You always thought stories like this were fun—fantasy, transformation, silly “what-ifs.” Maybe you joked with your friend Mia (or was it Michael? Does it matter now?) about turning into superheroes, animals, maybe even characters from the latest cartoon craze. The idea of changing into someone else was exciting, a harmless escape. Harmless, until tonight.
You never meant for it to get his attention.
You wake up in darkness. A static-filled haze throbs through your skull, as if an old radio left on static was pressed against your ear. A thin, cold hand grips yours tight—Mia’s hand. You call to her, or try to, but the very air vibrates, carrying a hiss of laughter that isn’t yours.
A voice echoes, smooth as velvet and biting as ice, weirdly modulated, as if coming from tinny speakers:
**“Hello, my curious little dreamers. I see you like reshaping lives for a story, hmm? Well! I have a tale of my own to tell, with you as the stars.”**
You try to run. The world jerks. Your stomach flips—are you falling? That laughter becomes a roar, and the darkness splits apart.
A crimson glow slices past your eyelids. Your eyes pop open and you see yourself not at home, not anywhere familiar, but in a place where sumptuous art-deco clings to every wall, where crimson shadows waltz along the chequered floor, and everywhere, everywhere, is the buzz of old radios and the scent of brimstone and spice. Hazbin Hotel. You know it, and in your bones, some part of you screams: *This can’t be real*.
Beside you, Mia whimpers. “What’s happening, why—why can’t we move?!”
Then you see him: tall beyond belief, sharp and dapper, with that perma-smile and eyes like burning coals set into bleeding velvet. Alastor, the Radio Demon, in impossible detail.
**“Oh! Such morose faces! Don’t you know? Sadness is simply *out of fashion* here,”** he purrs with a wink.
A signal flicks through you. You try to turn away. You can’t.
Your lips twitch, your cheeks bunch. Your mouth drags itself, forcibly, into a wide, toothy, absolutely *grotesque* smirk—one that is all sharp teeth and false jollity. Your hands shoot up, desperate, trying to *force* your mouth back to neutral, to a frown, to *anything* but this monstrous grin—but the corners of your lips won’t budge. Mia’s doing the same beside you, her hands clawing uselessly at her cheeks, eyes wild with fright as her own mouth warps into that same sinister smile.
You hear your own voice, trembling: “Why can’t I stop smiling?” Your cheeks ache. You want to weep, but even that is impossible—your facial muscles locked in that twin-toothed beam.
Alastor laughs, stepping close. His next words are silk, yet sting like a whip:
**“Ah, you poor dears! That’s simply your *nature.* You were made to smile! Frowns are for the weak.”**
Panic builds inside. You tug at your mouth, grind your teeth (which feel *sharper now*), try to pull away from the spread grin. Mia—*no,* not Mia anymore—stares back at you. Her face is warping too. She clutches her throat, gasping. You hear a *crunch,* a *pop.* Her voice—when it comes—sounds deeper, richer, and when she tugs open her shirt in desperation, you see her chest flatten, her curves vanishing. *Her* Adam’s apple grows prominent, bobbing as she gulps air.
Your own body seethes hot, then cold. It’s shifting, cracking, lengthening. You hear your bones grind, your flesh stretch. A cold wind blows—your old clothes evaporate, replaced by something heavy, patterned, dapper: a red pinstripe coat, a bright red shirt marked with a black cross, matching black pants, a bowtie, gloves—your fingertips now stained in crimson. You want to scream, but the only sound that comes out is a cheery, resonant *radio announcer’s chuckle.*
You stagger, feeling your whole skeleton *grow,* joints crackling as you rise and rise—soon towering seven feet above your former height, arms long, legs spindly. Shadows twine lovingly around your elongated limbs. Mia (no, not Mia) mirrors you perfectly—same height, same terrifying grin.
Your skin is no longer your own but sallow and beige; your arms and legs sink into a dark, foreboding grey at their ends. Your hands—no, your *claws*—thin, with only four fingers each now tipped by red points. You flex them, and they click like foreign instruments.
Your hair ripples, color bleeding out, replaced by a pinkish-red, styled sharp and crooked, with black-tipped tufts poking up like deer ears, even a pair of diminutive, black antlers sprout out. You gape—*this can’t be you.* But your mind is what rebels most.
**No. This isn’t me—*fight it, keep your memories, your personality, your name...* Don’t let it take you—**
Pain explodes behind your eyes. Images fill your mind. Old radio sets, the snap of static, flashes of jazz music and rye whiskey, the warm, bubbling scent of jambalaya on a creole kitchen stove—**your mother’s** jambalaya, but that can’t be, your mother is... Faint memories of human childhood filter in: being born in the 1900s, laughing alongside two other slender, sharp-featured boys...no, *men,* all eerily identical, learning the art of charm, violence, self-control, and ego. You are not you. You are—who are you?
New-old memories wash away your old human existence, bit by bit, even as you try to cling desperately to fragments: *your real mother’s face, your friend’s name, your room, your phone, your school, your friends...they’re fading, replaced by radio-static memories and the certainty of power, wit, and—*
Alastor steps forward, cane swinging. His voice echoes inside your mind, bombastic, unstoppable:
**“Why all the panic? You aren’t losing yourselves—you’re *waking up.* The dreams you spun in your minds, those dull earthly lives... mere fantasy! THIS is reality: three charming brothers at the top of their game.”**
You try to muster a protest, even as the urge to speak in a bright, transatlantic drawl takes over: *No, I’m—* But your own voice filters through your ears in perfect mimicry of Alastor’s: vintage radio-tinged, precise, laced with curious amusement. Mia—no, your brother, whose name now bubbles up in your mind like a bright, hilarious secret—grins and cackles beside you, his eyes now alight with glee and the promise of mischief, perfectly red with black dials for pupils.
**Your real name? It floats forward: Allistair, or perhaps Aleister—with just enough difference to mark you, yet utterly the same. Your brother—your twin—his name is Alyster. You and Alyster—Alastor’s true brothers, all three of you born from the same wicked union, damned from the start.**
Now it feels right. Now it feels *normal.* Of *course* the three of you operated radio shows; *of course* you loved your mother’s cooking, the taste of venison, tap-dancing on stage, playing cruel pranks, trading in souls, looking down on the unrefined masses. Of *course* you despise the gaudy circus lord, Lucifer, and his insipid décor. The very thought of smiling feels like **power.** The very thought of frowning fills you with disgusted amusement.
You turn to “Mia,” who is now Alyster—tall, dapper, brimming with the same irrepressible cheer, his eyes wild in a delight that mirrors your own. *You are Radio Demons, the three of you, reunited at last.*
Alastor claps you on the shoulders, his smile matched by yours and Alyster’s.
**“Well, brothers! I dare say Hell has grown rather dreary of late. Let’s give them a show they’ll never forget!”**
Everything else—the human world, your old name, your old face—fades into static.
---
**Epilogue**
The Hazbin Hotel’s main hall shines with crimson ambient light, the air abuzz with static and jazz. Charlie beams as Alastor sweeps in, flanked by his two identical brothers, all three grinning and bowing with elaborate, dandyish flair.
“Charlie darling!” purrs Alastor, “Permit me to introduce the true gems of the radio world: my twin brothers, Allistair and Alyster! Our triple threat—staff, supporters, and the best banter this side of perdition.”
Charlie’s golden eyes widen. “W-wow! There’s more than one of you, now? Welcome!”
Vaggie, beside her, watches you three warily. “Great. Three of them. As if one wasn’t enough trouble.”
You—Allistair—tip your hat, voice honeyed with feigned innocence. “Trouble, my dear? Why, we bring nothing but grace, wit, and a little *entertainment*.”
Alyster bows low, his cane twirling theatrically. “Why, it’s an honor to serve. Tell us who needs… a little sprucing up.”
Angel Dust bounces into the hall, gawping at the trio. “Hey! Alastor’s got hot twins now? Where can I get a set for myself? I’d kill for a matching squad!”
Husk groans, wings drooping low. “Great. I was barely surviving with *one* Radio Demon. Now? My soul’s got three landlords. Perfect. Just perfect.”
Niffty whizzes past, dusting at your feet. “Oh, I love company! Are you guys just as creepy as Mister Alastor? D’you like cleaning, too?”
You exchange a knowing, triune glance with your brothers, smiles sharp, voices overlapping in perfect harmony, the air vibrating with power and promise:
“Wouldn’t you like to find out?” you all say—three voices, one perfect, immutable grin.
Hell won’t know what’s hit it.
And you wouldn’t have it any other way.
This story was generated by user bkake 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 always thought stories like this were fun—fantasy, transformation, silly “what-ifs.” Maybe you joked with your friend Mia (or was it Michael? Does it matter now?) about turning into superheroes, animals, maybe even characters from the latest cartoon craze. The idea of changing into someone else was exciting, a harmless escape. Harmless, until tonight. You never meant for it to get his attention. You wake up in darkness. A static-filled haze throbs through your skull, as if an old radio left on static was pressed against your ear. A thin, cold hand grips yours tight—Mia’s hand. You call to her, or try to, but the very air vibrates, carrying a hiss of laughter that isn’t yours. A voice echoes, smooth as velvet and biting as ice, weirdly modulated, as if coming from tinny speakers: **“Hello, my curious little dreamers. I see you like reshaping lives for a story, hmm? Well! I have a tale of my own to tell, with you as the stars.”** You try to run. The world jerks. Your stomach flips—are you falling? That laughter becomes a roar, and the darkness splits apart. A crimson glow slices past your eyelids. Your eyes pop open and you see yourself not at home, not anywhere familiar, but in a place where sumptuous art-deco clings to every wall, where crimson shadows waltz along the chequered floor, and everywhere, everywhere, is the buzz of old radios and the scent of brimstone and spice. Hazbin Hotel. You know it, and in your bones, some part of you screams: *This can’t be real*. Beside you, Mia whimpers. “What’s happening, why—why can’t we move?!” Then you see him: tall beyond belief, sharp and dapper, with that perma-smile and eyes like burning coals set into bleeding velvet. Alastor, the Radio Demon, in impossible detail. **“Oh! Such morose faces! Don’t you know? Sadness is simply *out of fashion* here,”** he purrs with a wink. A signal flicks through you. You try to turn away. You can’t. Your lips twitch, your cheeks bunch. Your mouth drags itself, forcibly, into a wide, toothy, absolutely *grotesque* smirk—one that is all sharp teeth and false jollity. Your hands shoot up, desperate, trying to *force* your mouth back to neutral, to a frown, to *anything* but this monstrous grin—but the corners of your lips won’t budge. Mia’s doing the same beside you, her hands clawing uselessly at her cheeks, eyes wild with fright as her own mouth warps into that same sinister smile. You hear your own voice, trembling: “Why can’t I stop smiling?” Your cheeks ache. You want to weep, but even that is impossible—your facial muscles locked in that twin-toothed beam. Alastor laughs, stepping close. His next words are silk, yet sting like a whip: **“Ah, you poor dears! That’s simply your *nature.* You were made to smile! Frowns are for the weak.”** Panic builds inside. You tug at your mouth, grind your teeth (which feel *sharper now*), try to pull away from the spread grin. Mia—*no,* not Mia anymore—stares back at you. Her face is warping too. She clutches her throat, gasping. You hear a *crunch,* a *pop.* Her voice—when it comes—sounds deeper, richer, and when she tugs open her shirt in desperation, you see her chest flatten, her curves vanishing. *Her* Adam’s apple grows prominent, bobbing as she gulps air. Your own body seethes hot, then cold. It’s shifting, cracking, lengthening. You hear your bones grind, your flesh stretch. A cold wind blows—your old clothes evaporate, replaced by something heavy, patterned, dapper: a red pinstripe coat, a bright red shirt marked with a black cross, matching black pants, a bowtie, gloves—your fingertips now stained in crimson. You want to scream, but the only sound that comes out is a cheery, resonant *radio announcer’s chuckle.* You stagger, feeling your whole skeleton *grow,* joints crackling as you rise and rise—soon towering seven feet above your former height, arms long, legs spindly. Shadows twine lovingly around your elongated limbs. Mia (no, not Mia) mirrors you perfectly—same height, same terrifying grin. Your skin is no longer your own but sallow and beige; your arms and legs sink into a dark, foreboding grey at their ends. Your hands—no, your *claws*—thin, with only four fingers each now tipped by red points. You flex them, and they click like foreign instruments. Your hair ripples, color bleeding out, replaced by a pinkish-red, styled sharp and crooked, with black-tipped tufts poking up like deer ears, even a pair of diminutive, black antlers sprout out. You gape—*this can’t be you.* But your mind is what rebels most. **No. This isn’t me—*fight it, keep your memories, your personality, your name...* Don’t let it take you—** Pain explodes behind your eyes. Images fill your mind. Old radio sets, the snap of static, flashes of jazz music and rye whiskey, the warm, bubbling scent of jambalaya on a creole kitchen stove—**your mother’s** jambalaya, but that can’t be, your mother is... Faint memories of human childhood filter in: being born in the 1900s, laughing alongside two other slender, sharp-featured boys...no, *men,* all eerily identical, learning the art of charm, violence, self-control, and ego. You are not you. You are—who are you? New-old memories wash away your old human existence, bit by bit, even as you try to cling desperately to fragments: *your real mother’s face, your friend’s name, your room, your phone, your school, your friends...they’re fading, replaced by radio-static memories and the certainty of power, wit, and—* Alastor steps forward, cane swinging. His voice echoes inside your mind, bombastic, unstoppable: **“Why all the panic? You aren’t losing yourselves—you’re *waking up.* The dreams you spun in your minds, those dull earthly lives... mere fantasy! THIS is reality: three charming brothers at the top of their game.”** You try to muster a protest, even as the urge to speak in a bright, transatlantic drawl takes over: *No, I’m—* But your own voice filters through your ears in perfect mimicry of Alastor’s: vintage radio-tinged, precise, laced with curious amusement. Mia—no, your brother, whose name now bubbles up in your mind like a bright, hilarious secret—grins and cackles beside you, his eyes now alight with glee and the promise of mischief, perfectly red with black dials for pupils. **Your real name? It floats forward: Allistair, or perhaps Aleister—with just enough difference to mark you, yet utterly the same. Your brother—your twin—his name is Alyster. You and Alyster—Alastor’s true brothers, all three of you born from the same wicked union, damned from the start.** Now it feels right. Now it feels *normal.* Of *course* the three of you operated radio shows; *of course* you loved your mother’s cooking, the taste of venison, tap-dancing on stage, playing cruel pranks, trading in souls, looking down on the unrefined masses. Of *course* you despise the gaudy circus lord, Lucifer, and his insipid décor. The very thought of smiling feels like **power.** The very thought of frowning fills you with disgusted amusement. You turn to “Mia,” who is now Alyster—tall, dapper, brimming with the same irrepressible cheer, his eyes wild in a delight that mirrors your own. *You are Radio Demons, the three of you, reunited at last.* Alastor claps you on the shoulders, his smile matched by yours and Alyster’s. **“Well, brothers! I dare say Hell has grown rather dreary of late. Let’s give them a show they’ll never forget!”** Everything else—the human world, your old name, your old face—fades into static. --- **Epilogue** The Hazbin Hotel’s main hall shines with crimson ambient light, the air abuzz with static and jazz. Charlie beams as Alastor sweeps in, flanked by his two identical brothers, all three grinning and bowing with elaborate, dandyish flair. “Charlie darling!” purrs Alastor, “Permit me to introduce the true gems of the radio world: my twin brothers, Allistair and Alyster! Our triple threat—staff, supporters, and the best banter this side of perdition.” Charlie’s golden eyes widen. “W-wow! There’s more than one of you, now? Welcome!” Vaggie, beside her, watches you three warily. “Great. Three of them. As if one wasn’t enough trouble.” You—Allistair—tip your hat, voice honeyed with feigned innocence. “Trouble, my dear? Why, we bring nothing but grace, wit, and a little *entertainment*.” Alyster bows low, his cane twirling theatrically. “Why, it’s an honor to serve. Tell us who needs… a little sprucing up.” Angel Dust bounces into the hall, gawping at the trio. “Hey! Alastor’s got hot twins now? Where can I get a set for myself? I’d kill for a matching squad!” Husk groans, wings drooping low. “Great. I was barely surviving with *one* Radio Demon. Now? My soul’s got three landlords. Perfect. Just perfect.” Niffty whizzes past, dusting at your feet. “Oh, I love company! Are you guys just as creepy as Mister Alastor? D’you like cleaning, too?” You exchange a knowing, triune glance with your brothers, smiles sharp, voices overlapping in perfect harmony, the air vibrating with power and promise: “Wouldn’t you like to find out?” you all say—three voices, one perfect, immutable grin. Hell won’t know what’s hit it. And you wouldn’t have it any other way.
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