"First, the cartoon town, then the doll that searches for hamburgers."
"Hey, boss, why—"
Icky the clown pushed past The Amazing Giraffe-Lad in a frantic rush. She already knew she didn't have an answer to whatever his question was, unless it unexpectedly pertained to the niche field of the Women's International Waxed-Floor Skating League.
She was already a little upset at all time outside of Herman Fuller's (rest in piss) Circus of the Disquieting grinding to a halt for no reason, even before she saw what was approaching the big top. That familiar five-pointed star logo. She was back in the GOC raid on Salem again, except now everyone she cared about was there too.
She needed, she needed, she needed to know what she needed. What could she do?
Find Lolly, Lolly always helps. Then find Manny, he set up the complicated-sounding ad campaign that made the circus invisible if you were a jerk (how did they even get past that?). He probably has something, maybe a leftover from ol' Hermie that was mean enough to—
Her train of thought was interrupted by the shriek of a BLU-109/B bunker-buster missile on its way towards impacting the Clown Alley trailer directly on the broadside. The head of the missile tore through the walls of the little box on wheels, entering into the cramped pocket dimension before detonating. The roof of the trailer was blown out as a geyser of pulverized, honking gore, cream pies, handkerchiefs and shrapnel exploded upwards, raining down in a improbably-huge spray given the tiny size of the structure it had all come from.
Armored boots kicked down the doors of other trailers, the legs and bodies attached to them veiled behind furious muzzle flashes. More stampeding limbs attempted to kick open the entrance to the big top itself, but didn't really succeed because it was a tent and you can't kick those too good.
Icky screamed, several different emotions reaching their boiling point at once.
Heavily-armed figures burst into the Den of Freaks, their taclights finding a portly clown halfway through a hoagie. His mouth, opened for a bite, widened in shock, but before he could speak the GOC operatives opened fire. Bullet after bullet slammed into his torso, each with a spray of red. The clown jerked back honking with every shot as the orchestra of gunfire continued. Each hit rocked him back in the fashion of only the best cheesy '80s action squibs, triggers held down until the magazines click-click-clicked empty. The bullet-riddled clown swayed in the brief silence, sandwich tragically dropped from his bloodied hand to the floor. Before he could fall, the soldiers reloaded and resumed firing at him in a pointlessly excessive display that went on for well over a minute.
As the soldiers advanced into the fairgrounds, the eerie grey visage covering each of their facemasks looked on in stern approval.
The surface of the ocean was still, waves frozen as they rolled, save for a small patch following a little red splotch moving through the air. SCP-4162 was taking its time, as its target had stopped moving for whatever reason. The small boat was coming into view now! It drifted closer and closer, until the boat started moving again. The egg sped up to slightly exceed its pace, until it was only a meter away from the orange-jumpsuited figure that was blearily shaking its head.
"Hi!"
"…Guh. Blgh. So, so boring, just repeating. What was I thinking ab—"
The D-class's head exploded with a KSPGLACK.
"Yeah!"
4162 turned around to begin moving towards the next guy it had to make dead.
"Hi!"
You have made quite a lot of trouble, little thing.
"What? That's silly! I gotta go now."
The egg moved forwards, but bonked into the towering figure floating before it. The massive entity loomed even higher. The egg stopped for a moment, before trying again. Bonk. Bonk.
I assure you, I am anything but silly.
The egg paused. Things were simple, it moved towards a guy then made his head explode and then moved to the next guy. But somehow, it wasn't moving. There was something in its way. This had never happened before.
"How come you can touch me?"
It sighed in annoyance. I cannot. But there are things in this world that can, and they have unwittingly placed themselves under my spell.
A massive hand on an arm nearly as long as the figure's entire body moved, calmly sweeping towards the little red oval. The thumb, index finger and middle finger closed around it, and it lifted SCP-4162 past several rows of grey-skinned arms, crossed across the chest in disapproval, until it was level with the great mouthless scowl. It pulsed and attempted to wriggle, but the grip was like an iron vise.
"Hey, I gotta go kill the guy! Let me go!"
I will not.
The egg began to feel scared. It wasn't really sure what was happening. It remembered that silly question that the science doctor man had asked, this big person kind of reminded it of them.
"Why?"
Enormous eyes beneath a furrowed brow continued to stare with disdain, their gaze boring deep into the little red object. The voice like slow thunder spoke again.
Because you are a ridiculous, meaningless little thing. You serve no purpose, you have no merit upon the stories of this world. You are a joke. You are a blemish. You make no sense.
The fingers flexed. The vast figure found the power it was looking for, and loosened its control ever so slightly over it. A tiny fraction of something scarlet broke free from the looping monologue, and flowed into the grey titan.
This universe has strayed from what it is meant to be. Ruined by things like you, polluted by humor and whimsy. It was made to be grim, dark and cold.
The pressure of the fingertips clamping down on the egg increased, and kept increasing. It was terrified now, could feel shame at its childishness forcing itself into its mind, feeling the sheer aura of authority, of the teacher's quiet disgust, of the parent's scolding, of the disappointment and disdain of existence all concentrating in towards it. The eyes of the universe looked down beneath a furrowed brow.
I am here to correct mistakes like you.
The egg wailed. The fingers tightened.
KSPGLACK.
After a moment of satisfied repose, the vast figure turned towards the western shoreline of the Americas in the distance.
And it began to move, over waves that were still once more.
The mind overriding that of D.C. Al Fine conferred with itself in her command room.
The red egg has been corrected.
Yes. The assault on the circus has begun. Minor losses.
Several escaped through the Kaleidoscope. We will pursue them.
Yes. The gamers, pugilists and pharmacist are next for our military forces. What of our primary manifestation?
I will continue to eliminate any difficult cases. First, the cartoon town, then the doll that searches for hamburgers. I make landfall in California shortly.
The shining sun of the beachfront was interrupted by shadow as the being glided just above the surface, its robe-like tendrils elegantly weaving between the palms of Irvine, California. It continued moving inland, brushing shoulders with high-rise apartment buildings and offices, permanently-stopped cars and pedestrians shaded beneath the flowing curtain of its lower body. One huge, stony eye spared a glance into a nearby window and the studio behind it.
California, was it? The destination for young creatives of all types, It thought aloud.
They flock en masse, but their paradise is an illusion. All that waits for them is their ambition being fed to the machine. They will learn to comply with the great studios, to sacrifice their vision for conformity for a chance to have anything seen by an uncaring public that can no longer tell the difference between proper art and gruel.
The vast thing felt grim satisfaction at that, the only type of satisfaction it wished to know.
And that itself is the art, It stopped, and peered in once more.
The struggle that will never end, captured in a perfect perpetual moment between hope and despair.
Slowly, something else began to encroach in on its senses. An unwelcome clamor, drawing near. Pounding footsteps. A voice—no, several voices, all identical. It silently pivoted to face the intrusion, brow pinching in annoyance.
"—Master, Master! Before you leap into battle, I beg you allow us to apply these essential oils!"
"The crystal witch lady states that they imbue you with the power of the moon!"
"And the power of thirty-four dollars and ninety-nine cents plus tax plus shipping!"
"—Brothers, wait, wait, I have—I have gotten tangled on a fire hydrant once more!"
A heavily-built figure with skin like onyx and muscles chiseled like a greek statue came thundering around the corner of a block, closely followed by four robed individuals who were far less elegant in every way. As the hulk at the front suddenly stopped to face the grey behemoth, its followers smacked into the back of it and fell over in a heap.
"Ah, Master, forgive us! We have smacked our faces against you!"
"Brothers, my oils! They have been spilled!"
"I am well aware, brother! Friction now eludes me!"
The demigod known to some as SCP-8146-2, and to others as the Caged Rainbow pointed a mighty finger up at the larger entity, opposing hand clenched into a fist. The horned swirl of light that was his head flashed an accusatory red as a jolting bellow rattled through the streets. Any who were equipped to understand the bellow would have interpreted it as a vision of a black stone stele in the midst of a vast otherworldly desert, upon which the following words were etched: CREATURE! IS THIS STAGNATION YOUR DOING?
The huge nose wrinkled as it let out a puff of air in a mouthless scoff.
I have stagnated nothing. What I have done is preserve this world, and all the worlds attached to it. Immaculate, save for the few errors that I now stamp out.
The towering figure leaned forwards slightly, looking down its sharp nose towards the group. One of many hands stroked its beard as it posited aloud:
You, challenger, are no such error. You know well the graveness of this world, and you are taken seriously in return. Your power is clear and consistent, drawing from the well-established. So how is it that you still rattle loose?
While the main head's gaze remained trained on the Master, the two large eyes set into its chest glanced at the oiled cultists attempting to right themselves without faceplanting into the broken glass bottles. They narrowed.
Ah. There would be the fly in the ointment.
In the blink of an eye, the massive muscles of the Master's legs tensed and released, sending him rocketing through the air towards his foe. As he reared back to strike, he bellowed once more: MY FAITHFUL SERVANTS, RUN NOW! THIS BATTLE IS BEYOND YOU.
His message delivered and the brothers already scrambling to obey it, the Master turned all of his focus towards the threat before him. He had cleared the entire length of the street in his single bound and was now level with the dour grey face, magnifying the gravity around his clenched fist so that it bore the mass of an entire building. And yet the enemy before him showed no trace of fear, only mild annoyance. And so he began to realize that he had made an error. Something was wrong. But what? The moment seemed to drag on as he thought, breaking down the situation and reaching out with his more arcane senses as he hung in the air, poised to strike at the towering thing before him that threatened his loyal followers, the moment before his righteous impact, the moment that seemed to drag on as he thought, breaking down the situation and reaching out with his more arcane senses as he hung in the air, poised to strike at the towering thing before him that threatened his loyal followers, the moment before his righteous impact, the moment that seemed to drag on as he thought, breaking down the situation and reaching out with his more arcane senses as he hung in the air
…
The massive figure drifted past the relatively-miniscule black statue suspended mid-attack, and scanned the street beyond it. There was no sign of the clamoring minions, save a small patch of moisture and broken glass on the pavement smelling of sandalwood. It sighed, before continuing on its way. The one thing those creatures had going for them was their obedience to their master. No matter. There were several ground troops in the area, they would station themselves on all roads leading out of the city. They could not avoid the roads and hope to survive in the deserts beyond.
It did not stop to worry over such insignificant opposition. Nothing would escape its grasp.
for a fleeting value of normalcy, one that they all knew was a mask but fought to uphold nonetheless, things were back to normal at Site-47. Normal. Director Borgmann blinked, shaking his head. He had been lost in thought, far more than he had ever been before. Something about being normal. Anyways, stifling a yawn, what had broken him out of it?
"—ctor! Oh, he blinked!"
Borgmann's eyes focused on the lanky frame of Researcher Denzel Haldings in front of him, which was anxiously peering at him through round glasses. He had his hands held up in front of his chest slightly, in Halding's signature nervous stance that left him able to either defend his face or reach out and grab something at a moment's notice.
The presence of Haldings in his office was Borgmann's second clue that something was amiss, following the strange disassociation. The sliding scale of reasons why he might be seeking the aid of a higher station could range from his crackers getting caught in the vending machine to imminent nuclear war.
The third clue that really gave away that some bullshit was happening was the bucktoothed alien face squishing through the doorframe behind Haldings.
"Haldings."
"Yes, it worked!"
"Why is Lawbert outside of his containment chamber?"
Haldings paused mid-fist-pump to look behind himself, as if he had also only just noticed that Lawbert was there. He then more hesitantly turned back towards his boss, hands now opened in a half-apologetic half-face-shielding gesture, and said what was likely his single most-repeated phrase during his time at the Foundation:
"Ok, I promise there's a good reason for this."
At this point the pinker of the two nerds spoke up.
"Affirmative rest assured Director Borgmann-man that my presence outside of mine containment unit is fully in compliance with the Foundation Code of Conduct—revision 802.7b year 2025—due to the Sole Survivor Authority clause which dictates that in the case of an observable complete loss of operational capacity of the Foundation across all branches any remaining—"
"—Hold on, the Sole Survivor clause?"
Borgmann, now very worried, looked to Haldings. "That's only invoked if there's something equivalent to a K-Class going on. What the hell's happening?"
Haldings cringed. "Yeah, it's—Well, here's how it happened. I was doing ALDI with Lawbert, when I had a question come up. I put it in the relevant channels, but then when nobody responded I noticed that all of SCiPnet was completely dead. No messages sent for over an hour."
Haldings pulled out his laptop, and opened it on the Director's desk. Borgmann looked at the open tabs, then opened the app on his own desktop. "Shit, you're right. The only messages globally are you asking around just now."
"Yeah, yeah! That's how I knew it wasn't just our internet somehow going down even through all the failsafes, I could still send stuff. It's just nobody's answering, not on SCiPnet, not on any discords I'm in, nowhere."
Borgmann thought for a moment.
"So why—"
"—So, then I left the chamber to go and find someone, but then it, like, got really weird. I felt like everything was slowing down the further I went, and I couldn't stop—couldn't stop thinking. But not in my normal way. It was like—"
"—like an internal monologue? A boring one?"
"Yeah, exactly! You felt it too! So obviously I backed away, which made it stop. After a little trial and error, well… Somehow, Lawbert's got something to do with it. If you stick close to him, it doesn't happen. He's like a reality anchor for whatever this is."
"I trust you asked him if he knew anything?"
"Oh, definitely absolutely for sure. Lawbert, can you, uh, tell the director if you know anything?"
"I unfortunately am ignorantopus regarding the current scenario woe is me."
"Yeah, no leads there."
Haldings leaned in. "Oh, and on the way here we saw other people in the halls. Just, stopped in place. We saw Kellan dropping some papers, they were frozen midair. I think that's what's happening. Everywhere else, I mean." His eyes were wide behind his glasses in fear. "Time is just… stuck."
At hearing this, the site director relaxed slightly.
"Ah, that's good news."
"How?!"
"It means we're not under any kind of ticking clock, so far as we can tell."
Whereas clouds can float high above the ground due to their low density, any silver linings they may have are by definition made of a much heavier element. This causes them to plummet from the atmosphere as soon as they form to violently concuss anyone standing underneath, such as Haldings in this particular instance. He simply stared at the director, dumbfounded.
"Well, come on then. Let's go and grab the others. We won't get anywhere with just the two of us."
Borgmann stood up and moved past the staggered researcher towards the door.
"SCP-7416!"
"Present."
"Please move out of the doorway, and make sure to follow me closely, within 3 meters."
At risk of being left behind as the two larger lifeforms began to leave the office, Haldings shook himself out of the stunlock.
"Wait, director! What can we even do here?"
Borgmann smiled back at his subordinate.
"I've no idea! But I, for one, don't intend to leave it that way. Let's see what we can learn, hmm?"
With that, he marched onwards, then rapidly outpaced Lawbert's lethargic oozing speed and settled into a slow mosey instead. Haldings scurried after him.
Sixteen minutes1 later, a small crowd was moving as one through the hallways, orbiting around the central fleshy mass of Lawbert.
"…We're going so slow. Should we try and load Lawbert onto a pallet again?" posited Haldings. And indeed, while they had always been travelling slowly, the slowness had seemed to compound upon itself.
Another voice responded, from somewhere on the other side of the beast, no face visible to match it to. "We're in the southeast corridor, so it shouldn't be too long of a detour to the supply room."
"Yes, it seems like a reasonable solution. As reasonable as we can get in the current scenario." mumbled another, their words dragging much the same as their feet. Their march through the cold, clinical hallways was funerary in demeanor.
"Something feels off."
"I have been maintaining a uniform speed for the whole and entire duration of our journey throughout the location designated Site-47 with only minor full stops to go and grab people and also turn around and also sneeze that one time."
"So why does everything feel so much slower? We just keep going on and on, barely making any progress. Perhaps this is a paradigm that reflects modern—"
"—Please, shut up." said everyone. It was bad enough that similar monologues were already going on within their heads, they didn't need to be assailed from without as well.
After pondering for a long, drawn-out moment, a bespectacled woman in a lab coat calmly spoke up. "This is the freeze. The slowness, the spiraling thoughts, the hyper-serious tone. It's a diluted version of it, somehow."
Director Borgmann stopped, turning his full attention towards the speaker. Doctor Carla Sambre continued. "The only variables that have changed since we started are location, time elapsed and number of people unfrozen. It's unlikely to be location, as we've crossed certain points several times when changing direction without the effect lessening again. For time elapsed, SCP-7416?"
"It is Monday so I am operating under the established local definition of 1 second per second although I have noticed an alarming increase in the number of violations of this speed including most human people the moon the sun the donuts and the other moon. This immediate group not including mineself is operating at approximately 46 per cent."
"So 7416 himself is still unaffected. I have a hypothesis. Would several people please step outside of the safe radius?" the doctor continued, adjusting her glasses with one hand in a motion that signified pure professionalism.
Several staff members obliged, and Sambre looked back towards the anomalous organism.
"Gasp! Doctorate Sambre, your time-flow-speed has increased to 49 per cent!"
"Okay, that's as much confirmation as we're going to get." she replied, nodding. Sambre then turned to address the gathered crowd. "Whatever it is that 7416 has that allows him to disrupt the time-stop event, he only has a limited bandwidth for it. We still don't have an explanation for why people count towards the limit but inanimate matter seemingly doesn't, but it's looking like we're going to need to operate on a skeleton crew in order to actually move fast enough to make progress. Director?"
Borgmann nodded slowly, albeit slightly faster than he would have before. "Alright, we'll need some volunteers to re-enter stasis. Anyone who wants to wait it out, step out. Lawbert, let us know when we hit full functionality again."
One by one, the Foundation workers bowed out of the imminent call to adventure, until Lawbert cheerfully reported that the time-flow was hunky-dory once more with only four remaining. Borgmann did a bit more organizing and swapping of people, until the final roster was completed.
He stood with his hands on his hips, and sighed. "I really would have preferred more people, but rest assured, I have full faith in all of you."
"I don't!" squawked Haldings. "Why me? I promise I'm not competent! Pick someone else!"
"Mister Haldings, I've picked you for your on-the-fly thinking. There's no telling what may happen or what we may need to do, so I need someone who can come up with fast solutions, even if they're messy. And if we need tidy thinking, we have the illustrious Doctor Sambre." said the portly man, gesturing to the second member.
"Thank you, director. I'll do my best."
Haldings had no complaints about that choice. Sambre was easily the smartest person at the site, which was why he frequently fielded questions her way. If there was such a thing as someone destined to wear a lab coat, she was it. Not to mention another point of extreme contrast between the two, in that he had never seen her lose her cool. Not even after that time with the fig tree.
Borgmann gestured at himself. "I'm in mostly for the credentials. If we wind up needing something from the rest of the Foundation's archives, I can probably get it for us. That being said, once we've got what we need I'll be the first to tag out. You can just defrost me whenever you need permissions."
That left the final member of the quartet, who was a far sight from the rest. As opposed to the white lab coats or indigo suit, the scruffy figure was clad in an orange jumpsuit and cap, and had never been near a degree in his life. His hands were worn like old tires, crisscrossed with scars atop layers and layers of calluses. After a moment of silence, D-10334 asked the unspoken question. "So what am I here 'fer?"
"As I said, there's no telling what we might have to deal with. You'll be doing much the same as usual, in that it's your job to go first so everyone else can see what happens. And you, Amos, are heavily experienced in poking the bear and surviving. And you're trustworthy. Both are rarities among the D-Class."
"Right."
Borgmann proudly surveyed his team.
"Alright, back to my office. We'll start going through the archives to see if this matches anything."
With that, he turned the corner back towards his office and was immediately bowled over by the figure coming from the opposite direction. There was a brief tangle of limbs and shouting, before Agent Scott successfully disengaged and stood back up.
"Shit. Sorry, director." he said, helping the other man up.
"Agent Scott."
Scott turned to face the disapproving rectangular lenses of Sambre's glasses.
"Yeah, I know, but—"
"—How are you moving?"
"I was going to ask the same thing."
It was only then that everyone else noticed the wide thermos securely strapped to agent Scott's torso. After a pause, he continued.
"So. Time stop. I was in the Safe wing, doing some reading, and after a bit I saw Murphy just standing in the middle of the hallway. Still as stone. So I go over to see what's wrong, except after a couple of steps something feels really wrong."
"Internal monologue?"
"Yeah. So I back up, and it goes away. I try it a couple times before I think to check what I'm next to, and it's the fucking apple. 7782. So I grab it and take it with me—don't look at me like that, I put it in a thermos and I see Lawbert behind you all—and go looking. It works, but whenever I get close to anyone else it all starts slowing down again, so I have to dodge people. Eventually I got back up to the main floor, where I hear you guys and come to check it out. Done."
His tale concluded, Scott leaned back against the wall. After a moment, Sambre began thinking aloud.
"So it's not just 7416. 7782 as well, and potentially more. Although it seems like 7416 is more effective at negating the effects than the apple, for whatever reason. Potentially mass? And we still don't know how we were able to access the internet when all the servers should be frozen. Nevermind that, what traits do those two share? If we can establish a pattern, we can figure this out."
"They're both anomalous, for one."
"Mineself and yonder apple specimen can both converse verbally."
"I mean, they're both contained here?"
"They both annoy the hell outta me."
She shook her head and sighed. "Two data points isn't enough. For now, back to the archives."
At that exact moment, the doorbell rang.
Site-47 did not have a doorbell. All present went quiet, considering the implications of this and nervously looking at each other. Scott checked his service pistol.
The doorbell rang again.
Borgmann looked up in sudden revelation. "The security office. Scott, go get a pallet for Lawbert."
One mad scramble preceded by mad waiting later, the cramped security office was occupied to its limits as everyone peered in to watch Borgmann maneuver through the different screens and outdated interfaces. Each frame pulled up revealed a scene of daily life at the facility, unchanging as if it were a momentary snapshot and not a live video feed. Eventually, agent Scott snapped his fingers and pointed at a corner of the screen.
"There. Front door. Obviously, I guess."
Everyone leaned closer, attempting to parse the grainy pixels. Sure enough, a figure clad in bright colors was trying the handle. The handle remained unyielding, so the aspiring door-opener jabbed the wall at the point where a doorbell would have likely been installed, and another chime rang through the halls. After no response, the stranger looked up at the camera in annoyance.
Haldings was the first to recognize them. His eyes widened as he stammered.
"W—"
…
"Weird Al Yankovic??"
