"Infernal Transformation: Becoming Angel Dust"
1 Points
The sudden change was disorienting, like a plunge into icy waters. You blink rapidly, trying to make sense of the bizarre new reality wrapping itself around you. The vibrant, eccentric world of Hazbin Hotel fuses with your vision. Colors brighten to an almost painful extent, lines become sharper, and every edge hums with an animated life of its own.
Before you can fully process the scene, a strange sensation spreads across your body like wildfire. Your skin itches fiercely, and when you glance down, you watch in horror as it transforms to a soft, snowy white, adorned with patches of pink. Your hands split and elongate, becoming four distinct limbs, fingers tapering into sharp points clad in cerise pink gloves. Your height shoots upward drastically, and you teeter, unbalanced by the sudden change.
Horrified, you realize you're dressed in a long, light pink suit-blazer with crisp white stripes, a miniskirt caressing your newly profound height, and heeled boots that make navigating your new body feel like a drunken waltz. "What the...?" you mutter, though your own voice is unrecognizable, replaced by a brash, New York accent.
Memories press at the corners of your mind, foreign and unwelcome. You fight to remember who you were, what you were, but the details slip through your grasp like fine sand. Instead, intrusive recollections fill the void: a life cut short in 1947, a descent into Hell, and an eternity spent as Angel Dust, a flamboyant, cynical sinner demon.
"No, no, no!" you protest, but your thoughts only grow louder with Angel Dust's voice. You laugh brashly, a sound you can't control. "Oh, honey, stop fighting it. Name’s Angel. Angel Dust."
Illustratively, the once mundane landscape of your reality morphs into Hell’s Technicolor inferno. Over there, a bright, sulfurous sign blazes: the Hazbin Hotel, where the damned gather in perpetual limbo. You remember every scandal that took place in that wretched building, even if that memory seems all too fresh.
You attempt to cling to remnants of your humanity, but Angel Dust's memories flood in, consuming your own. A sense of familiarity replaces disorientation. The last traces of your past life fade like ink in water, and you're engulfed in Angel Dust’s cheeky grin and predilection for harsh truths.
"Looks like the newbies need a show," you find yourself saying, your tone dripping with sarcasm. The urge to perform, mock, and sneak in a dirty joke grows irresistible. "Hey, suckers! Ready for some real Hell? Ooh, I've got all six arms primed and ready!"
Vox's distinct digital smirk swims into your vision. "Angel!" he calls, a grin twitching at the corners of his static face. "Valentino's looking for you. Says you owe him."
Your instinctive response is swift and bitter. "Yeah, yeah, tell him to find someone else to jerk around for a while. I’m on a friggin’ break." Even as you speak, resentment churns within. Mindful to maintain the façade, you slip into a jest because Angel Dust is nothing if not protective of his own fragility.
"I don't know how you keep avoiding him, Dust," Vox chuckles, clearly amused. A part of you – a new part, Angel’s part – knows it’s another reason to brace against the abuse waiting in Valentino’s gilded trap.
Further inside the hotel's dilapidated grandeur, Charlie offers you a hopeful wave. "Angel, we’re meeting for a script read," she reminds, her cheer contrasting sharply with your abrasive exterior.
Nearly missing a beat, you scowl exaggeratedly. "Sure, Princess. If it ain't Valentino's circus, it's gotta be your playhouse. Lead the way." Sarcasm and deflection are tools you wield with the skill of a seasoned performer, dodging the tenderness lurking beneath.
As you strut through the hotel, every hellish visage and distorted creature feels disgustingly familiar. A wave of disdain washes over you. "Oh, look at all these ugly freaks."
Pangs of an old fear still constrict within—Valentino's threats, broken dreams—but you quickly shove them down. Your walls remain steadfast to protect the pieces of you that might still hope for something better, something redeemable.
You catch your reflection in a cracked mirror hanging from the gouged wall. The wide grin, cerise eyes, and lanky, spider-like demon staring back feel like pieces of someone who should feel wrong but doesn’t. Bits of the past flutter like the ghost of an old film reel, cracking and fading.
This is your life now, in its unfiltered animated hellscape. You are Angel Dust, a remnant of a once-ambitious man turned comic specter of sin.
This story was generated by user JesterImps2 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 transformation story of the human reader instantly turning into Angel Dust (from the adults cartoon/animated series Hazbin Hotel), complete with art style shift (the reader now being in a cartoon world of the Hazbin Hotel series, and the reader now becoming a cartoon character with the same art style as the other Hazbin Hotel characters, rather than being a real life person), gender change (if the reader is a female), instant clothes change, age progression (aging until the reader is biologically somewhere around the 30s), height progression (growing from an average 5.7-6 foot height to 8 feet tall), reality change (the reader's real world becoming the world of Hazbin Hotel), and mind/mental change (with the reader's personalities and memories being completely replaced with Angel Dust's personality and memories, despite the reader's best efforts of fighting his/her new personality and memories, making the reader completely forget he was a normal human person, even forgetting that the transformation that just occurred seconds ago, and only remembered ever being a sinner demon who died as a human man somewhere in 1947, and he remembers being a spider-like demon named "Angel Dust" since his mortal death). For Angel Dust's appearance (after the reader turned into him), he is a sinner demon who has a slender build (almost mimicking feminine curves, despite being a male) and he stands about 8 or more feet tall, both due to his long torso and legs, as well as his heeled boots. His fur is white and he has a mop of fluffy white hair that extends from both the front and back of his head, with splotches of light-pink across it. He also has a distinctive and focal light-pink heart pattern on the back of his head. The light-pink outline of a heart also encircles his chest, the bottom point of which extends past his waistband and down to his crotch area. His eyelids are light pink and the color extends up to his eyebrows, giving the effect of eyeshadow, and his lashes are dark and thick. His irises are cerise pink. His right eye has a light yellow sclera, his left eye has a dark sclera. He has a wide mouth full of sharp, pointed teeth and possesses a single golden fang that sits slightly to his right of center. He has a New York accent. He has three cerise-pink dots under each of his eyes, which are intended to evoke freckles, although they are actually another set of smaller eyes. He lacks a nose and ears, giving him a less "human" appearance. One of Angel's most noticeable features is his prominent chest. The chest is actually composed entirely of fluffy fur, however, which Angel intentionally pushes up into a breast-like formation with his tightly pinned jacket for show. Angel's everyday attire consists of a long light pink suit-blazer with horizontal white stripes down the length, reddish-grey miniskirt, and long reddish-grey thigh-high heeled boots, accessorized with a reddish-grey bowtie with a cerise pink center and a black choker. On his top set of arms he wears long cerise pink gloves with white detailing at the cuffs, on his bottom set of arms he wears long white gloves. Though, usually seen with six limbs (two legs and four arms), Angel has a third retractable set of arms that he usually keeps hidden but can summon at will (meaning that he can have eight limbs; two legs and six arms). Angel is gay (homosexual), brash, and sarcastic, with a quick, sharp wit, often with bad/strong language (including, but not limited to f-bomb words). He will often use these traits to deflect criticism or insults, and side-step responsibility. He will switch between playful and destructive as he pleases, and his humor tends to be crude and crass, with an emphasis on dirty jokes and innuendos, which he feels is expected of him and actively plays into. He is stylish and performs an excessive amount of confidence with his public persona, being wildly flirtatious and interested in receiving positive attention for his looks and the profile he has made for himself in Hell. He also makes a show of looking down others, declaring the other denizens of Hell to be mostly "ugly freaks". As a result, Angel can often appear flippant and callous. In reality he is preemptively defensive and hides much of his true, more sensitive and insecure, self for his own protection, not expecting those around him to show him kindness. Angel does have friends, and while he cares about them and will sometimes show signs of wanting to reach out, he keeps many walls up between himself and others, being very protective of his true feelings and avoiding holding overly emotional relationships. He holds a cynical view on the idea of redemption, although he seems to still hold onto a small hope it may be possible for him. The ongoing controlling and abusive situation he is in with his boss, Valentino, puts him under a great deal of stress at his work, and he is implied to be somewhat traumatized as a result. Here are Angel Dust's preferences (likes/dislikes); he likes drugs, being abrasive, pranks, getting into scraps, cooking, flirting, the color pink, monetary gain, and Italian food. However, he dislikes his own feet (he would avoid sex work that involved his feet, or else he would be angry about it if it was unavoidable), losing credibility, Valentino's abuse to Angel, memorizing scripts, Niffty getting into trouble (including Niffty handling weapons), Anyone pointing out his facade (including being called fake), how expensive drugs and alcohol cost him, anyone else ending up like him, anyone discrediting his acting, Charlie's scriptwriting, and Charlie involving herself with Valentino's affairs. There should also be quotes from the characters (including but not limited to the reader or Angel Dust) in this story so we know what they're saying and what they're thinking (including profanities/swears that are used/said by Angel Dust, Vox, Valentino, etc). Also, it is a POV reader story, so it should not be in an author's point of view (my, I, mine, etc), and it should be from the point of view of the reader (you, your, etc).
Response: The sudden change was disorienting, like a plunge into icy waters. You blink rapidly, trying to make sense of the bizarre new reality wrapping itself around you. The vibrant, eccentric world of Hazbin Hotel fuses with your vision. Colors brighten to an almost painful extent, lines become sharper, and every edge hums with an animated life of its own. Before you can fully process the scene, a strange sensation spreads across your body like wildfire. Your skin itches fiercely, and when you glance down, you watch in horror as it transforms to a soft, snowy white, adorned with patches of pink. Your hands split and elongate, becoming four distinct limbs, fingers tapering into sharp points clad in cerise pink gloves. Your height shoots upward drastically, and you teeter, unbalanced by the sudden change. Horrified, you realize you're dressed in a long, light pink suit-blazer with crisp white stripes, a miniskirt caressing your newly profound height, and heeled boots that make navigating your new body feel like a drunken waltz. "What the...?" you mutter, though your own voice is unrecognizable, replaced by a brash, New York accent. Memories press at the corners of your mind, foreign and unwelcome. You fight to remember who you were, what you were, but the details slip through your grasp like fine sand. Instead, intrusive recollections fill the void: a life cut short in 1947, a descent into Hell, and an eternity spent as Angel Dust, a flamboyant, cynical sinner demon. "No, no, no!" you protest, but your thoughts only grow louder with Angel Dust's voice. You laugh brashly, a sound you can't control. "Oh, honey, stop fighting it. Name’s Angel. Angel Dust." Illustratively, the once mundane landscape of your reality morphs into Hell’s Technicolor inferno. Over there, a bright, sulfurous sign blazes: the Hazbin Hotel, where the damned gather in perpetual limbo. You remember every scandal that took place in that wretched building, even if that memory seems all too fresh. You attempt to cling to remnants of your humanity, but Angel Dust's memories flood in, consuming your own. A sense of familiarity replaces disorientation. The last traces of your past life fade like ink in water, and you're engulfed in Angel Dust’s cheeky grin and predilection for harsh truths. "Looks like the newbies need a show," you find yourself saying, your tone dripping with sarcasm. The urge to perform, mock, and sneak in a dirty joke grows irresistible. "Hey, suckers! Ready for some real Hell? Ooh, I've got all six arms primed and ready!" Vox's distinct digital smirk swims into your vision. "Angel!" he calls, a grin twitching at the corners of his static face. "Valentino's looking for you. Says you owe him." Your instinctive response is swift and bitter. "Yeah, yeah, tell him to find someone else to jerk around for a while. I’m on a friggin’ break." Even as you speak, resentment churns within. Mindful to maintain the façade, you slip into a jest because Angel Dust is nothing if not protective of his own fragility. "I don't know how you keep avoiding him, Dust," Vox chuckles, clearly amused. A part of you – a new part, Angel’s part – knows it’s another reason to brace against the abuse waiting in Valentino’s gilded trap. Further inside the hotel's dilapidated grandeur, Charlie offers you a hopeful wave. "Angel, we’re meeting for a script read," she reminds, her cheer contrasting sharply with your abrasive exterior. Nearly missing a beat, you scowl exaggeratedly. "Sure, Princess. If it ain't Valentino's circus, it's gotta be your playhouse. Lead the way." Sarcasm and deflection are tools you wield with the skill of a seasoned performer, dodging the tenderness lurking beneath. As you strut through the hotel, every hellish visage and distorted creature feels disgustingly familiar. A wave of disdain washes over you. "Oh, look at all these ugly freaks." Pangs of an old fear still constrict within—Valentino's threats, broken dreams—but you quickly shove them down. Your walls remain steadfast to protect the pieces of you that might still hope for something better, something redeemable. You catch your reflection in a cracked mirror hanging from the gouged wall. The wide grin, cerise eyes, and lanky, spider-like demon staring back feel like pieces of someone who should feel wrong but doesn’t. Bits of the past flutter like the ghost of an old film reel, cracking and fading. This is your life now, in its unfiltered animated hellscape. You are Angel Dust, a remnant of a once-ambitious man turned comic specter of sin.
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