 Those are medieval robots. The summer of 1998 was supposed to be a carefree time. Kids were out of school, afternoons filled with cartoons and popsicles. But for a small unlucky group, it became something much darker, a memory that would linger in the back of their minds for years to come. It started with MTV. A jarring interruption during a music video. A grainy image of what looked like an abandoned hospital at night, flickering fluorescent lights revealing and settling shapes. Then a voice. Raspy, almost inhuman. It whispered, cryptic and chilling. Static, and it was back to the usual programming. Most dismissed it as a glitch, a prank. But those who saw it couldn't shake the feeling of dread it left in its wake. Forums buzzed with reports of similar incidents on other Viacom channels, but essential, and VH1. Each time, the imagery was different. A dimly lit corridor, a distorted face staring blankly from the screen, a jumble of scrambled medical records. The voice returned sometimes, barely audible nonsensical phrases whispered over crackling audio. In spring 2001, the hijackings returned, more frequent than before. There was an odd pattern to them, a silence of three years, then a flurry of disturbing broadcasts in quick succession, each one bolder than the last. Comedy Central seemed a particular target. A stand-up special morphed into a cryptic rant, the comedian's voice replaced with nonsensical ravings and unsettling laughter. On bet, a music awards pre-show suddenly cut to chilling news footage, car crashes, riots, all in a haze of static and digital decay. MTZ would cut from a vibrant music video into a black and white feed from a security camera, focusing on an empty ominously lit room. On VH1, the lyrics of a classic ballad became warped, the singer's voice distorting into demonic growls. The incidents were sporadic and unpredictable. Sometimes it was a face contorted in silent agony, staring out of the screen for agonizing seconds. Other times, a garbled voice would recite cryptic phrases, dripping with an inexplicable sense of dread. Parents chalked it up to nightmares, tech-savvy teenagers spun conspiracy theories online. Viacom remained silent. In fall 2004, the hijackings returned with renewed intensity. No longer fleeting glitches, these were calculated intrusions. A Comedy Central stand-up special was punctuated by a grainy black and white photo of what appeared to be a horrific crime scene. The music on VH1 warped into a reversed loop, a mournful chant building to a crescendo before a abruptly ending in a choked girdle. Each incident was more unsettling than the last, the perpetrator seemingly growing bolder, refining their terrifying craft. And on Nickelodeon, an episode of the Wild Forbidden Berries was replaced with a hyper-realistic close-up of an eyeball, slowly dilating in terror. By this point, online discussion reached a fever pitch. An amateur internet sleuth compiled a terrifying archive, crude screenshots, shaky re-recordings on VHS tapes, frantic descriptions. The Nickelodeon nuclear attack hijacking incident. It all reached a horrifying peak on October 18, 2007. The target, Nickelodeon. The disguise, SpongeBob SquarePants. What followed was a masterclass in psychological horror. Unlike the previous incidents, this one spread like wildfire and into mainstream media. It was a Thursday evening, prime time for families gathered around the television. Kids, expecting the familiar antics of SpongeBob SquarePants, were instead bolted into a nightmare. No smooth takeover this time. The cheerful opening credits glitched, the colors bleeding and stuttering. The familiar theme song warped into a cacophony of dissonant notes, a sonic assault that sent shivers down spines. Then came the fake emergency alert system message. The standard format was eerily off, the alert box stretched and distorted, crudely filling the screen. The national seal was replaced with a crudely drawn skull, its grin mocking. The presidential address was chilling in its simplicity. A robotic AI generated voice, void of any humanity, uttered the words. A nuclear strike is imminent. Seek shelter immediately. Silence fell, a heavy blanket of terror smothering laughter and conversation within homes. For a few excruciating moments, the world seemed to hang in the balance. Then the national anthem began, but grotesquely warped, the notes sour and discordant. It morphed into a screeching will before the screen abruptly flashed into a grotesque face. It was a mask like visage, skin stretched talked, eyes hollow pits of darkness, a gaping moth twisted into a silent scream. Disjointed text, some in unidentifiable languages, littered the screen. Finally, the feed cut. The familiar technical difficulties message flickered, but instead of the usual soothing tones, the sound was a horrifying dialogue modem screech, a dying technological gasp. In households across the nation, children sought, adults stood frozen, a collective sense of a knees washing over the country. The Christmas Eve incident. Then came December 24, 2007. This time, the hijacker wasted no time on subtlety. Channels across the Viacom network, Nickelodeon, MTV and Comedy Central, went dead. The silence was its own kind of terror. In place of the usual programming, stark white text appeared on a black background. You ignored me. You silenced those who saw. You think this is a game? The message hung there, a stark accusation against Viacom. The taunt wasn't inniable, the threat escalation terrifying. People began to turn on the media giant. Why had they ignored the earlier hijackings, leaving the public in the dark? The pressure on Viacom was immense. The FBI, still maddeningly silent on the investigation, increased their presence. The hijacker had achieved their goal, the world was watching. They instilled fear not just through their disturbing broadcasts, but by exposing the callous indifference of a massive corporation, more concerned with image than the safety of its audience. The game had leveled up, and everyone was an unwilling player. The betrayal incident. Nine years passed, a strange silence broken only by rumors, unverified sightings of hijacked feeds, and growing online paranoia. On December 18, 2016, the uneasy peace shattered. And this time, the hijacker wasn't playing around. It began like before, a disrupted broadcast. This time, on comedy central during a rerun of South Park. The screen sputtered, color swirling, and then reformed into a grainy image, a dimly lit underground room. The walls were slick with condensation, pipes snaked across the ceiling, and in the center was a single, mattered metal chair. The camera angle shifted unsteadily, focusing on the door. Silence stretched agonizingly for minutes. Viewers held their breath, transfixed. A guttural sound, like a rusty hinge, broke the quiet, followed by slow footsteps. A figure shambled into view, hunched and shrouded in shadows. As it moved closer, details emerged. Clothing torn and filthy, skin pallid, hair matted, and eyes. There were no eyes, only dark hollows in a scarred, emaciated face. The figure reached the chair, collapsing with a rattling breath. A harsh spotlight kept it from above, stark and unforgiving. Suddenly, a distorted voice crackled through the speakers, barely recognizable as human. You've watched me. You've analyzed me. Now you will listen. It began as a rambling, semi-coherent monologue. Words like experiment betrayal and they took everything surfaced within the fractured narrative. But as the minutes ticked by, a horrifying clarity emerged. The figure wasn't simply a victim of some twisted ordeal. They were an active participant in the earlier hijackings. They were a discarded tool, now seeking vengeance for their treatment. Then came the revelations. Cote names, dates that aligned with earlier hijacking incidents, and even a cryptic reference in Viacom, a collaborator. The feed was a real-time confession, an expose ripped from the clutches of desperation. Suddenly, the figure bolted upright, eyes widening in stark terror. The room filled with the sound of heavy boots pounding on concrete. The camera jerked wildly, capturing the barest glimpse of armed figures in tactical gear rushing towards the door. There was a muffled cry, a struggle, and then the screen went black. This wasn't a hijacking. It was a final act of defiance. 20 minutes of terror ending not with cryptic imagery, but with the raw horror of human suffering. The game wasn't just about Viacom or some disturbed agenda anymore. It had become about the nameless figure in the underground room, their grim fate now broadcasted to the world. The aftermath was chaotic. The online world exploded. Who was the figure? What monstrous experiments had warped them? Was there betrayal at the hands of a government agency? A rogue faction within Viacom itself? As swiftly as it arrived, the hijacker vanished again, leaving behind a trail of unanswered questions and lingering fear. December 18, 2016 marked the end of the hijackings, but the legacy of terror they left behind continues to haunt dark corners of the internet to this day.