In Those Moments

by JonesieBones

An unexpected meeting causes Marshall to think about his life.

'Give it up, Shadelight!' Ultradog's voice rang harshly through the night air, cutting through the crackles of growing flames and the incessant breeze that caused his eyes to well beneath the mesh mask strapped across his face. 'It's over!'

'Not yet, it isn't, Ultradog,' Shadelight snarled back, metallic claws digging into the dirt at their feet. 'Not while one of us is still breathing!'

The two dogs stood several metres apart, glaring at each other in an arena of wreckage. The ruined carcass of downtown Manhattan surrounded them. A metropolitan graveyard, it crumbled and burned in a morbid display of a battle between the two titans.

'I don't want to kill you,' Ultradog said darkly, narrowing his eyes (they were streaming now), 'but I will if I have to.'

Shadelight smirked and tensed, hind legs curling and back arching in preparation. 'You'll try.'

'It doesn't have to end this w- I'm sorry, can we turn down the wind? My eyes feel like their melting.'

'CUT!'

The director's voice boomed across the set and everything came to a sudden, grinding halt. The wind from the giant fan sitting just out of view dissipated almost immediately, and an eruption of muttering voices sounded across the set as the crew ended the take and instinctively began preparing for the next one.

'What's the problem, Marshall?' The director, Joe, asked, pushing off from his chair and marching onto the set towards them.

'Sorry, it's just the wind machine, it's a little strong,' Marshall replied as a woman from the makeup department materialised somewhere and began furiously dabbing around his masked eyes with a tissue. 'Can we tone it down or maybe...I don't know...change the angle so it's not blowing right in my face? Otherwise it's gonna look like I'm crying the whole time.'

Joe didn't look happy, but he did look too tired to argue. Today had been particularly long and draining, more than usual. It felt like some kind of twisted Hollywood curse had been placed upon them; there had been a slew of technical issues in the early hours, an extra had tripped on a chunk of fake building during a scene and cut his head, which could mean a lawsuit, and now the leading actor couldn't finish a take because he was being blinded by a giant fan. Everyone was exhausted and grouchy, Marshall included, and he found his usual facade of positivity slipping faster than usual. Even his co-star, Samson, the usually chipper doberman who playing the villainous Shadelight, looked thoroughly annoyed that Marshall had ruined what could have been the final take of the day as the costume team fussed over him and his black-and-purple bodysuit.

'Sure,' Joe said, not-so-subtly pinching the bridge of his nose and turning away. 'We'll make the adjustment. Alright, let's do another one!'

As the crew continued to set up for the next take, Marshall resisted the urge to scratch himself.

Superhero movies were often dumb, formulaic, and vapid, but the worst part of them had to be the costumes. Spandex and leather did not sit well on fur and the itch had become almost maddening. He wanted this day to be over so he could peel off the dam thing and forget for a few hours that he had to wear it again first thing tomorrow.

Ultradogitself had been the result of the unexpected popularity of a side character in two of the darker, grittier live-action Apollo the Super Pup movies. The character had been introduced as a sort of sidekick to Apollo in the second instalment of the franchise through some convoluted origin story that Marshall could barely remember anymore. Back when all three of his agents had set up the meeting to tell him that he'd been offered the chance to audition for the role, he'd been incredibly enthusiastic.

After nearly a decade of TV and smaller indie movie roles, it would be his first appearance in a major blockbuster motion picture, as well as an opportunity to be a part of the franchise he'd adored as a puppy. He had to take it. When they'd called the day after the audition to tell him he'd gotten the part, he'd been ecstatic.

It wasn't until halfway through filming Apollo 2that he'd come to a heartbreaking realisation: He hated it. The lines sounded so much more stupid when you were the one saying them, the costume they made him wear was a hideous green-and-silver bodysuit that made him look like a giant Christmas ornament, and Blaze, the Bull Terrier sex symbol playing the role of Apollo himself, had been the most insufferable divo Marshall had ever met. The relief had been immeasurable when they'd finally wrapped after eight months. With any luck, the movie would tank and the studio would back out of the three-movie contract he'd signed.

Luck, it seemed, wasn't interested in playing ball. Apollo 2 performed extremely well at the box office, and the reception to Ultradog's character, as well as Marshall's performance, was overwhelmingly positive. Requests for a spinoff soon came pouring in online and, after Apollo: Age of Shadowswas released to critical success the following year, the studio announced that plans for the spinoff movie were being made.

Another year later, here they were. The crew gave the signal that they were ready for the next take, and Marshall and Samson got into position once more. The wind machine started up again, gentler this time and not blowing directly in his face, thankfully.

'Rolling,' the cameraman said.

'Ultradog, scene two-six-one, take three,' the Second AC said, snapping the clapperboard shut in front of the camera.

'Alright, here we go,' Joe said loudly. 'And…ACTION!'

For approximately the twelfth time in the last three hours, Marshall wondered why he was here. He loved a party as much as the next dog, but there was something so...plastic about industry parties. You were constantly being watched, and not in an adoring, starstruck way, but more in the way how starving vultures watch a limping animal, waiting for it to stumble.

This one was no different; some mega-rich person Marshall had never met was hosting a shindig in celebration of...something in one of his mansions in the Hollywood Hills, and he'd been encouraged to make an appearance by his team due to the number of high-profile individuals supposedly attending. "A great opportunity to make contacts, the kind that boost your career", one of his managers had said. Marshall was fairly certain that translated to "suck up to as many strangers as possible in the hopes you somehow get another movie deal out of it", or something like that.

Throughout the entirety of filming the Apollo series and Ultradog, Marshall had been put on a strictly regimented diet to maintain the lithe, athletic figure most Dalmatians were often blessed with, which pretty much prohibited any kind of alcohol, but since they'd wrapped two weeks ago, he found himself free to indulge...within reason. Right now, he was on his third dog-friendly cocktail, something unfortunately called a 'Rainbow Bridge', and he'd strategically placed himself next to the gigantic buffet table.

He'd heard that Luke Stars was supposedly coming tonight, but there was no sign of him so far. It was a shame; Marshall would've appreciated a friendly face right now. Being in a building full of people that he'd only ever seen on TV, apart from a few celebrities he'd met during his PAW Patrol days, was hardly much fun. Ten years ago, he would've been too starstruck to speak. Now, he just felt awkward, out of place, like a lump of stone in a vat of diamonds.

So far, the highlight of the night had been when Ariana Grande had come up to him and told him how adorable she thought he was. Marshall preferred to think of himself as cleanly handsome, but he didn't want to be rude, so he simply thanked her and told her how much he loved her music. There were a couple of other dogs here as well, actors and other public personalities, but when Marshall had tried to engage with them, all they'd done was interrogate him on his life in the PAW Patrol. There were only so many 'What was it like?'s and 'Have you and Zuma made up yet?'s that he could take. Still, at least Blaze wasn't here.

He'd come here to make friends - contacts - and seemed to have already failed miserably. The next best thing was to just get tipsy and wait for the night to be over. He finished the rest of the awful cocktail, headed over to the bar to hand over his empty glass, and ordered another drink that didn't sound any more appealing. Whilst the bar staff busied themselves, a few more guests approached Marshall. Well, cornered more like.

'Hey, Ultradog! Loved you in Apollo 2!'

'Haha, thanks.'

'Marshall from the PAW Patrol! Say the thing!'

'I'm ready for a ruff-ruff rescue.'

'Hey, Marshall! You fired up?'

'Haha, good one.'

'Marshall! Ready for a ruff-ruff rescue?'

'Haha, good one.'

'Hey, Marshall! Good to know we're safe if there's a fire!'

'Haha, good one.'

'Marshall! When's the PAW Patrol getting back together?'

The drink couldn't come fast enough. Marshall almost shattered the glass in his teeth when he snatched it from the bar and had drained half of it by the time he returned to his spot by the buffet table. He wondered if anyone would notice if he left now. The drinks were starting to take effect - doubly so from the long periods of forced sobriety - and the bejewelled leather collar his stylist had put on him for the event was starting to aggravate him.

'The next person who tells me to say "Green means go!" is gonna be seeing a whole lotta red,' said a voice next to him suddenly.

Startled, Marshall almost knocked over his cocktail. He turned to the speaker, did a double take, and nearly fell over in shock.

'Rocky?' He exclaimed.

Rocky grinned. 'Hey, Movie Star.'

If not for the dark patch surrounding his left eye and the slightly crooked right ear, Rocky would've been unrecognisable. His stone-grey fur was the most well-groomed Marshall had ever seen it. The mussed tufts were gone; trimmed and brushed back neatly across his face, and his tail was longer and sleeker. He was dressed to the nines as well, sporting a black blazer and white shirt, not too dissimilar from Marshall's own, and a black leather collar with a gold trim across the centre. He looked immaculate, mature, in a completely different way than Marshall could've ever expected. It was almost frightening.

'Oh, my God!' Marshall said, finding himself lost for words. 'No way! I-...wow! God, how long has it been?'

'Way, way too long,' Rocky replied as the two dogs embraced briefly, placing a paw over each other's shoulder. 'I saw you by the bar and stalked you on your way over here.'

'What the hell are you doing here?' Marshall asked, releasing him. 'I had no idea you were even in LA.'

'Oh, yeah. This really isn't my scene but I know the host,' Rocky said simply.

Marshall gawked. 'You know Spencer Davies? How?'

'He contributed to mine and Tracker's campaign back when it first started. The short version is: he wanted to work with us and made a generous donation.'

'Right, right, of course, you're in politics now,' Marshall said, suddenly remembering the press conference he'd seen on TV years ago in which Rocky and Tracker had taken turns answering questions on the podium. 'Hey, is Tracker here too?'

He eagerly scanned the crowds for any sight of him.

'Oh, no, he couldn't make it,' Rocky said with a little shake of his head. 'Guess I'm representing the both of us here.'

'Oh...well, never mind! So, how's the campaign going? Tell me everything!'

'Absolutely, and I wanna hear all about what you've been up to, but if you don't mind,' he winced as someone stumbled drunkenly past them, almost spilling their drink on both of them, 'can we go somewhere a little quieter? This place is giving me a headache.'

'So, I'm on the red carpet, posing for pictures and all that, when Anne Hathaway appears out of nowhere and starts petting me. Petting me!'

'No way!' Rocky exclaimed, eyes bulging.

'Oh, yeah. And I'm just standing there like "Uh, how the hell do I react to this?". There were cameras everywhere and I didn't want to make a scene but, like, it was so weird!'

'Extremely weird,' Rocky laughed. 'Then again, I'm sure plenty of dogs wouldn't mind having their ears scratched by Anne Hathaway.'

'Well, sure, but, like, at least askfirst next time, know what I'm saying?'

The two laughed again until Marshall's sides began to ache. They'd managed to escape to the top floor where the fewest people were and had located a balcony that didn't have someone puking off of or using for...other things. The screen door was thick enough to muffle the thumping music from downstairs enough to have a normal-volume conversation.

'Oh, man, famous people are insane,' Rocky said with a chuckle. 'I'm real glad you haven't changed, Marshall. Not much, anyway.'

'First of all, I hate to tell you but you're famous as well, Rocky, in case you forgot,' Marshall pointed out, jabbing a paw towards him. 'Second, what d'you mean "not much"?'

'Well, I haven't seen you trip over or crash into anything once tonight, so there's that,' Rocky replied with a knowing smirk.

'Har har,' Marshall said flatly, rolling his eyes. He couldn't help but grin, though.

'And you're buffer than I've ever seen you. Those superhero diets I've heard about must be no joke.'

Marshall's grin dissolved. 'Don't remind me,' he muttered, turning to gaze over the balcony railing. Beneath the stars, the houses belonging to other high-end individuals were dotted around the dry, dusty hills, their lights cutting through the night like candles. In the far distance, he could just make out the Hollywood sign, glowing in the backdrop like a particularly large stain.

'I liked your movies, by the way,' Rocky went on, apparently not noticing the change in his tone. 'The Apollo ones, I mean.'

'Don't tell me you actually watched that crap.' It came out a fraction harsher than he'd intended.

Rocky blinked. 'Well...I thought they were fun. And it was more for the nostalgia. We used to love the old Apollo show, didn't we? Y'know...back in the day.'

'Yup...those were the days.'

The Hollywood instincts Marshall had developed over the years were screaming at him to stop being so transparent, to slip on the smiling veneer and stop showing his true feelings as he'd done so effortlessly a thousand times before, lest his career face the consequences. But, he found that being here with Rocky, someone who knew him before Ultradog existed, before Zuma's book had nearly killed his budding career, even before the whole world knew about the PAW Patrol, he just...couldn't.

'You...don't like your own movies?' Rocky asked, his voice a compound of confusion and hesitation.

'They're not my movies, Rocky, I'm just in them,' Marshall said with a sigh. Then, he mustered up what little mental strength the night hadn't already sapped from him, forced on the mask, and turned to his old friend.

'Anyway, enough about me! What about you? How's the world of politics, dare I ask?'

'Oh,' Rocky seemed a little taken back by the sudden change in topic, but he didn't press it. 'It's...a lot, I won't lie. I barely have any free time these days. There's always another meeting, another conference, another speech. But, it's worth it.'

'Yeah?'

'Yeah. It's like...when you can see the difference you're making, even if it's only a little bit, it motivates you to keep going. It reminds you of why you started it in the first place, know what I mean?'

'...Yeah. Yeah, totally.' Eleven years ago, that wouldn't have been a lie. Truthfully, Marshall didn't know a whole lot about Rocky and Tracker's political escapade, only that it involved environmental protection.

'What gets me the most is the fact that what we're doing is still a topic of debate at all,' Rocky went on. 'I mean, we all live on the damn planet. I doesn't take a genius to realise that screwing it up is screwing ourselves at the same time. Like, seriously, wake up and smell the dog treats, people!'

Marshall shrugged. 'Most people are stupid, Rocky. I mean, think back to how many times we had to save someone from a situation that could've been avoided entirely if they'd just used their brains for a second.'

Rocky sniggered. 'Way too many.'

A moment of silence passed between them, broken only by the incessant thumping of the music and the loud voices of partygoers, particularly the ones in the pool below them.

'Rubble would've liked it here,' Rocky suddenly said so quietly Marshall wasn't sure he'd heard right.

'Huh?'

'I'm just saying, Rubble would've fit right in here. He'd love this.'

Marshall blinked, unsure as to why Rocky was bringing this up of all things. 'Oh, uh...yeah, guess so.'

'What d'you think he's doing right now?'

Marshall's gaze trailed to the balcony floor. 'No idea. I guess I never really thought about it.'

More silence.

'So...have you spoken to any of the others from the team?' Marshall asked. The question had hung in the air between them since meeting like an ugly neon sign, impossible to ignore forever.

'Not recently,' Rocky admitted. 'I tried to keep in contact at first, but then life got in the way, y'know. And it was even harder after Zuma-'

He stopped abruptly and looked away. Marshall didn't wait for him to finish. He didn't have enough masks to discuss that topic tonight.

'Me either,' he said softly. 'God, y'know, I actually can't remember the last time I spoke to any of them.'

'Not even Ryder?'

'No. I was always auditioning or on set. I never even realised.'

Even more silence. Marshall leaned back in the balcony chair and looked up at the black canvas above them. He noticed a particularly bright star and focused on it. He found himself wondering what it would be like to be that star, to remain so far away from it all, looking down, separated from all the little things that tied him to this world. He stared at the glinting pinprick and was suddenly overcome by a sense of jealousy so bizarrely powerful he could've cried.

'I caught one of your episodes, by the way,' Rocky said.

Marshall blinked, snapping back into reality with violent speed. 'What? Really?'

'Yeah. I don't get a lot of time for TV these days, but I saw you on that New York cop show. I can't remember the name. You were really good.'

Marshall didn't remember the name of it either, nor did he care to. He'd been on a number of stupid cop shows, playing the same stupid character type.

'Oh...thanks,' he said, because he couldn't think of anything else to say.

Below them, a woman shrieked, followed by a loud splash, and then drunken laughter and cheering from all around.

'Hey, Marshall?' Rocky asked.

'Yeah?'

'Can I ask you something?'

'Of course.'

'...Why'd you become an actor?'

Marshall turned to Rocky, caught entirely off guard. 'What?'

'I just-...I don't remember you ever saying why you wanted to be an actor in the first place and...well, correct me if I'm wrong, but you don't exactly seem...in love with it. So, I dunno, I guess I'm just curious as to why you're even doing it if it's not making you happy.'

Marshall stared at Rocky, then he stared at the floor, then the hills. Of all the questions he could've been asked, of all the questions he had been asked throughout his career, this was the most destabilising. How was it that one simple question could rip through him like this? Could bypass whatever shell he'd crafted for himself, take every conversation he'd had with himself for more than a decade, and lay it all out before him? There were a million answers, but which of those weren't lies, brushoffs, avoidances? They came together, like magnetised pins, swirling and screaming like a tornado in his head.

'Sorry,' Rocky said a little sheepishly. 'I didn't mean for that to sound rude or invasive, or whatever. I just-'

'I don't know why,' Marshall said, silencing him.

Rocky said nothing, just looking at Marshall patiently, waiting for him to go on.

Marshall took a deep breath and found his chest unusually tight. 'Everything was going wrong.'

'...What d'you mean, Marshall?'

Marshall stared straight ahead as he went on, his breathing feeling less stable by the second. 'We all knew the PAW Patrol wouldn't last forever. Not with us, anyway. I knew it, and I thought I could handle it. But, then it actually happened and...and I suddenly realised something: I didn't have anything else. The acting...the TV stuff...it started as fun, as a...a pup's dream I was making come true because even if it didn't work out, I knew I'd always have you guys, but then everything had changed and everyone was leaving. You guys had directions to go in; you and Tracker were gonna save the planet, Skye was opening her own school, you all seemed to know what you were doing, like you had a safety net ready and waiting for when it all fell apart. But me? All I had was a few guest appearances on TV shows no one watched.'

Marshall took another breath. It shook in his lungs and the back of his eyes began to burn. He blinked defiantly a few times and fixed his gaze on the balcony railing.

'So, I guess I...I clung to it, y'know? I figured that was my direction, at least until I got over the adjustment period after the PAW Patrol ending, and, hey, we'd always be friends, so it wasn't that bad, right?'

He swallowed forcefully.

'And then Zuma published that goddamn book and I knew then that it really was over. All of it. Not just the patrol but...us. We were over. Forever. We were already barely speaking by that point anyway, it was just the icing on the cake. And all I had was acting. So...I kept at it. I made something out of it, or tried to, at least. Even when I kept getting type-casted as the same action-caricature over and over and over again, even when no one would take me seriously as an actor because I was just the firefighter Dalmatian from the PAW Patrol whose face was on their kids' pyjamas, even when strangers on the street called me horrible things and accused me of being one of Zuma's abusers, I kept trying. And...well...here I am. Still trying, I guess.'

Marshall's voice trembled dangerously and he decided that was as good a place as any to leave it. He felt unsteady, like a great force was expanding inside his chest, fighting to escape, and he might explode into a million pieces at any moment. He refused to look at Rocky, who was silent for a long time. When he finally did speak, it was softly.

'Wow, Marshall...I...I had no idea.'

Marshall shook himself and fought to regain what little of his composure was left.

'It's okay,' he said, forcing some levity into his tone that might as well have been made of plastic. 'I think I'm done with the drinks for tonight, though.' He tried to laugh but found it physically impossible. He was well and truly spent.

'Marshall, I...I don't wanna tell you what to do, but have you...talked to someone about this? Professionally, I mean?'

A bitter, humourless grin spread itself across Marshall's muzzle. 'Who has time for that, right?'

'Don't do that,' Rocky snapped and Marshall glanced at him in surprise. 'Don't...don't go back into actor-mode, or whatever it is you're doing. I'm serious. Therapy helped Chase with his anxiety, remember? I think...I think it would help you as well. Really.'

'Didn't know you were a doctor as well,' Marshall replied reflexively.

'I'm not. I'm your friend, even though it's been years. I'm your friend and I'm here for you, Marshall. I can't offer much else except an ear if you ever wanna talk. Seriously.'

The earnestness in Rocky's face and voice silenced whatever quippy response the vault of Marshall's brain had prepared. Had he really grown so unaccustomed to real honesty over the years?

Rocky checked the little digital watch strapped to his foreleg, and sighed. 'Look, Marshall, I know this is, like, the worst possible note to end this on, but I really gotta get going. It's late and tomorrow's another crazy day and all that. I'll send over my contact details and we'll talk again as soon as possible, alright?'

Marshall blinked. 'I...yeah, alright, Rocky.'

'Awesome.' Rocky hopped off the chair and slid the screen door open with a paw. The volume of the music immediately increased to obnoxious levels again. 'I'll see you soon, Marshall.'

'Yeah...oh! Rocky!' Marshall said a little too loudly.

Rocky paused and looked back at him. 'Yeah?'

'I forgot to say earlier, but you look great. Neat and tidy suits you.'

Rocky grinned. 'Thanks, you too.'

Then, he was gone and Marshall was alone on the balcony. He knew it was time for him to go as well. He'd shown his face and stayed long enough to avoid being rude, which was good enough for him. It would have to be good enough for Spencer as well. There was no sign of Rocky when he headed back downstairs or out to the front yard. Using the chip in his collar, he contacted his driver, who assured him he would be there in less than fifteen minutes, and sat on the neatly-trimmed lawn. Everything said over the last hour replayed over and over in his head, like a film reel. Rocky's words echoed in his mind, their truth ringing clearly. Rocky always had been the smartest member of the team, second only to Ryder.

When Marshall looked up, the stars were still there, their brightness unchanged. He swore he found the same one he'd looked at earlier, the brightest of the bunch, and felt it looking down at him as well. He had more to think about now than he had in a long time. Maybe his directions weren't gone after all. Was it possible he'd just lost sight of them and they were still there, open and waiting for him to take the first step?

From the darkness above, the star seemed to wink at him, like it knew what he was thinking.

Marshall smiled.