You barely had time to blink when the air rippled. The chill of your room vanished, replaced with a heavy, sultry heat. You lurch backward, eyes wide, as red lines etched in glowing, voodoo shapes flicker through the air between you and your friend—or is that your sibling beside you? For a heartbeat, reality bends: the room darkens, radio static crackles; you reach for your companion, and your hand passes through them as if the world shudders around a dial.
A voice, honeyed and arch, seems to echo from a thousand speakers at once.
"Bonsoir, mes amis! Or would-be trespassers, perhaps? Forgive the intrusion, but I simply *couldn’t* stand another story with me as an ant queen. It’s undignified, don’t you think?"
Your vision sharpens on the source—a tall, scarlet-tinted figure in a pinstripe coat, eyes gleaming bright as a fever, grin so wide and sharp you feel your mouth ache just looking at it. Alastor, the Radio Demon, larger than any shadow you've ever known, beams down at you.
Before you can even react, a deep, static-laced chuckle resounds, the world tips, and you are falling—not through space, but through yourself.
—
You instinctively clutch at your companion's arm—your hands tingle, burn, and warp. Your skin ripples, color leaching into a pale, beige hue. You try to scream: only static and laughter come out, your words growing fuzzy at the edges as your teeth begin stretching, sharpening, pressing into a smile you never meant.
Your body wrenches taller. Limbs lengthen—unnaturally elegant, your torso narrowing into a dapper slimness that feels both elegant and wrong. Your friend/sibling yells—at least, you *think* it’s their voice, but already it carries that old-fashioned radio twang, clipping at the ends like an audio tape rewinding.
You turn to each other, horror blooming inside, only to see your friend’s face melting into the same wide, perpetual smile. Their hair flashes pink-red, black-tipped—tufts sprouting like deer ears, sharp undercut scraping behind. Antlers spiral from their crown, just as your own scalp prickles and warps.
“Why can’t I stop—smiling?” your companion gasps, but their question is warped by a voice that isn’t fully theirs, so familiar, so identical to your own now—rich and bright, as if piped through a gramophone from the 1930s.
Your own tongue feels foreign—words bouncing in a roguish, static-laced rhythm you *know* but shudder at.
Your bodies continue to warp, both of you shooting up as coats and shirts swirl into being, pinstripes crawling up your arms and torsos, the hem rough at your thighs. Gloves snap onto your elongating, now-four-fingered hands, tips glowing wicked red. Searing pain and then relief pulses in your lower limbs as feet reshape, boots scraping the ground and heels clattering with every movement, new hoof-prints etched into your soles.
If you—or your companion—were female before, a nasty, ticklish cramping twists in your chest and groin. Breasts flatten. Pelvis cracks. Nether regions invert, new anatomy pulsing into place as the swelling Adam's apple in your throat finalizes the transformation to masculine, voices lilting into perfect, immutable copies of Alastor's own.
You try to shout, "Stop! This isn't me!" It comes out as a slick, amused, “Ha Ha! Isn’t this *delightful?*”—your words forced into a playful, charismatic cadence, dripping with antiquated charm.
“You, too?” your friend asks. The wide, fixed smile on their face is identical to your own.
You both dig your fingers into your cheeks. Your skull won’t let you frown or even tremble in fear. Your hands, now down to four digits each, slide off the glassy-smooth surface of your grinning cheeks. You *cannot* frown. Panic swells in your chest.
Alastor’s shadow looms over you, antlers casting thin lines of utter darkness.
“Now now, fighting it only makes it worse,” he intones, voice velvet with mischief. “Your nature is to *smile*. You ought to remember that.”
He snaps his fingers. In an instant, memories—*not yours*—pour hot and ceaseless into your head: of jazz echoing through tinny radios; of New Orleans streets slicked with rain; your *mother’s* cooking—her jambalaya, a savory comfort; a trio of brothers laughing, sharp-witted and deadly; gigs at shadowy clubs, applause, a surging, relentless grin; the pleasure of deals won and lives lost; the cruel delight of seeing others fail.
*No, no!* you cry inside. You try to anchor yourself, fighting the undertow of new memories, but it's like paddling upstream through tar. Your old life—the glimpses of your bedroom, your laughter with your sibling/friend, the trivia of the internet and television—fades to faint static as the world becomes chorus and spotlight, radio static and the clink of Prohibition glassware.
Thoughts flood you: You, yourself, always Alastor's twin—the trio notorious as "The Radio Demons", killing for fun, broadcasting for power. Born to loving parents, deadly in the shadowed bayous, always dandy, always grinning, always *winning*.
You remember the fall of 1933. You remember dying—together. Waking in Hell, taller, antlered, and *hungry*. Taking up the airwaves, making the world dance to your laughter once again.
There is no more "before". Human? False. A dream, gone now.
A cane appears in your hand, vintage microphone flickering with sentient light. The power surges inside—a cacophony of shadow, magic, manifestation. You feel delight bubble up—genuine, infectious—for the first time.
You turn to your brother—your *twin* in all but name—and he (once your friend or sibling, now transformed) is gazing back at you, eyes wide but smiling, eyes bright red as the memory flood overtakes him too.
“And so, gentlemen!” Alastor trills, voice resounding through every universe, “Let us return—*home*!”
You and your twin follow—naturally, eagerly, as you were always meant to.
—
### EPILOGUE – THE HAZBIN HOTEL
You step inside the Hazbin Hotel. Twin brother beside you, Alastor in front. You, no, *he*—Alastor—draws everyone’s attention.
Charlie beams: “Alastor! Oh, you brought your—uh—brothers?”
“Indeed, my charming demon belle!” Alastor exclaims, bowing with a theatrical flourish. “May I present my twin brothers: Allastere, and Allistair.”
You step forward—*Allastere*, now, always. Your other brother—*Allistair*—bows deeply, both of you sharp-toothed, tall, dapper, shadows trailing from your shoes.
Vaggie narrows her eye, whispering to Charlie, “Two more of *him*? Is this a joke?”
Charlie, delighted, grins. “It’s wonderful! That means more help for the hotel!”
Angel Dust sidles up, eyeing the three of you with mischief. “Aw, c’mon—three Radio Demons? That’s not fair, Charlie! I want some clones too!” Husk, beside him, groans, ears flattening.
“Hell’s bells—I barely survived one of ya. Now my soul’s owned by three?”
“Oh Husk,” you and your twins chorus, voices as dazzling and crisp as a half-remembered tune, “We promise to use only the *utmost* discretion.”
Niffty zooms in, dusting the hem of your coat. “Squee! There’s more of you! That means even more fancy food, right?”
You ruffle her hair, channeling the odd affection you feel for this adopted, irrepressible daughter-figure—a warmth mingled with predatory glee.
Charlie steps back, hands clasped excitedly. “Welcome, Allastere and Allistair! I’m *so* glad to have you both. You’re… you’re really the same as Alastor?”
“Only in the most delightful ways, mademoiselle,” you purr, every syllable melting into that old radio quality, every gesture dripping with confidence and theatricality.
Three Radio Demons grin as one, basking in the attention and the endless possibilities for drama, power, and—perhaps—redemption… or just a spot of mayhem and a good show.
Alastor, at the center, spreads his arms wide. “Well, what say you, brothers? Shall we enthrall our lovely audience?”
You, Allastere, and Allistair nod, delighted, voices echoing like vintage radio hosts colliding as one:
“Let’s put on a show they’ll never forget!”
This story was generated by user DylanVsFizzarolli7 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 barely had time to blink when the air rippled. The chill of your room vanished, replaced with a heavy, sultry heat. You lurch backward, eyes wide, as red lines etched in glowing, voodoo shapes flicker through the air between you and your friend—or is that your sibling beside you? For a heartbeat, reality bends: the room darkens, radio static crackles; you reach for your companion, and your hand passes through them as if the world shudders around a dial. A voice, honeyed and arch, seems to echo from a thousand speakers at once. "Bonsoir, mes amis! Or would-be trespassers, perhaps? Forgive the intrusion, but I simply *couldn’t* stand another story with me as an ant queen. It’s undignified, don’t you think?" Your vision sharpens on the source—a tall, scarlet-tinted figure in a pinstripe coat, eyes gleaming bright as a fever, grin so wide and sharp you feel your mouth ache just looking at it. Alastor, the Radio Demon, larger than any shadow you've ever known, beams down at you. Before you can even react, a deep, static-laced chuckle resounds, the world tips, and you are falling—not through space, but through yourself. — You instinctively clutch at your companion's arm—your hands tingle, burn, and warp. Your skin ripples, color leaching into a pale, beige hue. You try to scream: only static and laughter come out, your words growing fuzzy at the edges as your teeth begin stretching, sharpening, pressing into a smile you never meant. Your body wrenches taller. Limbs lengthen—unnaturally elegant, your torso narrowing into a dapper slimness that feels both elegant and wrong. Your friend/sibling yells—at least, you *think* it’s their voice, but already it carries that old-fashioned radio twang, clipping at the ends like an audio tape rewinding. You turn to each other, horror blooming inside, only to see your friend’s face melting into the same wide, perpetual smile. Their hair flashes pink-red, black-tipped—tufts sprouting like deer ears, sharp undercut scraping behind. Antlers spiral from their crown, just as your own scalp prickles and warps. “Why can’t I stop—smiling?” your companion gasps, but their question is warped by a voice that isn’t fully theirs, so familiar, so identical to your own now—rich and bright, as if piped through a gramophone from the 1930s. Your own tongue feels foreign—words bouncing in a roguish, static-laced rhythm you *know* but shudder at. Your bodies continue to warp, both of you shooting up as coats and shirts swirl into being, pinstripes crawling up your arms and torsos, the hem rough at your thighs. Gloves snap onto your elongating, now-four-fingered hands, tips glowing wicked red. Searing pain and then relief pulses in your lower limbs as feet reshape, boots scraping the ground and heels clattering with every movement, new hoof-prints etched into your soles. If you—or your companion—were female before, a nasty, ticklish cramping twists in your chest and groin. Breasts flatten. Pelvis cracks. Nether regions invert, new anatomy pulsing into place as the swelling Adam's apple in your throat finalizes the transformation to masculine, voices lilting into perfect, immutable copies of Alastor's own. You try to shout, "Stop! This isn't me!" It comes out as a slick, amused, “Ha Ha! Isn’t this *delightful?*”—your words forced into a playful, charismatic cadence, dripping with antiquated charm. “You, too?” your friend asks. The wide, fixed smile on their face is identical to your own. You both dig your fingers into your cheeks. Your skull won’t let you frown or even tremble in fear. Your hands, now down to four digits each, slide off the glassy-smooth surface of your grinning cheeks. You *cannot* frown. Panic swells in your chest. Alastor’s shadow looms over you, antlers casting thin lines of utter darkness. “Now now, fighting it only makes it worse,” he intones, voice velvet with mischief. “Your nature is to *smile*. You ought to remember that.” He snaps his fingers. In an instant, memories—*not yours*—pour hot and ceaseless into your head: of jazz echoing through tinny radios; of New Orleans streets slicked with rain; your *mother’s* cooking—her jambalaya, a savory comfort; a trio of brothers laughing, sharp-witted and deadly; gigs at shadowy clubs, applause, a surging, relentless grin; the pleasure of deals won and lives lost; the cruel delight of seeing others fail. *No, no!* you cry inside. You try to anchor yourself, fighting the undertow of new memories, but it's like paddling upstream through tar. Your old life—the glimpses of your bedroom, your laughter with your sibling/friend, the trivia of the internet and television—fades to faint static as the world becomes chorus and spotlight, radio static and the clink of Prohibition glassware. Thoughts flood you: You, yourself, always Alastor's twin—the trio notorious as "The Radio Demons", killing for fun, broadcasting for power. Born to loving parents, deadly in the shadowed bayous, always dandy, always grinning, always *winning*. You remember the fall of 1933. You remember dying—together. Waking in Hell, taller, antlered, and *hungry*. Taking up the airwaves, making the world dance to your laughter once again. There is no more "before". Human? False. A dream, gone now. A cane appears in your hand, vintage microphone flickering with sentient light. The power surges inside—a cacophony of shadow, magic, manifestation. You feel delight bubble up—genuine, infectious—for the first time. You turn to your brother—your *twin* in all but name—and he (once your friend or sibling, now transformed) is gazing back at you, eyes wide but smiling, eyes bright red as the memory flood overtakes him too. “And so, gentlemen!” Alastor trills, voice resounding through every universe, “Let us return—*home*!” You and your twin follow—naturally, eagerly, as you were always meant to. — ### EPILOGUE – THE HAZBIN HOTEL You step inside the Hazbin Hotel. Twin brother beside you, Alastor in front. You, no, *he*—Alastor—draws everyone’s attention. Charlie beams: “Alastor! Oh, you brought your—uh—brothers?” “Indeed, my charming demon belle!” Alastor exclaims, bowing with a theatrical flourish. “May I present my twin brothers: Allastere, and Allistair.” You step forward—*Allastere*, now, always. Your other brother—*Allistair*—bows deeply, both of you sharp-toothed, tall, dapper, shadows trailing from your shoes. Vaggie narrows her eye, whispering to Charlie, “Two more of *him*? Is this a joke?” Charlie, delighted, grins. “It’s wonderful! That means more help for the hotel!” Angel Dust sidles up, eyeing the three of you with mischief. “Aw, c’mon—three Radio Demons? That’s not fair, Charlie! I want some clones too!” Husk, beside him, groans, ears flattening. “Hell’s bells—I barely survived one of ya. Now my soul’s owned by three?” “Oh Husk,” you and your twins chorus, voices as dazzling and crisp as a half-remembered tune, “We promise to use only the *utmost* discretion.” Niffty zooms in, dusting the hem of your coat. “Squee! There’s more of you! That means even more fancy food, right?” You ruffle her hair, channeling the odd affection you feel for this adopted, irrepressible daughter-figure—a warmth mingled with predatory glee. Charlie steps back, hands clasped excitedly. “Welcome, Allastere and Allistair! I’m *so* glad to have you both. You’re… you’re really the same as Alastor?” “Only in the most delightful ways, mademoiselle,” you purr, every syllable melting into that old radio quality, every gesture dripping with confidence and theatricality. Three Radio Demons grin as one, basking in the attention and the endless possibilities for drama, power, and—perhaps—redemption… or just a spot of mayhem and a good show. Alastor, at the center, spreads his arms wide. “Well, what say you, brothers? Shall we enthrall our lovely audience?” You, Allastere, and Allistair nod, delighted, voices echoing like vintage radio hosts colliding as one: “Let’s put on a show they’ll never forget!”
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