### ***Brother or Bummer***
*A Hazbin Hotel Transformation Story*
*(POV: You)*
---
Sleep comes easily, the world tucked tight around you, comfort draping your consciousness. You barely notice when darkness softens into something heavier, a void that seems to tug your weight into its heart. There’s no warning, no chance for protest—the mattress becomes air, the fabric of your room falls away into static. A cold hiss splits your dream.
Then—
**WHAM**. You land, upright. Something hard and unfamiliar supports your body. Darkness, broken by the throbbing hush of distant electricity. You're sure you only just closed your eyes…
A new sonic reality shocks your ears. Somewhere unseen, a voice, smooth and sarcastic, counts down: “Three… two… one…”
Suddenly, music blares, lights screech across the void, and heat from spotlights ignites adrenaline in your bones. An audience—demonic, surging with anticipation—roars approval. You're sitting in a wide, high-backed chair behind a gleaming podium. You can barely move before your eyes find him—the unmistakable, infamous VOX, striding through a corridor of applause, TV-faced, seven feet tall and glowing with ego incarnate.
Your mouth goes dry. No matter how much you want to stand, your body stays pinned, frozen, blinking at the riotous sea of devils and sinners basking in this gaudy, lit-up hell.
Vox’s digital mouth splits in a wicked smile as he slides behind his own podium, opposite you. A display screen facing bright, his fingers steepled—four, not five. The music fades, applause lingers like an infection.
“All right, all right, shut the fuck up now.” Vox’s voice tumbles through the theater, crisp-edged and electrifying. The room obeys.
“Your attention and obedience are, as always, most appreciated. Welcome back to ‘Brother or Bummer’! I’m your host, Vox, and you all know the deal. And now—let’s get some light on tonight’s little worm, shall we?”
A spotlight slaps down—heat and humiliation—unveiling you to the jeering crowd. You shrink, searching your mind for answers that just aren’t there. The demons whistle and clap. You squint into the glare, try to meet Vox’s eyes but find only glowing red and cyan digital pupils in the black sea of his TV.
“Now, since I don’t waste time reading paperwork, why don’t you—yeah, you—tell us all your name?” Vox gestures. All eyes fixate.
You croak your name aloud, voice unexpectedly small. “It’s—(your name). Wh… why am I here? I was at home... sleeping just a moment ago. This isn't—”
Vox cuts you off; “Oh, c’mon, you’re just psyched to be on my show. Don’t play coy, sweetheart.”
“But I was—”
“To everyone watching both here and at home,” Vox’s voice booms, “it’s clear that (your name) here wants a cut of that sweet Hellish moolah. But the game’s simple: Get it right? You walk home richer. Get it wrong? Ha! Piece by piece, you’re going to become my identical twin brother. Don’t worry, if you pull your head out of your ass and get some right, we’ll reverse it… maybe. Screw up too much, and, well—say your goodbyes, kid. Because the only thing permanent around here is MY style, and you’ll have a front row seat to it—forever.”
You feel your hands clench, heart hammering in your chest. You manage a smirk—false bravado, but you’re not going to cower, not now. “Oh, that’s nothing to worry about,” you attempt. “I know for a fact I won’t be staying here.”
Vox’s mouth pixelates into an exaggerated frown. “That so? Let’s hope that ‘fact’ doesn’t get checked.”
The stage lights explode into life; a game-show jingle glides across the studio. Your podium screen flashes with the question: “First question: What is the last name of Hell’s princess? Is it: A. Marigold, B. Magne, C. Morningst—”
*You can’t help but interrupt.* “Magne! It’s B!” you say, sure your trivia is airtight.
Vox adopts a look of mock insult. “Wh—did you have a stroke or something? I hadn’t even finished the damn question yet!”
You hold your ground, sure in your answer. “There’s no need to. It’s B.”
The room hushes. For a moment, you think your boldness will win you a path home.
Errrnt. A buzzer blares.
“I’m sorry, but the correct answer is C,” Vox gloats, his eyes glinting with malice. “Are you *trying* to argue the answer with me?” he teases.
You stammer, disbelief stinging your chest. “Are you sure that’s right?”
Vox shrugs. “It’s C. You’re wrong.”
Your name is a punchline now; the audience jeers, their laughter grating. Vox turns, addressing them: “What a pathetic smartass we have here, don’t you think?” The crowd howls, enjoying the spectacle.
He snaps his clawed fingers. Two brute-sized security demons stride from the shadows, grip your chair, and pin your arms. The panic is sharp in your throat.
Vox stands before you, electricity visibly writhing across his cyan-tipped claws. “Well, you all know what this means.” The crowd chants, “BROTHER!”
Vox leans in, talons wrapping around your forearms. A surge—hot, stinging, vital—lances through your body. You watch in abject dread as your arms stretch longer, slimming out, textures shifting beneath your skin. Your fingers shrink down to four digits, cyan claws sharpening at the tips. Your shirtsleeves ripple, changing hue and patterning; cufflinks appear where buttons had been.
Vox looks to the crowd, delighted. “Wow, this *never gets old*.”
He lets go. You stare at your hands, alien, elegant, wrong. The audience loves it.
He returns to his seat, casual as a shark. “You okay there?”
You barely manage, “N-not really…”
Vox doesn’t care. “Let’s move on.” Lights, jingle, new question.
“Who’s the most powerful Overlord in all of Hell?” his voice trills. The options pop; A. Myself, B. Valentino, C. Carmilla Carmine, D. Alastor.
Despite everything, you try to stay calm. “I’d go with D. Alastor.”
Vox recoils, fake heartbroken. “You really just said D?” The crowd’s laughter is thunderous.
“I sure did! He’s got that edge, right?” you press.
Vox rolls his eyes. “Couldn’t be more fucking wrong. The answer is A—obviously. I’m the most powerful! Or maybe you just *want* to lose yourself. Good, that saves me time.”
There is a rhythm to humiliation now. Each question you face—each inevitably wrong answer—triggers another transformation.
Your legs elongate, slender now, your bones humming with unnatural energy. Your shoes recede, heels rise, feet re-shape, cyan stripes flashing to life. Your pants tighten into gleaming navy with cyan trim, matching Vox’s in every thread. The shifts sweep through your body; you put your hands to where your collar was, feeling velvet and shiny metal, a plush bowtie around your throat, an embroidered upside-down broadcast symbol on your chest.
The next question flares on the screen, complicated and obscure—before you can protest, you blurt “B!” out in desperation.
Vox barely dignifies you with a glance. “D. Wrong. Time for more changes to your body. *If you’re female, say goodbye to those curves and hello to the family jewels.*”
You feel it—warmth flooding your torso as your waist narrows, arms grow broader.
*If you were female, you feel your breasts shrink away, torso flatten, hips retract—your body’s silhouette becomes severe, masculine, tapered.* An Adam’s apple rises in your throat, voice morphing—lower, more assertive, more Vox.
Between your legs—below your newly tailored pants—alien sensations. Your center inverts, tingling intensely, before pushing outward, a strange, powerful fullness culminating in an authentic heat. A flood of new desire, unlike anything you could’ve known.
You gasp. Your hands go down, and everything is different. Hard, plush, scandalously alive.
You are, **definitely**, a man now.
“Woo, look at you! Don’t say I never gave you a treat,” Vox cackles.
But you refuse to back down. The next, final question: “How old do you think is Hell? A. 2,000 years old, B. 4,500, C. 6,000, D. 10,000?”
You bite, desperate, “C. It’s... got to be C.”
Vox’s screen-mouth peels wide. “Nope, D! Time for the final change!”
It’s as if your skull liquifies, face flattening, chin and brow pressing out, the world splitting in a thousand pixel-wide glitches. Your vision flickers and—*bam*—your entire head has been replaced with a glowing flat-screen monitor. You see everything at once: the audience, the stage, your new arms, your new body.
A black top hat emerges atop your TV-head, sprouting cute, crackling antennae.
Vox spins to the crowd. “That’s gotta be the quickest fucking game we’ve ever had! Now, let’s check those results!”
Your screen is splashed with a chart—each answer you gave, bold red Xs searing your failure into memory. The audience jeers, buzzers ringing with every mistake.
Vox saunters over, pressing a hand to your shoulder. “Not a single question right. Well, guess you’re ready for the grand finale: a new brain to match that shiny new body.”
You try to protest, but the words all die in static.
“What? What are you—” you manage, before your screenface vanishes into a swirling black-and-white spiral. Your thoughts dissolve, memories eradicated—your name, your life, fading into white noise.
Still, you try to resist, and yet it’s futile—
*Try as you might, Vax, but you’ll belong to me now… or rather, you are my brother, and always have been!*
The spiral wipes away all opposition. You slump, arms hanging downward, your frame looming tall and lifeless in the pulsing spotlights.
After a moment, your TV-face flickers. Cyan, crisp: “Initializing VoxTek Device.”
A VoxTek logo loads above a loading bar: “Loading data from your device... trust us.”
It completes.
A cheerful digital *ding*.
“Enjoy the VoxTek technology.”
Blackness.
Then—a rising whir. Your consciousness, new and ancient, surges into existence. Your memories are Vox’s memories—flashbulbs of 1950s stardom, the rush of immortal Hell, technological domination, the taste of power, the sound of applause. You remember being Vax, Vox’s twin, right hand, and rival. Of course you do—you *always* have been Vax.
You blink; the room comes back into focus, the faces of rabid sinners and adoring screens.
Vox leans in, delighted.
“Welcome home, fucker. Good to see you back where you belong.”
Your mouth glows an electric blue. “Glad to be here, Vox. Missed this hellhole. Missed you, you piece of shit.”
“That’s your grand prize, Vax,” Vox concedes, pride in every ounce of his circuits. “Mine, too. And with that, we’re off the air.” He turns to the camera. “Thanks for watching, you rabid maniacs! I’m Vox, this has been ‘Brother or Bummer!’ Goodnight, Hell!”
Explosions of strobe-light, music, and roaring applause—your cue. Vox and you, Vax, shoulder-to-shoulder, strut off the set. You know now—*knew always*—there’s nowhere else but here.
---
#### **EPILOGUE**
*—Some time later, inside the glassy, humming heart of VoxTek Enterprises—*
The office is a cathedral of tech: holographic screens, fizzing antennae, shimmering neon light. Pentagram City sprawls below.
You sit back, legs up on a plush ottoman, swirling a drink in your clawed hand. Vox, perched on the edge of his desk, grins, scanning through a thousand channels, feeding on digital adoration.
Vox cackles, nudging you—his twin, his equal, his mirror-image. “Another record-breaking night, Vax! Pentagram City can’t get enough of our show. Those twisted little fucks eat it up every week.”
You throw your head back, teeth flashing. “Of course they do. Who wouldn’t want to see another asshole lose everything on TV?”
Vox shrugs. “The only thing I *don’t* want is a world where I don’t get to see that. Or you, I guess.” He smirks, then tosses a remote at you. “Say, remember Vegas, 1956?”
You laugh, memories surging up, electric with mischief. “You mean where we conned that mobster out of his soul, then stole his Cadillac? Those were the fucking days, brother.”
Vox barks a laugh. “Still are if I get my way. Stick with me, Vax. We’ll break Hell all over again.”
You lean back, smiling wide, screen gleaming with wicked joy. This is your world.
This is your life.
You are Vax, and Vox is your (other) half.
And together,
Hell is *yours*.
---
**[END]**
This story was generated by user dylan7 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.
Prompt: Write a POV second-person transformation story of a human reader completely turning into a entirely-identical clone of Vox (a character, voiced by Christian Borle, from an adults cartoon/animated series Hazbin Hotel), complete with gender change (if the reader is a female, the breasts flatten to nonexistent as her body losses its curves and become more masculine, and her female genitals invert itself before pushing out into a penis and balls of a male; however, gender change is optional and it's only if the reader is a female), instant clothes change, age change (becoming the age of 30s-40s years old, exactly as left off from Vox's death from his human life in the 1950s, thus becoming immortal in the process), height progression (growing from an average 5.7-6 foot height to 7 feet tall), and mind/mental change (with the reader's personalities and memories being completely replaced with Vox'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 Vox himself, and he remembers his name being similar to Vox's name but completely distinct from Vox's name). The transformation is permanent (meaning it is forever) and is completely irreversible. For Vox's appearance (after the reader turned into him), he is a tall and (unnaturally) slim-figured, technology-themed sinner demon who stands at approximately 7 feet. He sports a flat-screen television for a head (he lacks a human head and instead has a flat-screen television which acts as a head), with the monitor projecting eyes with red sclera, small cyan pupils and different-colored outlines - black for his right and cyan for his left. While using his hypnosis powers or simply becomes enraged, his left eye gains a black spiral and the pupil becomes a cyan electric symbol. The screen also shows a mouth full of sharp, cyan-colored teeth and a long pointed tongue similar to Valentino's, but cyan. Sometimes what looks like blood seems to drip out of his mouth. He also has four fingers (like all Hazbin Hotel and Helluva Boss characters), unlike real world humans. He also appears to have dark navy-blue skin with sharp, cyan claw-like fingers. Vox wears a navy-blue tuxedo with the jacket sporting coattails, red-trimmed cyan lapels, thin cyan stripes and cyan lining, worn over a red-and-black-striped waistcoat which itself is worn over a collared bluish-white shirt with an upside-down broadcast symbol and a rather large, red bowtie. He also wears heeled dark gray dress shoes with cyan-colored laces, toes, and tips on the heels. He also wears a small black top hat on his head, with red and blue designs reminiscent of a broadcast symbol and radio wave symbol, respectively. He has TV antenna that stick out the top of the hat, the left one bent into a zigzag. Here are Vox's abilities and skillsets: Immortality (As a Sinner, Vox is biologically immortal, being unable to die from illnesses and unable to age, remaining the same age as when he died, thus can not die of old age and other natural causes. He also cannot die from any kind of damage to the body, and will recover from any injury, however, he can only be permanently killed with angelic weaponry), Electrokinesis (Vox possesses the ability to generate and control electricity. Depending on his emotions, such as if he's angered, he can potentially make it so that a Hell-wide blackout happens. He caused a blackout to Pentagram City in "Radio Killed the Video Star" when he was overwhelmed by Alastor's taunts), Electrokinetic transformation (Vox can turn into electricity, which he can use to move around or enter and travel through electronic devices such as security cameras, watches and television monitors that he can control as he pleases. Though there are a few flaws to his electrical teleportation: the place Vox wants to go has to have some form of modern technology he could go through, as he apparently can't teleport through an old-style radio), Technokinesis (Vox can control devices whether he is outside or inside them. He can do things while inside devices such as changing his outfit and scenery), Spark generation (He can create electrical sparks from his fingertips, which can be used to ignite something, like Valentino's cigarette in "Radio Killed the Video Star". He can even generate sparks on his body, especially when he is angry. He also causes what looks like a small surge or ripple of electricity to appear through the floor from his feet during Stayed Gone. It is hard to tell if this is part of the spark generation or a separate ability entirely), Technological head (Vox's television head doubles as an electronic device with which he can plug himself into other devices with the help of cables in his surveillance room. He also somehow is able to change or upgrade his head, as shown, he has a photograph of himself with an older-style television head. If he's particularly angry, he and any devices he's linked to will involuntarily glitch), Bioluminescence (Vox generates blue light from his screen, most notably when he is in a dark room. His teeth noticeably shine brighter than the rest of his face, and his left eye outline and pupils can shine on their own when feeling sinister. His claws can also glow when he is using his electrical powers), Communication (He can receive calls from people, such as Velvette, with his screen head similar to calling on a phone. He can also transfer the call to another device by "grabbing" the call and flicking it to a different screen device), Video playing (Vox can play videos on his screen-face), Scrying (As shown in "The Radio Demon" comic, Vox is seemingly able to see through other screens, appearing to stare directly at Alastor while projecting into the TV display of a window-fronted store. This is shown in "Radio Killed the Video Star" to be done after he plugs his head into a monitoring device, which he may need to be able to scry), Hypnosis (In "Radio Killed the Video Star", it is shown that with his left eye, he uses hypnosis to keep his audience drawn into his program and keep their interest. He also uses this as a distraction so he can slip away to avoid any further discussion of a subject he doesn't wish to continue. The victim's eyes become red with black spirals. The victim has to be paying attention for this to work. He can use this even when he isn't physically present by being in a screen device. The devices his company sells share this ability), Self-duplication (Vox was shown to be able to make clones of himself in "Radio Killed the Video Star" during Stayed Gone. However, he has only displayed the ability on television, and it is unknown if he can do it physically), Acoustokinesis (He can manipulate the sound of his voice to sound more intimidating. He can also generate different sound effects such as echoing voices and the sound of a winning game machine), Strength (Vox is strong enough that he is easily able to tear through metal, and capable of holding demons bigger than himself, such as Valentino, with ease), Deal-making (While not shown on-screen, Vox can make deals with others in order to collect their souls just like other Overlords. Musical talent - Vox has shown to be a talented singer), Dancing (Vox can perform amazing dance routines, like handling complicated moves to even being able to hold Valentino, a taller Sinner, into a dip), Charisma and manipulation (The reason why Vox is a successful entrepreneur is that he can use his charm to manipulate others into buying his products even without his hypnosis powers, such as acting as he cares about his customers and making up products on the spot that are not even in production yet. He even uses this to successfully calm down Valentino to prevent further damage), and Technology intuition (Being a businessman and head of VoxTek, Vox has great understanding of technology, allowing him to use his electrical powers to their full potential). Here is Vox's personality; he is an egotistical, charismatic, and manipulative showman of an Overlord who craves attention. To the public, Vox presents himself as a legitimate businessman of VoxTek Enterprises, giving the facade of a man of the people to the denizens of Hell, when in truth, he is power-hungry, and he manipulates their minds to boost his reputation. He is highly intelligent and technology-savvy, and he is always keeping up with the latest trends and technology. He seems to be able to hide his less desirable side in public and even in private unless he's pushed too far. Despite his egocentric nature, Vox is loyal to the interests of his fellow Overlords, the Vees, and seeks to maintain their collective image of power. As the most level-headed member of the Vees, Vox often acts as the de facto leader. Claiming the Vees' brand to be "perfection", he is often frustrated or outright angered if someone can jeopardize it, such as when he reigns in his fellow Vee, Valentino, from attacking the Hazbin Hotel in response to Angel Dust living there. Another element that earns his ire is his rival, Alastor, whom he utterly despises and might be intimidated by as he sees Alastor as a threat to his plans. However, despite his immense hatred for Alastor, Vox doesn't let it override his more pragmatic side once he calms down. In "The Show Must Go On", he takes pleasure and joy out of seeing the staff of the Hazbin Hotel prepare to fight the angels, as he believes they stand no chance against them. This causes him to get verbally explicit and overly honest, as seen when he along with Valentino and Velvette watch the fight between Adam and Alastor at the Hazbin Hotel, commenting how the impending duel had given him an erection. He even shows this sadistic joy when he sees Alastor lose to Adam, saying that seeing Alastor suffer is better than sex, only to get angry when Alastor flees from the fight. Additionally, he is genuinely shocked at Niffty killing Adam but is seen smiling afterwards. Here are Vox's preferences (his likes and dislikes); he likes/loves attention, sharks, the latest technology and trends, video, the Vees' public image in good condition, seeing Alastor fail or die (however, Alastor the Radio Demon never died), power and authority, the idea of Angel quitting work for Valentino, sex, violence, and Niffty's homicidal behavior. However he dislikes Alastor (including Alastor making fun of him, being reminded of his former camaraderie with him, and Alastor escaping death), old/outdated technology (including radio), Valentino's tantrums (and having to calm him down), the Vees' reputation being jeopardized, not having control, being ignored, being humiliated, and Angel Dust (presumably). The story is that Vox is getting bored and wanted something new and more entertaining in Hell, so Vox (by some supernatural means) briefly left the series' Hell and into the real life Earth to kidnap the reader (who was sleeping in his/her bed at night) and sent him/her to the world of Hazbin Hotel, more specifically in VoxTek Enterprises (where Vox is the founder, the leader, and the CEO of, along with being the de facto leader and public face of the Overlord trio known as the Vees (with Vox being the leader of the Vees), alongside Valentino (who is a 10-foot humanoid moth-like sinner demon and he is Vox's on and off boyfriend) and Velvette (who is a female demon, she is a close associate of Vox and Valentino, and is the self-proclaimed "backbone of the Vees")), which is located in Pentagram City (which is in the Pride Ring of Hell). After waking up, the reader finds himself/herself in a spacious TV studio located within a building, which has no lights for a moment. After a moment of the reader's confusion, someone in the studio counts down from three to one, before the whole studio comes to life, the music blaring as the bright lights strobes across the spacious set. The roaring sound of applause encircles it, courtesy of the audience, elevated above and behind the main stage itself. Every sinner demon in those seats was thrilled to be here, especially when considering how costly a ticket was. While the human reader is genuinely confused, and in the seconds from when this spectacle kicked off, a familiar character emerges from a darkened corridor built below the center of the seats, the cameras capturing his screen for one approaching from the very back. Before long, Vox steps into the brimming energy of the room, smiling wide with his hands behind his back, walking across the set and towards its center, turning back and proudly gesturing at the overjoyed crowd; all eyes on him (Vox). The music continues as the television-overlord makes his way to his seat, complete with a podium and an installed screen facing before it. It sits situated on one side of the stage, facing forwards at the crew and the many cameras aimed his way. Parallel from the vacant spot while angled towards it, another seat and podium are shrouded in darkness, alongside the reader sitting right there, the silhouette hard to discern by the sinners even with the strobe-lights briefly removing it. Vox takes his place at his podium as the music ended, the audience still clapping for him. While it most certainly feeds into his ego, the overlord (Vox) has grown sick of it for the time being. He waits all but ten seconds for even a modicum of its noise to die down. But when it failed to, he takes matters into his own hands, folding them on the podiums edge, looking right into the cameras whose feeds were projected on the wall facing the spectators to grants them a front-view of the overlord. "Alright, alright, shut the fuck up now." Vox happily and casually addresses the audience, who follows suit. "Your attention and obedience are, as always, most appreciated. Welcome back to “Brother or Bummer”! I'm your host, Vox, but all of you bitches and bastards already know that." Vox says before continuing, "Tonight is another exciting show, considering we have another hot-shot who thinks they have what it takes to answer every question unscathed and go home rich as fuck. Heh, that'll be the day. How's about we get some light on them now, shall we?" Instantly, the stage-light above the human reader properly reveals him/her to both Vox and the audience, only having one camera pointing in the reader's direction. Applause is nevertheless sent to the reader's way. The reader hardly squirms in his/her seat, having snuffed out the nerves in him/her before the cameras started rolling. Not long before the host (Vox) again stops the applause. "That's enough!" Vox whines, thus regaining his composure as he gestures at the contestant (the human reader). "Now, since I didn't read the forms beforehand, mind telling myself and the audience your name?" Vox says, before the reader tells him his/her name, as the reader then asks on why is he/she here before he/she says that he she was sleeping at home moments ago. However, Vox claims that the reader is just excited to be on the show (much to the reader's further fear and confusion), before Vox says "To everyone watching both here and at home, its clear that (the reader's name) has quite the hard-on for a whole lotta moolah. But to get even a cut of that is no easy feat. The rules of the game are simple: You get a question right, your winnings go up and you get to go home with a prize. You get each question wrong, you gradually become my identical twin brother. Not to worry, you'll be turned back to normal if you start getting questions right again, but if you remain a fuck-up, well, you'll lose more and more of yourself to me~. As with everything else, I'll get to control how fast or slow you change." The macabre fate that possibly awaits the reader failed to faze him/her, what with his unbreakable air of readiness visible through his/her seated stance and determined smile, before the reader says "Oh, that's nothing to worry about. I know for a fact I won't be staying here." "That so?" Vox asks, raising his digital brow, before he saye "Let's hope that fact doesn't get checked." As though on cue, another series of strobe-lights surges through the studio, accompanied by a little jingle that signalled the start of this game-show, the screens on each reader's podium lighting up with a question. "First question:" The host (Vox) recites, before he says "What is the last name of Hells princess? Is it: A. Marigold; B. Magne; C. Morningsta-." Before Vox could finish, the reader interrupts. "Magne!" The reader says to the overlord (Vox), all but certain in his/her own mind that this answer was correct. Voxs face paints a severe look of befuddlement mixed with anger. "Wh- did you have a stroke or something? I hadn't even finished the damn question yet." Vox says. "There's no need to." The reader assures him, the ends of his/her smile curving upward, before he/she says "It's B." A few seconds passes in anticipation of the real answer. The reader sits with a brimming smile, Vox's growing back out from the contestants sheer arrogance. Accompanied by more strobe-lights, the sound of a buzzer promptly blares through the studio speakers, the host revelling in the moment that comes far sooner than he expected. "I'm sorry, but the correct answer is C." The overlord (Vox) told the reader with a false air of disappointment. The reader's pride sapped out of him/her instantly. "What? Are you sure thats right?" The reader asks Vox. "Are you trying to question the correct answer I just gave you?" Vox asks the reader in mocking confusion, before confirming "I told you, it's C. You're wrong." The reader proceeds to stammer for several seconds, confounded at the reality that he/she had incorrectly chosen the answer. During this, Vox turns his head back at the demon audience, addressing them all with a mischievous grin, before saying "What a pathetic smartass we have here, don't you all think?" His comment was met with resounding applause, shutting up the reader who observed it for himself/herself. Vox snapped his fingers at the dark corridor he had emerged from, where two security guards thus entered from. The pair of large, muscular sinners stomp up to where the reader sits, one turning his/her seat to face Vox's, both holding the contestant (the reader) down as he (Vox) sharply looked at them both. "Well, you all know what this means." The host (Vox) declares as he rises from his seat, walking up to a quivering reader. "Wait! D- don't! I can try again." The contestant (reader) pleaded, looking up at the overlord (Vox) now standing before him, before the reader says "Let me try again!" "No can do~" Vox denies the reader the opportunity, before Vox says "Looks like you're about to be a..." "BROTHER!" The audience loudly finishes his (Vox's) sentence. With the return of relentless applause, Vox took over for the guards holding the reader down, his teal-clawed hands gripping both of the reader's arms, using his supernatural electric powers surging into the reader to turn his/her arms and hands into the ones identical to Vox's (even the sleeves of the reader's shirt/jacket have became identical sleeves to those of Vox's tuxedo sleeves), thus lengthening and slimming the reader's arms in the process while also rendering his/her hands with long, slender fingers (now numbering only four, a thumb and three other fingers, instead of five) with cyan claw-like tips. "Wow, this never gets old." Vox then tells the audience, before he lets go of the reader's now-transformed arms, letting the reader look at his/her new arms in confusion and horror. For once, the applause dies down on its own while the host (Vox) returns to his seat, before he mockingly asks "You're okay here?" The reader then stammers "N- not really." The answer receives, however, hardly mattered to the host (Vox), who then says "Good. Let us move on." Both the lights and jingle came back together, ushering in the next question. "Who is the most powerful overlord in all of Hell? A. Myself; B. Valentino; C. Carmilla Carmine; or D Alastor..." The reader nevertheless ponders thoroughly over the question, still believing he/she could answer it right and get out of this place and get turned back to normal, before he/she says "My answer would have to be D." Vox looks like he had just been insulted, before Vox says "Did you really just say D?" The reader then enthusiastically replies "I sure did! Alastor seemed to be the more powerful one, even after vanishing for several years." "You couldn't be more fucking incorrect." Vox hurls at his contestant (the reader), before he confirms "The answer is A. I'm the one whos more powerful than all the other overlords! And if you think you can come onto my show and tell me otherwise, especially against that radio asshat, you may as well be deader than dead... but we still have more questions to go through, and with it, more times to see you fuck up and become more like me." Vox cannot have nailed it any better. For the remainder of the show, with every question subjected onto the reader, he/she confidently chose the wrong answer. Time and time again, it was a humiliating display for the transforming reader, left to look upon himself/herself in horror, with his/her legs having lengthened like his/her changed arms and the reader's legs become identical to Vox's own legs (his/her shoes and pants have become identical to Vox's own shoes and pants), all while said host (Vox) sits relaxed in his own seat, the audience admiring the sheer idiocy brimming from the reader. Even towards the end, nothing could turn around for the reader, before Vox asks "In which century was the Catholic Church forced to cease taking indulgences in the form of 'almsgiving', in which a sinner could buy their way out of Hell? Is it: A. Thirteenth; B. Fourteenth; C. Fifteenth; or D. Sixteenth?" At this point, all the reader can do is give a blank look of confusion before mustering the confidence to try and answer anyway, before he/she says "It's gotta be B!" Vox no longer cares to put any pizazz into telling the reader off, before he says "D. Time fore more changes to your body! Beware, you may experience gender change if you are female" The reader's torso then changes to completely match those of Vox's, even the last of the reader's previous outfit (the shirt/jacket fully becomes a tuxedo and waistcoat identical to those of Vox), and if the reader was female before, the reader feels her breasts disappear into nonexistence, as her body looses its feminine curves, while something grows/forms inside her throat (and that something is an Adam's apple, causing her voice to deepen and become masculine; even if the reader wasn't female, his/her voice is now identical to Vox's voice), and her crotch, underneath the new pants, inverts itself and, with a wet "pop", emerges as a penis and a pair of testicles, causing the reader to briefly feel a painful and enjoyable feeling, causing the reader (who is now definitely male like Vox if he was formerly female) to feel horny for a bit, due to his newly-gay nature like Vox. Now determined not to loose himself (the reader) to the changes, he prepares himself and try and answer Vox's last question. "Now for the final question, how old do you think is Hell? Is it: A. 2,000 years old; B. 4,500 years old; C. 6,000 years old; or D. 10,000 years old?" Vox asks, before the reader answers "C. It's gotta be C." Sadly for the reader, Vox corrects the reader and says with enthusiasm "Nope, incorrect! It's actually D! Looks like the final physical changes are bound to come to your head!" The reader's head flattens on the front and the back, before his changing head is enlarging and squaring to form into the same TV head that Vox has, while his face (now having completely flatten into a screen) is fully identical to Vox's face, and a small black top hat appears on his head out of nowhere. "And that's gonna do it for tonight, everybody! This has gotta be the quickest fucking game we've ever had. But before we go, lets take a look at (the reader's name) results!" Vox says, as he points to the projected cameras on the wall, their feeds changing to a chart showing the reader's questions tonight. The chart shows all of the reader's answers being incorrect, and the repeating sounds of incorrect buzzers in tandem with each question he (the reader) was asked drilled it into him just how much of a failure he was tonight. "Well, I'll fucking be." Vox addresses the audience with a turn. "Not a single question was answered right. Now, you, (the reader's name), will be fully transformed from the outside... and the inside." Vox says, before the reader asks "Huh? What are you talking about?" But before the reader could do anything else, his (the reader's) mind becomes foggy/blurry/fuzzy as, at the same time, his (the reader's) screen-face instantly vanishes and replaced by a swirling black-and-white vortex that fills his new screen-face, both of which are completely erasing his previous personality and memories and replacing them with those identical to Vox's personality and memories. The reader tries to fight off the changes, but to no avail, as Vox happily says "Try as you might, Vax, but you'll belong to me now... or rather, you are my brother, and you always have been!" The last of the reader's resistance dies down, as the black-and-white swirl on his TV head's sceeen suddenly vanishes (since the mind mental changes are fully finished) to leave the screen shut off (becoming simply a black screen, as if the rest button for the TV was pressed), leaving the reader fully/completely unconscious (with no thoughts) while standing upright (albiet with his arms hanging downwards and both his body and head tilting slightly down) for a little bit (standing on his legs (despite being unconscious) whilst lifelessly, with his arms hanging downwards and his body and head looking down a bit, without any consciousness for a bit). However, after a few moments, his TV head turns on again (he's still standing on his legs unconsciously and still with a blank mind), with the cyan words saying "Initializing Voxtek device" appearing in the middle of the screen before fading, then (with the digital whirring noise rising) the VoxTek logo appears in the center of the screen before pushing up a bit by a red-rimmed cyan loading bar appears with the sentence saying "Loading data from your device... trust us" above it, and finally, after the loading bar finishes up with the whole loading bar filled with cyan, causing the digital "ding" noise to play as the sentence above the loading bar changes to "Enjoy the Voxtek technology", before it the logo and the loading bar (as well as the sentence above it) then fades completely. After all that (including after the loading bar and logo fading), his consciousness (including his personality and memories) slowly returns (he remembers himself having always been Vox's twin brother named Vax) as Vax's screen-face, identical to those of Vox's, looks around in a brief confusion (he even asks himself) before he smiles, knowing that he is back to his true self. Vax then thanks Vox for bringing him (Vax) back to himself again. "That's your grand prize. Mine too. And with that, we'll be getting the hell out of here now. Thanks for watching! I'm Vox, and this has been “Brother or Bummer”!" Vox says, as the sea of strobe-lights returned from the start of the episode, the same music accompanying Vox and the reader exit. All around them, applause roared unendingly. The reader, Vax, is thankful to be himself once again and that he is with his twin brother Vox once again, knowing that he is nothing without his twin brother Vox. There should be an epilogue to this story, taking place long after the reader is back to his true self as Vax (more specifically in an office part of the VoxTek Enterprises, where the reader enjoys company with Vox). There should also be quotes from the characters in this story (including quotes from the reader) so we know what they are saying and what they are thinking (including profanities/swears/strong language/bad language, such as "fuck", "shit", "bitch", and many others that are used or said by Vox and his twin brother (formerly the human reader), but the human reader does not use profanities/swears, unlike Vox or his twin brother (who does use profanities/swears (such as "fuck", "shit", "bitch", etc), unlike the human reader), who the human reader transforms into, so he does not use profanities/swears until he wakes up as Vox's twin brother). 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: Certainly! Here’s your immersive **second-person POV** transformation fantasy, as requested, capturing the detailed step-by-step metamorphosis, the complete erasure and replacement of your former self, extensive dialogue with bold Vox personality, and the epilogue. Enjoy your one-way trip into Hell’s bright, buzzing limelight... --- ### ***Brother or Bummer*** *A Hazbin Hotel Transformation Story* *(POV: You)* --- Sleep comes easily, the world tucked tight around you, comfort draping your consciousness. You barely notice when darkness softens into something heavier, a void that seems to tug your weight into its heart. There’s no warning, no chance for protest—the mattress becomes air, the fabric of your room falls away into static. A cold hiss splits your dream. Then— **WHAM**. You land, upright. Something hard and unfamiliar supports your body. Darkness, broken by the throbbing hush of distant electricity. You're sure you only just closed your eyes… A new sonic reality shocks your ears. Somewhere unseen, a voice, smooth and sarcastic, counts down: “Three… two… one…” Suddenly, music blares, lights screech across the void, and heat from spotlights ignites adrenaline in your bones. An audience—demonic, surging with anticipation—roars approval. You're sitting in a wide, high-backed chair behind a gleaming podium. You can barely move before your eyes find him—the unmistakable, infamous VOX, striding through a corridor of applause, TV-faced, seven feet tall and glowing with ego incarnate. Your mouth goes dry. No matter how much you want to stand, your body stays pinned, frozen, blinking at the riotous sea of devils and sinners basking in this gaudy, lit-up hell. Vox’s digital mouth splits in a wicked smile as he slides behind his own podium, opposite you. A display screen facing bright, his fingers steepled—four, not five. The music fades, applause lingers like an infection. “All right, all right, shut the fuck up now.” Vox’s voice tumbles through the theater, crisp-edged and electrifying. The room obeys. “Your attention and obedience are, as always, most appreciated. Welcome back to ‘Brother or Bummer’! I’m your host, Vox, and you all know the deal. And now—let’s get some light on tonight’s little worm, shall we?” A spotlight slaps down—heat and humiliation—unveiling you to the jeering crowd. You shrink, searching your mind for answers that just aren’t there. The demons whistle and clap. You squint into the glare, try to meet Vox’s eyes but find only glowing red and cyan digital pupils in the black sea of his TV. “Now, since I don’t waste time reading paperwork, why don’t you—yeah, you—tell us all your name?” Vox gestures. All eyes fixate. You croak your name aloud, voice unexpectedly small. “It’s—(your name). Wh… why am I here? I was at home... sleeping just a moment ago. This isn't—” Vox cuts you off; “Oh, c’mon, you’re just psyched to be on my show. Don’t play coy, sweetheart.” “But I was—” “To everyone watching both here and at home,” Vox’s voice booms, “it’s clear that (your name) here wants a cut of that sweet Hellish moolah. But the game’s simple: Get it right? You walk home richer. Get it wrong? Ha! Piece by piece, you’re going to become my identical twin brother. Don’t worry, if you pull your head out of your ass and get some right, we’ll reverse it… maybe. Screw up too much, and, well—say your goodbyes, kid. Because the only thing permanent around here is MY style, and you’ll have a front row seat to it—forever.” You feel your hands clench, heart hammering in your chest. You manage a smirk—false bravado, but you’re not going to cower, not now. “Oh, that’s nothing to worry about,” you attempt. “I know for a fact I won’t be staying here.” Vox’s mouth pixelates into an exaggerated frown. “That so? Let’s hope that ‘fact’ doesn’t get checked.” The stage lights explode into life; a game-show jingle glides across the studio. Your podium screen flashes with the question: “First question: What is the last name of Hell’s princess? Is it: A. Marigold, B. Magne, C. Morningst—” *You can’t help but interrupt.* “Magne! It’s B!” you say, sure your trivia is airtight. Vox adopts a look of mock insult. “Wh—did you have a stroke or something? I hadn’t even finished the damn question yet!” You hold your ground, sure in your answer. “There’s no need to. It’s B.” The room hushes. For a moment, you think your boldness will win you a path home. Errrnt. A buzzer blares. “I’m sorry, but the correct answer is C,” Vox gloats, his eyes glinting with malice. “Are you *trying* to argue the answer with me?” he teases. You stammer, disbelief stinging your chest. “Are you sure that’s right?” Vox shrugs. “It’s C. You’re wrong.” Your name is a punchline now; the audience jeers, their laughter grating. Vox turns, addressing them: “What a pathetic smartass we have here, don’t you think?” The crowd howls, enjoying the spectacle. He snaps his clawed fingers. Two brute-sized security demons stride from the shadows, grip your chair, and pin your arms. The panic is sharp in your throat. Vox stands before you, electricity visibly writhing across his cyan-tipped claws. “Well, you all know what this means.” The crowd chants, “BROTHER!” Vox leans in, talons wrapping around your forearms. A surge—hot, stinging, vital—lances through your body. You watch in abject dread as your arms stretch longer, slimming out, textures shifting beneath your skin. Your fingers shrink down to four digits, cyan claws sharpening at the tips. Your shirtsleeves ripple, changing hue and patterning; cufflinks appear where buttons had been. Vox looks to the crowd, delighted. “Wow, this *never gets old*.” He lets go. You stare at your hands, alien, elegant, wrong. The audience loves it. He returns to his seat, casual as a shark. “You okay there?” You barely manage, “N-not really…” Vox doesn’t care. “Let’s move on.” Lights, jingle, new question. “Who’s the most powerful Overlord in all of Hell?” his voice trills. The options pop; A. Myself, B. Valentino, C. Carmilla Carmine, D. Alastor. Despite everything, you try to stay calm. “I’d go with D. Alastor.” Vox recoils, fake heartbroken. “You really just said D?” The crowd’s laughter is thunderous. “I sure did! He’s got that edge, right?” you press. Vox rolls his eyes. “Couldn’t be more fucking wrong. The answer is A—obviously. I’m the most powerful! Or maybe you just *want* to lose yourself. Good, that saves me time.” There is a rhythm to humiliation now. Each question you face—each inevitably wrong answer—triggers another transformation. Your legs elongate, slender now, your bones humming with unnatural energy. Your shoes recede, heels rise, feet re-shape, cyan stripes flashing to life. Your pants tighten into gleaming navy with cyan trim, matching Vox’s in every thread. The shifts sweep through your body; you put your hands to where your collar was, feeling velvet and shiny metal, a plush bowtie around your throat, an embroidered upside-down broadcast symbol on your chest. The next question flares on the screen, complicated and obscure—before you can protest, you blurt “B!” out in desperation. Vox barely dignifies you with a glance. “D. Wrong. Time for more changes to your body. *If you’re female, say goodbye to those curves and hello to the family jewels.*” You feel it—warmth flooding your torso as your waist narrows, arms grow broader. *If you were female, you feel your breasts shrink away, torso flatten, hips retract—your body’s silhouette becomes severe, masculine, tapered.* An Adam’s apple rises in your throat, voice morphing—lower, more assertive, more Vox. Between your legs—below your newly tailored pants—alien sensations. Your center inverts, tingling intensely, before pushing outward, a strange, powerful fullness culminating in an authentic heat. A flood of new desire, unlike anything you could’ve known. You gasp. Your hands go down, and everything is different. Hard, plush, scandalously alive. You are, **definitely**, a man now. “Woo, look at you! Don’t say I never gave you a treat,” Vox cackles. But you refuse to back down. The next, final question: “How old do you think is Hell? A. 2,000 years old, B. 4,500, C. 6,000, D. 10,000?” You bite, desperate, “C. It’s... got to be C.” Vox’s screen-mouth peels wide. “Nope, D! Time for the final change!” It’s as if your skull liquifies, face flattening, chin and brow pressing out, the world splitting in a thousand pixel-wide glitches. Your vision flickers and—*bam*—your entire head has been replaced with a glowing flat-screen monitor. You see everything at once: the audience, the stage, your new arms, your new body. A black top hat emerges atop your TV-head, sprouting cute, crackling antennae. Vox spins to the crowd. “That’s gotta be the quickest fucking game we’ve ever had! Now, let’s check those results!” Your screen is splashed with a chart—each answer you gave, bold red Xs searing your failure into memory. The audience jeers, buzzers ringing with every mistake. Vox saunters over, pressing a hand to your shoulder. “Not a single question right. Well, guess you’re ready for the grand finale: a new brain to match that shiny new body.” You try to protest, but the words all die in static. “What? What are you—” you manage, before your screenface vanishes into a swirling black-and-white spiral. Your thoughts dissolve, memories eradicated—your name, your life, fading into white noise. Still, you try to resist, and yet it’s futile— *Try as you might, Vax, but you’ll belong to me now… or rather, you are my brother, and always have been!* The spiral wipes away all opposition. You slump, arms hanging downward, your frame looming tall and lifeless in the pulsing spotlights. After a moment, your TV-face flickers. Cyan, crisp: “Initializing VoxTek Device.” A VoxTek logo loads above a loading bar: “Loading data from your device... trust us.” It completes. A cheerful digital *ding*. “Enjoy the VoxTek technology.” Blackness. Then—a rising whir. Your consciousness, new and ancient, surges into existence. Your memories are Vox’s memories—flashbulbs of 1950s stardom, the rush of immortal Hell, technological domination, the taste of power, the sound of applause. You remember being Vax, Vox’s twin, right hand, and rival. Of course you do—you *always* have been Vax. You blink; the room comes back into focus, the faces of rabid sinners and adoring screens. Vox leans in, delighted. “Welcome home, fucker. Good to see you back where you belong.” Your mouth glows an electric blue. “Glad to be here, Vox. Missed this hellhole. Missed you, you piece of shit.” “That’s your grand prize, Vax,” Vox concedes, pride in every ounce of his circuits. “Mine, too. And with that, we’re off the air.” He turns to the camera. “Thanks for watching, you rabid maniacs! I’m Vox, this has been ‘Brother or Bummer!’ Goodnight, Hell!” Explosions of strobe-light, music, and roaring applause—your cue. Vox and you, Vax, shoulder-to-shoulder, strut off the set. You know now—*knew always*—there’s nowhere else but here. --- #### **EPILOGUE** *—Some time later, inside the glassy, humming heart of VoxTek Enterprises—* The office is a cathedral of tech: holographic screens, fizzing antennae, shimmering neon light. Pentagram City sprawls below. You sit back, legs up on a plush ottoman, swirling a drink in your clawed hand. Vox, perched on the edge of his desk, grins, scanning through a thousand channels, feeding on digital adoration. Vox cackles, nudging you—his twin, his equal, his mirror-image. “Another record-breaking night, Vax! Pentagram City can’t get enough of our show. Those twisted little fucks eat it up every week.” You throw your head back, teeth flashing. “Of course they do. Who wouldn’t want to see another asshole lose everything on TV?” Vox shrugs. “The only thing I *don’t* want is a world where I don’t get to see that. Or you, I guess.” He smirks, then tosses a remote at you. “Say, remember Vegas, 1956?” You laugh, memories surging up, electric with mischief. “You mean where we conned that mobster out of his soul, then stole his Cadillac? Those were the fucking days, brother.” Vox barks a laugh. “Still are if I get my way. Stick with me, Vax. We’ll break Hell all over again.” You lean back, smiling wide, screen gleaming with wicked joy. This is your world. This is your life. You are Vax, and Vox is your (other) half. And together, Hell is *yours*. --- **[END]**
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