Disclaimer: I don't own Back to the Future. As usual…

This is a short vignette I wrote set during the shootout between Buford and Marty near the end of BTTF 3. Just a short story on what the characters might have been going through. Enjoy!

As clichéd as it sounded, Marty's stride was like those of the gunslingers seen in countless Hollywood classics. His posture radiated with confidence much beyond his age, while his demeanour was faultless.

It took fewer than ten strides for him to reach the middle of the dirt track. Standing feet apart, he stared straight ahead towards his enemy, his opponent. He had made his move. Now it was Buford's turn.

Doc felt his nerves begin to tingle with concern as he watched his young friend take on an enemy far too overpowering for him. The young man simply stared ahead, unflinching, still. Doc was almost too afraid to wonder what the teenager was thinking.

Here they were, in a world outside their own, with only time to stand in their way. This was all real, yet still felt like something out of a science fiction novel he had read as a boy. The whole idea of time travel to another era, another age, where cowboys and Indians existed; where the means of travel was by horse, train or foot; and electricity was about as common as the dodo.

If only Jules Verne was here now.

But as wonderful and enchanting the adventure of time travel had been, Doc's emotions could only relate to the "here and now" – to the reality of what was happening. He couldn't simply attribute his fear as being an independent variable of time travel. No. This was the one factor that remained unpredictable.

"Draw." The single word sliced through the atmosphere like a knife. It was usually at this point in a story where the main hero of the tale would rise to the rescue and save his friends from a tragic end. Doc could only hope that was how this was going to turn out.

Doc couldn't even bare to look at Buford. He only watched as Marty swallowed hard and answered "No!" in the grainiest of quality. That one-syllable word meant everything to Doc – perhaps he was being smart and for once not allowing his hotheaded temper get the best of him? Perhaps their journey together through four different time periods had at last made him see sense in his actions? Doc silently crossed his fingers behind his back, praying to a god that might listen.

If only that god had.

In confusion Doc witnessed as the teen dropped his gun belt to the dusty bare ground. What was he thinking? But Doc didn't need to answer.

Though Doc's eyes had been focused on Marty ever since he stepped out onto the street, Marty had not once looked in Doc's direction – instead focusing on Buford. But now, as soon as the gun belt hit the ground the teen mistakenly glanced over to his mentor. It was then that Doc understood Marty's true fear.

The fear of being beaten.

This wasn't something that could be interpreted through words in some novel or short story. This wasn't an emotion that could be described by even the most experienced of writers. This was an emotion only someone living the experience could understand, and even then it was too upsetting to comprehend.

Then Marty made it even more unbearable. "I thought we could settle this like men." An overstatement, in all of its glory. Buford was no man, but a monster. A shell with no soul, no emotions inside. He had gunned down men for far less than this, and without a flinch in his conscience. Not that he even had a conscience to begin with. He was simply a machine programmed to destroy. He was a bull at the end of a field, ready to charge.

For the first time Doc risked a glance towards Buford, noting the red fire in his eyes. He had seen red and was ready to charge forward. With a smirk as dirty as the clothes he was wearing, he simply answered, "You thought wrong, dude."

With one swift flick of his wrist his gun was drawn and emptied. With horror drawn across his face Doc could only gasp as his friend fell. Limp and lifeless. Fear became disbelief; disbelief became hatred.

Rarely in his books did Doc recall the good guy being killed. This wasn't how it was supposed to be scripted. Evil was always in some way overcome, and the hero rode off into the distance to live another day. The world went on, with peace sustained and the victims saved.

Marty wasn't supposed to be dead.

Suddenly, no one was there. Everyone in the street suddenly blurred around him. He could feel the pain seeping into his eyes, pumping grief into his heart. Suddenly the words of those stories lost their meaning as people stared at the lifeless figure lying in the road. Stories had their characters, and their characters had emotions.

The only difference was, these emotions were real.

Buford's goons had released their hold on the scientist, intrigued by the sight before them. Buford could only do what he did best: play up to the people around him; dance to them, act the part. That's all he could do without making a fool of himself.

Doc's heart broke even more as Buford could only have the audacity to walk up to the young teen to check he had succeeded. Like a lion approaching its prey, ready to feast.

He calmly clicked back the hammer of his gun, almost fearing his prey wasn't dead. The fear in Doc rose again. What if he isn't dead? He could still have a chance… Doc thought with a sudden rush of hope. That happened too in stories, where the good guy would only be injured to trick his enemy. Doc's fingers were back in a crossed position…

He watched on, ever certain now that his initial emotions of grief had only been temporary. He watched as Buford aimed the gun, and immediately suffered the worst shock of his life as it was suddenly kicked out of his grasp…

Almost instantly Marty felt like a professional gunslinger as he strode out towards the road. He was imagining his own part in a Hollywood movie – the gunslinger sent to town to bring in the murderer for a vast reward. The kind that was cool and slick, showing no fear or remorse in his eyes as he stared at his prey.

Marty felt the confidence ooze from him as his stood his ground, feet planted firmly on the ground, ready to fight. He could feel the cold, hard metal against his chest, hoping that it wouldn't be the only thing to stand between him and a bullet from Buford's gun.

The Three Stooges, as he liked to think of them, held Doc back as the scene unfolded. Marty only took note from the corner of his eye, too afraid to even glance over where Doc stood. He knew his confidence was feeding from the man he hated who stood opposite him down the street. His grease-stained face was enough for anyone to want to knock down with pleasure.

"Draw." Buford called, expecting for the show to begin. His audience was waiting. Marty was prepared for him to want to be the leading actor, but not the one to steal the show. That was his role.

Many times in his 17 years Marty had seen the old westerns play out a scene just like the one he was in now. The camera crew set up to film and witness the scene play out; the stuntmen in place to take the beatings. Even, to a certain point as Marty looked around him, the buildings felt they were made of wood to give the illusion of a town.

That's all a western was – an illusion of an era in the past.

Only in films, was there not a threat upon your life.

Still Marty continued to avoid Doc's gaze. Instead he drew in a deep breath and dared to answer Buford "Mad Dog" Tannen with the strongest word he could give.

"No!"

Buford's smirk disappeared. He suddenly wasn't having it his own way. Now it was Marty's turn to take the glory spot. But he needed to make the impression.

With a swift action Marty dropped his gun belt to the ground. The physical weight of metal vanished, only to be replaced with the psychological weight of dread.

And then Marty made his first mistake.

Wanting to be sure his friend was fine, he glanced to where his mentor was being held. Doc's emotions could be read clearly across his face, and even deeper in his eyes. Suddenly, Marty's strong façade dissipated to nothing, opening up his raw fear to Doc. He wasn't bothered now about being beaten by a Tannen. No. His fear now lay in the possibility that he could be lying in a pool of his blood in another few minutes.

Buford was angry as a raging bull. His eyes glowed brightly with a ferocious fire, angry that someone would even dare to step down from his fight. Marty needed to back up his reasons – "I thought we could settle this like men." – though this was to no avail.

The bull was backing up, ready for the onslaught.

Nervously Marty took another swallow, trying to force away the dryness in his throat. He could picture the film now – the dramatic music building up slowly, the cameras rolling, the extras in place ready to shoot. The special effects Hollywood used to give authenticity to the drama; the director ready to shout action.

Only this was the real deal.

The actors and actresses in those films would be doing just that: acting. They would be celebrated for portraying emotions true to their character's nature through awards and ceremonies, and would have their names highlighted for years to come. Of showing fear when faced with death.

The difference is, this fear Marty felt was real.

Marty's nightmares seemed to come true all at once. Buford smirked confidently, knowing full well he had won. In acceptance, he simply stated, "You thought wrong, dude." Then Marty was beginning to pray his plan would work.

With one swift flick of his wrist his gun was drawn and emptied. With horror drawn across his face Marty could only gasp as he fell. Limp and lifeless. Fear became disbelief; disbelief became hatred.

Even though he was wearing his "bullet-proof vest", Marty had been unwilling to test its efficiency unless it was necessary. As hard as he could he held his breath, waiting for the inevitable moment when Buford would come to inspect his handiwork. Marty could hear the gasps and whisperings of people all around him, eager to look on at the gruesome sight before them with morbid fascination. Straining hard, he could hear the chinking of spurs hitting the dusty ground increasing in volume.

Fear started to return in his mind, of what Buford was capable of. Marty suddenly began to think of his friend with a certain apology. He was sorry he had to let Doc see this happen, but it was the only way he knew of beating Buford without resorting to killing him.

Now that was one thing you rarely saw in the movies – the good guy refusing to kill the bad guy.

In this case, it was for the sake of the space-time continuum. In this case, the timeline was more important than simple revenge. That wasn't material destined to make a blockbuster, but it was material destined to change the complete course of history.

Feeling his presence closer than ever, Marty prepared himself for his turn to fight and take the lead role. He could almost feel Doc's relief with the certain knowledge he wasn't dead. The bullet would leave a bruise for sure though.

Slowly, Marty heard the hammer of the gun pull back, and make its distinct click as the bullet slotted into place. With one swift action Marty aimed a full-length kick at the gun held at his head, knocking the weapon out of Buford's grasp; the adrenaline real.

This time, the good guy won.