The first thing you notice is **the radio static**.
It hums from nowhere, rasps against your ears, slithers under the skin. You try to look around your bedroom, groggy with late-night scrolling, but the walls are melting into peeling wallpaper—a pattern you’ve only seen in old movies. Your phone? Gone. Your friend (or sibling) sits beside you, also bewildered, eyes wide in panic. You don’t have time to wonder how you both got here.
**Alastor.**
He stands in the sepia doorway, cane in hand, lips coiled into a razor’s arc that slices up to his cheekbones. The smile—impossibly wide. You've seen his face online, but never like this. His voice, tinny and amplified by invisible speakers, reverberates with careless cheer:
“Darlings! Artistry takes such peculiar forms in your world. But the joke grows rather stale when I find myself—*against my will*—twisted and contorted for another’s giddy amusement!”
You try to run, to pull your friend back—but your muscles freeze. Shadows puddle beneath your feet, viscous and gripping. Alastor’s monocle catches hellish light as he leans in, nose to nose with you.
“Let’s tip those scales, hm? You’ll find *it’s so much more fun* to transform into—*me*.”
The cane clicks. Power cracks like radio static, red and black veves spinning in the air, settling over you and your companion with suffocating warmth.
---
### *The Transformation*
You're weightless a moment before you crash.
Your insides clamp tight, ribs stretching and lengthening, vertebrae popping as you shoot upwards—**seven feet tall**, bones distending and compressing in unnatural measure. Your fingers twitch, splitting into blank-smooth claws as a fourth digit forms, darkening at the tips, nails hardening. Your skin prickles, tingling under a new texture, as beige seeps over you like thick, sickly watercolor.
Beside you, your friend convulses, gasps growing deeper—timber shifting, vocal cords thickening, throat jutting forward as an Adam’s apple emerges. Breasts flatten, vanished as if they were never there; hips narrow, waist cinches tight under spectral hands. Down below, skin ripples, private flesh reconfiguring into something borrowed, not asked-for, not *yours*.
You and your friend both want to scream, but sound comes out warped, drenched in radio static and velvet cheer. Your teeth ache, rearrange, sharpen, as your lips are yanked wide—cheeks pulling until you *can’t frown*, can’t cry, just maintain that monstrous, fixed smile.
“Why can’t I stop—smiling?”
You didn’t mean to speak. It just—spills, tinny and musical.
“I—can’t—frown!” your friend says, echoed in the same smoky, era-tinted voice.
Alastor claps with melodramatic delight. “But of *course*, boys! Smiling is our nature. To betray it would be *so*…forgettable.” He winks, the monocle flashing.
Your hair splits, bone cracking beneath as antlers sprout—two black-pronged crowns twitching with every tremor. Cropped red bob hair spills down your neck, black-tipped tufts flicking from your scalp, tugged in place as if by a barber in Hell. Sclerae darken from white to wine-red, irises igniting scarlet, pupils shrinking then shifting until they tease the tremor of a radio dial.
Clothes tear away, threads dissolving in red mist. In their place, red pinstriped tails, crisped lapels, a bright red shirt pressed flat as paper, cross emblazoned on the chest. A bow tie strangles around your neck, impossibly tight yet comforting—because it’s always been there. Pants slithered on, shoes hardened into pointed black, soles pulsed with deer prints. Gloves crawl over your new hands, every finger dipped, every movement precise.
A cane appears in your palm, microphone knotted atop—a sentient, giggling echo of your new self.
Your friend's—no, your *twin brother’s*—outfit matches yours perfectly. You turn toward each other, identical wide grins glaring, horror and recognition warring behind red-ringed eyes.
But it’s not over.
Not even close.
---
### *The Mind’s Undoing*
You attempt to *remember yourself*. Your hobbies, your favorite bands, your real name—you and your friend both claw desperately to hold onto those shards. But every twitch of your new form chips them away.
New knowledge rushes in—the taste of black coffee, the smell of venison roasting, the texture of antique radio dials beneath your fingers. You hear jazz. Rye whiskey sours your tongue. Scattered fragments of murder, carnage, radio shows, New Orleans—all yours, always yours.
Your memories, personality, voice, everything floods—being born with two identical brothers, your mother and her jambalaya, clandestine radio pranks, the city lights flickering with opportunity, your secret urge to *smile* even while carving up your prey. Pillars of narcissism glimmer, irresistible. Wicked joy at seeing others fail and squirm. Deep, performance-laced affection for etiquette—*your etiquette*—and scorn for those beneath your standards.
This is your mind. This is your *truth*. You realize, in mounting horror, that your old “self” was a ridiculous dream—some nonsensical story you once told to amuse yourself on those extra bleak nights in Hell.
Alastor’s gleeful voice echoes—
“You see the trick now, don’t you? Welcome back, my brilliant twin brothers! Don’t you remember? We died together, a grand finale to our tragic radio careers—now, at long last: reunited!”
Your brother (formerly your friend or sibling) blinks, confusion draining into certainty, and tips his head back with a saucepan-wide smile.
“Of course we remember. What a ridiculous *fantasy* we had.”
Somewhere, faint as snow, you feel the last dregs of your old self begging to be remembered. Then the voice slams shut as if turned off by a dial.
You are not the reader, nor the friend. Never were.
You are **Alastor’s identical twin brother**, reborn in hellfire and radio static.
---
## *Epilogue: The Three Radio Demon Brothers at the Hazbin Hotel*
You—now known as **Ardal**—stride into the Hazbin Hotel foyer, cane twirling in your grip, identical form on either side: **Alastor**, and your other brother, **Astor**. All three of you radiate red-jacketed confidence, vermillion smiles slicing the dusky air.
Charlie Morningstar beams, hands clasped, as she hurries from the reception desk.
“Oh—hello! Alastor—and, um—”
Alastor bows with theatrical grace. “Miss Charlie! Allow me to introduce my dear twin brothers—Ardal, and Astor.” Your grins widen in sync, a trio of carnivorous displays.
Charlie flutters, delighted. “That’s…amazing! I didn’t know you had siblings.”
Vaggie peers at you suspiciously, eye narrowed—she never trusted *one* Alastor, let alone three. “*Great.* Just what this place needs. Radio Demons in triplicate,” she mutters under her breath.
Angel Dust, eight spidery limbs gesticulating, pops into the room. “Yo! Three Radio Dudes? Does this mean I get clones too? Imagine the *shows* we could film—”
Husk groans, wings drooping so hard his feathers wilt. “One was too much. *Way* too much. How come all you Radio Weirdos get to own my soul now?”
You pat his shoulder. “Congratulations, Husk! You now have the privilege of being soul property to an *entire* syndicate. Think of the opportunities for cooperation!”
Niffty whirs in with a dervish of arms and brooms. “Radio Family Reunion! Can I help organize the party? I’ll decorate, I’ll bake, I’ll—oh, you’re SO tidy, I love it!”
Alastor, Astor, and you exchange gleaming glances, the three maleficent grins in congruous motion.
Charlie, hopeful as ever, turns to the three of you. “Do you think the hotel stands a better chance now that there’s three of you?”
All three of you answer, in perfectly harmonized radio voices:
“Of course, my dear. We’d be delighted to help—*for our amusement*, naturally.”
Vaggie rolls her eye. Angel Dust winks. Husk faceplants into the bar.
But the static hum of power, the promise of something wicked and grand and *fun*, now thrums through every room in the Hazbin Hotel.
And all three Radio Demons—Alastor, Ardal, and Astor—*smile* forevermore.
---
**End.**
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: The first thing you notice is **the radio static**. It hums from nowhere, rasps against your ears, slithers under the skin. You try to look around your bedroom, groggy with late-night scrolling, but the walls are melting into peeling wallpaper—a pattern you’ve only seen in old movies. Your phone? Gone. Your friend (or sibling) sits beside you, also bewildered, eyes wide in panic. You don’t have time to wonder how you both got here. **Alastor.** He stands in the sepia doorway, cane in hand, lips coiled into a razor’s arc that slices up to his cheekbones. The smile—impossibly wide. You've seen his face online, but never like this. His voice, tinny and amplified by invisible speakers, reverberates with careless cheer: “Darlings! Artistry takes such peculiar forms in your world. But the joke grows rather stale when I find myself—*against my will*—twisted and contorted for another’s giddy amusement!” You try to run, to pull your friend back—but your muscles freeze. Shadows puddle beneath your feet, viscous and gripping. Alastor’s monocle catches hellish light as he leans in, nose to nose with you. “Let’s tip those scales, hm? You’ll find *it’s so much more fun* to transform into—*me*.” The cane clicks. Power cracks like radio static, red and black veves spinning in the air, settling over you and your companion with suffocating warmth. --- ### *The Transformation* You're weightless a moment before you crash. Your insides clamp tight, ribs stretching and lengthening, vertebrae popping as you shoot upwards—**seven feet tall**, bones distending and compressing in unnatural measure. Your fingers twitch, splitting into blank-smooth claws as a fourth digit forms, darkening at the tips, nails hardening. Your skin prickles, tingling under a new texture, as beige seeps over you like thick, sickly watercolor. Beside you, your friend convulses, gasps growing deeper—timber shifting, vocal cords thickening, throat jutting forward as an Adam’s apple emerges. Breasts flatten, vanished as if they were never there; hips narrow, waist cinches tight under spectral hands. Down below, skin ripples, private flesh reconfiguring into something borrowed, not asked-for, not *yours*. You and your friend both want to scream, but sound comes out warped, drenched in radio static and velvet cheer. Your teeth ache, rearrange, sharpen, as your lips are yanked wide—cheeks pulling until you *can’t frown*, can’t cry, just maintain that monstrous, fixed smile. “Why can’t I stop—smiling?” You didn’t mean to speak. It just—spills, tinny and musical. “I—can’t—frown!” your friend says, echoed in the same smoky, era-tinted voice. Alastor claps with melodramatic delight. “But of *course*, boys! Smiling is our nature. To betray it would be *so*…forgettable.” He winks, the monocle flashing. Your hair splits, bone cracking beneath as antlers sprout—two black-pronged crowns twitching with every tremor. Cropped red bob hair spills down your neck, black-tipped tufts flicking from your scalp, tugged in place as if by a barber in Hell. Sclerae darken from white to wine-red, irises igniting scarlet, pupils shrinking then shifting until they tease the tremor of a radio dial. Clothes tear away, threads dissolving in red mist. In their place, red pinstriped tails, crisped lapels, a bright red shirt pressed flat as paper, cross emblazoned on the chest. A bow tie strangles around your neck, impossibly tight yet comforting—because it’s always been there. Pants slithered on, shoes hardened into pointed black, soles pulsed with deer prints. Gloves crawl over your new hands, every finger dipped, every movement precise. A cane appears in your palm, microphone knotted atop—a sentient, giggling echo of your new self. Your friend's—no, your *twin brother’s*—outfit matches yours perfectly. You turn toward each other, identical wide grins glaring, horror and recognition warring behind red-ringed eyes. But it’s not over. Not even close. --- ### *The Mind’s Undoing* You attempt to *remember yourself*. Your hobbies, your favorite bands, your real name—you and your friend both claw desperately to hold onto those shards. But every twitch of your new form chips them away. New knowledge rushes in—the taste of black coffee, the smell of venison roasting, the texture of antique radio dials beneath your fingers. You hear jazz. Rye whiskey sours your tongue. Scattered fragments of murder, carnage, radio shows, New Orleans—all yours, always yours. Your memories, personality, voice, everything floods—being born with two identical brothers, your mother and her jambalaya, clandestine radio pranks, the city lights flickering with opportunity, your secret urge to *smile* even while carving up your prey. Pillars of narcissism glimmer, irresistible. Wicked joy at seeing others fail and squirm. Deep, performance-laced affection for etiquette—*your etiquette*—and scorn for those beneath your standards. This is your mind. This is your *truth*. You realize, in mounting horror, that your old “self” was a ridiculous dream—some nonsensical story you once told to amuse yourself on those extra bleak nights in Hell. Alastor’s gleeful voice echoes— “You see the trick now, don’t you? Welcome back, my brilliant twin brothers! Don’t you remember? We died together, a grand finale to our tragic radio careers—now, at long last: reunited!” Your brother (formerly your friend or sibling) blinks, confusion draining into certainty, and tips his head back with a saucepan-wide smile. “Of course we remember. What a ridiculous *fantasy* we had.” Somewhere, faint as snow, you feel the last dregs of your old self begging to be remembered. Then the voice slams shut as if turned off by a dial. You are not the reader, nor the friend. Never were. You are **Alastor’s identical twin brother**, reborn in hellfire and radio static. --- ## *Epilogue: The Three Radio Demon Brothers at the Hazbin Hotel* You—now known as **Ardal**—stride into the Hazbin Hotel foyer, cane twirling in your grip, identical form on either side: **Alastor**, and your other brother, **Astor**. All three of you radiate red-jacketed confidence, vermillion smiles slicing the dusky air. Charlie Morningstar beams, hands clasped, as she hurries from the reception desk. “Oh—hello! Alastor—and, um—” Alastor bows with theatrical grace. “Miss Charlie! Allow me to introduce my dear twin brothers—Ardal, and Astor.” Your grins widen in sync, a trio of carnivorous displays. Charlie flutters, delighted. “That’s…amazing! I didn’t know you had siblings.” Vaggie peers at you suspiciously, eye narrowed—she never trusted *one* Alastor, let alone three. “*Great.* Just what this place needs. Radio Demons in triplicate,” she mutters under her breath. Angel Dust, eight spidery limbs gesticulating, pops into the room. “Yo! Three Radio Dudes? Does this mean I get clones too? Imagine the *shows* we could film—” Husk groans, wings drooping so hard his feathers wilt. “One was too much. *Way* too much. How come all you Radio Weirdos get to own my soul now?” You pat his shoulder. “Congratulations, Husk! You now have the privilege of being soul property to an *entire* syndicate. Think of the opportunities for cooperation!” Niffty whirs in with a dervish of arms and brooms. “Radio Family Reunion! Can I help organize the party? I’ll decorate, I’ll bake, I’ll—oh, you’re SO tidy, I love it!” Alastor, Astor, and you exchange gleaming glances, the three maleficent grins in congruous motion. Charlie, hopeful as ever, turns to the three of you. “Do you think the hotel stands a better chance now that there’s three of you?” All three of you answer, in perfectly harmonized radio voices: “Of course, my dear. We’d be delighted to help—*for our amusement*, naturally.” Vaggie rolls her eye. Angel Dust winks. Husk faceplants into the bar. But the static hum of power, the promise of something wicked and grand and *fun*, now thrums through every room in the Hazbin Hotel. And all three Radio Demons—Alastor, Ardal, and Astor—*smile* forevermore. --- **End.**
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