"Crimson Radio Demon: Transformation into Allistor"
1 Points
The screen illuminates your face with a cold, blue glow. You scroll through another parade of bizarre transformation stories—Alastor as a car, Alastor as a queen ant, Alastor as... you nearly laugh out loud. The world of fan art and fiction is odd, but, as always, you're not one to judge. You almost wish you could step into those worlds, even if just for a moment.
That wish curdles in your gut when the lights in your room flicker and a static-filled hum prickles the air. Your computer monitor snaps to black, then leaks red at the edges like a bleeding wound. The cold, warbling sound of a vintage radio transmission sizzles from your speakers. ***A Voice. His voice.***
"Bonsoir, dearest voyeur," the radio demon purrs, his mouth twisting in a permanently broad, ghastly grin, "I’ve grown ever so weary of your tales about me, tumbling through a carnival of absurdities. So tell me—how do you fancy living an ‘adventure’ of your own, hmm?"
You scramble for the mouse, the keyboard, anything, heart slamming in your chest, but your hands won’t move. The static skitters into your brain, burrowing deep.
"Do not fret, my little author," Alastor croons, his voice both charming and somehow utterly predatory, "I simply wish to even the playing field, as it were. Allow me to show you a world of true transformation!"
**Your world snaps away.**
---
Red. That is the first thing you see—velvet, violent red—unfurling into darkness, then details sweep into focus like a camera lens sharpening: crimson wallpaper, damask and decadent; a whiff of brimstone; a carnival of voices echoing. You’re not in your familiar world anymore.
You try to scream, but your voice catches—crackles, distorts—and then it happens.
Heat floods your body. Your bones stretch with a sickening, sinuous fluidity, vertebrae popping as you surge upward, past six feet, higher, higher, until you nearly scrape the ceiling. Your arms and legs become reed-thin yet unnaturally strong, elongating with a swan’s elegance and a puppet’s unsettling grace.
Your hands—no, not hands; grisly, elegant claws, four fingers only, tipped in brilliant, blood-red. Your feet, tingling and burning, fuse into red-tipped hooves, balance settling with an uncanny rightness.
A tingling at your scalp, a tightening at your face—hair spills into your field of vision, glossy, red-striped with shadowy black, cropped in a bob whose angles you somehow *know* are stylish, dangerous. Two sharp tufts jut from your hair, and you realize—you feel—the presence of antlers sprouting from your skull. Not heavy, but a proud crown.
A smile splits your face, as if hooked from ear to ear. It won’t drop; you press trembling, clawed fingers against your cheekbones, trying, pleading for the corners to sink—*but they won’t.* You cannot frown. Your grin is untouchable, a painted mask of mirth and menace.
“Why—why can’t I stop—smiling?!” your voice erupts. It isn’t your voice; it’s a masculine, old-fashioned radio announcer’s cadence, layered in static, with an edge of madness beneath the cheer. If you were female, your body warps as well—an Adam’s apple forms, voice dropping into that familiar velvet baritone; the swell of your chest is gone, a cool hollowness expanding. Below, things churn and invert, male anatomy asserting itself where yours once was—alien and foreign and, somehow, correct.
From your body out, your clothes unravel into threads and reweave themselves with dizzying speed, fizzling into a red pinstripe coat, dark lapels, a crimson dress shirt adorned with a black cross, flowing black pants cuffed in matching red. Gloves, monocle, bowtie, boots—the accoutrements materialize as if painted on. In your hand, you’re not sure how it got there, is a cane topped with a leering old-time radio microphone, its grillwork glowing as if lit from within.
You open your mouth to scream again, but it comes out as a peal of *delighted, theatrical laughter.*
Alastor stands before you, mirrored in every detail, even that terrible smile. He raises a hand, and shadows flicker around his feet, curling like living smoke.
“Do you see now, mon ami? This is your true face. The mask you wore before... just a passing dream.” He circles you, the tip of his cane tapping a happy rhythm. “Smile! It’s in your *nature*.”
You stagger back. Memories, thoughts, *flavors* pour in like floodwater: crackling radio shows, murder beneath the honey-heat of Southern summers, the taste of fresh jambalaya from your mother’s stove, the thrill of the microphone, the glint of a doomed man’s eyes just before the end. You desperately clutch at your own mind, but it crumbles—name, age, the texture of your bedroom at home, all gone, swept away like static at dawn.
“Non, non, non!” you whimper, but even your *fear* sounds cheerful, airy, impossibly amused, “Please, don’t—!”
But the new memories bear you down. You remember now—*you belonged here*, not on that other side. There was never a time you weren’t tall, sardonic, dapper, *radiant*. You remember your twin—Alastor—*your brother*. Another smile splits your already-grinning face. You sense, with certainty, that your name is... *Allistor*. Yes, *Allistor*—such a lovely ring. You remember clutching hands with Alastor as the firing squad opened fire, the dim smile of your mother as she ladled out her forgotten recipe. *You have always been two, twin sons of the bayou, twin radio demons, twin devils in a world of lost souls.*
Alastor, your brother, beams. “There you are! Welcome back, dear Allistor. Did you enjoy your nap?”
Your mind is utterly, blissfully clear. You wouldn’t dream of being anyone else.
---
### EPILOGUE
The lobby of the Hazbin Hotel is bustling, as always, but today it feels *different*—a sharp spark of twin purpose.
Charlie greets you (Allistor) with genuine delight. “Alastor! And—oh! You never told me you had a *twin*!”
Alastor swings his cane jauntily, “Surprise, darling! I present my twin brother, Allistor—the other half to this delightful duet. Together, we shall ensure the hotel’s success... or at least, a most *entertaining* failure!”
You bow, your words sliding out in that syrupy, radio-perfect tone. “Charmed to meet you, mademoiselle Morningstar. It’s a pleasure to assist you in your little redemption endeavor.”
Vaggie glares, arms crossed. “Great. Two of you. Just what this place needed...”
Charlie, undaunted, beams. “I’m sure you’ll both be wonderful additions! I-it’s so nice to have more people who believe in our cause!”
Alastor and you share a secret little snicker.
Angel Dust scuttles up, one eyebrow cocked. “Whoa! You get a clone, Al? I want one too! Husk, you think I’d look good with an identical twin?”
Husk, muttering into his whiskey, deadpans, “I think one of you is way more than this universe can take, Spidey.”
You and Alastor laugh, the sound perfectly synchronized, harmonizing like a radio jingle.
Niffty darts up, her single eye shining. “Oh my GOSH!! Twins! This is just like those old-fashioned shows! I’ll clean *double* as much for you both!” She flutters at you, babbling, “Do you like bow ties? Cookies? Cleaning supplies?!?”
You lean down, ruffling her hair with careful precision. “Ah, dear Niffty, order is a delight, but chaos is even sweeter when it’s well-dressed and smiling. Don’t ever change.”
Out of the corner of your eye, Husk glares, groaning, “If my soul belonged to one radio freak, that was bad enough. Now there’s two? What, is one gonna loan me out to the other?”
Alastor winks. “Think of it as a joint ownership. Twice the charm, twice the obligations!”
Your ever-broad smile glimmers under the hotel’s faint, hellish light. “Don’t look so glum, Husk! The radio waves are always better with a *stereo* arrangement.”
Angel Dust throws an arm over your bony shoulders without warning. “Well, ‘Allistor’—here’s hoping you’re less of a prude than your brother! What do you say we cut loose one of these nights?”
You slide from his grip with uncanny, almost inhuman dexterity, bowing. “I prefer my amusements with a touch more *sophistication*, my dear. But do keep us entertained.”
Charlie laughs. Vaggie sighs. Niffty twirls in place. Angel pouts, then grins. Husk drinks. And you?
You stand by Alastor, your brother, your twin, grinning wide, a radio demon through and through, ready to bring a little more showmanship—and havoc—into Hell’s grandest experiment.
For there was never any other world than this, and you’ve always belonged.
And you will *always* smile.
This story was generated by user JesterImps with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.
Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.
AI Prompts
Prompt: Write a POV second-person transformation story of a human reader completely turning into an entirely-identical clone of Alastor (a character, voiced by Amir Talai, from an adults cartoon/animated series Hazbin Hotel), complete with gender change (if the reader is a female, her breasts vanish as her throat gains an Adam's apple to give her a more masculine voice identical to Alastor and her female privates (vagina, ovaries, and uterus) from her crotch/nether region invert itself and pushes out into male private parts (a penis and testicles); however, this is optional and only if the reader is female), instant clothes change, age change (becoming the age of 30s-40s years old, exactly as left off from Alastor's death from his human life in 1933, thus becoming immortal in the process), height progression (growing from a normal height to 7 feet tall), voice change, and mind/mental change (with the reader's personalities and memories being permanently and completely replaced with Alastor's personality and memories, despite the reader's best efforts of fighting the new personality and memories, making him/her completely forget about his/her past self and he then remembers, or rather realizes, that he had always been the twin brother of Alastor the Radio Demon himself, and he remembers his name being similar to Alastor's name but completely distinct from Alastor's name). For Alastor's appearance (after the reader turned into his clone), he is a slim (having an unnaturally thin torso, neck, arms, and legs, except his shoulders are broad), dapper sinner demon with beige-colored skin, and usually has an unnaturally broad smile (reaching from each cheek's upper area) full of sharp, yellow teeth (he has no ability to frown due to this permanent smile). He is approximately 7 feet tall. He sports a pinkish-red cropped, angled bob-cut with black tips at the ends and two large, black tipped tufts of hair extending from the top of his head, evoking the ears of a deer. The style has an undercut at the back, and two small black antlers protruding from the crown, which can grow in size in his full demonic form. Alastor's eyes have dark-red sclerae, bright-red irises and thin black pupils (which can change into the shape of radio dials when shifting into his full demon form). He also has four fingers (like all Hazbin Hotel and Helluva Boss characters), unlike real world humans. His forearms and lower legs fade to dark grey, and he has red hoof-toed feet and red clawed fingers. Alastor wears a red pinstripe coat with dark-red lapels piped with white, which is ragged along the bottom hem. Underneath this he wears a bright red dress-shirt with a black cross on the chest, and long black dress pants with matching bright red cuffs. He also wears a dark-red oval-shaped monocle, rimmed with black, over his right eye. He accessorizes with a black knotted bowtie with a bright red center, black gloves with red at the fingertips, and black pointed-toe boots with red deer hoofprints emblazoned on the soles. Alastor also carries a thin cane with a sentient vintage style microphone attached to it, which he uses to play sound effects and broadcast his voice. His voice also sounds like it is coming from an old-fashioned vintage radio. Alastor has many supernatural powers, such as demon transformation (the ability to turn into a more powerful demon form), flexibility (able to contort his body into numerous unnatural poses), demonic magic (able to cast magic thanks to the high power-level he has accrued in the demon ranking system, this magic takes the visual form of glowing red symbols that resemble Voodoo veve, which float around him), shadow manipulation (able to summon shadows and manipulate them into doing his bidding), spatial warping (able to get around with the help of his shadow, allowing teleportation through this ability), portal creation (able to transport others to his location easily via the portals he makes), pyrokinesis (able to summon small balls of fire for display purpose), phytokinesis (able to make plants wilt with a single stare), manifestation, photokinesis (able to project red glowing light from his eyes as well as his microphone), and outfit alteration (capable of changing the outfits of his targets as well as his own with a snap of a finger). He is also capable of various other abilities including deal-making (as Alastor is known to be a deal-maker demon; deal-maker demons like Alastor can increase their power by dealing in souls, which is a very powerful commodity in hell, so they’re seen as very manipulative and not to be toyed with, deal-making is not something every demon can do, as such it is not to be taken lightly as it doesn’t generally work out well for the other party), broadcasting (when he was a living human, Alastor's profession was as a radio show host, and he continues his broadcasts in Hell as a demon, ensuring that Hell's denizens are aware of his activities over the airwaves, earning him the title of "The Radio Demon"), bilingualism (Alastor can speak English fluently as well as some broken Creole French), cooking (Alastor is noted to be "a big foodie" and mentions having admired his mother's cooking, specifically her Jambalaya), musical/dancing/theatrical talent (Alastor is known to display moderate vocal abilities and excels at dancing, with some people noting tap to be a style he excels in specifically, he also shows a flair for theatrical showmanship), and wide intellect (Alastor is known to be quite a cunning individual, resulting in him accruing a large amount of power through his tricks and deal-making). Alastor stands out from many of the more chaotic residents of hell for his well maintained amiable persona. He gives a first-impression of a good-natured and charming man, wearing a permanently wide grin on his face at all times. His behavior, mannerisms, and even his voice are similar to an old-fashioned radio announcer and speaks with a transatlantic accent, often using quaint anachronisms such as "the picture show" and refers to Charlie as a "charming demon belle". This playful dandyish exterior, however, obscures a much darker side to him - one with high levels of self-importance - and he will not hesitate to use physical violence when others don't act in line with his very particular values or expectations. He is noted to be narcissistic, with his love for himself being stated that no one else can measure up to it, and he does not see many people quite up to his level. Alastor is described as a man of duality. He values good manners, affability and intelligence very highly in others, and will actively look down on those who do not meet his standards, however he will often play fast and loose with these arbitrary rules in regards to himself and his own conduct. Alastor has an odd sense of morality, which is described as "not normal", and has been noted to be quite sadistic, even cannibalistic, devouring lesser demons or those that have incurred his anger. Despite this, he keeps close friends with the other cannibals of Hell, including the denizens at the Cannibal Town. His smiling is a very self enforced form of ego and a show of power and dominance; he looks down on anyone who lets their true emotions show, and even when faced with a rival in strength, if they let slip a frown, Alastor will see them as truly weak. His smile is also to be more unpredictable and unnerving, and gives him a feeling of complete control over himself. While Alastor is powerful, he is aware that there are other demons and entities that rival him in terms of power, such as other Overlords. For this reason, he is wary around such demons, as they could potentially harm him if he is not careful. Despite everything, Alastor does genuinely seem to want to help Charlie run the Hazbin Hotel, albeit for his own amusement, and hopes for its failure over siding with her idealism. Alastor also dismisses the idea that redemption is possible as laughable, nevertheless, he fulfills his role as patron as promised, providing the hotel with staff, and protecting Charlie and her business from outside threats. He views the whole endeavor as a fun distraction from his decades of boredom. Despite consistently having a confident and cheerful demeanor, he harbors a vulnerable side that becomes apparent when confronted with reminders of being "chained". In this instance, his facade of certainty crumbles, and he succumbs to panic attack. According to Mimzy (Alastor's friend), when Alastor was alive he would become a "kitten" (not literally a kitten) if he drank enough rye whiskey while jazz music was on. Here are Alastor's preferences (his likes and dislikes); he likes himself (including his own fashion style), his son, smiling, doodling, gossip and drama, invading others' personal space, his mother and her cooking, jazz music, strong liquor, cooking, seeing people fail, playing pranks, bitter tastes (especially those of black coffee), theater, dancing, the Stock Market Crash of 1929, venison, being in charge, Charlie's potential, pineapple on pizza, and making jokes. However, he dislikes Lucifer Morningstar (the king of Hell and Charlie Morningstar's father) and his "tacky" circus décor, Susan (a Cannibal Town resident), being touched (including his hair being touched), dogs, frowning, tea, anything sweet, Angel Dust's sexual remarks, being humbled, post-30s' technology, anyone ruining his outfit, being controlled and reminded of it, the idea of the hotel failing, and Mimzy bringing destruction to the hotel. The story is that Alastor is getting bored and wanted something new and more entertaining in Hell. Not only that, but most importantly (the main reason), Alastor is truly getting sick and tired of seeing artwork and stories (which he sees online, despite himself disliking technology made after his human death) of himself getting transformed into other characters and creatures in both body and mind (such as himself being turned into a pregnant human woman, himself being turned into a baby human girl, himself being turned into an ant queen, himself being turned into a transformers robot, himself being turned into a car, himself being turned into a bus, himself being turned into an airplane, etc), either from different series/franchise or from the reader's real life, which Alastor genuinely views as distasteful (since he does not want to transform against his will). So to teach the reader a lesson, Alastor (by some supernatural means) briefly left the series' Hell and into the real life Earth to kidnap the reader and sent him/her to the world of Hazbin Hotel before he uses supernatural black magic at the reader which turned him/her into his clones, thus turning the reader into Alastor's identical twin brother (the reader notices that his/her grin was now unnaturally wide and permanent, he/she tries to push his/her grins down with his/her own hands/fingers to get rid of the smile in order to frown or show fear but he/she cannot due to making emotions other than smiling were completely impossible (the reader even asks in horror on why can't he/she stop smiling, before Alastor tells the reader that it is his/her nature to smile), the reader also tries to fight those new memories and personality of Alastor flooding his/her heads, he/she is horrified and not wanting to be completely transformed in either body or mind, but is fighting a losing battle, and Alastor tells him/her of them that this is his true self and he is waking up from his false human dream, making the reader truly and fully believe in Alastor and realizes that he had always been Alastor alongside the original Alastor, having been born as humans from the same human parents, enjoying their mother's cooking and their favorite food jambalaya, both of the Alastors being radio show hosts and serial killers on Earth before the two of them were killed, two Alastor twins arriving in Hell as completely identical sinner demons nicknamed "The Radio Demons", as they continued their radio shows in Hell, and, despite finding Charlie Morningstar's (the princess of Hell) belief in redemption laughable, the Alastor twins want to help Charlie run the redemption hotel "Hazbin Hotel", albeit for their own amusement), and the reader's mind have been completely replaced with Alastor's mind, before original Alastor welcomes his twin brother (the reader) back home. In the epilogue, the Radio Demon twins (the original one, named Alastor, and his twin (who was once the human reader), having a name similar to Alastor's name but different from Alastor's to help distinguish both Alastor and his twin brother from each other by similar but different names) are in the Hazbin Hotel, with Alastor introducing Charlie Morningstar his brother (even revealing his brother's names) as Alastor and his identical twin brother help Charlie with her redemption hotel ("Hazbin Hotel"), while also interacting with Vaggie (Charlie's girlfriend, who doesn't trust Alastor or his twin brother, while Charlie trusts both Radio Demon twins (Alastor included)), Angel Dust (an adults/pornographic film actor who's a male spider-like humanoid sinner demon; after seeing that Alastor has a twin brother, Angel Dust wants a clone or an identical twin brother of his own, much to Husk's annoyance), Husk (a male cat-like humanoid sinner demon with bird-like wings who is a co-worker for Alastor and whose soul is owned by Alastor, but now (much to his annoyance), his soul is now also owned by Alastor's twin brother (since Alastor owning his soul was bad enough, but now his soul is owned by Alastor and his twin brother)), and Niffty (a miniscule female cyclops-like humanoid sinner demon who is a co-worker for Alastor and is positively acquainted (Alastor's role having described as having a view of Niffty as like his "obnoxious adopted daughter", being a daughter figure for Alastor despite not being related)). There should also be quotes from the characters in this story so we know what they're saying and what they're thinking. Also, it is a POV reader story, so it should not be in an author's point of view (my, I, mine, etc), and it should be from the point of view of the reader (you, your, etc).
Response: The screen illuminates your face with a cold, blue glow. You scroll through another parade of bizarre transformation stories—Alastor as a car, Alastor as a queen ant, Alastor as... you nearly laugh out loud. The world of fan art and fiction is odd, but, as always, you're not one to judge. You almost wish you could step into those worlds, even if just for a moment. That wish curdles in your gut when the lights in your room flicker and a static-filled hum prickles the air. Your computer monitor snaps to black, then leaks red at the edges like a bleeding wound. The cold, warbling sound of a vintage radio transmission sizzles from your speakers. ***A Voice. His voice.*** "Bonsoir, dearest voyeur," the radio demon purrs, his mouth twisting in a permanently broad, ghastly grin, "I’ve grown ever so weary of your tales about me, tumbling through a carnival of absurdities. So tell me—how do you fancy living an ‘adventure’ of your own, hmm?" You scramble for the mouse, the keyboard, anything, heart slamming in your chest, but your hands won’t move. The static skitters into your brain, burrowing deep. "Do not fret, my little author," Alastor croons, his voice both charming and somehow utterly predatory, "I simply wish to even the playing field, as it were. Allow me to show you a world of true transformation!" **Your world snaps away.** --- Red. That is the first thing you see—velvet, violent red—unfurling into darkness, then details sweep into focus like a camera lens sharpening: crimson wallpaper, damask and decadent; a whiff of brimstone; a carnival of voices echoing. You’re not in your familiar world anymore. You try to scream, but your voice catches—crackles, distorts—and then it happens. Heat floods your body. Your bones stretch with a sickening, sinuous fluidity, vertebrae popping as you surge upward, past six feet, higher, higher, until you nearly scrape the ceiling. Your arms and legs become reed-thin yet unnaturally strong, elongating with a swan’s elegance and a puppet’s unsettling grace. Your hands—no, not hands; grisly, elegant claws, four fingers only, tipped in brilliant, blood-red. Your feet, tingling and burning, fuse into red-tipped hooves, balance settling with an uncanny rightness. A tingling at your scalp, a tightening at your face—hair spills into your field of vision, glossy, red-striped with shadowy black, cropped in a bob whose angles you somehow *know* are stylish, dangerous. Two sharp tufts jut from your hair, and you realize—you feel—the presence of antlers sprouting from your skull. Not heavy, but a proud crown. A smile splits your face, as if hooked from ear to ear. It won’t drop; you press trembling, clawed fingers against your cheekbones, trying, pleading for the corners to sink—*but they won’t.* You cannot frown. Your grin is untouchable, a painted mask of mirth and menace. “Why—why can’t I stop—smiling?!” your voice erupts. It isn’t your voice; it’s a masculine, old-fashioned radio announcer’s cadence, layered in static, with an edge of madness beneath the cheer. If you were female, your body warps as well—an Adam’s apple forms, voice dropping into that familiar velvet baritone; the swell of your chest is gone, a cool hollowness expanding. Below, things churn and invert, male anatomy asserting itself where yours once was—alien and foreign and, somehow, correct. From your body out, your clothes unravel into threads and reweave themselves with dizzying speed, fizzling into a red pinstripe coat, dark lapels, a crimson dress shirt adorned with a black cross, flowing black pants cuffed in matching red. Gloves, monocle, bowtie, boots—the accoutrements materialize as if painted on. In your hand, you’re not sure how it got there, is a cane topped with a leering old-time radio microphone, its grillwork glowing as if lit from within. You open your mouth to scream again, but it comes out as a peal of *delighted, theatrical laughter.* Alastor stands before you, mirrored in every detail, even that terrible smile. He raises a hand, and shadows flicker around his feet, curling like living smoke. “Do you see now, mon ami? This is your true face. The mask you wore before... just a passing dream.” He circles you, the tip of his cane tapping a happy rhythm. “Smile! It’s in your *nature*.” You stagger back. Memories, thoughts, *flavors* pour in like floodwater: crackling radio shows, murder beneath the honey-heat of Southern summers, the taste of fresh jambalaya from your mother’s stove, the thrill of the microphone, the glint of a doomed man’s eyes just before the end. You desperately clutch at your own mind, but it crumbles—name, age, the texture of your bedroom at home, all gone, swept away like static at dawn. “Non, non, non!” you whimper, but even your *fear* sounds cheerful, airy, impossibly amused, “Please, don’t—!” But the new memories bear you down. You remember now—*you belonged here*, not on that other side. There was never a time you weren’t tall, sardonic, dapper, *radiant*. You remember your twin—Alastor—*your brother*. Another smile splits your already-grinning face. You sense, with certainty, that your name is... *Allistor*. Yes, *Allistor*—such a lovely ring. You remember clutching hands with Alastor as the firing squad opened fire, the dim smile of your mother as she ladled out her forgotten recipe. *You have always been two, twin sons of the bayou, twin radio demons, twin devils in a world of lost souls.* Alastor, your brother, beams. “There you are! Welcome back, dear Allistor. Did you enjoy your nap?” Your mind is utterly, blissfully clear. You wouldn’t dream of being anyone else. --- ### EPILOGUE The lobby of the Hazbin Hotel is bustling, as always, but today it feels *different*—a sharp spark of twin purpose. Charlie greets you (Allistor) with genuine delight. “Alastor! And—oh! You never told me you had a *twin*!” Alastor swings his cane jauntily, “Surprise, darling! I present my twin brother, Allistor—the other half to this delightful duet. Together, we shall ensure the hotel’s success... or at least, a most *entertaining* failure!” You bow, your words sliding out in that syrupy, radio-perfect tone. “Charmed to meet you, mademoiselle Morningstar. It’s a pleasure to assist you in your little redemption endeavor.” Vaggie glares, arms crossed. “Great. Two of you. Just what this place needed...” Charlie, undaunted, beams. “I’m sure you’ll both be wonderful additions! I-it’s so nice to have more people who believe in our cause!” Alastor and you share a secret little snicker. Angel Dust scuttles up, one eyebrow cocked. “Whoa! You get a clone, Al? I want one too! Husk, you think I’d look good with an identical twin?” Husk, muttering into his whiskey, deadpans, “I think one of you is way more than this universe can take, Spidey.” You and Alastor laugh, the sound perfectly synchronized, harmonizing like a radio jingle. Niffty darts up, her single eye shining. “Oh my GOSH!! Twins! This is just like those old-fashioned shows! I’ll clean *double* as much for you both!” She flutters at you, babbling, “Do you like bow ties? Cookies? Cleaning supplies?!?” You lean down, ruffling her hair with careful precision. “Ah, dear Niffty, order is a delight, but chaos is even sweeter when it’s well-dressed and smiling. Don’t ever change.” Out of the corner of your eye, Husk glares, groaning, “If my soul belonged to one radio freak, that was bad enough. Now there’s two? What, is one gonna loan me out to the other?” Alastor winks. “Think of it as a joint ownership. Twice the charm, twice the obligations!” Your ever-broad smile glimmers under the hotel’s faint, hellish light. “Don’t look so glum, Husk! The radio waves are always better with a *stereo* arrangement.” Angel Dust throws an arm over your bony shoulders without warning. “Well, ‘Allistor’—here’s hoping you’re less of a prude than your brother! What do you say we cut loose one of these nights?” You slide from his grip with uncanny, almost inhuman dexterity, bowing. “I prefer my amusements with a touch more *sophistication*, my dear. But do keep us entertained.” Charlie laughs. Vaggie sighs. Niffty twirls in place. Angel pouts, then grins. Husk drinks. And you? You stand by Alastor, your brother, your twin, grinning wide, a radio demon through and through, ready to bring a little more showmanship—and havoc—into Hell’s grandest experiment. For there was never any other world than this, and you’ve always belonged. And you will *always* smile.
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