You drag your feet home, exhausted, trying to ignore the conversation with your friend—your closest companion, confidant through countless dull real-world days. But for once, your friend’s arguing voice becomes distant, as if someone turned the volume knob and the station slipped to static. The steady drone of reality shimmers, flickers, and suddenly, darkness.
You’re not quite awake—nor asleep, nor alone, nor yourself. You open your eyes to an unfamiliar, velvet-red room. The dazzling shine of Art Deco fixtures, a gramophone spinning a tinny jazz tune, and—wait—a tall, sharply grinning figure lounges in an antique armchair, smile wider than any human mouth could ever stretch.
Alastor. The real one.
“There you wonderful specimens are!” His voice bursts from the crackling, old-time radio in the corner and from his lips at the same time. “I do have to say, seeing my likeness altered and paraded about online in all sorts of *peculiar* ways is most distasteful. Let’s set things straight, shall we?”
Your friend is to your left, dazed and mouth agape. There’s no time to speak. Alastor’s eyes widen—spokes of dark-red, irises like spinning dials, zeroing in on you both. Softly, he lifts his cane, microphone flaring up with a thousand whispering, overlapping voices, and a crimson glow engulfs your bodies. You try to move—run, scream, beg—but your mouth betrays you. A sharp, crawling tingle claims your skin.
It starts in your hands as they warp, squeezing painfully, yet cleanly, into four-fingered claws tipped in red. Your friend gasps, and the two of you watch each other's hands shrink and sharpen. Your arms lengthen, thin and elegant as sticks, sleeves drawn tight against vanishing muscle and fat. The tingle spreads, a trickle at first, then a rushing river—up your arms, echoing in your neck and trickling down into your bones.
“Wh-what’s happening?” Your friend’s voice cracks, higher pitched. You try to answer, but a strange, cheerful note ripples through your words.
“Smile, my friends, smile!” Alastor beams, hands clapping together. “It’s your nature now!” The red heat pools in your jaw—agonizing, then electric. Muscles writhe, your lips drag themselves up, up, PAST what’s possible. You’re grinning, so wide it feels like your face will split. Beside you, your friend’s face mirrors yours: that unnatural, toothy rictus overflowing with predatory delight.
You both try, desperately, to drop the smile, struggling with hands, but your new claws slip and fail. The corners of your mouth don’t budge, no matter how you pull. Even as you attempt to whimper in horror, only laughter and a static-filled chuckle escape.
“Why can’t—can’t we stop smiling?” you manage to ask, the sound already shaded by an ancient, transatlantic drawl—and underneath, a warped, radio-tinny echo.
Alastor leans in, lips against the microphone. “You can’t frown now—not *ever* again, not as who you truly are. It’s your most charming feature!”
Your scalp prickles. Hair slithers and becomes dense, thick pink-red locks. Tufts shoot up, sharp and black, like the ears of some monstrous deer. Something pushes through your scalp—small, hard bumps. Antlers.
As your old clothes shrivel and black energy unwinds them, a gleaming red pinstripe coat materializes, with ragged hems and an ornate lapel. Matching boots, gloves, monocle. Even the familiar cane whirls into your palm—your palm, but it’s no longer quite *yours*.
Your height cranks up in an impossible surge, bones clicking, spine flexing, until the ceiling seems to shrink. Your friend keeps pace beside you, taller, thinner—both at least seven feet of unnatural, looming elegance.
If you or your friend were female before, you feel a strange emptiness—your body convulses, chest pressing inward, breasts vanishing and ribs smooth, straight, broadening as your voice burns, deepening, gaining that odd, antiquated twist and an Adam’s apple. Even deeper, things invert and twist in your most private places, suddenly foreign—male. Complete.
Your eyes sting, vision going dark-red at the edges; your reflection glimmers faintly in one of the gilded mirrors. You have sunken, beige skin, eyes aglow and inhuman, and endlessly sharp, yellow teeth. You and your friend—no, twin—are utterly, entirely the same.
Memories force themselves in, as unstoppable as a flood. Who you used to be scrambles frantically—names, dates, dreams, your home, your parents, how you met your friend—all of it flickers, drowned out by jazzy static and razor-sharp recollections. Someone else’s endless grin, their cruelly cheerful laugh, their memories, thoughts, and ambitions, ooze into your mind like hot syrup.
You try to push back—grasp at fading human memories: “No! This isn’t me—I remember—!” But the force of Alastor’s mind is a hurricane, hollowing you out, painting over everything.
“Shh now,” Alastor soothes, like a mother would a frightened child. “You’re who you were always meant to be. The dreams of another life—they fade, don’t they? Welcome home, my brother.”
Your lips stretch further, the smile now natural, effortless. You *remember*: bayous, the scent of jambalaya, a charming mother, radio shows in a dusty New Orleans studio, and the absolute joy of a little murder on the side. Twin brothers—original Alastor, and … You? No, your name is—
“Allow me to introduce my dear siblings,” croons Alastor, radiating with pride. He points between you and your identical twin (formerly your friend or sibling), “This dapper fellow is Allister, and that ever-resourceful gent is Alasdair. Naturally, we are all very helpful!”
Reality slides into its new shape. The three of you are, and always have been, the Radio Demon triplets of Hell. Everything else—a tiresome, daytime fantasy.
“Shall we greet Charlie? There’s much mischief to get up to, and a hotel to ruin, mm?” Alastor offers, cane raised jauntily.
**Epilogue – Hazbin Hotel, Foyer**
The hotel buzzes with dysfunctional energy. Charlie beams, and rushes to you and your twins, clapping her hands in delight.
“Oh, wow!” she giggles. “Alastor, you didn’t say you had brothers!”
“It would be a poor surprise if I did,” Alastor smirks. “May I present—Allister, Alasdair. Both as charming and helpful as myself. Triplets—yet not a frown among us.”
Angel Dust sidles over, eyes wide. “Oh my GOD, we got TWO MORE? I want a set of twins too! Husky, how about you and me?”
Husk rolls his eyes, tail flicking. “I didn’t sign up for this. My soul was barely safe with one Alastor, now there’s three. Kill me. Again.”
Niffty zips around, squealing. “Eee! Which one’s the cleanest? Or the messiest? Or the best cook?!”
Vaggie glares at the trio, knife-tipped stare fixed firmly. “Great. Three times the trouble. Three times the smiles I don’t trust.”
Charlie, unfazed by Vaggie’s doubt, offers her hand to you—all three brothers, really—her hope bright as ever. “I know you’ll all help us here. Maybe… with thrice the charm?”
Alastor, Allister, and Alasdair answer in harmony, voices buzzing from another era:
“But of course, mademoiselle. Wouldn’t miss it for the world!”
Inside the trio, there is no trace left of the lost humans. Only the unbreakable grins, and the endless, hungry amusement of the Radio Demons—identical in every cruel, grinning, jazzy way.
This story was generated by user bkake with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.
Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.
Prompt: Write a POV second-person transformation story of a human reader and his/her also-human friend or human sibling completely turning into entirely-identical clones of Alastor (a character, voiced by Amir Talai, from an adults cartoon/animated series Hazbin Hotel), complete with gender change (if either the reader and/or friend/sibling is a female, their breasts vanish as their throat gains an Adam's apple to give them a more masculine voice identical to Alastor and their female privates (vagina, ovaries, and uterus) from their crotch/nether region invert itself and pushes out into male private parts (a penis and testicles); however, this is optional and only if either the reader and/or friend/sibling is female before the transformation), voice change (the reader's and his/her friend's/sibling's voice becoming identical to Alastor's voice), instant clothes change (the reader's and his/her friend's/sibling's clothes instantly turning into Alastor's outfit), age change (becoming the age of 30s-40s years old, exactly as left off from Alastor's death from his human life in 1933, thus becoming immortal in the process), height progression (growing from a normal height to 7 feet tall), voice change, and mind/mental change (with the reader's and his/her friend's/sibling's personalities and memories being permanently and completely replaced with Alastor's personality and memories, despite the reader's and his/her friend's/sibling's best efforts of fighting off the new personality and memories, making them completely forget all about their past selves and remember that they always had been twin brothers of Alastor the Radio Demon (even as human Alastor's twin brothers before their deaths at the same time in 1933 and their immediate arrival in Hell as the Radio Demons), even remembering that they share the similar names to Alastor (but completely distinct from Alastor's name), which is their real/true selves (unlike their false previous selves, which were just daydreams)). For Alastor's appearance (after the reader and his/her friend/sibling turned into his clones), he is a slim (having an unnaturally thin torso, neck, arms, and legs, except his shoulders are broad), dapper sinner demon with beige-colored skin, and usually has an unnaturally broad smile (reaching from each cheek's upper area) full of sharp, yellow teeth (he has no ability to frown due to this permanent smile). He is approximately 7 feet tall. He sports a pinkish-red cropped, angled bob-cut with black tips at the ends and two large, black tipped tufts of hair extending from the top of his head, evoking the ears of a deer. The style has an undercut at the back, and two small black antlers protruding from the crown, which can grow in size in his full demonic form. Alastor's eyes have dark-red sclerae, bright-red irises and thin black pupils (which can change into the shape of radio dials when shifting into his full demon form). He also has four fingers (like all Hazbin Hotel and Helluva Boss characters), unlike real world humans. His forearms and lower legs fade to dark grey, and he has red hoof-toed feet and red clawed fingers. Alastor wears a red pinstripe coat with dark-red lapels piped with white, which is ragged along the bottom hem. Underneath this he wears a bright red dress-shirt with a black cross on the chest, and long black dress pants with matching bright red cuffs. He also wears a dark-red oval-shaped monocle, rimmed with black, over his right eye. He accessorizes with a black knotted bowtie with a bright red center, black gloves with red at the fingertips, and black pointed-toe boots with red deer hoofprints emblazoned on the soles. Alastor also carries a thin cane with a sentient vintage style microphone attached to it, which he uses to play sound effects and broadcast his voice. His voice also sounds like it is coming from an old-fashioned vintage radio. Alastor has many supernatural powers, such as demon transformation (the ability to turn into a more powerful demon form), flexibility (able to contort his body into numerous unnatural poses), demonic magic (able to cast magic thanks to the high power-level he has accrued in the demon ranking system, this magic takes the visual form of glowing red symbols that resemble Voodoo veve, which float around him), shadow manipulation (able to summon shadows and manipulate them into doing his bidding), spatial warping (able to get around with the help of his shadow, allowing teleportation through this ability), portal creation (able to transport others to his location easily via the portals he makes), pyrokinesis (able to summon small balls of fire for display purpose), phytokinesis (able to make plants wilt with a single stare), manifestation, photokinesis (able to project red glowing light from his eyes as well as his microphone), and outfit alteration (capable of changing the outfits of his targets as well as his own with a snap of a finger). He is also capable of various other abilities including deal-making (as Alastor is known to be a deal-maker demon; deal-maker demons like Alastor can increase their power by dealing in souls, which is a very powerful commodity in hell, so they’re seen as very manipulative and not to be toyed with, deal-making is not something every demon can do, as such it is not to be taken lightly as it doesn’t generally work out well for the other party), broadcasting (when he was a living human, Alastor's profession was as a radio show host, and he continues his broadcasts in Hell as a demon, ensuring that Hell's denizens are aware of his activities over the airwaves, earning him the title of "The Radio Demon"), bilingualism (Alastor can speak English fluently as well as some broken Creole French), cooking (Alastor is noted to be "a big foodie" and mentions having admired his mother's cooking, specifically her Jambalaya), musical/dancing/theatrical talent (Alastor is known to display moderate vocal abilities and excels at dancing, with some people noting tap to be a style he excels in specifically, he also shows a flair for theatrical showmanship), and wide intellect (Alastor is known to be quite a cunning individual, resulting in him accruing a large amount of power through his tricks and deal-making). Alastor stands out from many of the more chaotic residents of hell for his well maintained amiable persona. He gives a first-impression of a good-natured and charming man, wearing a permanently wide grin on his face at all times. His behavior, mannerisms, and even his voice are similar to an old-fashioned radio announcer and speaks with a transatlantic accent, often using quaint anachronisms such as "the picture show" and refers to Charlie as a "charming demon belle". This playful dandyish exterior, however, obscures a much darker side to him - one with high levels of self-importance - and he will not hesitate to use physical violence when others don't act in line with his very particular values or expectations. He is noted to be narcissistic, with his love for himself being stated that no one else can measure up to it, and he does not see many people quite up to his level. Alastor is described as a man of duality. He values good manners, affability and intelligence very highly in others, and will actively look down on those who do not meet his standards, however he will often play fast and loose with these arbitrary rules in regards to himself and his own conduct. Alastor has an odd sense of morality, which is described as "not normal", and has been noted to be quite sadistic, even cannibalistic, devouring lesser demons or those that have incurred his anger. Despite this, he keeps close friends with the other cannibals of Hell, including the denizens at the Cannibal Town. His smiling is a very self enforced form of ego and a show of power and dominance; he looks down on anyone who lets their true emotions show, and even when faced with a rival in strength, if they let slip a frown, Alastor will see them as truly weak. His smile is also to be more unpredictable and unnerving, and gives him a feeling of complete control over himself. While Alastor is powerful, he is aware that there are other demons and entities that rival him in terms of power, such as other Overlords. For this reason, he is wary around such demons, as they could potentially harm him if he is not careful. Despite everything, Alastor does genuinely seem to want to help Charlie run the Hazbin Hotel, albeit for his own amusement, and hopes for its failure over siding with her idealism. Alastor also dismisses the idea that redemption is possible as laughable, nevertheless, he fulfills his role as patron as promised, providing the hotel with staff, and protecting Charlie and her business from outside threats. He views the whole endeavor as a fun distraction from his decades of boredom. Despite consistently having a confident and cheerful demeanor, he harbors a vulnerable side that becomes apparent when confronted with reminders of being "chained". In this instance, his facade of certainty crumbles, and he succumbs to panic attack. According to Mimzy (Alastor's friend), when Alastor was alive he would become a "kitten" (not literally a kitten) if he drank enough rye whiskey while jazz music was on. Here are Alastor's preferences (his likes and dislikes); he likes himself (including his own fashion style), smiling, doodling, gossip and drama, invading others' personal space, his mother and her cooking, jazz music, strong liquor, cooking, seeing people fail, playing pranks, bitter tastes (especially those of black coffee), theater, dancing, the Stock Market Crash of 1929, venison, being in charge, Charlie's potential, pineapple on pizza, and making jokes. However, he dislikes Lucifer Morningstar (the king of Hell and Charlie Morningstar's father) and his "tacky" circus décor, Susan (a Cannibal Town resident), being touched (including his hair being touched), dogs, frowning, tea, anything sweet, Angel Dust's sexual remarks, being humbled, post-30s' technology, anyone ruining his outfit, being controlled and reminded of it, the idea of the hotel failing, and Mimzy bringing destruction to the hotel. The story is that Alastor is getting bored and wanted something new and more entertaining in Hell. Not only that, but most importantly (the main reason), Alastor is truly getting sick and tired of seeing artwork and stories (which he sees online, despite himself disliking technology made after his human death) of himself getting transformed into other characters and creatures in both body and mind (such as himself being turned into a pregnant human woman, himself being turned into an ant queen, himself being turned into a transformers robot, himself being turned into a car, himself being turned into a bus, himself being turned into an airplane, etc), either from different series/franchise or from the reader's and his/her friend's/sibling's real life, which Alastor genuinely views as distasteful (since he does not want to transform against his will). So to teach the reader and his/her friend or sibling a lesson, Alastor (by some supernatural means) briefly left the series' Hell and into the real life Earth to kidnap both the reader and friend/sibling and sent them to the world of Hazbin Hotel before he uses supernatural black magic at both of them which turned them into his clones, thus turning both the reader and his/her friend or sibling into Alastor's identical twin brothers (both the reader and his/her friend/sibling notices that their grins were now unnaturally wide and permanent, both of them try to push their grins down with their own hands/fingers to get rid of the smiles in order to frown or show fear but they cannot due to making emotions other than smiling were completely impossible (they even asks in horror on why can't they stop smiling, before Alastor tells both of them that it is their nature to smile), both the reader and his/her friend/sibling also tries to fight those new memories and personality of Alastor flooding their heads, they both are horrified and not wanting to be completely transformed in either body or mind, but are fighting a losing battle, and Alastor tells both of them that this is their true selves and they are waking up from their false human dreams, making both the reader and his/her friend/sibling truly and fully believe in Alastor and realizes that they both had always been Alastors alongside the original Alastor, having been born as humans from the same human parents, enjoying their mother's cooking and their favorite food jambalaya, the trio of Alastors being radio show hosts and serial killers on Earth before the three of them were killed, three Alastor twins arriving in Hell as completely identical sinner demons nicknamed "The Radio Demons", as they continued their radio shows in Hell, and, despite finding Charlie Morningstar's (the princess of Hell) belief in redemption laughable, three Alastor twins want to help Charlie run the redemption hotel "Hazbin Hotel", albeit for their own amusement), and the reader's and his/her friend's sibling's minds have also been completely replaced with Alastor's mind, before original Alastor welcomes his twin brothers (the reader and his other definite sibling (formerly the reader's human friend/sibling)) back home. In the epilogue, the three Radio Demon twins (the original one, named Alastor, and his twins (who were once the human reader and his/her friend/sibling), having names similar to Alastor's name but different from Alastor's to help distinguish both Alastor and his twin brothers from each other by similar but different names) are in the Hazbin Hotel, with Alastor introducing Charlie Morningstar his brothers (even revealing his brothers' names) as Alastor and his identical twin brothers help Charlie with her redemption hotel ("Hazbin Hotel"), while also interacting with Vaggie (Charlie's girlfriend, who doesn't trust Alastor or his twin brothers, while Charlie trusts all three Radio Demon twins (Alastor included)), Angel Dust (an adults/pornographic film actor who's a male spider-like humanoid sinner demon; after seeing that Alastor has a twin brother, Angel Dust wants clones or identical twin brothers of his own, much to Husk's annoyance), Husk (a male cat-like humanoid sinner demon with bird-like wings who is a co-worker for Alastor and whose soul is owned by Alastor, but now (much to his annoyance), his soul is now also owned by two of Alastor's twin brothers (since Alastor owning his soul was bad enough, but now his soul is owned by Alastor and both of his twin brothers)), and Niffty (a miniscule female cyclops-like humanoid sinner demon who is a co-worker for Alastor and is positively acquainted (Alastor's role having described as having a view of Niffty as like his "obnoxious adopted daughter", being a daughter figure for Alastor despite not being related)). There should also be quotes from the characters in this story so we know what they're saying and what they're thinking. Also, it is a POV reader story, so it should not be in an author's point of view (my, I, mine, etc), and it should be from the point of view of the reader (you, your, etc).
Response: You drag your feet home, exhausted, trying to ignore the conversation with your friend—your closest companion, confidant through countless dull real-world days. But for once, your friend’s arguing voice becomes distant, as if someone turned the volume knob and the station slipped to static. The steady drone of reality shimmers, flickers, and suddenly, darkness. You’re not quite awake—nor asleep, nor alone, nor yourself. You open your eyes to an unfamiliar, velvet-red room. The dazzling shine of Art Deco fixtures, a gramophone spinning a tinny jazz tune, and—wait—a tall, sharply grinning figure lounges in an antique armchair, smile wider than any human mouth could ever stretch. Alastor. The real one. “There you wonderful specimens are!” His voice bursts from the crackling, old-time radio in the corner and from his lips at the same time. “I do have to say, seeing my likeness altered and paraded about online in all sorts of *peculiar* ways is most distasteful. Let’s set things straight, shall we?” Your friend is to your left, dazed and mouth agape. There’s no time to speak. Alastor’s eyes widen—spokes of dark-red, irises like spinning dials, zeroing in on you both. Softly, he lifts his cane, microphone flaring up with a thousand whispering, overlapping voices, and a crimson glow engulfs your bodies. You try to move—run, scream, beg—but your mouth betrays you. A sharp, crawling tingle claims your skin. It starts in your hands as they warp, squeezing painfully, yet cleanly, into four-fingered claws tipped in red. Your friend gasps, and the two of you watch each other's hands shrink and sharpen. Your arms lengthen, thin and elegant as sticks, sleeves drawn tight against vanishing muscle and fat. The tingle spreads, a trickle at first, then a rushing river—up your arms, echoing in your neck and trickling down into your bones. “Wh-what’s happening?” Your friend’s voice cracks, higher pitched. You try to answer, but a strange, cheerful note ripples through your words. “Smile, my friends, smile!” Alastor beams, hands clapping together. “It’s your nature now!” The red heat pools in your jaw—agonizing, then electric. Muscles writhe, your lips drag themselves up, up, PAST what’s possible. You’re grinning, so wide it feels like your face will split. Beside you, your friend’s face mirrors yours: that unnatural, toothy rictus overflowing with predatory delight. You both try, desperately, to drop the smile, struggling with hands, but your new claws slip and fail. The corners of your mouth don’t budge, no matter how you pull. Even as you attempt to whimper in horror, only laughter and a static-filled chuckle escape. “Why can’t—can’t we stop smiling?” you manage to ask, the sound already shaded by an ancient, transatlantic drawl—and underneath, a warped, radio-tinny echo. Alastor leans in, lips against the microphone. “You can’t frown now—not *ever* again, not as who you truly are. It’s your most charming feature!” Your scalp prickles. Hair slithers and becomes dense, thick pink-red locks. Tufts shoot up, sharp and black, like the ears of some monstrous deer. Something pushes through your scalp—small, hard bumps. Antlers. As your old clothes shrivel and black energy unwinds them, a gleaming red pinstripe coat materializes, with ragged hems and an ornate lapel. Matching boots, gloves, monocle. Even the familiar cane whirls into your palm—your palm, but it’s no longer quite *yours*. Your height cranks up in an impossible surge, bones clicking, spine flexing, until the ceiling seems to shrink. Your friend keeps pace beside you, taller, thinner—both at least seven feet of unnatural, looming elegance. If you or your friend were female before, you feel a strange emptiness—your body convulses, chest pressing inward, breasts vanishing and ribs smooth, straight, broadening as your voice burns, deepening, gaining that odd, antiquated twist and an Adam’s apple. Even deeper, things invert and twist in your most private places, suddenly foreign—male. Complete. Your eyes sting, vision going dark-red at the edges; your reflection glimmers faintly in one of the gilded mirrors. You have sunken, beige skin, eyes aglow and inhuman, and endlessly sharp, yellow teeth. You and your friend—no, twin—are utterly, entirely the same. Memories force themselves in, as unstoppable as a flood. Who you used to be scrambles frantically—names, dates, dreams, your home, your parents, how you met your friend—all of it flickers, drowned out by jazzy static and razor-sharp recollections. Someone else’s endless grin, their cruelly cheerful laugh, their memories, thoughts, and ambitions, ooze into your mind like hot syrup. You try to push back—grasp at fading human memories: “No! This isn’t me—I remember—!” But the force of Alastor’s mind is a hurricane, hollowing you out, painting over everything. “Shh now,” Alastor soothes, like a mother would a frightened child. “You’re who you were always meant to be. The dreams of another life—they fade, don’t they? Welcome home, my brother.” Your lips stretch further, the smile now natural, effortless. You *remember*: bayous, the scent of jambalaya, a charming mother, radio shows in a dusty New Orleans studio, and the absolute joy of a little murder on the side. Twin brothers—original Alastor, and … You? No, your name is— “Allow me to introduce my dear siblings,” croons Alastor, radiating with pride. He points between you and your identical twin (formerly your friend or sibling), “This dapper fellow is Allister, and that ever-resourceful gent is Alasdair. Naturally, we are all very helpful!” Reality slides into its new shape. The three of you are, and always have been, the Radio Demon triplets of Hell. Everything else—a tiresome, daytime fantasy. “Shall we greet Charlie? There’s much mischief to get up to, and a hotel to ruin, mm?” Alastor offers, cane raised jauntily. **Epilogue – Hazbin Hotel, Foyer** The hotel buzzes with dysfunctional energy. Charlie beams, and rushes to you and your twins, clapping her hands in delight. “Oh, wow!” she giggles. “Alastor, you didn’t say you had brothers!” “It would be a poor surprise if I did,” Alastor smirks. “May I present—Allister, Alasdair. Both as charming and helpful as myself. Triplets—yet not a frown among us.” Angel Dust sidles over, eyes wide. “Oh my GOD, we got TWO MORE? I want a set of twins too! Husky, how about you and me?” Husk rolls his eyes, tail flicking. “I didn’t sign up for this. My soul was barely safe with one Alastor, now there’s three. Kill me. Again.” Niffty zips around, squealing. “Eee! Which one’s the cleanest? Or the messiest? Or the best cook?!” Vaggie glares at the trio, knife-tipped stare fixed firmly. “Great. Three times the trouble. Three times the smiles I don’t trust.” Charlie, unfazed by Vaggie’s doubt, offers her hand to you—all three brothers, really—her hope bright as ever. “I know you’ll all help us here. Maybe… with thrice the charm?” Alastor, Allister, and Alasdair answer in harmony, voices buzzing from another era: “But of course, mademoiselle. Wouldn’t miss it for the world!” Inside the trio, there is no trace left of the lost humans. Only the unbreakable grins, and the endless, hungry amusement of the Radio Demons—identical in every cruel, grinning, jazzy way.
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