out of the saddle when the competition is over."

Doc frowned, thoughtful. "I’ll look into it," he said. "I don’t know if I have the proper materials here to create something like that. If we can’t use electrical magnets, then we can take the armor off Marty while he is still on the horse to avoid that problem."

Despite that decision, when the practice resumed after lunch it was without a magnetic saddle. Doc thought it might take a few hours of work and didn’t believe they had that much time to spare with daylight. So Marty was back to falling off the horse. By late afternoon he had finally succeed in staying on the horse when hitting the dummy, but was still prone to falling more often then not.

Doc called a halt to the practice around sunset, then spent an hour dismantling Marty’s armor. By that point the only thing Marty wanted to do was get off his feet. When Doc had unscrewed and unstrapped the last of the armor, Marty limped towards the cottage, his entire body aching with each step. "I’m going to lie down," he muttered. "Let me know when dinner is ready."

* * *

When Marty had vanished in the cottage, Doc, Jules, and Verne all looked at each other. "What do you think his chances of winning tomorrow are?" Verne asked softly.

Doc sighed. "It’s hard to say," he said, running his hands through his hair. "But I’m definitely going to made those hidden modifications on the saddle. There is absolutely no way that Marty could win that segment of the tournament otherwise."

"What about the others?" Jules asked. "He’s not terribly skilled in either of those areas, either. Don’t you think it might be wise to invest in the jousting or sword play segments, too? Then we would be guaranteed a win in the games and having Mother returned to us."

"I’ve had the same thoughts," Doc admitted. "But Marty should have a say in this. I don’t want to break the news to him at the last minute that we modified one of the weapons he will be using."

"What would you do?" Verne wanted to know as Doc began to stack the armor in the back of the cart they would take with them to the games the next day.

"Well, I’ve decided I’ll need to use the time machine tonight anyway, to get the proper supplies for fixing the saddle. So I thought I would travel to the future and while there also pick up a remote and some other special devices. If we rig the devices on the arrows and modify them slightly, then--"

"--you should be able to control the arrows while in flight with a remote to ensure a perfect bulls-eye," Jules finished, nodding. "Yes, that sounds like it could work. What we might also want to do is perhaps switch some of those special arrows with the king’s regular ones; then we can be certain that he won’t get a higher score."

"Exactly," Doc said.

Verne looked a little troubled. "That doesn’t sound really fair to me," he said slowly.

"Would you rather have the king win?" Jules asked. "It’s better to be certain of this victory than to leave things to chance. I don’t think Martin is likely to win, otherwise."

"Yeah, I know, I know." Verne rolled his eyes. "Spare me the lecture, all right? It was just a comment!"

Jules turned his attention back to Doc. "May I come with you tonight? When you go into the future?"

"No, I’d like you to stay here."

"Can I come?" Verne asked, giving his father a big smile.

Doc shook his head. "I want both of you to stay here."

Verne pouted. "Why? There isn’t anything to do here!"

"I have to agree with him, Father," Jules added. "I don’t see why we shouldn’t be able to accompany you. You said we were too young to help with Mother’s rescue, but this is a task that shouldn’t carry any risk to it for us."

"If I take you both with me, then you will want to go off and do other things. You don’t want to follow me into the electronics store, do you?"

"Are you going to take Marty with you?" Verne asked, sidestepping Doc’s question.

"I don’t think Marty would even want to go. He looked pretty worn out." Doc finished loading the last of the armor in the cart and lifted the bags of arrows out, handing them to the boys. "Run those inside, will you?"

While Jules and Verne were occupied with that task, Doc slipped the saddle off the horse and carried it inside, setting it on the floor by the door. He took a moment to light the lanterns to ward off the increasing darkness, then turned his attention towards fixing dinner. Verne noticed Doc pulling the cans out and made a face. "Please, let that not be soup again!"

"Sorry to disappoint you," Doc said. Verne groaned and dramatically grabbed his throat, making a gagging sound. Doc shot him a sharp look.

"With any luck this will be the last dinner we have here," he said.

"Couldn’t you pick up something for us in the future?" Jules asked, taking a seat at the table.

Verne stopped the melodramatic death scene he was working on and looked at Doc excitedly. "Yeah! Can you get some of that....whaddayacallit....fast food and bring it back here? Please, please, please?"

Doc shook his head. "No, I want to spend as little time in the future as possible. It’s going to be a long night for me working on these last-minute modifications."

Verne groaned loudly in protest and started a new death scene. Doc ignored him and got the dinner in the pot and on the burner. When it was finished, fifteen minutes later, he turned to Verne, sulking at the other end of the table.

"Would you please tell Marty that dinner is ready?" he asked.

"Fine," Verne sighed. "But I’ll be he’d rather have food from the future, too!"

He got up from the table and vanished into the other room. Jules chose that moment to get some last minute digs into Doc. "You know, if I was to come with you to the future, I wouldn’t mind at all visiting the electronics store," he said softly.

Doc sighed. "I realize that, Jules, but if I allowed you to come with me, then your brother would have to go as well. And I know that he would rather spend time in an arcade. Aside from those facts, it would be more trouble than it’s worth to find some clothes for you both so you don’t stick out like sore thumbs in twentieth century Hill Valley. I just want to be in and out." Doc passed him a bowl of soup. "Anyway, after your behavior as of late, the last thing you deserve is a favor from me."

Jules looked slightly peeved. "I was civil to Martin today," he said. "You didn’t have to say that I had to be nice to him."

Doc opened his mouth to say something about that, but Verne returned to the table before he could get a sound out. Doc closed his mouth and eyed the doorway, expecting to see Marty right behind Verne. But the doorway remained empty.

"Where’s Marty?" Doc finally asked when a minute had passed and there was no sign of his friend.

Verne looked up from the soup he was stirring, his face twisted in an expression of distaste at the food. "Sleeping, I think. I called his name a few times, but he didn’t answer. Do you want me to wake him up?"

Doc glanced towards the dark room. "No, let him be. It’s been a long day."

After the meal was over, Doc began to prepare for the trip to the future. He put a long, dark coat on to conceal his medieval clothes and made a list of all the items he would need to pick up. Before leaving he told Jules and Verne to expect him back at exactly 9:30 P.M. -- fifteen minutes after his intended departure. And to have one or both of them signal him from the ground with one of the lamps. The boys, still disappointed that they would be left behind, nevertheless agreed.

Doc left minutes after that, anxious to tackle the long project as soon as he could.

* * *

Marty was tied up to a post in the middle of a large, empty field, his hands pinned behind him, tied together. The rope dug into his skin with every move he made and Marty quickly found that shifting his wrists around, in hope of loosening the rope, was not going to give him the results he hoped for.

"Thou cannot escape," a voice said nearby. Marty looked up and found himself staring into the face of King Midas Tannen, standing a few feet away.

"What am I doing here?" he demanded, catching sight of a sharp, pointed arrow and bow that the king held in his hands.

King Tannen smiled. "Thou art there for target practice, of course." He grinned wickedly as he brought up the bow and slipped the arrow into it, pulling the string taut.

Marty’s eyes went wide as the Tannen stretched the bow string tighter, concentration and determination etched into his features. This can’t be happening! he thought in disbelief. Marty struggled harder with the ropes around his wrists, trying in vain to free himself. But before he was able to, Tannen let the arrow go -- straight for him!

Marty clenched his eyes shut and turned his face away. "No!" he gasped out, waiting for the arrow to pierce his skin. But the sensation never came. His eyes flew open and he sat up, his heart pounding. Darkness surrounded him, broken by several pools of moonlight from the holes in the ceiling. It took Marty a moment to realize where he was. "What a nightmare," he whispered, reality clicking back into place.

Marty lay back on the cot, but disorientation and unease continued to nag at him. He heard faint movement in the other room and decided to investigate. He got up, stifling a groan. Every muscle in his body was stiff and sore, his joints cracking and popping like he was 70 instead of 17 as he shuffled across the floor. He paused in the doorway that connected the two rooms, allowing his eyes time to adjust to the lamplight that originated from the other room.

Doc Brown was seated at the table, bent over something small. As Marty watched, he reached for a screwdriver an arm’s length away and fussed with the object before him. Marty took a couple steps closer, into the room, wondering what Doc was working on in the middle of the night. "Doc?" he said softly.

Doc started, dropping the tool and turning around. "Marty," he said, blinking. "What are you doing up?"

Marty shrugged, then winced -- his shoulders were still tender after the sword play and archery lessons of the day before. "I... heard something. What are you doing?"

Doc glanced at the tabletop before him. Marty came in closer and noticed it was scattered with bits of wires and circuitry. "Well, I suppose we should have consulted you beforehand, but we decided that in addition to modifying the saddle that adjusting the arrows would help insure a win for you."

"‘We’?"

"Jules, Verne, and I. We wanted to be certain of you winning this thing and... well, you don’t mind, do you?"

"You’re the doc," Marty said, taking a seat. "So what’s the deal with the arrows?"

Doc picked one up and turned it around in his hands. "I’ve installed a device in each one of the arrows so that their trajectory and destination may be controlled by a third party via a infrared signal from a hand held mechanism."

Marty blinked. "Huh?"

"I can give you a bulls-eyes by remote control."

"Oh." Marty leaned forward for a closer look at the arrow in Doc’s hand. "Does it work?"

Doc handed him the slender object and picked up a small remote, no bigger then the palm of his hand. "Throw it toward that wall," he said to Marty. "I’ll make sure it hits that beam in the ceiling."

Marty looked at him dubiously, but turned towards the wall in question and tossed the arrow at it. The arrow swung in a sharp, upward arc, heading right for the beam, where it plunged itself into the wood seconds later. Marty stared at it in amazement; he had thrown the arrow with a slight downward twist. He looked at Doc.

"Wow. Did you do that?"

Doc nodded. He tapped his fingers against the plastic casing of the remote. "I can control the arrows from the stands with this device. All you have to do is shoot the arrow in the general direction of the target, so people won’t become suspicious of where it lands. I’ll take care of the rest."

For the first time, Marty started to think he might really have a chance of winning the tournament. "You don’t think anyone will notice?" he asked.

Doc shook his head. "I created the device on the arrows as small as possible. Under close inspection it will be noticed, but I doubt that should happen. It’s concealed quite well, and these people wouldn't understand what it is, even if they found it."

Marty looked at the bags of arrows at the other end of the table. "It’s a great idea, Doc -- but are you sure we’ll need so many?"

"They aren’t all for you," Doc said. "The plan is to switch the king’s arrows with ours, so we can be certain of your victory."

Marty frowned. "What if he notices? He might have his arrows marked in a special way."

Doc waved his hand. "Don’t worry about it." He got up from the table and went over to the saddle, propped up against the wall beside the door. "I’ve already installed some powerful magnets in here," he said, pointing to the leather seat. "I put a small switch at the back" -- Doc pointed to the rear of the saddle, to the area right under the seat -- "to activate the magnets, so we’ll be able to get you in and out of there with no trouble. But when this baby is on, you couldn’t be more secure unless you were tied to the horse!"

"Sounds like I’ll practically be invincible," Marty observed.

Doc shook his head as he returned to the table. "Perhaps you will be with the jousting and archery, but you’ll be on your own with the sword play. Since you must win two out of three of these games, I didn’t think it would be a problem if you lost that segment." Doc sat back down, his face serious. "But be very careful during that segment of the tournament. I don’t want you to get hurt."

"Hey, me neither," Marty agreed. "Don’t worry, I’ll be careful." He picked up another modified arrow from the tabletop and examined it for a moment, realizing this was the first time he’d been alone with his friend in a time that didn’t require silence or wasn’t rushed. Marty changed the subject to one that had been nagging him for several days now, figuring there wasn’t going to be a better time to bring it up.

"Doc, why didn’t you visit me after you finished your other time machine?"

Doc, who had been about ready to start back in on his project, looked up in surprise. "I did visit you -- it was one of the first things my family did, once we had stopped in the future to install hover circuits on the locomotive."

"Yeah, but.... You said you finished the new time machine in 1894, right?" At Doc’s nod, Marty continued. "You left your present in the fall of 1896 -- so what happened in those two years that didn’t let you see me at all?" Marty paused, looking at the scarred tabletop. "Didn’t you miss me at all?"

"Marty, what a foolish thing to say -- of course I missed you!" Doc said immediately.

Feeling only slightly better, Marty raised his eyes to meet his old friend’s. "So why didn’t you even drop me a line in those two years? I mean, I know only a week passed on my end, but that was a hell of a week, Doc. I figured you would’ve written me a letter or come by again with something to say about how your life was. Christ, I thought I’d never see you again -- and you left at the worst time. That terrorist thing was all over the papers and the media was asking me questions about where you were."

Doc looked surprise. "I had no idea that the Libyans created that much of a stir. What did you tell them?"

Marty smiled a little crookedly. "That you’d gone out of town on some sort of business and I had no idea what it was -- which was true, in a way. And people bought it, since it was like you to do that. But it did create a bit of talk about you vanishing during all that terrorist stuff."

Doc sighed heavily, setting his tools down. "I hadn’t realized so much went on in that week. I suppose I have my time in the past to blame for that -- by the time I was able to go back there, nearly a decade had passed for me."

"Why didn’t you come back sooner, Doc? Or at least leave something for me to find?" He paused. "You know, after Jen and I would’ve gotten back from camping tomorrow night -- ah, Sunday night -- I was going to visit the library and see what I could find about you since then."

Doc winced visibly. "You hadn’t done that yet, had you?"

"No. Why, you don’t want me to?"

"Your past is my future."

"But it doesn’t have to be." Marty let that remark hang in the air before repeating his early question. "Why didn’t you visit me in those two years?"

Doc sighed deeply again, standing up and walking to one of the windows. Marty watched him as he stared outside for a full minute before turning around. "I didn’t time travel at all in those two years," he said.

Marty wasn’t expecting that answer. "Why not?" he asked. "Didn’t you go in the future to get it hover converted so it would be easier to use?"

"Partially. And partially because power sources were unsuitable in the 1890’s for temporal displacement and I knew that the future offered ones -- like Mr. Fusion -- that would be better suited for time travel. Getting a hover conversion was something that could be taken care of at the same time."

"Oh." This was news to Marty. "So after all that work you didn’t use the time machine at all?"

Doc shook his head once. "Nope. Well, almost not at all. I took it out a couple times by myself to test a few things -- like the installation of that location display, which I did about six months ago -- and do a few errands related to technological improvements for the time machine. It was almost like a hobby of mine, frankly -- after all, time travel has been a huge portion of my life -- but I couldn’t quite bring myself to do much more with the train other than keep it in a state of constant improvement and up-to-date maintenance. There were no time trips until this one, for Verne’s eighth birthday."

"Why? Why didn’t you use it in that time and why was it Verne’s birthday that broke the streak?"

Doc turned around and gave him a long look. "After our first experiences with time travel, do you really have to ask that question?"

Marty realized immediately what Doc was referring to and immediately understood, intimately, his reluctance to time travel heavily. "Oh, ah, yeah, I can see why now. But why build another time machine, then?"

"Why do you write music?" Doc returned. "Because you enjoy it and you feel a fulfillment from it, correct?" Doc went on before Marty could answer. "Achieving time travel was my life’s work, Marty. Plus, I always knew that none of us -- not Clara, myself, the boys, even Einstein -- belonged in the past. Each year we remained there put the space-time continuum and the future in a greater danger. I wanted to have an out if I believed we needed to leave for any reason."

Marty’s heart started to accelerate a little. He swallowed before he asked his next question. "Are you guys coming back to the future?"

Doc took his time in answering. "I believe we will, and soon. It’s just a matter of time -- no pun intended."

"Come back to the 80’s, Doc," Marty said softly, putting as much passion into those words as any he had uttered before in his life. "I miss you and you belong there -- you might screw something up if you don’t come back ‘til the 1990’s."

"I know that -- all of that," Doc said. "But I can’t promise you anything at this point. Clara and I were in the midst of discussion the options before she was taken captive and I’d like to speak to her before doing anything. She’s the one who will experience the most culture shock if we leave the 1890’s."

Marty opened his mouth to say more in favor of his times -- and Doc’s, frankly -- but closed it again when he realized that what he would say Doc likely knew already. "Yeah," he said again, sighing a little. "But I think she’ll be all right. Clara’s not your average woman, Doc."

Doc smiled a little at that. "Oh, yes, I know. But not seeing you, Marty, for those two years -- it was nothing personal and in fact was something I thought about quite frequently. But I also hesitated because I knew if my family did move back to 1985 at some point, I didn’t want to make a visit somewhere down the line and startle you out of your wits being a version of myself that would be past to you. I knew if I caught you within the week of your return to 1985, I would be quite certain that wouldn’t happen, as moving my family to the future will take some time to organize."

Marty worked that over in his mind and nodded, relieved with Doc’s explanation. "Yeah, that sounds smart," he said. "I’m sorry, Doc, I guess I figured... well, that you’d forgotten about me with your new family and all."

Doc smiled again. "They may be new to you, but they aren’t to me. And I can’t forget about you, Marty. I won’t. You’re like a son to me, even if I didn’t get to know you until you were an early teen." Doc sat back down on the table and pulled out his pocket watch, checking the time. "You might want to go back to bed now. We’ll be leaving for the tournament grounds tomorrow around nine -- that’s six hours from now."

Feeling as if a tremendous weight had been lifted from his shoulders -- funny how he hadn’t realized how much Doc’s two year time gap had bugged him until now -- Marty stood reluctantly. "Are you sure you don’t need any help with this?" he asked. "I wouldn’t mind staying up...."

Doc shook his head at the offer, turning back to his project. "I’m fine. You’ll need all your energy for the tournament."

"Okay..." Marty said softly, turning around and heading into the other room. He lay back on his cot a moment later and listened to the faint sounds as Doc worked in the next room, the soft breathing from Jules and Verne sleeping a few feet away. He was still rather drained from the brutal training he’d been put through, but his mind wasn’t quite ready to shut down yet. Thoughts about Doc moving to the future and the tournament chased him as he gradually fell asleep, inducing a series of strange, fragmented dreams, the content of which he couldn’t recall when he woke up the next day to face off against King Midas Tannen.

And he had all but forgotten the nightmare of earlier.

Minutes before the start of the tournament, Marty stood at the far end of the field with Doc, Jules, and Verne, watching the crowd that was packed in the stands with some apprehension. "Now are you sure all this stuff will work?" he asked for probably the tenth time in the last five minutes.