Here at the Watershed

by MozaWesterburg

SpongeBob finally turns 3-and-0. He's the manager of the Krusty Klass, which is holding the biggest Hollywood-esque gathering of the decade. His life has turned out just about perfect, despite the doubters he had growing up, including his own dad. But is every aspect of his life fulfilled? Everything will come to light when an ominous object from Sandy's past crashes the party.

1. Two Worlds Two Dads

Prologue: Two Dads, Two Worlds

---

July 14th, 1986. Triton-Forge General Hospital, Ukulele Bottom.

"You'll have no room for dinner tonight if you consume another one of those arms, dear."

Harold SquarePants froze, blinked, and pulled his arms out from deep in his throat, spit-covered, but still intact. He hadn't chewed his fingernails in years, and yet he just managed to feed four sets of arms into his mouth like paper in the shredder in the last five minutes. Of course, there were worse habits, and he was under a lot of stress. And as such, the grown sponge had consumed these instantly renewable appendages, from the ends of his nails to the tops of his shoulders, several times over in anticipation for the news he was soon to receive.

But he wouldn't even be nearly as nervous if not for one reason. "They kicked us out of there. They called it a code yellow," Harold remembered, holding his slobber covered arm up in the air. "Plus, all these months, he didn't… do anything, Mom."

Harold looked left and right, but the hospital waiting room didn't have any tissue boxes anywhere. Embarrassed, he lowered his mess of arms out of sight behind the pole arm of the chair, contemplating a run for the bathroom until the senior Mrs. Agatha SquarePants passed him a handkerchief from her purse. "Some don't. That's no reason to panic."

"Then why could they be taking so long?"

"First time's always this way." Her voice was gentle, but level with the kind of confidence that could only come from experience. "Let's just hope he doesn't inherit our bad habits, hm?"

"Like compulsive baking?" Harold finished mopping up his wrists, then dutifully folded the soiled cloth and tucked it into his pants pocket. The look in Mom's eye told him that while her voice was as gentle as ever, if he forgot his manners again, he'd regret it.
Harold watched his mother set the container of warm cookies for the reception on the empty table at the meeting point of their L-seated lobby chairs. "At least my coping mechanism makes other people happy."

No sooner had she said that, a random, blue fin reached up from under the darkness of the table and swiped the entire batch of baked goods. Agatha had her eyes on him and therefore didn't notice, and Harold wasn't about to tell her.

The petty thief let out a poorly muffled "Mmm, macadamia…" before never being seen or heard from again. Her cooking was met with insatiable acclaim everywhere she went, and bottom feeders swiped more than their fair share. But the kind soul she was, she didn't care. She baked for the art of it. She baked to make people happy. She lived to make people happy.

He was grateful that she was here. She filled the void of two parents. Perhaps he still needed her more than he cared to admit. As his eyes suddenly watered, he felt he might need the hankey again. "What I'd give for Dad to be here for this." He took off his glasses, but Mom only smiled at him from behind her own. Hands folded neatly across crossed legs. It was only two months ago. She'd loved that man. It was way, way too soon for him to go.

If his mother was still grieving, she was holding back something fierce. For them.

She thought up a question to break the silence. "Are you still going through with the name?"

"Marge agreed that if we get a girl later on, we'd name her after her mother." Harold pushes his glasses up his steeply sloped nose. "As I see it, it's the least I can do for him. To show that boy how to be just like my Dad."

"Solitary and technophobic?"

"A real man's man!" He raised his fist, flexing a small but still visible bicep. "Show him how to assert himself against the world that likes to push us sponges around like mops!"

"You do that. I have a good twenty, maybe twenty five years of spoiling to do, if I'm lucky."

"You can't even pretend like you're gonna help me, can you?"

"I did my time as the bad cop." She winked. "Now, it's your turn."

No sooner than she punctuated her thought with a wink, the double doors to the waiting room burst open. "Mr.-Mr. SquarePants?"
The sponges were seized upon by the owner of the voice, a young nurse with flowery scrubs, her dorsal fin tied up in a neat bun at the back of her head. She stopped before what was left of the SquarePants family, panting into her loosened mask, and holding her knees. It looked as if she just finished a marathon.

Harold leapt to his feet, nails dug into the fabric of his shirt front.

The senior Mrs. SquarePants leaped from her chair, too. in spite of her age and onset of arthritis. The nurse's urgency made her nervous, too. "What's happened?"

"I'm so sorry. I got lost," said the nurse, who's name tag read 'Eva', between heavy breaths. "I just had to hurry to to get to you two before—"

"BREAKER BREAKER: BABEE ON BOARD!"

A second person came flying through the doors, hitting the walls with an echoing BOOM! that made the nurse bolt to the side.

"—That." Eva's figure sagged.

If his periwinkle ushanka cap and bushy graying-brown beard didn't set this orange sponge apart from the waiting family, then his volume, and the fact that he was carrying a red and blue police beacon did the trick. "Flash some lights, blare some sirens! Slam on that horn! Squeak a rubber chicken! We got another SquarePants in our squad! "

"Blue? What are you doing?" Harold approached his older brother, scrutinizing him up and down, from the flashing light in his hands, to his frustratingly amused smile. "How did you get back—? You weren't supposed to be back there! WE weren't even supposed to be back there!"

"What? You think I'm gonna let some strangers take knives to my sister-in-law without the captain as backup?" The eccentric captain turned off the device and further emphasized his title, and command of the room now, by making a show of hiking up his already high trousers. "Naw, don't give me those caterpillar brows, you ol' worrywart! Margie's done a bang-up job!" He pointed for the doors as if the crowd of two were a sea of fish. "C'mon, Mom! Harold! Let's move 'em out!"

Just like that, Mother and son went from petrified, to relieved. "He's here ?" Agatha asked the nurse.

"He's here," nodded Eva.

"What about the... Er… complications?" asked Harold, fingers drumming anxiously at his side.

"The complications. Yes. Well." The new nurse wrung her wrists nervously. "There was a bit of an interesting situation, but—"

"HA -HA! Was there! Harold, wait 'till you see the angles on this boy!" Without waiting a moment longer, he thundered back through the double doors, shouting "Wee-woo! Wee-woo!" all the way.

Harold remained there, balling his fists at his side, his cheeks burning. Despite being the baby, he'd always been the quieter one of the three SquarePants brothers, and definitely more mature, which made it ironic that he was the last to become a father. "I knew we should've let Sherm come instead."

"I believe this behavior is why we decided to let Sherman look after your nephews, dear." His mother told him calmly, placing a meditative hand on his shoulder, gently nudging him towards the doors, following the nurse. "Let's go before Blue gets the idea to use the megaphone to proclaim the news of your new son to the entire hospital, hm?"

---

"Well, I suppose that explains why her tummy was shaped that way."

Agatha beamed at the bright, square shaped package in her hands, swaddled in a sky blue blanket. Robert "Bobby" SquarePants was quiet and cooing, and according to every nurse in the ward with two seconds to spare a glance, the most adorable thing they'd ever seen.

"We don't get too many sponge families out in these parts," Nurse Eva told them. "I hadn't even realized until you showed up that sponges could have square children."

"It's not very common." Margaret SquarePants's voice was a husk of its normal self. She was laying ragdoll limp in her raised bed, a sheet tucked up to the waist of her gown. Going almost twenty hours without food or water had topped off her pain with a pounding headache.

"He takes after my father," her husband said. "I guess it's, uh, that much more fitting that that's who we're naming him after."

"Be proud, Mrs. SquarePants!" said Doctor Push, yanking back the curtain. Finished with her tests, she came over to pat the new mom's hand. "He's clearly got your eyes as well, and your husband's… " She looked at Harold and thought for a moment. "Er…"

"Manliness," Capt'n Blue finished, crossing his arms.

"Bahahahaha!" Went the high pitched giggles of the baby boy with pronounced long lashes in Agatha's arms.

"Yeah…" Harold let out a strangled laugh. "GAH!"

Blue had snuck over and slapped him in the back. "Yer kid is so dang cute, doc here had to stop one of the orderlies from snatchin' him up for a joyride! I plum thought they was gonna run home with 'em! Baw-haha!"

"Not on my watch." said Grandma. She didn't look very threatening, but being a sponge, this woman had faced adversity in her life, and could throw down because of it. She transferred the fussing baby sponge, stretching his newly freed limbs, from one shoulder to another. "Do you suppose it would be time to take the first pictures?"

"Not now!" Margaret groaned. She didn't need a mirror to know that her black hair had lost its curls, and yesterday's makeup was smeared across her cheeks. "Oh, do I really look like a proud mama right now?"

"You look just fine, dear," Push assured her. "There's plenty of work ahead, but if you get a few hours of sleep on your back for the first time in month's, haha! It'll help! Trust me, I've got three of my own."

For the first time since the ordeal began nineteen hours ago, Margaret SquarePants found the strength to smile.

"So I guess it… wasn't that bad, huh? Hehe…" Harold leaned in and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "We might just try for another, after all."

"Hehe…" Margaret slowly turned to her husband with a thin-lipped smile. "Sixty-two stitches, Harold." She arched her brows. "Don't touch me."

"Ah—hehe." Mr. SquarePants's arm snapped back to his side like measuring tape. Welp. So much for a daughter.

While Mom and Grandma took their first pictures with Baby Bob, Harold whispered in the doctor's direction. "So… no worries, then? I mean, when we were kicked out of the delivery room, I thought—"

"Standard protocol for the O.R., sir," the doctor explained with compassion. "But cesareans happen every day, usually with no issues. It's just another way the baby comes into the world."

Mr. SquarePants sighed, and took the doctor further out of earshot before he went for broke. "Listen, this is my first kid. It's been a hard time for my family. We just lost my Dad, and I just can't shake this feeling like something's wrong. I gotta know that everything's really okay."

Doctor Push wagged her fin like she'd heard this exact spiel a hundred times. "It's normal for new parents to be a little anxious. The baby's alive and well, and his charts are as perfect as a sunset on the horizon!"

"My turn!" A raspy laugh cropped up behind them. "Give the Capt'n that box-shaped bundle of burbles!"

Harold turned as their mother passed Blue the baby. Another flash as she and Blue, and a weak Margaret smiled bright and white for photos that they already knew would be treasured forever.

"So, there's nothing to worry about?" pressed Harold. "Nothing at all. He's normal ."

"Yes. Well…" The doctor turned a page over on the clipboard. "I mean, for all that it matters."

Harold raised his glasses, gaping at her with naked eyes. "Come again?"

The doctor rubbed the back of her neck, her look of confidence slipping away. "There was one test that came out… a little odd. To tell you the truth, it's an anomaly I've only ever seen once in my life."

Harold's voice took on a suspicious edge. "What kind of anomaly are we talking about?"

Hesitant though she clearly was, Doctor Push opened her mouth to give a response, only for Blue to interrupt, yet again. "Your turn, Daddy-pops!"

"I… uh…" Harold took the bundle from Blue's hand, and for the first time ever, gazed down at this son. Bright blue eyes shimmered and blinked, pupils fixed slightly above his eyes, as if looking at the shine at the top of Harold's glasses.

The introverted sponge had a problem, something he never considered until the moment was upon them.

How does one introduce themself to a baby?

"Hehe… well… hello there, Bobby. Welcome to the sea. Welcome to… shucks. Everything, I guess."The boy was nothing like him. Square, yellow, with a wide mouth indicative of a future love for talking, someone the introverted Harold could not get along with. But somehow, in the moments since he'd taken the baby in his arms, he felt in his bones that this child was well and truly a chip off the old coral. "You're my son, y'know?" He added awkwardly. "And you're neat. You're real neat, because you're a SquarePants. And you're gonna make me so proud."

Unfortunately, this moment was short lived. Harold would never feel as serene, as close, and one with his boy as he did in that moment before the lights above their heads abruptly flickered, and shut off completely.

Along with it, a big 'whoosh' as electric devices came to a sudden and abrupt halt across the entire building. At once, the room, and everybody who was in it, became totally, eerily quiet.

Only Captain Blue could find his voice in the darkness. "Well, that can't be good."

Seconds later, the fluorescent lights above their heads fluttered, and revived. Back came a distinctive electrical buzz of power, followed by beeps, whirs and sirens of all nature as every light, fan and machine came back on.

Or at least that would've been the best case scenario. "Doctor Push!" Another nurse, a young male kipper, came bursting through the door. "Come quick! Not all the computer supported machines came back online with the generators!"

Just as he finished, Doctor's Push's radio crackled to life. "All available medical personnel, please report to the ICU."

"Not good is an understatement." The doctor sighed. "Congratulations again, Mr. and Mrs. SquarePants." She started sprinting for the door. "The nurses will care for you from here!"

Harold stepped forward, baby still in his arms. "But you never told me about—!"

But she was gone, and several nurses followed after, including Eva, leaving just the two to care for all the new mothers in the maternity ward, both of which were left because they were tending to mothers who were still in labor.

It was at this point that a foreign sound hit Harold's ear. For the first of many times, his son had begun to cry.

And it was loud.

And it was louder than any of the present adults had really anticipated, prior parents or not.

"Holy King Neptune in a little pink handbasket, the kid's got a set of lungs on him!" Capt'n Blue clasped hands over the sides of his head, much like the rest of the room.

Everybody heard the radio under his jacket crackling to life. "10-78 at 97th and Anchorway. Downed powerline, present danger. Requesting Backup."

"Ooop! That's my call to action! Ten-Four, SquarePants en route!" he shouted into the radio, before shoving it back onto his belt. "I don't know what's goin' on out there, but I think I'm about to find out! Be seeing you guys! Margie, Mom! And for the love of yeast doughnuts and CB radios, wipe that doubty look off your face, Hal-boy!"

From his pocket, he produced the flashing beacon again, slapped it to the top of his cap, and flew out of the door.

Meanwhile, Harold attempted to bounce the baby, rock him slowly back and forth, called his name soothingly, just like every movie or TV show, but it didn't work. Bobby continued to cry and scream until his face started turning red.

"The blackout must've really spooked him, didn't it?" Margaret observed wearily. She tried to sit up in bed, but it was easy to see that it was a struggle. "Harold? Do you want me to try and—"

"No! Honey, I've-I've got it. You rest… C'mon, Bobby, please stop." He checked the baby's diaper. Clean. He patted him on the back, trying to bring up a burp. Nothing. Baby shouldn't have a burp yet anyway.

Minutes went by, spare nurses began to trickle back in, to give his wife water and talk with Agatha. And Bobby continued to cry. No matter what Harold did.

Why did this make him nervous? It was normal for new babies to cry. And cry really loud sometimes. Why wouldn't it be?

"Here, dear." Agatha stretched out her arms and took the baby from him. Within moments, being bounced in Agatha's arms, the newborn stopped crying.

Unbelievable. Why?

"There there, Bobby, everything is going to be okay," Agatha cooed. "Isn't that right, Harold?"

Mr. SquarePants answered numbly. "Yes. Everything's gonna be fine."

He turned away from his mother and the baby that looked nothing like him, that already acted nothing like him, that was an anomaly among fish and sponges, brows knitted. "For all that it matters."

---

July 14th, 1992. Somewhere outside Houston, Texas.

"And the girlie said, 'ya'll find me here in ten years, at the watershed, where one world ends, and another begins, ya hear? And I'll have our solution.'"

"She didn't say 'ya hear,'!" The little squirrel who interrupted had the same thick southern accent.

"It's called ad-libbing!" Samuel stuck his tongue out at her playfully, emphasizing the 'g'. "It makes the dialog better!"

On the left side of his bed, opposite the window, he'd reached the last line of the chapter. The grown squirrel paused and reached a huge arm across the nightstand to snatch a leaf-shaped bookmark. The burly squirrel took this pause as a chance to look up from the book, and what he saw made him frown. "What's that look fer?"

"What look?" His six year old daughter was snuggled down into her hand-chopped wooden bed, with a detailed shark-head carved into the headboard, teeth and all. It looked like the mouth of the shark could swallow her whole, but Sandy loved it. Her room was a far cry from what her sister's bedrooms looked like, and that wasn't to say it looked like what either of her brother's rooms looked like, either.

Sandy's little nook in the tree was loaded to the brim with marine themed decor, most of which had been crafted by her father by hand. If it weren't for the shades of the beige and brown, it would look nautical, and completely out of place.

Pa Cheeks finally said what he'd been thinking this whole time reading. "You ain't likin' this book too much."

"It's okay," Sandy told him, not once looking him in the eye. Her eyes stayed on the spinning lamp on her nightstand. Pa had carved it himself, with a buddy to help with the wiring. The lamp projected shapes from the spinning punch-out cover around the bulb, lined inside with multi-colored tissue paper. The result was a rainbow of fish shapes that 'swam' by bouncing off the walls, the furniture, every surface of the tight, little loft of a room. Including the sea foam colored blanket cover pulled up to Sandy's shoulder. "I thought it was gonna be a different kinda story. Like, where's the action? The treasure? Where's the crazy captain with swords for arms?"

Pa closed the book and held up between his fingers, his giant paws making the normal sized book look teeny-tiny. "If you wanted that stuff, why'd you pick this one?"

"Rosie picked it for me, on account of it having a picture of the ocean on it."

Mr. Cheeks turned over the front of the book. The cover was a photograph of sparkling waters over the pacific, touching a cavernous land behind a narrow beach. The picture was taken just as a giant wave splashed up against a wall of corroded rocks and cavernous land formations, and dead center of which was a large wooden ship. "That'll teach ya to judge a book by its cover, I reckin'."

"Guess I wasn't payin' attention enough."

Samuel laid the book down on the nightstand. When his daughter didn't come back with a snappy reply, he knew something was wrong.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothin.'" Sandy was far from a spoiled child, and she usually expressed great interest in what her Dad read to her. But tonight was the first time Mr. Cheeks had just about neared the end of a book, and his daughter looked entirely disinterested. Her eyes were on the headboard, played with a splinter sticking out of the shark's front tooth.

"Don't lie to me, lil' miss. Yer face is saggin' lower than your grandma's neck skin!"

"I'm not lying! It's just…" Sandy turned on her shoulder, away from him. "You ever feel like a one-eyed alien on a three-eyed planet?"

This family loved its absurd metaphors, but this one left Samuel dumbfounded. "What's that supposed to mean?"

But the odd little prodigy wouldn't elaborate. After a while, she pulled her blanket up higher. "Read me Three Musketeers again tomorrow?"

"Again?" He looked again at the closed book on the nightstand. "Ain't ya even curious how this one ends?"

"It's just a dumb love story." Her voice had taken a defensive edge. "They're all the same, ain't they?"

Pa bit the inside of one of his massive cheeks. He didn't always understand his daughter, but a guy doesn't father a bunch of kids without gaining a distinct sense of intuition. It wasn't that Sandy didn't like the book. Something about it had upset her. And he was gonna find out what. Even if she couldn't tell him herself.

"Whatever you say, peanut." He leaned forward and patted a large hand on her little shoulder before pushing back the hand carved desk chair. "Call me if you need me."

"Sure," the little squirrel sighed. She pulled her ocean blue comforter up over her head as her father turned off the light, and closed the door. She was grateful her dad had backed off as quickly as she did.

Sandy was a proud, strong headed little girl, and she didn't want to be caught crying when nothing was wrong. When nothing was supposed to be wrong.

Before he left, Samuel had quietly plucked the book back off of the nightstand.

Standing outside her door, in the tiny all-wood enclave between the twin's bedrooms, he gave it another look over. To Sandy's credit, the cover had a distinctly action-y look to it. Between the crashing waves and the bold font, and the ship in the distance, if someone didn't read the summary, they might assume it was derivative of Peter Pan and the island of lost boys or something. Not some sappy love story the likes of which little his wife and Rosie would gobble up.

… if someone wasn't in the right state of mind…

Rosie picked it out for me…

… or, if they were confused.

He could choose to let it go. Chalk it up as a phase. This was an old-fashioned dad who popped son Randy's broken finger back into place, then held it with a homemade splint made of duct tape. He didn't exactly handle hurt emotions any better.

But something about Sandy's voice unsettled him. Sent the hairs on the back of his neck on edge in the unexplainable way that only a parent could feel. Like dropping your son's troubled friend off at their house and sitting there waiting in the car, somehow knowing they'd be locked out before even they do.

… 'Guess I wasn't payin' attention enough.'

---

"Josie?" Samuel called, pushing open the workout room door. "Josie Pie?"

"Over here, baby!"

Right of the doorway, Samuel found his wife sitting in her rowing machine, a straight shot across the room. The Cheeks family, unsurprisingly to anybody that knew them well, had their own workout room. Mr. Cheeks felt heftier than ever as he stepped over barbels and ducked around various machines. It was tight, but outfitted nicely, and the entire family took advantage. But it was painfully obvious from the way he had to suck in his gut to maneuver around the various exercise machines that he didn't frequent the room as often as he used to.

But Josephine looked up at this man with the same adoration as the day they got hitched. "Two hundred fifty reps! Best record in the house! Haha! Mama's comin' back, kids!" She gave a yawn and stretch rich with self-satisfaction, but looking up and finally seeing his expression, the moment quickly ended. "What is it?"

He was still holding the book in his paws. "Do you know anything going on with Sandy lately?"

"Going on?" She tilted her head, ever slightly. "Gonna need more information than that, Pa."

"I dunno, I just thought, as their mother, you might know somethin' I didn't."

Josie shook her head showily. Warily. "What'd that child say to you tonight?"

Three-eyed alien on a one eyed planet. Was it even worth repeating her jabberwacky if he couldn't make sense of it himself? "It's more like what she wouldn't say."

Josie picked up her towel from the bench of the machine on her right, and wrapped it around the back of her neck. "I don't see what there is to know. Our kids are all leading their classes, and Sandy's settin' the curve for the entire district. She reads at a seventh grade level, she can do algebra blindfolded… Her elbow grease at the county fair has made me brush ankles with Dolly Parton!"

"Book wise, yeah. She's alright." Samuel was feeling himself getting frustrated. Explaining normal feelings wasn't a man's man game. This was a whole other animal. "When was the last time she had a friend over? Or went to play at some other kids house?"

Now Josie had to think about it. "Can't recall. But I ain't never been keen on letting my kids stay over, not 'less I know the parents like the back of my paw."

"Ain't she never been invited over?"

"Oh, she's been to birthday parties."

"With Rosie and Randy."

Josie stood up. "Where are you gettin' with this, Pa?"

"I think she's lonely. I mean, she ain't really got much in the way of friends."

"Sandy's got friends!"

"She does, does she?"

"Yes!"

Mr. Cheeks crossed his arms, the book practically disappearing under his massive bicep. "Name one."

Josie pursed her lips thoughtfully. "What about Fern?"

"That's Rosie's lil' girlfriend," Sam corrected.

"Georgie, then."

"That's Randy's best friend."

"So? He's her friend too!"

"I know, but. I think it's time she made some friends of her own."

"She will! She's just a baby, for oak's sake!"

Mr. Cheeks sucked in his beer belly once more, so his little wife could make it to the doorway. When they were close again she looked deep into his eyes. "I know what to do."
"You do?"
"We ought to take her to a Cotillion."

"Wait." Sam's brow furrowed as he tried to put a meaning to that word. "Manners class? Ain't that for teenagers?"

"Oh, they'd make an exception for her. What with her being so smart and mature and all. She's ahead in all her other classes, she might as well get her southern etiquette and hospitality up to speed. Why, what were you thinking we ought to do?"

"Well, what about karate class?"

"Oh, Pa…" Josie turned away.

"What?"

"You want her to make friends, right? But you want her to roll around on the floor with a bunch of strange little boys?"

"She's said she wanted to go! That Mr. Yang's already showed her the basics. I think she might just be happy here."

"Why? You've taught her all enough wrestling to get 'er out of most any trouble! If ever a fool thinks they could lay a finger on them, she'd put them in their grave, or at the very least, we would!"

"Doesn't mean she can't funnel all that strength into something more… fancy?" He wagged his fingers, looking for the words. "Interestin'? Who knows? Maybe she could show us a thing or two."

But Josie wasn't hearing it. "I don't think so." She flipped the light switch and exited the weight room. The conversation was over.

Only it wasn't, really, because Samuel went after her in pursuit. He followed her down the dark hallway, up the bottom of the claustrophobic staircase, leading to the bedrooms. "But would you still let her rot away in some phony-bologna manners school?"

"At least she'd be learnin' somethin' practical!" his wife said without turning around. "She doesn't need more self-defense lessons, Sam! What she needs to be a little more lady like, not—"

"It's not about self-defense!" Sam's voice finally rose as the words to match his feelings finally came to him. "It's about… fittin' in!"

Josephine froze, her paw on the railing.

"It's about finding herself away from us! It's about what embracin' who she really is."

When Josephine turned, she raised a brow. "And what exactly is that? You mean… not like her Mama? Not like Rosie…"

"Not that." Sam's lips parted, but he hesitated to say it. "Not just a tomboy. Somethin'... different." He muttered the last word.

"Mom? Daddy?"

The parents froze in place before slowly and reluctantly turning around. Behind Sam's massive shadow stood a slim young squirrel who'd lost all baby fat.

He looked just like his twin, Sandy, and for a moment the parents thought Sam thought he was gonna have a stroke. Hearing them talk about her like that.

Thankfully, he was quickly identifiable in that he absolutely refused to wear a shirt outside of school, and the tips of his ears and tail fur seemed perpetually coarse and sticky, no matter how many baths he took.

"Randy Cheeks, what are you doin' up at this hour?" asked Josephine.

"What's wrong with her?" They might not have got along all the time, (part of the reason for having separate rooms so early into childhood) but the loaded question came from a place of loyalty for his closest sibling. "Sandy, I mean."

"Nothing," his father told him firmly. "Go back to bed."

"Didn't sound like nothin'. So I'm not the only one who's noticed how weird she is?"

"Don't sass your father, and do not talk about your sister like that, or I'll ship ya straight to the taxidermist!" Josephine came back down the stairs with thundering steps. "You'd best get upstairs and get to sleep, youngin'!"

"I can't!"

"And why in heaven's name not? "

"Too quiet." He bashed his ears with the back of his fists in frustration. "My ear's ringin' like a church bell."

"Too quiet?" repeated Mr. Cheeks.

"That's because everyone's asleep," Josie said. "As you should be."

"No! Really! Listen..." Randy sounded frantic. He patted the air down for emphasis. Unlike daylight hours, his eyes were bloodshot, and his body language was tense. Like his sister, Randy played hard, and slept like a rock. This wasn't a hyperactive little kid who just wanted an excuse to stay up late to watch some late night comedy with his folks. It looked as if he'd been trying to sleep and, for whatever reason, could not do so. "Ya hear it?"

At last, Ma and Pa did as he asked of them. They put their hands to their sides, and shut their lips. Sure enough, almost right away a mysterious ringing filled their ears.

This was a result of the overwhelming, uncanny silence that was actually there.

"The rig." The little boy pointed to the sky.

The sound that had been all around him, all the time, in the background of everything since long before he and Sandy were born, like a permanent fixture in their lives, had suddenly stopped. Leaving behind a severe case of tinnitus in its wake. Randy had it, and now that they had stopped talking, Samuel and Josephine realized they had it, too.

Randy lowered his arm. "It finally shut up."

"Can't be." His father shook hishead. "It's been there for years." But as soon as he stopped talking and listened again— really listened—Sam knew the kid was right. It had shut up.

"Oh… come here, baby." Josephine came across the hallway and hugged her son apologetically, his mud-crusted cheek buried into her stomach. "Tell you what. I'll fix you some hot chocolate, and maybe we can use daddy's record player to play you some Al Downing.

Maybe that'll help with the ringing quiet. Right, Pa?"

Sam nodded, dazed, his mouth still agape.

"What do ya say?" she asked Randy.

"'Kay, Mom." The boy's voice was muffled in her jogging sweater. In his six years alive, Sam couldn't recall a time that little boy looked so exhausted.

While his wife led the boy downstairs to the kitchen, Sam went the other direction. Picking up his massive, shoeless feet, he climbed the wooden stairs so as to not disturb his other children, lest they all wake up and discover they had tinnitus, too.

The Cheeks's home made up the interior of the carved out oak tree. It was at least three centuries out, straddled the edge of a shimmering creek, and was just large enough for a family of five. Perfect enough that when those pesky oil drillers came knocking into the neighborhood seven years ago, Pa could't find the heart to suggest that they move. As long as they didn't move another inch closer to the creek, they were safe. At least he hoped.

The almost never interrupted 24 hour shifts meant there was noise, and it was constant . It had been slightly annoying in the least, and had caused a few awful night's sleep at worst. But the Cheeks were made of tough stuff. They were Texaners, after all. It would take a lot more than some human industrialization to outright ruin their rural lives. So, the rig and its noise became part of their lives.

So much so that there was a consequence when it disappeared. Sam could't believe how he hadn't noticed it until Randy had said something, but when he was alone and standing still, sure enough, the ringing was there.

Which implied the rig was not.

Somethin' weren't right.

The former pro-wrestler climbed his way up to the very top of the tree, where the stairs met the ceiling. About five steps from the top, he reached up into the pitch blackness of the ceiling, and yanked open the cord of a hatch door. This hatch door, which would be better fitted for an attic, led straight to the outside. The relatively flat surface where the limbs started that served as the roof of the trunk, and their home.

Sam climbed out and stretched his arms. The warm night air of summer, once clean and sweet out here in the country, ruined with the distant stench of rotten eggs. No matter how hard the wind blew, it seemed the smell would be there forever. Long before the kids were born, Sam would come up here, find an opening in the treetop canopy and admire the few stars he could still make out in the skies outside rural Houston. But once that darned rig showed up, the accompanying workman's lights made it so he couldn't make out one star.

But tonight, he was looking for something else, and he was very uneasy about it. Beyond the tip of the furthest branch extending out from in front of him. Beyond that, he couldn't make out a thing. He could, however, for the first time in a long time, see the shape of the Big Dipper, between the leaves above his head.

This meant one thing: The night lights were gone.

Somethin' definitely weren't right.

A sight like that ought to make him glad, but a sinking worry was making that hard. Why now? Why without warning? Didn't seem normal. He shuffled out onto the biggest horizontal branch, ambling along slowly and carefully-like until the branch narrowed so much that he had no choice but to start putting one foot in front of the other. Climbing branches was a young squirrel's game, but he was Samuel "Ful-ton" Cheeks, once a physical force to be reckoned with. The biggest, strongest professional wrestler in the county.

Didn't matter how much time had passed since his hay day. He could walk a lil' branch.

"Come on, cowboy, you got this."

The branch grew narrower and narrower under his bare feet, toes pinched around any imperfection they could find in the bark. With his arms extended out to either side, he felt like one of the Flying Wallendas, except that he was pretty sure the ropes the Wallendas climbed didn't feel as if they were starting to tip forward under him, down towards the creek.

Sam ignored it and kept going, slower and slower. Every even step, he was watching his feet, and all the odd ones, he looked up, trying to see out over the water. His duty as a father and protector of the family demanded it.

Something snapped, and Sam, instinctively, froze. The slowly returning ringing in his ear made him feel distracted and vulnerable.

"Daddy?"

Immediately, Sam lost his footing. The branch rushed up from under him, and he grabbed it for his life. With a series of fearful shouts and whoops, the branch bounced under his weight, bobbing up and down, up and down…

"What are you doing?"

He cracked open an eye. Sandy was peering out the tiny window of her room, a flashlight in hand.

"Oh I… just figured I'd go for a walk." He looked at the water down below. Even on this warm summer night, he didn't feel like going swimming. He wondered how long the branch would hold him. "I'm guessin' you can't sleep either?"

"I noticed, too, Daddy." Sandy pointed to the darkness out across the water. "The machine stopped, but I didn't think we noticed until the house was all quiet."

"You don't say, hehe… Hey! Since you're such a ripe apple," He should've asked their honor roll girl before he tiptoed off to the edge of their tree. "What do ya make of it? The silence, I mean?"

"It's gone."

"Gone?!" The branch bobbed with the strength of his shout.

Sure enough, Sandy's flashlight revealed the image that Samuel would not believe, if he hadn't seen it with his own two eyes. Across the water, the industrious black shadow that interrupted their view of the breathtaking Texas horizon was no longer there. "The whole dang rig? Gone! How?"

How? How without us hearing a thing?

Sandy just shrugged.

Of course he couldn't expect her to have an answer for that. She couldn't know everything. She was just a child, after all. But Pa'd be lying to himself if he said he didn't consult his daughter's book smarts three or four days out of the week. Heck, if it weren't for Sandy's early passion for invention, he'd still be wrestling into his old spandex by hand, instead of being steamed, stretched out and lubed up at the hands of a robot.

Was he proud? Heck. Samuel was proud of all his kids. But Sandy was the one who always gave and never asked for anything. If he couldn't understand her, he could at least make the effort to make her smile. If peanut wanted to go to karate, he would get her into karate.

But before he could verbalize his plan, the branch he was standing on broke at the limb, and the wood rushed up from under him. He landed stomach down, arms flailing until they wrapped around, securing him in place.

His heart pounded. It wasn't until he heard the splash underneath him that he realized what he'd just done. He did a double take, pulling his empty paws away from the bark, palms empty. "Shoot!"

Sandy leaned out of her window, squinting at the water. "Was that the book?"

"Yeah…" He scanned the water, but he couldn't see it. Even if he went fishing for it now, the book was probably long gone. "Heh… Glad you didn't care to find out how it ended."

"Daddy," Sandy looked from the water, up at her dad. "I got that at the library."

Samuel blinked, eyes widening. "Ah, nuts! — AAAHHHHH!"

The branch he was hanging onto for dear life suddenly snapped, and Samuel Cheeks, the burly, muscular squirrel plummeted all the way down from his treehouse home into the water with a tremendous splash.

---

"I ain't goin' to no Cotillion!"

Sandy was standing on top of her bed.

This child never stood on her bed. Not even to jump on it when she was a toddler. She knew better than that. This was a serious disrespect in the Cheeks household.

But Sandy was seriously outraged.

"It's easy," Josephine told her. She sat with her yoga pant-legs folded, her eyes heavy with too much makeup and unbothered. "You graduate from the class, and you can go to karate. No certificate, no karate."

"That's not fair! I work so hard! I got the highest grades in school! And now I gotta go to some stupid manners class? Daddy, help!"
Her pleading eyes made Sam sink lower into the extra chair. He was slouched so low, he looked almost as round as a beach ball.

"Peanut, Cotillion— from what yer mother tells me, anyways—it's kind of a… maturity thing. And part of being mature is being able to make compromises. All we want you is to go to this class for a couple of weeks, and then we'll send you to karate as long as you wanna go. That's a compromise. Can you do that?"

Sandy was breathing so hard, her chest rose and fell. She looked from Dad, to Mom, then balled her fists, and closed her eyes.

So many things she wanted to say. This still felt unfair. They were picking on her, just like everybody else. Why not send Randy, too? The boy can't keep clean for more than five minutes, surely a manners class was right up his alley, weren't it? Or, what about Rosie? She likes girly things like that! Why'd Sandy gotta go through it alone?

Being a prodigy wasn't easy. And before she'd even got to second grade, Sandy was coming to understand it was actually a pretty thankless job. But something Daddy said about the maturity factor resonated with her. She could understand it was unfair, but if it meant getting what she really wanted, she could swallow her words. For now. "How long?"

"Five weeks, and a dinner party," said Ma.

Sandy swallowed. "Karate, and five dollars at the end of every week towards the telescope, and I'll do it."

"Karate, and two dollars at the end of the last class!"

Sandy thrusted her arm out to her mother for a hearty, strong-gripped, all-American hand-shake. The type between adults strangers, but strangers who respected each other. "Deal."

Josephine shook, stood up and kissed Sandy on top of the head. "It won't be bad. I promise."

Sandy eased herself back down to sit on top of her comforter, then reached over to her bedside table and switched on her fish light. Samuel turned off the overhead light and left her to watch the fish swimming across the walls, same way as last night. Well, 'cept that he was bruised, battered, and covered with bandages from the fall in shallow water yesterday. Never did recover the book. Since when did school library books cost a twenty dollar bill, anyway?

But something was distinctly different when he closed the door that night. Not only was he painfully aware of the silence, now that the rig was confirmed to be gone, but the last time he made contact with her eyes, they didn't seem so sad.

He'd done a lot of the wood carving that made that bedroom special to Sandy. There's not much he wouldn't do to make his kids happy.

There were questions that would stay in his mind long after that night. Was Sandy right to feel like she was going through this manners class hokey because it would seem awfully strange to send an already tomboyish little girl to karate and not try to address her lack of girly-ness?

How does an oil rig just vanish in the middle of the night with nobody noticing?

And what in the great state of Texas did they mean by a 'watershed' anyway?

---

May 20th, 2002. Pleasant Street, Ukulele Bottom.

The sudden 'slam' of the front door brought Harold off the armchair and onto his feet in a second. His mind buzzed with paranoia.

Who could be coming into their house at this hour? And how did they get in the locked door?

An intruder?

He reached for the hideous vase Sherm's mother in law gave them for their wedding. He was the breadwinner, the husband, the father. The protector and defender of the house. It all fell on him.

Oh… why'd it have to fall on him?

When footsteps crossed the foyer into the living room, a meek, mild, far more timid sponge than he was willing to admit braced himself readied it to strike.

Only for his son to round the corner. "Hey, Dad—DAD !?" He shot into the air and dropped his house key.

"SPONGEBOB!" Harold leapt back with enough force that his shoes flew off.

Mrs. SquarePants appeared at the bottom of the stairs, holding her bathrobe closed. She heard the door open from the quiet upstairs, and came down to investigate. Noticeably, without a weapon. "SpongeBob? What are you doing back? I thought you'd be out all night."

"Oh, well, uh… prom's over at 11. Didn't want to be a third wheel, y'know. With Patrick and his date."

Harold made a suspicious face. "Didn't Patrick's mother take him?"

"She did! But… I wasn't really invited for a sleepover tonight. She kinda grounded him. Guess the lobby fountain isn't for public swimming. Hehe…" He chuckled with his braces gleaming, bright and clean. "It was still a blast. Especially getting to meet all those policemen."

"Oh. Well… Are you hungry?" asked Mom. She joined them in the living room. "I just picked up some more MermaidMan cereal!"

"Nah, that's okay, I'm just gonna go to bed." The teen began removing his dinner jacket. "I'm beat. But thank you."

Mrs. SquarePants came closer and looked into her son's eyes for a moment, then patted his shoulder. "Well, alright, honey." She pulled him in for a quick hug. "We'll see you in the morning. I love you."

"Good night Mom. Dad." He nodded towards his father, then with the jacket neatly folded over his arm. "Love you."
Harold gave a curt nod over his paper. "Goodnight, son."

SpongeBob began making his way to his room. Margaret watched him go with a proud smile. She was used to her husband not always returning their son's 'I love you's.' More often than not, SpongeBob could get a quick 'you too' and their son seemed satisfied with it. She didn't think too much about it because she knew of her husband's upbringing, and this is just how things were with him. Although she did think he could be a little tougher on their boy than she was. SpongeBob didn't seem to notice the difference, or treat them any differently, so she didn't say anything.

But as soon as Mrs. SquarePants heard the teen's door shut, there came the long winded sigh. "I don't know, Marge. I just don't know."

"What do you mean?" Margaret frowned.

Harold looked towards the darkened hallway, waiting for any sign that footsteps were coming back their way, before he lowered his voice to a whisper. "SpongeBob."

"What could you possibly mean?" She whispered back. "He's a good kid!"

"He's a great kid." Harold admitted. "That's… kind of the problem. Y'know at this age, I was gettin' a little rebellious at my old man. I wanted him to back off, to quit controlling me. To let me break the curfew once in a while. I don't even remember what my proms looked like, that's how good they were. I have a feeling SpongeBob will remember all of it. And not for the right reasons."

"He had fun tonight! He said it himself! Why are you acting like this?"

"I think he thinks he had fun." Mr. SquarePants opened his newspaper again, and flexed the papers. He'd been up late trying to get through the sports section, but he kept zoning off after a few sentences. He ate up the recipe section like cake, but if he'd missed the recent games, as he usually did. If he wanted to have any chance chatting it up with his coworkers at the water cooler, he'd have to have an inkling as to what they were talking about. And they couldn't know he just hated sports. "He doesn't know what real fun is. He's too afraid to take risks. Too afraid to change. I understand a little hesitancy here or there, it's in our blood. But this just isn't normal."
Plus, he never really did forget what the doctor had said, all those years ago, when SpongeBob was first born. It's an anomaly I've only ever seen once in my life…

What

Did

That

Mean

His obsession with cooking, his disinterest in long term dating, his lack of many friends. Was this the effect of the anomaly, whatever it was?

"Is this what his life is gonna look like? Friend escorted from hotel for immature antics? Cereal and bed before midnight? Home on prom night, no boat, no license, no date?"

---

"I love my son the way he is…"

SpongeBob closed his bedroom door behind him, then haphazardly tossed the jacket he so neatly folded onto his desk chair.

He slid to the floor. With only a tiny bit of light filtering in through the open blinds, he looked at all four walls in the darkened room with a new set of eyes. His bedroom hadn't changed much since he started high school. While most teenagers had thrown away, donated or hand-me-downed their toys, clothes, and posters related to childish things like superheroes, Mermaid Man and Barnacle boy, SpongeBob hadn't found a reason to. He had no siblings, and he was the youngest of his cousins. Actually, he was solely the recipient of hand-me-downs.

One of these many posters tacked up on the walls was a vintage 1964 print of a young and muscular Mermaid Man carrying a curvy mermaid, fittingly named Lovely Lane away, just as an underwater explosion lights up the background. Her long orange curls parted just enough to show a wanting smile towards her savior in the form fitting spandex.

SpongeBob loved that poster, just as he loved the rest of this vintage merchandise that decorated his room. He'd played as MermaidMan enough himself in his childhood, and dressed as MermaidMan five Halloween's in a row. He even considered having the Starfish mask tattooed to his face at one point in his adolescence (thankfully for Mrs. SquarePants, SpongeBob wasn't crazy about the idea of a needle, especially in the face.)

While romance wasn't his favorite genre, it seemed fitting that his biggest hero should one day find happiness with someone who loved him.

At least in that movie's canon, seeing as Lovely really never made another appearance in the franchise.

That much about love was precious to SpongeBob. He loved his parents, and he loved that they loved each other. That it felt true, and could genuinely last forever. Something that he wanted for himself someday.

" ... but let's be honest with ourselves, here, Marge," said Harold. You can't hope to steal a kiss from a girl and still watch cartoons."

---

"Oh, Harold!" Margaret was losing her patience, now.

"No, Margaret, I'm serious." Harold's eyebrows were narrowed. He never spoke in a stern voice, but now here he was, doing just that.

---

"He's probably got it in his head that his wedding's gonna be superhero themed, cake and all!"

SpongeBob stood up and went to the mirror, starting to untie his bowtie, looking at his reflection. The light from the street made his braces and retainer shine in the darkness. He'd be out of them in a year, but for now, he was stuck with them. Along with these glasses.
… my responsibility to make him a 'man's man'. .. like Dad …

The teenager took off his glasses. Every frame he owned was taped in the middle because of how often they'd fallen off and broke. It wasn't exactly easy to keep glasses on your face without ears. He'd promised himself that when he moved out and started making his own money, he'd buy himself a new pair the minute the last one broke.

Now he found himself suddenly wondering how much laser eye surgery hurt.

"… just don't know, Marge. … just don't know..." SpongeBob threw himself backwards on top of his superhero-themed comforter, and took off his glasses, folding them neatly and setting them on the nightstand.

He closed his eyes. Sucked in his breath.

" …he's not… "

Exhale. His eyes sprang open, and he flopped on his left side, facing the wall. There, he reached a hand behind the bed, against the wall. He lowered his hand beneath the box spring, until his fingers touched the floor. After pushing aside various lost comic books and action figures, Spongebob found what he was looking for. Slowly so as not to disturb the dials, he slipped it up over the mattress. A 1994 Deluxe Edition Mermaid Man and Barnacle Boy Walkie Talkie. Just one of two the pack had come with.

SpongeBob hadn't seen these in several years. Among his other toys, he'd forgotten about it. But as he sat there, increasing the volume, he did start to remember the last thing he did with it.

It was just before Christmas, and he really wanted to know what Mom and Dad were getting him that year. He knew it was wrong, but he couldn't contain his excitement. So he cranked up the walkie talkie's sensitivity, and slipped it down between the couch cushions in the living room when no one was looking, waiting to overhear any conversation between his parents.

What SpongeBob overlooked at the time, and why his plan fell through, was that the walkie talkie didn't work unless someone was pressing the talk button. A simple fix with tape would've solved the problem, but by the time he realized what he'd done wrong, Christmas had come, and he'd forgotten all about his devious little plan.

Until Junior Prom night, many years later.

Either the toy's talk function mysteriously just began to work, or Mom had finally found the walkie talkie deep in the couch, and set it aside to clean and bring back to SpongeBob's room, not realizing she inadvertently turned on the toy while cleaning it.

"The school ran tests on him." Mom's voice through the speaker. The sound was crackled, but the words were clear. "He's—"

"Normal intelligence, socially ept, polite as can be. I know. I know. But—"

The voice SpongeBob was hearing was extremely quiet, but he heard everything. "—he's not normal, Marge."

Either Mom and Dad had forgotten about the other walkie talkie, or they didn't believe it still worked, after all these years.

SpongeBob shut off the toy and gave it a long, hard stare, hands gradually shaking.

In a fit of frustration that had been bottling up for years, he threw it as hard as he could against the far side wall. Despite being the biggest lightweight in gym class, it broke, and fell to the floor in two pieces.

He didn't care how the kids at school looked at him. Talked about it. Made fun of him. And he never had. Microphone or not, he knew he was unpopular, but that never got under his skin. Not even when kids would call him names and try to antagonize him, right to his face, in front of everyone else. SpongeBob was comfortable just the way he was.

But something about this, something about Dad saying these things behind his back. This hurt.

Before he fell asleep, he reached up and grabbed the print of Lovely Lane hanging right above his headboard, and ripped it off of the wall, right down the middle.

---

Chapter 1: Never Gonna Happen

July 14th, 2016

It's too late.

In a twilight, underwater nowhere, where the currant blew tumble weeds across a flat plane of sand, SpongeBob SquarePants collapsed to his knees. "No… No… not like this! Isn't there anything I can do?"

His throat was raw, his eyes huge. Pleading. Shining watery in the moonlight.

It's too late, came the response, so distorted it almost like it was coming from another realm.

"Please, don't do this! It can't just end like this! Please! " He was alone, except for the blurry silhouette of a person, turned away. I always thought… if there's anything to say, you'd have said it. I thought you, of all people, I could trust for that.

"But you can trust me! You could always trust me!" SpongeBob scooted closer, the knees of his long pants kicking up mounts in the sand. "Our friendship means the world to me, and I just didn't want to ruin it! But we can start over! From the beginning, just like if we first met! We can do it all over again. I'd do anything. I'd be whatever you want me to be, if you'd only stay!'

No, SpongeBob. The silhouette began moving away.

Slowly.

Step by step. You had years. We had years.

Step.

The company's bust. There's no more funding. Ain't no more time for games, or karate, tea, or catchin' bad guys. This chapter of our lives is over, and I gotta move on.

This was the worst feeling he'd ever known. Why? Why did he waste all this time? The games, the jokes, the adventures… If he'd only given one hint, one word, one moment in the last decade that would've confirmed the depth of his feelings, maybe he wouldn't be saying goodbye.

The silhouette turned away, the outline of a curled tail making itself pediment in the dark. Before the black of night consumed her form.

I'll remember you, she finished, voice almost ethereal. I'll always love you. No matter what, partner.

"No! No, don't go! Don't go! GAH!" He chased after her, tripping on a stone, and fell forward.

By the time he peeled his face off the ground, rocks as big as his eyes stuck in his eye sockets. He reached in with his fingers wrapped around the rocks and yanked them out, but by then, the figure was gone.

It really was too late.

"No.." His eyes were blurry with unshed tears. "No, no, no…" The black of night closed in around him, arms cold, blinding and lonely. "Don't go… " he sobbed into the sand. " I—"

---

"… I need you."

HOOOOOOOOOOOONK

went the bedside, foghorn alarm clock, with enough power to slide its spongy owner clear off the foot of the mattress in a rush of bubbles, pillow and all. He hit the floor with an 'oomph!', and a cat-like shriek came shortly thereafter.
SpongeBob opened his eyes to the pillow, clutched between his fingers.

Morning light shone into the circular, curtainless window in the distinctly orange bedroom room, illuminating everything from the diving board high up by the ceiling, down to the multiple mattresses stacked high above the ground. On the sand-colored floor, at the foot of the bed lay the square yellow man, sideways in yesterday's wrinkled clothes. His nose bent upwards from impact.

"GAH!" He reached up and took ginger hold of his nose. "One, two, three… OW!" He bent it back downward. "Man, what a nightmare!

"Meow!"

He realized where he'd landed at the foot of the bed was not a strangely sticky throw pillow, but actually his light sleeping, and rather irate, pet snail.

"Oh! Sorry, Gare-Bear." He scrambled to his feet, picking the snail up and dusting him off. SpongeBob didn't weigh much, and thankfully, Gary's shell wasn't hurt. "I was talking in my sleep again, huh? Guess I've just been a little stressed out lately."

"Meow?"

"Oh it doesn't matter what it's about." He set Gary down and gave him a few comforting strokes on top of his shell. "It's never gonna happen."

A friendship like ours would never end like that, he thought. It can't.

But as he glanced at the face of the clock, the nightmare was quickly forgotten. "Er, thanks for the wake up call, buddy. Here." Beneath the clock, SpongeBob reached inside his bedside table's drawer and tossed Gary a small treat, which the snail caught mid-air. "That should hold you over until breakfast ." The sponge trotted right over his pillow, blankets and untucked sheets on his way to the bathroom. Lately he'd been throwing himself into bed the minute he got home, shoes and all. No dinner, no chores, and forget the obligatory rerun of MermaidMan and Barnacle Boy at 9PM sharp. It was bed, sleep, shower and right back to work the next morning. Rinse and repeat, with the sparse food and bathroom breaks in between.

Appeased and feeling better, Gary slinked up behind him. "Meow?"

SpongeBob answered with a hint of annoyance. "No. I didn't forget what day it is… but, thanks, buddy."

He approached the mirror, taking in a prominent five o'clock shadow before snatching up the shaving cream. "This is gonna be a long one." His other hand he extended towards the fish-shaped radio, hanging by its hook-shaped dorsal fin on the rod of the shower curtain. "Maybe some music will help perk me up."

The black eye-shaped dial turned, and his favorite station came on. Then he pointed the nozzle of the can at his face, shut his eyes, and fired, loading his face with as much cream as he could take before it tipped him over. This sponge overdid everything.

He staggered backward under the weight, arms flailing wildly until they landed on the razor, sitting in a cup on the sink, and was disappointed to hear an almost nostalgic songs was almost over. And what the DJ had to say right after didn't help. "Electric Zoo! Feels like it was just yesterday you were hearing that for the first time, doesn't it? Boy, how time flies! This is your favorite DJ in the morning, Smokey Pufferfish, coming to you live from 85.4, The Currant. At the top of the hour, and now here's a requested message: a Bikini Bottom local turns the big 3-and-O today. An admirer wants everybody to say Happy Birthday to mister SpongeBob SquarePants."

"Huh?" SpongeBob's face spun a full 180 degrees towards the radio, even though he couldn't see a thing, feet still planted in front of the mirror. "Me?"

"Do your thing, sisters !"

There was a squeak of the hanging studio mic being thrown halfway across the radio booth. Then came the slowly loudening tune of crooner-era piano music, followed shortly after by the retro-themed female vocals trio: The Sisters Sprat.

"My bay-be lives un-der the o-cean/ My bay-be lives un-der the sea/ My bay-be is what makes the wa-ters spar-kle/ My bay-be you al-ways will be!"

In one quick flick, SpongeBob wiped the foam from his eyes with the back of his hands like windshield blades. He lowered his arms and gaped at himself, stone still with anticipation.

No .

Could today, this moment, this second in time, be the one I've dreamed of, in the tiniest recesses of my mind?

"Thank you, Sisters Sprat." The radio host finished the requested message. " Love you forever and ever… Margaret SquarePants."

Clink. SpongeBob dropped the razor and fell backwards to the floor, feet in the air. SQUEAK.

It's not.

"Oh, Mom!" It took a lot for SpongeBob to feel embarrassed, but this had done the trick. "Now the whole town knows!"

"Meow?" said Gary.

"I am not insecure, Gary!" He sat up and snatched the razor, tossing it with a perfect arc into the draining cup on the side of the sink. For someone who wasn't athletic in the conventional meaning, the former frycook mastered the art of flicking the wrist. "I just don't want anybody to feel inclined to get me anything for my birthday. That's all. Now, if you'll kindly give me some privacy." And he waited for Gary to leave. Then he stepped out of yesterday's clothes, launching his undies into the growing hamper pile like a slingshot before climbing into the bathtub.

Under the noise of the water spray, he muttered to himself. "Silly snail."

"And speaking of turning 30—"

SpongeBob sighed.

"—a nice segue for the topic of today's morning brew," Smokey went on cheerfully. "Today in 1986: The Big Bottom Blackout! A region-wide power outage that lasted almost 80 hours, affecting hundreds of thousands of residents under the Atoll, between Bikini Bottom to the north, Ukulele Bottom East, and Rock Bottom south. The cause for the outage came down to a series of power lines knocked down by large pieces of heavy surface debris, and caved in the ceiling of a central power station. While unidentified at the time, experts today believe the pieces came loose and drifted away from-get this-a dive bell belonging to an oil rig hundreds of miles off chartered course. Crazier things have happened. But given the historic level of chaos as a result, Bikini Bottom residents can't help but ask: Where were YOU when the lights went out?"

"I was brushing my teeth and I fell down the stairs," answered the voice of a frail old lady.

"Why were you brushing your teeth at the top of the stairs?" asked the radio host.

"Same reason you didn't brush yours at all this morning, youngin!" the woman answered coldly. "Time management."

SpongeBob stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist. "Oh yeah! The blackout!"

Now that his master was decent, Gary poked his eyestalks back into the bathroom. "Meow?" "I don't remember it myself. I was only a few minutes old when it happened! Hm. Matter of fact, Grandma said the power went out right when they were taking my first pictures."

Gary leaned an eyestalk forward in emphasis. "Me-ow?"

"What do you mean, 'bad omen'? Lots of babies were born that day! At least… six for sure…" He acted as if he knew them by name, and were counting into his palm.

" Well, I was walkin' mah worm along main street downtown," said another radio caller, a middle-aged man with a Bikini outskirts accent. "And all the traffic lights just plum went out just as we reached the intersection! Just blown dark, like a candle in a storm, I tell you what! Massive ten boat pile-up that morning! At least a dozen fishfolk turned 'ta market cuts that day…"

"That's horrible," the DJ replied.

"But me and mah worm, we was fine!"

SpongeBob bit his lip as he loaded toothpaste onto his toothbrush. "Gee. I remember Mom and Pop talking about the blackout growing up, but I didn't know it was that bad!"

What else haven't they told me because they think I can't handle it?

"Meow?"

"Coconut Cake and sea-salt ice cream?" He spat a mouthful of toothpaste into the sink. "No time today, ol' boy. There's so much to do! I've gotta get dressed, run down to the restaurant, place the order—"

RING!

"... Answer the phone apparently."

SpongeBob painted and sped back into the bedroom, where his shell phone was ringing off the table in a flurry of bubbles. As soon as he picked it up, he knew why it was ringing so hard. "Hello?"

"SpongeBob! Where in the seven seas do you think you are? "

"I… think I'm home, Mr. Krabs? I thought I didn't start until nine."

"Of all days for you not to think to come in early? "

---

At the second Krusty Krab, Mr. Krabs, with a long blue dress shirt and tie to gussy up his Krusty 1 attire, was trying to mop a mess on the floor with a soggy dust broom with the other.

"We've got so much to do to set up for the Gala tonight! And that's if you get the rest of today's tasks done…"

---

"… HEY!" The phone trembled under Krab's shout. "NO REFILLS ON THE GOOD WINE! "

"The GALA! " With a high-pitched shriek, SpongeBob launched him into the air. His eyes sank backwards into his head in horror. "Barnacles! I forgot that it was tonight!"

"You bet your foxy new pants it's tonight! Now get down here and bring those multiplying hands before I break them off and put them to use meself! "

Beep. SpongeBob lowered the phone from his ear. "What is wrong with me? How could I forget something so important?"
Gary likely knew better than to ask, but curiosity got the better of him. "Meow?"

"The Gala's the biggest night of the year!" SpongeBob thought he'd explained this to Gary already. Guess he'd misremembered. "Mr. Krabs is closing both restaurants early to host a bunch of big-shot celebrity chefs to promote the rebrand of the Krusty 2: The Krusty Klass! And since I'm the manager, it's my responsibility to make sure everything goes down without a hitch!"

---

"I gotta get my suit dry cleaned, do tomorrow's supply order today, close the doors early, count the peppercorns…!"

SpongeBob piled Gary's food bowl in record time, throwing the can to the side of the room, towards an overflowing trash can. When he first moved into this house, he promised he'd never let it fall to chaos like this, but a lot changes in ten years. As soon as that was done, he sprinted across an overflowing sink of dishes, across a mud-stained floor, around the living room and out the front door, where his pet snail waited, concerned.

"Lock the door for me again, little guy. Okay? Love ya!"

When he was halfway down the block, his bath towel flew off and hit Gary in the face. "Meow…"

---

"Dang it. "

The underwater laboratory had been quiet. Quiet enough to hear a pin drop, until Sandy put her fist through a wall.

The quarter-inch steel plate didn't stand a chance. The titan-squirrel had blasted her fist right through it, like a bullet through a clothesline. Even with her white mitts on, her fist came with such force, she knew her knuckles would bruise. Growing up a Cheek had made her strong and fit, and thanks to the added help of Karate, she was able to funnel that strength into something that could be truly devastating.

But she was still mortal.

"This is it," she said quietly, to herself. "I really am out of ideas."

In her lonely little laboratory, where she'd toiled away at studies pertaining to her job, her life and everything in between, she slumped over her table.

She'd tried everything. Exhausted every known theory she could get her hands on. But some things can't be made possible, even with enough scientific know-how. Even with every available tool at her disposal. Even with the unlimited funding from three eccentric gentle-monkey lords back in London with no better use of their wealth. She'd like to believe she was Superwoman, sometimes, between her overpowered brain and brawn. But she wasn't a God. She couldn't make the impossible possible, no matter how badly she wanted it to become so.

Over a decade in Bikini Bottom had inspired Sandy to experiment far beyond the duties of her actual job. It was only natural that personal relationships with the sea critters had given her ideas for how to improve the world, how people live, and even how she lived. Time after time, she'd upgraded her own dive suit and treedome, and even patented her own brand of rebreather tech for the suit. Her work had factually opened the door for others on land to have a better experience living and working under the sea.

But certain things were just impossible, and everybody found that out, sooner or later. For a twenty nine year old American squirrel, it was the ability to live underwater without the necessity of a suit, or, especially, an air helmet. To live among the sea critters without a curtain forever in between.

Sandy's tinkering had started off vague and curious. It was a ridiculous idea, spitting in the face of all known science. Why, she ought to be grateful she had the technology to live in Bikini Bottom at all. But for better or worse, Sandy was young, bullheaded, and had an extremely difficult time letting an unsolved problem lay.

It began by researching and making a list of potential devices to fix the problem, based on hypothetical inventions that mostly appear in science fiction, take what you will of that. Once he crossed off the ones that right away, she knew wouldn't work, she was left with a few concepts. Simple, but unproven. And knowing it took thousands of attempts to create the first lightbulb, Sandy knew that there hadn't been nearly enough testing to rule out these ideas as nothin' but hay-feathers.

However, to this day, all have been humiliating failures.

Portable breathing device? Easy to create her own, but it was too bulky. Not to mention she'd have to carry it around like an oxygen tank, on her back or in her hands. At least the suit kept her hands free.

Artificial gills? What a joke. She thought she'd actually made some headway with a prototype, and nearly drowned herself testing them out. Thankfully she was just in her bathtub in the treedome.

And even if she could give herself the ability to breathe underwater, there was no clear way of getting over the pressure problem. Sandy was putting herself at risk each and every time she ripped her suit off in a fit of rage or battle. Exposure to deep sea pressure was just not good for a mammal, and she could already feel her body aching first thing in the morning from those few stupid, brash exhibitions.

She took calcium supplements to help counteract the damage she'd already done, but she was just glad she never broke a bone play-chopping with SpongeBob. For one thing, he'd completely over react. To see her get hurt so badly out of nowhere would make him nuttier than a Nutella Pecan Upside Down Cake! He might even go as far as to pressure her for an explanation as she understood it, and she couldn't give it to him. Not yet.

Now, these experiments were completely top secret. Even the chimps were not to know about her venture into breaking the glass of her own treedome (metaphorically speaking), as she'd probably lose her trust as a… well. A sane person, really. As well as her funding, which would disappear faster than you can say 'Adios, Bikini Bottom.' Nor was anybody else supposed to know. Not even her on-again-off-again lab assistant with an annoying habit of breaking into and asking questions about everything he could get his eyes and hands on.

Sandy would never admit the real hot-blooded drive for solving this problem, the reason she hadn't let this go yet, was not her pride, or her brash determination in itself, but her personal relationship with the sea creatures, And you'd sooner see Jack Frost ice skating in El Paso before she admitted a particular relationship with one of them was the hope-board picture of a life without the suit.

No one was ever gonna know. Especially if nothing ever came of this tinkering.

She didn't really like to bring up her shortcomings, but she'd stumbled upon the biggest hurdle in her career, and maybe in her life. And she didn't know what to do about it.

So, she fought. And when she didn't have anything or anyone to fight, no giant rascally clams that needed to be taught a lesson, and with her punching bag already pulverized to smithereens, she did the only thing she could think to do.
She broke stuff.

"This one's gonna be hurtin's somethin' awful tomorrow." She took off her mitt and massaged her hand, throbbing already. That was a good thing. It pulled her back. Reminded her that she was an adult, and pitchin' hissy fits had consequences, this one being that she'd waste two hours repairing a hole in her wall rather than anything productive.

For now, she was gonna try and focus on her other work in the meantime, tedious though it was. "After all, I'm still a scientist. I still got a job to do," she told herself. In a weak voice, she added: "That's what I'm here for."

---

"Tarnation! What do ya make of that?"

Sandy held a test tube in her hands, bringing it to eye level. It contained one of a dozen samples of ocean water taken out in Jellyfish Fields yesterday, and a simple dye kit that would tell her the amount of a certain element present in the water. She's been screening the water since she came down to Bikini Bottom every week for fluctuations in the composites. It was a key part of her job, and perhaps the most mundane thing she had to do for it.

Extract samples. Take them home.

Go to the lab. Run them through a machine.

Check for any significant change in the water composition. Check off that same, dang list.

Scan and send back to the laboratory back home. Next week, same time, same place, rinse and repeat.

Dull. Dull. Dull. Though she understood the need for these samples, in all the time she'd run these tests, nothing really changed. The tiny fluctuation in this chemical or that, but for the most part, it's been consistent, and the levels evened out the next test cycle.

Until three weeks ago. Exact same water from the exact same space, at the exact same time. Tube on the plate, into the extractor.

Printed report. But that time the computer was spitting out very strange numbers. Same thing last week.
And now, today as well.

She knew was supposed to have this test done by the end of the day yesterday at the latest, but she'd been working on something else top secret, and it actually wasn't related to living underwater without the suit. But the twenty four hour window shouldn't change the results that much.

Either way, the oddities came out even stronger. Not random, but trending in the same direction. Stronger sodium. Stronger hydrocarbons. So many chemicals magnified to absurd degrees. Wouldn't the fish folk have noticed? The jellyfish staying clear of this part of the fields?

Then again, it was the same computer and software she'd used since she came down here. Was it finally conking out? It looked to be working peachy, and a quick self-diagnostic test told her the same.

Only one way to know for sure. Sandy dug through her massive monthly crate of ship-dropped off supplies from lad, and found the kit she was looking for. It looked simple enough. Paper strips in tiny, air-locked capsules.

Sandy took the samples back into the treedome and laid her supplies out on her picnic table, the same she used to hold tea and cookies when Sponge and Pat came knockin' around. She'd never used it for anything work related, promising herself that the treedome was her personal space, and that line wasn't to be crossed. But today was an exception. She needed a dry place to test these samples.

Speaking of, she could've used SpongeBob's help to lay out these simple tests. She hadn't had breakfast, and her hands were starting to shake with decreasing energy and increasing nerves. But the lil' dude was so busy with that rebranded restaurant these days, she wouldn't dream of asking for his help. SquarePants would never, had never, told her 'no', and she couldn't think of impositioning him right now. So it was back to work with her lonely self.

Sandy took off her helmet and massaged her temples. This was such a simple test, but the tension was enough to make her want to whittle a cowboy figurine with just her teeth, the way she did with Daddy when she was a teething toddler.

When the timer went off, Sandy carefully removed the tiny slip of paper from the first sample. But she could already tell from the clear glass that the bottom end had turned from white, to a deep sea blue. She picked up the next sample: Same result. Same with the third, and the forth after that.

The color change told her what she already suspected. "That level of hydrocarbons? In Bikini Bottom?"

It could be nothing. Or it could be the start of some trouble. Until she had more information, only time would tell.

Something was ringing in the back of her head, but she couldn't flag it. She snapped her helmet back on, returned to the lab to scan her report, attached with an unusually long series of notes, back to headquarters. Once the email was sent, she turned her eyes to the clock, for the first time all morning. " Holy guacamole! That late already?"

In a flurry of motion, Sandy packed up another briefcase of vials, and a brand new, state of the art water quality sensor. Leaving the anomalies tests laid out in a mess back in the treedome behind, Sandy elevated herself from her basement laboratory, and sprinted fully suited down the street.

Time to do more in-depth field tests. She had to go out anyway. There was somebody she absolutely had to see today, no matter how conflicted it made her feel.

---

Bear with me and this incredibly long prologue. I think it will be worth it.

I had a pretty vague idea for a Spandy fic a while back, like three years ago. But it was more something I was making up in my head for my own enjoyment at work. But I do miss writing for SpongeBob, and I think trying to make this fic actually work would be good scene/story planning practice, since I can't seem to ever make any real progress on an original novel.

I know this chapter is extremely angsty for SpongeBob, but the mood will get closer to form as we enter chapter 1/present day in the fic.

A few notes: When I get hyper fixated on something, I try to roll with the details in canon unless I'm doing a collab, or I'm trying to experiment. But while I did do, like, the most bare minimum research for this fic, since SpongeBob's overall canon and timeline is one hot mess, (the fandom wiki seems to confirm this) I don't feel like it's completely blasphemous to change small details of certain canon, or make connections that don't affect the overall story that much.

For example, I'm sticking with Tree at the Treedome for Sponge and Sandy's first time meeting. Nothing against Kamp Koral, I still haven't even watched it TBH, I just don't like that it adds so many extra unnecessary questions about their history and relationship. It's also just the most accepted way that these two met.

A micronote: like me, Wiki seems to say Blackjack's dad is a character we haven't met, (which is a shame since IIRC Uncle Cap't Blue was introduced in that very same episode, why couldn't he be Blackjack's dad?), so for the sake of minimizing the characters, that line above about Sherm staying home to watch the boys, Blue is Blackjack's daddy in my personal canon. I think SpongeBob's grandma having boys is enough, and helps create this dynamic between Blue and Harold, the rough, brash, loud brother, and the sweet, thoughtful, concerned brother. I just imagine him being a really rambunctious and hyperactive kind of dad, whereas Sherm and Harold are the more responsible bros (hence their soft spoken kids), with Harold being the youngest and most lamb-hearted. The cousins don't make an appearance in the fic, this is just for making sense of time and space, understanding where the boys are from, etc.

All of what little evidence there is suggests Sponge's parents don't live in Bikini Bottom, but near enough that it's at least a neighboring city, so I'm just using Ukelele Bottom as a placeholder. No idea if there's a definitive answer for where SpongeBob was born and raised before, presumably, moving to Bikini Bottom.

Lastly, I know I'm really taking creative liberty with my depiction of Sandy's parent's personalities, but I just love the idea of Sandy having a big strong teddy bear of a dad, and an athletic, pants-wearing, still somehow girly mom. The cotillion thing came to me at the last minute, I really don't know what it will add to the fic itself as I write this note, but I plan on it coming back up in the writing later. In the moment, it was a way to emphasize a negative, but canon aspect about Sandy that doesn't get explored too much. She:
Doesn't always listen (see pressure)
And doesn't take easy to her own shortcomings (see Chimps Ahoy)

and it's easy to imagine her as a child working through her own shortcomings. This is important at least in a fic where she's the main character, since it opens the door to character growth.

A lot of inspiration for this fic comes straight from other fanfics. The interest in seeing SpongeBob's family together in prologue in particular is directly inspired by other fics, including Transformer123's story "What Makes a Best Day Ever?" on Fanfic. Which I haven't completed a full review of, but blew me out of my chair, it was so good. So solid. Drop whatever you're doing and go read that story next, you will not regret it. This story understands the characters too well.

And the spandy portions have dozens of examples of inspiration. I'll have to list them as they come to mind, but there's just too many, and most of what sticks out are stories by authors who haven't been active in years. One of the more recent ones is all the Spandy work done by Dreamer1920. There's a follow up fanfic I already have stuff written for that's directly inspired by one of their stories, so it's unlikely, but if you stumble across this, hey. You're awesome.

I realize this chapter is all angst, and if you're reading SpongeBob, that could be an early sign of burnout. Chapter 1 and onward is a lot more lighthearted, but I had to set up the sources of conflict later on. Enjoy!

Edit: 12/28/24: Found a few typos and unfinished sentences. Also went back and found the proper names of the authors I drew inspiration from!

Edit: 1/24/25: More typos and combined Prologue and Chapter 1 for the sake of consistent chapter numbering between here and archive.