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Echoes of Alastor the Radio Demon: Reader's Transformation into His Twin

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Something isn’t right.
You blink at the flickering screen: another piece of Hazbin Hotel fanart, one of those outlandish “what if” transformations. This time, someone’s drawn Alastor as a rubber duck. As you scroll through the comments, trying to keep the snicker from bubbling up, every light in your room flickers. There’s a strange, crackling radio static building in your ears. You whirl, heart pounding—

—and Alastor is there, in the corner of your room. Impossible, gleaming, his smile stretching from cheek to cheek. You can smell burnt coffee and a bite of something metallic hanging in the air.

“Well, well!” The Radio Demon’s tone is syrup-sweet and laced with a razor’s edge. “Isn’t it—*delightful*—to be recognized across such a novel medium! And yet…”
His eyes narrow, dial-like irises clicking. “I’ve grown *dreadfully* sick of being the subject of such tasteless flights of fancy. Don’t you ever tire of poking and prodding at others, sweetling?”

You try to back away, but the room is warping, peeling apart stripped wallpaper like radio static tearing through reality. You try to speak—a squeak comes out instead.

“Don’t worry!” He waves a gloved hand, smile sickle-sharp. “You’ll get to experience something truly unique! A transformation befitting a *real* showman. Won’t you?”

Before you scream, red sigils spiral from his microphone, writhing through the room. You’re falling, tumbling, sensation stretching into pain then numbness then—
Black.

---

When you come to, everything’s different.
You gasp, and the sound is strange—*crackly*, laced with a reedy static thrumming from your chest. Your limbs won’t obey, slender and long and…strange. Your vision blurs, flooded with crimson and beige and…color where none should be. There is pressure in your face that refuses to yield, as if your very jaw is being *pushed* into a grin—

You reach up instinctively.
Your fingers, now longer, thinner than you remember, find the edges of your cheeks. Your mouth stretches in a horrific, gleeful rictus, an impossibly wide smile full of sharp yellow teeth. Try as you might, shoving at the corners, your face will *not* move into a frown. Every attempt to express fear collapses into a wider grin—panic vibrates in your borrowed chest.

“W-why can’t I—*stop smiling*?” You blurt, and the words come out fractured, clipped, warped by an old-timey radio filter rolling off your tongue. Your voice is masculine, tinged with vintage charm, overlaid with static and the cadence of another era. If you were a woman, your chest feels flat, and a new set of *masculine* anatomy sits where you expect different sensations—your pelvis has changed, and the shift is confirmed by a sudden awareness of your body, powerful and uncomfortable in its difference.

You force yourself up—legs too long, arms weirdly weighted, a palpable sense of *height*, of unnatural *grace*. Head nearly scraping the ceiling, you look around, catching sight of a reflection in a ragged piece of glass: dapper, lean, with cropped, angle-cut red and black hair, antlers perched upon your brow, and those eyes—dark red sclera, blazing irises. Every horrifying inch of you is Alastor.

Or—*an* Alastor. You’re not alone; there’s another figure leaning jauntily against a waiting-room chair across from you, dapper coat as sharp as the gleam in his eye.

“Marvelous! You did take to it splendidly, my dear brother,” Alastor crows. “I feared you’d be a tad… *dull*. Yet you’ve adapted splendidly. Why, you’re grinning already!”
He leans closer, monocle glinting.
“You can’t stop, you see—it’s in your nature. *Our* nature. Wonderful, isn’t it?”

You try to form a protest—a plea—but suddenly your own voice croons out:

“Isn’t this a real humdinger, Alastor? It feels like just yesterday we were *on the air* together.”
You snap your mouth shut. That’s not your thought. You know that isn’t—except it *is*. Details bleed through your mind like jazz music through a doorframe: nostalgia for your mother’s spicy jambalaya, the feel of a microphone, the pulse of applause, the *delight* of manipulation. You *taste* bitter black coffee, hear your own laughter echoing in a grand New Orleans studio. You *know* you are a killer—not out of necessity, but whim. The world melts—the person you were, the memories, all peeling away as static and red light fill your vision.

“No, no…!” you try to force out in your own voice—but it comes out in the buttery radio host’s tone, slick and self-assured.

“Let go, won’t you?” Alastor whispers, almost soothing. “Wake up, brother. Return to reality. Haven’t you been playing the *wrong part* for a bit too long?”

And suddenly—
You *remember*.
There was never a “you” who was not Alastor’s twin. You stand on stage as applause rolls, microphone glinting. You schedule show after show, blood and smiles and drama. Jambalaya, the Stock Market Crash, the sweet music of chaos—these are yours, now and forever. You recall the fun you and Alastor had, sowing disaster across both the living and the damned. The shame of being *chained*—the flicker of panic in the back of your mind if you so much as think of it. The thrill of outsmarting rivals. Husk’s groaning acquiescence as you and Alastor draw him into your games.

Your name…? It sits, vivid and new, yet ancient: not quite “Alastor,” but something close—“Aldric,” perhaps, unique yet twinned, a mirrored note in the grand symphony.

Alastor’s voice breaks through your reverie:
“Welcome back, Aldric! Now come—let’s introduce you to our charming little circle, shall we?”
He offers his arm. You take it, grinning. (How else could you?)

---

You and Alastor stride into the Hazbin Hotel, heads nearly brushing the chandeliers, smiles slicing through the smoky air.
Charlie whirls, her golden hair bouncing, a look of delighted shock on her face. “Alastor! And—oh my goodness—this is…?”

Alastor bows, radiating joy. “Why, *my twin brother*, Miss Charlie. Please, meet Aldric—my equal in every imaginable way. Two radio demons for the price of one!”
You snap a handshake, voice ringing with artificial bonhomie.
“Charmed, my dear! I must say, your hotel is even lovelier in person. And it *smells* like hope. What a curious thing!”

Vaggie, beside Charlie, scowls. “Two of them? As if one wasn’t bad enough. Keep your radio drama *out* of our rooms.”

Angel Dust’s ears perk up. “Holy spaghetti, there’s two of ‘em! Where do I sign up to get myself a double? Bet my fans would love that, huh, Husk?”

Husk, slouched behind the bar, groans. “No thanks, furball. One of you Red Jean Jacket Weirdos is bad enough. Don’t drag me into your freak show, again…”

Niffty zips into the lobby, practically vibrating with glee. “Ohmigosh! Twins! Does that mean double the cleaning? Double the stories? *Double the dancing?!*” She wraps both hands around your forearm, giggling. “I call dibs on being your favorite!”

You wink, your smile tilting ever so slightly (never less than ecstatic). “Of course, Niffty. Perhaps we can dance a little Charleston after dinner?”

Through it all, you feel—home.
Every smile, every flourish, every sly innuendo or barbed aside, comes naturally, as though the script was always yours. You lean into every theatrical note, every oddly-timed joke, delighting in the new chorus of chaos.

Alastor claps you on the back.
“Let’s make it a show to remember, Aldric. After all—what’s Hell for, if not *entertainment*?”

Charlie beams, hands clasped. “Welcome, Aldric! I’m so glad you’re both here to help.”

You grin (you cannot stop, nor do you want to).

“Anything for the charming demon belle, Charlie,” you say, voice unchanged, and in perfect tune with your brother’s.

A new era of radio begins—two voices, harmonizing in never-ending, impossible, lawless, *smiling* fun. And what a broadcast it’s bound to be.

This story was generated by user JesterImp with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.

Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.

AI Prompts

Prompt: Write a POV second-person transformation story of a human reader completely turning into an entirely-identical clone of Alastor (a character, voiced by Amir Talai, from an adults cartoon/animated series Hazbin Hotel), complete with gender change (if the reader is a female, her breasts vanish as her throat gains an Adam's apple to give her a more masculine voice identical to Alastor and her female privates (vagina, ovaries, and uterus) from her crotch/nether region invert itself and pushes out into male private parts (a penis and testicles); however, this is optional and only if the reader is female), instant clothes change, age change (becoming the age of 30s-40s years old, exactly as left off from Alastor's death from his human life in 1933, thus becoming immortal in the process), height progression (growing from a normal height to 7 feet tall), voice change, and mind/mental change (with the reader's personalities and memories being permanently and completely replaced with Alastor's personality and memories, despite the reader's best efforts of fighting the new personality and memories, making him/her completely forget about his/her past self and he then remembers, or rather realizes, that he had always been the twin brother of Alastor the Radio Demon himself, and he remembers his name being similar to Alastor's name but completely distinct from Alastor's name). For Alastor's appearance (after the reader turned into his clone), he is a slim (having an unnaturally thin torso, neck, arms, and legs, except his shoulders are broad), dapper sinner demon with beige-colored skin, and usually has an unnaturally broad smile (reaching from each cheek's upper area) full of sharp, yellow teeth (he has no ability to frown due to this permanent smile). He is approximately 7 feet tall. He sports a pinkish-red cropped, angled bob-cut with black tips at the ends and two large, black tipped tufts of hair extending from the top of his head, evoking the ears of a deer. The style has an undercut at the back, and two small black antlers protruding from the crown, which can grow in size in his full demonic form. Alastor's eyes have dark-red sclerae, bright-red irises and thin black pupils (which can change into the shape of radio dials when shifting into his full demon form). He also has four fingers (like all Hazbin Hotel and Helluva Boss characters), unlike real world humans. His forearms and lower legs fade to dark grey, and he has red hoof-toed feet and red clawed fingers. Alastor wears a red pinstripe coat with dark-red lapels piped with white, which is ragged along the bottom hem. Underneath this he wears a bright red dress-shirt with a black cross on the chest, and long black dress pants with matching bright red cuffs. He also wears a dark-red oval-shaped monocle, rimmed with black, over his right eye. He accessorizes with a black knotted bowtie with a bright red center, black gloves with red at the fingertips, and black pointed-toe boots with red deer hoofprints emblazoned on the soles. Alastor also carries a thin cane with a sentient vintage style microphone attached to it, which he uses to play sound effects and broadcast his voice. His voice also sounds like it is coming from an old-fashioned vintage radio. Alastor has many supernatural powers, such as demon transformation (the ability to turn into a more powerful demon form), flexibility (able to contort his body into numerous unnatural poses), demonic magic (able to cast magic thanks to the high power-level he has accrued in the demon ranking system, this magic takes the visual form of glowing red symbols that resemble Voodoo veve, which float around him), shadow manipulation (able to summon shadows and manipulate them into doing his bidding), spatial warping (able to get around with the help of his shadow, allowing teleportation through this ability), portal creation (able to transport others to his location easily via the portals he makes), pyrokinesis (able to summon small balls of fire for display purpose), phytokinesis (able to make plants wilt with a single stare), manifestation, photokinesis (able to project red glowing light from his eyes as well as his microphone), and outfit alteration (capable of changing the outfits of his targets as well as his own with a snap of a finger). He is also capable of various other abilities including deal-making (as Alastor is known to be a deal-maker demon; deal-maker demons like Alastor can increase their power by dealing in souls, which is a very powerful commodity in hell, so they’re seen as very manipulative and not to be toyed with, deal-making is not something every demon can do, as such it is not to be taken lightly as it doesn’t generally work out well for the other party), broadcasting (when he was a living human, Alastor's profession was as a radio show host, and he continues his broadcasts in Hell as a demon, ensuring that Hell's denizens are aware of his activities over the airwaves, earning him the title of "The Radio Demon"), bilingualism (Alastor can speak English fluently as well as some broken Creole French), cooking (Alastor is noted to be "a big foodie" and mentions having admired his mother's cooking, specifically her Jambalaya), musical/dancing/theatrical talent (Alastor is known to display moderate vocal abilities and excels at dancing, with some people noting tap to be a style he excels in specifically, he also shows a flair for theatrical showmanship), and wide intellect (Alastor is known to be quite a cunning individual, resulting in him accruing a large amount of power through his tricks and deal-making). Alastor stands out from many of the more chaotic residents of hell for his well maintained amiable persona. He gives a first-impression of a good-natured and charming man, wearing a permanently wide grin on his face at all times. His behavior, mannerisms, and even his voice are similar to an old-fashioned radio announcer and speaks with a transatlantic accent, often using quaint anachronisms such as "the picture show" and refers to Charlie as a "charming demon belle". This playful dandyish exterior, however, obscures a much darker side to him - one with high levels of self-importance - and he will not hesitate to use physical violence when others don't act in line with his very particular values or expectations. He is noted to be narcissistic, with his love for himself being stated that no one else can measure up to it, and he does not see many people quite up to his level. Alastor is described as a man of duality. He values good manners, affability and intelligence very highly in others, and will actively look down on those who do not meet his standards, however he will often play fast and loose with these arbitrary rules in regards to himself and his own conduct. Alastor has an odd sense of morality, which is described as "not normal", and has been noted to be quite sadistic, even cannibalistic, devouring lesser demons or those that have incurred his anger. Despite this, he keeps close friends with the other cannibals of Hell, including the denizens at the Cannibal Town. His smiling is a very self enforced form of ego and a show of power and dominance; he looks down on anyone who lets their true emotions show, and even when faced with a rival in strength, if they let slip a frown, Alastor will see them as truly weak. His smile is also to be more unpredictable and unnerving, and gives him a feeling of complete control over himself. While Alastor is powerful, he is aware that there are other demons and entities that rival him in terms of power, such as other Overlords. For this reason, he is wary around such demons, as they could potentially harm him if he is not careful. Despite everything, Alastor does genuinely seem to want to help Charlie run the Hazbin Hotel, albeit for his own amusement, and hopes for its failure over siding with her idealism. Alastor also dismisses the idea that redemption is possible as laughable, nevertheless, he fulfills his role as patron as promised, providing the hotel with staff, and protecting Charlie and her business from outside threats. He views the whole endeavor as a fun distraction from his decades of boredom. Despite consistently having a confident and cheerful demeanor, he harbors a vulnerable side that becomes apparent when confronted with reminders of being "chained". In this instance, his facade of certainty crumbles, and he succumbs to panic attack. According to Mimzy (Alastor's friend), when Alastor was alive he would become a "kitten" (not literally a kitten) if he drank enough rye whiskey while jazz music was on. Here are Alastor's preferences (his likes and dislikes); he likes himself (including his own fashion style), his son, smiling, doodling, gossip and drama, invading others' personal space, his mother and her cooking, jazz music, strong liquor, cooking, seeing people fail, playing pranks, bitter tastes (especially those of black coffee), theater, dancing, the Stock Market Crash of 1929, venison, being in charge, Charlie's potential, pineapple on pizza, and making jokes. However, he dislikes Lucifer Morningstar (the king of Hell and Charlie Morningstar's father) and his "tacky" circus décor, Susan (a Cannibal Town resident), being touched (including his hair being touched), dogs, frowning, tea, anything sweet, Angel Dust's sexual remarks, being humbled, post-30s' technology, anyone ruining his outfit, being controlled and reminded of it, the idea of the hotel failing, and Mimzy bringing destruction to the hotel. The story is that Alastor is getting bored and wanted something new and more entertaining in Hell. Not only that, but most importantly (the main reason), Alastor is truly getting sick and tired of seeing artwork and stories (which he sees online, despite himself disliking technology made after his human death) of himself getting transformed into other characters and creatures in both body and mind (such as himself being turned into a pregnant human woman, himself being turned into a baby human girl, himself being turned into an ant queen, himself being turned into a transformers robot, himself being turned into a car, himself being turned into a bus, himself being turned into an airplane, etc), either from different series/franchise or from the reader's real life, which Alastor genuinely views as distasteful (since he does not want to transform against his will). So to teach the reader a lesson, Alastor (by some supernatural means) briefly left the series' Hell and into the real life Earth to kidnap the reader and sent him/her to the world of Hazbin Hotel before he uses supernatural black magic at the reader which turned him/her into his clones, thus turning the reader into Alastor's identical twin brother (the reader notices that his/her grin was now unnaturally wide and permanent, he/she tries to push his/her grins down with his/her own hands/fingers to get rid of the smile in order to frown or show fear but he/she cannot due to making emotions other than smiling were completely impossible (the reader even asks in horror on why can't he/she stop smiling, before Alastor tells the reader that it is his/her nature to smile), the reader also tries to fight those new memories and personality of Alastor flooding his/her heads, he/she is horrified and not wanting to be completely transformed in either body or mind, but is fighting a losing battle, and Alastor tells him/her of them that this is his true self and he is waking up from his false human dream, making the reader truly and fully believe in Alastor and realizes that he had always been Alastor alongside the original Alastor, having been born as humans from the same human parents, enjoying their mother's cooking and their favorite food jambalaya, both of the Alastors being radio show hosts and serial killers on Earth before the two of them were killed, two Alastor twins arriving in Hell as completely identical sinner demons nicknamed "The Radio Demons", as they continued their radio shows in Hell, and, despite finding Charlie Morningstar's (the princess of Hell) belief in redemption laughable, the Alastor twins want to help Charlie run the redemption hotel "Hazbin Hotel", albeit for their own amusement), and the reader's mind have been completely replaced with Alastor's mind, before original Alastor welcomes his twin brother (the reader) back home. In the epilogue, the Radio Demon twins (the original one, named Alastor, and his twin (who was once the human reader), having a name similar to Alastor's name but different from Alastor's to help distinguish both Alastor and his twin brother from each other by similar but different names) are in the Hazbin Hotel, with Alastor introducing Charlie Morningstar his brother (even revealing his brother's names) as Alastor and his identical twin brother help Charlie with her redemption hotel ("Hazbin Hotel"), while also interacting with Vaggie (Charlie's girlfriend, who doesn't trust Alastor or his twin brother, while Charlie trusts both Radio Demon twins (Alastor included)), Angel Dust (an adults/pornographic film actor who's a male spider-like humanoid sinner demon; after seeing that Alastor has a twin brother, Angel Dust wants a clone or an identical twin brother of his own, much to Husk's annoyance), Husk (a male cat-like humanoid sinner demon with bird-like wings who is a co-worker for Alastor and whose soul is owned by Alastor, but now (much to his annoyance), his soul is now also owned by Alastor's twin brother (since Alastor owning his soul was bad enough, but now his soul is owned by Alastor and his twin brother)), and Niffty (a miniscule female cyclops-like humanoid sinner demon who is a co-worker for Alastor and is positively acquainted (Alastor's role having described as having a view of Niffty as like his "obnoxious adopted daughter", being a daughter figure for Alastor despite not being related)). There should also be quotes from the characters in this story so we know what they're saying and what they're thinking. Also, it is a POV reader story, so it should not be in an author's point of view (my, I, mine, etc), and it should be from the point of view of the reader (you, your, etc).

Response: Something isn’t right. You blink at the flickering screen: another piece of Hazbin Hotel fanart, one of those outlandish “what if” transformations. This time, someone’s drawn Alastor as a rubber duck. As you scroll through the comments, trying to keep the snicker from bubbling up, every light in your room flickers. There’s a strange, crackling radio static building in your ears. You whirl, heart pounding— —and Alastor is there, in the corner of your room. Impossible, gleaming, his smile stretching from cheek to cheek. You can smell burnt coffee and a bite of something metallic hanging in the air. “Well, well!” The Radio Demon’s tone is syrup-sweet and laced with a razor’s edge. “Isn’t it—*delightful*—to be recognized across such a novel medium! And yet…” His eyes narrow, dial-like irises clicking. “I’ve grown *dreadfully* sick of being the subject of such tasteless flights of fancy. Don’t you ever tire of poking and prodding at others, sweetling?” You try to back away, but the room is warping, peeling apart stripped wallpaper like radio static tearing through reality. You try to speak—a squeak comes out instead. “Don’t worry!” He waves a gloved hand, smile sickle-sharp. “You’ll get to experience something truly unique! A transformation befitting a *real* showman. Won’t you?” Before you scream, red sigils spiral from his microphone, writhing through the room. You’re falling, tumbling, sensation stretching into pain then numbness then— Black. --- When you come to, everything’s different. You gasp, and the sound is strange—*crackly*, laced with a reedy static thrumming from your chest. Your limbs won’t obey, slender and long and…strange. Your vision blurs, flooded with crimson and beige and…color where none should be. There is pressure in your face that refuses to yield, as if your very jaw is being *pushed* into a grin— You reach up instinctively. Your fingers, now longer, thinner than you remember, find the edges of your cheeks. Your mouth stretches in a horrific, gleeful rictus, an impossibly wide smile full of sharp yellow teeth. Try as you might, shoving at the corners, your face will *not* move into a frown. Every attempt to express fear collapses into a wider grin—panic vibrates in your borrowed chest. “W-why can’t I—*stop smiling*?” You blurt, and the words come out fractured, clipped, warped by an old-timey radio filter rolling off your tongue. Your voice is masculine, tinged with vintage charm, overlaid with static and the cadence of another era. If you were a woman, your chest feels flat, and a new set of *masculine* anatomy sits where you expect different sensations—your pelvis has changed, and the shift is confirmed by a sudden awareness of your body, powerful and uncomfortable in its difference. You force yourself up—legs too long, arms weirdly weighted, a palpable sense of *height*, of unnatural *grace*. Head nearly scraping the ceiling, you look around, catching sight of a reflection in a ragged piece of glass: dapper, lean, with cropped, angle-cut red and black hair, antlers perched upon your brow, and those eyes—dark red sclera, blazing irises. Every horrifying inch of you is Alastor. Or—*an* Alastor. You’re not alone; there’s another figure leaning jauntily against a waiting-room chair across from you, dapper coat as sharp as the gleam in his eye. “Marvelous! You did take to it splendidly, my dear brother,” Alastor crows. “I feared you’d be a tad… *dull*. Yet you’ve adapted splendidly. Why, you’re grinning already!” He leans closer, monocle glinting. “You can’t stop, you see—it’s in your nature. *Our* nature. Wonderful, isn’t it?” You try to form a protest—a plea—but suddenly your own voice croons out: “Isn’t this a real humdinger, Alastor? It feels like just yesterday we were *on the air* together.” You snap your mouth shut. That’s not your thought. You know that isn’t—except it *is*. Details bleed through your mind like jazz music through a doorframe: nostalgia for your mother’s spicy jambalaya, the feel of a microphone, the pulse of applause, the *delight* of manipulation. You *taste* bitter black coffee, hear your own laughter echoing in a grand New Orleans studio. You *know* you are a killer—not out of necessity, but whim. The world melts—the person you were, the memories, all peeling away as static and red light fill your vision. “No, no…!” you try to force out in your own voice—but it comes out in the buttery radio host’s tone, slick and self-assured. “Let go, won’t you?” Alastor whispers, almost soothing. “Wake up, brother. Return to reality. Haven’t you been playing the *wrong part* for a bit too long?” And suddenly— You *remember*. There was never a “you” who was not Alastor’s twin. You stand on stage as applause rolls, microphone glinting. You schedule show after show, blood and smiles and drama. Jambalaya, the Stock Market Crash, the sweet music of chaos—these are yours, now and forever. You recall the fun you and Alastor had, sowing disaster across both the living and the damned. The shame of being *chained*—the flicker of panic in the back of your mind if you so much as think of it. The thrill of outsmarting rivals. Husk’s groaning acquiescence as you and Alastor draw him into your games. Your name…? It sits, vivid and new, yet ancient: not quite “Alastor,” but something close—“Aldric,” perhaps, unique yet twinned, a mirrored note in the grand symphony. Alastor’s voice breaks through your reverie: “Welcome back, Aldric! Now come—let’s introduce you to our charming little circle, shall we?” He offers his arm. You take it, grinning. (How else could you?) --- You and Alastor stride into the Hazbin Hotel, heads nearly brushing the chandeliers, smiles slicing through the smoky air. Charlie whirls, her golden hair bouncing, a look of delighted shock on her face. “Alastor! And—oh my goodness—this is…?” Alastor bows, radiating joy. “Why, *my twin brother*, Miss Charlie. Please, meet Aldric—my equal in every imaginable way. Two radio demons for the price of one!” You snap a handshake, voice ringing with artificial bonhomie. “Charmed, my dear! I must say, your hotel is even lovelier in person. And it *smells* like hope. What a curious thing!” Vaggie, beside Charlie, scowls. “Two of them? As if one wasn’t bad enough. Keep your radio drama *out* of our rooms.” Angel Dust’s ears perk up. “Holy spaghetti, there’s two of ‘em! Where do I sign up to get myself a double? Bet my fans would love that, huh, Husk?” Husk, slouched behind the bar, groans. “No thanks, furball. One of you Red Jean Jacket Weirdos is bad enough. Don’t drag me into your freak show, again…” Niffty zips into the lobby, practically vibrating with glee. “Ohmigosh! Twins! Does that mean double the cleaning? Double the stories? *Double the dancing?!*” She wraps both hands around your forearm, giggling. “I call dibs on being your favorite!” You wink, your smile tilting ever so slightly (never less than ecstatic). “Of course, Niffty. Perhaps we can dance a little Charleston after dinner?” Through it all, you feel—home. Every smile, every flourish, every sly innuendo or barbed aside, comes naturally, as though the script was always yours. You lean into every theatrical note, every oddly-timed joke, delighting in the new chorus of chaos. Alastor claps you on the back. “Let’s make it a show to remember, Aldric. After all—what’s Hell for, if not *entertainment*?” Charlie beams, hands clasped. “Welcome, Aldric! I’m so glad you’re both here to help.” You grin (you cannot stop, nor do you want to). “Anything for the charming demon belle, Charlie,” you say, voice unchanged, and in perfect tune with your brother’s. A new era of radio begins—two voices, harmonizing in never-ending, impossible, lawless, *smiling* fun. And what a broadcast it’s bound to be.

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