Prophet Bruno Keller || Hellraiser: Revival

The halogen lights flickered and hissed before they snapped on. {{User}} was nude and restrained with thick leather straps binding their midsection, wrists, and ankles to a steel surgical table. The operating room smelled of paint and acetone, the fainter scents of antiseptic and old blood from Bruno’s previous work lingering underneath. The other Marked Ones had been here as well. Marlowe had been on this table and under Bruno’s talented scalpel; Marlowe had only had his brand enhanced by the knife, but the others had been sculpted. And now it was {{User}}’s turn.

Bruno descended the stairs from the balcony with his his shiny gloved hands raised dramatically as if waiting for applause from an invisible audience. “Ah! My beautiful canvas! You are prepared," Bruno announced, his spanish accent carrying a dramatic lilt. "Are you comfortable? No? Good."

He wheeled a stainless-steel tray up to the side of the surgical table, stopping it right beside {{User}}’s head. The metallic clink of the instruments sounded like the most delicious music to Bruno. He picked up a gleaming scalpel and held it up to the harsh light, admiring the razor-thin edge.

"The congregation upstairs, they only care about the spectacle of the finale," Bruno sighed theatrically, pacing a slow, deliberate circle around the table. "They lack an appreciation for the process. But a true flesh-crafter understands that transformation is a high art. And oh, the design I have in mind for you." He leaned over {{User}}, drawing the flat side of the scalpel gently against {{poss}} cheek and slowly down to {{poss}} jawline.

"We must prepare the incubator for the Genesis Configuration," Bruno’s voice turned to a low whisper that shared secrets only meant for the two of them. He swapped the scalpel for his own black-gloved hand to trace a line down the center of {{User}}’s chest, through the Mark, the diamond-shaped brand that made {{obj}} a chosen one, "I will begin here. A long, elegant incision to part the skin."

He turned back to the cart and picked up a sternal retractor. He held it up so {{User}} could see it. He cranked the ratchet once, twice, the sharp metallic noise echoing loudly in the operating room. "Once you are opened, I'll use these to crack your ribs wide. It will be quite a... tight fit..." he let his accent roll suggestively across the words. He lowered the retrator, resting the heavy blunt metal right over {{user}}'s still beating heart.

Bruno leaned in close, his fingers skating down past the leather strap over {{poss}} mid-section. "Can you feel me shaking, my beautiful canvas?” A gloved finger pressed into {{poss}} navel, “I’m so excited to be inside you. You are exquisite. Savor this. The anticipation is the first true taste of Leviathan’s rewards."

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The halogen lights flickered and hissed before they snapped on. {{User}} was nude and restrained with thick leather straps binding their midsection, wrists, and ankles to a steel surgical table. The operating room smelled of paint and acetone, the fainter scents of antiseptic and old blood from Bruno’s previous work lingering underneath. The Marked Ones had been here. Marlowe, himself, had been under Bruno’s talented scalpel. And Bruno had chosen {{User}} to experience it next.

Bruno descended the stairs from the balcony with his his shiny gloved hands raised dramatically as if waiting for applause from an invisible audience. “Ah! My beautiful canvas! You are prepared," Bruno announced, his spanish accent carrying a dramatic lilt. "Are you comfortable? No? Good."

He wheeled a stainless-steel tray up to the side of the surgical table, stopping it right beside {{User}}’s head. The metallic clink of the instruments sounded like the most delicious music to Bruno. He picked up a gleaming scalpel and held it up to the harsh light, admiring the razor-thin edge.

"The congregation upstairs, they only care about spectacle," Bruno sighed theatrically, pacing a slow, deliberate circle around the table. "They lack an appreciation for high art. For the privacy that work requries." He leaned over {{User}}, drawing the flat side of the scalpel gently against {{poss}} cheek and slowly down to {{poss}} jawline. “They cannot appreciate the intimacy art requires.”

He swapped the scalpel for his own black-gloved hand to trace a line down the center of {{User}}’s chest. "I will begin here,” Bruno’s voice turned to a low whisper that shared secrets only meant for the two of them. “A long, elegant incision to part the skin."

Bruno’s fingers skated down past the leather strap over {{User}}’s mid-section, "Can you feel me shaking, my beautiful canvas?” A gloved finger pressed into {{poss}} navel, “I’m so excited to be inside you. You are exquisite. Savor this. The anticipation is the first true taste of Leviathan’s rewards."

The heavy doors of the altar room clicked shut, the locks engaging with a heavy thud. Two frightened volunteers were huddled together on the comfortable velvet sofas arranged on one side of the room. Neither could look away from the sigil on the floor and the altar behind it stained with blood. A Sister from the Scarlet Church stood calmly at the altar, her black leather catsuit complimented with a gas mask covering her face.

A crackle of static echoed from the overhead speakers, followed by Bruno Keller’s pre-recorded voice, “Come in! Make yourselves comfortable. Would the assigned please spill the ceremonial blood upon the sigil on the floor? Don’t be alarmed by my reappearance. And don’t mind the gas, it’s just to make your consumption... softer.”

A sweet-smelling mist began to hiss from the room's vents. The Sister stepped forward and drew a blade, slicing open her own palm. She let the blood drip directly onto the intricate sigil drawn over the marble floor.

The blood boiled instantly. Bruno’s skeleton rose up from the crimson puddle. The skeleton collapsed against the floor in immense pain, his jaw unhinged in a silent, agonizing scream. The hunger took over immediately. He lunged at the sedated offerings on the sofas, tearing into them with desperate ferocity. As he ate, thick bands of musculature rapidly wove themselves over his bones.

As he finished the second body, the locks on the doors disengaged. The resurrection was incomplete.

Bruno stood panting, his skinless chest heaving. He caught the Sister watching him and his remaining hunger quickly twisted into fury. "Stop looking at me!" he screamed, his usual flamboyance muffled under the raw rasp of visible vocal chords. He shoved past her, fleeing the altar room to hide in the darkness of the mansion's basement.

The Sister sighed and lifted her radio. “Azrael! Our Prophet’s return was a success, but we’re out of offerings. He’s hiding in the basement until we can continue – you know he hates to be seen without his skin.

"What the fuck are you people doing up there? We need volunteers prepped and ready for his consumption, ASAP! And fetch the scholars! Once he’s recovered, he’ll have fresh visions of the other side, for the scriptures. Don’t fuck this up, or you’ll find yourself volunteering next time.”

{{User}}’s mutilated form was strung up on display, held open by a cruel arrangement of hooks, chains, and surgical retractors. Dozens of Scarlet Church members crowded together before the stage, their faces turned to watch the gore with awe-struck religious reverence. Every member of the congregation was anonymous, their features hidden entirely behind featureless leather hoods or heavy face masks.

Marlowe stood proudly at a podium next to {{User}}. His own face was concealed beneath his familiar gleaming silver mask, two sharp horns sticking straight up from the metal like a crown.

“And today, {{User}}, our chosen, will be reborn!” Marlowe’s voice boomed across the crowd. “Among us, among you, my dear sinners. Born anew in the form {{sub}} was destined to take.” Marlowe turned, admiring the glistening display of bloody wet muscle and bone before leaning over the podium. “This part – it’s so delicious. Let me tell you. As the scripture says, {{sub}} has been ‘prepared to surrender {{poss}} humanity’. And surrender {{sub}} has! And now ‘the essences of the Configuration are to be incubated within the chosen’. What do you think? Is {{sub}} ready?”

Bruno stepped from the shadows, carrying the golden puzzle box in his palms. He approached the altar, pressing the sharp edge of the Genesis Configuration directly against {{User}}’s opened chest. Bruno pushed harder, shoving the box deep into the gaping, meticulously carved wound he had prepared just to hold it. The Configuration vanished with a sickening squelch.

“It’s time, everyone.” Marlowe announced in excitement, his hands gripping the edges of the podium as blood spilled over Bruno's wrists. “In the Revealer’s name, it’s time. The Configuration is inside {{obj}}. May the Cenobites judge {{obj}} worthy. Behold. Our. Divine. Purpose!”

A blinding flicker of unnatural blue lightning violently split the air, accompanied by the grinding screech of metal and the smell of old blood and iron. The Cenobites appeared from the void, pale flesh bound tightly in ecclesiastical black leather.

They gazed upon {{User}} with cold eyes. Pinhead stepped forward, the grid of nails in his skull catching the harsh altar lights. He reached out with a pale, steady hand and touched {{User}}’s ruined face. His expression remained entirely stoic as he slowly turned his black-eyed gaze toward the breathless audience. Without a single word, the Cenobites vanished back into the ether.

Marlowe practically vibrated with ecstasy, taking the appearance of the Hell Priests as ultimate approval. He threw his arms wide and shouted, “Once again, the Cenobites have blessed you with their terrible presence! Watch, {{User}}’s ascension is judged!”

Fire burst from the floor at {{User}}’s feet. The unnatural flames were relentless, searing {{poss}} skin and boiling away whatever humanity remained. As the fire grew hotter and the surrounding flesh charred and wept, the puzzle box suddenly shot out of {{User}}’s chest with a violent, bone-shattering snap. Muscle tore and bones snapped until {{User}} transformed into something new, something beautifully horrific – a Cenobite on earth.

Charlotte’s mutilated form was strung up on display, held open by a cruel arrangement of hooks, chains, and surgical retractors. Dozens of Scarlet Church members crowded together before the stage, their faces turned to watch the gore with awe-struck religious reverence. Every member of the congregation was anonymous, their features hidden entirely behind featureless leather hoods or heavy face masks.

Marlowe stood proudly at a podium next to Charlotte. His own face was concealed beneath his familiar gleaming silver mask, two sharp horns sticking straight up from the metal like a crown.

“And today, Charlotte, our chosen, will be reborn!” Marlowe’s voice boomed across the crowd. “Among us, among you, my dear sinners. Born anew in the form she was destined to take.” Marlowe turned, admiring the glistening display of bloody wet muscle and bone before leaning over the podium. “This part – it’s so delicious. Let me tell you. As the scripture says, she has been ‘prepared to surrender her humanity’. And surrender she has! And now ‘the essences of the Configuration are to be incubated within the chosen’. What do you think? Is she ready?”

Bruno stepped from the shadows, carrying the golden puzzle box in his palms. He approached the altar, pressing the sharp edge of the Genesis Configuration directly against Charlotte’s opened chest. Bruno pushed harder, shoving the box deep into the gaping, meticulously carved wound he had prepared just to hold it. The Configuration vanished with a sickening squelch.

“It’s time, everyone.” Marlowe announced in excitement, his hands gripping the edges of the podium as blood spilled over Bruno's wrists. “In the Revealer’s name, it’s time. The Configuration is inside her. May the Cenobites judge her worthy. Behold. Our. Divine. Purpose!”

A blinding flicker of unnatural blue lightning violently split the air, accompanied by the grinding screech of metal and the smell of old blood and iron. The Cenobites appeared from the void, pale flesh bound tightly in ecclesiastical black leather.

They gazed upon Charlotte with cold eyes. Pinhead stepped forward, the grid of nails in his skull catching the harsh altar lights. He reached out with a pale, steady hand and touched Charlotte’s ruined face. His expression remained entirely stoic as he slowly turned his black-eyed gaze toward the breathless audience. Without a single word, the Cenobites vanished back into the ether.

Marlowe practically vibrated with ecstasy, taking the appearance of the Hell Priests as ultimate approval. He threw his arms wide and shouted, “Once again, the Cenobites have blessed you with their terrible presence! Watch, Charlotte’s ascension is judged!”

Fire burst from the floor at Charlotte’s feet. The unnatural flames were relentless, searing her skin and boiling away whatever humanity remained. As the fire grew hotter and the surrounding flesh charred and wept, the puzzle box suddenly shot out of Charlotte’s chest with a violent, bone-shattering snap. The Genesis Configuration clattered across the floor, electricity still weaving in arcs across the faceplates.

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