"When life gives you pants, shit them."
The five remaining personnel at Site-47 were gathered in the security office, all eyes trained on the digital image of the figure standing outside the door. Lawbert was also there.
Among the many questions racing through the minds of all present, one was dominant. It surged to the front, and first escaped through the lips of one agent Scott:
"Okay, is that really Weird Al Yankovic out there?"
"I mean, it looks like him."
And indeed it did, from the curtain of frizzy hair framing prominent cheekbones to the accordion hung from a strap over a vibrantly-clad shoulder. The Al-entity had by now noticed the security camera above the door, and was now staring into it while tapping its foot impatiently. Director Borgmann's baby-like brow furrowed.
"Whether it's the real deal or a lookalike, it seems like it's immune to the time stop as well. That makes three cases."
"Not that we have enough data on the newcomer for that to matter, unfortunately," added doctor Sambre at his elbow.
Behind her, the wimpy frame of researcher Haldings was already wringing the brief bewildered excitement of seeing the parodist out from his towel of paranoia. "If—if he's knocking on our door, then that means he knows we're here! I don't like that! This place is supposed to be secret! Can he detect our thoughts? Does he have predator-vision?"
"That's… a valid point. It can't be coincidence that it's shown up at the door of, as far as we know, the only unfrozen people in the Foundation."
"Oh, man, I don't like thinking about that last part."
The nonexistent doorbell rang again. Al made an exaggerated motion of looking at his wrist, where a large watch had been tattooed.
The one D-Class in the room made a bold play to at least appear useful.
"Do we let'm in?" D-10334 asked.
"NO." answered everyone else.1 After a couple seconds passed, Borgmann cautiously appended "Well…"
"Director, please, I will probably literally die."
"Yeah. Remember the last time something showed up knocking on the door?"
"As a matter of fact, I do! I recall that the situation was resolved peacefully and gave us regular opportunities to study an elusive anomaly in close quarters. That's convinced me!"
Agent Scott gagged on his regret of having said anything, while Haldings, agent of his own destruction, simply squeaked. Borgmann continued, "The entity hasn't shown any hostile or aggressive behaviour, and what we badly need right now is information. We have a duty, friends, to welcome the abnormal into our custody for the good of all, no matter how scared we are!"
The group begrudgingly did not argue back.
"Now, let's get to it. D, you'll open the door as a safeguard against Halding's concerns being warranted."
"Yerp."
The group shoved the pallet-riding Lawbert back out of the doorway, wheeled him about, then began marching towards the lobby.
"Alright. D-10334, please proceed."
"Yef," said the test subject, muffled by the layers of body armor and protective couch cushions taped around him. He waddled forwards to the steel door, carefully unlocked it, and looked back. Doctor Sambre nodded. He grasped the door handle and turned, opening it inwards.
The Alpparition immediately stepped forwards.
"Ah, thank you my good man! It's—" Al stopped. "Oh, you won't believe this, but I have that exact same outfit. I mostly save it for Tiger Tuesdays, you're bold to be wearing it at work."
D-10334 attempted to look down at his protective equipment, but couldn't move his neck enough. He straightened back up to face the opposing entity, and dutifully recited:
"Ah herf bn 'nftructid ter affk ya whut yer intentionf er 'n wheffer ernot yer gonna coff uf harm."23
"Oh, well, I didn't plan on it, but if you guys really want I can try and—Nah, I'm just here to help. See, this whole…" Al made a non-specific gesture. "…Situation here, it's my job to try and stop this kind of thing."
At this point, director Borgmann stepped out from behind the bulk of Lawbert, who had been hastily concealed beneath a dropcloth like the ghost of a minivan made out of ham.
"Then our goals are one and the same. Gene Borgmann, head of this facility." The big man curtsied. "And what should we call you?"
Al smacked his forehead. "Oh, right, I forgot the BE NOT AFRAID!"
A wave of angelic light—buzzing like the CRT screens that once heralded the halcyon programming of MTV—suddenly blasted out from Al, who was now levitating a foot in the air amidst a storm of colors and polka. The bellows of the accordion fanned out around him like a great pair of wings.
A moment later, the cacophony vanished and Al landed before striking a dramatic pose as everyone else regained their senses. "You all would know me as Al Yankovic. But my true name, is Weird Al Yankovic."
Nobody said anything.
"…But, yeah. The time stop. Or in this case it's what I'd classify as a 'Category 5 Party-Poopage Event' if I had a classification system."
Scott spoke up as he walked into view, having gotten tired of waiting behind the alien. "Before all that, sorry if this is rude, but: What are you?"
"Oh, well I'm an award-winning musician and also a mortal avatar and enforcer of one of the fundamental forces upholding the universe, sent to guide humanity."
"So not just a Type-Green?" Asked Borgmann.
"No, just a guy who's Weird."
Borgmann patiently retained his smile, nodding slowly. "I think you'd best start from the top. What, exactly, is going on and how do you come into it? Better yet, why are you here?"
Weird Al shrugged. "Okay, so. You know all those 'Powers That Be' that oppose each other? Things like, say, Life versus Death. Up versus Down, Good versus Evil, Light versus Dark, Creamy versus Crunchy. In order for the universe to be a decent place to hang out, you gotta get the right balance between each of those. If there's too much light or too much dark, either way you can't see the nose on your face. And it probably doesn't surprise you all to learn that sometimes there are things that serve to embody all of those."
Borgmann, now joined by Sambre and a reluctant Haldings, nodded. "Yes, the Foundation at large has dealt with its fair share of elementals and deities."
"Yeah, so get this. As you may have noticed, something's out of whack. A certain scale has tipped way too far in one direction, and now the only things that are resisting it are things that embody its opposite, such as me and the big slug over there."
"I am not permitted to confer with non-Foundation personnel at the risk of potentially revealing sensitive and or classified information!" spouted Lawbert from under the sheet. Al arched one of his eyebrows even further.
"Actually, it's a little interesting that Jabba there's immune. He seems like an expert conformist, takes the rules very seriously."
Doctor Sambre thought for a second, then frowned. "…So, you mean that whatever the force causing all this is, conformity and law would be aligned with it?"
"Yep. It's an offshoot of Order and Chaos: Serious versus Silly! Sense against nonsense! Get weird and enlist, soldier!" Al hopped in the air, a big smile on his face. He then pivoted and threw an eggplant at the wall as hard as he could, but it cartoonishly boomeranged back towards him before it hit. Sambre's frown deepened.
"So, the throughline between everything that negates the time stop is that it's silly? Silly judged by what standard? Humor isn't a universal constant. That doesn't make a lot of sense."
"Exactly!"
Before Sambre could groan, Borgmann commented. "No, it checks out if you think pataphysically. A theme or genre could absolutely be tested for on that level." Sambre contented herself with a sigh instead. "Pataphysics. Joy."
"What are pataphysics?" asked Haldings, nervousness partially overridden with sheer confusion.
Scott, Borgmann and Sambre all shared a glance. The past two times Haldings had been briefed on the field of pataphysics, he had had to be hauled out of the utility closet and amnesticized before he calmed down. Nobody is prepared to deal with cosmic horror, but some are even less prepared than others. Borgmann tentatively put forth "Well, you see, Haldings, pataphysics is a field of study regarding… uh, anomalies that treat the universe as if it were a narrative as opposed to reality. Obeying the laws of writing as opposed to the laws of physics."
Scott sidled up behind his friend as the rest waited to see if Borgmann's censored version would set the antsy researcher off, prepared to grab and sedate him in such an eventuality. Fortunately, Haldings simply stated "Oh. That—That's alarming."
"Please, don't think about it too much."
"Oh, I hope I don't."
Al clapped his hands and swooped back into the center of the group. "Yep, don't worry about it, pal! Just do as the thirty-fourth line of the theme song I wrote for the Captain Underpants movie says, and suspend your disbelief! Stick close to anything unserious enough and you'll do fine!"
"But then, how are things like the internet affected? 7416 was nearby his laptop when Haldings checked, but the actual servers—"
"Suspend your disbelief! Otherwise you'll get caught in the stop, or worse!"
Doctor Sambre relented. "…Fine. I don't like how quickly we're accepting all this at what is essentially face value, but I suppose we don't have many other options. What's 'worse'?"
At this, Al's smile flickered. He clutched his accordion, letting out an inadvertent squonk. "Ah. Well, all this started when something tilted the pinball machine to the advantage of the Serious side. And I know what." Al began pacing, hands clasped behind his back.
"Just like silliness or any other force, there are things that embody seriousness. Your organization does, to a degree, as do others. But this is the big one. It's… what was it, Patagonia? No, pataphysical. This is every little storyline of serious, grim, bleak, edgy writing sticking to each other until it all bunches into a single mass, like how cotton candy gets made." He stopped, back turned to the rest of the group.
"It has gone by many names. The ancient rock-prophets of the 60s and 70s knew it as 'The Man', the Romans coined the term status quo, and in certain sects it is referred to as 'Father Grim-Dark'. It is bitter pessimism and authority incarnate, perpetually scowling down at the world that dares not totally align with its expectations."
Slowly, Al turned about to face the rest once more, a bead of sweat on the side of his brow.
"Its name is The Stern. And locking you in time is the lowest level of control it can assert. If your ideals align with it enough, then you'll become a part of it. A limb under its control."
Everyone took a moment to digest the identity of what they now knew as their enemy. Eventually, Borgmann spoke up. "…I can see why something like that would be a problem."
Al walked over to a small bench in the corner of the lobby and sat down with a 'whew'.
"Anyways, that's all I innately know. I've been able to guess a couple other things, but aside from that I've been going off this prophecy I found. That's actually what brought me here to you all."
After thinking for a second, Sambre pushed her glasses up. "That could explain the stop. Those aren't our thoughts spiraling while we're frozen, it's narration. In terms of the pataphysical, it descends into infinite pointless detail and prose as opposed to actually advancing the story. Everything stops because the present moment lasts forever, not giving the next one a chance to arrive."
Researcher Haldings needed sugar very badly to cope with all that he had just heard. He returned to the vending machine once more, then collapsed on the bench next to Al with a pack of peanut M&Ms. "I'm terrified to hear the answer, but what did you mean by 'prophecy you found'?"
"Oh, here, pass your laptop and I'll show you. I wrote the url on the inside of my eyelids so I could check it easily."
It is written
When the Man is back in town
Trying to keep all the cool kids down
To preserve our joy and avert our ruin,
A band must form to stick it to ‘em!
Directed by mystical Elephant Seal
Kept moving and grooving by Muses Surreal
Two small birds, one of Blade, one of Words
Shall join forces with a gaggle of Nerds.
The Blind Prince’s chariot falls from the stars,
The Princess’s Mad Knight from almost as far.
The Lads of Red Sands shall perform a great labor
Deserving the blessing of the Lord of Red Crater.
Lovers and Lunatic will hold back the power
Of the army enthralled by the Visage so dour.
In the heroes’ final confrontation,
Panicked genius will bring salvation,
In the foretold sacred location.
And it will be totally sweet.
When life gives you pants, shit them.
Most of the human viewers were unsure if the ancient prophecy delivered in YouTubePoop format was a joke or not, or perhaps a hallucination. As such, it fell on the now-unveiled Lawbert to respond first.
"This prophecy is not to code regarding the most recent iteration of the Norn Covenant and as such sodium chloride is recommended. Whence year was yonder video uploadified?"
"Uh, looks like… 23,000 years ago, or at least that's what the upload date says."
"Ah, explanation sufficient."
Doctor Sambre let out an exasperated sigh, closing her eyes. "Look, Al. All of existence is in danger. We don't have time for cryptic riddles, can you just tell us what this means?" Agent Scott nodded in agreement. "Yeah, just give it to us straight. What do we have to do?"
Al shaped himself into a meek shrug. "Listen, I actually don't know much more than you guys. All my insight was just knowing that these powers exist because I'm attuned to their opposite. I only learned about the Stern because I did some research myself a long time ago." He leaned onto his accordion, startling Haldings with the noise. "The only other tidbit I have is that it's definitely possible to fight this thing, given how my research indicated that this has happened before. Aside from that, I'm just following the prophecy."
The site's director stroked his chin ponderously. "How did you know that the 'Elephant Seal' line referred to me? Our entire organization is secret, nevermind our specific workplace in-jokes."
"I didn't! Initially I went up to Alaska for awhile to ask around, but the seals up there weren't cooperating. Eventually I had to ask a mysterious haunted fortune-telling blender, and it pointed me here. Zipping around like that took up the last of my teleportation juice, so I sadly can't just whisk us wherever we need to go." At that, Al shook an empty can out of his left pant leg, where it clattered to the floor and rolled under the bench. "See? All out."
The clatter and the comment hung in the air for a while, before Borgmann took charge once more. "Right. All of that's… a good start, but before we start making a plan of action we still need more info. It's been some time now, we should try reaching out to other sites again. I'm certain there are other anomalies contained that can negate the stop. So, let's see if we can't find anyone."
A short while later and the gang was gathered at the largest table in the cafeteria, laptops out and abuzz with activity.
"Still no response on SCiPnet, or in any of the, uh, unofficial chats," Haldings reported. "It's weird, given how many things we have locked up. There's gotta be some other site that's unfrozen."
Doctor Sambre looked over, closing down several tabs' worth of personnel databases. "I have a few theories. The small size of Site-47 may actually be to our advantage, remember how much everything slowed down in the big crowd before we decided to shift to a skeleton crew? At sites with a higher population, there may have simply been too many people in each 'safe zone' for it to have made a difference. They may not be fully stopped, but instead experiencing time so slowly that they might as well be."
Al briefly paused from excavating a pudding cup into his face. "Yeah, that sounds like it's probably right. Or maybe they just have too much serious stuff there, and it cancels it out. Or maybe they were built on an ancient accountant burial ground. Or maybe the Stern's doing something, who knows?"
As Sambre futilely attempted to instate reason against Al's "Don't worry about it!" theory, Borgmann was silent, leaning his chin on his crossed hands. He stared at his screen, displaying a few particular channels that his directorship gave him access to.
"Something else wrong, bossman?" Agent Scott slid Borgmann a cup of coffee.
Borgmann chewed on his thoughts, before admitting "…It's a very long shot, but I'm pondering reaching out beyond just the Foundation. It's possible that there are survivors in other GoIs."
Scott kicked back, taking a moment to build up his nonchalant aura before replying.
"I say go for it. They'd be in the same boat we are, the threat of being frozen in time forever outweighing any ideological differences. Ring 'em up."
"That's what I was thinking, too. I'll start with the closer allies, just in case. Wilson's, the GOC."
Borgmann quickly opened several private channels, and sent off an inquiry.
gborgmann.scipnet 05.16.2025 #81680774
Hello, this is Gene Borgmann, Director of Foundation Site-47. If you're reading this, the ongoing apocalypse didn't get to you either, which is great! I'm reaching out in the hopes of making contact and putting together a game plan, so please respond as soon as you're able. Thanks!
"Messenger pigeon sent."
Lawbert gasped in astonishment. "Director Borgmann! Foundation code of conduct Chapter 8 subsection B14 states that all communications with outside organizations must be encrypted to at least level 3 standards and it is a known factual that pigeons and other bird specimenses do not even meet level 2 standards for message security because—"
"—Hey, what've ya got against pigeons?"
As the two most numerically-named beings present settled into a particularly pointless debate, everyone else pursed their lips and attempted to refocus. Fortunately, while the D-Class and Lawbert easily drowned out most thoughts, the "bding!" from Borgmann's laptop broke through to reach its intended eardrums. His subsequent holler reached everyone else's.
"We've got someone!"
"Damn, that was quick, barely a minute."
Borgmann cleared his throat before reading the message out loud like a schoolteacher.
psychecontactkewpie.goc.gov 05.16.2025 #81680788
We hear you, Mr. Borgmann. This is GOC Ambassador O'Brien, of the PSYCHE division. We are of course willing to cooperate, given the extraordinary circumstances. What is your current status?
"Damn, the Coalition! That's good news if we've got to fight our big bad."
"You'd know more than me, Scott."
"Rest assured, bossman, I only regret not taking the job with them a little by now."
"Because of the mech suits?"
"Because of the mech suits."
gborgmann.scipnet 05.16.2025 #81680789
Glad to hear there's more out there, O'Brien! I have a skeleton crew of other personnel with me, and several cooperative anomalies. We've also managed to get a good amount of information on the situation, which I'll happily write up for you. If you somehow aren't aware of how you've escaped the freeze, any anomalies that are inherently humorous or unserious enough negate the effect to a limited degree. Don't worry too much about the specifics.
psychecontactkewpie.goc.gov 05.16.2025 #81680791
We understand the effects of the Stern, but are of course eager to learn more. According to our databases, Site-47 is located in Massachusetts, correct? Remain at your current position, and we'll come to you.
Borgmann paused, then turned back to the muse surreal. "Al, we were your first stop aside from the wildlife, right?"
"Yeah."
"And you weren't chatting about this stuff beforehand?"
"Who would've believed me?"
gborgmann.scipnet 05.16.2025 #81680794
How did you know the Stern's name?
psychecontactkewpie.goc.gov 05.16.2025 #81680791
Remain at your current position, and we'll come to you.
Borgmann quickly disconnected the channel, and swore.
"They're compromised."
Standing up and leaning to look up at the ceiling in frustration, Scott gritted his teeth. "Of course we can't have anything nice. And now they know where we are. And now all that firepower is aimed at us."
"D, grab Haldings, would—Thanks. Haldings, calm down."
"HOW? WHY?? THIS IS A PERFECTLY REASONABLE REACTION!!!"
"Yes, but not a helpful one. Now get back on your laptop. Everyone, this changes things. We have to assume we're on our own for the foreseeable future. We'll need to muster our own firepower, and get out of here before the GOC arrives. We have about an hour and a half."
Doctor Sambre arched an eyebrow. "And you know this how?"
Borgmann grinned slyly, and tapped the side of his nose. "They're not the only ones who have information they shouldn't. According to our espionage, their closest staging point is near Boston. So, we hit the archives again, but now we can focus it down more. We need three things: ridiculousness, potency and proximity. Once we find something, we head out. I don't think we could feasibly transport the whole site, so we'll have to stick with our skeleton crew and hope that once it learns we're not here, the Stern will leave everyone else alone."
"Yeah, it'll probably do that," Al said, conjuring a scrap of reassurance from words that should have had none.
Fast-forwarding to a research session for the second time, about twenty minutes later Sambre had a sparse list of potential candidates written on a whiteboard while Borgmann and Haldings scoured the Foundation's databases. Scott and D-10334 were elsewhere, having been sent to prepare transportation and load up Lawbert.
"I'll admit I was pondering adding to the crew size with you here, Al, but being able to easily split our forces like this is more valuable. Numbers aren't as much of an advantage if you can't spread them out."
Al flashed finger guns towards Borgmann. "Yeah, plus I'm pretty good at controlling whatever aura this is. Like, watch—"
The nervous drumming of Halding's fingertips suddenly stopped. As did his blinking. After a moment they resumed, and Haldings turned to face Al with a pained expression.
"Don't do that. I'm already suffering plenty."
"Sorry."
Haldings' distressed gaze returned to his laptop, at which he stared blankly for several seconds. He then sighed, and opened another tab.
"I'm gonna sort by Thaumiels. I shoulda done that ages ago."
"Good thinking, mister Haldings!"
"…Damn, when did we get this many object classes? Some of these only, they only have like two anomalies. And look at—"
Haldings' fingers stopped once more.
"C'mon, Al. He said not to, and we need all the time we have."
"I didn't!"
Haldings squinted, and blinked several times.
"Okay, this has to be a joke. There's no way we have an object class—with only one anomaly to its name—called…"
He checked again, to make sure his mind hadn't simply given up and started throwing random hallucinations around until he felt better.
"…'The Simpsons Farting'?"
To ensure that Haldings achieved critical shame, nobody else could find the words to answer for several seconds. Eventually, Sambre tentatively asked, "Does the class have a usage description?"
"Nope."
"Sounds ridiculous. What's the number?"
"5895."
The three staff members all began reading through the file. Doctor Sambre's headache achieved apotheosis halfway through, and she broke off to get a drink of water. When she came back, Borgmann was waiting with fingers steepled. She resigned herself to her fate, but still made the effort of asking.
"Are you sure?"
"It's at Site-98, Philadelphia. We can be there in less than half a day. And in terms of potency, it's easily Ekhi or above. They can generate forces that cause natural disasters."
"Which means the risk for collateral—"
"—Is far better than the entire universe ending."
The doctor pursed her lips and closed her eyes, taking in a deep breath through her nose. Borgmann tilted his head towards her sagely.
"Their containment class is written in lowercase, Carla. Lowercase."
Haldings timidly spoke up. "They, uh, seem pretty reasonable. All it's taken to keep them in line has been a PS3. With only one game."
The held breath was released, slowly yet still harshly. "…Fine." She nodded, and Borgmann nodded back.
With that, the two seated men folded their laptops and stood up. Weird Al fell into line behind them.
"Well, let's head for the garage. No time like the present, and the bigger a headstart we can muster, the better."
The four arrived to find the pink beast successfully crammed into the back of a heavy-duty transport van, with agent Scott already in the driver's seat. D-10334 walked around from behind the vehicle holding a pressure gauge.
"Hey y'all. Tires look good, and she's plenty gassed."
"Good, we've got a long trip ahead! We're headed to Philadelphia, to pick up an anomaly."
Borgmann wedged himself into the shotgun seat before continuing. "It'll be uncomfortable, but for now we should all try and cram into one van. It'll make our escape easier."
The rest obligingly shuffled in, squeezing into the bench seats in the rear. Due to the lack of space Haldings wound up with Lawbert's blubbery, slimy head in his lap. He absentmindedly patted the creature, then wiped his hand on the upholstery.
"Remember, Lawbert, we're kidnapping you. So no complaining about my driving."
"Affirmative I love being abducted!"
"SCP-7416, we will also be relying on you to move obstacles out of our way. All the cars on the road will be stuck in place."
"Yeah, how are the salmon?"
"The salmon are fully aligned this day and do not indicate any incoming changes because changes have been turned off. I am with full clearance to utilize mine telekinetic properties for all non-combative purposes as long as I do not financially or spiritually benefit!"
"Great, then let's boogie!" exclaimed Al from the roof rack.
The key turned in the ignition, the cylinders turned in the engine, the wheels turned on the road.
And they were off.
