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wild-west-way · 11 days ago

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PAW Patrol: Wild West Way - Loyalty

Fic set between 1895 and 1898. Since the writer is not fluent writing in English, it is possible that you can find some grammar mistakes.

Thank you, THANK YOU to @self-indulgent-paw-patrol for the amazing fan art she drew. It's at the end of the fic!! Go to see it! (I'll post it later on a stand alone post too)

1895 - Dallas

Chase took a quick swig from his flask and waited patiently. He’d been in position for three hours. Unlike the humans around him, being a dog, he was accustomed to standing guard. His mind did it every night. Like any good pup, he never slept deeply; a part of him was always alert in case something went wrong nearby. Leaning against the window frame, he had a clear view of the entire street. People strolled the sidewalks as if nothing was happening, enjoying the glorious morning, while horses passed by the bank they were watching.

Chase glanced sideways at the closest human next to him. That one looked like he’d lost all patience and was now getting distracted by a fly. The dog held back a sigh of resignation. Humans often struck him as pitiful creatures, but as sheriff, he’d hoped he could make a difference from his new position. The more time passed, the more he realized just how limited they were. Poor concentration, slow reflexes, and injuries that took forever to heal. The only reason they had managed to dominate the world was that they got there first. Pups, like Chase himself, had arrived much later… apparently.

The numbers depended on how they looked at them.

But humans had taken over everything in a ruthless way, crushing anything that was different or went against them. Even among themselves, they had a fake hierarchy imposed solely by religious and cultural beliefs, ridiculous ideas that degraded women or those with darker skin. Worst of all: it was contagious. Humans had made the pups believe that only purebreds were better than the rest. That idea had spread and at some point, it had gotten stuck in Chase’s head.

In his case, maybe it was because he hated a certain mutt.

The dog looked out the window again. Still nothing on the frontier.

C’mon. Show yourself, he thought. He was beginning to doubt the tipoff. It wouldn’t be the first time Rocky’s gang gave them the slip, but this time everything was lined up. He’d double-checked the info to make sure it was legit. There was barely any room for error. He scratched the floor with his claws, already getting a little anxious to throw the whole gang behind bars. It’d be the win he needed to get promoted to Marshal.

C’mon, show yourself, he thought again, as if repeating the mantra would somehow trigger a miracle. But once again—nothing.

“Sir… is this really necessary?” his human partner asked the question of the century.

Chase knew the humans wouldn’t last much longer. They’d been waiting four hours now, spread out across the area. Two were pretending to sip what had to be the longest coffee in history; a third had run out of things to do with his horse and was just walking in circles. Two more were up on the rooftop. One woman on a balcony was fanning herself with a letter. Appearances could be deceiving, and Chase was convinced that, with a setup like this, they’d finally catch the gang. So why hadn’t they shown up?

Had they figured it out?

Chase licked his muzzle, thoughtful, ears low. Rocky was just as smart as he was. That dog had a sharp mind and years of experience. From what Chase knew, he’d been temporarily taken in by a wealthy family, but before that, he’d always been a street dog. Over time, he’d formed a gang to survive—a gang that always managed to slip through their fingers. They’d plan several escape routes or trick them with false tips in unexpected places. They’d been the thorn in his paw ever since he became sheriff. He needed to close that chapter once and for all.

Chase didn’t realise he hadn’t answered his partner until the moment he opened his snout. But before he could speak, the ground shook beneath them. Something hit the building they were using as a hideout, rattling the wooden beams and sending a cloud of dust into the air. Hidden rats bolted in a frenzy, desperate for cover. Chase’s ears shot up. He was already tensing his strong muscles, ready for action.

Only animals sensed danger before it fully surfaced. They were always the first to notice. Humans took longer to pick up on signs. And even when they did, they either ignored them or thought they were above them. That’s how horses got spooked by smoke, or dogs became uneasy at the smell of gas.

Pure instinct made Chase abandon his spot and stick his muzzle out the hideout window, ears raised high, listening for distant sounds. People and pups were suddenly sprinting and shouting. Some were yelling about robbers. As Chase put the puzzle pieces together in his head, the first wisps of smoke began to rise on the far side of the city.

And then he understood what had happened: They were robbing a different bank.

“Damn it!” he growled, spinning to face his partner. “Tell the others! They’re hitting Gaston & Camp! All of them, except two, get moving, now!”

Gaston & Camp was often regarded as the first permanent bank in Dallas, established by Gaston and Camp. Before statehood (and even before the Civil War), there were smaller, unofficial banking operations in Texas, often run by merchants or land speculators, but they weren’t officially recognised as “banks” under U.S. or Texas law because the Republic of Texas, until 1845, actually prohibited most formal banking.

Chase didn’t wait for the human’s reply. He jumped down from the window to the floor below, showcasing his animal agility. The moment his paw pads hit the ground, he broke into a sprint. He didn’t even need to think: his body moved on its own, dodging people, horses, and even a tram that cut across his path. With his incredible dog vision and reflexes, he leapt through one side of the tram and out the other instead of running around it. No human could’ve pulled that off.

He skidded to make a sharp turn, then kept running. The smoke was his guide, and it was growing thicker by the second. In his mind, he couldn’t help but consider how much of a fool he’d been. It hadn’t occurred to him that they might’ve tricked them again and hit a different bank. Chase was furious with himself. It was a rookie mistake; one he’d pay for. How was he supposed to explain to the district Marshal that he’d let them slip through his paws again? With a little luck, maybe he’d still get there in time.

He slowed down once the smoke started burning in his lungs. By the time he reached the scene, Chase’s heart sank at the sight of the damage. They’d blasted open the back of the bank with dynamite and gotten away with several safes. There were hoofprints all over the ground, but he knew it was pointless to follow them. After a certain point, the tracks would blend with others, making it impossible to trace them. Tracks… Chase tried to sniff the air, but the smoke ruined any chance of picking up a scent.

Damn it, he thought, biting his lower lip as firefighters arrived to put out the blaze caused by the explosion. The ground was covered in rubble, but thankfully, there didn’t seem to be any injuries. They’d been careful, like always. This had Rocky written all over it. His partner, Zuma, was a bit more reckless. Rocky’s plans were always sharp. Chase slammed a paw against the ground in frustration. How could he have screwed up this badly?

The horses and the rest of the humans arrived soon after. There was still one last hope, one final shot. If they could just find a single piece of evidence, something that tied the gang to the scene, they could use it. Last time, they’d been close, but came up with nothing. And as usual, the witnesses had been unreliable. This time might be different. All he needed was one detail, one scrap of proof, and he’d have the resources to finally hunt them down. Any judge would be eager to hang a mutt—except the one in this region was unusually soft when it came to canines. Just his luck.

He always got the gentle ones.

He gave the usual orders, though everyone already knew the drill: ask people who’d been nearby, look for any evidence, check for dog fur… anything that could point to someone specific. Chase wished that someday, there’d be something that let you go back in time to see how things really happened. That way, at least, he’d have something concrete to show his superiors. That was all he needed.

He didn’t sit back and wait, either. His nose wasn’t as sharp as some pups’, but it was still way better than any human’s.

The fact that no one had died made searching for clues much easier. The bank was partly destroyed, and whatever beauty it had once held was now gone. Chase wished he had more pups with him instead of just humans. Watching them trample everything—totally unaware they might be stepping over a vital clue—made his job ten times harder. He gave them orders, sure, but sometimes he wondered if they even took him seriously, even though he was the sheriff. In moments like this, the German Shepherd had no choice but to grit his teeth and hope his nose would catch something useful.

He wasn’t ashamed to stick his snout to the ground, sniffing for traces. He knew Rocky’s scent. They’d crossed paths a couple of times. But there was no trace of him here. Maybe one of his companions, whom Chase hadn’t met yet. Or maybe allies. It was like a chess game between two sharp minds—Rocky knew exactly who to count on to get what he wanted, even forming alliances with other gangs. Meanwhile, Chase kept trying to find weaknesses and stay one step ahead. With little success. It was getting frustrating, and his job was hanging by a thread.

He froze when something caught his eye. He walked over to a table that had been blasted apart by the explosion and, using his strength, lifted it just enough to pull out a white card hidden underneath. The symbol printed on it was unmistakable: a three-toed paw inside a shield. It was the mark of the pup rebellion—those who fought for better laws and rights for pups.

He flipped it over. There was a note. A date. A place. A meeting.

For a moment, he thought he could use it as evidence in court, a proof that Rocky had really been there. But then it hit him: the handwriting. Probably wasn’t even his. And it had changed from earlier notes. Why would Rocky ever use his real one? Pups, generally, did not know how to write. He sniffed the card. No scent. Not even that. He was messing with him. Testing his patience.

But there was a date. And a place.

Chase knew he still had a chance to catch him once and for all.

He looked around. The others were still shaken. An explosion like this shook people up fast. Chase slipped away quietly, leaving the rest to handle the aftermath.

They wouldn’t find anything else.

🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾

The bar Rocky had picked was a total dump, like most dark places in that city. You could cut the tension in the air with a knife. Chase had to slip in without his badge or usual uniform. It was safer that way. Everyone knew the sheriff. But if he slipped in low and quiet, he could avoid trouble. He made his way to the bar, where people were chatting, and did what he always did: set the white card down on the counter.

It was like dropping a stink bomb. The voices died down. One by one, heads turned. Within seconds, people were hurrying out the door. When it was all over, only the barkeep remained—a grey-haired man who acted like he hadn’t seen a thing and turned his back. Chase jumped off the counter and sat at a table, crossing his front legs.

It wasn’t the first time that symbol had that kind of effect. Most humans didn’t have much respect for pups, but that symbol had been the source of a lot of trouble. Some believed just seeing it brought on storms. Chase set his hat down on the table and looked out the window as night began to fall and the streetlamps flickered to life.

A few minutes later, the door creaked open. Another pup stepped inside, his fur gray, dressed in a dark jacket and matching hat, walking tall. His cold, nearly lifeless eyes and his whiskers made him look like someone you didn’t want to mess with. Chase looked at the earring dangling from one of his ears.

He knew that earring.

That was Rocky—no doubt about it. And even if Chase hadn’t recognised him by sight, the smell would’ve done it. Rocky was infamous for hating water.

He let him sit down. The German Shepherd remained calm, knowing that undercover men were stationed all around the bar, just waiting for his signal. All he needed was one slip-up, one piece of evidence, and Rocky would be behind bars for good.

As soon as Rocky sat down, the bartender didn’t even bother offering them a drink or a snack. Even he was afraid of Rocky.

“You’ve got some nerve,” Chase said first. “First, you blow up a bank, then you stroll in here like nothing happened.”

“Don’t know what bank you’re talkin’ about.”

“Rocky, I’m not stupid. We both know what each other’s done.”

“No, I don’t reckon I do,” Rocky said coldly. “And maybe you oughta be careful about makin’ assumptions.”

As usual, Rocky’s voice gave away nothing. It was nearly impossible to tell when he was lying or telling the truth. Chase leaned in a bit, showing just a hint of his teeth. It ticked him off. He was usually good at reading people. Or at least, that’s what he thought. But some still slipped through his jaws.

“You come into my town, blow a hole in a bank, and then act like you had nothing to do with it.”

“You got proof?”

“Forget proof!” Chase snapped. “You always cover your tracks! You know that just as well as I do!”

“Then you got nothin’ to charge me with. And the judge? He’s real fond of me.”

“No, I can’t charge you,” the German Shepherd admitted, leaning back. “So what, did you just come here to rub it in my face?”

Chase fell silent. Rocky didn’t say anything either, though he stared at him from head to paw. His legs were crossed on the table, claws lightly tapping the wood. Sometimes Chase wondered if that gaze had ever shown emotion, or if it had always been that empty.

“You know what I’m after,” Rocky said eventually. “We’ve had this talk before.”

“When pups and humans live under equal rules,” Chase replied, letting out a dry laugh. “That's never going to happen.”

“And yet, you wish it would.”

“I don’t…”

But he shut his muzzle. His whole body was tense. He started wondering if it had been a mistake bringing Rocky here. These mental duels usually ended with Chase on the losing side. Rocky had a way of reading people, but sometimes it felt like he was playing with cards Chase didn’t even know were on the table. Like he already knew the story. Chase knew that wasn’t true, but it was already too late. He’d given Rocky an opening.

He put a paw to his forehead. The alcohol, mixed with sunflower extract, helped him control the transformation—but it also clouded his judgment. He’d hoped this meeting would be easier, since he wasn’t operating at full strength. And Rocky probably knew that. With his sharp nose, he could smell alcohol from miles away.

And that messed with Chase’s ability to tell when someone was lying.

Rocky shook his head.

“Hard to believe you don’t want equality for everyone,” the outlaw said.

“I do. But it’s gotta happen the right way: through the law.”

“And what d’you think it’s gonna take for that to happen? When’s that change supposed to come, Chase?”

Chase cursed silently. Bad move. Rocky was steering the conversation somewhere else, and he had no tools left to pull it back. So, he decided to cut straight to the point.

“Why’d you bring me here?” Chase asked.

“I came to tell you we’re leavin’. From Texas, I mean. Thought you should know: we won’t be botherin’ you no more. Though technically, we never caused a problem you could prove.”

Chase’s ears perked up. That should’ve been good news. But he knew it wasn’t. If they left without consequences, someone else would have to deal with them. His bosses wouldn’t be happy that he’d let them go. Most sheriffs would be thrilled to see trouble vanish, but for Chase, it was a disaster. His job was on the line. If Rocky left, he’d lose everything. And catching him wasn’t in the cards.

“You’re leaving,” Chase repeated.

“That’s right,” said the outlaw.

“You’re just walking away.”

“That’s what I said. Chase, are you—”

“And you think I’m just going to let you go?” Chase growled. “I’ve got thirteen men posted around this place. One signal, and they’ll come down on you like bloodhounds. I don’t care if I don’t have proof, I’ll make sure you rot in a cell for as long as I can keep you there.”

He hoped Rocky would feel threatened. That was the plan. But the only reaction he got was a raised eyebrow, like Rocky didn’t have feelings at all.

“Chase,” he said, calm as ever, “if you throw me in a cell, you’ll have every gang I’ve made a deal with all over this town like a plague. Ain’t gonna leave nothin’ behind but ashes.” He paused. “You really think I’d come here without guarantees?”

Chase froze. He couldn’t tell if it was a bluff or the truth. He did know Rocky made deals with other gangs. He was a skilled negotiator, a mind shaped by the streets and survival. So yeah, it was possible. Maybe he did have people posted, ready to turn the whole place upside down if anything happened to him. He might even spare Chase’s life just so the sheriff had to live with the shame.

Chase swallowed hard. He was in a tough spot.

He’d lost every advantage.

“Your bosses want you to throw me in jail, don’t they? Or you’ll lose your job,” Rocky said, with his strong accent. Rocky never hid it, not like Chase, who faked it perfectly so nobody could tell where he was from. “But you can’t, ’cause you ain’t got a single piece of proof.” He paused, watching Chase closely. “And without that badge, you’ll be a nobody. The shame’ll follow you everywhere. You’ll never be a cop again. Best-case? Maybe they just demote you.”

Chase swallowed again. Rocky caught it.

“There’s another candidate for sheriff,” the mutt continued.

Chase took the bait. To hell with it.

“That ain’t your business,” he growled.

“There is one,” Rocky repeated. “A human. Been chasin’ your job for years. And now, you’re cornered. If you lock me up, they’ll promote you to Marshal. If you don’t, you’re out. Either way, that human gets your job. You’re just an obstacle. They only need to move you, up or down. Am I wrong?”

He wasn’t. That was how things worked. Chase clenched his teeth, furious.

“You…”

“Ain’t my fault, Chase,” Rocky said quickly. “I ain’t the problem—you are. You’re playin’ their game. You play a stupid game; you win stupid prizes. What’d you think? That they’d keep you around forever?” The gray pup kept going. “You know they’ve been usin’ you.”

“I earned this job,” Chase barked. Maybe it was the moon, or maybe that wild side he’d been hiding for years, but he couldn’t stop now. “I earned it!”

“That’s what you tell yourself in the mirror every night,” Rocky said, waving a paw.

“I worked my tail off just to be recognised!”

Rocky went quiet for a moment, as if thinking carefully about what to say next.

“Let’s test that,” he finally said. “Let’s see who’s right, me or you. Sit down.”

Chase hadn’t even noticed that he was standing, front paws planted firmly on the table, teeth bared. Embarrassed by how animal he’d gotten, he sat back down, shoulders tense. Rocky was bringing out the worst in him.

“The governor here’s a human, just like always. Franklin Pierce Holland,” Rocky began. “But I reckon he wasn’t in a strong position, huh? He had to face three other guys: Bryan T. Barry, Frank Wozencraft, and John B. Louckx. I read The Dallas Morning News. I stay informed. Anyway, he needed support, right? So, I bet, thanks to him, you got promoted to sheriff right before the election. And if I remember right, a lotta his support came from well-off pups who encouraged humans to vote for him.”

“I know where you’re goin’ with this. And you’re wrong.”

“Is that what you believe?” Rocky raised an eyebrow, one ear twitching toward Chase. “Be honest with me now, Chase. Is that really what you believe?”

For a moment, Chase didn’t want to believe it. But then he remembered how few options he’d had back then. He’d never expected to become sheriff in that town. Thought he’d be just another beat cop, nothing more. Then one day, after meeting that man, he got the promotion. Said the previous sheriff was moving up. From there, everything snowballed. Chase had been so focused on serving the town that he hadn’t even looked at the politics behind it. Truth be told, he never cared much. It was all...

“...human business,” Rocky said, like he was reading his mind. “Deep down, you’re like me. You got beef with the humans ‘cause they look down on us, even though we should have the same rights. In fact, they’re the ones who oughta be waitin’ at the door, not takin’ over this land and throwin’ out the natives who lived here first. You’re playin’ their game, but you got a different goal. Must be a real important one for you to keep grindin’ away as sheriff.”

It was, but he couldn’t explain it. Not without telling Rocky he was a Mexican and a werepup. That would blow up not only his credibility but his entire reputation. A pup with Mexican heritage would be instantly stripped of his badge. He’d be demoted to the worst jobs if he were even hired again. People saw a German Shepherd and assumed things. His accent was buried deep. No one had figured it out. Not even Rocky.

Or so he thought.

Jesus, said like that, he sounded as if he were ashamed of his family heritage.

“I can change the world. I can change them,” Chase insisted. “If I stay in this position and do good, I can open the door for others.”

Rocky stared at him, as calm as ever. Just listening.

“So, you think your example will inspire others to follow your path,” he said flatly.

“It’s a start.”

“A needed one.”

“And as Marshal, I’ll set the tone.”

“Right,” Rocky nodded. “From some dusty office out back, dealin’ with cases nobody wants or cares about.”

Chase narrowed his eyes.

“You mockin’ me?”

“No. I’m tellin’ you the truth,” Rocky said. “Look, Chase, the world is what it is. One little gesture won’t change a thing in four days. It'll take years. You won’t see it happen. Maybe, in a hundred years, we’ll still be in the same place. It takes somethin’ bigger to make people wake up. The humans came to this land as invaders. And you—you’re helpin’ ’em.”

“Never.”

“Really? Let me ask you this. How many Native Americans have you arrested in the past three years? I’ll make it easier. How many Black folks have you thrown in jail? Easier still,” he leaned in, “how many mutts like me have you kicked out of bakeries?”

Chase’s throat tightened. He knew the numbers. Five. Twelve. Twenty-three. He’d done it without thinking—just trying to prove that, as a pup, he could enforce the law. The newspapers praised him. Some humans even respected him. He walked the streets proudly. Some feared him. Others didn’t take him seriously. But he kept working every day to prove that his kind mattered. That they were more than just dogs.

Maybe he’d lost his way. Or maybe...

“Every one of ’em broke the law. They did somethin’ illegal,” Chase said.

Rocky pressed his lips together, nodding slightly.

“April 13: Dog kicked out of a grocery store for stealin’ vegetables,” Rocky began.

“See?”

“‘Police never found the stolen food,’” Rocky went on. “‘Native man caught diggin’ up graves.’”

“He was takin’ jewellery off a woman’s—”

“‘But anonymous sources say the body had been uncovered for two days already, and he was tryin’ to bury her again.’” Rocky raised a brow. “You just read the headlines to make yourself feel better, huh?”

He wasn’t going to deny it. Yes, he’d skimmed the headlines: never had much time. Rocky, on the other paw, had the full story memorised. He’d come prepared. Every excuse Chase offered, Rocky knocked down with something stronger. Chase clenched his jaw, unsure how to escape this. He was tempted to signal his men to arrest Rocky—but then remembered what he’d said: if he wasn’t bluffing, locking him up could put the whole town in danger just for one outlaw.

“Let me see if I’ve got this right,” Chase said, shrugging his shoulders and fixing Rocky with a steady look. “Let’s lay all the cards on the table. We can both agree humans aren’t exactly… capable on their own.”

“In that, we’re on the same page,” Rocky replied.

“They need horses, livestock in general… and they even must cook their meat cause raw it makes them sick.”

“That’s right.”

“They’re fragile creatures. Weak. Prone to sickness. We, as dogs, we come from wolves, and we adapted because they chose us and shaped us.”

“I see you’ve been readin’ up on Mr. Charles Darwin’s notions,” Rocky said with a raised brow. “Go on.”

“We’re a whole lot more capable than they are.”

“That’s true.”

“And yet they deny us our rights.”

“And we ain’t doin’ nothin’ to change that.”

“Isn’t it better, maybe, to do it within the law?” Chase leaned forward, eyes locked on Rocky, voice steady and serious. “Prove that we’re capable. Make small appeals, get society on our side... but always stay within the law. Chip away at that wall between us, piece by piece. Nobody ends up in prison and everyone wins, inside the framework of society, instead of…” His tone sharpened. “Instead of spending your life, like you’re doing now, robbing one bank after another.”

“I don’t—”

“Oh, c’mon, Rocky! I ain’t stupid. Since ’92, we’ve been sniffin’ each other out. We know exactly where one of us leaves a trail and the other picks it up.”

“And you think they’re going to listen to you? You think sittin’ pretty is gonna get you heard?”

“You think looting folks and stealing from others is going to make them see us as more than just animals? ’Because that’s the picture you’re painting’.”

“You ain’t helpin’ either. You’re keepin’ ’em happy with ear scratches and belly rubs. You’ve gone and humanised yourself.”

Chase bared his teeth.

“Don’t say that again.”

“Then deny it. Deny you’re just playin’ to please ’em.”

“I’m as much a pup as any other.”

“Well, for one who says that, you’ve lowered yourself plenty. We deserve a place in this world—and they ain’t givin’ it to us.”

“And what’s your plan? An all-out revolution? You want ’em to come hunt every last one of us down? ’Cause that worked out real well for Sitting Bull, huh? For all the natives?”

Rocky paused, weighing his next words carefully. Chase felt a flicker of satisfaction, thinking maybe he’d managed to make the outlaw see how little sense his proposal made. Changing the world through violence was never easy and rarely successful. Rocky was leaving too much destruction in his wake. If Chase could get him to consider a ceasefire, even temporarily, he’d count that as a win. It would buy him time.

The outlaw’s gaze drifted away. He looked at the bartender, a white man, who was scrubbing the same glass for the fourth time, watching them intently. It was obvious he was listening, but Rocky didn’t seem to care. Instead, he lowered his eyes to the planks of the bar counter, then up to the thick wooden beams above, and finally down to their own table, where deep claw marks scored the surface.

“So, your grand idea is we bow our heads, lick their boots, and beg for scraps,” Rocky said.

“Even so, we’ve still got more rights than the rest.”

“No. You got more rights. Purebreds got more rights. But mutts like me, we get thrown into the mines, haulin’ coal like pack mules. And if we drop dead, they toss what’s left of us out for the eagles. That’s the same thing they do with the Black folks,” Rocky said, shaking his head. “Easy to tell you come from a good family. I'm sure you're quite the gentleman who's been on dates with quite a few pups. Are you already a family dog, with little "Chase" running around?”

He wasn't going to deny it. He'd been on dates, yes. He was a handsome pup. He'd turned out well.

“You don’t know a damn thing about my father or my mother, or even my grandpa, Rocky.” Chase answered.

“And yet you think you’re worse off than me, bright-eyed sheriff?” Rocky leaned forward slightly. “You think I chose this life for the fun of it? Tell me, Chase: what do you reckon would happen if I tried to fit into your society? Let’s say they wiped my record clean if I even had one. What would happen then? Would they hand me a fine house? Let me choose my mate? Let me live the life I wanted? Could I walk into a restaurant without folks givin’ me the evil eye?”

Chase didn’t answer. Truth was, Rocky had a point. Even Chase got looks when he walked into a human-owned bar—unless it was run by another pup. Rocky would have it ten times worse. Being an outlaw had been more than a choice for him. It was in his blood. It was carved into his skin.

“Have you ever heard people talking about eugenics on the street? Because that's what you pups are doing by playing the humans' game: breeding only among yourselves.” Rocky said.

He was right.

“Ok, enough with that. What’s your goal with all that money?” Chase asked, folding his front legs across his chest. “And don’t tell me you ain’t got one. I don’t buy it.”

“If I did have one,” Rocky said slowly, “I’d buy a great stretch of land, give it a name, lay down my own rules, and make the humans watch how we can live just as good as they can.” He shook his head. “But since that ain’t the case, my goal’s to keep wanderin’, movin’ from place to place. I’d rather live out in the woods where our ancestors roamed and be free than bow to the humans’ poison words and stupid laws.”

“Humans can make fine things, y’know. They can build.”

“Other than takin’ land that ain’t theirs? Killin’ natives, stealin’ farms, lootin’ towns, and tearin’ down forests? Must be somethin’ real big to make up for all that.”

The truth was—there wasn’t. On that point, Rocky was right. Humans were the reason werepups were so scattered. They were the reason Chase had left his family in a hurry, chasing an opportunity that might’ve changed their lives. They were the reason Texas was no longer independent—his homeland, the place he still longed for.

Chase lowered his head. No, there was nothing that could make up for any of it.

“I admire that fire in you, you are all I hate: the law, the order, the truth” Rocky said at last, his tone almost a symbolic praise. “You’ve tried. Huntin’ us down, repeatedly, without rest. Always on my heels. Always watchin’ me with those bright, sharp eyes of yours.”

“You still haven’t told me why you came,” Chase insisted.

“I want you to come with me,” Rocky said. “I want you to leave all this behind. You’ve got potential, Chase. You’re strong. You’re smart. With the right trainin’, you’d be somethin’ incredible.”

Every offer Chase had ever gotten before had been some kind of bribe. He’d ignored them all. He was a decent pup, with a clean conscience and a strong sense of justice. Then Rocky showed up with the wildest offer yet. Join his gang. Become an outlaw.

Chase raised an eyebrow. Maybe he’d lost his mind. Or maybe he was desperate. Either way, Chase laughed right in the mutt’s face. Rocky didn’t even flinch.

“You’re outta your mind,” Chase said.

“I ain’t jokin’.”

“Then you don’t know me at all.” Chase straightened up, his muscles tense. “Take a good look. I will never—you hear me? Never betray the laws I swore to protect. I will never be like you. And if you were a decent pup—maybe even as a mutt—you’d do somethin’ right with your life before you die.”

Rocky didn’t seem surprised.

"It must be difficult to make a vow. I made one. With Zuma. Probably the only one I can keep. Anything that forces me not to be who I am... It would be difficult for me to keep." Rocky claimed.

But the long sigh he let out said enough. Chase felt a flicker of pride. He’d defended what he believed in. Justice. He didn’t even stop to consider how harsh his words might’ve sounded to the mutt across from him, who calmly adjusted his hat and stepped down from the stool with the same slow dignity as before.

“Guess I got here too late,” Rocky said, turning away. “I thought I could save you, but you’ve been tamed. Ain’t nothin’ left to save. I hope you never run into another German Shepherd, broken and lost, and lock him up thinkin’ humans’ll give you a belly rub and a nice dinner.” His voice wavered slightly. “’Cause if that day comes… you’ll already be gone.”

“Get out of my town. Don’t come back.”

“I won’t. Good night, Chase. Goodbye.”

That was the last time they ever saw each other.

🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾

1898 — Wild West Way

In Wild West Way, two pups woke up.

One in the comfort of his home. The other, buried under a pile of old wooden boards that barely passed for shelter.

One made himself a proper breakfast, got dressed, and smiled at his reflection in the mirror. He had a full day ahead: plans to keep the city safe and under control. The other investigated his reflection in muddy water and wondered where his youth had gone, even if his clothes now looked somewhat respectable.

One stepped outside and saw a few humans peeking obscenely through a window. He barked at them, and they ran off, leaving him satisfied. He knew not all humans were bad, and he trusted that this project he was part of might help them see that they could live under the same laws. The other, meanwhile, had just stolen a bunch of grapes from a fruit stand—his breakfast for the next few days—so he wouldn’t have to spend the little money the human had given him.

One strolled the city streets, heading toward the port. He wanted to visit Zuma and catch up, but decided to stop by the lookout tower first to check on some paperwork. The other simply started walking through the muddy, crowded streets of Wild West, following Humdinger’s plan, and trying to charm Zuma into going along with it.

One was content with what he was doing. And even though his conscience wasn’t completely clean, he was trying to make up for his mistakes. The other was sick of everything he’d become and questioned, day after day, if he had ever made a good decision in his life.

One’s name was Rocky. He had been an outlaw. Now, he was trying to be a good person. The other’s name was Chase. He had been a good sheriff. Now, he was lying to someone who genuinely cared about him.

Neither of them was what they truly felt they were.

But both had become what society had forced them to be.

Art by @self-indulgent-paw-patrol!!

And a third pup, named Zuma, was just one step away from becoming the center of a conflict between two quite different and very broken ideals.

#paw patrol au #wild west way #head canon #paw patrol #rocky #paw patrol rocky #chase #paw patrol chase #short story #self-indulgent-paw-patrol #fanart #omg 😍😍😍

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wild-west-way · 19 days ago

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PAW Patrol: Wild West Way - Red

Short-Fic (2K words) set between 1895 and 1897. You can read it after the "Read more"!

Since the writer is not fluent writing in English, it is possible that you can find some grammar mistakes.

—1897—

Zuma couldn’t see. The blindfold covered his eyes completely. He was trusting Rocky, who had tied a rope around his body to guide him. The rest of his senses remained alert, offering extra information: he could hear birds waking up at dawn; beneath his paws there were rocks and branches of all shapes and sizes; his nose picked up the scents of nearby animals, along with the smell of fir and pine. He was in a forest—he just wasn’t sure which one.

“Stop,” his companion said.

Zuma halted immediately, his heart pounding. He’d been blindfolded for two or three days already. It was getting annoying. At first, he had flat-out refused to let anyone cover his sight, knowing it would leave him more vulnerable to outside threats. But once the pain eased, he realised it was worth it. His mind was clearer now. He could think straight. Every thought glided through the folds of his brain like a surfer riding waves. Everything flowed, instead of stumbling and crashing like it had for years.

He felt his companion move behind him. He didn’t resist. Normally, he didn’t let anyone get that close to his back—except for Rocky. That’s why he felt safe: because his soul brother would never betray him.

“Close yer eyes,” Rocky ordered, his voice flat and steady. It had lost that easy-going tone it once had. Zuma still wondered why—or if it would ever come back. “We gotta take it slow.”

“I doubt this worked,” Zuma muttered, trying not to sound too hopeful.

“In that case, there’s no deal. Got it?”

The chocolate lab thought it over for a moment.

“Got it,” he finally said.

“Alright then.” True to his word, Rocky gently removed the blindfold, undoing the knot with his teeth. Zuma felt him place his paws on his back and clenched his jaw to resist the urge to turn around and snap at him—he’d become far too defensive since the fires of ’92.

He felt the cloth fall from his muzzle. It was freeing—and terrifying. Zuma sensed light filtering through his closed lids. It was the first time since the experiment that woman named Prioba had performed on his eyes. Marshall, the dog who had connected them with her, had pitched them the deal of the century: a cure for Zuma in exchange for following instructions—leave the gang and reunite the three of them for a project unlike any other. Accepting the offer had been an act of desperation from Rocky, who had fought tooth and nail to convince his friend to go along with it.

Because Zuma hadn’t been the same in years…

—1895—

Rocky watched the massive mansion go up in flames. Even from a fair distance, and despite the night’s darkness, the heat and glow of the fire reached him. He sat impassive, cold, as always. Mounted on his faithful horse, Alicante—an American Standardbred—Rocky could smell the burning wood mixed with the flesh of the people who once lived in that house. His ears picked up the howls of victory from the gang, cheering with all their might over what they’d accomplished.

His saddlebags held a good haul of valuable jewellery—more than enough to trade for a solid sum from any shady dealer. That money, once back in their hideout, would be split among the gang members. The deal was simple: anyone who wanted to leave later could do so without trouble. The rest had to move on, too—but that wasn’t a problem either. The gang was nomadic. They never stayed more than two days in one place, unless circumstances demanded it.

Rocky had founded this gang. He had set the rules. And yet, he’d never felt so ashamed of what they had just done.

Killing wasn’t off the table, but it was meant to be rare—only when absolutely necessary. Some members, like Zuma, didn’t care if their paws got bloody at that point, when desperation transforms people. Others, like Dwayne, preferred to avoid such situations altogether. And while the latter had made progress (he’d gone hunting once or twice), it was the former who worried Rocky the most. He had sparked all of this. He had created the chaos.

Rocky glanced sideways at his companion. The chocolate lab, next to his own Saddlebred, Palencia, smiled with satisfaction as he watched the fiery spectacle. His dark eyes, glowing green from the fires of ’92, gleamed with a kind of malice. Deep down, Rocky knew Zuma hadn’t always been this way. He had known him since they were pups, long before the disaster that wiped out Howdy Creek and left it in ashes. Back then, Zuma had been kind and gentle. Open-hearted.

But pain had dragged him straight to the edge of madness. Rocky had witnessed the toll it took. The gang hadn’t caused this kind of destruction so frequently in a long while. Things were escalating. Zuma was taking control, and anyone who got in his way ended up with a bullet between the eyes—courtesy of the pup-boxes they’d acquired from Cody Industries. To Zuma, the mansion’s destruction made perfect sense: the landowners hadn’t agreed to his terms, after all.

So, under Zuma’s orders, the gang had slaughtered every inhabitant. Then they’d looted the jewellery and finally made sure no one was left alive.

“Satisfied?” Rocky asked from atop his horse.

“Ain’t you?” Zuma replied with a wicked smile.

Rocky didn’t answer.

Zuma stepped closer, his cold, black eyes locked on him. The grin had vanished from his muzzle, replaced by a grim seriousness—one more fitting for a psychopath than for the chocolate labrador he once knew. Rocky didn’t even feel afraid—only sorrow. Sorrow for losing his best friend. For not knowing how to stop the unraveling. At first, a little compassion had been enough to steer Zuma away from his darker plans. But now, Zuma couldn’t feel anything. Not even sorrow. In fact, he didn’t even sleep anymore—because of the pain.

Those eyes. That accident. It haunted Rocky. It had happened years ago, but it clung to him day after day. A memory lodged in his body like a thorn he couldn’t remove. He clenched his claws, feeling the scar in one of his paw pads. That pain, sometimes, reminded him of the brutal decision he had made on the night of the fire in ’92.

He had chosen Zuma. Left Marshall behind.

Left his brother behind. Left his family to their fate.

Everything had died. The laughter. The playful shoves. The music.

That’s why Rocky believed he wasn’t any better than Zuma. And for that very reason, he let the chocolate lab keep showing his grief. At first, he thought it would help—like reaching for air after nearly drowning. But it hadn’t. The pain in Zuma’s eyes only grew worse. Since the fire, he had only been able to see in reds, oranges, and browns. The first days had been terrible. But then came the real agony. It spread, evolving into a constant headache that only got worse. Now it was part of him. Part of his life. The chocolate lab could no longer tell what was pain and what wasn’t.

And that’s why Rocky knew—he wasn’t talking to Zuma.

He was talking to Zuma’s chronic pain.

And he had to cut out that cancer before it destroyed everything.

“Well?” Zuma asked again, this time colder.

“Guess they had it comin’,” Rocky replied at last, turning his back on him. “Now let’s git, ‘fore Sheriff Chase shows up an’ hunts us down.”

For once, Zuma didn’t argue. He howled, pleased, and the others joined in. All except Rocky, who—though he felt the wild instinct stir in his veins—held back this time. Things had already gone too far. And until he found a way to fix it, there was nothing he could do but watch, heavy-hearted, as his old friend kept sinking deeper and deeper into madness.

Until there was nothing left of him.

—1897—

Rocky stepped aside with great care. Zuma still hadn’t opened his eyes. He was probably itching to do so. The fact that he was being obedient—for once in a long while—confirmed Rocky’s suspicion: the pain had loosened its grip on his lifelong friend. In his eyes, that alone made it worth agreeing to Marshall’s request to leave the gang. But he knew Zuma wouldn’t be satisfied with just that. He wanted more. Much more.

So the mutt sat down on his haunches beside the chocolate lab and brushed one of his whiskers with a long claw.

“A’right,” he said in that flat, quiet voice of his. “Open yer eyes. Slowly. Tell me what ya see. Take yer time—no rush.”

Zuma inhaled deeply. Yes, he was in a rush. A big one. But the process had been long and gruelling. They had come this far through sheer effort, and they couldn’t ruin it now just because of impatience. He began opening his eyes slowly, painfully slowly. After keeping them shut for so many days, it wasn’t easy. He resisted the urge to rub them with his dirty paws—he didn’t want to cause a new infection. The medication Marshall had provided through that mysterious woman was said to work wonders. He was about to find out.

Ever since the fire of ’92, Zuma had seen everything through a red haze. No matter where he looked—red, orange, and brown were the only colours that came through. A filter clouded his sight, keeping him from seeing the world clearly. In time, Zuma had accepted it: this faded, cold, bloody world was his new reality. He had lived with it for years. The other colours had vanished—not just from his eyes, but from his imagination too. Pain, ever-growing, had sealed that fate.

Green. Gray. Yellow. Blue. Pink. Orange. Blue again. Green again. A different green.

In his culture, colours had always held deep meaning. Red had always symbolised violence, war—and that’s how he had lived. The rest of the colours, with their meanings, had been locked away deep in his mind, far beyond the reach of pain. Now, they were coming back. And he welcomed them. The world had changed again.

He stepped forward. Looked beneath his paw. Grass, greenish and bluish. Tiny white drops of dew. A yellow-toned bird fluttered past his nose, pecking at something brown on the ground. The blue of a river in the distance blended with the hues of dawn behind the grey mountains, which shimmered in the light. Shimmer. He hadn’t seen that in years. All he had seen, all that time, were smudges.

“Well?” Rocky asked.

And then Zuma turned to him. And for the first time in a long while, Rocky felt genuinely surprised. His spirit had dimmed over the years, almost in tandem with Zuma’s pain. But to see him smile—foolishly, even—was a shock. He hadn’t expected to see him happy. He’d figured Zuma would just sink slowly into madness, and one day, end it all. And Rocky would follow. Because they had a vow carved in their very bodies—Rocky on his front legs, Zuma on the back.

Where the Labrador went, the mutt would follow. One after the other.

But Zuma’s expression shifted slightly when he looked at him.

“Your fur. It’s gotten lighter.”

“We all get old.”

“You’re not even twenty yet.”

“That’s nearly half my lifespan.”

And that’s when Rocky noticed, almost at once, the difference between Zuma’s voice and his own. The chocolate lab spoke with ease. Rocky, on the other hand, sounded flat. Lifeless. He had lost himself along the way, dragged down by Zuma’s pain, clutching at his own heart and pulling him straight toward hell. Now that the pain wasn’t there between them anymore, and all that remained was an abyss. And he wondered: could I ever be the same again?

He sighed.

“Then it’s settled,” the scavenger muttered, turning toward the horizon. “Tomorrow at dusk, we leave the gang.”

Zuma said nothing. They’d had this conversation before. Rocky was determined. He had made the decision while Zuma was weakened from the medicine—it was the only way to get him to agree. It was sneaky, even underhanded. But it was the only way the mutt felt his travel companion would listen.

Zuma nodded and looked out over the green meadow. The mountain range before them was stunning.

“We should cover your eyes again,” Rocky said.

“Can I have… one more minute?” Zuma asked. “I want to remember this. Just in case it doesn’t come back.”

Rocky didn’t answer. He couldn’t take away his hope—not like snatching candy from a pup. He gave a slight nod, though he didn’t expect Zuma to see it. The Labrador was far too focused on the beauty laid out before him.

Rocky took the moment to memorise this version of Zuma—calm, serene, almost joyful. Where his clothes didn’t cover him, Rocky could see the marks the fires of ’92 had left on his fur. Scars that would never fade.

Zuma rested his head against him, peaceful and still. The calm around them was overwhelming. For a few minutes, they weren’t tense, they weren’t arguing with the rest of the gang, they weren’t planning the next hit. They were just the two of them, back to being the pups they’d once been. Sneaking away from their families just to be together.

“Are you thinking’ what I’m thinking?” Zuma asked.

Rocky nodded. The bond between them went beyond that of brothers. It was almost spiritual. The vow between them was a formality—what one thought, the other followed. They knew what they wanted, what the other needed. They didn’t just watch each other’s backs: if one killed, the other would too. If one dropped the weapon, so would the other. If one chose a mate, the other would make sure it was the right one. They slept together. Dreamed together.

They needed each other.

And Zuma’s pain had almost shattered that bond.

“Do you think we can leave this life?” Zuma asked again, accepting silence as an answer.

“I dunno. I dunno if I can. It’s in my blood,” Rocky said, closing his eyes with unease. “I’ve always lived like this. ‘Cept for them three years with Marshall. But I’ll do it… I’ll do it for you.”

“It’s too risky. They’re still hunting my kind. Sooner or later, they’ll find me.”

“Then they’ll have to go through me first,” Rocky snapped. “Look at me, Zuma: they ain’t gettin’ away with it. If somethin’ happens to you, they’re comin’ down to hell with me.”

And he didn’t believe in any of that. But if there was a hell down there, he’d drag anyone who laid a paw on the chocolate lab straight into it with him—first-class ticket—to the deepest pit of canine damnation he held inside.

They looked at each other. No more words were needed. Zuma, knowing it was time, let himself be blindfolded again. Darkness returned. But in that darkness, he knew there’d be light. Sooner or later, the colours would come back. When Rocky finished tying the cloth and stood beside him again, the chocolate lab let out another sigh.

They would be free soon, he told himself.

And that’s when their lives would begin.

“I’m sorry,” Zuma said suddenly. “For all the pain I’ve caused you all this time. My words. My actions. I’m sorry.”

Rocky pressed his lips together. It had been too long since he’d heard the real Zuma. The Zuma he used to play with back in the day. That Zuma. His best friend. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold back tears. He had promised himself he wouldn’t cry. He couldn’t show weakness—not as an outlaw. If he did, the rest of the gang wouldn’t take him seriously.

He let out a sigh.

“And I’m sorry I couldn’t save ya sooner,” he replied, his voice rough, burdened with a sorrow he knew he’d carry from that moment on. “Now come on—we better move ‘fore the others start gettin’ suspicious.”

Zuma said nothing. But for the first time since this journey began, he felt Rocky’s voice shift again—felt the tone soften, just slightly.

That pain, the one that had chained both their hearts like heavy shackles, had loosened its grip—out here, in the middle of the plains. Giving them a chance.

They didn’t need to say anything more.

Their bond went beyond any known form of friendship or brotherhood.

And both of them knew that, for the first time, they had a real chance…

To choose right.

#paw patrol au #wild west way #head canon #paw patrol #rocky #paw patrol rocky #zuma #paw patrol zuma #fics

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wild-west-way · 25 days ago

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PAW Patrol: Wild West Way - Pups

As usual, thanks to @self-indulgent-paw-patrol for the grammar corrections!

#paw patrol au #wild west way #head canon #paw patrol #frames

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wild-west-way · 29 days ago

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PAW Patrol: Wild West Way - Freedom

Long Fic (9K words) set after the events of "Way". You can read after the “Read more”

A huge thank you to @self-indulgent-paw-patrol for all the help she gave me in finding all the grammatical errors!

When Skye looked at the English Pointer’s face, she felt lucky.

The dog she had saved looked older (all her friends seemed to be older now in this world), and his face had changed slightly. In her memory, the pup had been chubbier and a bit sturdier. The one in front of her now, lying on the stretcher in the climate-controlled room, was thinner, with his ribs showing if she ran her paw across his chest. He probably hadn’t eaten enough in recent days, judging by how she had found him. Fleas included. Additionally, he was coughing and had terrible breath. Her instincts warned her that there was an infection present.

For her, each of those damned “reunions” was painful. She recognised faces, but their voices had changed (less cheerful, more adult), and their stories were very different. Long gone were the days when they’d all been a tight, happy pack. She had been lucky enough that Marshall, Rocky, and Zuma had met as pups; the others, apparently, had found each other along roads filled with every kind of obstacle. The “new world,” as they called it, was nothing more than a replica of the “old world”—but in far worse condition, where people shot at each other just to get by.

Wheeler didn’t seem to be an exception. He was malnourished, suffering from heatstroke, and the ticks had had a field day on his coat. Katie’s effective treatments had once again been essential in dealing with an infestation that had nearly turned him into a mangy dog. The rest of the issues, she could treat with some time and patience—if he woke up. For now, the only thing she had been able to do was place him in the climate-controlled room and burn all his clothes. She’d only managed to save the hat.

Someone knocked at the outer door.

Aware of her responsibilities, Skye walked over to the entrance of the room and passed through the double doors that kept outsiders from discovering such a special place. If the locomotive was already a temporal oddity, a moderately advanced sterile room on board would cause a full-blown catastrophe if discovered. And Ryder already had enough problems with Thomas Edison: the man had continuously tried to steal his patents—or, failing that, buy them outright with fat checks.

Outside, a human dressed in similar clothes to hers waited patiently. His sunken eyes behind wire-framed glasses widened slightly, disappointed, when he found himself face-to-face with a pup. The sneer of contempt that twisted his face didn’t even faze Skye—she was used to that attitude. Instead, she simply waited, patiently, to see if he’d bother speaking to her, while her mind ran through hundreds of responses and witty comebacks she sadly couldn’t say aloud.

“We’ve emptied the entire mail storage,” the man said.

“Uh-huh.”

“In an hour we’ll load the new one, and you’ll have to take it to the next city,” the human continued. His gray hair clung to his face and merged with his beard—a dreadful fashion of the time. “Try not to eat the paper on the way.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll only chew on the ones with your name on them.”

She watched the man’s face flush red with bottled-up rage. Skye smiled to herself. She was part of the postal service, in addition to being a train conductor. That meant attacking her—physically or verbally—was a federal offence no one wanted to risk. It hadn’t been easy: pups weren’t welcomed in positions of importance, but Ryder had negotiated shrewdly with the region’s governor. The train—the Steam Patroller—was the fastest machine around. If they wanted it exclusively, Skye was part of the deal. And heaven help them if something happened to her.

After spitting near her paws, the man left the train. Skye could already hear all the people getting on and off the cars—just as the man had said, it would take about an hour. The station was packed with wealthy people waiting for their board turn, bellhops hauling piles of luggage, and clerks filling the last wagons with letters after having emptied them earlier.

It was impressive how many people were out at that hour, especially with the cold. The heat from the engine kept Skye from freezing, along with her thick coat; still, it didn’t stop her muzzle from going numb when she peeked out the sides. Working at night was a pain, but in the end, it was the best cover she had for travelling the world. And it paid well, of course.

She decided it was a good time to talk to Ryder about what had happened. She had tried earlier, but for some reason, the man hadn’t answered her call. She couldn’t remember a single time he hadn’t responded—except on D-Day.

She entered the climate-controlled room, feeling the sudden temperature shift against her fur. After closing the door behind her, Skye took a moment to relax. That small area was the most advanced setup she could afford, technologically speaking—considering that, even with knowledge from the future, Ryder was still limited by his tools and materials. But everything she needed was there: a place to heal, to change, to sleep, and to store everything she needed in the cleanest environment possible, with lockers that held her clothes, pup-boxes, and other items. That was the idea, at least—but the floor was covered in ash-stained paw prints she had left behind.

On the stretcher, the English Pointer was still sound asleep.

She approached the pup with a small smile on her muzzle. His brown ears drooped to the sides. Breathing through his nose, the dog lay on his side, legs splayed in every direction. Skye had cared for them as best she could, treating their pads with vaseline and other products so the cuts would heal naturally. Otherwise, he’d end up like Rocky. And she wasn’t eager to add another pup to the list of those with stabbing foot pain that came and went depending on the weather and the day.

She ran a paw across the Pointer’s forehead. His temperature had gone down, but she knew the paracetamol she’d given him only masked a fever caused by a growing infection. Physically, she hadn’t seen more scars than a long cut along his groin. And with proper food, he’d probably build solid muscle.

Aside from that, he resembled the cleanliness-obsessed pup she had met years ago, in Builder Cove. Bigger, taller—maybe even stronger.

But he was just an English Pointer. Sure, she had run into him face-to-face (in fact, she had nearly run him over). And yes, the hat he wore had a recognisable symbol on it. But that could all be a coincidence. He might simply be a complete stranger. She couldn’t let her heart, which so desperately longed to be reunited with old friends, blind her completely.

She sighed, already thinking about the treatments she’d have to do next: when he woke up, she’d have to feed him carefully. He had arrived with heatstroke, and a sudden intake of food could be terrible—it might even make him throw up.

A grimace of pain and discomfort spread across the Pointer’s muzzle. Skye didn’t step away; she kept her front paws resting on the stretcher in case a quick intervention was needed. The sigh he let out was enough to make her turn her head for a second, overwhelmed by the stench of his breath—a result of eating poorly for days and, apparently, never brushing his teeth. That wasn’t like the Wheeler she had known.

And then the boy began to wake up.

Skye had never seen eyes so strange, so hauntingly human. Like two bluish coins—curious, vivid, brimming with life. The pup felt as if she could lose herself in those two wells that held a glimmer of hope and, at the same time, a world of darkness. A curious contrast, and not something that belonged to the Wheeler she was looking for. And yet, it made her think of something completely different: the omen Al had given her before she left.

Two eyes like coins...

The fascination in that exotic gaze lulled her instincts, causing her to jump back when the strange dog let out his first cry. He, in turn, sat up so quickly that he banged his head against the wall behind the stretcher.

“AH!”

“AH!” she cried as well, stepping back two paces just in case and opening her pup-box, summoning a hefty baton. That was a big mistake: the other dog, alarmed at the sight of the weapon, tried to flee. His paws slipped on the stretcher sheets, and he ended up crashing face-first to the floor after rolling over his back, but what must have been a rush of adrenaline allowed him to get up (after a couple of failed attempts due to his clumsy legs) and dash toward the door. His awkward fumbling with the doorknob, under Skye’s stunned gaze, kept him from escaping, and after several failed tries, he turned to face her.

They both stood in silence, tension so thick it could be cut with a knife. She, ready to attack. He, heart pounding wildly, paws pulled tightly to his body, scanning the climate room in sheer desperation.

Skye swallowed hard. It took effort to lower her guard, even just a little. She used to freeze completely, unable to move, which caused trouble for her teammates. Now it was the opposite: she struggled not to go for the jugular at the first sign of danger. That included the times she caught Rocky trying to steal something from her train. She knew the mutt did it mostly out of habit and survival, but she had every right to claim what was hers and defend it.

Still, in this situation, one of the two had to give in.

The cockapoo chose to be the first. With a couple of motions from her paws, she put the baton away, hoping for a positive reaction from the English Pointer, who looked utterly terrified at that moment.

“Okay... Don’t be scared,” Skye lowered her voice, making it softer, gentler. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m just here to help you.”

The English Pointer looked confused. There was that typical haze in his eyes that came with heatstroke. He must be disoriented, Skye thought. Chances are, he doesn’t even know who he is.

She’d heard of cases where people’s personalities were altered by extreme heat, as if the mind itself was affected by high temperatures. If he were one of those, he was in for a rough time.

“To… help me?” the English Pointer finally said, with a youthful voice and a thick British accent—one of those Rocky would say “peed Earl Grey.” “Excuse me? This is helping me? Where am I?”

Skye took a few seconds to answer such a rude question.

“…In a special room, under my care. My name is—”

“You’re…” the English Pointer cut her off, as if he hadn’t heard, squinting and furrowing his brow. “You’re a pup?”

Again, she took a moment to answer.

“Yes, of course. Just like—”

“They told me pups kidnapped people, but I didn’t think it would happen to me,” he said, holding a paw to his forehead, panting. “I’m in a room I can’t leave, with a pup, which is dangerous and—” then, glancing down, the English Pointer let out a shriek and suddenly curled up, covering himself with all four paws. “Naked! Oh no! I’ve read tons of stories like this in the Toronto Star! ”

“Wait, what— WHAT in the world are you talking about?!” Skye raised her voice, forgetting for a second the likely confusion clouding the Brit’s mind from the heatstroke. “I saved your life, kid!”

“And to save me, was it necessary to leave me like I came into this world?” Then, like realising what he’d just said, he shook his head and corrected himself. “Well, not exactly like that, but… I’m naked. I repeat: I’m NAKED. Good grief, I’ve got to get out of here.”

His attempt with the doorknob was an utter disaster. Skye watched his clumsy effort to open a door clearly designed for someone like her, but decided to wait, while comments filled the air in a heavy English accent, peppered with expletives and phrases like, “Bloody paws, could you cooperate for once?”

Dear Lord, he’s a mess, the cockapoo scratched one of her ears, nervous. Now what? How do I calm him down?

She took a few steps toward him—carefully—stopping halfway when he, picking up her footsteps with his ears, froze in his awkward struggle with the door.

“Nope! No!” he cried suddenly, backing away until he bumped into the opposite shelf. “Keep those filthy little paws away from me!”

“Excuse me?”

“Look at the floor! You’ve got soot everywhere. Soot, I’m telling you! Don’t touch me with those dirty paws. I’ve suffered enough living on the streets. Ugh, the floor, with… paws.”

“Hold on!” That was starting to get a little offensive. “Back off! We’re the same species, you know!”

Skye’s retort hit the English Pointer like a slap of pure truth across the face.

“Yes, I noticed that… And I also noticed that I’m naked.” And when Skye took another step, he pressed himself even further into the corner. “No, distance! I want distance until I have clothes! Or… or…” And then, in a moment of desperation, he grabbed a test tube with his snout and pointed it at her. “I’ll whack you with this!”

Skye raised an eyebrow, unsure how to take such an awkward (and somehow hilarious) introduction.

“With a test tube?”

“…Yes,” replied the English Pointer after a few seconds of hesitation, sounding not very convinced.

Skye coldly weighed her options, her muzzle tight-lipped. The dog was scared, but his erratic behaviour and out-of-place remarks were irritating—far from the Wheeler she was looking for. In a situation like this, she would have wanted to talk it over with Ryder but revealing how she communicated in front of the stranger was a mistake. As usual, she was alone in the face of danger, making decisions that could further damage the rift and allow more Miasma into Wild West Way. She clicked her tongue after debating it with herself, determined to play along.

“Hey... I don’t want this to come to violence.”

“Come to... what?” the dog said, raising an eyebrow. “But that’s what pups lot do! Bite and kill!”

Well, that was a low blow. No doubt the Brit was testing her.

“Fine, I’m taking off my pup-box,” she announced, proceeding to remove the device from her back. Without it, she felt exposed. Unlike the other pups, she didn’t have strong jaws or powerful legs. A single blow could take her down, so she relied on her equipment. Without it, she was at a disadvantage in front of the stranger. “See? I can’t hurt you,” she said, pushing the box aside with a paw. “There. Now you.”

The English pointer seemed to think it over for a moment before finally nodding and doing the same, though in his case, after several clumsy attempts, he ended up spitting out the test tube, which hit the floor with a loud clank. Then, with a paw, he wiped off the drool.

“Dog saliva. How revolting,” he muttered at last.

“Alright. Now that we’ve gotten to this point—”

“Where are my clothes?”

“Excuse me?”

“My clothes,” the other said, pointing at himself with a paw. “I may not remember everything that happened, but I am aware I was dressed. And now—look at me! Everyone can see my private parts! Wait a second… Did you undress me?!”

Skye blinked in absolute surprise. The other dog had crossed his hind legs, shielded the lower half of his torso, and pressed himself up tightly against the bookshelf. It was the first time she’d seen a pup so concerned about appearances. Clothes were nothing but accessories to them, formalities for dealing with humans—either to show status or to protect themselves. No one paid attention to anything beyond that. After all, they were animals.

Inside, she repeated the same mantra over and over: Be patient. He’s confused. He must’ve taken a bad hit to the head. Maybe I should take him to a vet. That’s the only explanation I can find.

“Yes. I undressed you because—”

“Oh my gosh,” the dog said, looking down at himself and swallowing hard. “A girl’s seen me naked before marriage.”

“But you’re a—” she didn’t even know how to put it. “You’re a dog! You’re naturally naked! Have you completely lost your mind?!”

“Says the one who kidnapped me and stripped me bare!”

“I took your clothes off because they were crawling with lice, fleas, ticks, and God knows what other unknown species might’ve been breeding in there!”

“You burned my clothes?!” As if he hadn’t heard the rest of the sentence, the pointer’s eyes went wide. “There were fifty dollars in one of those pockets!”

“Which I set aside before burning them.”

And it was hard to resist the temptation to keep a little for myself, but she’d never admit that out loud.

“Aha! So you are a thief!” the white and brown dog accused.

“I’m not a—!”

But she was cut off mid-sentence when someone knocked at the door. Skye swallowed the rest of her words before they could leave her muzzle, though it took monumental effort. Casting a glare of pure loathing at the pointer, she turned and walked toward the door, more convinced than ever that she had completely misjudged this dog. He wasn’t Wheeler, she was sure of it. He was someone else entirely—someone determined to push her patience to its limits. Well then, she already knew exactly how this was going to end.

Opening the double doors, she came face to face with the same man from earlier. With his typically grumpy expression, he gave her little more than a sideways glance before clasping his hands behind his back and speaking to the air, as if she weren’t even there. A demeanour, by the way, that she’d seen more than once before.

“There’s been a problem. It’ll be two hours instead of one. We’ll inform the other passengers, but if I were you, I’d get comfortable.”

Two hours. Plenty of time for a good nap after kicking the other dog out.

“Sir!” came a voice from behind Skye, making her roll her eyes. “Sir! Please help me! I’ve been kidnapped!”

The dog’s head peeked around the side of the door, eyes wide like a puppy’s. The human’s face showed total confusion, giving Skye enough time to act. With a swift move of her hind leg, she stomped on the Brit so hard that he immediately backed away, whining about the pain. Skye, meanwhile, simply smiled at the man with an air of perfect calm.

“He’s my stepbrother,” she said, loathing the lie. “We don’t get along very well.”

“I see,” replied the man, turning away. “Well, whatever you two are up to, I couldn’t care less,” and as he walked off, the dog heard him mutter, “Putting animals in charge of mail delivery… what is the world coming to? They’re always fighting among themselves...”

Skye felt the urge to bite someone’s backside, but held back the instinct and stepped back inside, shutting the door.

“Do you have any idea how insane that was?! Are you delulu or what?!”

Her anger was directed squarely at the English pointer. He was now clinging to a broom he had apparently grabbed from the supply closet, hugging it with his front paws like it might make a run for it. It was clear he didn’t know what he was doing. His erratic behaviour was testing her patience—and she didn’t have much to begin with. For a moment, she thought of what Ryder might say. Probably to calm down, to be patient, to recognise that the dog needed help—and that it was her duty to give it. That’s what the Paw Patrol did. That was their mission.

But the Paw Patrol had ceased to exist long ago. Bringing it up with Al had been one of Skye’s worst decisions. She’d spent the rest of the trip burdened by the knowledge that she was alone—that only her and Ryder still remembered the better times that had passed. She took a deep breath. She needed to stay calm. Not yell. Not lose it.

She’d promised Ryder she would.

In her mind, she pictured a scene: her walking to the closet, grabbing some clothes and throwing them in his damn face, forcing him to leave. It was the kind of soap opera moment thick with tension—but satisfying, to say the least. Still, she was an adult. She was responsible. She could reach an agreement. Even if her instinct screamed to get rid of him as soon as possible (the dog’s fear was starting to rub off on her).

“Fine, you win.” Skye sat back on her haunches, putting some distance between herself and the frightened pup, who still hadn’t responded. “I’ll let you go. But I need you to listen to me, please. Just two minutes.”

“I don’t know if I’m interested in that…”

“Yes, you are. Look, I didn’t mean to hurt you, okay? You were in a terrible state. I had to stop the train so I wouldn’t hit you on the tracks. I didn’t…”

The other dog’s eyes widened, as if something suddenly clicked in his mind. For a moment, it looked like Skye had said the right thing—already a major improvement. She saw how he gradually let go of the broom he was using to keep himself upright and slumped sideways onto the bed.

“…The train tracks…” he whispered, barely audible. “I remember I was following a set of tracks…”

“I found you right in the middle of them. You were lucky I spotted you from far away, but stopping the train was… well, let’s just say it took a miracle.”

Literally, she thought to herself, recalling the exact moment her pup-tag had activated again without her command, the crystal inside it freezing time. One more question for Moby, once they managed to find Coral: Why did it always activate when she least expected it?

“I was heading to… Wild West Way.” Suddenly, his tone had changed. From aggressive, he’d become calmer, as if remembering what happened had helped lower his guard. “I was looking for someone who could help me. I was looking for…” He shook his head. “They told me his name was Moby.”

Moby! Skye felt her interest skyrocket, her eyes widening and ears perking up. How did he know the merpup’s name? What was he looking for? Who else knew about Moby’s existence?

“I know Moby,” she said, and seeing the pointer’s beautiful eyes widen, she knew they’d found common ground. “I can take you to him.”

I think, she added silently. She wasn’t entirely sure, but that wasn’t something the boy needed to hear right now.

“R–really?” he dropped to all fours, his tail wagging side to side. “You can help me?”

“Yes, I can. But first, you need to know that you—”

She wanted to finish the sentence. She wanted to tell him how she’d found him, the state he was in, and the suspicions she had about some dormant illness inside him. But she couldn’t: the English pointer’s body convulsed and collapsed to the floor. Skye’s eyes flew open, and she rushed to him, terrified, fearing she was about to lose another life. She had lost her team once before—she couldn’t bear more deaths, especially not now.

The pup, seeing Skye approach, tried to stand up. His legs gave out, and he fell again, panting. Then he looked at her as if she were a ghost, perceiving a threat where there was none. It’s the adrenaline, she concluded. He was hanging on by adrenaline, but now that he’s let his guard down, his body’s giving out.

Rolling her eyes, Skye used her tiny frame to slip under him, lifting him gently. As if they were thinking the same thing, she managed to get the older pup back onto the cot. This time, he didn’t resist—just let out a pained whimper and trembled. After placing a paw on his forehead and feeling the fever again, she rolled her eyes once more.

“What have you even been eating all this time?”

“T–trash…” he muttered with embarrassment, blushing. “Whatever I could find on the streets… In Country Road, pups don’t have— I mean… we don’t have the right to a home or food… We’re just—you’re just—pets.”

And then he coughed. Just enough for Skye, now leaning back, to better smell his breath. Instinct warned her: something was seriously wrong. Fever, weakness, coughing, and the scent of blood. It all pointed to early-stage tuberculosis—a disease both she and Ryder had been vaccinated against back in Adventure Bay. It was considered extinct, but you could never be too careful. And now they were glad they hadn’t been. Back in this era, the disease was more common than anyone could’ve imagined.

She switched pup-boxes to grab one with more futuristic tools, though she froze midway. She knew she was doing the wrong thing—that she was interfering in events just as Ryder probably had with Chase. But her heart wouldn’t let her leave the poor English pointer to his fate. Even if it drove another nail into Al’s coffin, she also knew deep down that the basset would never have forgiven her for letting another pup die just to prolong the Big Valley Howler’s suffering.

And yet… intervening meant she’d be one step closer to forgetting him. To ignore he ever existed, once and for all.

She sat down for a moment, debating with herself, weighing her options. Hearing the pointer cough again forced her to act fast. If she didn’t intervene, she’d buy a little more time to find a solution. But that meant raising the barrier. And to raise the barrier, she needed the Descendants. As far as she knew, any former member of the Paw Patrol could be one. Even their fiercest pup-enemies could be.

In other words, if that English pointer was Wheeler, then he was a prime candidate.

And those strange eyes of his certainly pointed in that direction.

If he died—if one of the Descendants died—raising the barrier would be impossible. The miasma would rewrite everything around it.

She would be alone.

She clenched her teeth in deep protest and frustration. She was tired of carrying the weight of the world since the day they’d arrived. Fourteen years dragging her grief and a responsibility that was never hers, to begin with. She couldn’t take more life-or-death decisions. Her consciousness had a limit, and the nightmares were getting worse. The English pointer or Al. A stranger, or the love of her life—the one she’d hoped to get back when all of this ended. Hope was all she had left.

Cling to nostalgia… or jump into the void.

“Shit.”

With the right pup-box and by pulling the necessary strings, Skye deployed a more futuristic screen. It was a rougher adaptation of the EMT equipment her Marshall had, but at least it worked. Learning medicine during the years she’d been there had been, to say the least, an adventure—but it was necessary for situations like this one.

So as soon as she turned on the screen and scanned his body, her suspicions were confirmed.

There was good news. She could save him, but it would mean intervening more deeply. Opening the wound much further. Would she gain anything in return?

The English Pointer hadn’t even noticed her, with his eyes shut in utter exhaustion. She set the box aside and assessed the situation. Fate had decided to let him die. She could save him—but doing so meant taking a few steps forward in medicine, beyond what was known in that time.

Skye placed a paw on her chest, feeling through her jacket for the pup-tag, tempted to call Ryder and ask what he would do. That used to be the way things worked: he was always the one who gave orders. Always the one who made the calls. They rarely took the initiative. And that dynamic still lingered, even if at times she had gone against him—when she saw her best friend losing his mind or making a mistake.

“…I will put the lives of others before my own…”

“E-excuse me?” asked the dog, slightly opening his eyes. That strange gaze—captivating and exotic, but not from this world.

Skye lowered her paw. She knew what he would say. She knew what she would do.

She had to be prudent, assess the situation with a clear head. Al was already marked. They could prolong the inevitable, she thought, but in time he would fade away—and by then, a new Descendant should have been found to take his place.

But this pup was on the edge of no return. She could save him. Whether she gained anything or not, her duty was to care for others, and in this case, the English Pointer was the winning horse. A shiver ran down her spine, and a sharp pain pierced her heart as she fought back tears, fully aware of the pain she was about to cause the basset by doing this.

And if he were a Descendant, it would be a small battle won against the Miasma.

Sophie’s damned decision.

“Listen. You’re sick,” she said firmly. “You’ve got a fever, hunger, and heatstroke. You’re dehydrated.” She listed everything she had found in his body, while thinking through what to do. “I can treat you, but it’ll take time.”

Luckily, being a pup, he’d recover fast. “But I can’t tell you how. You’ll have to trust me. It’s either that or dying, coughing up blood, on the streets of Country Road.”

Something in her words sparked a reaction. The English Pointer’s eyes shot open, startled. He tried to lick his lips, but his mouth was too dry. Even his nose had gone dry.

“…I don’t wanna die… like this…”

“Are you going to do what I say? Will you follow all my instructions?” The English Pointer hesitated for a moment, then nodded faintly. “Good. I hope we’re not too late. Don’t move.”

As if he could, she thought anyway.

Skye put on the advanced medical recovery unit again, this time searching for the right vaccine inside. She moved quickly, haunted by the ghosts of her past with Al, galloping toward her like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

She knew that if she stopped and hesitated, there would be no turning back. She had to be fast. She had to be firm.

She climbed up onto the bed and gently touched one of the Pointer’s legs with her paws.

He looks strong, she thought. Not as strong as Al’s but definitely built to run for miles without tiring—at least under the right conditions.

“Hey, I don’t know your name,” she said, needing a distraction. “I’m Skye. What’s yours?”

“Whil Eler…” he began, but quickly corrected himself. “I mean… Wheel-er. Yeah, Wheeler. Wheeler… something.”

Then she knew she’d hit the mark. He was Wheeler. That Wheeler from that Way.

A possible candidate.

“Okay, Wheeler. What I’m about to do… you’ve never seen anything like it,” Skye warned. “But if you tell anyone, you’ll be in serious trouble. I’m risking a lot for you, so for your own good, don’t rat us out. Got it?”

Another long pause.

“Whatever you say… but I won’t die… as a pup…”

She felt the claws of sorrow creeping up on her, still puzzled by the way Wheeler spoke. Before they could rip out her heart, Skye found a vein and acted fast, administering the vaccine. The English Pointer clenched his teeth but let out only a weak whimper. After that, he went quiet.

“I’m going to hook you up to an IV to rehydrate you, and another to feed you. I’ll also lower the room’s temperature. You should start feeling better in about an hour.”

But unfortunately, Wheeler didn’t respond. Concerned, Skye looked over—and saw the dog had already fallen fast asleep again. He was breathing slowly. Occasionally, he coughed.

She climbed down from the bed. Though she was briefly tempted to pull the curtain around it, she ultimately decided to leave the room visible to him—just in case he woke up and panicked again in an unfamiliar space. Maybe his sense of smell would help, but Skye was beginning to suspect Wheeler was hiding something. A dissociative identity, perhaps? She would have loved to have Katie nearby. Katie understood more about those things.

But once again, she was alone, in the middle of nowhere. Responsible for every action and every choice she made.

And, for the first time, she realised what an immense burden Ryder carried as a leader.

Wheeler woke up after a while.

The fever had gone down, though his strength hadn’t fully returned. The fog in his head, however, had lifted. It was as if someone had taken a blindfold off his eyes, and suddenly his brain was back in business—alert again, though just as confused as it had been for the past couple of weeks. Not his fault, sadly. It was those instincts he still hadn’t learned to manage properly.

It was like thousands of voices screaming in his head, flooding him with information all at once—more than he could handle.

It had always been like that. He was methodical, needed things in order, everything in its place. He’d followed a strict work schedule ever since he was young, something that helped him survive in a world that didn’t want “individuals” like him. The labels would be endless, and he’d lose the right to any job. Wheeler had to be methodical to avoid being found out.

He always dressed the same. He always did the same things. Greeted the same people. His parents followed the same rituals. There were no arguments in his house because he couldn’t stand them, nor bright lights in his eyes. He couldn’t cope with people giving him a thousand tasks at once. In the newsroom, his desk and organisation followed a fixed order. He had fought hard for certain favours, and they translated into people treating him the way he wanted to be treated. That’s how he survives nowadays.

Before he could even brace himself, his sense of smell told him he was still in the climate-controlled room, that his breath smelled slightly better, and that someone had washed his whole body. His hearing picked up the humming of unfamiliar machines and the constant dripping of an IV feeding liquid into his veins. His sight, sharpening in the dark, revealed the layout of every object around him.

Wheeler felt utterly overwhelmed by the sudden rush of information.

“You’re awake.”

Skye’s voice was the only thing that managed to slow his brain down. Just for a second. Because right after, another instinct took over—and before he could stop it, he was already analysing her, better now that she wasn’t wearing any clothes. Friend or foe? She was tending to him. With what purpose? She smelled like ash and charcoal. What was she? Her paws were dirty. Ugh! Wheeler hated dirt.

His desk at work was the cleanest. His nails were always scrubbed. His clothes are spotless. He hated the filth of Country Road’s streets. He only walked on the semi-paved ones to avoid all that.

Skye was small. He didn’t recognise her breed. Her voice told him she was an adult pup, self-sufficient, tough and firm. Which meant she wasn’t someone he could face easily. She smelled of damp fur—she’d bathed recently.

He didn’t want to fight her, but his mind was already imagining hundreds of scenarios where he might win or lose, some with results so gruesome he could barely believe his brain was producing them. As he licked his dry lips, he remembered his sharp teeth—and a shiver ran through him.

Right. He was hungry. And thirsty.

Stop, he begged, drowning in the flood of data. Stop. It’s too much. I can’t take all of it in. It’s going too fast. Please. Stop.

But reality didn’t stop that easily.

Before he realised it, his body had already tensed up again. He tried to control it but couldn’t. He was a prisoner of his own mind.

Skye, fortunately, didn’t come any closer.

“Hey. Easy,” she whispered. “Easy... It’s me, remember? The train driver. I kept you from being crushed to bits. I’m nursing you. You remember all that?”

“Yes...” He did. And weighing his survival against the risk, he decided it was better to stay still. Gradually, he lay back down on the cot.

“Good... How do you feel?”

“Like you ran me over anyway,” Wheeler muttered. “But a little better. At least my head’s not so foggy anymore.” He looked at his paw, raising an eyebrow. “I... What did you do to me?”

“I’m giving your body the bare minimum to keep you from dying.” Wheeler’s instincts told him there was a note of pain in the cockapoo’s voice, but he didn’t press. “Water, nutrients, meds... It’s a strong hit, but if we can get past the worst, the recovery afterwards will be easier.”

“Recovery... afterwards?” Wheeler was starting to put the pieces together, despite the flood of sensory input crowding his mind. “I remember being really sick. Must’ve been all the junk I’ve eaten.”

“You’ve got a mouthful of tartar and an infection in your larynx. The scar on your groin... it doesn’t look good,” she said. “And I think you’ve got tuberculosis. I’ve covered you, though. You seemed... shaken by being ‘naked.’”

And he was. He had never been without clothes. Not once. Not even to sleep—he liked wearing pyjamas to bed.

But seeing Skye walk around without clothes stunned him. He turned his gaze away out of a sense of personal dignity—and that’s when he noticed the sheet covering him from the waist down. At least now he had some shred of modesty.

“Thanks.”

“I’m surprised a pup would care so much about clothes. It’s just a formality we have with humans, but...” Shrugging, Skye grabbed a bowl with her snout, filled it with water from a dispenser, and set it nearby. “Alright, let’s see how your stomach handles this. Remember: sip slowly. Carefully. Understand?”

Sip slowly. That wasn’t really his thing.

Seeing the clear liquid in the bowl—for the first time—triggered his survival instinct. He couldn’t think of anything else. His tunnel vision narrowed further, and he lunged forward to quench his thirst. The water was cool. Odorless (which surprised him). Pleasant on his lips. But Wheeler didn’t know how to drink. All he could do was chew the water, hoping some of it would slide down his throat. The rest splattered across the cot.

Skye said something, but he couldn’t hear her. He tried, but some greater force had taken hold of his body. A shadow moved in the corner of his eye—and suddenly, he was baring his teeth at her, shielding what little water remained as if it were his alone. He wanted to intimidate her, to make it clear it was his and his only. Maybe it was the cockapoo’s stern gaze, or the fact that she didn’t back down even slightly, that unsettled him. Amid that confusion, Wheeler regained control.

What had just happened to him?

He wasn’t used to these kinds of instincts. And though it wasn’t the first time they’d taken over, this had gone too far. Ashamed, he pulled back, his snout dripping water and soaking the cot with saliva.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, turning away. “I don’t know what came over me... I usually don’t act like that, I mean... Uhm...”

“It’s alright.”

“You’re... not mad at me?”

“You haven’t had clean water in a long time, have you?”

Wheeler, still embarrassed, nodded.

“You chew water? Seriously?”

Wheeler opened his mouth to reply—then closed it again. He wanted to explain, but decided it wasn’t the right moment. It never would be, really. So, he simply nodded again as Skye placed the pup-box on the floor and walked to the dressing area to put on her work clothes.

“I don’t get why you’re helping me. I... treated you like a—”

“You were confused,” she replied. “It’s hard for you to think clearly. You’re on the edge, and you need to survive. I’ve been in that state.”

Even from behind the changing screen, Wheeler could see her reflection—and he turned his gaze away.

“It’s not just that. The truth is I don’t like being naked. I don’t want anyone seeing me without clothes.”

“You’re a dog. No one’s going to be shocked if—”

“Even so,” Wheeler cut in firmly, “I don’t want to go around naked. I like being covered. Even with fur, I don’t want to be out there announcing I’m a man. I mean, well... A male…”

There was silence after that.

Skye stepped out wearing her usual train-driving clothes, but her eyes were fixed on the English Pointer, who still sat with his convictions intact. He wasn’t lying. His hind legs were crossed as tightly as he could manage, his posture curled in on itself. He felt exposed—like anyone could read him with a single glance. And more than that: without trousers, anyone could see his privates. It was awful. Just thinking about it made him gag.

Even so, seeing Skye dressed again sparked a question in him.

“Sorry, but... you’re a female, right?”

Skye blinked, apparently confused.

“Last time I checked, yeah.”

“Since when do females drive trains? That’s... a male’s job.”

He saw her part her muzzle slightly. She looked like she was about to say something. Instead, she burst out laughing—and the sound irritated him. Was it something he’d said? Was his assumption wrong? As far as he knew, females were supposed to stay home, take care of their husbands and household finances—nothing more. The man was the one who had to do the dirty work. That was how it had always been. Or… at least that was what he’d been taught. Annoyed, Wheeler lowered his muzzle, his floppy ears swaying gently to each side.

“You think I’m funny.”

“I just find it incredible you’re one of those,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Wheeler, I may be a female, but I’m just as capable as anyone. In fact, I challenge any male to handle this train. Here’s a hint: only I know how. It’s far too complex for inferior minds.”

“Men aren’t inferior.”

“But you’re not a man. You’re a dog.”

The simple comment made him scramble for the bedsheet to cover himself a little more. That situation wasn’t just confusing—it was making him deeply uncomfortable. It was getting on his nerves.

“I can’t believe how much we pups have been catching the humans’ habits. Since when we care so much about gender roles?”

“It’s what society dictates.”

“And if society told you to jump off a bridge, would you be the first to leap?” Skye pulled a cap from the wardrobe and placed it in front of him. His eyes lit up—it was back. Scratching it toward himself with a front paw, he inspected how clean it was. Not a single stain. Even the little stitch on one side was still there. “It’s all I could save. The rest had to be burned. But once you’re better, I can get you some clothes. Don’t worry—they’re one hundred percent manly. Your masculinity will be safe.”

He shot her a glare. He wanted to spit out a few curses, but a tug of pain in his leg reminded him he wasn’t in a state to be thrown out of there. Country Road had no vet, and even if it did, there was no treatment for tuberculosis. The rage rising inside him had to yield to necessity.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose with a paw… and realized something important.

“I don’t have my glasses.”

“Yeah, well, they broke,” Skye replied. “I stepped on them by accident. Though… were they yours? I’m surprised you wear glasses.”

“They were mine, yes. I can’t see up close. Can’t read newspapers properly, and writing’s hard without them.”

Skye tilted her head slightly, puzzled, one ear raised.

“You write? How? Do you have a pup-box?”

He was about to answer, but a thought flashed through his mind. He understood what the cockapoo meant. Without a word, he lowered his muzzle slightly, his blue eyes drifting to one of his paws. He moved his digits gently—no longer as nimble as they once were—and swallowed hard. On all fours, the world was maddening. He was helpless.

That little pup, on the other hand, with her mysterious box, moved around with ease.

These past two weeks, the world had been brutal to him. He’d been cold, hungry, and thirsty. Reduced to nothing but scum in a city that wouldn’t accept him. His trip to Wild West was his last hope.

Wheeler, who had left his hat close by, didn’t respond. Answering would mean revealing his true identity—and he didn’t trust that pup enough to be taken seriously. In fact, he doubted she would.

“Anyway,” Skye equipped herself with the appropriate pup-box, “we need to talk. This train must continue its route in half an hour.”

Wheeler paused, his gaze flicking to the hat.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean, you’ve got two options: stay or go.” The small pup sat on her haunches. “I don’t like stowaways or strangers in my room, but leaving you behind in your condition doesn’t sit right either. Still, I must keep moving. You can stay and finish healing, or you can get out halfway through recovery.”

Wheeler wet his lips with his tongue. He’d learned to do that after several failed attempts and a couple of bites to his own tongue—those sharp teeth creeped him out a little.

“I can’t stay. I can’t buy a ticket. Not in Country Road.”

“You don’t have to. You can travel without one—we’ll figure something out.”

“B-but that’s… illegal. I don’t want to break the law. Last thing I need is to be thrown in jail. Especially not on a train carrying government letters.”

When he noticed how surprised she looked, he gave a proud half-smile.

“I saw the man talking to you. Dressed like a postal officer. Just had to put two and two together.”

“Wow… You’re clever.”

He felt offended.

“I’m cleverer than you think. In fact, I’m a ver—uh, a very cultured dog,” he said, lifting his muzzle with a touch of pride, glancing at her sideways.

Skye seemed to consider it.

“You say you write, and you’re cultured… Are you a detective or something?”

“Journalist. I was a journalist.”

Until that all went wrong, he thought.

“Journalist? Oh.” The pup looked astonished. “Dang, sorry. It’s just… when I saw your hat, I thought… I don’t know. That you were a builder or something.”

If only, he thought. Probably would’ve made more money, like his mother always told him he should.

His pride faded as he looked at the hat, and a wave of nostalgia hit his chest. But he didn’t cry. His mother always said real men don’t cry.

“No. The hat is… I inherited it,” he said. “It was my father’s. He was all muscle. Me… I’m better at thinking.” Then he perked up a little. “I can speak twenty languages, for example.”

Skye took a step forward, stunned.

“Impossible.”

One word was all it took to spark something primal in him. He lowered his chest in a playful pose and gave her a cheeky grin.

“Try me.”

“Okay. Speak to me in Spanish.”

“¡Ja! Puedo hacerlo cuando quiera.”

“Portuguese.”

“Isto é brincadeira de criança pra mim.”

“Italian.”

“Non importa quanto ci provi, ti sarà difficile mettermi alla prova.”

“Latin?”

“Dura lex, sed lex.”

“Ha… Chinese.”

“无论你用何种语言来问我都可以，毕竟我几乎会说所有方言。” He then cleared his throat and, blushing, sat upright. “Maybe my accent was a bit off, but you get the idea.”

She looked amazed.

“Want more?” he asked

The little one hesitated for a few seconds before answering.

“It’s impressive.”

“Oh, and I know more. Do you know how many people live in Wild West City? 3.8 million. It’s the second largest city in the world, right behind London. It covers one thousand two hundred and eighteen square kilometres, last time I checked the records, which was…” With a paw under her chin, he searched in his mind. Thank goodness he still remembered all this. “Three months ago, so the data should be up to date.”

“You know ALL that?”

“They use me as a reference in my field. I oversaw the archives,” he said, with a hint of pride. “The place I know the least about is Wild West Way, though, but…”

“I can help you with that. I know the folks running the show. In fact, I’d say we’re friends.”

There was a long silence—both of them possibly realising the common ground they shared.

“Maybe we can make a deal,” Skye continued. “For now, I suggest you stay.”

“So what? You’re just gonna let me stay here because you’re cool?” Wheeler leaned forward slightly, puffing out his broad chest. “You won’t get very far in this world if you’re that nice to everyone you meet.”

“I’ve been doing this for fourteen years, kid. You’re not telling me anything new,” she replied, shrugging. “But if you’re not interested, I’ll remove the IV and you’re out.”

“No, no, wait!” Wheeler raised a paw—and his ears too—while quickly trying to come up with a plan. “I—I can’t leave. I—I need to get to Wild West Way, but I live in Country Road and pups aren’t exactly welcome there.”

“Yeah, that’s what seems odd to me,” Skye bit the inside of her cheek, thoughtful, tilting her head again. “What are you doing in a city where we’re not welcome?”

“I…” and once again, he fell silent. He was torn inside: part of him wanted to tell the truth. Another part warned him she wouldn’t believe it. And then there was his survival instinct, telling him to keep his mouth shut if he wanted to stay and survive. At the same time, staying silent might raise suspicions. And if he lied… God, he was awful at lying. Lying was the worst! Wheeler clenched his muzzle. Now what?

“It’s fine, you don’t have to tell me. You can stay, but my return to Wild West Way will be a long one—I have to go all the way around.”

That meant several days. Wheeler wondered if, with each passing day, his situation would become irreversible. He didn’t like the mere idea of being trapped forever, but then again, he didn’t have many other options. He appreciated the pup’s courtesy and kindness, though deep down he suspected it was all some kind of trap. As far as he knew, or had been told, pups were nothing but liars who used their ability to seem like good people to drag unsuspecting souls into a mess. As if they were all foxes.

He slowly lay back on the cot, crossing one paw over the other. A chill ran through him at how comfortable he felt. He was starting to like that body, and that was beginning to be a very bad sign.

“I’ll make it up to you. I don’t know how. But I’ll come up with something.”

“For now, rest,” Skye said as she turned toward the door. “I’m leaving it unlocked, but I don’t recommend just walking out. I suggest you get some sleep. I’ll be back in a while and we’ll try giving you some food, see how your body handles it.”

Wheeler nodded slightly.

“Can I ask you a small favor?” he said, pointing to the ceiling with his paw. “Could you… turn off the light? It’s bothering me. It’s too bright.”

“Sure,” Skye flipped a switch, and the lights went out in an instant. For Wheeler, it was a relief. “Better?”

“Yes… Much better.”

A pitiful sound escaped him—a sound he deeply hated—as he watched Skye disappear through the door. Clutching his cap, he waited until his now-sharper ears told him she was far enough away. Only then did he dare grab the hat and take a careful look.

He couldn’t do much. Not with paws. But if he pressed carefully, he could feel what he was looking for. The moment he found the fold where the crystal was hidden—the one that had gotten him into this mess—he sighed in relief. He still had it. He just needed to find the right person to help him. And from what he’d been told, Wild West Way was where he had to go. At least, that’s what the fortune teller had said.

He scratched the sheets. He didn’t know why. He sniffed them a bit too. He didn’t know why either. His rational side was exhausted from constantly fighting his instincts. He turned around a couple of times and lay down.

With the cap between his paws, Wheeler rested his head on top of it and closed his eyes, letting himself drift into a quiet sleep. For the first time, he was able to fully rest. For the first time, his body truly relaxed.

#paw patrol au #wild west way #head canon #paw patrol #wheeler #paw patrol wheeler #skye #paw patrol skye #fics

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wild-west-way · 30 days ago

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PAW Patrol: Wild West Way - Way (Part 5 of 5)

Thanks to @self-indulgent-paw-patrol for all the text corrections and advice she’s given me.

#paw patrol au #wild west way #head canon #paw patrol #wheeler #paw patrol wheeler #comics

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wild-west-way · 1 month ago

Text

PAW Patrol: Wild West Way - Ways (Part 4 of 5)

Thanks to @self-indulgent-paw-patrol for all the text corrections and advice she’s given me.

#paw patrol #paw patrol au #paw patrol al #al #paw patrol skye #skye #wild west way #head canon #comics

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wild-west-way · 1 month ago

Text

PAW Patrol: Wild West Way - Ways (Part 3 of 5)

Thanks to @self-indulgent-paw-patrol for all the text corrections and advice she's given me.

#paw patrol au #wild west way #head canon #paw patrol #comics #skye #paw patrol skye #al #paw patrol al

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wild-west-way · 1 month ago

Text

PAW Patrol: Wild West Way - (Part 2 of 5)

Thanks to @self-indulgent-paw-patrol for all the text corrections and advice she's given me.

#paw patrol au #wild west way #head canon #paw patrol #comics #skye #paw patrol skye #al #paw patrol al

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wild-west-way · 1 month ago

Text

PAW Patrol: Wild West Way - Ways (Part 1 of 5)

Thanks to @self-indulgent-paw-patrol for all the text corrections and advice she's given me.

#wild west way #paw patrol au #head canon #paw patrol #comics #paw patrol skye #skye #paw patrol al #al

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wild-west-way · 1 month ago

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PAW Patrol: Wild West Way - Manifest Destiny

Another history lesson to understand better this AU and character motivations, this time thanks to Zuma!! You can find more info on wikipedia

To be historically accurate, the term Zuma should have used is 'Indians,' but since that term is now considered inappropriate, a more acceptable alternative has been used instead.

#paw patrol au #wild west way #head canon #zuma #paw patrol zuma #frames #paw patrol

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wild-west-way · 1 month ago

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PAW Patrol: Wild West Way - Chance

Short fic set after the events of Fur. You can read after the “Read more”

Since the writer is not fluent writing in English, it is possible that you can find some grammar mistakes.

This is the last part of the BIG UPDATE started 3 weeks ago. From now on, The updates will be at irregular intervals (as it has always been, really xD) but it will be updated at the same time as discord.

Chase’s whole body ached.

Every awakening after the transformation was the same: a tremendous pain that shook every bone in his body. During the first few minutes, it was unbearable—he bit his tongue to stop himself from howling in pain. Then his muscles would loosen, his body would relax, and finally, peace would come. He’d sleep a few minutes before setting off, recalling the events of the previous night, tormenting himself over what he might have done. Something monstrous, that much was certain. But at least, for a few hours, he felt satisfied... until the moon rose again.

Lying on the ground, Chase panted with his tongue out, trying to catch his breath, focusing on the pain so it would slowly fade. A hell he had to endure until the agony left his body. Only then could he get up. With his eyes tightly shut, the pup counted the seconds. Each heartbeat pumped blood into his battered muscles, which in turn sent waves of pain to his brain. It felt like a horse had kicked him, then trampled him over and over.

“Ignore the pain,” he told himself. “Ignore the pain...”

But thinking it was one thing—doing it was another entirely. He had tried to stand up straight after waking once, but all he managed was to make the pain worse and last much longer.

Obviously, in that state, he felt completely exposed and weak—nothing like when he transformed at home. There, with the usual chains in case the sunflower essence failed, he knew there was a roof over his head and a properly locked door. No one dared enter the sheriff’s house. And that brought a certain sense of security. But this was different: he was possibly lying in the middle of some street, covered in mud and who knows what else. He had no idea—he couldn’t even sniff properly through the pain.

As the torture began to subside and his muscles gave him a break, Chase dared to activate his canine senses to check where he was and act accordingly. Transforming in the middle of a town had been a mistake, he told himself, as had been his carelessness in leaving the reserve sunflower essences at Rocky’s place. Now he had to make sure no one had seen him.

The first thing he noticed was a dark, eerie silence that struck him as very strange… and dangerous. For that reason, after picking up only the distant sound of people talking, his nose kicked in: metal, oil, grease… maybe even fuel, though that was harder to tell. In any case, it wasn’t something he’d usually find on the street—or at least not mixed with so many other smells. He also caught the residential scent of a human being, though there was something else that caught his attention even more.

Chase, with eyes still shut, began to stand. He felt naked without the clothes that usually rubbed against his filthy, bristled fur. He noticed the cold stone beneath his paw pads. The combination of all those clues made him doubt where he might be, so he opened his eyes slowly, only to throw them wide open moments later, alarmed by what he saw in front of him.

He was trapped inside a cage—large enough to move around in, but with bars narrow enough to keep him from squeezing through.

He clutched at the door, trying to force it open, but he couldn’t. The lock had a key—it wasn’t the kind he could easily pick. Clicking his tongue, he cursed himself, starting to pace from side to side, head hanging low. How could he have been so stupid? He’d let himself get caught! Again! Was it possible that Humdinger had captured him once more? The mere thought brought back the days of torture he’d suffered until he finally gave in to the man’s cause, and a shiver ran through his entire body. He didn’t want to go through that again.

Breathing heavily, heart about to burst out of his chest, the pup approached the bars to see where he was. It was a huge underground room filled with all kinds of gadgets and strange objects, many of which he couldn’t recognise. Most looked like automatons or gears connected to other gears, as well as metal arms with enormous hooks at the ends. Chains hung from the ceiling, where lamps would probably light the place when switched on.

And the first thing he thought was, where am I?

He licked his muzzle. It felt clean. He sniffed himself: chrysanth, his usual scent when well-groomed. His coat was shiny, coarse as ever, but free of mud, blood, or anything else. Someone had spent a good while cleaning him up, stripping him of any scent he might have had. Dangerous—he usually rolled in the dirt to mask his scent from wild animals that might hunt him. Now anyone could track him.

The door above creaked open. Chase’s ears perked up, and he took a few steps back until his spine touched the cold stone behind him. No escape. The light streaming through the doorway lit up some steps at the far end. A human shadow stretched across the opposite wall. Chase bared his teeth instinctively, fur standing on end. A human: he’d been betrayed once, and he wasn’t about to let it happen again. If he had to fight, he would.

The person descended. He wore a sharp black suit, though it was dirty and darkened, with a tear on one shoulder that revealed a bit of skin. A strange hat crowned his head, covered in small spikes. The man, with bright green eyes, seemed surprised to see him awake and smiled—a smile so innocent and pure that it made Chase distrust him even more.

“Chase! You’re awake!” said the man in a cheerful voice. “Sorry—I wanted to be here when you woke up, but I had to deal with something urgent.”

That human knew his name.

Chase didn’t answer. He kept growling, even more so when he saw the man approaching his cage, where he felt trapped and helpless. The human quickly picked up on the warning signs and stopped a few steps away. Then he turned and switched on the lamps overhead. The room lit up instantly.

The man didn’t come any closer. He kept a cautious three-meter distance—close enough for Chase to see him, but far enough not to pose a threat. Chase watched as the man reached toward a wooden chair nearby. Not far off, beneath a table, he spotted an improvised bed, now unmade.

“Yeah, I had to sleep there,” the man said, taking a seat. “But I wanted to make sure you were okay. How are you feeling?”

Once again, Chase said nothing. He was thinking through a thousand escape plans. But for any of them to work, the cage had to open first—and the man was the only one with the key. He started calculating his odds of escape, which weren’t great if he was far from Wild West Way. In fact, he didn’t even know how he’d gotten here.

He tried to remember, to get his mind working again, but it was difficult. Everything was blurry. He remembered transforming, running through the village streets, sticking to dark areas so no one would see him, sniffing the air. He was looking for meat, blood, anything to sink his teeth into and ease the pain of freshly grown fangs, to silence the voices in his head. But halfway through, everything had gone dark—as if he’d simply ceased to exist.

“What did you do to me?” he finally asked. He needed to fill the blanks in his memory.

The man shook his head.

“Washed you, of course. And... patched up your clothes.” He grabbed a jacket from the table and held it out. “See? It got torn during the transformation, but I took care of it—made it decent again. As decent as my skills allow, anyway.”

The first answer was obvious, but the second set off alarms in Chase’s head. It wasn’t the fact that the man had mended his clothes—it was the word he had used: transformation. That could only mean one thing: he had seen him change. He knew what he was. Chase had exposed a secret his clan had spent years keeping from the world—whoever that world might be.

Chase thought carefully about his next question.

His heart began to pound so hard it made his temples ache, and a sharp ringing rose in his ears, torturing him.

How could I have been so careless?

Meanwhile, the man set the clothes back on the table and interlaced his fingers.

“My name is Ryder,” he began, placing a hand on his chest. “I’m an inventor. I build things, as you can see, and—”

“I don’t give a damn who you are,” Chase growled, baring his teeth and lowering his head. “Let me out. Now.”

The smile faded from the lips of the man who called himself Ryder. For a moment, Chase caught a flash of disappointment in his eyes, followed by a silence that dragged on far too long. He had the impression that the man’s gaze had darkened, but he quickly brushed that thought from his mind. The last time he had played along with a human, he had ended up trapped in their clutches, working to help them seize land from pups who only wanted to live in peace.

Then the man reached into his inner pocket and took out the key. Cautiously, he stepped closer, causing Chase to retreat, curling up into a tight ball—yet tense, ready to attack. Ryder unlocked the door and looked him straight in the eye, making Chase feel even more threatened. He was trapped between three iron bars and a human who, naïvely, reached out a hand toward him. Huge mistake.

His instincts sensed danger and responded accordingly. He snapped his jaws toward the hand, though he didn’t bite—just a feint, enough to make the man quickly pull back, startled by the realisation. Ryder stepped away and eventually returned to the chair he’d been sitting in. He was no longer smiling and, judging by his posture, Chase had managed to scare him. Good, Chase thought. Be afraid. Fear the dog. Then you’ll let me go.

But Ryder didn’t move from his seat, limiting Chase’s chances of escape. Frustrated, the pup realised he had to try a different approach. He needed a distraction so he could sprint toward the exit and bolt. The only way was to get him talking. Maybe, if he earned the man’s trust, he’d let his guard down long enough for a dog at full speed to catch him off guard.

He also needed to figure out how much this man knew about his transformation. The fact that he knew his name was another issue he’d have to address. But what worried him most was the secret of his family. A human talking about the existence of a werepup wasn’t too alarming, but it was still bad news. He’d have to be more careful from now on.

From inside the cage, Chase looked around the room, ears low. Not many options for escape.

“What is this place?”

“It’s... my invention room. I make all kinds of gadgets here. For example,”—without getting up, he grabbed a large wooden box— “This is a pup-box. It’s used for—”

“I know what a pup-box is,” Chase interrupted sharply, narrowing his eyes. “Though I’ve only ever had the metal kind.”

Again, Ryder’s smile vanished.

“Ah... right... The ones from Gizmody Industries,” he said, placing the box back on the table. “Makes sense. Of course. You were a sheriff—you needed weapons.”

Once again, alarm bells went off in Chase’s head. The fact that this man knew he had once been a sheriff meant he knew much more than he was letting on. Could it be...?

“How do you know I was a sheriff? Are you working with Humdinger?”

It was like he’d hit a red button. Ryder’s eyes flared with anger, his face tensed, lips pressed tight in offense.

“Not a chance. I’d throw myself off a bridge first.”

There was something in Ryder’s words and tone that gave off a sense of sincerity, even safety. Still, Chase wasn’t about to trust easily—last time, his gut instinct had landed him in a deep pit he couldn’t climb out of. He’d ended up depending on Humdinger to get the sunflower essence he needed. He hadn’t even had the money or means to obtain it on his own, let alone travel to Mexico to get it.

“Then tell me how you know who I am—or what I used to be. Because I stopped being sheriff a long time ago. And that was down south.”

Ryder’s features softened. He looked a little disappointed. Chase fell silent, waiting for a response, one that took a while to come. Quietly, Ryder began unfastening the buttons on his vest, then his shirt, until he was bare-chested. Chase had never understood how humans had managed to survive: they barely had any fur (though this one had a fair amount of body hair), and their skin was thin, fragile. They had low body temperatures and got sick easily. Yet there they were, overpopulating the world.

Ryder didn’t exactly have a modest number of scars. Some looked like bullet wounds, others like small cuts. He seemed like someone who had lived a life on the run. Judging by his physique, he didn’t train much, but he didn’t live a life of luxury either. From what he said, it sounded like he used his brain more than his brawn. The kind they’d call a brainiac.

But there was one scar that drew Chase’s full attention, set on the man’s shoulder. It was so strange and so distinct that, for a moment, Chase lost track of the world. His body moved instinctively, stepping out of the cage for a closer look. It was a bite mark, already healed—probably from years ago—but unmistakable in shape and details. Every last one of them.

“The Garou mark,” Chase said, stunned. “You were bitten.”

“I stepped into clan territory without knowing. Not exactly a great first impression,” Ryder admitted with a shrug.

“They could’ve killed you,” Chase replied—and then realized something worse. “You could’ve exposed them.”

“I’d have gained nothing from that—just made more enemies,” Ryder said, starting to put his shirt back on. “It still aches a little, but it’ll pass. It’s just another scar. It’ll fade.”

“No. It won’t,” Chase narrowed his eyes, dead serious. “The Garou mark doesn’t go away. Never. The pain might—but the mark, never. You were bitten under a full moon—when werepups can give their gift to others. Family thing. I was bitten too by my own family— I allowed it.”

“I noticed it while giving you a bath. So, I’m dealing with an expert.”

Ryder looked over at him. An awkward silence hung between them until Chase realized he was no longer inside the cage. He was free. In perfect position to bolt for the stairs and escape. He could do it. That was what he’d been waiting for. And yet… the mark of his clan on the human’s body changed everything.

“I don’t think there’s any record of Garou marks on humans. Or the effects they might have.”

“So far, just a massive fever once a month that leaves me wrecked,” Ryder said. “But with ice, warm baths, and the company of my loyal partner, I manage.” Still, Chase had the impression he wasn’t being entirely honest. “I’m hairy enough already—I don’t need extra fur. And working with paws would be tricky. I mean, I invented pup-boxes to make life easier for all of you, pups, after all.”

Despite all the suspicion the man stirred in him, Chase felt a strange peace settle inside. Not only had he never heard of humans being transformed—he wouldn’t have even known what to do if that were the case. If what Ryder said was true, then it had only been a scare. Chase still had the sense that the man was hiding something… but he couldn’t be sure.

“Believe me—I’d give anything if it were just a little fever at night,” the dog finally said.

“Is that why you teamed up with Humdinger?”

The German shepherd lifted his head, eyes narrowing.

“You know a lot. Too much.”

“I’ve been spying on you—I won’t deny it.”

That was a bad sign. How much did he really know? Did he know about his plans with Zuma? About everything he was hoping to do with the mine? Chase swallowed. He knew that inner courtyard hadn’t been the best idea, but he could’ve sworn all the surrounding buildings were empty when they went there to talk. After all, Wild West Way wasn’t completely full. He needed to pull a little more on that thread.

His escape plan was suddenly shelved. Until further notice.

“Why?”

“Someone told me about you. I went looking. I wanted to help you control it. And then… I found out everything that happened to you in Rio Grande.”

The man crossed his arms. Chase wasn’t buying it. Everything Ryder said sounded half-true at best.

“Well… more or less.”

“And you followed me all the way here?”

Ryder shook his head.

“No, that... That was something else. Long story.”

He folded his arms again.

“So, if you didn’t side with Humdinger because of that… then why?”

Chase opened his muzzle—but quickly shut it again, realizing he was talking too much. Once more, he was letting himself get too comfortable. That kind of trust could set a precedent—and not a good one. He cut off the thought and scanned the room for his clothes. He’d said too much already. Time to get out, as fast as his legs would carry him.

“Long story.”

“I see.”

“And now... I want to leave, ok? Let me out.”

“You have every right.” Ryder raised an eyebrow, then turned and handed over the clothes. Chase gave them a careful sniff. They smelled clean, freshly laundered and tended to. It felt almost strange to hold something so well-cared-for after so long living on the move. He was used to dressing himself, so he didn’t hesitate to toss the garments on the ground, stepping into them and pulling them on with some difficulty. The easiest part, no doubt, was the hat—he had that down. And someone had even taken the time to brush and shape it with care.

“I had water, and food, for pups. If you want...” started Ryder.

“No. I... I’ll take care of myself.”

The German shepherd looked at the human for a moment. A part of him wanted to trust Ryder—but his experience with Humdinger stood like a wall in the way. And it wasn’t an easy wall to climb.

“What was the point of all this trouble?” he finally asked, adjusting his hat.

“Like I told you—I just wanted to help. I figured you’d need your clothes to be in good condition. Otherwise, people would start asking questions. You’re a wanderer, sure, but even wanderers raise suspicions.”

“So, I’m supposed to believe you’re Mother Teresa now? Patron saint of lost pups?” Chase wasn’t in the mood.

“No one gets bitten by a werepup either—and yet, here I am.”

He’s quick on the draw, the German shepherd thought. Thinks fast, answers sharp… His mind’s sharp. But not sharper than mine. I know you’re hiding things, Ryder. It’s hard to lie to me.

And that’s exactly why he hated Humdinger so much. The man had mastered the art of lying—so well, he’d even fooled Chase.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. As a sheriff, Chase had always felt a peculiar satisfaction in catching a bandit, especially the interrogation. Plenty of humans thought that, just because he was a pup, they were smarter than them. They learned quickly how wrong they were, once the German shepherd tore their alibis apart and sent them off to jail—or, depending on the case, to the gallows. Chase the Sheriff had been one of the most feared in the business. And he still would be, if it weren’t for Rocky and his gang—the one group that had always been a step ahead.

That satisfaction returned, suddenly, like an old friend. He may have let his guard down with Humdinger, but he wasn’t about to do the same with this human called Ryder. This one seemed like a much easier bone to chew—and unravelling his lies was going to be the simplest thing in the world.

"How did I end up here?" Chase asked.

Ryder sighed.

"I had to drug you with some bacon I left lying around. It hurt to do it, but you had the whole police force combing the town. They would’ve found you soon enough."

"That’s it?" Chase narrowed his eyes. "You picked me up and carried a full-grown Mexican wolf all the way to your house?"

"Oh, please! You don’t weigh more than a regular wolf. In fact, you should be eating more. You’re underweight. A little meat on your bones wouldn’t hurt. And maybe stop drinking so much. Or smoking. Or—"

"I don’t recall asking you to butt into my life."

And for a moment, a fleeting, miserable instant, Chase regretted being so harsh with him.

There were too many questions spinning in his head: Did he know about the plan? How much had he overheard? If he asked directly and Ryder knew nothing, he’d be giving everything away. On the other hand, Ryder could be hiding something, just waiting for the right moment. Chase had been so careless that now he was cornered by two humans who could land him in serious trouble. He was in a fine mess.

"Still," Ryder went on, seemingly unbothered by the sharpness of Chase’s words, "it’s possible the authorities are still looking for you. You might want to hear what’s happened before you face the outside world."

The human picked up a rolled-up newspaper—but for Chase, it became something entirely different. That insignificant object instantly triggered all his fears, dragging them into the light. He didn’t even have time to think: his brain at once pushed his legs into motion, searching for a place to hide, and before he realised it, he was under the staircase, trembling like a leaf. Darkness closed in around him, and tunnel vision clouded his thoughts. The face before him wasn’t Ryder’s—it was Humdinger’s.

He felt the pain on his back, on his neck—every blow he had taken while tied down. Panic flooded him. He tried to think clearly. He couldn’t. Ryder’s voice sounded distant, like words spoken through glass. Everything was tinged red. The light hurt his eyes. His temples throbbed as if they were about to explode.

Ryder—was it really Ryder?—gently set the newspaper down on the table. Then he stepped back, giving him space. Chase, however, needed a few more seconds to feel the sense of imminent danger recede. Only when he judged that Ryder had moved a safe distance away did the tension start to ease from his body. His hearing cleared just enough to understand Ryder’s voice, who had knelt, reaching a hand out toward him.

"...never hurt you. Ever." His voice held a tenderness that felt genuine. Or maybe it was just Chase’s need for someone to hold on to. "I’d never lay a hand on a pup. Not in my life. You’re safe here."

Chase took his time before stepping out from under the stairs. It still felt safer there.

"And what did you want the newspaper for?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

"I wanted to show you something... Look, if you prefer, I can roll it over to you. Would that be okay?"

Chase nodded. He didn’t fully trust humans—especially not strangers. He watched as Ryder slowly rolled the newspaper across the floor toward him. He stopped it with his paw. Carefully, he unfolded it and began reading the front page. It was the morning edition, and although the headline was huge, the article was surprisingly brief. Still, it had all the information Chase needed to start wondering if he had been the one responsible. If it had happened before he passed out, he was in real trouble. If not, he couldn’t make sense of it.

Before talking to Ryder again, he kept reading. Only when he saw Humdinger’s name did the pieces begin to fall into place. That man always had backup plans in case the first one failed. That had always been the case—but now he was making them public? That meant he thought he was close to winning. Teaming up with a construction developer made sense: it would give him easier access to the mines beneath the town.

Still, Chase wasn’t sure how much Ryder really knew about his situation. Better not to pull that thread.

"Did I do this?"

"No." Ryder’s reply was so firm Chase had no reason to doubt him. Then Ryder dug into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a Petri dish holding something orange. He set it gently on the ground and nudged it toward the German shepherd, who stopped it with his paw.

"This is the sample. Please, smell it. It’s fresh. You’ll see I’m right."

Chase seriously considered ignoring him. He was used to drugs being hidden in things like that. But in the end, he decided to go along with it. He carefully opened the dish and sniffed. Immediately, he caught the scent of a werepup. But it wasn’t his own. It smelled of calendula—an aroma he couldn’t associate with anyone from his clan at that moment. It was so intense and mournful it was hard to take in.

"Where did you find it?"

"In an alleyway. Katie had to protect Boomer from being attacked by a... Well, we thought it was a wolf, but—"

"It was a werepup. No doubt."

"A Mexican wolf werepup, to be exact," Ryder added, raising an eyebrow as he looked at him. "A Mexican wolf... like you."

"But it’s not me," Chase replied. "Because you caught me."

That’s when the puzzle pieces started to click together in his mind. The newspaper. Humdinger’s words. His habit of always keeping another card up his sleeve. The werepup fur that wasn’t his. As everything connected in his thoughts, Chase realized the magnitude of the problem he was facing. A werepup in town was dangerous enough—especially if they weren’t trained. He wasn’t even fully trained himself. But now they were talking about someone else. Someone he didn’t know at all. And most likely, Humdinger had brought this one in to finish the job. That’s why he had pushed him the night before. It had all been part of the plan.

He backed away, bumping into the edge of the stairs, staring at the newspaper in horror. He already knew he was being used—but not like this. Not with this level of precision. A chill ran through him. But along with it came the sting of pride, the pain of seeing his roots exploited for someone else’s gain. It had been hard enough to accept that he’d been tricked—harder still to think someone else like him was helping with it. And that was assuming his guesses were right. But it was all too convenient. And Chase didn’t believe in coincidences.

"He tricked me. Again." Chase lowered his head, ears drooping. "There’s another one."

"I figured as much," Ryder replied, swallowing hard.

"This is bad."

"For you, yes. With those accidents, he can pin the blame on you."

"He just needed another excuse to tie me down and use me for whatever plan he’s cooked up."

Ryder pressed his lips together, letting the German shepherd sit with the weight of that truth.

“Why are you telling me this?” Chase was back to his old habits again, but he needed to be. He normally didn’t trust any human. Never had. They lied even more often than pups, and back then, their smell of alcohol would overwhelm his senses. He was used to it now. These days, he often reeked of whiskey and other liquors himself. But back then, it had made it hard to even think.

That was why he couldn’t trust humans. Or their words. He had to take everything they said with a grain of salt.

Ryder bit his lip and shrugged.

“Because I think going after that werepup will do you good—before he causes a disaster in the coming nights.” Then, crossing his fingers on both hands, he added, “And because I think, deep down, you don’t want to play Humdinger’s game.”

Chase swallowed. The truth was, he hadn’t really cared that much. At this point in life, other people’s lives—or the collateral damage his actions might cause—mattered very little to him. Or at least that had been the case until Zuma appeared. And of course, everything about his origins. That had turned things around far too quickly for Chase to afford ignoring it.

And Humdinger wasn’t about to give him more time or opportunities. He was in a hurry. Chase was sure he’d squeeze every second out of him until the full moon.

On the other hand, he couldn’t betray Humdinger. Not when he knew who Chase really was, everything he was, and could expose it to the public at any moment. Many still believed werepups were just a myth—same as merpups. But a few photos and the threat of turning him into a freak show were more than enough to make it clear: in times like these, Humdinger would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. Even if that meant revealing Chase’s kind. And if that happened, his people would be in danger.

How could he have been so foolish?

How had he let himself get found out so easily?

“I don’t want to play his game, that’s true.” He scraped the floor with his claws, thoughtful. “But I must to. For my people. For my kind. Then we’ll find a way to recover our lands, our home.”

“Chase…”

“The Southern Wars, manifest destiny… You humans come, colonise, assimilate, destroy whatever isn’t like you.” The German shepherd felt like his words were coming out like knives, but he had no desire to hold them back. “I don’t have much choice if I want my people to live in peace. In hiding, yes—but peace. It’s the only way they’ll survive, looking at what you’ve done to the natives of this region. Of the whole continent, really.”

Ryder stayed silent, lowering his head slightly.

“You’re not wrong.”

“No, I’m not,” Chase replied, and like a runaway locomotive, he kept going. “I became sheriff thinking I could change the world, but the law… the damn law! Laws written only to protect white folk, humans, the upper class… What a waste of time.”

He tucked the evidence into the inside of his coat. He thought it might fall out (the inside pocket was usually torn), but this time Ryder had managed to fix it. Still bothered by the man’s presence and disliking the newspaper, he turned and made use of the courtesy to head upstairs. Better to take the chance than dwell on it too long.

“W-wait!” Ryder stood up suddenly and rushed toward a nearby cabinet. “Before you go, take… take this. It’s not much, but…”

He returned with a surprise for Chase—something the German shepherd didn’t even know how to react to. His eyes locked on what Ryder held in his hand: a vial of sunflower essence, and judging by its color, it looked unadulterated. He froze, remembering how badly he needed it. For a moment, he wanted to leap forward and snatch it, but he stopped halfway, suspicious again.

“Why are you giving me this? What do you want from me?”

Ryder opened his mouth. The way he looked at him, it seemed like he might tell him to go to hell or something, but instead he just pressed his lips together and rubbed his temple with his right hand. Chase knew Ryder was testing him, but he wouldn’t trust as easily as he had the last time.

“So, you don’t transform again tonight and make me cover for you. W-we won’t always be this lucky. You can take it or leave it.”

“And why do you have sunflower essence anyway?” Chase narrowed his eyes. “It’s kinda suspicious that you’ve got something like that out of nowhere.”

This time, the sigh that followed clearly marked the end of Ryder’s patience.

“Do you want it or not?” His tone made it clear he was nearing his limit. Chase hesitated but wisely weighed Ryder’s words—and the consequences of walking around without the vial. He still needed to visit Rocky and ask for his supply back, even if he had to come up with some excuse. Maybe saying he was sick would be enough. But he didn’t like accepting things without giving something in return. It put him in a serious bind. It meant, eventually, he’d owe Ryder something.

Carefully, he opened his coat so Ryder could place the vial into the inner pocket, next to the petri dish.

“I’ll find out who the werepup infiltrating the city is.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I WILL,” Chase snapped, very firmly, ears up, eyes narrowed. He struck the wooden step hard with his paw. “I’ll find out who the werepup is. I’ll bring him to you. What you do with him is your business.”

Ryder gave a small nod. Chase didn’t return it—just touched the brim of his mended hat before turning and slowly climbing the steps toward the outer doors. He stopped only when he reached them and looked back over his shoulder at the man waiting below. Waiting. For something.

“…Thanks. For saving me.”

“And thank you. For giving me five minutes of your time.”

That was all he needed.

-----

When Chase closed the basement doors, Ryder was left with his hands in his pockets, eyes on the wooden floorboards. The dust traced the outlines of both his boots and Chase’s pawprints. A curious image that made him smile as he recalled Skye’s words—cold as they had sounded, they were still true, after all.

Maybe he wasn’t his Chase. But he was a Chase. A bit older, sure, more worn down—but it felt like, with some effort, Ryder had managed to remind him that he still deserved justice. That justice which had always defined him. No matter when or where—somehow, the German shepherd always ended up back in the fight. And that was what Ryder had always liked about him.

And to see him again. To see him! He’d have done anything to jump up and hug him, to beg for forgiveness for everything—even if Chase didn’t understand. Just to be by his side again, to run together again, even if time was running out.

He decided to sit on a step and breathe easy. He had broken one of the Big Valley Howler’s rules. And he knew he hadn’t made much progress in return, but… he didn’t care.

He liked it.

Outside, Chase looked around. He was on the outskirts of town, but still within the protective borders. With a sigh, he checked his pockets, noticing an unusual weight. From one of them, he pulled out a wad of bills.

Ten dollars.

“He’s outta his mind,” he muttered. For a moment, he considered turning around and giving it back—but then he paused. Ten dollars could pay for a hotel room for two whole months, food and washing included. Two months with a roof over his head. It wasn’t much, but at least he wouldn’t be wandering the streets. He didn’t plan to stay here. Not that long.

He was starting to wonder—who was he supposed to betray? The man who’d kicked him around, or the one who’d just saved his life? The first guy was a bastard, sure, but at least he didn’t pretend otherwise. The second seemed kind enough, but something about him felt… off. Skeletons in the closet.

Chase clicked his tongue.

"Humans are so weird..."

Why did he always grow attached to humans? Why did he have that damn habit?

#paw patrol au #wild west way #head canon #chase #paw patrol chase #ryder #paw patrol ryder #paw patrol #short story

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wild-west-way · 1 month ago

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Author Notes: Skye

Let's talk about her:

When I started designing Wild West Way, I had a clear idea of the roles of the four main characters: Rocky, Zuma, Marshall, and Chase. Their stories are deeply tied to both Wild West Way and the 1892 fires of Howdy Creek. I was very aware that the nature of these characters would inevitably be slightly altered by their environment, so I had to make sure I didn’t overdo it. As the story of Wild West Way took shape, I came across Rubble. But my real challenge was Skye.

I’ll admit it: Skye was never my favourite character. She never really clicked with me in the show. Her “flat” personality when she’s around the others drives me up the wall—she feels like the token girl included just to meet the required gender quota in a kids’ TV series. So I had a major mental block with her. Every other character has a past, some personal struggles, some backstory... but Skye remained a complete blank. And I can tell you that was incredibly frustrating.

It wasn’t until I started reading Babyzuma’s fanfics that I saw Skye could have a more meaningful role. She just needed a fresh take. I think that the Skye in @babyzuma fanfics is livelier, more charismatic, she makes me laugh with her moments, and there’s something genuinely sweet about her. That’s when it hit me—my real problem with Skye is that, in the show, she’s p-e-r-f-e-c-t. And that, I think, is where it all falls apart.

It wasn’t until I saw The Mighty Movie that I saw even the movie’s screenwriters must have run into the same issue.

The Skye from the movies is a completely different character from the one in the series. She’s proactive, more mature, and most of all—sassy. She has a personality that stands out from the others, and that’s something I really like and find exciting. She’s imperfect, with her flaws, her little breakdowns, and her unforgivable blunders. She’s a more well-rounded, constructive character than Skye from the show. That’s when I realised I could work with this version of her. But the question was: what role would she play? Each character, whether it seems like it or not, has an important role in the story.

This scene inspired me:

It may seem like a small thing, but this scene is very significant in Wild West Way. There’s a line in the fic Chance that says exactly this:

“So far, just a massive fever once a month that leaves me wrecked,” Ryder said. “But with ice, warm baths, and the company of my loyal partner, I manage.”

I can assure you: This detail is very important for the plot.

Somewhere during the early drafts, I realised Skye fit surprisingly well with Ryder. And somehow, it felt organic—thanks to that scene. Skye has moments when she freezes, and Ryder has to step in to help her. I felt I could build on that. By teaming her up with Ryder, suddenly the Skye in WWW came to life, and I found the perfect place for her. I started doing research into how the USPS worked in the U.S. in 1898 and the law 18 U.S. Code § 1708. I noticed it all fit together perfectly: Skye ended up solving a plot issue I hadn’t even noticed in the early drafts of WWW.

Wild West Way is the town, yes, a town with a name that, strange as it may sound, was not chosen at random—but the town’s story is incomplete if the world around it isn’t properly understood.

There were no aeroplanes back then, so Skye had to be a train engineer. And with Ryder involved, it had to be a state-of-the-art train. That’s when everything started to click. Skye and her future partners (you'll know one of them in the next comic, Way) will became the perfect trio to help the reader discover, through their eyes, how the world works, the contrast between Wild West Way and the world beyond, and some of the mysteries that would later tie into the rest of the plot.

For a moment, I thought that “isolating” Skye from the rest of the group might be a mistake. But once I had the final draft complete, I realised Skye had gone from sitting on the bench to having a key role, with enough adventures and a mission that only she could carry out (as you'll see in the next comic, Way). Suddenly, I didn’t dislike her so much anymore. In fact, I kind of grew fond of her. And maybe that’s why I ended up enjoying the special episode with Skye, Liberty, and Everest a lot more than I expected.

In my opinion, Skye shines with her own light when she's is alone in her own.

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wild-west-way · 1 month ago

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PAW Patrol: Wild West Way - Fur

Short fic set after the events of Bite. You can read after the “Read more”

Since the writer is not fluent writing in English, it is possible that you can find some grammar mistakes.

The small town of Wild West Way was well contained. At first, it consisted only of small stone houses and a few country homes, but as wealthy folk arrived eager to start new businesses, tall buildings quickly began to spring up. It had been a stroke of luck: Rubble's company had made it clear that if there was nothing to build there, they’d go elsewhere—they were in it to make money, like everyone else. Fortunately, the existence of a town with more lenient and fair laws, such as Wild West Way, had been enough to spread the word among rich investors and old outlaws looking to leave their past behind.

That said, the streets remained chaotic at best. Six main avenues provided a minimal sense of order, but beyond them, chaos still reigned. Especially near the coast, where the town had first begun to take shape. The old houses that had once served as temporary storage were now buildings used to stock provisions for fishermen, as well as for constructing new boats. Additional docks had been extended, and Zuma had been put in charge of that entire section—a responsibility the pup was perfectly happy with. As long as he was near water, he didn’t mind.

The first time Katie had seen the town, she thought they'd been there for years. When she found out it had barely been a year, she’d been stunned. The speed at which Rubble’s company built was astonishing, as was the rapid influx of people fleeing the disasters occurring across the world, searching for a place to be themselves. Katie had never seen such a variety of citizens anywhere else, although the tension in the air could be cut with a knife. After all, rules could be changed. But people came with their own customs, and those were harder to reshape.

She brought a hand to her chin, listening to Ryder as he explained how the land grants for founding Wild West Way had worked, feeling the scar on her cheek with the tip of her finger.

“Let’s see if I’ve got this straight,” she began, interrupting the explanation. Summarising the political history of the town hadn’t been easy for Ryder, who walked alongside the young woman with his hands in his pockets. They were both heading towards the alleys nestled between the large blocks in the upper part of the city. “So Wild West Way, being right on the border… is technically no one’s land?”

“It’s… much more complicated than that.” Ryder adjusted his hat before continuing. “We’d have to go back to the very origins of the town, but even though I know the details, I feel it would be more proper if Zuma were the one to tell you someday.”

There was something in the man’s eyes that Katie couldn’t quite place, but it felt like guilt.

Katie lowered her gaze slightly. The walk to the site of the incident had been pleasant. After the howling episode, the townspeople seemed calm. The local pups didn’t appear too nervous, although rumours were still flying about, growing more exaggerated by the minute. Newspapers passed from hand to hand. Katie kept pace beside Ryder, though it wasn’t easy: the young man was a bit shorter than she was. Not tiny, but she probably had him by six or seven centimetres. It was odd—many men preferred shorter women to feel more masculine. Ryder had never brought it up. At least, not seriously.

“So anyway,” Ryder continued after the brief pause, “Canada and the United States are both claiming the land. That’s why Marshall—the marshal—and his team of men and pups are here. It’s America’s way of being friendly with this town’s government. A way of saying, ‘Look, we’re giving you resources to defend yourselves, so you might as well annexe to us.’”

“And why don’t they just do it by force?”

“Because Benjamin Harrison, the current President of the United States, has a good reputation, and the last thing he wants is to end his term by starting a conflict with Canada,” Ryder shook his head slightly before going on. “Plus, Washington state joined the Union three years ago, and its current governor, Elisha Perry, is close to reaching a zero-debt goal. If he were to forcibly annex Wild West Way, he’d have to take on the town’s debt from having been built from scratch—and that’s not in his interest. Maybe in four years. But now? He wants business to thrive.”

“The fatter the turkey, the richer the feast,” Katie replied with one of her typical veterinary quips. “If he annexes a city at its peak, the reward and compensation is greater than just absorbing another place. In the end, it’s all politics. And what does the sheriff think about all this?”

Ryder shrugged.

“He doesn’t care. He just wants the town to move forward. He leaves politics to Goodway. Even Zuma didn’t want to get involved, and technically, we’re on ancestral land that belongs to his people.” He stopped in front of one of the gates that shut off the inner streets during curfew and pulled on the handle. The door creaked open, clearly in need of oil, and Ryder bowed. “Ladies first.”

“So I get stabbed before you do?” And seeing Ryder’s eyes go wide, she burst out laughing. “You’re so easy to tease, city boy!”

The inventor pulled a face, but Katie stuck out her tongue like a child. She loved this chemistry: Ryder wasn’t like other men. He was open-minded, willing to accept and kindly debate the more conservative ideas floating around town. But what she liked and admired most was how incredibly kind and devoted he was to the pups, even going so far as to invent all sorts of gadgets for them. Most humans didn’t spare much thought for the pups; Ryder seemed to have come to change the rules of the game.

She liked that way of thinking in him.

They walked down a secondary street, where laundry hung above their heads and women chatted among themselves about how difficult life was these days. Further on began the first industrial zone, where Rubble’s team shaped the stones that became people’s homes. Katie had come here to speak with the bulldog but had ended up returning to the vets with a bleeding mastiff in her arms and a nasty bite on its neck. Now that she thought about it, the creature hadn’t attacked again afterwards, even though it could have done so at any moment.

They turned left, and Katie stopped. Seeing the dead-end alley, surrounded by tall buildings with chimneys that never stopped puffing out smoke, she felt herself transported back to the previous night, just as the rain had begun. She remembered the wet clothes clinging to her body, the slippery ground, the dim lights struggling against the falling raindrops that hit the electric wires overhead. There, to one side, was still the piece of wood she had used to threaten the creature. She had thought of taking it with her, but it hadn’t been possible—carrying the mastiff had taken both hands.

“And speaking of which… do you know what’s going on with Zuma, now that you mentioned him?” the young woman asked, needing a new topic to keep her from reliving the events of the previous day.

“Mm? What about him?”

“Well, there’s a new boy in town, Chase. He was the sheriff back where I was born.”

“Ah, yes, Chase. I’d heard something about him,” the young man replied.

“Well, I told him that when he found Zuma, he should send him by the clinic. You know I want all the dogs checked—I don’t want an outbreak that could affect all the pups,” canine diseases, after all, were just as contagious to all breeds. “And suddenly he got nervous… Stood up, said he had things to do and left in a hurry. Do you know if something’s wrong?”

Ryder raised an eyebrow, looking at Katie, then simply shrugged.

“Zuma and Rocky were part of a gang of outlaws. Wouldn’t surprise me if they’d crossed paths with him once or twice.”

That made sense, Katie thought, but it didn’t fully answer her question. She found Zuma’s behaviour extremely odd—he was usually so cheerful and lively, as though life’s troubles meant little to him. His past as an outlaw didn’t bother her. She wasn’t afraid. The two of them had chosen to start anew, and she was willing to grant them that. Still, it was strange. She decided it was likely a personal matter between the two of them, and best left alone.

She knelt in front of some marks left in the mud. Numerous tracks were embedded here and there, some hard to make out. Nevertheless, Katie could clearly distinguish which ones belonged to Boomer and which to the creature. She glanced at the latter, hand to chin and eyes narrowed. She didn’t even touch the print—it was still slightly damp.

“How strange…”

“What is?” asked Ryder, who came to stand beside her, though keeping a respectful distance. “Saw something interesting?”

“They’re wolf prints, no doubt about it.” She looked at the man, who seemed interested, though he didn’t appear to understand much, so she clarified: “The size, the weight… Look at the claws. And especially these two marks on the sides. A domestic dog or a pup wouldn’t leave prints like these. And yet… it’s not as large as I would expect. Might be young, but the toes are quite developed. It’s as if…” —and suddenly she made a gesture with her hands, as though gripping a box and pressing it inwards— “as if, you know…”

“They took a grown wolf and shrunk it,” Ryder suggested.

“Exactly!” the girl replied, snapping her fingers. “The only thing that would explain this is a wolf with dwarfism, but that would be a first. And even then, it would’ve had to cross all of Rubble’s borders. Which isn’t possible… How did it get here?”

“The two side streets meet right at this point” Ryder stood and retraced his steps, placing himself at the intersection. “You came from the west, walked to the south, fought the wolf… Did you see which way it went?”

Katie pointed east as she rose and picked up her bag, quickly falling into step beside him. Together, they looked inseparable. She glanced at the man, just a few paces ahead. Despite his age, he looked slightly younger, with those lively eyes and freckles on his skin. He walked with such purpose as if he always knew exactly what to do. Katie also appreciated how tidy he was—his clothes always smelled faintly of bleeding hearts, were well stitched, and showed no signs of wear. She knew he washed them himself every day, instead of asking a seamstress to do it.

He did everything himself. He didn’t let anyone touch his belongings, no matter what they were. Not even another woman. Even the eccentric hat he wore had been crafted by his own hands, and he never took it off. He’d lost the respect of many wealthy men for it, sure. But it didn’t matter—his inventions were the best around.

They stopped just a few meters from the eastern alley’s gate, searching for clues. Ryder, with a hand on his chin, paused in front of an abandoned cardboard box and gestured for the woman to come closer. She stepped beside him, practically ignoring the unwritten rule that a single man and woman shouldn’t stand so close. But no one was watching them at that moment. She took the chance to see what he was pointing at and widened her eyes in surprise.

“A tuft,” said Katie, who quickly set her bag on the box, opened it, and pulled out a pair of tweezers and a petri dish. Carefully, she collected the bit of fur. “Yes, no doubt… It’s animal hair. But I couldn’t tell you if it’s wolf or just some other dog. And the colouring is rather unusual…”

“If it were a wolf, what kind would you say it is?”

Katie didn’t answer straight away. Her mind was combing through her knowledge, trying to figure out where this clue might fit. She couldn’t rule out it being a wolf anymore—her instincts told her so—but she still needed proper evidence. She turned the fur this way and that, looking for the detail that made her believe it was more lupine than canine.

And then it hit her. Like a flash of revelation jolting her mind. She brightened suddenly, a smile spreading across her face, almost erasing for a few seconds the ugly scars caused by her father’s constant abuse—if one could even call that man a father. The only kind of affection he’d ever shown her had come from a belt.

“A Mexican wolf,” she said, puzzled, piecing it together in her head as she slowly turned towards Ryder. “It’s a subspecies of the common wolf. It’s been discovered very, very recently. In fact, when I was studying veterinary medicine, they brought us one of each to compare their similarities.”

Ryder, visibly confused, stared at the fur while a line of sweat formed on his brow—clearly nervous.

“Could that be our creature?” he ventured.

“It could be,” Katie was more than convinced. “It would explain a slightly smaller paw than the common wolf, or why the bite marks weren’t bigger. The Mexican wolf still doesn’t appear in all reference books, and the ones we have in the building aren’t exactly up to date.”

She quickly secured the fur inside the petri dish and sealed it carefully. Then, after a thoughtful pause, she handed it to Ryder. He accepted it with great care, not quite understanding, while the young woman stood and zipped her bag after a quick scan of the area. The ground here was much cleaner, so there were no prints to be found. Even so, the gate was far too tall—someone would have had to open it with the handle. She couldn’t quite picture a Mexican wolf managing to open it with its paws. Not with their level of intelligence.

So, how had it escaped? She didn’t remember seeing it, though, in fairness, she hadn’t stopped to look back while running with Boomer in her arms. In fact, she had no idea how she’d even made it to the vet’s—covered in mud, blood, and soaked through. Her colleagues, who were just finishing their shifts, had been stunned when she burst in, looking as though she’d walked out of a pig slaughter.

She retraced her steps, silently returning to the starting point. The rain had washed away most of the markings in the little mud that remained, except for the area where the confrontation with Boomer had taken place. Nothing else. The rest was too blurry.

“If it had escaped through the east, the neighbours in the upper part of town would’ve seen it,” Katie murmured. “According to the newspaper, as soon as the howl was heard, they brought the curfew forward. A lot of officers told people to head back home, but they didn’t make it in time. Maybe Rocky could help us here. Do you think the rain’s washed the trail away?”

Ryder scratched his neck, thoughtful.

“You mean Rocky?”

“He’s the best bloodhound in town. But maybe this is too much even fo—”

She didn’t have time to finish. A gunshot snapped both to attention, activating their survival instincts and sending them running for cover behind a pair of bins in the alleyway.

They took cover immediately as the bullets continued to fly, embedding themselves in the nearby walls. The two of them stayed pressed together, with Ryder crushed between the bin and Katie, who was shielding him with her body. The gunfire didn’t last long; it ended in silence, yet they both remained still for a while longer.

The girl lowered her gaze to the man, who had curled in on himself, one hand clutching his shoulder, from which a small stream of blood was trickling. Alarmed, she pushed his hand aside to get a better look at the wound: it was a shallow gash; his shirt had torn, exposing a patch of skin with a slightly deep cut, but nothing serious if treated promptly. Even so, it alarmed her, and she began checking the rest of his body. Nothing critical.

“Dear God.”

“I’m fine,” Ryder said through gritted teeth. “Don’t worry. I’ve had worse.”

“Worse? When?”

“Does it matter right now? We need to find a way out of here before they blow our heads off.”

But she wasn’t trained for situations like this. She knelt again, smearing her clothes with mud, and looked around for an escape route. They could use one of the factories’ back doors to call for help. However, Ryder grabbed her wrist and pressed a finger to his lips, alarmed. He’d heard something. Footsteps.

Katie froze for a moment—then moved. The times she’d hesitated, she’d lost. She had learnt, over time, to snap out of it and get her brain working, survival instincts kicking in, always looking for a way out of the mess. Lifting her gaze slightly, she spotted the bin just behind Ryder and stood up briefly to check inside. It was full of all sorts—metal rods, damaged pipes, and more. She carefully picked one up and armed herself.

“Katie?” Ryder whispered, beginning to understand what she was planning. “Katie, what are you going to do?”

“Shut up and stay here. As soon as you can, get up and run east.”

Ryder shook his head.

“No, no, no, don’t go playing the hero. A metal pipe’s not going to stop bullets.”

“No, but it will crack a few skulls,” Katie replied. With strength and determination, she slipped free of Ryder’s grip and began to move, crouched, skirting around the bin. Ryder opened his mouth to say something, but she was already too far, and he couldn’t risk yelling and giving them away.

She crouched down on the other side, peeking out toward the shadows moving in from the western street. She could clearly make out two canine silhouettes—probably two pups, complete with their pupboxes. Biting her lower lip, she gripped the metal bar tightly. This wasn’t the first time she’d done something like this. It wasn’t the first time she’d left someone half-conscious so she could flee from some madman trying to lay hands on her in the middle of the street. She’d had to escape that town the next day or risk the gallows—because in that world, women weren’t allowed to lay a finger on men.

She took a breath, preparing to spring. She just had to run towards them and hit hard enough to knock them out. She feared killing them. Her lip trembled between her teeth as the pups drew closer. She got ready. Counted to three. Then peered around the edge of the corner.

But the pups darted out of sight and disappeared.

Katie clicked her tongue. She leaned a little further and saw a door close. She knew exactly where they’d gone. Was it worth walking straight into the lion’s den? On the one hand, she wanted to go after them and smack them right between the eyes. On the other hand, two armed pups weren’t exactly small potatoes without the element of surprise. She decided to follow silently. They surely weren’t expecting a woman this sharp. With a confident smile, she crept over to the door and pressed her palm lightly against it—it was locked.

Time for plan B.

Carefully, she removed the fake sunflower from the tip of her headband. From it, she pulled a long pin she always kept for emergencies like this and started fiddling with the lock. It wasn’t her first and wouldn’t be her last. She silently thanked all those times her father had locked her in her room to keep her from running away—it had served as the perfect training ground for picking every kind of lock. And when he caught her and replaced it with a stronger one, she would just learn to pick that one too. It might take her a bit longer—maybe a few days—but in the end, they all gave way.

That was how she’d gained her surgeon’s fingers. That was how she’d mastered her precision.

Once she heard the soft click of the mechanism, she fixed the sunflower back onto her headband and gripped the metal pipe tightly. Carefully, she opened the door, peering through the crack. On the other side was a square, abandoned room with only a small slit of light coming in, illuminating the piles of stacked metal plates like a makeshift storeroom. Seeing no trace of the canines, she opened the door a little further and looked in more closely. Nothing.

Remaining cautious, she stepped a few paces inside. There were no other doors in sight, but the floor was oddly clean—spotless, even. Not a single footprint. Katie began to wonder what had gone on here and started checking around the metal sheets, looking for a hidden entrance, a hatch, something. There was absolutely nothing. It was just a recently used storage room. What on earth was going on?

She heard footsteps approaching from outside. She took cover behind the door, clutching the metal bar. More pups? If so, they were in for a nasty surprise. Silently, she listened as they stopped just in front of the entrance and, very carefully, began to open the door. Katie gripped the bar tightly as soon as she saw the shadow of the two figures stretch across the floor. This was her chance.

Fortunately, both Rocky and Marshall had quick reflexes. Canines were generally exceptional at reacting to fast-moving objects, and they managed to jump out of the way just in time. That didn’t stop them from being startled: Marshall’s box sprang open to release a baton, while Rocky’s produced a set of grappling hooks. Both, one in a defensive stance and the other in attack mode, took a moment to realise it was Katie.

She, in turn, stepped back the moment she saw the grave mistake she’d almost made.

“Oh my goodness,” said the girl, pressing a hand to her chest and leaning against the wall. “I'm so sorry. I thought you were the ones shootin’ at us.”

“You tryin’ to bust their heads open like watermelons?? Well, hell, that’s downright savage.” said Rocky, scanning the area.

“They were shooting at us!”

“That’s still murder, Katie,” Marshall cut in. “What in the blazes are you doin’ in a private warehouse? That’s trespassing. You could get in real trouble for this!”

“Hey, hey, I’m the victim here!” she shot back—then suddenly remembered. She dropped the metal pipe with a loud clang and bolted down the alley. “Ryder! He’s hurt!”

“Ryder’s here?!” both pups exclaimed.

“Yes! He’s been shot!”

“Dang it—Ryder needs us!” Rocky shouted, already sprinting after Katie while quickly stashing his tools back into his pup box.

They didn’t have to go far. Ryder was still crouched behind the container, clutching his shoulder and waiting. When he saw Katie appear, he smiled and let his head rest against the metal wall. He tried to stand up, but Marshall stepped in and pinned him down with a firm paw. Ryder couldn’t do much more—he never expected that the dalmatian could carry so much authority when he slipped on that marshal’s mantle.

“You injured?” Marshall asked, inspecting him with a sharp gaze.

“It’s just a scratch, really. I’m fine. Just need a medic.”

“We got here as soon as we heard the gunshots,” said Rocky, standing beside Katie, eyes scanning the scene. “We figured they came from this way.”

“And they did, believe me,” Ryder nodded, his smile tinged with irony. “But they ran off. Probably heard you two or just wanted to scare us.”

“They ran through the warehouse where you found me. I’m sure of it. Two pups.”

“Right. Marshall, stay here,” said the mutt, turning on his heel. “I’ll be back in a bit. If I’m not, or if you hear gunfire, get them outta here fast. Reinforcements’ll be here any minute.”

“Understood.”

“I’ll come with you,” Katie offered.

“No, Katie. I don’t want any civilians around. Please stay. If Ryder needs carryin’, you’re the best one for the job.”

Rocky’s words were firm enough that Katie had no choice but to bite her tongue and step back, irritated. She crossed her arms and stood beside Ryder, waiting in silence. They remained there for a good while, listening to the murmurs of people walking nearby, talking about the gunshots. So far, no one dared venture into the back alleys.

“Ok, let me check you, Ryder”

“It’s just a scratch, really” but Marshall insisted. Ryder gave in, leaving his shoulder exposed. His shirt was cut, and blood was dried, but the cut was just a scabbed scar, much to the pup's surprise.

“Oh… Well… You healed very fast.”

“Marshall, I appreciate you, really, but… I think you don’t know anything about med.”

“The fact is… Yes, a little. First aid for emergencies. Just a sort of doctor emergency.”

Ryder looked at him like he was a ghost. For a moment, he stared at him, waiting for something, in silence. Then he shrugged and looked away.

“We have things more important to take care: First, wolves. Now guns,” Ryder muttered, changing topic abruptly.

“There shouldn’t be either in Wild West Way,” Katie whispered.

“And yet, we’ve got both,” the man replied, turning to her. “Now I’m sure—we’ve got a hole in our defence system.”

Katie didn’t respond, visibly worried. The town was supposed to be a safe place. Weapons had been strictly banned. No one was allowed to carry them. Anyone entering town had to check them into the bank, securely stored. Carrying one meant a hefty fine, sometimes even jail time. Sure, those rules weren’t standard in the U.S. or Canada, but Canada had stricter regulations, which is why Rocky leaned more toward them joining the Canadian state. The fact that under-sixteens couldn’t carry weapons, or that a permit was required, was already an improvement. Still, the racial and ethnic discrimination in both countries remained unresolved.

Rocky came back after a few minutes, looking down, ears low, clearly pondering something.

“Well?” asked Marshall.

But Rocky said nothing. Instead, he turned toward a nearby wall. With practised precision, he nudged open his pup box and brought out a couple of hooks. He used them to carefully pry one of the embedded bullets out of the wall. Bringing it to his nose, he squinted at it.

“.38 calibre,” he announced.

“Could be a revolver,” Marshall added.

“Or a rifle, or a carbine,” said Katie.

They all turned to look at her, raising an eyebrow in unison, their expressions tinged with surprise. Katie rolled her eyes.

“What? Because I’m a woman, I can’t know about guns?” she asked dryly. “My father was in the military. Fought in Afghanistan. We didn’t have just one gun in the house—we had an entire arsenal.”

Rocky blinked in surprise.

“What was yer pa doin’ with an arsenal in the house?”

“Does it matter now? He hunted, mostly. Taught me how to shoot game.”

“Well, ain’t that a sweet lil’ irony,” Rocky muttered, turning his focus back to the bullet, which he slipped into his right pocket. “I’m takin’ this to the control tower. Wanna analyse the markings—see if I can ID the weapon. There are more bullets ‘round here.”

“Reinforcements are almost here,” said Marshall, ears twitching. “I think it’s best if we get Ryder and Katie to the hospital for a quick check-up.”

“It’s just a scratch, I swear,” Ryder insisted, still clutching his arm. “Honestly, I’d rather go home. I’ve got a med kit there—I can patch myself up.”

The two pups exchanged glances.

“You sure ‘bout that?” Rocky asked.

“Absolutely. Just a scare.”

“Right… So, should I be concerned ‘bout why the two of ya were skulkin’ around a dark alley or…?”

At first, Katie didn’t get what he meant. She was about to explain when the realisation hit. Her mouth opened and closed a couple of times before she turned to Ryder, who had reached the same conclusion and looked ready to blurt out the same excuse. Quickly, she spun back to the pups, hands raised, cheeks flushed with embarrassment, wishing the earth would just swallow her whole.

“Oh, no! Not even close!” she exclaimed. “It was business. Strictly business!”

“Strictly business,” Ryder echoed.

“We were investigating the howling from last night.”

“Exactly.”

“That’s all it was! A purely veterinary matter!”

“Veterinary reasons, really.”

“It was for science, alright?! Oh, come on—me, sneakin’ off into an alley with a man just to… kiss him?!”

“We don’t even like each other!”

“Exactly, we’re just acquaintances!”

Katie fell silent when she saw that the pups didn’t look convinced. She turned a bright shade of red, wishing she could vanish. Rocky was even sniffing them, which was normal for him, sure, but made her feel even more exposed. She knew privacy was a luxury with pups around.

“Alright… Here’s what we’re gonna do,” Rocky said slowly. “We’ll take Katie back to the vet clinic and Ryder to his place. But we’ll be callin’ ya for statements, so make sure ya write everythin’ down—whatever y’all remember, anythin’ at all. We need all the info we can get, y’hear?” He packed up his tools and took the lead. “C’mon, let’s go.”

The two humans were so caught up in the moment that neither remembered to ask Rocky for help with the Mexican wolf investigation. Instead, Katie lowered her hands, grabbed her bag, and slung it over her shoulder. She didn’t even dare look at Ryder. She tried not to think about him at all—just the idea of being caught kissing in an alley was mortifying. They’d never do something like that. Not with someone as proper as him.

… right?

#paw patrol au #wild west way #head canon #ryder #paw patrol ryder #katie #paw patrol katie #short story #paw patrol #rocky #paw patrol rocky #marshall #paw patrol marshall

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