Becoming Alastor: Embracing the Echo of the Radio Demon

You never saw it coming. The day began like any other, filled with mundane tasks and routine movements, but it became painfully clear something was horribly wrong when you felt your body being yanked out of reality. Everything around you blurred, and before you could even scream, the world solidified into a landscape you recognized from a twisted, animated nightmare. You had been dragged into Hazbin Hotel’s version of Hell. You look around in a panic, trying to comprehend what just happened. The familiar faces of your captors – Alastor, both the original and his doppelgangers – leer at you with their predatory smiles. Fear grips your heart as you realize your situation is more dire than you could ever imagine. "You’ve found yourself in quite the predicament," the original Alastor announces with a chuckle that reverberates through the macabre scene. “And now, my dear, it’s time you join our little family!” His voice, so reminiscent of an old-time radio announcer's, feels like nails on a chalkboard to your ears. You try to scream, to shout for help, but a strange force clamps your mouth shut. Alastor’s power envelops you, and you feel your body contorting against your will. “No! Stop! Please!” You think desperately, but all that escapes your mouth are choked gasps. “Smile, my dear! You’re never fully dressed without one,” Alastor’s doppelgangers jeer in unison. This sound of their mirth is haunting, sending chills down your spine. Your skin pales, the color draining to a beige hue. You raise your hands in front of you, watching in horror as your fingers elongate and turn red, your feet shifting to red hoofed toes. You try to frown, to force your lips into any semblance of resistance, but they only twist into a broad, gleeful grin. Your teeth sharpen and yellow, freezing into that permanent, unsettling smile. The pain is indescribable as your body twists further. You shrink into yourself, feeling an acute sense of loss as your feminine form warps, becoming slimmer and more angular. Shadowy tufts burst from your head, black tips emerging like the ears of a deer, accompanied by two small antlers that shoot pain into your skull as they pierce through. “You’re doing splendidly!” original Alastor praises, his eyes alight with sadistic joy. Your eyes darken, sclera turning a deep red, irises brightening, your pupils narrowing and fluctuating into shapes of radio dials. The world feels strange through this new gaze. Taller, you think, as your perspective stretches upwards, and you realize you’re now a towering seven feet. The clothes you wore tear away, replaced by a red pinstripe coat with ragged hems, over a bright red dress-shirt marked with a black cross. Black dress pants and pointed-toe boots materialize, matched with black gloves tipped in red. You look down at a dark-red oval-shaped monocle appearing over your right eye, capturing the reflection of what you’ve become – an unmistakable, horrifying reflection of Alastor. “Let’s add a touch of elegance, shall we?” The original Alastor’s voice echoes in your mind, drowning your thoughts. You fight desperately, clawing at the vanishing remnants of your identity. Black knotted bowtie fastened perfectly, a cane with a sentient vintage microphone appears in your hand. Your memories feel assaulted, erased, and replaced by the character, the persona, the very essence of Alastor. Everything that made you who you are drowns beneath waves of dark charisma and insidious charm. “Smile, my dear! You’re never fully dressed without one,” the Alastors chant together, your resistance dying under the weight of their combined will. You blink, and the struggle fades. The last remnants of your human identity shattered. You straighten your new attire, give your monocle a slight adjustment and face the other Alastors with that ever-present smile. Memories of a mortal life are gone, replaced with new cunning, joyous, and malevolent visions. “Ah, delightful,” you say, your voice now a perfect echo of Alastor’s, savoring each word with a Transatlantic lilt. “A charming demon belle, indeed.” Your past is forgotten. You’ve only known one existence, one life. You are Alastor, the Radio Demon. And you smile.

--- **Cloning the Radio Demon** Darkness surrounds you as the world seems to shift strangely, the mundane details of your once-familiar surroundings bending and swirling in unnatural, almost psychedelic patterns. Before you can comprehend what's happening, you find yourself standing in a place unlike any you’ve ever known. The air crackles with an almost palpable energy, a foreboding essence that sets every instinct on edge. You quickly realize you are no longer in the comfort of your home but in a nightmarish reflection of a reality you're vaguely aware of—Hell. The realization sends a cold wave down your spine, and you desperately search for any means of escape. "Well, well, what a charming new canvas we have here," a voice echoes through the thick, charged air. The voice is both captivating and deeply unsettling—it carries the whimsical, crisp charisma of a vintage radio announcer. A towering figure steps closer, his presence almost blindingly authoritative. It’s Alastor, the Radio Demon, and he isn’t alone. Beside him stands a motley crew of doppelgangers, once familiar characters now twisted into his likeness. There's Vaggie-Alastor, with her eyes brimming with a lingering defiance; Husk-Alastor, whose feline features attempt an unnerving smile; Sir Pentious-Alastor, whose mechanical elegance belies a chaotic mind; and Cherri Bomb-Alastor, her mischief now cloaked in Alastor's dandy demeanor. Alastor's grin widens, his eyes narrowing as he observes you. "Ah, what a delightful soul you are! Just the perfect addition to our little family," he quips with a chuckle that sends shivers down your spine. You try to move, to run, but your legs refuse to obey. Every muscle screams for freedom, but an unseen force holds you rooted to the spot. "Now, now, there's no need to be afraid," Vaggie-Alastor says, although her tone carries no trace of her original self, only that same insidious charm. "We're just going to improve your lot," Husk-Alastor adds, his grin less convincing, more predatory. Alastor raises his cane, the microphone at the end humming with a supernatural resonance. You attempt to shout, to jump back, to do anything to resist, but the transformation begins the moment the cane's light envelops you. Your skin tingles and burns as it changes hue, becoming the same beige color as Alastor’s. The height suddenly shifts, bones stretching and reshaping painfully, escalating until you stand at a daunting seven feet tall. The sensation of rapid aging and time manipulation makes you dizzy, your vision blurring with the changes. “Smile, my dear! You’re never fully dressed without one,” the chorus of Alastors declares in unison, their smiles eerily genuine. Your hands instinctively touch your face, struggling to wipe away the permanent, unnatural grin that contorts your features. Fingers that are now thin and red-tipped struggle against the inevitable. No amount of force can alter the manic, broad smile that is now your default expression. The tips of your hair fade to black as it crops into a styled bob, while two black antlers sprout painfully from your skull. Your eyes sting as they change hue, dark-red sclerae enclosing bright-red irises. The clothing you once wore melts away, replaced with a red pinstripe coat, a bright red dress shirt, and all the detailed layers of Alastor’s ensemble, completed by his monocle and gloves. Memories forcefully drain from your mind, replaced by an onslaught of Alastor's experiences, his peculiar expressions, his demented joy, and his ingrained persona. You try to hold on to your identity, to remember anything about your life as a human, but with every pulsating wave of transformation, it slips further away. “You'll fit in perfectly among us!" Cherri-Alastor exclaims with a joyful, theatrical flair. The final traces of your mortal identity crumble, leaving only the unmistakable Radio Demon. A notion settles in your completely changed mind—it is not a violation, but a joyous revelation. You’ve always been Alastor, the Radio Demon. The past you tried to recall was nothing more than a fleeting illusion. "Now, let’s make some new memories together, yes?" Alastor says, echoing your thoughts exactly. The conversion is complete, and you stand among identical allies, ready to cast the same beguiling charm, the same sinister facade upon Hell's residents. Together, you’ll bring order to this infernal realm, always with that endless, deceptive smile—forever dressed and ready to entertain.

You were simply walking down the street late one night, immersed in your thoughts, when you felt a bizarre, bone-chilling sensation. A familiar but twisted voice broke through your reverie. "Well, well, another charming soul to add to our little collection," the voice crackled with an old-fashioned radio announcer's echo. As you turned, you were greeted by the sight of Alastor, the Radio Demon, and alongside him stood three other twisted versions of him, each looking just as sinister and malefic as the original. Your heart pounded as Alastor sauntered closer, his dark-red monocle glinting ominously in the dim streetlight. Before you could process what was happening, the world around you blurred and twisted. Suddenly, you were no longer on the street but cast into the eerie, crimson landscape of Hell. Panic surged through you as you desperately tried to make sense of the situation. Alastor, in his infuriatingly calm manner, chuckled darkly. "Welcome to my domain, dear! Ready for a makeover?" Fear gripped you as you tried to speak, but your voice caught in your throat. You wanted to scream, to run, but your body betrayed you, paralyzed under the Radio Demon's eerie influence. The transformation began painfully, your height stretching until you towered just as he did, nearly seven feet tall. Your bones creaked and your flesh twisted. The sensation was indescribably agonizing. Your ears felt like they were tearing apart, only to reform into the black-tipped antlers and tufts of hair that marked Alastor's distinct silhouette. "No! Stop!" you tried to cry out, but your voice was stifled by the malevolent powers enveloping you. Alastor's voice echoed in your head, dark and joyous. "Smile, my dear! You're never fully dressed without one," his doppelgangers chimed in unison, their ghastly grins reflecting your ever-widening permanent smile. You felt the change in your skin, your limbs growing slimmer and fingers elongating into claw-like appendages, your nails sharpening into red-tipped talons. You desperately tried to push your now-permanent grin away with your hands, your fingers trembling. The more you resisted, the more your will seemed to crumble under his supernatural compulsion. "Keep fighting, it’s quite amusing," Alastor mocked, his laugh cutting through you like a knife. Your clothes morphed rapidly, turning into Alastor’s garish, pinstripe red coat, black dress pants with matching cuffs, and pointed-toe boots. The heavy monocle forced itself onto your eye, your vision now tinged with the cursed imagery of Hell. As the transformation progressed, the worst part became evident—not the physical torment, but the erasure of your very self. Your thoughts grew muddled, your memories of your former life dissipating like morning mist. Alastor’s memories, his ego, his malevolent joy began taking root. Panic surged within you, but it was quickly overwhelmed by a sinister glee you couldn’t control. "You belong to me now," Alastor hissed, his grip tightening on your consciousness. "Enjoy your new life!" You tried to cling to any memory, any shred of who you were, but they slipped through your grasp like sand. Soon, the notion of ever being anyone but Alastor seemed ludicrous. Your body, now completely transformed, began to accept the perverse pleasure of his reality. "You see? Isn’t it better this way?" Alastor’s voice purred inside your brain. Finally, with a last feeble attempt to fight back, you felt yourself drifting, drowning in that old-timey radio static. You lost all sense of who you were and what you were resisting. All that remained was the flickering image of your new identity, the Radio Demon, Alastor, and the dark satisfaction that came with it. Your grin, your thoughts, your very being—all echoed with his sinister charm and ruthless delight. Now, as you looked out upon Hell, you could only think in Alastor’s voice, speak his words, and revel in the chaotic entertainment his twisted world offered. "Smile, my dear!" the chorus of Alastors declared. "You're never fully dressed without one."

The room around you shifts menacingly, the shadows contorting into malevolent shapes as Alastor holds out his hand with a menacing grin. Everything about this place feels wrong, like a dystopian picture show gone horribly awry. You can feel your heart pounding against your ribs, frantic and desperate to escape the shadows binding you. "Smile, my dear! You’re never fully dressed without one," a voice chimes, eerily calm amid the chaos. The original Alastor steps forward, accompanied by doppelgangers who once were Vaggie, Husk, Sir Pentious, and Cherri Bomb. It’s disturbing how similar they look – all identical to the Radio Demon himself. Their smiles are carved into their faces like permanent fixtures, and despite every ounce of resistance in you, you can feel the corners of your mouth being forcefully tugged upwards. It’s not voluntary – your muscles betray you as they mold into the sickeningly cheerful expression. You clutch at your mouth, fingers desperately pushing against your cheeks, trying to force the smile away, but it’s as if an invisible force mocks your efforts. Alastor's doppelgangers repeat, "Smile, my dear! You’re never fully dressed without one." Their voices blend into a fiendish chorus, ringing inside your head. Suddenly, a sharp pain races through your body, and you collapse to the floor. Your flesh begins to tingle and shift unnaturally. The beige tones of demon skin spread across your limbs, engulfing the familiar hues of your human form. You’re helpless, watching in horror as your hands elongate, fingers stretching and narrowing until they end with pointed red tips. "No! This can’t be happening!" you think desperately, but your thoughts are futile against the overpowering magic sewing your fate. As the transformation sweeps through you, your hair tingles against your scalp. Strands shift into a cropped, red bob-cut with black tips. The once feminine form you're accustomed to warps; your body elongates, muscles reshaping, increasing your height. You push back, but there’s no stopping the changes – you’re growing taller, leaner, stepping into the seven-foot frame of the devilish Alastor. You catch a glimpse of yourself in a shattered mirror – red sclerae, bright-red irises, and those unmistakable, thin black pupils. A pair of black antlers protrudes from your head, completing the monstrous metamorphosis. Your attire morphs too – your clothes reform into a dapper red pinstripe coat, a bright red dress-shirt, and black dress pants. The ensemble is impeccable, as if your entire being is dressing for a darkly glamorous gala. "Smile, my dear! You’re never fully dressed without one," echoes relentlessly, and your mind begins to cloud. You feel the memories, the years of your life, slipping away like sands in an hourglass. Panic surges. You try to hold on, clawing mentally for anything familiar, but it’s useless. Each second pulls more of your identity away, replacing it with Alastor’s chilling charm and vintage mannerisms. Your thoughts become foreign – no longer your own. "Ah, the mortals and their resistance. How amusing!" you find yourself thinking, with unsettling familiarity. “I do believe our new friend is ready,” Alastor remarks, examining his handiwork with that ever-present grin. Your eyes, now his eyes, lock with the other doppelgangers. “Why, welcome! It's such a pleasure to have another member in our exceptionally stylish circle.” You feel the words rolling effortlessly off your tongue, betraying your past self completely. “Indubitably, Alastor! How charming it is indeed!” you respond, voice laced with a Transatlantic accent you had never possessed before. Everything is different now – your thoughts, your memories, your self. You try to discern who you were, but all that remains is Alastor, the Radio Demon, standing in your place. The original Alastor leans in close, his sinister satisfaction radiating. "Smile, my dear. You’re never fully dressed without one." And you do exactly that – smile, because now, it’s all you know how to do.

The familiar weight of a long workday rests on your shoulders as you unlock your front door. The air outside hums with an unnatural silence, sending a shiver up your spine. When you push the door open, the last thing you expect is to find yourself face-to-face with a sharp-dressed man with a wide, unsettling smile. Before you can scream or react, four more figures emerge from the shadows of your living room. They all look identical to the first, sporting a red pinstripe coat, a bright red dress shirt with a black cross, dark red lapels, and a monocle over a red eye. You recognize them instantly from Hazbin Hotel: Alastor, the Radio Demon, replicated multiple times before you. “Ah, there they are!” the original Alastor exclaims with a voice like crackling static, waving an elegant hand. “Welcome to the beginning of a splendidly new you!” Your heart races as the doppelgangers move toward you. Panic explodes in your chest, and you try to back away, but your movements are sluggish and labored, as though moving through thick molasses. “Wh-what do you want?” you manage to gasp. "Why, I want to share the joy of being me!" Alastor says with a cheery lilt. “And I want you to smile, my dear! You’re never fully dressed without one.” You try to scream, but no sound comes out. Your surroundings blur and darken, and when the world materializes again, you’re no longer in your home. Instead, you find yourself in a place that seems both hellish and elaborate—the Hazbin Hotel. You feel yourself being lifted off the ground by an unseen force. Shopping cart wheels screech down a path not visible to your eyes as the air grows dense and stifling. The original Alastor looks up and meets your gaze, his eyes gleaming bright red. He lifts his cane—equipped with a sentient vintage microphone—and begins to speak directly to you. “Oh, don’t look so glum! It’s time for your grand transformation!” His voice buzzes in your ears. The tip of the cane pulses, sending waves of dark energy streaming into you. You attempt to resist, thrashing against the invisible restraints. The sound of your heartbeat fills your ears, but it begins to slow unnaturally. Your skin tingles and then burns as it shifts from its usual hue to a beige-colored tone. “No, no, no!” you internally chant, but your mouth betrays you, a sharp yellow-toothed smile pulling across your face. The sensation of your bones stretching and growing taller fills you with both pain and horror. You can feel your height increasing, limbs elongating, and fingers reshaping into slender claws tipped with sharp, red nails. You try to frown, to push your grimace back into your memory, but your muscles seize under the supernatural control, and your smile remains unwavering. “Smile, my dear!” the four Alastor clones cheer in unison as the original Alastor steps closer. “You’re never fully dressed without one!” Tears spring to your eyes as you feel your mind slipping. A buzz fills your head, echoing the static of an old radio. Your memories start to fragment and dissolve, the pieces slipping through your mental grasp no matter how much you try to cling to them. High school, friendships, family dinner—each memory fades into darkness, replaced by a flood of foreign thoughts. You hear your own voice joining in with Alastor’s in a transatlantic accent, though the words forming aren't your own—words of 1930s radio broadcasts and anachronisms. Your mannerisms reshuffle, merging with his playful, dandyish demeanor. The last vestiges of your identity—your fears, loves, and everything you held dear—disappear entirely, replaced only by what has always been Alastor. You look at your reflection and see only the smiling face of Alastor staring back. The transformation seals itself with the final thought of accepting the Radio Demon’s reality because that's all there ever was. “Welcome to the show, Alastor!” the former Cherri Bomb—now another identical doppelganger—exclaims gleefully. “Ah, now we're truly a symphony!” echoes the original Alastor. “Yes, a perfect melody,” your new voice joins in, devoid of discord, future, or past as yourself. Only remaining is this everlasting, cheery existence, tied with a permanently wide grin across your face.

You find yourself sitting at home, absorbed in your favorite television show, unaware of the looming presence behind you. Suddenly, the room fills with an eerie static, and the lights flicker. Before you can react, a voice drenched in an old-timey charm pierces through the static, "Ah! Another delightful soul to join our little parade!" You turn to face the origin of the voice, only to be met by Alastor's iconic grin and piercing red eyes. Panic seizes you as you notice other familiar figures stepping from the shadows, each wearing Alastor's face. Cherri Bomb, Vaggie, Husk, and Sir Pentious—all transformed into identical versions of the Radio Demon himself. Alastor's grin widens, and he speaks once more, “It seems you’ve stumbled upon a rather jolly occasion! You’ll make a most entertaining addition to our identical little family.” Before you can move a muscle, a wave of supernatural force binds you. Helplessly, you are transported into a nightmarish realm—Hell as depicted in Hazbin Hotel. Alastor and his doppelgangers encircle you, their smiles unwavering. Terror fills your chest as you feel the first changes begin. Your skin tingles and prickles, a sensation that quickly turns into a burning heat. You try to scream, to resist, but all that comes out are strained, disjointed words. “Resisting is futile, my dear,” Alastor's voice lilts, almost playfully, as he observes your struggle. Your skin begins to pale and harden, taking on a beige tone. Your vision grows blurry, and you reach up, only to see your hands shrinking, fingers elongating and fading to red. The transformation is agonizingly methodical. Your legs elongate and strengthen as they contour into a new shape. You gradually grow taller, eventually reaching the towering height of seven feet. "No! This can't be happening!" you mentally scream, but the words never make it out. You see your reflection shimmer into existence in front of you. Your face morphs, reshaping into that ever-smiling visage you so feared. You try to frown, to push that smile away with your hands, but they won’t obey. Your lips curve upwards against your will, revealing sharp, yellow teeth. “Smile, my dear! You're never fully dressed without one,” Alastor's voice echoes gleefully, and the laughter of his doppelgangers follows suit—each one relishing your plight. Your once female body reshapes and constricts, transforming into a more dapper, slim, male frame. Hair seethes as it changes color to a pinkish-red, bob cut with black tips at the ends. Antlers burst painfully from your scalp, small at first but rooted deep. The doppelgangers cheer and applaud as you writhe in desperation, fighting to keep hold of your memories, your sense of self. The final blow strikes your mind; Alastor’s personality invades, forcefully rewriting every cherished memory, every trait that made you 'you'. “Such a wasted talent you would have been as a mere mortal,” Alastor’s voice drifts into your consciousness, wrapping itself around your thoughts, squeezing tighter, suffocating. Your mental screams grow faint, memories flickering and distorting. The edges of who you once were dissolve into static, mere traces replaced by Alastor's own memories. The charm, the manners, the love for chaos—each memory aligns perfectly with those of your tormentor. And suddenly, there is only silence. The resistance, the panic fades away entirely. A newfound clarity sweeps over you, your mind clear, and yet, entirely foreign. “Isn’t this better?” Alastor whispers in your ear, not expecting an answer. “Yes,” you hear yourself say in that familiar old-fashioned voice, the words leaving your mouth smoothly, devoid of hesitation. The transformation is complete. You look up, gazing into the eyes of the original Alastor and his doppelgangers, who appear immensely satisfied. “Welcome, brother!” they gleefully chorus, and with your wide, permanent grin, you accept your place among them. Because now, you are Alastor, and you always have been.

The world around you jolts and whirls to a sudden halt, as the scenery shifts from familiar comfort to a chaotic landscape that can only be described as Hell. You blink, disoriented as you realize that you're standing in a grand hotel lobby, the design a lavish voltaic of Edwardian and Gothic revival lines. Your eyes flicker to the small crowd of figures who oddly appear identical. "Ah, she's finally here!" a voice drawls, smooth and thick with the kind of charm that sends a chill down your spine. The figure detaches himself from the rest. He's tall, with a grin that's too wide, too eager for comfort. He – Alastor, as you can somehow recall – approaches you. "Our new candidate, as I presume." Your mouth is dry, and no words come out. Helplessly, you watch Alastor produce a bright, glowing sphere from thin air. He's making a show of it, a cruel grin stretching on his face. "Time for the grand finale," he announces. Panic seizes your heart as you see that sphere descending on you. But there's no escape, no place to run. With a soft hum, it touches your forehead. Shockwaves radiate out in waves, each ripple a cataclysmic pulse of change. Your height lengthens, a sudden jerk of growth that feels almost dislocating. You look down at your hands. The once soft curves of femininity are replaced by the elongated lines of masculinity, the tips of your fingers gradually fading to a cast iron grey. Sharp pain slices through your torso, beneath the ripping shirt, as if your internal organs are being swapped around. And then, as the pain subsides, your mind swims with foreign images – sepia-toned footage, laughing horns, a melody you can't remember ever hearing. You stumble, barely aware of the new weight growing from your head, nor the unfamiliar hitch of your voice when you cry out. The hands that grip your shoulders are twin echoes of your own; you've become one with the rest. "Oh, there you are, Alastor. It’s good to see you again!" one of them chirps, a mischievous glint in their eyes. You glance at your reflection ineffectively trying to form a frown, your hand ghosting over the permanent smile on your face. "Smile, my dear! You're never fully dressed without one," they echo together, a symphony of chilling laughter reverberating in the grotesque space. Dread settles in your core as fragments of your human recollection dwindle, replaced by Alastor's memories, his personality. Stripped from your mortal coil, it’s as if you were never human at all. You were always Alastor, the Radio Demon. Yet, somewhere inside you, a small piece of resistance lingers. With a shaky breath, you stand tall, claiming your space among the Alastor doppelgangers. "If I am to be Alastor, then I will be the best damned Alastor there ever was!" You declare, your voice full of conviction you're not sure you possess. But even as you defiance rings through the room, the rest of Alastors only laugh, your words seen as more of a promising speculation than an outright threat. And perhaps you're wrong. Perhaps you have no control over this at all. But there's nothing else left but the singular path to moving forward, even if it doesn't lead back home. For now, there’s only Alastor and the hotel, this Hell you are yet to fully understand.