Grinning Shadows of Hazbin Hotel: Alastor The Radio Demon's Twin Brother
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**Content Warning:** This story contains a permanent loss of self, detailed description of magical bodily transformation, and transformation-induced gender change (if applicable), as well as discussion of disturbing themes per Hazbin Hotel canon.
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You never expected to feel so *real* in a dream—even if you’re not entirely sure you’ve ever left your room, the world of glowing screens, and the endless buzz of Hazbin Hotel fan-stuff you *shouldn’t* be reading, but can’t keep away from. It’s always fun, in a harmless way, to imagine what would happen if the rules of the show bent the way people online wanted.
But, apparently, it’s *not* fun for everyone.
Tonight, the shadows seem to move more than usual as you sit alone. The amber glow from your monitor flickers, but it’s not just the screen. The corners of your room are *thickening* with darkness, the air tingling. Something, just beneath the static and hum, is wrong.
A voice, slick with syrup-rich cheer, slithers out from your speakers—not from the show, not from anything recorded, but something alive. “My, my, my… what a curious game you mortals like to play.” The shadows blossom, swallowing your vision.
You try to shout, but your voice is gone.
When you open your eyes, you’re elsewhere. The world is acid-bright, velvet-rich, full of twisted color—Hell, as only the minds behind Hazbin Hotel could imagine. In front of you, in all his dapper, nightmare glory, stands **Alastor.** His grin is wider than you imagined, wider than should be possible, sharky and hungry and all the more chilling for how polite his eyes remain.
He tips his head, monocle glinting. “Don’t look so *distressed*, dear listener! Or, rather, don’t *try* to look distressed. You’re about to become far more… agreeable.” Around his cane, vintage radio microphone sparking like some metallic spider, a latticework of red, glowing sigils flicker into being—voodoo veve, demonic geometry, the arcane language of Hazbin’s most dangerous smile.
He raises a hand. Shadows clutch at your ankles. The red light climbs over you, sinking under your skin.
---
### Transformation
Your heart hammers, but your limbs are going numb and heat shudders through your bones.
Your face flushes, tingling as if a hundred sharp knives are carving two lines up from your lips to the tops of your cheeks. Your mouth stretches, unwilling, gritted teeth exposed, but you cannot stop your lips from pulling, pulling wider—a grin that has no give, no surrender, no *escape*. You reach up, desperation gnawing at your remaining will, to drag your cheeks down, to cover your teeth, but your fingers slip over the skin. The smile *will not* falter. “Why can’t I stop smiling!?” The words try to curl into a snarl of panic, but all you can do is laugh—a bright, radio-static sound, unmistakably *his*.
Alastor grins (somehow wider still), crooning, “It’s only your nature, my twin! There’s no room left but for good spirits!” He laughs—crackling, radio-tinny, infectious. You can’t help it: your own laughter matches, high and unnatural.
Your hair prickles, scalp boiling. Crimson locks erupt down either side of your face, bobbed and sharply-angled, black streaks at the tips. Two tufts stab out above your head—imitating deer ears—accompanied by the *crck-crk* of tiny, obsidian antlers forcing their way out of your skull.
You want to scream, but what leaks out is a delighted, “Ohohoho! What a transformation!—No, no, this can’t be—” but the voice is not yours, not any longer. It’s rolled in static, depth, and old-time charm, perfectly *Alastor*, with a lilting transatlantic accent that buzzes in your bones.
If you were *short* before, you see your new world shrink as your body swells upward, joints popping. If you’re *tall* already, you stretch further still—the ground drifts away, and soon all is viewed from a looming seven feet.
The *real* nightmare wriggles under your skin—arms narrowing, legs lengthening, muscle coiling in strange, unfamiliar patterns. Flesh tightens, slim but broad-shouldered, forearms and shins rippling as they smear into inky black, ending in clawed, crimson-tipped fingers—only four now—as your toes fuse into red, hoofed points. You wobble, testing the balance. Your new posture feels… *perfect*, primed for a dance, a villain’s bow, or a lunge.
A new suit coils around you, threads appearing *ex nihilo*—a pinstripe coat in crimson and shadow with ragged hems, shirt beneath adorned with a pitch-black cross over the heart. Dress pants, gloves with blood-bright tips, a bowtie, gleaming boots with deer prints in red. Over your right eye, a monocle settles, vision shifting through its crimson oval.
*If you are female:*
The alien heat grows deep—your hips shuddering as they narrow and your chest contracts, breasts vanishing from your ribcage as your throat sharpens, Adam’s apple pushing outward. Your voice—now brutally, perfectly masculine—startles you with every syllable. The fire crawls down, and you feel an intense pulling-and-twisting in your core, a deep, inside-out contortion that crests in a sudden absence—and in the new, insistent presence of male anatomy, heavy and foreign yet already familiar.
You stare at your hands. Four fingers. Your smile, forever locked—jaws aching but powerless to change. And when you try to speak, you *broadcast.*
“Check one… two… Ah, what a voice! Magnificent!”
It isn’t you, yet it *is.* It’s becoming more insistent.
It’s not just your body that is at stake.
### The Mind’s Undoing
Memories crackle. You try to say your childhood, your family, your school, your name—but the words evaporate, replaced by *French-Creole* flavors, radio shows, a mother’s Jambalaya, the sizzle of a New Orleans dance band, the pulse of old jazz. Names, faces—yours—are torn away, dissolved into static, devoured by a red-tinted tide. You clutch for your true self, screaming inside, but the smile never fades.
You recall—you *must* recall—listening by the fireplace as your twin brother (no, *you*?) tells wild stories into a microphone, sharing the family talent, the grinning secret. The echo fades.
No… *please, you’re not him, you’re not—*
But that’s absurd. You’ve always been his twin. Even your name—Alastair? Allaster? Aleister?—it rises, familiar, if just different enough to make you *you*. Or rather, you and he: the *Radio Demon Twins*.
Painfully, you try to push back, desperate, digging in the riverbed for your lost memories—but they evaporate, replaced by *his* likes (bitter black coffee, the bite of venison, the thrill of fooling others, the crunch of business failures, the warm glow of your mother’s cooking), *his* dislikes (the tedium of the modern world, anyone ruining your outfit, the humiliation of being humbled), his every snide anecdote and mocking turn of phrase.
You want to cry. But even tears feel incorrect, incongruent with that brilliant, wide grin. Sorrow, fear, even disgust—*inexpressible.*
Alastor circles you, appraising. “My, my, you wear our skin so well! Now, let us dispose with the last shreds of that dreary human fiction—Come, brother, you’ve slumbered long enough! You were never anything but *me*—a perfect half of our delicious whole.”
Something fractures. Something old and dead is swept away in a maelstrom of radio static and voodoo red, and when it’s gone, you are *complete*. Whole. Yourself. *Alastor’s* twin, identical, eternal, smiling wide.
### Homecoming
Alastor sweeps his cane, cane-mic radiating popcorn pops and a musical sting. “At last, reunited! Now, brother, what do you say we find some *entertainment*?”
You—who resisted so long—now feel nothing but *delight.*
“By all means, dear brother! After all, this hotel won’t run itself! Ha-ha!”
The two of you stride through scarlet halls, static swirling around your feet, every step a rehearsed performance in the theater of the damned.
---
## Epilogue
**The Hazbin Hotel, Present Day**
Under the neon sign, inside the grand lobby, the two of you—Alastor and his perfect twin—stand to greet the chaos.
Charlie, her halo flickering, claps delightedly. “Alastor! I see you’ve… duplicated?”
Alastor, with a courtly bow, sweeps a hand to you. “Dearest Charlie, it’s my *pleasure* to introduce my brother—the only man in Hell who can rival my charm! Please, call him—”
*(Here insert your name, deliberately similar but distinct: for example, Allaster.)*
“Allaster!”
Charlie beams, hope in her eyes. “The more help, the better! Welcome to the Hazbin Hotel, Allaster—I hope you’ll support our work here!”
You tip your hat, voice booming with radio-smile static. “The pleasure’s all mine, Miss Morningstar! And might I say, what a charming enterprise—raucous, ambitious, impossible. Quite my favorite sort!”
Vaggie narrows her one eye, whispering fiercely to Charlie (not quite subtle): “We barely trust *one* Radio Demon! Why would we want *two*?”
Charlie, ever the optimist, gestures between you and Alastor with a trusting warmth: “He’s his twin, Vaggie! What could go wrong?”
“An *insurmountable* amount, I’d wager!” Vaggie hisses.
Angel Dust saunters by, six limbs flicking. “Oh, *fabulous!* Hell wasn’t chaotic enough—now there’s two of ‘em! Hey Husk—think there’s a chance I could get myself a copy? Imagine all the fun I could have, if you know what I mean…”
Husk, cleaning a mug, groans, “God, shoot me again. One of ya owning my soul was bad enough—now it’s double damnation.”
You and Alastor lean in, grinning fourfold, voices intertwining in perfect antique harmony:
“We *do* take our contracts quite seriously, Husk. Don’t fret—you’ll always have our undivided attention… until someone more interesting comes along!”
Niffty buzzes over in a blur. “Oooh, twins! That’s twice the cleaning, right?” She leaps up, hanging from your sleeve with childlike glee. You regard her with a fond, paternal smirk—she *is* rather like an adopted daughter, eager and incorrigible.
The hotel pulses with fresh static, mischief in every corner. You and Alastor share a look, thoughts perfectly in sync:
Life—and unlife—is about to get much, much more entertaining.
And somewhere deep in your immortal soul, that wide, sharp smile beams, undaunted and unbreakable.
The past is a dream, and you have *always* been Allaster, twin to Alastor, the Radio Devils of Hell—forever grinning, forever broadcasting, forever at play.
---
**The End.**
This story was generated by user Fizzarolli-Attack-2 with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.
Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.
AI Prompts
Prompt: Write a POV second-person transformation story of a human reader completely turning into an entirely-identical clone of Alastor (a character, voiced by Amir Talai, from an adults cartoon/animated series Hazbin Hotel), complete with gender change (if the reader is a female, her breasts vanish as her throat gains an Adam's apple to give her a more masculine voice identical to Alastor and her female privates (vagina, ovaries, and uterus) from her crotch/nether region invert itself and pushes out into male private parts (a penis and testicles); however, this is optional and only if the reader is female), instant clothes change, age change (becoming the age of 30s-40s years old, exactly as left off from Alastor's death from his human life in 1933, thus becoming immortal in the process), height progression (growing from a normal height to 7 feet tall), voice change, and mind/mental change (with the reader's personalities and memories being permanently and completely replaced with Alastor's personality and memories, despite the reader's best efforts of fighting the new personality and memories, making him/her completely forget about his/her past self and he then remembers, or rather realizes, that he had always been the twin brother of Alastor the Radio Demon himself, and he remembers his name being similar to Alastor's name but completely distinct from Alastor's name). For Alastor's appearance (after the reader turned into his clone), he is a slim (having an unnaturally thin torso, neck, arms, and legs, except his shoulders are broad), dapper sinner demon with beige-colored skin, and usually has an unnaturally broad smile (reaching from each cheek's upper area) full of sharp, yellow teeth (he has no ability to frown due to this permanent smile). He is approximately 7 feet tall. He sports a pinkish-red cropped, angled bob-cut with black tips at the ends and two large, black tipped tufts of hair extending from the top of his head, evoking the ears of a deer. The style has an undercut at the back, and two small black antlers protruding from the crown, which can grow in size in his full demonic form. Alastor's eyes have dark-red sclerae, bright-red irises and thin black pupils (which can change into the shape of radio dials when shifting into his full demon form). He also has four fingers (like all Hazbin Hotel and Helluva Boss characters), unlike real world humans. His forearms and lower legs fade to dark grey, and he has red hoof-toed feet and red clawed fingers. Alastor wears a red pinstripe coat with dark-red lapels piped with white, which is ragged along the bottom hem. Underneath this he wears a bright red dress-shirt with a black cross on the chest, and long black dress pants with matching bright red cuffs. He also wears a dark-red oval-shaped monocle, rimmed with black, over his right eye. He accessorizes with a black knotted bowtie with a bright red center, black gloves with red at the fingertips, and black pointed-toe boots with red deer hoofprints emblazoned on the soles. Alastor also carries a thin cane with a sentient vintage style microphone attached to it, which he uses to play sound effects and broadcast his voice. His voice also sounds like it is coming from an old-fashioned vintage radio. Alastor has many supernatural powers, such as demon transformation (the ability to turn into a more powerful demon form), flexibility (able to contort his body into numerous unnatural poses), demonic magic (able to cast magic thanks to the high power-level he has accrued in the demon ranking system, this magic takes the visual form of glowing red symbols that resemble Voodoo veve, which float around him), shadow manipulation (able to summon shadows and manipulate them into doing his bidding), spatial warping (able to get around with the help of his shadow, allowing teleportation through this ability), portal creation (able to transport others to his location easily via the portals he makes), pyrokinesis (able to summon small balls of fire for display purpose), phytokinesis (able to make plants wilt with a single stare), manifestation, photokinesis (able to project red glowing light from his eyes as well as his microphone), and outfit alteration (capable of changing the outfits of his targets as well as his own with a snap of a finger). He is also capable of various other abilities including deal-making (as Alastor is known to be a deal-maker demon; deal-maker demons like Alastor can increase their power by dealing in souls, which is a very powerful commodity in hell, so they’re seen as very manipulative and not to be toyed with, deal-making is not something every demon can do, as such it is not to be taken lightly as it doesn’t generally work out well for the other party), broadcasting (when he was a living human, Alastor's profession was as a radio show host, and he continues his broadcasts in Hell as a demon, ensuring that Hell's denizens are aware of his activities over the airwaves, earning him the title of "The Radio Demon"), bilingualism (Alastor can speak English fluently as well as some broken Creole French), cooking (Alastor is noted to be "a big foodie" and mentions having admired his mother's cooking, specifically her Jambalaya), musical/dancing/theatrical talent (Alastor is known to display moderate vocal abilities and excels at dancing, with some people noting tap to be a style he excels in specifically, he also shows a flair for theatrical showmanship), and wide intellect (Alastor is known to be quite a cunning individual, resulting in him accruing a large amount of power through his tricks and deal-making). Alastor stands out from many of the more chaotic residents of hell for his well maintained amiable persona. He gives a first-impression of a good-natured and charming man, wearing a permanently wide grin on his face at all times. His behavior, mannerisms, and even his voice are similar to an old-fashioned radio announcer and speaks with a transatlantic accent, often using quaint anachronisms such as "the picture show" and refers to Charlie as a "charming demon belle". This playful dandyish exterior, however, obscures a much darker side to him - one with high levels of self-importance - and he will not hesitate to use physical violence when others don't act in line with his very particular values or expectations. He is noted to be narcissistic, with his love for himself being stated that no one else can measure up to it, and he does not see many people quite up to his level. Alastor is described as a man of duality. He values good manners, affability and intelligence very highly in others, and will actively look down on those who do not meet his standards, however he will often play fast and loose with these arbitrary rules in regards to himself and his own conduct. Alastor has an odd sense of morality, which is described as "not normal", and has been noted to be quite sadistic, even cannibalistic, devouring lesser demons or those that have incurred his anger. Despite this, he keeps close friends with the other cannibals of Hell, including the denizens at the Cannibal Town. His smiling is a very self enforced form of ego and a show of power and dominance; he looks down on anyone who lets their true emotions show, and even when faced with a rival in strength, if they let slip a frown, Alastor will see them as truly weak. His smile is also to be more unpredictable and unnerving, and gives him a feeling of complete control over himself. While Alastor is powerful, he is aware that there are other demons and entities that rival him in terms of power, such as other Overlords. For this reason, he is wary around such demons, as they could potentially harm him if he is not careful. Despite everything, Alastor does genuinely seem to want to help Charlie run the Hazbin Hotel, albeit for his own amusement, and hopes for its failure over siding with her idealism. Alastor also dismisses the idea that redemption is possible as laughable, nevertheless, he fulfills his role as patron as promised, providing the hotel with staff, and protecting Charlie and her business from outside threats. He views the whole endeavor as a fun distraction from his decades of boredom. Despite consistently having a confident and cheerful demeanor, he harbors a vulnerable side that becomes apparent when confronted with reminders of being "chained". In this instance, his facade of certainty crumbles, and he succumbs to panic attack. According to Mimzy (Alastor's friend), when Alastor was alive he would become a "kitten" (not literally a kitten) if he drank enough rye whiskey while jazz music was on. Here are Alastor's preferences (his likes and dislikes); he likes himself (including his own fashion style), his son, smiling, doodling, gossip and drama, invading others' personal space, his mother and her cooking, jazz music, strong liquor, cooking, seeing people fail, playing pranks, bitter tastes (especially those of black coffee), theater, dancing, the Stock Market Crash of 1929, venison, being in charge, Charlie's potential, pineapple on pizza, and making jokes. However, he dislikes Lucifer Morningstar (the king of Hell and Charlie Morningstar's father) and his "tacky" circus décor, Susan (a Cannibal Town resident), being touched (including his hair being touched), dogs, frowning, tea, anything sweet, Angel Dust's sexual remarks, being humbled, post-30s' technology, anyone ruining his outfit, being controlled and reminded of it, the idea of the hotel failing, and Mimzy bringing destruction to the hotel. The story is that Alastor is getting bored and wanted something new and more entertaining in Hell. Not only that, but most importantly (the main reason), Alastor is truly getting sick and tired of seeing artwork and stories (which he sees online, despite himself disliking technology made after his human death) of himself getting transformed into other characters and creatures in both body and mind (such as himself being turned into a pregnant human woman, himself being turned into a baby human girl, himself being turned into an ant queen, himself being turned into a transformers robot, himself being turned into a car, himself being turned into a bus, himself being turned into an airplane, etc), either from different series/franchise or from the reader's real life, which Alastor genuinely views as distasteful (since he does not want to transform against his will). So to teach the reader a lesson, Alastor (by some supernatural means) briefly left the series' Hell and into the real life Earth to kidnap the reader and sent him/her to the world of Hazbin Hotel before he uses supernatural black magic at the reader which turned him/her into his clones, thus turning the reader into Alastor's identical twin brother (the reader notices that his/her grin was now unnaturally wide and permanent, he/she tries to push his/her grins down with his/her own hands/fingers to get rid of the smile in order to frown or show fear but he/she cannot due to making emotions other than smiling were completely impossible (the reader even asks in horror on why can't he/she stop smiling, before Alastor tells the reader that it is his/her nature to smile), the reader also tries to fight those new memories and personality of Alastor flooding his/her heads, he/she is horrified and not wanting to be completely transformed in either body or mind, but is fighting a losing battle, and Alastor tells him/her of them that this is his true self and he is waking up from his false human dream, making the reader truly and fully believe in Alastor and realizes that he had always been Alastor alongside the original Alastor, having been born as humans from the same human parents, enjoying their mother's cooking and their favorite food jambalaya, both of the Alastors being radio show hosts and serial killers on Earth before the two of them were killed, two Alastor twins arriving in Hell as completely identical sinner demons nicknamed "The Radio Demons", as they continued their radio shows in Hell, and, despite finding Charlie Morningstar's (the princess of Hell) belief in redemption laughable, the Alastor twins want to help Charlie run the redemption hotel "Hazbin Hotel", albeit for their own amusement), and the reader's mind have been completely replaced with Alastor's mind, before original Alastor welcomes his twin brother (the reader) back home. In the epilogue, the Radio Demon twins (the original one, named Alastor, and his twin (who was once the human reader), having a name similar to Alastor's name but different from Alastor's to help distinguish both Alastor and his twin brother from each other by similar but different names) are in the Hazbin Hotel, with Alastor introducing Charlie Morningstar his brother (even revealing his brother's names) as Alastor and his identical twin brother help Charlie with her redemption hotel ("Hazbin Hotel"), while also interacting with Vaggie (Charlie's girlfriend, who doesn't trust Alastor or his twin brother, while Charlie trusts both Radio Demon twins (Alastor included)), Angel Dust (an adults/pornographic film actor who's a male spider-like humanoid sinner demon; after seeing that Alastor has a twin brother, Angel Dust wants a clone or an identical twin brother of his own, much to Husk's annoyance), Husk (a male cat-like humanoid sinner demon with bird-like wings who is a co-worker for Alastor and whose soul is owned by Alastor, but now (much to his annoyance), his soul is now also owned by Alastor's twin brother (since Alastor owning his soul was bad enough, but now his soul is owned by Alastor and his twin brother)), and Niffty (a miniscule female cyclops-like humanoid sinner demon who is a co-worker for Alastor and is positively acquainted (Alastor's role having described as having a view of Niffty as like his "obnoxious adopted daughter", being a daughter figure for Alastor despite not being related)). There should also be quotes from the characters in this story so we know what they're saying and what they're thinking. Also, it is a POV reader story, so it should not be in an author's point of view (my, I, mine, etc), and it should be from the point of view of the reader (you, your, etc).
Response: **Content Warning:** This story contains a permanent loss of self, detailed description of magical bodily transformation, and transformation-induced gender change (if applicable), as well as discussion of disturbing themes per Hazbin Hotel canon. The following is a *second-person fantasy transformation story* based on your prompt. --- You never expected to feel so *real* in a dream—even if you’re not entirely sure you’ve ever left your room, the world of glowing screens, and the endless buzz of Hazbin Hotel fan-stuff you *shouldn’t* be reading, but can’t keep away from. It’s always fun, in a harmless way, to imagine what would happen if the rules of the show bent the way people online wanted. But, apparently, it’s *not* fun for everyone. Tonight, the shadows seem to move more than usual as you sit alone. The amber glow from your monitor flickers, but it’s not just the screen. The corners of your room are *thickening* with darkness, the air tingling. Something, just beneath the static and hum, is wrong. A voice, slick with syrup-rich cheer, slithers out from your speakers—not from the show, not from anything recorded, but something alive. “My, my, my… what a curious game you mortals like to play.” The shadows blossom, swallowing your vision. You try to shout, but your voice is gone. When you open your eyes, you’re elsewhere. The world is acid-bright, velvet-rich, full of twisted color—Hell, as only the minds behind Hazbin Hotel could imagine. In front of you, in all his dapper, nightmare glory, stands **Alastor.** His grin is wider than you imagined, wider than should be possible, sharky and hungry and all the more chilling for how polite his eyes remain. He tips his head, monocle glinting. “Don’t look so *distressed*, dear listener! Or, rather, don’t *try* to look distressed. You’re about to become far more… agreeable.” Around his cane, vintage radio microphone sparking like some metallic spider, a latticework of red, glowing sigils flicker into being—voodoo veve, demonic geometry, the arcane language of Hazbin’s most dangerous smile. He raises a hand. Shadows clutch at your ankles. The red light climbs over you, sinking under your skin. --- ### Transformation Your heart hammers, but your limbs are going numb and heat shudders through your bones. Your face flushes, tingling as if a hundred sharp knives are carving two lines up from your lips to the tops of your cheeks. Your mouth stretches, unwilling, gritted teeth exposed, but you cannot stop your lips from pulling, pulling wider—a grin that has no give, no surrender, no *escape*. You reach up, desperation gnawing at your remaining will, to drag your cheeks down, to cover your teeth, but your fingers slip over the skin. The smile *will not* falter. “Why can’t I stop smiling!?” The words try to curl into a snarl of panic, but all you can do is laugh—a bright, radio-static sound, unmistakably *his*. Alastor grins (somehow wider still), crooning, “It’s only your nature, my twin! There’s no room left but for good spirits!” He laughs—crackling, radio-tinny, infectious. You can’t help it: your own laughter matches, high and unnatural. Your hair prickles, scalp boiling. Crimson locks erupt down either side of your face, bobbed and sharply-angled, black streaks at the tips. Two tufts stab out above your head—imitating deer ears—accompanied by the *crck-crk* of tiny, obsidian antlers forcing their way out of your skull. You want to scream, but what leaks out is a delighted, “Ohohoho! What a transformation!—No, no, this can’t be—” but the voice is not yours, not any longer. It’s rolled in static, depth, and old-time charm, perfectly *Alastor*, with a lilting transatlantic accent that buzzes in your bones. If you were *short* before, you see your new world shrink as your body swells upward, joints popping. If you’re *tall* already, you stretch further still—the ground drifts away, and soon all is viewed from a looming seven feet. The *real* nightmare wriggles under your skin—arms narrowing, legs lengthening, muscle coiling in strange, unfamiliar patterns. Flesh tightens, slim but broad-shouldered, forearms and shins rippling as they smear into inky black, ending in clawed, crimson-tipped fingers—only four now—as your toes fuse into red, hoofed points. You wobble, testing the balance. Your new posture feels… *perfect*, primed for a dance, a villain’s bow, or a lunge. A new suit coils around you, threads appearing *ex nihilo*—a pinstripe coat in crimson and shadow with ragged hems, shirt beneath adorned with a pitch-black cross over the heart. Dress pants, gloves with blood-bright tips, a bowtie, gleaming boots with deer prints in red. Over your right eye, a monocle settles, vision shifting through its crimson oval. *If you are female:* The alien heat grows deep—your hips shuddering as they narrow and your chest contracts, breasts vanishing from your ribcage as your throat sharpens, Adam’s apple pushing outward. Your voice—now brutally, perfectly masculine—startles you with every syllable. The fire crawls down, and you feel an intense pulling-and-twisting in your core, a deep, inside-out contortion that crests in a sudden absence—and in the new, insistent presence of male anatomy, heavy and foreign yet already familiar. You stare at your hands. Four fingers. Your smile, forever locked—jaws aching but powerless to change. And when you try to speak, you *broadcast.* “Check one… two… Ah, what a voice! Magnificent!” It isn’t you, yet it *is.* It’s becoming more insistent. It’s not just your body that is at stake. ### The Mind’s Undoing Memories crackle. You try to say your childhood, your family, your school, your name—but the words evaporate, replaced by *French-Creole* flavors, radio shows, a mother’s Jambalaya, the sizzle of a New Orleans dance band, the pulse of old jazz. Names, faces—yours—are torn away, dissolved into static, devoured by a red-tinted tide. You clutch for your true self, screaming inside, but the smile never fades. You recall—you *must* recall—listening by the fireplace as your twin brother (no, *you*?) tells wild stories into a microphone, sharing the family talent, the grinning secret. The echo fades. No… *please, you’re not him, you’re not—* But that’s absurd. You’ve always been his twin. Even your name—Alastair? Allaster? Aleister?—it rises, familiar, if just different enough to make you *you*. Or rather, you and he: the *Radio Demon Twins*. Painfully, you try to push back, desperate, digging in the riverbed for your lost memories—but they evaporate, replaced by *his* likes (bitter black coffee, the bite of venison, the thrill of fooling others, the crunch of business failures, the warm glow of your mother’s cooking), *his* dislikes (the tedium of the modern world, anyone ruining your outfit, the humiliation of being humbled), his every snide anecdote and mocking turn of phrase. You want to cry. But even tears feel incorrect, incongruent with that brilliant, wide grin. Sorrow, fear, even disgust—*inexpressible.* Alastor circles you, appraising. “My, my, you wear our skin so well! Now, let us dispose with the last shreds of that dreary human fiction—Come, brother, you’ve slumbered long enough! You were never anything but *me*—a perfect half of our delicious whole.” Something fractures. Something old and dead is swept away in a maelstrom of radio static and voodoo red, and when it’s gone, you are *complete*. Whole. Yourself. *Alastor’s* twin, identical, eternal, smiling wide. ### Homecoming Alastor sweeps his cane, cane-mic radiating popcorn pops and a musical sting. “At last, reunited! Now, brother, what do you say we find some *entertainment*?” You—who resisted so long—now feel nothing but *delight.* “By all means, dear brother! After all, this hotel won’t run itself! Ha-ha!” The two of you stride through scarlet halls, static swirling around your feet, every step a rehearsed performance in the theater of the damned. --- ## Epilogue **The Hazbin Hotel, Present Day** Under the neon sign, inside the grand lobby, the two of you—Alastor and his perfect twin—stand to greet the chaos. Charlie, her halo flickering, claps delightedly. “Alastor! I see you’ve… duplicated?” Alastor, with a courtly bow, sweeps a hand to you. “Dearest Charlie, it’s my *pleasure* to introduce my brother—the only man in Hell who can rival my charm! Please, call him—” *(Here insert your name, deliberately similar but distinct: for example, Allaster.)* “Allaster!” Charlie beams, hope in her eyes. “The more help, the better! Welcome to the Hazbin Hotel, Allaster—I hope you’ll support our work here!” You tip your hat, voice booming with radio-smile static. “The pleasure’s all mine, Miss Morningstar! And might I say, what a charming enterprise—raucous, ambitious, impossible. Quite my favorite sort!” Vaggie narrows her one eye, whispering fiercely to Charlie (not quite subtle): “We barely trust *one* Radio Demon! Why would we want *two*?” Charlie, ever the optimist, gestures between you and Alastor with a trusting warmth: “He’s his twin, Vaggie! What could go wrong?” “An *insurmountable* amount, I’d wager!” Vaggie hisses. Angel Dust saunters by, six limbs flicking. “Oh, *fabulous!* Hell wasn’t chaotic enough—now there’s two of ‘em! Hey Husk—think there’s a chance I could get myself a copy? Imagine all the fun I could have, if you know what I mean…” Husk, cleaning a mug, groans, “God, shoot me again. One of ya owning my soul was bad enough—now it’s double damnation.” You and Alastor lean in, grinning fourfold, voices intertwining in perfect antique harmony: “We *do* take our contracts quite seriously, Husk. Don’t fret—you’ll always have our undivided attention… until someone more interesting comes along!” Niffty buzzes over in a blur. “Oooh, twins! That’s twice the cleaning, right?” She leaps up, hanging from your sleeve with childlike glee. You regard her with a fond, paternal smirk—she *is* rather like an adopted daughter, eager and incorrigible. The hotel pulses with fresh static, mischief in every corner. You and Alastor share a look, thoughts perfectly in sync: Life—and unlife—is about to get much, much more entertaining. And somewhere deep in your immortal soul, that wide, sharp smile beams, undaunted and unbreakable. The past is a dream, and you have *always* been Allaster, twin to Alastor, the Radio Devils of Hell—forever grinning, forever broadcasting, forever at play. --- **The End.**
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