Squidward no Death Note (SpongeBob X Death Note)

Squidward rushed outside, his bathrobe flapping around his knees, heart hammering against his ribs like a loose drumstick in a washing machine. He tried to school his face into something approximating his usual scowl, but his wide, unblinking eyes betrayed him.

SpongeBob was kneeling in the sand beside Patrick, sobbing uncontrollably. His square body quivered with each hiccupping gasp. The fire crackled beside them, casting eerie shadows across the backyard.

Squidward cleared his throat, voice dry and cracking.

"What in Neptune's name are you two screaming about this time?" he said, louder than he meant to.

SpongeBob looked up, eyes huge and bloodshot.

"It's P-Patrick!" he stammered. "H-he was laughing, and then he just… clutched his chest and fell! He's not breathing, Squidward!"

Squidward's stomach flipped. He turned his gaze to Patrick's body.

Glassy eyes. Jaw slightly open. No movement. No sound.

Like a toy someone had dropped and forgotten.

He felt a wave of nausea roll up his throat.

This… this couldn't be real.

He crouched beside SpongeBob, pulling his conch-shell phone from his robe pocket with trembling hands. "I'll call an ambulance. He's probably… fine. You know Patrick—he's come back from dozens of things that should've killed him."

SpongeBob sniffled, his lip quivering. "Y-yeah… remember when Sandy stuffed his entire abdomen through that one-inch trumpet hole during our brass band practice?"

Squidward winced. "Unfortunately."

"He was fine after that…" SpongeBob whispered, hope flickering in his voice. "He even said he liked the new shape."

Squidward pressed the emergency number. His thumb shook as he held the phone to his ear.

"Paramedic Services, Bikini Bottom. What's your emergency?"

"Yes, I—someone just collapsed. Patrick Star. He's not breathing. He—he's just lying there—"

"Location?"

"Next door to the house shaped like a Moai statue. In the pineapple's backyard. Hurry."

The ambulance arrived six minutes later, red and white sirens cutting through the still water like the cries of a wounded dolphin. A single paramedic fish—tall, square-jawed, and tired—stepped out with a kelp-stained medical bag. He knelt beside Patrick and pressed a stethoscope to the starfish's chest. For a moment, he said nothing.

Then, with a slow shake of his head, he turned to the two bystanders.

"I'm sorry," he said solemnly. "Mr. Patrick Star is gone. Looks like a massive heart attack."

SpongeBob screamed.

Not in his usual comical, over-the-top wail—but something raw, cracked, and terrible. It echoed through the neighborhood like the howl of a whale mourning its pod.

He collapsed forward, hugging Patrick's body, sobbing so violently the sand beneath them turned to mud.

Squidward stood frozen, unable to move, speak, or breathe. The paramedic offered him a supportive hand on the shoulder, but Squidward barely registered it.

He stared at the sand, eyes unfocused, stomach churning.

No. No, no, no. I didn't actually…

He mumbled something—an excuse, a goodbye, he wasn't sure—and stumbled back toward his house.

Inside, the moment the door clicked shut, he made a beeline for the bathroom, dropped to his knees in front of the toilet, and vomited.

Black ink swirled in the water.

His head spun.

He gripped the bowl like it might keep him from floating away.

"Okay," he gasped, panting. "Okay. That was… a coincidence. Just a coincidence. The book isn't real. It's just a prank. Maybe Patrick's diet finally caught up to him. Maybe it was a frozen mayonnaise clot. Or—"

His own voice cut him off.

Because he knew.

Deep down, he knew.

He had written Patrick's name.

And now Patrick was dead.

Not injured. Not flattened. Not exploded and rebuilt with tape and jellyfish glue.

Dead.

"…I didn't mean to kill him," Squidward whispered. "I was annoyed. Just annoyed. I didn't actually want him to… to die."

He sank against the wall, head tilted back, tentacles limp at his sides.

Then—

A voice.

Raspy, dry, and almost amused.

"Well, well," it croaked, with a throaty chuckle. "Congratulations on your first kill, Squiddy. Gotta say… it was kinda funny."

Squidward's blood ran cold.

He turned sharply, nearly slipping in the puddle of ink beside him.

Standing in the bathroom doorway was a creature straight out of his deepest clarinet-induced nightmares.

She had the form of a mermaid, but twisted—her skin a ghastly gray-green, flaking like dried kelp. Her long hair hung in damp, matted ropes, and her eyes glowed faintly under sunken lids. Two enormous bat-like wings protruded from her back, the membrane thin and ragged. Her grin stretched too wide, revealing pointed, coral-stained teeth.

"Wh-what are you?!" Squidward shouted, scrambling backward.

She waved lazily. "Relax, kiddo. You're not hallucinating. I'm real. Very real."

She floated a little closer, wings barely flapping. Her rotted fish tail hovered inches off the tile.

"You can call me Lurala. I'm a shinigami."

"A… shi—what?"

"Death god," she said, examining one of her claws. "I dropped the notebook. You found it. That makes you the current owner. And boy—did you come out swinging."

Squidward's mouth opened, but no words came out.

Lurala leaned forward, grinning like a child watching a crab boil.

"Got any more names you wanna test?"