Fred and I walked out of class into the hallways of Crystal Cove High, as spacious as they were fancy.
"—and that's when I realized the net mechanism needs a counterweight," Fred continued as we walked side by side, gesturing enthusiastically. "Otherwise the whole thing just collapses before—"
"Before the bad guy even gets there," I finished, grinning. "Like, makes sense. Physics is pretty unforgiving."
Fred's face lit up like I'd just handed him the keys to a mystery machine. "Exactly! You get it!"
It was wild how easy this friendship thing was. We'd technically just met but there was already this comradery between us.
My stomach chose that exact moment to growl. Loudly.
Fred glanced over, one eyebrow raised. "Didn't you just eat breakfast?"
"that was at least two hours ago Fred," I said, patting my stomach. The thing was, Shaggy's metabolism was insane. I'd demolished that stack of pancakes and somehow I was already starving again. It was like this body ran on pure caloric deficit.
Focus, Norville, I thought. You can obsess about food later. Maybe.
Who was I kidding? Food was basically fifty percent of my internal monologue now.
"I need to hit the hardware store after school," Fred continued, completely used to my intestinal commentary. "Get some materials for the Wickles investigation. Maybe some fishing line, a few pulleys..."
I nodded along as we turned a corner, and the whole vibe shifted immediately.
The formerly spacious hallways suddenly felt densely packed, a mass of feet clambered and through the noise chatter grew louder. A familiar signal that usually meant either a fight was about to break out or someone interesting had showed up.
"What's going on?" Fred asked, craning his neck to see over the crowd.
We pushed forward, navigating through clusters of students who were all facing the same direction.
And then I saw her.
Even in a crowd she was impossible to miss. She wore a cream colored top and white jean pants, and something about it felt... off to me. I was used to seeing her in purples and those signature lavender outfits, the colors that basically defined her whole aesthetic. This was like seeing Superman in a green cape, technically fine, but weird.
The fluorescent lights caught in Daphne Blake's red hair perfectly, tinting it gold at the edges as she moved through the hallway. she was smiling at something another girl was saying, completely at ease despite being the obvious focus of at least thirty pairs of eyes.
Then she caught sight of us.
Her whole face changed, brightening even, like someone had flipped a switch. She picked up her pace, weaving through the crowd who graciously stepped out of her way.
"Fred! Shaggy!" she called out, waving enthusiastically.
"Hey, Daphne," Fred said, raising a hand in greeting.
"what's up, Daph?" I added, casually.
She reached us slightly breathless, her purple eyes holding something back.
"You guys will not believe this," she started, and then paused for dramatic effect. "My father—" she began the word with this particular emphasis, "—has offered to fund our little... 'mystery club.'"
She air quoted the words "mystery club". Seems our band was new, probably Fred's brainchild, barely formed..
And now it had funding.
Daphne's eyes squinted and her smile grew impossibly wide, "We're official!" she squealed, bouncing slightly on her heels.
Fred just stood there, completely lost.
"New equipment," he mumbled, definitely talking to himself. "Better traps. Actual surveillance gear. We could get a—" His voice trailed off as his brain clearly started cataloguing every piece of detective equipment he'd ever wanted.
I couldn't help but grin at Daphne's enthusiasm. "Dude, that's amazing, way to come through!"
Then Velma materialized out of nowhere on my left side—seriously, when had she even gotten there?
"More like funding for Shaggy's snack supplies." She glanced toward my direction arms crossed.
My stomach chose that exact moment to let out an absolutely monstrous growl, loud enough that all four of us heard it clearly.
There was a beat of perfect silence.
Then we all busted out laughing, the sound echoing down the hallway and drawing even more curious stares from the lingering students.
"Like, let's go grab lunch," I managed between laughs, wiping my eyes.
The rest of the day blurred by in the typical day of school haze, classes blending together, teachers introducing syllabi that nobody would remember, students sizing each other up in that particular high school way.
Lunch had been decent enough. The gang and yeah, I was already thinking of us as "the gang", had claimed a corner table and spent most of the period planning out our first official investigation into Mr. Wickles. Fred sketched trap designs on napkins while Velma fact-checked his theories on what he believed the teacher was doing ruthlessly. Daphne looked at the bright side and kept throwing out ideas about how to approach things tonight, her natural charisma turning even the most mundane suggestions into compelling arguments.
And I naturally?
I ate. A lot.
I would've assisted with a detailed layout and offered support but It wasn't easy being Shaggy.
The sun was at it's peak by the time we split up after school. Fred was off heading to the hardware store, a notepad of what he wanted in hand, , Daphne waved a goodbye off in a luxury limo to some family obligation, and Velma seeing my own smile have and a small one back and another wave to me, heading to the library. That meant I had a few hours to kill before our nighttime surveillance operation.
I sat on the brick wall next to the bike racks giving myself time to think and my mind wondered off to Mr. Wickles. History teacher, staying late, suspicious behavior according to Fred's observations.
My training in crime scene investigation and basic behavior analysis allowed me to see through some possibilities. From what Fred had described, the consistent late nights, the careful movements, the locked classroom door—this wasn't exactly the behavior of someone doing something nefarious but it was suspicious, like who just creeps around a school?
If I had to guess? The guy was probably grading papers, maybe working on a personal project. Something completely innocent that happened to look mysterious to an enthusiastic teenage detective.
But then again where's the fun in that?
Freds got to test his traps, Velma got to analyze clues, Daphne got to use her braveness and resourcefulness somehow. This was the beginning of something legendary.
Besides, even if Mr. Wickles was just grading papers, the experience would be valuable. You had to start somewhere.
I looked at my palm for a second thinking back. The wishes.
Right. Those three wishes I'd made in that void between death and waking up here.
I'd asked for Sanji's cooking skills—that one was already obvious. I could taste the difference in that breakfast, could feel the knowledge sitting in my brain like I'd spent years perfecting techniques in some world class kitchen. Every time I thought about food, which was constantly, the Sanji knowledge supplied commentary. flavor balancing, presentation—it was all there.
But the other wish? A Stand ability?
I frowned slightly.
How exactly did you test for that?
Stands in JoJo's were manifestations of fighting spirit, these powerful entities that could do everything from stop time to punch really, really hard. They were invisible to non-Stand users, could vary wildly in abilities, and generally required some kind of trigger or emotional catalyst to first manifest.
So... what? Do I just concentrate really hard and hope something appeared?
I held out my hand, focusing on that concept of "fighting spirit." Nothing happened. The place remained stand-free.
"Star Platinum?" I tried saying allowed, feeling ridiculous.
Silence.
Okay, so either I didn't have one yet, or I didn't know how to summon it, or maybe the wish had worked differently than expected. Something to figure out later, probably during a moment of emotional intensity or danger, classic awakening territory.
But the cooking skills? Those I could test right now.
I glanced at the clock. Still six hours before I needed to meet Fred for the Wickles surveillance. Plenty of time.
A restaurant from the show flashed through my mind one that showed up in a few episodes. If memory served, it was on the main strip near the docks, one of those establishments that tried way too hard to be fancy but somehow made it work through sheer commitment to the bit.
And more importantly, it was a place where I could test these skills properly.
Twenty minutes later, I was walking down Crystal Cove's main street, hands in my pockets, enjoying the late afternoon sun. The town really was picturesque, all the charm of a seaside tourist trap with just enough mystery vibes to keep things interesting.
The restaurant sat on a corner lot, its pretentious French façade somehow fitting perfectly into the Crystal Cove aesthetic. The sign outside advertised fine dining with a cursive font.
And right there in the window, written on a small placard: HELP WANTED.
Perfect.
I pushed open the door to Le Chez Food, and immediately the Sanji knowledge started cataloguing everything. The kitchen smelled of garlic, butter, and something burning slightly in the back. The layout wasn't to great, almost like a McDonald from my universe but the tables too close together. The ambiance was that of a pizzeria going for romantic, landing somewhere around dating, definitely leaning towards teenagers than adults.
A harried looking manager appeared from the kitchen, middle aged guy with a pencil mustache and sweat stains under his arms. His name tag read "Maurice."
"We're not open yet," he said, not to unkindly.
"I saw the help wanted sign," I said, gesturing toward the window. "I can cook."
Maurice looked me up and down, gangly teenager, casual clothes, probably looked like I'd never seen the inside of a professional kitchen.
"You have experience?"
"Some," I said smoothly. "I'll show you instead of telling you. how about it?"
He hesitated, clearly weighing the risk of letting some random kid into his kitchen against the obvious desperation of having a help wanted sign in the window.
"You got thirty minutes," he finally said. "Mess up my kitchen, you're cleaning it and leaving. " He shrugged.
He led me through the dining area into the kitchen, it wasn't to good looking, disorganized stations, scattered bowls of dough, and utensils everywhere. This kitchen was being run by people who knew enough to make food, but not enough to make it good.
"Make me a pizza," Maurice said, crossing his arms. "We're adding new ones to the menu next week. Show me what you got."
Pizza. No surprise, simple enough that anyone could attempt it, complex enough that the difference between amateur and professional was immediately obvious.
I rolled up my sleeves and got to work.
The dough was pre-made unfortunately, sitting in the walk-in cooler. I grabbed a portion and immediately felt its texture.
It was already overworked, too elastic, probably from rough handling. Not ideal, but I had no problem working with it.
I stretched it with carefulness, working from the center outward, letting gravity and gentle rotation do most of the work. The key was not overhandling it, preserving what air pockets it had left, that would create the perfect chewy yet crispy texture. I shaped it into a proper circle, creating a slightly thicker crust around the edges for that authentic Neapolitan style.
Maurice watched, arms still crossed, but I caught the subtle shift in his posture. He was focused now.
Sauce next. Their pre-made marinara was sitting in a container, and one taste told me everything—too acidic a little wasn't bad but this, also underseasoned, the jar must have had minimal doctoring. I grabbed a fresh pan, started from scratch. Crushed San Marzano tomatoe cans from their pantry, a touch of olive oil, fresh garlic minced fine, hand-torn basil, a pinch of salt, tiny bit of sugar to balance the acidity, and just a whisper of dried oregano.
I let it simmer for a little less than three minutes seeing it done beforehand, enough to marry the flavors without cooking out the freshness.
While the sauce worked, I prepped the toppings. Their mozzarella was low-moisture, pre-shredded from several days ago, criminal, but again, workable. I grabbed a whole ball of fresh mozzarella from their cheese drawer instead, tearing it by hand into irregular pieces that would create those perfect pools of melted cheese with crispy edges.
Fresh basil from their herb rack, I tore instead of cutting leaving bruised leaves and released bitter compounds. A drizzle of good extra virgin oil. Thin slices of garlic because Maurice was watching and I wanted to show off a bit.
Assembly was quick thin layer of sauce with a ladle, leaving space at the edges. Cheese distributed evenly but not overly thick. Garlic and basil placed strategically for even flavor distribution. Another whisper of olive oil across the top, and a crack of fresh black pepper.
I slid it into their pizza oven, thankfully they had not only a proper one, but the original, wood-fired and already heated. I watched the temperature gauge.
"Ninety seconds," I said calmly. "Maybe two minutes."
Maurice's eyebrows went up. "That's fast."
"High heats needed for the thin dough, and fresh ingredients," I explained. "Any longer and you'll just dry it out."
I watched through the oven window as the magic happened. The dough puffed up, the cheese bubbled and browned in spots, the crust developed those characteristic leopard spots that marked proper Neapolitan-style pizza.
At exactly one minute forty-five seconds, I pulled it out.
The pizza looked perfect—crispy brown crust with slight purposeful char, melted cheese with golden-brown bubbles, the basil slightly wilted but still vibrant green, the garlic wafted through the room.
I sliced it with one of their dull knives applying pressure—really needed to sharpen those—and plated a piece for Maurice.
He stared at it for a moment nose tingling, and I could see the internal debate.
He picked up the slice and took a bite.
I watched his expression change, eyes wide, then confusion, then something that might have been emotional revelation.
He chewed slowly despite the heat, deliberately taking his time, experiencing the layers of flavor. The slightly tangy sauce, the creamy fresh mozzarella, the crispy-chewy crust, the aromatic basil and garlic, all balanced perfectly into something that transcended the sum of its parts.
Maurice's eyes shut.
He took another bite.
"How—" he started, then stopped. Took another bite. "Where did you learn to cook like this?"
I shrugged casually. "Just picked it up, you know? Like, food's always been my thing."
Maurice set down the slice, carefully, like it was something precious. He looked at me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"You're hired," he said, and his voice cracked slightly. "Can you start this weekend?"
"Like, absolutely," I said, grinning.
He wiped his eyes quickly, pretending it was just the steam from the kitchen. "Fifteen dollars an hour, tips pooled, two shifts a week to start. That work for you?"
"Sounds perfect, man."
Maurice extended his hand, and I shook it. His grip was firm, appreciative.
"What's your name, kid?"
"Norville Rogers," I said. "But everyone calls me Shaggy."
"Well, Shaggy," Maurice said, finally smiling, "I think you just saved my restaurant."
I walked out of Le Chez Food with a job, a shift schedule, and the satisfied knowledge that yes, the Sanji cooking skills were absolutely real and absolutely incredible.
The sun was starting to dip toward the horizon, casting Crystal Cove in that golden-hour glow that made everything look like a postcard.
Time to head back, grab some dinner, and then meet Fred for our first official mystery investigation.
Life as Shaggy Rogers was shaping up to be pretty damn good.
I'd taken a slice, still warm, the cheese stretching perfectly as I pulled it away. The first bite hit different when you knew exactly what went into it—every technique, every decision, every small adjustment that turned ingredients into something worth getting emotional about.
It was good. Really good.
I chewed slowly, savoring it, and found myself wishing I had someone to share this moment with. Fred would probably inhale it without really tasting it, too busy planning traps. Velma would analyze the flavor profile and give me notes. Daphne would appreciate the presentation.
And Scooby would—
Wait.
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YO im back lol. So yeah Scooby doos super confusing, plot wise I mean. I just gotta tell you guys I will definitely be taking my own "Creative liberty's" but dont worry to much, sit back relax and enjoy the show.