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He marveled at his reflection in the mirror for an absurdly long time. His hair was shorter than it had been in years, and the wrinkles—little crow's feet and smile lines—had vanished entirely, leaving impossibly smooth skin stretching over his astonished expression.
And his arm—the jagged scars running along it, the slight bulge under the skin from the piles of screws holding it together, were gone. It flexed with ease and although he instinctively moved a hand up to massage the muscle, there wasn't a hint of pain running through it.
As he stared at himself, an awful hollow feeling settled into the pit of his stomach as his phone—too small, with a home button still beneath the screen—suddenly lit up. A text he didn't read appeared on it, right beneath the date.
Sunday, April 7th.
Marc stared at the screen for a while, before letting out a faint breath. He knew that date by heart, had it stamped into his memory flanked by the blue pair of Yamahas—
I'm dreaming, he thought, even as he grabbed the white team kit out of his suitcase. He stubbornly ignored the navy-blue jacket tucked underneath, Repsol-orange glaring out from under the sleeves. I'm just dreaming.
But stepping out of his motorhome only made his heart sink further. He felt a little light-headed, but nothing about the paddock had the fuzzy vagueness that usually plagued his dreams. Every face that passed by was in perfect clarity, and the chatter floating around in various languages was easy to parse if he listened in. The slight humidity was hard to miss too, and—
"Marc?"
Marc whipped around at the sound of his old teammate's voice, or current teammate if the reality was to be believed. "Dani—!"
He cut himself off as an absolutely sobering sight walked up to him.
Even back in 2013, Dani's face had usually had stubble, or at least the leftover shadow of it, and a couple of white hairs close to his temple that Marc had teased him about. Now, the Dani in front of him looked younger than he'd ever seen, completely baby-faced and with black hair cropped so short it stuck up.
Combined with his height, Marc could have easily mistaken him for some random kid.
"We have interviews," he said simply, his voice a bit mumbled.
Marc was silent for a moment from pure shock, before finally sputtering, "Uh, what?"
Whatever expression crossed over his face must have sent a different message because Dani narrowed his eyes suspiciously at him. The Spaniard leaned around to peek behind him, as if something would pop out from the black motorhome.
"We have… interviews," he repeated slowly. "Are you busy?"
"Eh… No, no, I'm not."
Dani gave him an odd look, but just away. "Okay? Then, we should go."
Maybe he did look like this…? Marc thought as he followed him through the paddock. But why is he acting… like that?
He was led around to the side of the press conference room, where he saw—
"Casey?"
The Australian looked… like he had shaved. Marc thought his skin seemed a bit smoother, his hair might have been a bit blonder, but overall he… could have passed for his 2013-self, if Marc didn't think too hard about it—which he was trying not to.
Casey blinked at him. "Yeah?"
"You… I didn't know you were here," he said, maybe a little too honestly.
Casey just gave him an awkward half-smile, clearly confused, and a helpless shrug. "Well, I mean… I'm racing, so… dunno where else I'd be."
Before Marc could dwell on this for too long, wracking his brain to try and remember when exactly Casey started being a test-rider, he suddenly noticed the odd teamkit on him—an unrecognizable white button-up with pale blue shoulders, and the HRC logo on the chest. He opened his mouth to blurt out another question, when—
"Where is Valentino?" Jorge snapped from behind Casey, having been hidden behind the taller man. He looked fairly similar to how he'd been in 2013, although strangely, the Movistar logo on his shirt had been replaced with the Fiat logo.
"He's late," Casey replied, and his expression turned slightly annoyed. "Again."
A creeping, horror-like feeling was crawling down Marc's spine as they spoke, and it only spiked once he heard footsteps approaching them. "Hold on— Casey, what does Valentino—?"
"Allora, sorry! I'm here!"
The Italian, long-limbed as usual, came rushing up from behind them. His curls had been shaved short and bleached until it glowed brighter than the sun, and a light smile shone on his face—his smooth, jubilant, brilliantly youthful face. He was younger than Marc had ever seen him, even younger than he'd been in the magazines and newspaper clippings Marc had owned growing up.
And wearing the neon yellow, Nastro Azzurro Honda team kit.
Marc actually flinched and let out a gasp, which caused the others to glance over at him. "This is a dream," he mumbled, the words spilling out in a jumble under his breath. "This has to be…"
Valentino's smile shifted to a worried look, and he reached out to put a hand on his shoulder. "Allora, Marc, did I scare you?" he asked, in a tone that sounded so painfully casual, a bit high-pitched too, that it just sent Marc reeling even more.
He moved away from the touch and a stressed, strangled laugh escaped him. This nightmare had to end, he would make sure of it as he grabbed the water bottle Casey had been nursing and unscrewed the top.
"Hey! What—?"
Marc dumped the water over himself and squeezed his eyes shut as the cold cut straight through the Qatar heat. He prayed, willed, manifested as hard as he could that he'd wake up back in his hotel room, maybe with Álex standing over him with a cheeky grin and a bucket
But no—cracking open his eyes, his terrible nightmare continued all the same.
The other riders, and several journalists, as they were just standing in the middle of the hallway, gaped at him in unfiltered shock—Dani looked bewildered, Casey looked concerned, and Jorge looked deeply confused.
Valentino seemed the least affected, although his eyes were still wide with surprise, and he ended up being the one to break the ice. "Are you okay?" His voice had lowered an octave, and he shifted closer in a way that Marc vaguely recognized as shielding him from the backstage cameras. "Marc, do you feel sick?"
Casey suddenly reached up to press a hand to his forehead before he could stop him. "Oh, did you get heatstroke, mate?"
"Heatstroke?" Jorge echoed. His look of confusion had flattened into something unimpressed, maybe even slightly annoyed. "It's night."
Dani sent him a hard look his way, and then turned back to Marc. "You're sick," he said plainly, although his expression had softened. "Is that why you were acting weird?"
"Can I have my water back?" Casey asked the frozen statue that was Marc, who was still clutching his now-empty water bottle.
"Allora, no one wants to do an interview sick," Valentino sighed. His hands had come to settle on Marc's shoulders, and at this rate if he didn't already have heatstroke, he would soon. "Sit down, make sure you can race. It's no fun if you can't."
Jorge mumbled, "then it'd be one less…" before turning to leave for his round of interviews.
A million thoughts were buzzing through Marc's head, every other one tainted with panic, but he managed to nod. "Yes, I don't feel well," he finally said with a weak smile.
One of the Honda PR people, who had been watching this entire scene, took him by the arm and led him back to his motorhome. The giant, bright red 93 on black glared down at him as he managed to negotiate into being left on his own to run a cold shower and drink some water. As soon as the door was shut, Marc was rushing to pull out his phone.
The top contact was the same as it had been for his entire life, and he held the tiny, years-old smartphone in a vice grip as it rang.
"Marc—?"
"Álex!" he burst out, relief flooding through him. His brother's voice was a little higher than it should have been, but it was still his brother. "Merda."
"Yes? Are you okay?"
Marc pressed a hand to his face, and let out a heavy breath. "I'm fine, but… Álex, something is very wrong."