The day had been dreary, ordinary, a dull drumbeat of hours spent aimlessly scrolling through your favorite forums, clicking links that led you deeper into the online wonders and horrors of fandom. The one solace you cherished in your life was the mesmerizing sea of art and fanfiction centering around "Hazbin Hotel." You were obsessed, a bit unhealthily so, some might say. It was amusing, thrilling even, to see the creative ways people depicted transformations, particularly of Alastor, the Radio Demon himself.
Your life was about to get much more interesting—so interesting, in fact, that you wished you had never delved so deep.
"Distasteful, indeed," a rich voice cut through the ambient sounds of your home, making you jump out of your chair.
You turned, eyes wide, and saw him. Alastor himself, grinning with that unnaturally broad smile, standing right there in your living room as though he belonged.
"Well, well, look what we have here," he purred, folding his hands behind his back, the microphone cane poised by his side. "A little admirer, aren't you?"
Fear paralyzed you. How was this possible? Was this some dream? A trick of an overly exhausted mind?
"Seeing so many depictions of oneself mangled into different forms gets a tad boring, you know? A Radio Demon has his dignity!" His smile did not waver as he stepped closer, the tips of his black-toed boots tapping lightly on the floor. "Why, I think it's high time someone taught you a lesson."
Before you could run, before you could scream, a wave of sickening darkness enveloped you—a darkness filled with whispers and the cackles of demons. Your scream died on your lips as the room around you faded, and you fell into the suffocating void, trickled with bright-red symbols glowing in fiendish delight.
The world stopped spinning, and you crashed into the hard, cold ground. When you opened your eyes, you were no longer at home. Hazbin Hotel loomed over you, its garish, gothic architecture spreading wide, like a sinister grin.
Your limbs felt strange, longer, your hands before you more slender, clawed. Panic surged through your mind as you noticed your fingers weren’t finished with human proportions—four fingers, not five.
"No," you gasped, and your voice. It was not yours but emerged with the crackle of an old radio tuning in. You shot to your feet, teetering dangerously as everything stretched—muscles and bones elongated unnaturally, your torso too narrow for comfort.
"No, this cannot be happening. This isn't real!" you muttered, trying to control the panic. Your voice, that showy, Transatlantic tone of Alastor's, mocked you with every word.
The ground seemed so much farther, and when you caught sight of your reflection, splayed out across a broken shard from the nearby window, you understood why. 7 feet tall, broad shoulders, the red pinstripe coat clinging to your newly transformed frame, the angled bob-cut with black-tipped edges brushing against your jaw.
"This… this can't be me." Your words bristled the air, and your reflection responded with the same, fixed, hellishly broad grin that could not frown no matter how desperately you tried to force it back with clawed fingers.
Your scream of terror came out as laughter. It was all-consuming, the weight of new memories trying to choke out your own, but you fought. You fought so desperately—names, faces, places from your old life.
"This is not real, it's a nightmare!" you cried.
"Nightmare? Oh, but it is!" another voice, your voice, no, Alastor's, resounded inside your mind. "This is who you truly are. Awake from your false dream! Join me, twin."
"N-No! I remember... I was... but even as you tried to hold on, the colder, darker memories flooded in. The thrill of radio shows, the taste of blood, the enjoyment of mother's cooking, her Jambalaya. You had been human once, but that was a lie spun of false consciousness.
"Yes, brother," Alastor's voice in your head soothed with malevolent mirth. "We were killers. We were entertainers. We’ve always been Radio Demons."
Acceptance washed over you like a sinister tide. Past aflame, you embraced the truth seeping into your bones. The memories, all of them, fitting so seamlessly into the tale of Alastor, made sense now. There, standing before you, was your counterpart, your other half, identical.
"Welcome back home," Alastor—the original Alastor—greeted, his grin mirroring yours. "Together, we will be unstoppable."
The haze of confusion cleared. "Ah, brother." Your own new voice felt right, slipping into sync with him. "A pleasure to be back."
Epilogue
The Hazbin Hotel bustled with the usual farce of chaos and ill-fated optimism. Both Alastors—we—stood by Charlie Morningstar, ever the princess of Hell with that endearing hope for redemption. She was a charming demon belle, indeed—so full of misguided ambition.
"You really trust them?" Vaggie hissed, eyes narrow, as she gazed between us.
"Vaggie, we need all the help we can get," Charlie insisted.
"Relax, ma chère," Alastor (No, you both speak as one) waved a dismissive hand. "This will be most entertaining."
Angel Dust pranced by, his air just as smug. "So, there’s two of you now? Twice the sass?"
Husk grumbled in a corner, drowned in his drinks, while Nifty flitted around, ever the eager little worker.
"Looks like I’ve got double the cleanup," she bemoaned cheerily.
You shared a look with Alastor. Hazbin Hotel, the epitome of sin and failure in Hell, would be Charlie’s venture—but your playground, your theatre. Redemption was laughable, but oh, how delightful it would be to pretend.
"And so begins a new broadcast," you announced, twin voices merging in mirthful menace. "Welcome to the show!"
This story was generated by user DylanVsFizzarolli6 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 the POV transformation story of a human reader turning into an identical clone of Alastor (from the adults cartoon/animated series Hazbin Hotel), complete with gender change (if the reader is a 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 only remember being Alastor the Radio Demon). 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 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 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. The story is that Alastor is getting bored and wanted something new and more entertaining in Hell. Not only that, but most importantly, Alastor is getting sick and tired of seeing artwork and stories (online) of himself getting transformed into other characters and creatures in both body and mind (sometimes from different series/franchise), which Alastor genuinely views as distasteful. 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 using 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, the reader tries to push his/her grin down with his/her hands/fingers to get rid of the smile in order to frown or show fear but cannot due to making emotions other than smiling was completely impossible, the reader also tries to fight those new memories and personality of Alastor flooding the reader's head, the reader is horrified and not wanting to be completely transformed in either body or mind, but is fighting a losing battle, and the voice (identical to Alastor's voice) inside the reader's head tells him/her that this is his true self and he is waking up from his false human dream, making him truly and fully believe in the voice in his head 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, them both being radio show hosts and serial killers on Earth before they were both killed, both 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, both Alastor twins want to help Charlie run the redemption hotel "Hazbin Hotel", albeit for their own amusement), and the reader's mind has also been completely replaced with Alastor's mind, before original Alastor welcomes his twin brother (the reader) back home. In the epilogue, the two Alastors (the original one and the reader) are in the Hazbin Hotel helping Charlie Morningstar 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 Alastor), Angel Dust (an adults/pornographic film actor who's a male spider-like humanoid sinner demon), 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 and his twin brother), and Nifty (a small 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: The day had been dreary, ordinary, a dull drumbeat of hours spent aimlessly scrolling through your favorite forums, clicking links that led you deeper into the online wonders and horrors of fandom. The one solace you cherished in your life was the mesmerizing sea of art and fanfiction centering around "Hazbin Hotel." You were obsessed, a bit unhealthily so, some might say. It was amusing, thrilling even, to see the creative ways people depicted transformations, particularly of Alastor, the Radio Demon himself. Your life was about to get much more interesting—so interesting, in fact, that you wished you had never delved so deep. "Distasteful, indeed," a rich voice cut through the ambient sounds of your home, making you jump out of your chair. You turned, eyes wide, and saw him. Alastor himself, grinning with that unnaturally broad smile, standing right there in your living room as though he belonged. "Well, well, look what we have here," he purred, folding his hands behind his back, the microphone cane poised by his side. "A little admirer, aren't you?" Fear paralyzed you. How was this possible? Was this some dream? A trick of an overly exhausted mind? "Seeing so many depictions of oneself mangled into different forms gets a tad boring, you know? A Radio Demon has his dignity!" His smile did not waver as he stepped closer, the tips of his black-toed boots tapping lightly on the floor. "Why, I think it's high time someone taught you a lesson." Before you could run, before you could scream, a wave of sickening darkness enveloped you—a darkness filled with whispers and the cackles of demons. Your scream died on your lips as the room around you faded, and you fell into the suffocating void, trickled with bright-red symbols glowing in fiendish delight. The world stopped spinning, and you crashed into the hard, cold ground. When you opened your eyes, you were no longer at home. Hazbin Hotel loomed over you, its garish, gothic architecture spreading wide, like a sinister grin. Your limbs felt strange, longer, your hands before you more slender, clawed. Panic surged through your mind as you noticed your fingers weren’t finished with human proportions—four fingers, not five. "No," you gasped, and your voice. It was not yours but emerged with the crackle of an old radio tuning in. You shot to your feet, teetering dangerously as everything stretched—muscles and bones elongated unnaturally, your torso too narrow for comfort. "No, this cannot be happening. This isn't real!" you muttered, trying to control the panic. Your voice, that showy, Transatlantic tone of Alastor's, mocked you with every word. The ground seemed so much farther, and when you caught sight of your reflection, splayed out across a broken shard from the nearby window, you understood why. 7 feet tall, broad shoulders, the red pinstripe coat clinging to your newly transformed frame, the angled bob-cut with black-tipped edges brushing against your jaw. "This… this can't be me." Your words bristled the air, and your reflection responded with the same, fixed, hellishly broad grin that could not frown no matter how desperately you tried to force it back with clawed fingers. Your scream of terror came out as laughter. It was all-consuming, the weight of new memories trying to choke out your own, but you fought. You fought so desperately—names, faces, places from your old life. "This is not real, it's a nightmare!" you cried. "Nightmare? Oh, but it is!" another voice, your voice, no, Alastor's, resounded inside your mind. "This is who you truly are. Awake from your false dream! Join me, twin." "N-No! I remember... I was... but even as you tried to hold on, the colder, darker memories flooded in. The thrill of radio shows, the taste of blood, the enjoyment of mother's cooking, her Jambalaya. You had been human once, but that was a lie spun of false consciousness. "Yes, brother," Alastor's voice in your head soothed with malevolent mirth. "We were killers. We were entertainers. We’ve always been Radio Demons." Acceptance washed over you like a sinister tide. Past aflame, you embraced the truth seeping into your bones. The memories, all of them, fitting so seamlessly into the tale of Alastor, made sense now. There, standing before you, was your counterpart, your other half, identical. "Welcome back home," Alastor—the original Alastor—greeted, his grin mirroring yours. "Together, we will be unstoppable." The haze of confusion cleared. "Ah, brother." Your own new voice felt right, slipping into sync with him. "A pleasure to be back." Epilogue The Hazbin Hotel bustled with the usual farce of chaos and ill-fated optimism. Both Alastors—we—stood by Charlie Morningstar, ever the princess of Hell with that endearing hope for redemption. She was a charming demon belle, indeed—so full of misguided ambition. "You really trust them?" Vaggie hissed, eyes narrow, as she gazed between us. "Vaggie, we need all the help we can get," Charlie insisted. "Relax, ma chère," Alastor (No, you both speak as one) waved a dismissive hand. "This will be most entertaining." Angel Dust pranced by, his air just as smug. "So, there’s two of you now? Twice the sass?" Husk grumbled in a corner, drowned in his drinks, while Nifty flitted around, ever the eager little worker. "Looks like I’ve got double the cleanup," she bemoaned cheerily. You shared a look with Alastor. Hazbin Hotel, the epitome of sin and failure in Hell, would be Charlie’s venture—but your playground, your theatre. Redemption was laughable, but oh, how delightful it would be to pretend. "And so begins a new broadcast," you announced, twin voices merging in mirthful menace. "Welcome to the show!"
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