Thicc Sandy has a Plan

The word "Howdy" had never sounded more threatening.

Squidward froze in place. Sandy Cheeks stood before him, her brown fur slightly tousled under the glass of her air dome, eyes narrowed with the sharp intensity of a scientist on the verge of a Nobel Prize. Or a breakdown.

"I—uh—hi Sandy," Squidward said, voice cracking like the surface of a stale crème brûlée.

He didn't get to finish the sentence.

Sandy seized him by the collar and dragged him off the road, yanking him around a coral lamppost and toward the murky outskirts of Jellyfish Fields.

"H-hey!" Squidward sputtered, flailing. "What are you doing?! This is abduction!"

"I ain't got time for pleasantries," she muttered. "We got data to crunch."

With the strength of a thousand protein shakes, she flung open the airlock to the Treedome and slapped a clunky plastic fishbowl helmet over Squidward's head. Before he could argue, she yanked him inside, sealed the chamber, and hit the decompress button.

The water drained with a shhhrrruuuuup, and Squidward's water helmet sealed into place with a beep.

She shoved him into a rolling chair and spun him to face—

What could only be described as a madwoman's dream board.

Photos. Newspaper clippings. Timelines. String. Pushpins. Graphs. A chalkboard filled with formulas written in algae slime. One photo had the words "WHO BENEFITS?" circled three times in red.

Sandy was practically vibrating.

"Three deaths. Three high-profile targets. And I got one thing to say—"

Squidward nearly passed out.

"—They're connected."

He blinked. "W-what?"

Sandy pointed at the board like she was unveiling a war plan.

"Patrick Star. Sheldon J. Plankton. Squilliam Fancyson. All dead. All within days of each other."

She paced. "At first, I thought it was random. Coincidence. Maybe even SpongeBob losin' it. But no—look!" She gestured to a pie chart shaped like a literal pie.

"They were all well-known. All had enemies. And all had some weird, unexplainable circumstance surroundin' their deaths."

Squidward swallowed. His eye twitched.

"Now, here's my hypothesis," Sandy continued, eyes gleaming. "There's gotta be a common denominator. Someone or something pullin' the strings. And I need you—yes, you, Squidward—to help me figure out who."

"W-why me?" he choked out, sweating through his shirt.

"'Cause you were close to all three," she said simply, tapping a dry-erase triangle labeled "Squid-Centric Social Web."

He laughed nervously. "Close is a strong word. I hated all three of them. I mean—uh. Casually disliked. You know. Patrick was an annoying neighbor, Plankton would routinely turn my workplace into a warzone, and do I need to talk about Squilliam?"

Sandy didn't seem to notice the panic seeping from every pore.

"Help me dig," she said. "We gotta trace movements, behaviors, anomalies. There's a pattern here. I can feel it."

Squidward fidgeted. "I mean, Sandy… weird things happen in Bikini Bottom all the time. Remember the Fry Cook Games? Half the audience got turned into fishsticks. Or when SpongeBob's bad breath caused that guy to crash and explode? The cop had the nerve to give his burnt-out car a ticket afterwards.

She frowned. "Those were isolated, random events."

"Okay, but what about the time Patrick wrote that song so bad, the band playing it all died?"

Sandy crossed her arms. "Again. Sporadic. These three? Targeted."

She wheeled over on her rolling chair and got nose-to-nose with him. "I need your help, Squidward. You were there. You knew them. You can help me find the truth."

He hesitated. For a moment, he thought of telling her everything. About the notebook. About Lurala. About the way power sizzled like static in his fingers.

But then—

If he said a word, he was finished.

So instead, he nodded slowly. "Y-yeah. Okay. I'll help."

Sandy beamed. "Knew I could count on you."

Then, without warning, she turned her back to him and began unzipping her pressure suit.

"Wait—what are you doing?!" Squidward blurted.

The top of the suit flopped to the floor, and Sandy stepped out, shaking her helmet-free furr loose.

Squidward's pupils dilated behind his bowl helmet.

Sandy had changed.

Her figure had filled out—fuller hips, wider thighs, and a chest that defied everything he'd assumed about rodents. The curve of her lower back alone could've started a war between rival nations.

She caught him staring.

Blushed.

"I, uh… been bulkin' up," she said quickly, grabbing a lab coat and shrugging it on. "Winter gains. Gotta keep warm durin' hibernation prep."

Squidward's throat made a noise he had never made before. Somewhere between a honk and a hiccup.

"You can go now," Sandy said, not meeting his eyes.

Squidward stood, nearly knocked over a rolling chair, and stumbled out the Treedome door. As the airlock sealed behind him, he turned back and—

Sandy was watching him.

Expression unreadable.

He gulped.

Was she suspicious?

Or was she just…

"Down bad," Lurala said flatly, materializing beside him with a grin.

Squidward groaned, taking off his water helmet, and trudged home—his sanity dripping out of him like melted tartar sauce.