You never liked unsettling dreams, especially not the ones in which the world rots unfamiliar, details quietly wrong—the clock’s hands spinning backwards, your voice coming out as radio static, your friend (or sibling) beside you looking just as terrified. But nothing could have prepared you for the moment when you are wrenched awake—not in your bed, but in an alien, crimson-lit street, your senses prickled by the hum of infernal energy, a place that looks like every sketch of "Hell" you’ve ever seen stitched together—and for a moment you panic, because you can tell it’s real.
Beside you, your friend (or sibling) stares rigidly, eyes dilated and mouth hanging open in disbelief.
"Is this..." you begin, but the air is split by laughter. It is a sound you’ve heard before—on episodes, in memes, echoing through web pages: the raucous, tinny cackle of Alastor, the Radio Demon. But the voice isn’t coming from a screen or speaker. He is standing there before you. Slender as a stiletto, crimson in a pinstripe suit, wide-mouthed, eyes glowing with perilous good cheer.
"My, my! I do so love meeting new fans in person," he croons. "Though I must admit—I’m a bit sick and tired of all the amateurish fantasies — the ones where I, in all my radiant glory, am reduced to something... less. A car! An ant queen! A *pregnant* human woman! Oh, spare me. It’s absolutely dreadful, darlings, so I thought it’d be most instructive if *you* experienced transformation for yourselves. After all, it’s only fair!"
You and your companion recoil, and you see him snap his fingers, a sound like a snapped radio dial. Black and scarlet magic arcs through the air toward you both, curling like static-charged fog.
You try to run, but shadows snap around your ankles, tugging you down. Your friend screams as the energy engulfs both of you. The world warps and dances—the sound of tuning radios, flickering static, a buzz rushing over your skin—
**CHANGE:**
Heat sears your bones; your vision tunnels. Your flesh pinches and stretches, and you are aware in nauseating clarity of your body unraveling and rewinding like magnetic tape.
Your height snaps up—bones stretching, joints creaking, organs shifting until you cast new, towering shadows. Your torso and limbs slim down impossibly, until you feel hollow-boned, hands and feet twisted, gripping at the ground with clawed, four-fingered hands. You flinch. Where did your pinky go? Your *friend* staggers beside you, their body cracking and stretching in a mirror of your own.
Your skin blanches—beige and pale, then wrist to elbow and knee to ankle, it blushes gray and dark, fingers and toes a demonic, blood-tinged red. Your feet reshape with each bone’s pop, toes congealing into hoof-like points.
Your face contorts—cheekbones climbing, jaw stretching. The skin at the corners of your lips tugs, then splits—painless, but freakish—your mouth extending, until a wide, unbreakable smile is sliced into your face, full of curving, yellowed teeth. You try to close your lips, but the grin is fixed, every muscle rigid, a clown’s cruelty burnt into flesh.
*"Why... why can't I frown? Why aren't you letting me stop smiling?"* you choke out, only the sensation isn’t even your own voice: it’s pouring out of you, an old radio’s clipped, crackling half-tone, unerringly cheerful, undeniably *his*.
Your friend’s eyes are wide and wild. They raise their own hands—now gloved, fingers tipped in glassy red, knuckles unfamiliar—and press the corners of their mouth, only to realize the same: the grin will not budge. "Please—I want to stop. Why can't I stop smiling?" Your natural voice is gone, replaced by awful, buoyant static—twinned with your companion’s.
Alastor looms closer, his own ghastly grin splitting impossibly wide. "It’s your nature, my dear brothers! What’s the world without a proper smile, hmmm?"
The hair on your head tingles, follicles surging and burning as it bubbles up, growing into a pinkish-red bob, black-tipped, sharp as flame. Two tufts sprout, deer-like, above your brow, and antlers strain from your skull—small at first, then larger when you shift your head. Your eyes prickle as something is poured in, the whites bleeding crimson, irises igniting bright red, pupils dwindling to fine, black points.
Clothes crinkle and vanish, replaced instantly by layers of pinstripe, a long ragged coat swirling down your back, scarlet and elegant; shirt beneath stamped with a black cross, bow tie snapping into place at your throat. Monocle perched on your eye—a strange new sense tickles through—your vision shifting, rimmed in oval darkness. Pants slither smooth against suddenly too-long legs, cuffs bright red. On your soles, emblems—red deer hoofprints—emboss the bottom of slick black boots.
(If you were a woman, the pain is sharper—breasts wither into your chest, your throat suddenly raw as it thickens, an Adam's apple jutting forward. Your insides squirm and invert, womanhood folding in and out as new male parts descend at your crotch; a final, alien fullness snapping into place. All gone in an instant—the old sensations replaced by something eternally, simply *male.* Your voice deepens into the same masculine, radio-jazzed tone.)
Your friend’s eyes roll as his mind knocks under the strain, his (or her, once) body now identical to yours—tall, slim, menacing, all grins and deerlike grace.
You try to scream for help, to shout your old name, but it’s vanished, unreachable. A fog of static clogs your thoughts—your own memories violently yanked back, new names, faces, and *memories* gushing in with a rapacious hunger. You want to resist. You try to remember your mother—her scent, her lullabies, your favorite book, your laugh—but it’s drowned out by jazz records, old Creole lullabies, the recipe for jambalaya, a mother’s cooking both gentle and spectral. The smell of stewed venison. The static intensifies.
**"No! No—don't—I'm not Alastor!"** you try to shout, but something else in you begins to chuckle through the words, smooth and warm as bourbon.
Flashes rise: the three of you—identical, but for your similar, distinct names—gleeful, hungry for sensation. You remember shows, the thrill of an audience, the meaty scent of the 1920s airwaves. A knife’s quick flickering as you spill someone else’s blood—smiling, always smiling, beside your brothers. The crash of 1929, the spinning vinyl, the echoing applause. Death—quick—gunshots, a club, a whiff of blood and gasoline, raining through the gates of Hell with your brothers laughing at your heels.
It *hurts.* Your thoughts twist, but you can’t help yourself. You hear Alastor’s voice—*your* own voice—singing through your mind:
"You see, gentlemen, you are simply waking from a most peculiar dream. You were, and always shall be, my twin brothers! Come, now, it’s time to claim one's due!"
Your old life slips—like a poorly-recorded broadcast, it fades, and you *laugh*—not out of amusement, but because you *cannot* do anything else.
**NOW:**
You stand—no longer yourself. No longer *anyone* but Alastor’s twin, and he clasps you both on the shoulders, his smile wide as ever.
"Welcome home, fellas."
You—no, your new name, so close to his—turn, glancing knowingly at your other brother, who returns the same wide, endless smile.
---
## **EPILOGUE: Hazbin Hotel**
Inside Hazbin Hotel, the pitch and play of the demonic air has changed forever. Your senses are sharper; the world alive with gossip, drama, and chaos just waiting to be teased.
Alastor stands at the reception desk, flanked by his two identical brothers—you and the other, each with names that echo his but are different enough, all clad in red, wide grins burning under glowing eyes.
Charlie beams, ever-hopeful, almost trembling with delight. "Alastor! Who are your—uh—brothers? You never said you had siblings!"
Alastor places a gloved hand on your shoulder. You introduce yourself with a bow; your name is almost "Alaster"—but not quite—easily mistaken for his, yet different, and your other brother does the same, perhaps "Alistor"—distinct, unmistakable, yet inseparable.
"Charlie, meet my talented twin brothers," Alastor intones. "Alistor, Alaster—we’re the Radio Demons, at your service! We’ll be assisting you with your charming little project. For *our* amusement, of course!"
Vaggie’s eyes narrow, suspicious. "Great. Just what we needed—*three* of you. Like one wasn't manipulative enough."
Angel Dust, spidery fingers twitching, darts close with a leering grin, gawking at the trio. "Okay, *I* want twins! Hell, triplets! C’mon, Husk—you think I could pull off this look?"
Husk groans, surrounded, his feathered wings drooping. "No way. One’s bad enough. But now—my soul’s owned by all three of you! This is *hell*, I swear."
Niffty bounces up, practically climbing a curtain. "Ohhh! Three Mr. Grins! This is gonna be fun! Can I help you clean your coats? What about making matching bowties? Oh—oh—can I try on your monocles?"
The three of you share that immutable smile—each of you brings out a cane, microphone crackling to life, voices blending like a triumphant jazz trio, radiating through the hotel.
You remember **nothing** of being human. This life—this immortality, horror and fun, cruelty and elegance—is *truth*. Charlie laughs nervously, but you can see the curiosity sparkling behind her eyes—she loves a good show.
Vaggie mutters, "Just don’t do anything to upset Charlie—or we’ll have words."
Alastor, ever charming, shoulders back and crooked grin wider than ever, gestures grandly to the air: "What is life without a little radio drama, eh, my dear brothers?"
You and your new twin exchange dandyish bows, crimson eyes glowing, voices harmonized in perfectly-tuned 1920s cadence:
"In Hell, darling, three’s always a crowd—especially when they’re all Radio Demons!"
The air crackles with laughter and radio static as the show begins—your show, the only one you’ve ever known.
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.
Prompt: Write a POV second-person transformation story of a human reader and his/her also-human friend or human sibling completely turning into entirely-identical clones of Alastor (a character, voiced by Amir Talai, from an adults cartoon/animated series Hazbin Hotel), complete with gender change (if either the reader and/or friend/sibling is a female, their breasts vanish as their throat gains an Adam's apple to give them a more masculine voice identical to Alastor and their female privates (vagina, ovaries, and uterus) from their crotch/nether region invert itself and pushes out into male private parts (a penis and testicles); however, this is optional and only if either the reader and/or friend/sibling is female before the transformation), voice change (the reader's and his/her friend's/sibling's voice becoming identical to Alastor's voice), instant clothes change (the reader's and his/her friend's/sibling's clothes instantly turning into Alastor's outfit), 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 and his/her friend's/sibling's personalities and memories being permanently and completely replaced with Alastor's personality and memories, despite the reader's and his/her friend's/sibling's best efforts of fighting off the new personality and memories, making them completely forget all about their past selves and remember that they always had been twin brothers of Alastor the Radio Demon (even as human Alastor's twin brothers before their deaths at the same time in 1933 and their immediate arrival in Hell as the Radio Demons), even remembering that they share the similar names to Alastor (but completely distinct from Alastor's name), which is their real/true selves (unlike their false previous selves, which were just daydreams)). For Alastor's appearance (after the reader and his/her friend/sibling turned into his clones), 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), 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 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 and his/her friend's/sibling's real life, which Alastor genuinely views as distasteful (since he does not want to transform against his will). So to teach the reader and his/her friend or sibling a lesson, Alastor (by some supernatural means) briefly left the series' Hell and into the real life Earth to kidnap both the reader and friend/sibling and sent them to the world of Hazbin Hotel before he uses supernatural black magic at both of them which turned them into his clones, thus turning both the reader and his/her friend or sibling into Alastor's identical twin brothers (both the reader and his/her friend/sibling notices that their grins were now unnaturally wide and permanent, both of them try to push their grins down with their own hands/fingers to get rid of the smiles in order to frown or show fear but they cannot due to making emotions other than smiling were completely impossible (they even asks in horror on why can't they stop smiling, before Alastor tells both of them that it is their nature to smile), both the reader and his/her friend/sibling also tries to fight those new memories and personality of Alastor flooding their heads, they both are horrified and not wanting to be completely transformed in either body or mind, but are fighting a losing battle, and Alastor tells both of them that this is their true selves and they are waking up from their false human dreams, making both the reader and his/her friend/sibling truly and fully believe in Alastor and realizes that they both had always been Alastors alongside the original Alastor, having been born as humans from the same human parents, enjoying their mother's cooking and their favorite food jambalaya, the trio of Alastors being radio show hosts and serial killers on Earth before the three of them were killed, three 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, three Alastor twins want to help Charlie run the redemption hotel "Hazbin Hotel", albeit for their own amusement), and the reader's and his/her friend's sibling's minds have also been completely replaced with Alastor's mind, before original Alastor welcomes his twin brothers (the reader and his other definite sibling (formerly the reader's human friend/sibling)) back home. In the epilogue, the three Radio Demon twins (the original one, named Alastor, and his twins (who were once the human reader and his/her friend/sibling), having names similar to Alastor's name but different from Alastor's to help distinguish both Alastor and his twin brothers from each other by similar but different names) are in the Hazbin Hotel, with Alastor introducing Charlie Morningstar his brothers (even revealing his brothers' names) as Alastor and his identical twin brothers help Charlie with her redemption hotel ("Hazbin Hotel"), while also interacting with Vaggie (Charlie's girlfriend, who doesn't trust Alastor or his twin brothers, while Charlie trusts all three 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 clones or identical twin brothers 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 two of Alastor's twin brothers (since Alastor owning his soul was bad enough, but now his soul is owned by Alastor and both of his twin brothers)), 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: You never liked unsettling dreams, especially not the ones in which the world rots unfamiliar, details quietly wrong—the clock’s hands spinning backwards, your voice coming out as radio static, your friend (or sibling) beside you looking just as terrified. But nothing could have prepared you for the moment when you are wrenched awake—not in your bed, but in an alien, crimson-lit street, your senses prickled by the hum of infernal energy, a place that looks like every sketch of "Hell" you’ve ever seen stitched together—and for a moment you panic, because you can tell it’s real. Beside you, your friend (or sibling) stares rigidly, eyes dilated and mouth hanging open in disbelief. "Is this..." you begin, but the air is split by laughter. It is a sound you’ve heard before—on episodes, in memes, echoing through web pages: the raucous, tinny cackle of Alastor, the Radio Demon. But the voice isn’t coming from a screen or speaker. He is standing there before you. Slender as a stiletto, crimson in a pinstripe suit, wide-mouthed, eyes glowing with perilous good cheer. "My, my! I do so love meeting new fans in person," he croons. "Though I must admit—I’m a bit sick and tired of all the amateurish fantasies — the ones where I, in all my radiant glory, am reduced to something... less. A car! An ant queen! A *pregnant* human woman! Oh, spare me. It’s absolutely dreadful, darlings, so I thought it’d be most instructive if *you* experienced transformation for yourselves. After all, it’s only fair!" You and your companion recoil, and you see him snap his fingers, a sound like a snapped radio dial. Black and scarlet magic arcs through the air toward you both, curling like static-charged fog. You try to run, but shadows snap around your ankles, tugging you down. Your friend screams as the energy engulfs both of you. The world warps and dances—the sound of tuning radios, flickering static, a buzz rushing over your skin— **CHANGE:** Heat sears your bones; your vision tunnels. Your flesh pinches and stretches, and you are aware in nauseating clarity of your body unraveling and rewinding like magnetic tape. Your height snaps up—bones stretching, joints creaking, organs shifting until you cast new, towering shadows. Your torso and limbs slim down impossibly, until you feel hollow-boned, hands and feet twisted, gripping at the ground with clawed, four-fingered hands. You flinch. Where did your pinky go? Your *friend* staggers beside you, their body cracking and stretching in a mirror of your own. Your skin blanches—beige and pale, then wrist to elbow and knee to ankle, it blushes gray and dark, fingers and toes a demonic, blood-tinged red. Your feet reshape with each bone’s pop, toes congealing into hoof-like points. Your face contorts—cheekbones climbing, jaw stretching. The skin at the corners of your lips tugs, then splits—painless, but freakish—your mouth extending, until a wide, unbreakable smile is sliced into your face, full of curving, yellowed teeth. You try to close your lips, but the grin is fixed, every muscle rigid, a clown’s cruelty burnt into flesh. *"Why... why can't I frown? Why aren't you letting me stop smiling?"* you choke out, only the sensation isn’t even your own voice: it’s pouring out of you, an old radio’s clipped, crackling half-tone, unerringly cheerful, undeniably *his*. Your friend’s eyes are wide and wild. They raise their own hands—now gloved, fingers tipped in glassy red, knuckles unfamiliar—and press the corners of their mouth, only to realize the same: the grin will not budge. "Please—I want to stop. Why can't I stop smiling?" Your natural voice is gone, replaced by awful, buoyant static—twinned with your companion’s. Alastor looms closer, his own ghastly grin splitting impossibly wide. "It’s your nature, my dear brothers! What’s the world without a proper smile, hmmm?" The hair on your head tingles, follicles surging and burning as it bubbles up, growing into a pinkish-red bob, black-tipped, sharp as flame. Two tufts sprout, deer-like, above your brow, and antlers strain from your skull—small at first, then larger when you shift your head. Your eyes prickle as something is poured in, the whites bleeding crimson, irises igniting bright red, pupils dwindling to fine, black points. Clothes crinkle and vanish, replaced instantly by layers of pinstripe, a long ragged coat swirling down your back, scarlet and elegant; shirt beneath stamped with a black cross, bow tie snapping into place at your throat. Monocle perched on your eye—a strange new sense tickles through—your vision shifting, rimmed in oval darkness. Pants slither smooth against suddenly too-long legs, cuffs bright red. On your soles, emblems—red deer hoofprints—emboss the bottom of slick black boots. (If you were a woman, the pain is sharper—breasts wither into your chest, your throat suddenly raw as it thickens, an Adam's apple jutting forward. Your insides squirm and invert, womanhood folding in and out as new male parts descend at your crotch; a final, alien fullness snapping into place. All gone in an instant—the old sensations replaced by something eternally, simply *male.* Your voice deepens into the same masculine, radio-jazzed tone.) Your friend’s eyes roll as his mind knocks under the strain, his (or her, once) body now identical to yours—tall, slim, menacing, all grins and deerlike grace. You try to scream for help, to shout your old name, but it’s vanished, unreachable. A fog of static clogs your thoughts—your own memories violently yanked back, new names, faces, and *memories* gushing in with a rapacious hunger. You want to resist. You try to remember your mother—her scent, her lullabies, your favorite book, your laugh—but it’s drowned out by jazz records, old Creole lullabies, the recipe for jambalaya, a mother’s cooking both gentle and spectral. The smell of stewed venison. The static intensifies. **"No! No—don't—I'm not Alastor!"** you try to shout, but something else in you begins to chuckle through the words, smooth and warm as bourbon. Flashes rise: the three of you—identical, but for your similar, distinct names—gleeful, hungry for sensation. You remember shows, the thrill of an audience, the meaty scent of the 1920s airwaves. A knife’s quick flickering as you spill someone else’s blood—smiling, always smiling, beside your brothers. The crash of 1929, the spinning vinyl, the echoing applause. Death—quick—gunshots, a club, a whiff of blood and gasoline, raining through the gates of Hell with your brothers laughing at your heels. It *hurts.* Your thoughts twist, but you can’t help yourself. You hear Alastor’s voice—*your* own voice—singing through your mind: "You see, gentlemen, you are simply waking from a most peculiar dream. You were, and always shall be, my twin brothers! Come, now, it’s time to claim one's due!" Your old life slips—like a poorly-recorded broadcast, it fades, and you *laugh*—not out of amusement, but because you *cannot* do anything else. **NOW:** You stand—no longer yourself. No longer *anyone* but Alastor’s twin, and he clasps you both on the shoulders, his smile wide as ever. "Welcome home, fellas." You—no, your new name, so close to his—turn, glancing knowingly at your other brother, who returns the same wide, endless smile. --- ## **EPILOGUE: Hazbin Hotel** Inside Hazbin Hotel, the pitch and play of the demonic air has changed forever. Your senses are sharper; the world alive with gossip, drama, and chaos just waiting to be teased. Alastor stands at the reception desk, flanked by his two identical brothers—you and the other, each with names that echo his but are different enough, all clad in red, wide grins burning under glowing eyes. Charlie beams, ever-hopeful, almost trembling with delight. "Alastor! Who are your—uh—brothers? You never said you had siblings!" Alastor places a gloved hand on your shoulder. You introduce yourself with a bow; your name is almost "Alaster"—but not quite—easily mistaken for his, yet different, and your other brother does the same, perhaps "Alistor"—distinct, unmistakable, yet inseparable. "Charlie, meet my talented twin brothers," Alastor intones. "Alistor, Alaster—we’re the Radio Demons, at your service! We’ll be assisting you with your charming little project. For *our* amusement, of course!" Vaggie’s eyes narrow, suspicious. "Great. Just what we needed—*three* of you. Like one wasn't manipulative enough." Angel Dust, spidery fingers twitching, darts close with a leering grin, gawking at the trio. "Okay, *I* want twins! Hell, triplets! C’mon, Husk—you think I could pull off this look?" Husk groans, surrounded, his feathered wings drooping. "No way. One’s bad enough. But now—my soul’s owned by all three of you! This is *hell*, I swear." Niffty bounces up, practically climbing a curtain. "Ohhh! Three Mr. Grins! This is gonna be fun! Can I help you clean your coats? What about making matching bowties? Oh—oh—can I try on your monocles?" The three of you share that immutable smile—each of you brings out a cane, microphone crackling to life, voices blending like a triumphant jazz trio, radiating through the hotel. You remember **nothing** of being human. This life—this immortality, horror and fun, cruelty and elegance—is *truth*. Charlie laughs nervously, but you can see the curiosity sparkling behind her eyes—she loves a good show. Vaggie mutters, "Just don’t do anything to upset Charlie—or we’ll have words." Alastor, ever charming, shoulders back and crooked grin wider than ever, gestures grandly to the air: "What is life without a little radio drama, eh, my dear brothers?" You and your new twin exchange dandyish bows, crimson eyes glowing, voices harmonized in perfectly-tuned 1920s cadence: "In Hell, darling, three’s always a crowd—especially when they’re all Radio Demons!" The air crackles with laughter and radio static as the show begins—your show, the only one you’ve ever known.
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