"Twin Radio Demons of Hazbin Hotel"
0 Points
You never saw him coming. Odds are, no one ever does.
One moment, you’re mindlessly scrolling through a bottomless pit of social media posts, amused and bemused by the endless parade of memes and increasingly improbable transformation stories. Another moment, a flicker zips across your screen—an image, a face, two manic red eyes and a smile as wide as sin. Then static fills your ears. The lights flicker. Sound crackles from your phone, sharp and bright, as if the glass itself was singing.
“Why, hello there, my listener!” chirps a vintage-tinny, energetic voice—one you’ve heard in video clips and musical numbers, but never in your own living room. “What droll entertainment! But you’ve had quite enough fun at my expense, haven’t you?”
It’s impossible, but Alastor—THE Radio Demon—reaches through the screen. His smile is far too wide, his movements real and impossible at once, his shadow stretching far past the boundaries of the glass. You recoil, but it makes no difference. The shadow yanks you through, yanking your consciousness with it. Your vision warps, warps, warps—
When awareness returns, the world around you is a swirl of hot red and stormy pinks. The air thrums with theatrical jazz. The ground feels oddly springy. You’re standing—wait, standing? You don’t remember standing. You can’t move your legs, because they don’t feel like legs at all. Or maybe—maybe they’re stretching, growing, pulled up by puppet strings.
Alastor steps before you, neat and dapper, his every gesture tinged with sinister amusement. He lifts a hand, and bizarre crimson symbols sizzle in the air, Voodoo patterns pirouetting around your body. His shadow wraps around your feet—your toes! They burn, split, harden into hooves that glisten bright scarlet. You choke out a panicked sound, but what comes out is not your voice. It’s a scratchy, radio-filtered bark, gleeful and wicked.
“Tell me, dear interloper,” Alastor croons, cane twirling, “since art imitates life and life imitates art, would you enjoy a taste of the very medium you so delight in manipulating?”
Your body contorts, crackling under his magic like a forest set ablaze by some unfeeling arsonist. Your height lurches up—six feet—six and a half—seven! Your torso squeezes thin, your legs stretch and twist, your shoulders broaden, arms slithering into angular elegance. Your neck elongates, thin as a stem.
If you’re female, the changes surge through your chest and groin. A tightening, a flattening under the flying red glow: your breasts melt away as easily as if smoothed by an artist’s hand. Your hips shift, your core recoils. Cool air touches new, unfamiliar skin as you feel everything invert, twist, and restructure—pelvis and organs rearranged, pulling in, pushing out, carving a new shape, undeniably and explicitly male.
Just as quickly, the world smooths over. It’s like you were always this way.
Skin pales to beige; hair prickles and surges, the color streaming through from root to tip—a pinkish-red, sliced with black, and cropped into that unmistakable Bob with jagged tufts. Sharp black antlers erupt with surprising ease from your skull—no pain, just a sense of rightness. Eyes bloom with heat; you see everything in gradients of red, white, and shadow. Your pupils thin; your sclera burn dark. You blink, and radio dials flicker behind your eyelids, as if you can almost tune your vision like static.
Your hands! Your fingers clench and unclench, slender, tipped in a predatory crimson, only four digits each. You flex, and the claws catch the hotel’s dim, wine-soaked light. Ragged red pinstripes blink across your new coat as the fabric bursts into being—the monocle slides into place, warm against your eye. You snicker involuntarily. The sound is bright, harmonized with static and the squeal of a dying broadcast.
What you cannot do—is stop smiling. Your mouth creaks wider, baring wildfire-yellow teeth in a grin so huge it feels carved onto your very soul. Panicked, you seize your cheeks, trying desperately to wrench it down. Your hands don’t obey. The muscles don’t respond. Even as fear and confusion churn at your core, your mask of manic joy won’t falter, not for a second.
“W-why,” you gasp, or try to, though it tumbles out bright and affable, “Why can’t I stop—smiling?”
Alastor cackles, an edge of triumph slicing through the old-timey hospitality. “Oh! My delightful twin, frowning simply doesn’t suit us! Why conceal our true natures? Smiling is the only proper way to greet eternity, don’t you agree?”
You try—truly, you try!—to remember who you are. Your life, your family, your favorite stories, your old hopes and dreams. But the red symbols tighten. A storm of memories you don’t want, don’t recognize, come thundering through your mind: a gentle, motherly laugh echoing from a human kitchen, the savory scent of jambalaya simmering, microphones and vinyl, walking the shadow-filled streets of New Orleans, a long, lonesome adolescence cut too short by the sound of gunfire in 1933.
Radio booths, music, static applause. Blood. Pain. Jazz and rye and hunger so sharp you could almost taste the next kill. The twisted pleasure of playing with the shadows, making deals, stepping into power. Charlie—Charming Belle, the princess of Hell, a beacon for lost souls (how laughable). Vaggie’s suspicious sneer, Husk’s quiet misery.
You try to fight—but the old self is smothered by glee and disdain and razor-sharp calculation. Love for yourself—no, for both of you, Alastor and—Wait. YOU are Alastor?
No. Not Alastor alone. **You are his twin.**
You turn to face your brother, your dear, identical other. He leans in, close as a shadow, his smile devouring half the room. “Awake, at last! Well, it’s about time, dear brother. You’re free from that absurd little human dream. Welcome home.”
It’s true. It’s *always* been true. Born together, walked side by side, killed for your appetites and your voices. Twin stars fallen from a dying sky, reborn as the infamous Radio Demons. Smiling, always smiling—because to frown is to lose, to weaken, to surrender.
And your name—ah, yes, your name. Like his, but **distinct**. Pastel crackle, radio fuzz, syllables snap into place. *Alastair.* Not Alastor, but nearly. The world settles into place, airwaves sigh, and you’re not two, not one—*twins*, singular in purpose.
---
**EPILOGUE: THE RADIO DEMONS AT THE HAZBIN HOTEL**
You—Alastair, the Radio Demon’s twin—stride into the Hazbin Hotel at Alastor’s side, your monocles glinting, synchronized in red radiance. The lobby is awash in confusion and loathing delight.
Alastor puffs up cheerily, “My charming demon belle, allow me to introduce someone most special—my twin brother, Alastair! Together, we broadcast twice the trouble!” He doffs a bow with theatrical flourish. All eyes land on you.
Charlie beams, the perfect host. “Wow! I… This is—fantastic! Welcome to the Hazbin Hotel, Mister Alastair. I hope you find it as inspiring as your brother does!”
Vaggie eyes you and your brother with suspicion, arms folded, hackles raised. “Another one? As if one Radio Demon wasn’t enough.”
Angel Dust pokes his head from around a banister, four arms flailing with excitement. “Oh, my god, there’s TWO of them?!” He winks at Husk, “Bro, get me a twin—stat!”
Husk groans, swiping at the air. “Great. As if one demon owning my soul wasn’t bad enough, now it’s a buy-one-get-one special.”
Niffty zips up, hands clasped to her cheek, eye sparkling. “New daddies! This hotel is getting so many fun people! I hope you like cleaning up messes, mister—can I call you Ally?”
Your lips (forever curled into that razor grin) open, and your voice chimes in bright, bell-like, harmonizing with Alastor’s, “Ally, Alastair—but you may call me whatever sweet nickname you dream up, dear. Now, is that jambalaya I detect, or only wishful thinking?”
Alastor bursts into peals of static-charged laughter. He stretches an arm around your shoulders, turns you to face the bustling chaos of Hell, and broadcasts to the world at large, “Let it be known—Hazbin Hotel is now the proud host to not one, but TWO Radio Demons! Twice the smiles, twice the… entertainment!” His voice crackles and echoes into every shadow.
And somewhere deep inside—no, not so deep, for your human memories are truly gone—it tickles you to see the universe turned *your* way, stories and art and all, and to know that, this time, you’re not the subject of a transformation, but the very thing that others must transform to suit. Radio Demon. Immortal. Smiling, always smiling, broadcast bound for eternity.
**Welcome home, Alastair.**
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.
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 saw him coming. Odds are, no one ever does. One moment, you’re mindlessly scrolling through a bottomless pit of social media posts, amused and bemused by the endless parade of memes and increasingly improbable transformation stories. Another moment, a flicker zips across your screen—an image, a face, two manic red eyes and a smile as wide as sin. Then static fills your ears. The lights flicker. Sound crackles from your phone, sharp and bright, as if the glass itself was singing. “Why, hello there, my listener!” chirps a vintage-tinny, energetic voice—one you’ve heard in video clips and musical numbers, but never in your own living room. “What droll entertainment! But you’ve had quite enough fun at my expense, haven’t you?” It’s impossible, but Alastor—THE Radio Demon—reaches through the screen. His smile is far too wide, his movements real and impossible at once, his shadow stretching far past the boundaries of the glass. You recoil, but it makes no difference. The shadow yanks you through, yanking your consciousness with it. Your vision warps, warps, warps— When awareness returns, the world around you is a swirl of hot red and stormy pinks. The air thrums with theatrical jazz. The ground feels oddly springy. You’re standing—wait, standing? You don’t remember standing. You can’t move your legs, because they don’t feel like legs at all. Or maybe—maybe they’re stretching, growing, pulled up by puppet strings. Alastor steps before you, neat and dapper, his every gesture tinged with sinister amusement. He lifts a hand, and bizarre crimson symbols sizzle in the air, Voodoo patterns pirouetting around your body. His shadow wraps around your feet—your toes! They burn, split, harden into hooves that glisten bright scarlet. You choke out a panicked sound, but what comes out is not your voice. It’s a scratchy, radio-filtered bark, gleeful and wicked. “Tell me, dear interloper,” Alastor croons, cane twirling, “since art imitates life and life imitates art, would you enjoy a taste of the very medium you so delight in manipulating?” Your body contorts, crackling under his magic like a forest set ablaze by some unfeeling arsonist. Your height lurches up—six feet—six and a half—seven! Your torso squeezes thin, your legs stretch and twist, your shoulders broaden, arms slithering into angular elegance. Your neck elongates, thin as a stem. If you’re female, the changes surge through your chest and groin. A tightening, a flattening under the flying red glow: your breasts melt away as easily as if smoothed by an artist’s hand. Your hips shift, your core recoils. Cool air touches new, unfamiliar skin as you feel everything invert, twist, and restructure—pelvis and organs rearranged, pulling in, pushing out, carving a new shape, undeniably and explicitly male. Just as quickly, the world smooths over. It’s like you were always this way. Skin pales to beige; hair prickles and surges, the color streaming through from root to tip—a pinkish-red, sliced with black, and cropped into that unmistakable Bob with jagged tufts. Sharp black antlers erupt with surprising ease from your skull—no pain, just a sense of rightness. Eyes bloom with heat; you see everything in gradients of red, white, and shadow. Your pupils thin; your sclera burn dark. You blink, and radio dials flicker behind your eyelids, as if you can almost tune your vision like static. Your hands! Your fingers clench and unclench, slender, tipped in a predatory crimson, only four digits each. You flex, and the claws catch the hotel’s dim, wine-soaked light. Ragged red pinstripes blink across your new coat as the fabric bursts into being—the monocle slides into place, warm against your eye. You snicker involuntarily. The sound is bright, harmonized with static and the squeal of a dying broadcast. What you cannot do—is stop smiling. Your mouth creaks wider, baring wildfire-yellow teeth in a grin so huge it feels carved onto your very soul. Panicked, you seize your cheeks, trying desperately to wrench it down. Your hands don’t obey. The muscles don’t respond. Even as fear and confusion churn at your core, your mask of manic joy won’t falter, not for a second. “W-why,” you gasp, or try to, though it tumbles out bright and affable, “Why can’t I stop—smiling?” Alastor cackles, an edge of triumph slicing through the old-timey hospitality. “Oh! My delightful twin, frowning simply doesn’t suit us! Why conceal our true natures? Smiling is the only proper way to greet eternity, don’t you agree?” You try—truly, you try!—to remember who you are. Your life, your family, your favorite stories, your old hopes and dreams. But the red symbols tighten. A storm of memories you don’t want, don’t recognize, come thundering through your mind: a gentle, motherly laugh echoing from a human kitchen, the savory scent of jambalaya simmering, microphones and vinyl, walking the shadow-filled streets of New Orleans, a long, lonesome adolescence cut too short by the sound of gunfire in 1933. Radio booths, music, static applause. Blood. Pain. Jazz and rye and hunger so sharp you could almost taste the next kill. The twisted pleasure of playing with the shadows, making deals, stepping into power. Charlie—Charming Belle, the princess of Hell, a beacon for lost souls (how laughable). Vaggie’s suspicious sneer, Husk’s quiet misery. You try to fight—but the old self is smothered by glee and disdain and razor-sharp calculation. Love for yourself—no, for both of you, Alastor and—Wait. YOU are Alastor? No. Not Alastor alone. **You are his twin.** You turn to face your brother, your dear, identical other. He leans in, close as a shadow, his smile devouring half the room. “Awake, at last! Well, it’s about time, dear brother. You’re free from that absurd little human dream. Welcome home.” It’s true. It’s *always* been true. Born together, walked side by side, killed for your appetites and your voices. Twin stars fallen from a dying sky, reborn as the infamous Radio Demons. Smiling, always smiling—because to frown is to lose, to weaken, to surrender. And your name—ah, yes, your name. Like his, but **distinct**. Pastel crackle, radio fuzz, syllables snap into place. *Alastair.* Not Alastor, but nearly. The world settles into place, airwaves sigh, and you’re not two, not one—*twins*, singular in purpose. --- **EPILOGUE: THE RADIO DEMONS AT THE HAZBIN HOTEL** You—Alastair, the Radio Demon’s twin—stride into the Hazbin Hotel at Alastor’s side, your monocles glinting, synchronized in red radiance. The lobby is awash in confusion and loathing delight. Alastor puffs up cheerily, “My charming demon belle, allow me to introduce someone most special—my twin brother, Alastair! Together, we broadcast twice the trouble!” He doffs a bow with theatrical flourish. All eyes land on you. Charlie beams, the perfect host. “Wow! I… This is—fantastic! Welcome to the Hazbin Hotel, Mister Alastair. I hope you find it as inspiring as your brother does!” Vaggie eyes you and your brother with suspicion, arms folded, hackles raised. “Another one? As if one Radio Demon wasn’t enough.” Angel Dust pokes his head from around a banister, four arms flailing with excitement. “Oh, my god, there’s TWO of them?!” He winks at Husk, “Bro, get me a twin—stat!” Husk groans, swiping at the air. “Great. As if one demon owning my soul wasn’t bad enough, now it’s a buy-one-get-one special.” Niffty zips up, hands clasped to her cheek, eye sparkling. “New daddies! This hotel is getting so many fun people! I hope you like cleaning up messes, mister—can I call you Ally?” Your lips (forever curled into that razor grin) open, and your voice chimes in bright, bell-like, harmonizing with Alastor’s, “Ally, Alastair—but you may call me whatever sweet nickname you dream up, dear. Now, is that jambalaya I detect, or only wishful thinking?” Alastor bursts into peals of static-charged laughter. He stretches an arm around your shoulders, turns you to face the bustling chaos of Hell, and broadcasts to the world at large, “Let it be known—Hazbin Hotel is now the proud host to not one, but TWO Radio Demons! Twice the smiles, twice the… entertainment!” His voice crackles and echoes into every shadow. And somewhere deep inside—no, not so deep, for your human memories are truly gone—it tickles you to see the universe turned *your* way, stories and art and all, and to know that, this time, you’re not the subject of a transformation, but the very thing that others must transform to suit. Radio Demon. Immortal. Smiling, always smiling, broadcast bound for eternity. **Welcome home, Alastair.**
Post your own comment or use AI: