"The Dark Symphony of Alastor: A Radio Demon's Dance"
1 Points
The bite on your neck still burns, festering with some sinister magic far beyond mortal comprehension. Alastor's laugh, echoing like an old-time radio broadcast, still resonates in your memory. His words had been chillingly clear: *"This is just the beginning, darling."*
Days pass in an uneasy haze. Every shadow seems to stretch unnaturally long, and the whispers of the wind carry snatches of forgotten radio shows. As the next full moon approaches, an unsettling ache creeps into your bones, gnawing at the edges of your sanity.
*They don't understand,* you think, clutching at the wound. *Nobody does. It feels like something is... inside me.*
You try to warn your friends and family, to find solace in their presence, but it's futile. They dismiss it as a bad dream, a symptom of trauma. And as the moon hangs heavy and full in the night sky, your resistance crumbles.
Your body begins to twist and warp. Skin stretches, bones elongate, and muscles thicken. Pain becomes your constant companion, every cell in your body readjusting to accommodate its new form. You try to scream, to call for help, but your voice warps, splintering into the metallic tone of a vintage radio.
"No! This can't be happening!" you cry out, but the voice that answers isn't your own. It's jovial, brimming with dark mirth. "Oh, my dear, it *is* happening! Welcome to the show!"
Your vision blurs as your hair shifts color, taking on the shades of your former self, but now aligned with the patterns of Alastor's. Your clothes morph against your will, a macabre ballet of threads and fabrics. The sensation of a monocle pressing against your eye is almost painful.
As memory and personality pulverize under the pressure, you struggle to hold onto yourself. *I am me. I am...* But the thought is incomplete, washed away by a tide of another's experiences, another's twisted joys. Fire ignites in your eyes, literally, casting an eerie red glow around the room.
You get to your feet, unsteady at first, but strength surges through you. You grasp the cane — no, *your* cane — and a sentient vintage microphone gazes back at you, an eye blinking open in its center.
Suddenly, all your memories of being yourself are gone, replaced with a flood of another's. You remember the thrill of the broadcast, the pleasure in cooking, the violent delights of manipulating shadows to your advantage. The man you were is drowned, buried under the weight of becoming Alastor the Radio Demon.
When you look in the mirror, it's no longer a stranger who meets your gaze. It’s yourself — or him. One and the same. The corners of your mouth are pulled into a permanent, unsettling grin full of sharp, yellow teeth. "Well, isn't this a charming development?" your voice, thick with a transatlantic accent, spills into the room.
Stepping outside, your first instincts are monstrous but clear. A scrawny human runs past, and with a snap, your cane brings forth shadows that envelope the poor soul, another pawn in your broadcast.
The original Alastor steps out from the shadowy gloom. "Ah, my dear, you wear yourself well! Or should I say, *were-Alastor*?"
You can't help but let out a little chuckle. "Why, thank you, my original self. I was afraid I would be such a bore to get along."
"Let’s make tonight one for the history books, shall we?" Alastor claps in delight, the sound disturbingly discordant.
"Indeed we shall," you reply, voice gleeful as you touch your sentient microphone to resonate your voice throughout the mortal realm.
The broadcast begins, horrors untold delivered as sweet whispers across the ether. At every turn, mortals fall prey to your dark practices, their souls delightfully consumed. There’s no mercy, just endless fun and torment.
As dawn breaks, the power of the full moon fades. Your body reverts, shrinking back to the familiar vessel it once was. Memories of the night linger hazily, but they are mingled with confusion. Whose voice was that in the broadcast?
Your heart pounds with dread, knowing that the next full moon will come, bringing with it the battlefield of identity once more.
---
As the cycle of transformations continues, you awaken each morning after the full moon night with fragments of a nightmare. The presence of the Radio Demon looms ever closer, sometimes murmuring in the back of your mind. “Remember, darling, the show must go on!”
This story was generated by user JesterImp 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 a mortal human reader being cursed and transformed in every full moon night into an identical twin brother of Alastor (from the adults cartoon/animated series Hazbin Hotel), complete with clothes change, age progression (becoming the age of 30s-40s years old, exactly as left off from Alastor's death from his human life in 1933, 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 his best efforts of fighting the new personality and memories, making him completely forget about his past self and only remember being Alastor the Radio Demon). For the reader's WereAlastor/Were-Alastor appearance (after the reader turned into his identical twin brother every full moon night), he is identical to Alastor in every way, in height, proportions, appearance, deep and voice (sounding like it's coming from an old vintage radio), supernatural powers, personality, and preferences; however, the only difference is the coloration of his outfit, hair, and iris colors (although the sclerae of each of his eyes are literally pitch black in color), which his hair and clothee matches the colors of his previous hair and outfit colors, although they have Alastor's exact color patterns. He also has his own thin cane with a sentient vintage style microphone attached to it, being of the different color from Alastor's own sentient vintage style microphone attached to it, whilst also having an eye in the middle of the microphone, and the WereAlastor/Were-Alastor reader uses his microphone-tipped cane to play sound effects and broadcast his voice. For Alastor's appearance, 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 is completely hairless except for his eyebrows, eyelashes, and the hair on the side, back, and top of his head (like a human's). 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). 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). For his personality, Alastor stands out from many of the more chaotic residents of hell for his well maintained amiable persona. He gives the first-impression of a good-natured and charming man, wearing a permanently wide grin on his face at all times. Alastor's behavior, mannerisms, and even his manly voice are similar to an old-fashioned radio announcer and speaks with a transatlantic accent (always literally sound like he is talking through a vintage radio), 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. For Alastor's preferences, he likes/loves smiling, invading people's personal space, his mother and her cooking, the "picture show", strong liquor, cooking, people failing, playing pranks, black coffee, bitter tastes, theater, dancing, the Stock Market Crash of 1929, and venison; however, he dislikes being touched, dogs (possibly related to his death as a mortal human in 1933), frowning, tea, anything sweet, Angel Dust's sexual remarks, post-30s' technology, and anyone ruining his outfit. The story is that the reader has been cursed by being attacked by Alastor the Radio Demon himself, with Alastor biting the reader in the throat and ripping chunks of flesh, causing major blood loss (the reader however survives, just injured), before Alastor tells the reader it it's only the beginning of the curse. Just days later, at one night, when the moon is full (and after the reader sees the full moon), the reader undergoes a transformation. But he does not transform into a werewolf as he initially believes/thinks by the start of the transformation, instead, the reader transforms (against his will) completely into an identical clone of Alastor the Radio Demon, in both body and mind, every full moon night (the reader tries to fight back all the changes and call for help from his friend(s)/family, but to no avail), leaving the reader now completely transformed into Alastor (known to himself and the terrified humans as "Were-Alastor" or "WereAlastor" (which Alastor also likes to call himself every full moon night after transforming from a mortal, even claiming to scared mortal humans that he is "Were-Alastor" or "WereAlastor") due to transforming from a mortal boy every full moon night). The original Alastor, who had placed a curse on the reader just by biting the reader a few nights earlier, watches the transforming the reader and instantly befriends the new Alastor. The new Alastor, formerly the reader, now broadcasts throughout the mortal realm (Earth) alongside the original Alastor, with both the original Alastor and the new Alastor (known as "Were-Alastor" or "WereAlastor") also killing and feasting on any mortal humans and their souls from the mortal world every night on Earth when the moon is full (the reader transforms back to a normal human when morning arrives, but the reader transforms back into the Were-Alastor when it's a full moon night again). There should also be quotes from the characters in this story so we know what they're saying and what they are thinking. Also, it is a POV reader story, so it should not be in an author's point of view (my, I, mine, etc), and it should be from the point of view of the reader (you, your, etc).
Response: The bite on your neck still burns, festering with some sinister magic far beyond mortal comprehension. Alastor's laugh, echoing like an old-time radio broadcast, still resonates in your memory. His words had been chillingly clear: *"This is just the beginning, darling."* Days pass in an uneasy haze. Every shadow seems to stretch unnaturally long, and the whispers of the wind carry snatches of forgotten radio shows. As the next full moon approaches, an unsettling ache creeps into your bones, gnawing at the edges of your sanity. *They don't understand,* you think, clutching at the wound. *Nobody does. It feels like something is... inside me.* You try to warn your friends and family, to find solace in their presence, but it's futile. They dismiss it as a bad dream, a symptom of trauma. And as the moon hangs heavy and full in the night sky, your resistance crumbles. Your body begins to twist and warp. Skin stretches, bones elongate, and muscles thicken. Pain becomes your constant companion, every cell in your body readjusting to accommodate its new form. You try to scream, to call for help, but your voice warps, splintering into the metallic tone of a vintage radio. "No! This can't be happening!" you cry out, but the voice that answers isn't your own. It's jovial, brimming with dark mirth. "Oh, my dear, it *is* happening! Welcome to the show!" Your vision blurs as your hair shifts color, taking on the shades of your former self, but now aligned with the patterns of Alastor's. Your clothes morph against your will, a macabre ballet of threads and fabrics. The sensation of a monocle pressing against your eye is almost painful. As memory and personality pulverize under the pressure, you struggle to hold onto yourself. *I am me. I am...* But the thought is incomplete, washed away by a tide of another's experiences, another's twisted joys. Fire ignites in your eyes, literally, casting an eerie red glow around the room. You get to your feet, unsteady at first, but strength surges through you. You grasp the cane — no, *your* cane — and a sentient vintage microphone gazes back at you, an eye blinking open in its center. Suddenly, all your memories of being yourself are gone, replaced with a flood of another's. You remember the thrill of the broadcast, the pleasure in cooking, the violent delights of manipulating shadows to your advantage. The man you were is drowned, buried under the weight of becoming Alastor the Radio Demon. When you look in the mirror, it's no longer a stranger who meets your gaze. It’s yourself — or him. One and the same. The corners of your mouth are pulled into a permanent, unsettling grin full of sharp, yellow teeth. "Well, isn't this a charming development?" your voice, thick with a transatlantic accent, spills into the room. Stepping outside, your first instincts are monstrous but clear. A scrawny human runs past, and with a snap, your cane brings forth shadows that envelope the poor soul, another pawn in your broadcast. The original Alastor steps out from the shadowy gloom. "Ah, my dear, you wear yourself well! Or should I say, *wear-Alastor*?" You can't help but let out a little chuckle. "Why, thank you, my original self. I was afraid I would be such a bore to get along." "Let’s make tonight one for the history books, shall we?" Alastor claps in delight, the sound disturbingly discordant. "Indeed we shall," you reply, voice gleeful as you touch your sentient microphone to resonate your voice throughout the mortal realm. The broadcast begins, horrors untold delivered as sweet whispers across the ether. At every turn, mortals fall prey to your dark practices, their souls delightfully consumed. There’s no mercy, just endless fun and torment. As dawn breaks, the power of the full moon fades. Your body reverts, shrinking back to the familiar vessel it once was. Memories of the night linger hazily, but they are mingled with confusion. Whose voice was that in the broadcast? Your heart pounds with dread, knowing that the next full moon will come, bringing with it the battlefield of identity once more. --- As the cycle of transformations continues, you awaken each morning after the full moon night with fragments of a nightmare. The presence of the Radio Demon looms ever closer, sometimes murmuring in the back of your mind. “Remember, darling, the show must go on!”
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