interstellar5555 | you wanna be tough. (open!)

Who: Marty and YOU!
What: Nothing better than jamming out to MJ songs, right?
When: April 4th.
Where: Outside a shopping center, maybe? Somewhere super public!
Warnings: TBA.

[ Marty walks onto the plaza of the shopping center, with nothing but his guitar to keep him company. Lately he's just been aching to play something. Maybe it's because of the fact that this whole Fairy thing has made him completely scatterbrained. Also because he's expecting something bad to happen, since...well, he let some things slip. Or maybe worded them incorrectly. Either way, it's left him feeling uneasy, and maybe it's good to get some crap off of his chest.

He quickly opens his guitar case, turning it after a minute or two. Already he's gained the attention of some of the shoppers who can recognize him through the tweets and things like that, but majority are more focused on spending money. Which he doesn't really mind! Because honestly, he's not too sure what to sing, anyway.

There is one song that comes to mind, though.

Before he knows it, Marty starts to sing. This might be a bad idea considering the content of the song, but hey.

He starts off at the perfect tempo, the chords coming to him as natural as they can. Soon enough, he's on a roll! ]

They told him, "Don't you ever come around here.
Don't wanna see your face. You better disappear."
The fire's in their eyes and their words are really clear
So beat it, just beat it.

[ Marty won't object if you want to come along and join in! ]

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[Doc's reaction is automatic. When he sees Marty teetering over, he entirely forgets his role as the kooky stranger and grabs him by the elbows.]

Marty! Are you all right?

Huh? Wha?

[ Just as the spell came, it left. The only thing Marty is left with is his headache, which has grown a million times worse in the span of a few seconds. He shakes his head, a hand resting against his forehead. For a fan or whatever, this guy sure was nice about it. Or caring. Or something. ]

'M fine. Head hurts.

[Doc retreats and folds his hands when he's sure Marty won't tip over. He has to remember his role here. But those words worry him a little.]

That seems to be a common affliction as of late. Are your ears assaulted at all hours up at headquarters?

[He has other guesses about these mysterious musician headaches, but he can't let that on yet.]

[ He thinks about that answer for a moment or two, before shaking his head. ] Nah, 's been quiet. These just come 'n go, I guess. [ Ignoring the fact that they seemed to come every time he looked at this crazy old guy. It makes absolutely no sense. Marty wants to be irritated, but he's too tired for that all of a sudden. ]

What...what did you say your name was?

[He'll never get used to this deception business, but he knows the labels are dangerous. But maybe a small clue wouldn't be entirely out of bounds?]

Willard Brandt from Beekman's Garage. They call me the auto-doc.

[He must ensure his expression doesn't betray a deeper level of investment. That's surprisingly difficult.]

Willard Brandt... [ That didn't ring a bell. For just a moment or two, Marty lets himself believe that he's being a little overdramatic. Maybe he's pretending to have a headache because he definitely butchered that song. Who wouldn't be embarrassed by that? Maybe pretending to be fatally ill would be a good way to get the press to shut up.

But then the word 'auto-doc' is mentioned. And suddenly, Marty feels awful fluey. ]

Auto-doc. [ Maybe he's not pretending? ] Jesus, I don't feel good...

[Doc feels a twinge of guilt for that, but...he'd seen similar headaches with Bill and the few other musicians he'd interacted with. New hypothesis: labels did a hack-job on the memory butchering, and Doc's presence is calling what remains of Marty's original memories. When that collides with the reprogramming...

He's causing his friend pain, and that knowledge hurts.]

You should get some rest. Do you have your paparazzi-deflecting sunglasses?

Paparazzi-deflecting glasses? [ Through the haze clouding his brain, Marty tries to focus on that. Glasses. He didn't have any on him, did he? They sounded like a damn good idea if they got rid of the crowd that was bound to follow him home. They always tracked you more when you sucked, rather than when you did something actually well. ]

N-No, I don't. [ He squints up to Doc. ] I don't think so. What are those?

[Doc spares a smile for him. Apparently he's been so serious about this that he's failing at telling jokes.]

It's not a forcefield in the literal sense, though I'd love to take a crack at that...

But so long as you shield your eyes, the lower light should help with the headaches. Pair that with some swagger, as they say, and you should be left to head home safely.

[Doc rummages in his bag and produces a strangely opaque and visor-like sleek silver pair.]

It's the least I can do for the trouble I seem to cause.

[ There's something in his tone that's driving Marty crazy. He can't understand this; what's-his-name was literally a guy working at a car shop. There was nothing he knew about the old guy, other than he was crazy and the more distance he put between the two, the better. But hearing his tone, how curious he sounded about actually making a forcefield...his brain was screaming at him to fight something. It wanted clarity.

Marty blinks slowly when swagger was mentioned. He shouldn't know that word. It was wrong.

What was really wrong were those glasses. His eyes grow wide when the silver things were revealed, and the pain in his head grows tenfold. Marty can only manage a little gasp, not even able to manage a warning, before he starts to tip off to the side. His brain's not happy, and this time it's telling him to take a nap before someone gets themselves hurt. ]

Marty!

[No way around doing it: Doc lunges forward to catch him, silently cursing himself. Too much. At least he now had a clue about what sorts of things could be triggers?]

I'm sorry. I'll leave---but we need your friends or allies---

[His eyes start scanning for any signs of a bodyguard, or any Virgo musicians. Doc's not the kind of doctor he needs now.]

[ There's a bodyguard close! He comes and raises an eyebrow at the old man, like he's got questions but he won't bother to ask. He just takes Marty from Doc, stuffs him into a nearby car, and that's it.

There's no ambulance, no interrogation. Marty's tossed into the back, and...that's it.

Definitely eye raising caretaking, that's for sure... ]

[Letting Marty go is surprisingly difficult, but all the guard might see of it is Doc clinging a little tighter than necessary. That burning desire to fix his brain now and take him away is still there, though he knows that he rationally cannot do that yet.

He has a terrible feeling about how well they're caring for their top talent. He watches the car depart with something burning in his eyes.

This isn't the end of it.]

Please wait for me, Marty. I swear that we'll make this right.

you wanna be tough. (open!)

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