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Question: Write a POV transformation of a male human reader (a boy of 8 years years old) turning into Alastor the Radio Demon (from the animated series Hazbin Hotel), complete with clothes change, age progression (turning from a kid to an adult and being immortal), height progression (growing taller until he's about 7 feet tall), and mind/mental change (with the reader's mind being permanently and completely replaced with Alastor's personality and memories, despite his best efforts on fighting them and his attempts of calling his parents for help, making the reader completely forget about his past self and only remember being Alastor). For Alastor's appearance (after the kid reader turned into him), he is a slim, dapper sinner demon with beige-colored skin, and usually has a broad smile full of sharp, yellow teeth. 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). 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. 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. There should also be quotes from the characters in this story so we know what they're saying and what they're thinking.
Sitting cross-legged on his bedroom carpet, an 8-year-old boy with a chaotic mess of freckles and unruly hair gazed at his favorite poster, riveted by the bold figure in red. It was Alastor, the Radio Demon from Hazbin Hotel, the animated series he was obsessed with. He had never wished for anything more than to be as suave and mysterious as Alastor. And one day, without any warning, that wish started to come true. "Mom, Dad," he hurriedly called, looking down in alarm at his skin turning a peculiar shade of beige, his fingers twisting and lengthening into claws – red and menacing. "Something's wrong!" But his voice, once high and quavering, now reverberated around the room in a rich, smooth baritone. "Remember, darling," his mother's words from some forgotten memory echoed in his mind as his eyes shifted into alarming red, with thin, snaking pupils. "It's all in your head." Impulsively, he felt along his hair, finding it cropped short, and his fingers brushed over two small, budding antlers. He tried to scream, but his voice came out in a chuckle, similar to Alastor's melodic tenor. He shot up to his feet, towering over his toys and furniture, the world distorting around him. "Alastor," he muttered to himself, momentarily drawn away from his distress as he admired his tall, slender figure in the mirror. The transformation was picking up pace – his skin now fluctuating between shades of beige and dark grey, bisected by the sharp red of his newly transformed claws and hooves. Dressing change came next: a crimson pinstripe coat draping over his shoulders, long black dress pants wrapping around his legs. The weight of a monocoled eyepiece laid heavy on his right eye. A thin cane, garnished with a sentient microphone, suddenly materialized in his hand. His very soul seemed to vibrate at the frequency of the airwaves. Any semblance of the innocent, bubbly boy he had been was now gone. The last vestiges of his memories, faces of his tired yet loving parents, the moments of laughter, cries, the endless questions of a curious mind - all began to fade. "I shan't forget," he found himself muttering, fighting the overwhelming rush of Alastor's mind seizing his. With his last touch of humanity, the boy called out, and for a moment, it seemed like his plea hit the airwaves, disappearing before it reached his parents. "I'm not Alastor!" But the voice that echoed off his bedroom walls was not his - it was deep, charming, resonating with the musicality of a bygone radio era. The transformation made him forget himself. He was Alastor now, the radio demon: Immortal, immaculate, irrepressible. "Oh, what a production this is!" he laughed, his voice rolling across the room. A broad grin spread across his face, featuring a set of gleaming yellow teeth as sharp as his new feral instincts. It had felt eerily natural to slip into Alastor's mannerisms, to fall into the rhythm of his flamboyant transatlantic accent. He glanced over himself once more, his stare unflinchingly meeting the demon's gaze in the mirror. There, in the crux of transformation, stood Alastor – no expedition of a boy's dream, but a reality as factual as the boy's existence, only minutes past. "Dance of the decades, how charming!" he chirped, whirling around the room in a choreographed chaos, crushing the toys under his long, pointed boots as he swayed to a melody only he could hear. His old life, the boy he was, had been swelled up in the vibrant chaos of a radio demon's existence.
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