Work Text:
Stop.
Drop.
PAW Patrol is on a…
On a breadstick? No, PAW Patrol is on a bun. That's not -- oh, what is it again. And why won't those lights stop flashing, it's just too much.
Marshall gives his head a shake, and blinks open against the light. When everything comes into focus, he’s staring up an impossibly tall desk, as if he’s in court about to be judged.
“Ah, yes,” says the man staring down at him. “It’s you.”
Marshall pauses, one paw in the air. “Excuse me,” he says. It's always best to be polite. “Do I know you?”
The man squints down at him over a mountain range of frosted paperwork, and points towards the nameplate on his table. Sergeant Jack Chase.
“Oh,” says Marshall. There’s something strange about all of this; vaguely familiar, but unsettling.
“It’s you,” repeats the man, but this time it’s with a sudden and careful gentleness, and he’s staring beyond Marshall. Marshall twists, turning to see who’s there.
A parade of slippery cat-shaped shadows slink down a long white corridor towards Marshall and Sergeant Chase. Marshall turns back around, and the world shifts. Was the policeman wearing a blue uniform before? Marshall can’t remember, though it seems significant.
“Er,” says Marshall. “Should we be worried about the potentially evil cats in the hallway?”
The expression on Sergeant Chase’s face changes abruptly, from tender to angry self-righteousness. “What," he splutters. "Those adorable little kittens, why would you suggest such a despicable thing? You’re sentenced to ten years.”
Marshall’s heart sinks, and his ears droop pitifully. “Me? But - ten years of what?”
Sergeant Chase stares piercingly at Marshall, his rectangular reading glasses sliding down his nose with sinister authority. “That’s ten years without Pup Pup Boogie for you, kid. Take these forms up to legal on the ninety-ninth floor, for processing.”
The man at the desk grabs a stack of uneven papers and stamps each one emphatically with a heavy rubber stamp.
Marshall sits back on his haunches. “Where do I—”
Sergeant Chase cuts him off. “Down the hall, up the stairs and... keep going.” He rolls up the stack of papers, sealing them with a sticker marked URGENT! and tosses them down for Marshall to catch in his mouth.
“Next!” barks the policeman, dismissing Marshall.
Forlornly Marshall turns, steeling himself to walk through the never-ending hallway of shadowy cats. Be brave, Marshall. The bravest.
But when he reaches them, their hisses turn to excited murmurs and their long tails to short fluffy clouds of cotton. They’re not cats at all, but mischievous bunnies. “Keep going,” they encourage Marshall. “Don’t take the stairs, there’s an old service elevator at the end of this hallway.”
“Mmmmrph,” says Marshall, getting a taste of paper and ink on his tongue. Marshall isn't convinced that bunnies give great advice in general, but at least they're friendly, and confident. He should probably take their advice.
“Thank you, bunnies!” he says, making a decision. As Marshall continues moving cautiously down the hallway, he passes a grand marble stairway, the railings marked by ornate wooden carvings and golden accents. Peering more closely, the carvings are a series of panels which depict a harassed looking farmer at war with a large family of hungry bunnies, who seem to be in the midst of devouring her carrot crop. The last panel shows the farmer fleeing mainland by boat for a new island, pursued by bunnies on a raft. Huh, surely that's not how the story ends. If only Chase were there to round up the bunnies and-- Chase? Why would Sergeant Chase help Marshall?
Marshall’s tummy rumbles, interrupting his train of thought. He has a mission, and the papers from the Sergeant. The elevator, right.
Right, or was it left? Marshall shakes his head in annoyance. Straight ahead, fire it up. Stop is Red.
Green means — Green means -- What does green mean?
The small elevator is there, at the very end of the hallway, just like the bunnies said it would be. The doors are stalled in an open position and there’s a tall, lanky repairman inside, fiddling with wires and switches. He’s wearing a bright green baseball cap, and pauses ever few seconds to stare ruefully at the technology. His face is mostly hidden by a large, bushy moustache.
“Hi,” says Marshall, to alert the repairman of his presence. He drops the increasingly soggy papers at his front paws. “Is there any chance that I can get a ride to floor ninety-nine today?”
The man looks in Marshall’s direction, and offers him a friendly grin that shows off his canines. "Well, there’s a piece missing from the control panel. It probably wore down over time, and dropped into the shaft.”
Marshall nods, the diagnosis sounds plausible. “So you’re going to fix it?”
The man shrugs. “Maybe I have something that could double as a spare part.”
“Ooooh,” says Marshall. “Like what?”
“This morning I found some origami at the park.”
“Origami,” repeats Marshall, unimpressed. “Like a zebra? That’s going to fix the elevator?”
“Well,” says the man. “First of all, it was a tulip. It was the park, not the zoo.”
Marshall, increasingly pessimistic about his chances of taking a functional elevator tries not to roll his eyes, and prompts, “Secondly?”
The man stares at him blankly. “Secondly?”
Marshall huffs in annoyance, it comes out as a bit of a growl. “How are you going to fix the elevator with a paper tulip?”
The repairman smiles brightly. “Well that’s obvious. You climb it.”
“Right,” grumbles Marshall. “That’s super duper obvious. I just climb the two inch tall flower, great idea. And maybe I'll just replace my ladder with a flower too." He stops abruptly at this because, "Do I have a ladder?”
Marshall and the stranger lock eyes in a moment of heavy silence. Marshall gets the feeling that the man is about to explain everything. But before the man can answer, the elevator neatly folds in on itself, sheets of metal becoming flat sheets of colourful paper and Marshall gets the strangest feeling that he’s going up. The repairman is getting smaller, disappearing into the distance.
“Just think of ninety-nine empty bottles,” shouts the man after Marshall. “And if you find any, send them to me. I’m Rochello Bluebinski — but my friends call me Rocky.”
“Sure,” says Marshall, thoroughly nonplussed. “Why not.”
And then — of course, because that’s how things are today — Marshall is sitting in the top of a tree, balanced precariously between two branches. The tree shifts with every gust of wind. Marshall gulps, it's a long way down. Be brave, Marshall. Brave.
Steeling himself, Marshall looks down and sees a carpet of tall, yellow tulips surrounding tree. It’s yellow tulips for as far as the eye can see. For a brief moment, the tulips shift and it's as though he's looking at a convoy of construction trucks, driving through the fields. But Marshall gives his head a shake, and everything is tulips again. Flowers for days.
“Great,” says Marshall to no one in particular. “I’m stuck in a tree.”
A bird chirps reproachfully in response.
“Okay,” agrees Marshall. “I know I’m in a bad mood. Point taken.”
No pup is too small. No tree is too tall. Think courageous thoughts, okay?
Okay, but this tree is scary, and it’s a very long way down. A strong breeze sets the tree swaying and Marshall lets out an involuntary yelp of terror, closing his eyes.
When he opens his eyes again, a compact pink airplane is hovering just feet away. The pilot holds up a megaphone and points it towards Marshall. “Attention everyone. There is a pup in that tree. Yes, that tree right there.”
“How did you know where to find me?” asks Marshall.
The woman rolls her eyes. “You Yelped, silly.” She holds up a large tablet with a screen showing a webpage titled Yelp Reviews. She reads aloud: “I am stuck in a tree. It is a very nice tree - probably hard wood - and the scenery is beautiful. Many tulips, such yellow, very flower. However the air is cold, and no one is helping me down from said tree. 2/10. Would not revisit this tree. P.S. The birds are friendly, if judgemental.”
"I didn't write that," protests Marshall.
The woman scoffs, "I found you, didn't I?"
"I'm not lost," retorts Marshall. "I'm going to the ninety-ninth floor."
"Oh, that's too bad," returns the woman. "They Yelped for Help too. Ah, here we are." She scrolls down on the tablet, continuing before Marshall can interject. "Too much paperwork and hazardous proximity to dry, hot climate. Office combusting into flames was inevitable. 4/10. Exciting but dangerous. Please rescue us, bring water."
She peers at Marshall across the sky and remarks, "Looks like you won't be getting any work done on the ninety-ninth floor today."
Marshall yawns, he's getting sleepy in the wind. "You have a tablet in one hand, and a megaphone in the other. How are you even flying that plane?"
"Do you remember when we found that other pup, Rubble in a tree?" asks the pilot.
Marshall's eyes snap open. "What? We did? Who's that."
"Who's who?"
"Rubble."
"Like debris?"
Marshall squints in annoyance. "No, you said-"
"Never mind that," soothes the pilot. "Who are you?"
"Oh," says Marshall. "I don't know. My name is Marshall. But I don't know where I came from or why any of this is happening."
"Well, I'm Skye," says the pilot. "I can't help you with the existential crisis, but how about we get you out of that tree."
"Yes, please," says Marshall, and Skye gives him a kind smile.
The plane climbs above Marshall, and a safety harness drops from the bottom of Skye's plane. Marshall straps himself into the harness and suddenly he's gliding away from the tree, over the tulips and towards the sea. It's when they start doing unnecessary but precisely piloted maneuvers through the sky that Marshall realizes.
"You were a pup!" he yells upwards towards the plane.
Skye spares a glance down, her long hair streaming in the wind, fighting the constraints of her air goggles. "What," she yells in return.
"I know you," shouts Marshall with considerable glee. "Why isn't the team together? Why are you all working alone?"
"I can't hear you," yells the human Skye. "What are you saying? Is everything okay?"
Marshall thinks about it for a minute, and uses his nose to point towards a small speck in the ocean below. He has a hunch: they need to get the team together and everything will be alright. "Over there," he shouts upwards to Skye. "Let's go get Zuma."
There's a large floating raft in the middle of the sea, and after Skye drops gently Marshall to the ground, she lands the plane on floats and soon joins him on the structure. Up close, it's built from mismatched logs, secured together with rope from a spool of buoyant safety line.
"Hello," says Marshall to the safety patrol human who is, of course, waiting for them. "You must be Zuma."
The man stares at them, from where he's sitting with his legs dangling over the edge of the raft. "No, I'm Frank."
"Frank... Zuma?" suggests Marshall helpfully.
"Um, sorry bro, wrong guy," says Frank, and looks over at Skye for some sort of explanation. She shrugs apologetically.
"But you're water rescue, right?" pursues Marshall. "Let's dive in?"
Frank stares at him for a moment, obviously trying to find the appropriate words. "You're the first people I've seen in years."
"Then what are you doing out here?"
"It's a long story. You see, years ago I was part of the RYDER Training Team-"
"Ha!" says Marshall emphatically, and then pauses. In a small voice he asks, "Wait, what's that?"
"Relatively Young Dogs Emergency Rescue," says Frank.
"I like the sounds of that," says Marshall with a dreamy sigh.
Frank rolls his eyes. "Yeah, well, you would. You're a dog."
Skye clears her throat. "So, what happened?"
Frank coughs, and averts his gaze from Marshall. "Well, I was training this pup to drive a hovercraft. And I mean, things went a little sideways -"
"How sideways?" asks Skye carefully.
Franks sighs heavily. "Well, you don't see a hovercraft anywhere around here, do you? It turns out that some pups just can't get the job done."
Skye gives Frank a scathing look. "Maybe you shouldn't expect pups to cope with that level of responsibility."
"I'm right here," says Marshall indignantly. "I can SO handle responsibility. You should see my fire truck! I help people all the time!"
Frank gives Marshall a skeptical look. "Sure, buddy."
Skye leans down and scratches Marshall's ears kindly. "Hey," she tells Frank sharply. "If Marshall says he has a fire truck, I'm sure he has seen all kinds of rescues."
"I do!" insists Marshall. "I have! I'm a really good fire pup!"
Or maybe -- with a sinking feeling, Marshall lowers to the ground, his muzzle coming to rest on the top of his paws. Something happened. Marshall closes his eyes and he can smell charred wood and heavy smoke. Is the raft burning? His trained instincts tell him that it's not safe, that no one should be here. But he's so tired, maybe he can just take a nap and everything will work itself out without him.
After a dizzy moment, Marshall looks up at Skye apologetically, eyes wide. "I think," he starts carefully. "I think maybe I didn't get the job done this time."
Skye crouches down and pats the top of Marshall's head. "I'm sure you tried your best."
"I can't remember what happened," says Marshall sadly. He remembers a forest, and lots of smoke; an overwhelming orange haze covering Adventure Bay. Wildfire is dangerous. There's the crackle of a radio, and Chase's calm voice on the other end. "I was scared."
"Sometimes I'm scared too," says Frank quietly, and Marshall looks over at him, ears perking forwards in surprise. "That I'll be stranded here forever, and I'll never see the pup I was training again."
"Me too," admits Skye. "I get scared too. Sometimes I think about crashing."
"I didn't want to go back into the building," says Marshall quietly. He can see the house number ninety-nine, and the charred gingerbread trim over the front porch.
"Did you?" asks Skye. "I find it always helps when I get back in my plane."
Marshall nods glumly. "I don't know if I got them all out, though. I can't remember."
"That's really brave, Marshall," says Frank earnestly. "I think you're great at your job."
Skye nods, and Marshall sniffles. "It's easy to be brave when everyone else around you is really great at their jobs. I was just trying to help."
"But would you have done the same thing if it was just you?" asks Skye, and Marshall doesn't even have to think about it before answering.
"Of course I would," he says. "Those people needed help."
And Marshall stops to consider, because maybe that is brave. Doing something even if it scares him. And maybe he is really good at being a fire pup after all. Maybe the PAW Patrol needs him, just as much as he needs them.
Marshall.
Can you hear us, Marshall?
Marshall lies down next to Frank, and puts his head in the man's lap. Everything's spinning. The rise and fall of the ocean is making Marshall feel sick.
You were so brave, Marshall.
When Marshall blinks his eyes open this time, it's to see to see six concerned faces staring down at him; five pups, one boy. His wonderfully familiar friends. Marshall's first instinct is to reassure them; he tries to talk, but a cough comes out at first. "Heh, heh," he laughs weakly. "What happened?"
"You were unconscious, Marshall," says Chase. His voice, usually clear and steady, wavers. "You inhaled a lot of smoke."
Marshall stares around at the PAW Patrol. They're all so worried, and Marshall doesn't like the look of that.
He smiles and like he has so many times before, Marshall chirps, "I'm okay!"