Your mind races. The world is wrong.
You were just sitting at home with your friend—Chris, or was it Emily, or maybe your brother—no, you can’t even remember who it was, not now. Everything is fuzzy, colors smeared, your face tingling. One moment you were scrolling through stories and fan art—more transformations, more impossible things for Alastor the Radio Demon—and laughing at the wild scenarios people came up with. Then, a shadow pooled under your chair, swallowing you and your companion whole.
You hit the ground with a crackling echo of static and something *impossible* splinters through your vision: red, static-choked, and ringed with the blinding bright of an old-time broadcasting sign. In front of you—radio microphone cane in hand, razor-sharp teeth bared in a perpetual, crescent-moon smile—stands Alastor himself.
He tips his head, those gleaming radio-dial eyes fixed on you and your companion. “Oh, how delightful! You *do* look positively confused. Come now, you’ve had your fun with all those stories, haven’t you? All those… delightful fantasies at my expense.” His voice sounds like jazz on a scratchy vinyl—warm but with teeth.
Chris (or Emily, or your friend or sibling—you’re not even sure anymore) yelps, grabbing your arm. “What the *hell*? Where are we? That’s— That’s—”
Alastor interrupts with a snap of his fingers, and the world *cracks.* The floor beneath floods crimson. You stumble, clutching at your face, your bones aching, skin prickling.
A too-wide smile pulls itself up and up and up until your cheeks hurt—then they stop hurting, because your face is all wrong.
You gape in a panicked grin, hands fluttering to your cheeks. They’re unfamiliar—thin, pale, four-fingered, and ending in red claws. You try to push your lips down, try with all your newly elongated strength to force the smile off your face, but it only stretches wider, revealing too many sharp, pointed teeth—permanently set in that damned, unstoppable rictus.
“Wh-why can't I—my face—” your voice splits, static-laced, glitching between terror and a strange musical amusement, echoing with a deep, vintage tone that’s not your own. You try to scream, but the sound that escapes is a laugh, bubbling and radiosmooth. Beside you, your friend mirrors every move—a perfect twin, their old face gone, replaced by an identical uncanny smile and wild, undercut hair crowned with antlers.
Alastor folds his hands, polite, that monstrous smile never wavering. “Ah, don’t fight it. That’s simply your nature, now! Does it feel familiar? Isn’t it so much more… *natural* to smile?”
You try, desperately, to remember yourself—your human name, your old life, your quirks, your *family*. Instead, a syrupy, static-heavy flood of memories pours into your mind, replacing hope with a kind of radio-tuned certitude. You *know* the taste of jambalaya, the way your mother would call for you and your twin brothers for dinner after a good day’s broadcast at the radio station—your shared little secret beneath the velvet curtains of the Jazz Age, your appetite for more than just food.
Your body warps and stretches, bones grinding, growing—seven feet tall, impossibly slender but broad of shoulder. Your companion echoes every detail, becoming your *identical twin*, even as you sense their own resistance crumbling in the static. If you were once female, your chest contracts—breasts vanishing, softened curves sharpening into masculine lines, and a deep ache in your core as your voice cracks down into a rich, radio-smooth baritone identical to Alastor’s. If your companion was female, you see the same horror, the same changes overtaking her—now him—until there is no distinction; only more of the same grinning, crimson-haired face.
Clothes unravel and reform in a shower of red and black—pinstriped coats, monocle, bowtie neatly knotted, gloves at your too-thin wrists. You glance down—your feet are hooved, your fingers are tipped in red claws, your slender arms fading to dark gray, almost insubstantial. And you know, *know*, this is right. This is true. There is no fighting it. Every human memory is sticky, distant—easily written off as a whimsical, amusing daydream.
You look at your twin and you *know* his name, as plain as your own: Aelestor. Yours… Alistor. Or something close. Names so close to Alastor’s that anyone might confuse you, but you know the difference. You are not the interloper; you never were.
Alastor claps, delighted. “See? There now! Welcome home, brothers. It’s been *ages* since we’ve all seen eye to eye! Or radio to radio, hm?” He laughs, a chorus of static-choked joy. “Now, let’s not keep the dear hotel waiting. We’ve got plenty of *work* to do.”
You and your twin—your real twin—lunge to follow, your legs unnaturally graceful, your heads filled with memories of radio shows, laughter, double-dealings in shadow-cloaked streets, and the last-day gunshots of 1933.
---
**Epilogue:**
The Hazbin Hotel fizzes at the corners of your vision—more real than anyplace you’ve ever been. The smell of brimstone, old wood, and someone's overboiled teapot:
Alastor struts at the head, gesturing grandly. “Ms. Charlie, allow me to introduce… at long last, the rest of my family. Meet my beloved brothers, Aelestor and Alistor! Together, the Radio Demon triplets. I trust this isn’t too much of a… frequency interference?”
Charlie beams, unbothered by the three monstrous, crimson grins lined up at her lobby desk. “Oh! Um, that’s… Actually, that’s wonderful! Welcome, you two—I mean, you three!”
Vaggie bristles, dagger-eyed. “Great. Just what we need. *More* Radio Demons.”
Angel Dust’s jaw hits the floor. “Holy hell—Alastor’s got clones? Where do I sign up for spares of *me*? C’mon, there’s gotta be a way!”
Husk groans, wings a-flutter. “Just what this dump needs, more freaks owning pieces of my damn soul.”
In perfect synchrony, you and your twin tip your hats, bowing with a flourish. The sensation is natural. Old. Comforting.
Niffty zips by, arms full of brooms. “Oh! More dapper gents! This place’ll sparkle with *this* much charm!” She giggles, totally oblivious to the oppressive aura pulsing off all three of you.
Alastor grins wider (if such a thing were possible), voice oozing mischievous glee. “Oh, and don’t think we’ll be easy to outwit, Husk. In fact, your soul’s never been in better hands! Three is the magic number, wouldn’t you say, brothers?”
You answer in a harmony you never would have expected, not so long ago, but now feels as easy as breathing:
“In *every* broadcast, it’s best to have more than one on the dial! Shall we get to business, gentlemen?”
For a brief moment, as you glance in a nearby mirror at your own crimson, antlered smile, any flicker of who you were is gone—replaced entirely by the certainty that you have always been here. Always been one of the Radio Demon twins. And you cannot imagine it any other way.
Static crackles as your laughter, perfectly in tune with your brothers, echoes through the hotel’s halls—never ending, never fading, always smiling.
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: Your mind races. The world is wrong. You were just sitting at home with your friend—Chris, or was it Emily, or maybe your brother—no, you can’t even remember who it was, not now. Everything is fuzzy, colors smeared, your face tingling. One moment you were scrolling through stories and fan art—more transformations, more impossible things for Alastor the Radio Demon—and laughing at the wild scenarios people came up with. Then, a shadow pooled under your chair, swallowing you and your companion whole. You hit the ground with a crackling echo of static and something *impossible* splinters through your vision: red, static-choked, and ringed with the blinding bright of an old-time broadcasting sign. In front of you—radio microphone cane in hand, razor-sharp teeth bared in a perpetual, crescent-moon smile—stands Alastor himself. He tips his head, those gleaming radio-dial eyes fixed on you and your companion. “Oh, how delightful! You *do* look positively confused. Come now, you’ve had your fun with all those stories, haven’t you? All those… delightful fantasies at my expense.” His voice sounds like jazz on a scratchy vinyl—warm but with teeth. Chris (or Emily, or your friend or sibling—you’re not even sure anymore) yelps, grabbing your arm. “What the *hell*? Where are we? That’s— That’s—” Alastor interrupts with a snap of his fingers, and the world *cracks.* The floor beneath floods crimson. You stumble, clutching at your face, your bones aching, skin prickling. A too-wide smile pulls itself up and up and up until your cheeks hurt—then they stop hurting, because your face is all wrong. You gape in a panicked grin, hands fluttering to your cheeks. They’re unfamiliar—thin, pale, four-fingered, and ending in red claws. You try to push your lips down, try with all your newly elongated strength to force the smile off your face, but it only stretches wider, revealing too many sharp, pointed teeth—permanently set in that damned, unstoppable rictus. “Wh-why can't I—my face—” your voice splits, static-laced, glitching between terror and a strange musical amusement, echoing with a deep, vintage tone that’s not your own. You try to scream, but the sound that escapes is a laugh, bubbling and radiosmooth. Beside you, your friend mirrors every move—a perfect twin, their old face gone, replaced by an identical uncanny smile and wild, undercut hair crowned with antlers. Alastor folds his hands, polite, that monstrous smile never wavering. “Ah, don’t fight it. That’s simply your nature, now! Does it feel familiar? Isn’t it so much more… *natural* to smile?” You try, desperately, to remember yourself—your human name, your old life, your quirks, your *family*. Instead, a syrupy, static-heavy flood of memories pours into your mind, replacing hope with a kind of radio-tuned certitude. You *know* the taste of jambalaya, the way your mother would call for you and your twin brothers for dinner after a good day’s broadcast at the radio station—your shared little secret beneath the velvet curtains of the Jazz Age, your appetite for more than just food. Your body warps and stretches, bones grinding, growing—seven feet tall, impossibly slender but broad of shoulder. Your companion echoes every detail, becoming your *identical twin*, even as you sense their own resistance crumbling in the static. If you were once female, your chest contracts—breasts vanishing, softened curves sharpening into masculine lines, and a deep ache in your core as your voice cracks down into a rich, radio-smooth baritone identical to Alastor’s. If your companion was female, you see the same horror, the same changes overtaking her—now him—until there is no distinction; only more of the same grinning, crimson-haired face. Clothes unravel and reform in a shower of red and black—pinstriped coats, monocle, bowtie neatly knotted, gloves at your too-thin wrists. You glance down—your feet are hooved, your fingers are tipped in red claws, your slender arms fading to dark gray, almost insubstantial. And you know, *know*, this is right. This is true. There is no fighting it. Every human memory is sticky, distant—easily written off as a whimsical, amusing daydream. You look at your twin and you *know* his name, as plain as your own: Aelestor. Yours… Alistor. Or something close. Names so close to Alastor’s that anyone might confuse you, but you know the difference. You are not the interloper; you never were. Alastor claps, delighted. “See? There now! Welcome home, brothers. It’s been *ages* since we’ve all seen eye to eye! Or radio to radio, hm?” He laughs, a chorus of static-choked joy. “Now, let’s not keep the dear hotel waiting. We’ve got plenty of *work* to do.” You and your twin—your real twin—lunge to follow, your legs unnaturally graceful, your heads filled with memories of radio shows, laughter, double-dealings in shadow-cloaked streets, and the last-day gunshots of 1933. --- **Epilogue:** The Hazbin Hotel fizzes at the corners of your vision—more real than anyplace you’ve ever been. The smell of brimstone, old wood, and someone's overboiled teapot: Alastor struts at the head, gesturing grandly. “Ms. Charlie, allow me to introduce… at long last, the rest of my family. Meet my beloved brothers, Aelestor and Alistor! Together, the Radio Demon triplets. I trust this isn’t too much of a… frequency interference?” Charlie beams, unbothered by the three monstrous, crimson grins lined up at her lobby desk. “Oh! Um, that’s… Actually, that’s wonderful! Welcome, you two—I mean, you three!” Vaggie bristles, dagger-eyed. “Great. Just what we need. *More* Radio Demons.” Angel Dust’s jaw hits the floor. “Holy hell—Alastor’s got clones? Where do I sign up for spares of *me*? C’mon, there’s gotta be a way!” Husk groans, wings a-flutter. “Just what this dump needs, more freaks owning pieces of my damn soul.” In perfect synchrony, you and your twin tip your hats, bowing with a flourish. The sensation is natural. Old. Comforting. Niffty zips by, arms full of brooms. “Oh! More dapper gents! This place’ll sparkle with *this* much charm!” She giggles, totally oblivious to the oppressive aura pulsing off all three of you. Alastor grins wider (if such a thing were possible), voice oozing mischievous glee. “Oh, and don’t think we’ll be easy to outwit, Husk. In fact, your soul’s never been in better hands! Three is the magic number, wouldn’t you say, brothers?” You answer in a harmony you never would have expected, not so long ago, but now feels as easy as breathing: “In *every* broadcast, it’s best to have more than one on the dial! Shall we get to business, gentlemen?” For a brief moment, as you glance in a nearby mirror at your own crimson, antlered smile, any flicker of who you were is gone—replaced entirely by the certainty that you have always been here. Always been one of the Radio Demon twins. And you cannot imagine it any other way. Static crackles as your laughter, perfectly in tune with your brothers, echoes through the hotel’s halls—never ending, never fading, always smiling.
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