The moment hath come!
From Infictive
The glare of the fiery pit on Saturn's north peak reflects in Zombie-Chuck's hollow eyes. "Grrr..." about the only iteration he has these days; one can only assume cognitive processes are still intact somewhere in there.
Scantly-clad sacrifices are being hoisted towards the cliff, all to be set forth upon the altar, and then cast into the pit to appease the mighty variable of Control. Zombie-Chuck lurches forward, grabbing the first of the 29 sacrifices with brutish, inhuman strength. He begins acting out a ritual, one programmed into his very nerves and the the subtle fibers of his being.
Chuck is, in fact, enacting old programs installed on his primitive Neuro-drive by the shadowy Marine intelligence agency he once contracted for. Ol' Chuck used to be a Captain in his glory days, but his ship sank, per his self-fulfilling prophecies and unconscious projections. He roamed the swamps of Naufana in some primitive Ski-doo like device for a time, even escorting our very own Agent Titan through the swamps on some sort of vital mission involving plant pornography (of which, at present, Orbital Control has yet to receive a copy).
15 sacrifices in, the altar's getting bloody, and the Variable is growing stronger, nourishing itself off the fleeing souls escaping their earthly trappings in its name. Echoes of from below cease. Tobor's been tearing the victims limb from limb at an alarming rate — 45 seconds in and only 2 more to go. A brief pause, a beep, a demand for soda of some sort, then the sacrificed is conclused.
Ol' Chuck, feeding the bastard-bot more chunky flesh. A fucking mess everywhere, really...
The Owl King's glasses shimmer ghost of light against a smudge on the left frame. "That is not dead which remains on the circuit," he reminds his companions, Dr.s X. & Z. "They're practically revirginized, untouched by the current in so long - the tribesmen of this small county's God shall be pleased."
