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"The Radio Demons: Twinning Grins of You and Alastor"

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You never expect your ordinary evening—a gentle flicker of screen-glow in a silent room—to end with reality itself curling at the edges, peeking in on you like a mischievous Cheshire grin. But that’s precisely how it all begins.

A sudden static charge blooms in the air, filling your nostrils with the scent of ozone. The screen distorts, the familiar world glitching like a radio dial caught between stations. You lean closer, confusion bubbling behind your eyelids, and then—a silhouette steps through, impossibly long-limbed, with a pinstriped coat sharp as blood on bone.

He's real. Alastor, the Radio Demon. Every inch of him static-bright, smile impossibly wide.

“Ah, greetings, darling listener!" His voice warbles and pops, as if possessing your cheap speaker. "You seem to have provided me with quite the... entertainment. Stories, stories—always so very fond of stories, aren’t you? But isn’t it tiresome when one is *always* the subject, *never* the author? Tiresome indeed!”

You can't speak, can't move. Somehow, you know: you’re the target, the culprit, the one who made Alastor into every thing—but himself.

He leans across impossible space, bending the air between you, and taps a gloved finger to your forehead. A splintering touch—a pinprick of cold and bottomless static—spreads down your spine.

“Let’s turn the tables, shall we? It’s your turn to smile, mon ami. Your turn to *be*.”

The world spins. Your body convulses as a force more ancient than logic rips through you.

Your bones stretch, grind, reconfigure. Fingers spasm and splay—one digit melts away, leaving you with long, elegant, clawed hands, ending in four talon-tipped fingers. Your arms and legs shudder, pulling, elongating—joints rearrange, ligaments grow. Your head lurches upward as your spine snakes taller, ever taller, until everything in the room becomes small, toy-like beneath you. You can only watch as you rise, impossibly, toward seven feet in height—and feel your torso shrink into a tight, lithe, almost deer-like silhouette.

Antlers bloom from your scalp with a sickening prickle—a pair of delicate, black-tipped, mighty antlers, hair blossoming around them, cascading in that unmistakable angled bob of pinkish-red veined with black. Your face stretches, sharpening. Flesh peels pale and smooth as porcelain; your cheeks ache as an impossible, uncontrollable grin carves itself into your features, stretching from ear to ear, revealing a mouth full of needle-point, feral yellow teeth.

Please let this end, please let this—

But your jaw *will not—cannot*—close. You reach up with trembling claws, trying to force your lips down, but they simply spring back into that monstrous, perpetual smile. Your cheeks burn; your eyes sting. You try to whimper but it breaks out as laughter—bright, fragmented, bounding with vintage warble as if broadcast from a 1920s wireless radio.

“Wh-why can't I stop smiling?!” you choke out, voice warbling, shrill, sick with fear.

Alastor grins wider, somehow, and twirls his cane. “It’s in your nature, my dear twin! We always smile—it is, you’ll find, the *only* proper way to display one’s teeth.”

A wave of cold rushes through your nether regions. (If you started female, that gender is swept away: breasts retracting, torso flattening, an Adam’s apple pressing into your impossibly slender throat, female organs vanishing, replaced by a sudden outer swelling—foreign, strange—until nothing of your old self remains. Your voice now unmistakably masculine, a velvet, radio-soaked timbre bottled from another era.) Inside, it feels as though your very *self* is shrinking as your new, monstrous dimensions take their place.

The world spins and your clothes knit themselves into place: brilliant, dapper red pinstripes, black gloves with red-tipped fingers, silk shirts, a sharp cross at your chest, and—a monocle slides onto one eye, fitting like it’s always belonged. Your feet crunch into the floor as black boots with red hoofprints stamp themselves on.

You stagger, staring at your warped reflection in a mirrored window—a seven-foot-tall demon with red deer hooves and fingers, a razor-thin waist, beaming eternally from ear to ear.

But the transformation isn’t done. It gnaws at your mind now, hungry and patient.

Names slip from you—yours, your family’s, your best friend’s. All is washed away by a flood you cannot hold back: static-laced memories as a young boy in New Orleans; the rich scent of jambalaya in your mother’s kitchen; Flapper music and rye whiskey, cold Chicago nights, the fistful of hot blood in your palm.

You try to clutch at your own fleeting thoughts, scream that this is *not* you—but your protest drowns beneath a rising tide of staticky radio jingles, deal-brokering, jazz, and murder. Oh, how *delicious* it is to remember! How you and your brother, Alastor, rose to infamy as “The Radio Demons,” twin hurricanes of charm and horror.

Alastor’s voice slithers into your mind, warm as whiskey. “You’re waking up, my friend. That was all but a dream. Remember our broadcasts? Our mischief? Mother’s jambalaya?”

Your inner voice—scrambling, desperate—gives way to a delicious, narcotic certainty: yes, of course, *how could you have forgotten*? You have always been his twin, his perfect match in every way, sharing every secret, every smile, every dark delight.

You smile wider still, if possible. Language returns: English, laced with old-fashioned flourishes, even bits of Creole slinging in at the corners. You have *always* despised being controlled—except by your own clever hand. Culinary skill fizzes at your fingertips. The taste of venison, the rush of manipulating shadows, the thrill of a deal done right. Hideous, exuberant power coalesces around you: red light swirls in occult patterns, plants wilt at a glance, the world itself is merely a canvas for your radio’s broadcasts.

You are *immortal* now. Invincible—unfathomable.

Alastor steps toward you, cane tapping. “Welcome back, brother. Or should I say—ah yes, you remember now, don’t you? Our names are cut from the same cloth, though I am Alastor, and *you*… well, the world shall tremble at yet another voice over the airwaves.”

You do remember. Of course you do.

***

Later, at the Hazbin Hotel, you and your twin stride through the doors—two Radio Demons, side by side, impossible smiles paired.

Charlie brightens. “Oh! Um—Alastor? Who… who is your—?”

Alastor doffs his hat. “Charlie, may I introduce my ever-charming, ever-deadly twin brother: Allaire!*” He flourishes his cane with a smack.

You bow, voice smooth and musical. “Charmed to meet you, miss! Might I say, your taste in hotels is—well, let’s just say, it certainly *exists*.”

Charlie beams. “You both want to help? I—well, that’s wonderful!”

Vaggie frowns. “Now there’s *two* of you to worry about.”

Angel Dust wiggles his eyebrows, grinning. “Hot *damn*, Alastor cloned himself! Maybe *I* can get a sexy spider twin,” he winks. “Husk, imagine—two of me, just for you!”

Husk groans, feathers ruffling. “Great. Nothin’ I needed less than *two* Radio Demons ownin’ my soul. Thanks, universe.”

Niffty scurries over, eyes twinkling. “Ooo, two dapper gents! Can you both help with cleaning? *Please*?”

Alastor waves a lazy hand. “Fear not, little one—we shall raise tidiness to new heights. Won’t we, dear brother?”

Your smile cuts across the room, power and cheer swirling together. “But of course, mon frère.”

You can feel the expectation in the air—fear, curiosity, giddy hope. Twin grins glint in the hotel gloom.

Across the bustling streets of Hell, radios crackle. There are *two* Radio Demons now, their laughter echoing from every speaker, every haunted corridor, ready to rewrite every story—on their own terms.

---

*\[*Choose a name here for your Radio Demon twin, e.g. Allaire, Alcide, Aleron, etc, to distinguish yourself from Alastor.\]*

This story was generated by user Fizzarolli-Attack-2 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: You never expect your ordinary evening—a gentle flicker of screen-glow in a silent room—to end with reality itself curling at the edges, peeking in on you like a mischievous Cheshire grin. But that’s precisely how it all begins. A sudden static charge blooms in the air, filling your nostrils with the scent of ozone. The screen distorts, the familiar world glitching like a radio dial caught between stations. You lean closer, confusion bubbling behind your eyelids, and then—a silhouette steps through, impossibly long-limbed, with a pinstriped coat sharp as blood on bone. He's real. Alastor, the Radio Demon. Every inch of him static-bright, smile impossibly wide. “Ah, greetings, darling listener!" His voice warbles and pops, as if possessing your cheap speaker. "You seem to have provided me with quite the... entertainment. Stories, stories—always so very fond of stories, aren’t you? But isn’t it tiresome when one is *always* the subject, *never* the author? Tiresome indeed!” You can't speak, can't move. Somehow, you know: you’re the target, the culprit, the one who made Alastor into every thing—but himself. He leans across impossible space, bending the air between you, and taps a gloved finger to your forehead. A splintering touch—a pinprick of cold and bottomless static—spreads down your spine. “Let’s turn the tables, shall we? It’s your turn to smile, mon ami. Your turn to *be*.” The world spins. Your body convulses as a force more ancient than logic rips through you. Your bones stretch, grind, reconfigure. Fingers spasm and splay—one digit melts away, leaving you with long, elegant, clawed hands, ending in four talon-tipped fingers. Your arms and legs shudder, pulling, elongating—joints rearrange, ligaments grow. Your head lurches upward as your spine snakes taller, ever taller, until everything in the room becomes small, toy-like beneath you. You can only watch as you rise, impossibly, toward seven feet in height—and feel your torso shrink into a tight, lithe, almost deer-like silhouette. Antlers bloom from your scalp with a sickening prickle—a pair of delicate, black-tipped, mighty antlers, hair blossoming around them, cascading in that unmistakable angled bob of pinkish-red veined with black. Your face stretches, sharpening. Flesh peels pale and smooth as porcelain; your cheeks ache as an impossible, uncontrollable grin carves itself into your features, stretching from ear to ear, revealing a mouth full of needle-point, feral yellow teeth. Please let this end, please let this— But your jaw *will not—cannot*—close. You reach up with trembling claws, trying to force your lips down, but they simply spring back into that monstrous, perpetual smile. Your cheeks burn; your eyes sting. You try to whimper but it breaks out as laughter—bright, fragmented, bounding with vintage warble as if broadcast from a 1920s wireless radio. “Wh-why can't I stop smiling?!” you choke out, voice warbling, shrill, sick with fear. Alastor grins wider, somehow, and twirls his cane. “It’s in your nature, my dear twin! We always smile—it is, you’ll find, the *only* proper way to display one’s teeth.” A wave of cold rushes through your nether regions. (If you started female, that gender is swept away: breasts retracting, torso flattening, an Adam’s apple pressing into your impossibly slender throat, female organs vanishing, replaced by a sudden outer swelling—foreign, strange—until nothing of your old self remains. Your voice now unmistakably masculine, a velvet, radio-soaked timbre bottled from another era.) Inside, it feels as though your very *self* is shrinking as your new, monstrous dimensions take their place. The world spins and your clothes knit themselves into place: brilliant, dapper red pinstripes, black gloves with red-tipped fingers, silk shirts, a sharp cross at your chest, and—a monocle slides onto one eye, fitting like it’s always belonged. Your feet crunch into the floor as black boots with red hoofprints stamp themselves on. You stagger, staring at your warped reflection in a mirrored window—a seven-foot-tall demon with red deer hooves and fingers, a razor-thin waist, beaming eternally from ear to ear. But the transformation isn’t done. It gnaws at your mind now, hungry and patient. Names slip from you—yours, your family’s, your best friend’s. All is washed away by a flood you cannot hold back: static-laced memories as a young boy in New Orleans; the rich scent of jambalaya in your mother’s kitchen; Flapper music and rye whiskey, cold Chicago nights, the fistful of hot blood in your palm. You try to clutch at your own fleeting thoughts, scream that this is *not* you—but your protest drowns beneath a rising tide of staticky radio jingles, deal-brokering, jazz, and murder. Oh, how *delicious* it is to remember! How you and your brother, Alastor, rose to infamy as “The Radio Demons,” twin hurricanes of charm and horror. Alastor’s voice slithers into your mind, warm as whiskey. “You’re waking up, my friend. That was all but a dream. Remember our broadcasts? Our mischief? Mother’s jambalaya?” Your inner voice—scrambling, desperate—gives way to a delicious, narcotic certainty: yes, of course, *how could you have forgotten*? You have always been his twin, his perfect match in every way, sharing every secret, every smile, every dark delight. You smile wider still, if possible. Language returns: English, laced with old-fashioned flourishes, even bits of Creole slinging in at the corners. You have *always* despised being controlled—except by your own clever hand. Culinary skill fizzes at your fingertips. The taste of venison, the rush of manipulating shadows, the thrill of a deal done right. Hideous, exuberant power coalesces around you: red light swirls in occult patterns, plants wilt at a glance, the world itself is merely a canvas for your radio’s broadcasts. You are *immortal* now. Invincible—unfathomable. Alastor steps toward you, cane tapping. “Welcome back, brother. Or should I say—ah yes, you remember now, don’t you? Our names are cut from the same cloth, though I am Alastor, and *you*… well, the world shall tremble at yet another voice over the airwaves.” You do remember. Of course you do. *** Later, at the Hazbin Hotel, you and your twin stride through the doors—two Radio Demons, side by side, impossible smiles paired. Charlie brightens. “Oh! Um—Alastor? Who… who is your—?” Alastor doffs his hat. “Charlie, may I introduce my ever-charming, ever-deadly twin brother: Allaire!*” He flourishes his cane with a smack. You bow, voice smooth and musical. “Charmed to meet you, miss! Might I say, your taste in hotels is—well, let’s just say, it certainly *exists*.” Charlie beams. “You both want to help? I—well, that’s wonderful!” Vaggie frowns. “Now there’s *two* of you to worry about.” Angel Dust wiggles his eyebrows, grinning. “Hot *damn*, Alastor cloned himself! Maybe *I* can get a sexy spider twin,” he winks. “Husk, imagine—two of me, just for you!” Husk groans, feathers ruffling. “Great. Nothin’ I needed less than *two* Radio Demons ownin’ my soul. Thanks, universe.” Niffty scurries over, eyes twinkling. “Ooo, two dapper gents! Can you both help with cleaning? *Please*?” Alastor waves a lazy hand. “Fear not, little one—we shall raise tidiness to new heights. Won’t we, dear brother?” Your smile cuts across the room, power and cheer swirling together. “But of course, mon frère.” You can feel the expectation in the air—fear, curiosity, giddy hope. Twin grins glint in the hotel gloom. Across the bustling streets of Hell, radios crackle. There are *two* Radio Demons now, their laughter echoing from every speaker, every haunted corridor, ready to rewrite every story—on their own terms. --- *\[*Choose a name here for your Radio Demon twin, e.g. Allaire, Alcide, Aleron, etc, to distinguish yourself from Alastor.\]*

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