After a few controlled trials with the upgraded Meeseeks Box—stress-testing, stability analysis, metaphysical endurance checks, the usual—we finally started putting the Meeseeks to real use. Proper use. Foundation use.
They were… surprisingly effective.
Not perfect, of course. Their biology—if you can call it that—is nothing like a human's. They don't breathe, sleep, or metabolize in any conventional way. Their bodies are more like temporary quantum sculptures held together by purpose and enthusiasm.
But gods, were they useful.
We couldn't replace D‑Class entirely—certain SCPs require human baseline physiology to trigger effects—but with Meeseeks supporting containment procedures, maintenance tasks, hazardous environment checks, and assorted "please don't die" operations, we cut down our D‑Class casualty rate dramatically.
The Ethics Committee practically threw a celebration.Well… as much as those moral‑obsessed annoyances ever celebrate.
They weren't thrilled about the existence of the Meeseeks Box at first.("Sentient suffering constructs," as they called them.)But once they saw how cleanly my improved Meeseeks extinguish themselves—no pain, no existential agony, no dimensional screams—they backed down.
After that, they became strangely silent.Almost relieved.As if they wanted to lecture us about ethics but couldn't find the angle anymore.
Meeseeks didn't complain.They didn't panic.They didn't try to escape.They didn't beg.
They just smiled, saluted, and said,"I'm Mr. Meeseeks! Look at me!"then did their task perfectly.
Even the O5 Council appreciated the efficiency.Fewer D‑Class used meant fewer logistics issues, fewer riots, fewer questionable methods to acquire replacements.
And frankly?It got the Ethics Committee off our backs—for once.
Between the portal gun, the Reality Stone, and now an infinite supply of disposable blue helpers, the Foundation was evolving faster than anyone in this world—or any world—could possibly realize.
And this was only the beginning.