"The Metamorphosis of Angel Dust"
2 Points
Tails was tinkering in his workshop, surrounded by the familiar hum of machinery and the comforting scent of engine oil. His twin tails flicked back and forth in contentment as he tightened a bolt here, welded a joint there. The workshop was his sanctuary, a place where he felt most in control, where he could let his creativity flow unimpeded. Little did he know, today’s project would be anything but ordinary.
As he pieced together a new invention, a strange amulet lay innocuously on the workbench. It was an impulse purchase he had made from a traveling merchant, who had promised it held untold powers. Tails wasn't one for superstition, but the design had intrigued him. As he adjusted the dials and switches on his new creation, his hand brushed against the amulet. Instantly, the room spun violently, and a wave of disorienting nausea overcame him.
"What the—?" Tails began, but his voice caught in his throat as the world around him warped and twisted. The familiar greys and blues of his workshop bled into ominous reds and blacks. The comforting hum of his machinery was replaced by ghostly wails that seemed to pierce the very fabric of his soul.
Panicking, Tails tried to grab onto something, anything, to anchor himself, but found his body betraying him. His limbs elongated grotesquely, fur shifting from vibrant orange to an eerie white and light-pink mixture. Tails watched in horror and disbelief as his beloved twin tails fused into one before extending out again into more limbs—four arms. His torso stretched, his height ballooning from a modest 2.7 feet to an intimidating 8 feet.
“No, no, no! This can’t be happening!” He cried, his voice warping from a childish timbre to a deeper, more sardonic pitch.
In the mirror that hung on the now blood-stained wall of his twisted workshop, Tails' reflection showed a monstrous figure: a sinner demon. A mop of fluffy white hair with light-pink splotches, a heart pattern on the back of his head, and striking cerise pink eyes with discolored sclera stared back at him. His body clothed itself in a pink blazer with white stripes, a reddish-grey miniskirt, and thigh-high heeled boots. He found his upper arms adorned with cerise pink gloves and his lower arms with white gloves.
“Oh honey, you looking at a new form of fabulousness,” Tails—no, Angel Dust—remarked with a voice laced with sarcasm and a New York accent.
The realization struck him, bringing with it a tidal wave of new memories. Memories of Tails' adventures, friendships with Sonic and the gang, and countless endearing moments were assaulted by thoughts tainted by a hardened life in Hell. Tails tried to clutch onto his essence, but the more he fought, the stronger the other psyche became.
“No! I’m Tails! I’m—” He was abruptly cut off as his own thoughts crowded out by a mind preoccupied with drugs, sharp wit, and a veneer of uncaring sarcasm. “Man, this new s***hole looks worse than Hell,” Angel Dust commented, a dark chuckle escaping his lips.
Struggling to maintain a grip on his waning identity, Tails felt his past slipping away entirely. Moments from his past life blurred into indistinguishability, a fragmented dream in the recesses of his mind. Now, fully Angel Dust, his memories firmly rooted in the insane, carnal, and cynical world he habitually navigated.
"Damn, ain’t this a trip," Angel Dust muttered, surveying his new surroundings—the decayed opulence of Hell, a stark contrast to the bright and hopeful realm of Mobius.
Even as he took in the transformation, a part of him could faintly sense the distress beneath the confident facade: the small, lost flicker of the fox who used to be. But before he could delve deeper, his new personality shrugged off the attempt.
“Out of the frying pan into the fire, huh?” Angel mused, his grin showing off that single golden fang.
An unfamiliar voice interrupted the distorted silence, filled with a sarcastic edge, “Well, well, well, look who’s strutted into the wrong neighborhood.”
It was Alastor, the Radio Demon, whose well-known sadistic grin broadened at Angel’s transformation. “Welcome to Hell, darling."
Despite a slight pang of fear, Angel's brash persona took over. “Save the greetings, sweetcheeks. Just point me to the nearest fun and games.” He shot back, his mind already aligning with his new reality.
As Angel Dust stepped forward, immersed in the hopelessness and chaos of Hell, not even a wisp of Tails remained. The transformation was complete, and Angel’s sharp laughter echoed through the desolation, signaling the birth of a new sinner.
The tortured soul within Angel Dust, unbeknownst to the demon’s cocky exterior, still harbored a flicker of old hope, now well-buried but subtly alive. In the wastelands of Hell, where survival demanded wit and walls around one's heart, Angel Dust, formerly Tails, knew that even in the darkest of places, the smallest hint of light still fought to survive.
This story was generated by user JesterImps 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 transformation story of Tails (from the Sonic The Hedgehog games) turning into Angel Dust (from the adults cartoon/animated series Hazbin Hotel), complete with clothes gaining (where Angel Dust's clothes appear on his body out of nowhere), age progression (turning from 8 years old somewhere in his 30s), height progression (growing from 2.7 feet tall to 8 feet tall), reality change (Tails's world warping and turning into the world of Hazbin Hotel), and mind/mental change (with Tails's personality and memories being completely replaced with Angel Dust's personality and memories, despite his best efforts on fighting off to preserve his personality and memories, making him only remember being Angel Dust). For Angel Dust's appearance (after Tails 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. For Angel Dust's preferences, he likes drugs, being abrasive, pranks, getting into scraps, cooking, flirting, the color pink, money, and Italian food, but 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, and memorizing scripts. There should also be quotes from the characters in this story so we know what they're saying and what they're thinking.
Response: Tails was tinkering in his workshop, surrounded by the familiar hum of machinery and the comforting scent of engine oil. His twin tails flicked back and forth in contentment as he tightened a bolt here, welded a joint there. The workshop was his sanctuary, a place where he felt most in control, where he could let his creativity flow unimpeded. Little did he know, today’s project would be anything but ordinary. As he pieced together a new invention, a strange amulet lay innocuously on the workbench. It was an impulse purchase he had made from a traveling merchant, who had promised it held untold powers. Tails wasn't one for superstition, but the design had intrigued him. As he adjusted the dials and switches on his new creation, his hand brushed against the amulet. Instantly, the room spun violently, and a wave of disorienting nausea overcame him. "What the—?" Tails began, but his voice caught in his throat as the world around him warped and twisted. The familiar greys and blues of his workshop bled into ominous reds and blacks. The comforting hum of his machinery was replaced by ghostly wails that seemed to pierce the very fabric of his soul. Panicking, Tails tried to grab onto something, anything, to anchor himself, but found his body betraying him. His limbs elongated grotesquely, fur shifting from vibrant orange to an eerie white and light-pink mixture. Tails watched in horror and disbelief as his beloved twin tails fused into one before extending out again into more limbs—four arms. His torso stretched, his height ballooning from a modest 2.7 feet to an intimidating 8 feet. “No, no, no! This can’t be happening!” He cried, his voice warping from a childish timbre to a deeper, more sardonic pitch. In the mirror that hung on the now blood-stained wall of his twisted workshop, Tails' reflection showed a monstrous figure: a sinner demon. A mop of fluffy white hair with light-pink splotches, a heart pattern on the back of his head, and striking cerise pink eyes with discolored sclera stared back at him. His body clothed itself in a pink blazer with white stripes, a reddish-grey miniskirt, and thigh-high heeled boots. He found his upper arms adorned with cerise pink gloves and his lower arms with white gloves. “Oh honey, you looking at a new form of fabulousness,” Tails—no, Angel Dust—remarked with a voice laced with sarcasm and a New York accent. The realization struck him, bringing with it a tidal wave of new memories. Memories of Tails' adventures, friendships with Sonic and the gang, and countless endearing moments were assaulted by thoughts tainted by a hardened life in Hell. Tails tried to clutch onto his essence, but the more he fought, the stronger the other psyche became. “No! I’m Tails! I’m—” He was abruptly cut off as his own thoughts crowded out by a mind preoccupied with drugs, sharp wit, and a veneer of uncaring sarcasm. “Man, this new s***hole looks worse than Hell,” Angel Dust commented, a dark chuckle escaping his lips. Struggling to maintain a grip on his waning identity, Tails felt his past slipping away entirely. Moments from his past life blurred into indistinguishability, a fragmented dream in the recesses of his mind. Now, fully Angel Dust, his memories firmly rooted in the insane, carnal, and cynical world he habitually navigated. "Damn, ain’t this a trip," Angel Dust muttered, surveying his new surroundings—the decayed opulence of Hell, a stark contrast to the bright and hopeful realm of Mobius. Even as he took in the transformation, a part of him could faintly sense the distress beneath the confident facade: the small, lost flicker of the fox who used to be. But before he could delve deeper, his new personality shrugged off the attempt. “Out of the frying pan into the fire, huh?” Angel mused, his grin showing off that single golden fang. An unfamiliar voice interrupted the distorted silence, filled with a sarcastic edge, “Well, well, well, look who’s strutted into the wrong neighborhood.” It was Alastor, the Radio Demon, whose well-known sadistic grin broadened at Angel’s transformation. “Welcome to Hell, darling." Despite a slight pang of fear, Angel's brash persona took over. “Save the greetings, sweetcheeks. Just point me to the nearest fun and games.” He shot back, his mind already aligning with his new reality. As Angel Dust stepped forward, immersed in the hopelessness and chaos of Hell, not even a wisp of Tails remained. The transformation was complete, and Angel’s sharp laughter echoed through the desolation, signaling the birth of a new sinner. The tortured soul within Angel Dust, unbeknownst to the demon’s cocky exterior, still harbored a flicker of old hope, now well-buried but subtly alive. In the wastelands of Hell, where survival demanded wit and walls around one's heart, Angel Dust, formerly Tails, knew that even in the darkest of places, the smallest hint of light still fought to survive.
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