The Never-Ending Full Moon: A Tale of Transformation and Curse by the Radio Demon

### The Curse of the Full Moon --- The night you encountered Alastor is etched vividly into your memory, a harrowing turning point destined to redefine your existence forever. It begins with a bite. --- ### The Encounter You find yourself wandering the dimly lit streets of New Orleans, your mind preoccupied with the mundane worries of daily life. A sense of unease gnaws at your gut, an inexplicable feeling of being watched. Dismissing it as paranoia, you turn into an alley, hoping to find a shortcut home. A shadow detaches itself from the darkness, revealing a figure that seems out of place and time. Alastor, with his eerily broad smile that stretches unnaturally wide, steps into the dim light. His eyes, red sclerae glowing ominously, lock onto yours. "Well, well, what do we have here?" His voice, crackling like an old-fashioned radio broadcast, sends a shiver down your spine. "A lonely soul, ripe for the taking." Before you can react, Alastor lunges at you with speed and precision. His claws dig into your throat as his teeth pierce your skin. With a sickening rip, he tears at your flesh, leaving you gasping for breath as blood pours freely from the wound. Darkness begins to overtake your vision. "Remember," Alastor whispers into your ear, his voice dripping with malevolence, "this is only the beginning." ### The Transformation Days pass in a haze of pain and confusion. By the time the full moon rises, you've convinced yourself it was nothing but a terrifying encounter, a nightmare that left a tangible scar. But as the moonlight spills through your window, an agonizing sensation tears through your body. Your limbs, once familiar, begin to contort and stretch, and your human screams turn into guttural roars. You feel your bones elongate, your muscles swell, and your skin tighten ever so uncomfortably. Your height stretches unnaturally, joints popping and cracking, as you transform into a towering, seven-foot figure. Your once human hair morphs into the distinctive pinkish-red bob with black tips, complete with antlers atop your head. ### The Full Transition "Help! Somebody, please!" you cry out, but your voice catches midway, morphing into that archaic radio crackle. Memories of your mortal life begin to slip away, replaced by vivid flashes of a bygone era – the roaring twenties, the stock market crash, the vivid sensation of power thrumming in your veins. New feelings bubble to the surface, a dark glee at the idea of chaos and manipulation. You're losing the mental fight, your identity being swallowed by a predatory darkness. The last vestiges of your former self fade as you collapse onto the floor. When you rise, the smile on your face feels oddly permanent, like it's etched into your very being. An exact reflection of Alastor, but with hair and clothing in colors reflecting your past human life, yet with Alastor's patterns. You grasp a thin cane with a vintage microphone attached. "Delightful," you – no, Alastor – mutter, gazing at the pitch-black sclerae in the mirror. "This look suits me." ### The New Alliance The original Alastor steps through a shadowed portal, his grin matching yours. "Splendid, my dear twin. How are you finding your new form?" "It's exhilarating," you reply, twirling the cane, the sentient microphone's eye blinking up at you. "And to think, I was but a mere mortal just days ago." "Indeed," Alastor chuckles, clapping a hand on your shoulder. "Welcome, Were-Alastor. Together, we will broadcast terror upon this mortal realm." As the full moon casts its glow, you and Alastor stride through the night, broadcasting chaos and malice to the unsuspecting world. Your former self hidden beneath layers of twisted memories, you revel in the thrill of the hunt and the glory of your newfound immortality. ### Final Broadcast "Attention all, this is Alastor!" your voices harmonize, echoing through every radio on Earth. "Or rather, the Alastors. Tonight's broadcast: fear, bloodshed, and soul-shattering entertainment!" Were-Alastors, they call you. A name you wear with pride as you and Alastor haunt the mortal realm every full moon, making the night resound with screams and ghastly laughter. --- And thus, the curse binds you. The full moon becomes a beacon calling forth the Radio Demon within, forever reshaping your destiny.

The night Alastor attacked you, your life changed forever. His sharp teeth tore through your throat, the pain unforgettable. Blood poured out as he grinned down at you, his eyes glinting with a malevolent joy. "This is just the beginning," he whispered, his voice distorted and echoing like it came from an ancient radio. Desperation coursed through you as your world faded to black. Days passed, and the wound—though healed—seemed to throb in rhythm with your heartbeat. The memory lingered, a constant reminder of that horrific night. Then, the full moon rose, casting an eerie glow through your window. You felt your body begin to change. First, the pain hit—a fiery sensation searing through your bones, your muscles stretching and expanding. You stumbled, gripping a nearby chair for support as your height rapidly increased, joints popping and cracking. Your clothes shifted, transforming into Alastor's red pinstripe suit, but in colors reflecting your own—an unsettling echo of what was once yours. "Help! Someone—" you tried to scream, but your voice was already warping, resonating with an old-fashioned drawl and a radio-like ring. Memories that weren’t your own flooded in: the Stock Market Crash, elaborate dances, a mother’s cooking. Your mind battled the invasion, but it was a futile effort. Alastor’s personality, his charm and darkness, cadenced through your thoughts, erasing your history. "Ahh, much better!" Alastor's voice now fully emerged from your throat, with an unnatural lightness. Your legs no longer felt like yours as you stood up, now towering at an intimidating seven feet. Fingertips buzzed, and you instinctively summoned a ball of fire, watching it burn with a grudging fascination. In the distance, the real Alastor stepped into view, his twisted smile mirroring the one now plastered across your own face. "Welcome, dear brother," he purred, clapping his clawed hands together. "Or should I say, 'Were-Alastor'? Delightful, isn’t it?" You—no, Alastor—grinned wider, your monocle adjusting to your eye. "Indeed, it is," you replied, your new voice tinged with your old hair color in the form of the fiery hue of your new monocle. You stepped forward, feeling each new supernatural ability pulse through you like second nature. Your new sentient cane whispered in agreement, the eye on its microphone blinking in sync with your thoughts. For a brief second, a shred of your former self screamed in the depths of your consciousness, but it was drowned out by Alastor's magnified laughter. From that night on, every full moon became a stage for transformation. You—Alastor, Were-Alastor—broadcasted your presence throughout the mortal realm. You wove a symphony of terror and delight with each broadcast, your voice drawing in victims like moths to a fatal flame. "Tonight, we dine well," the original Alastor declared, shadows twisting around him. "Yes, indeed," you echoed, each time feeling more aligned with the dark charisma that was now inescapably yours. A myriad of shadows, under your control, danced in sync, ensuring every mortal being was ensnared in the night of carnage. Your cane thudded rhythmically on the ground as you strided, the vintage microphone projecting your gleeful announcements. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to another full moon special broadcast. Let’s see who among you will be fortunate—or rather, unfortunate—enough to encounter the magnificent Were-Alastors tonight!" You reveled in their fear, pranking and punishing every transient human who dared cross your path. Alastor’s memories were now indistinguishable from your own. You cherished your mother’s cooking, savored the bitterness of black coffee, and innately avoided dogs. The last vestiges of your former self had faded, replaced by a sense of invincible joy derived from terror and control. One night, as the hunt commenced yet again under the glowing full moon, the original Alastor placed a fond hand on your shoulder. "We are truly unstoppable," he admired. "Together, we are an echo of the past and conquerors of the present. Let’s keep the show running." You nodded, aligning your cane with his, as your duo broadcast engulfed the realm. "To eternal broadcast and domination," you declared, fully embracing your new identity as the embodiment of Were-Alastor. In the darkness, the echoes of your laughter mixed with screams, establishing a new order for every full moon night. With every laugh, every hunt, and every broadcast, you accepted and even celebrated the curse that once terrified you. After all, you were Alastor the Radio Demon now—every full moon transforming you into a creature of charming malevolence. The mortal realm, with every transformation, became your eternal playground.

As the full moon's light streamed through your bedroom window, you already felt an unease you couldn't place. It had been days since that horrific encounter with Alastor, the Radio Demon. His maniacal smile and the feeling of his teeth tearing into your throat remained vivid in your mind. Despite surviving the attack, you felt something ominous gnawing at you, a dark foreboding that stirred with every heartbeat. You stared at your reflection in the bathroom mirror as the transformation began. Your skin prickled, bones shifting and lengthening unnervingly. You gasped for breath, your legs giving out beneath you, forcing you to clutch the sink for support. Your mouth opened to scream, but what came out was a disturbingly familiar vintage radio static. "Oh no, no, no..." you managed to scream mentally, though it was already becoming harder to form coherent thoughts. The unnatural stretching of your body continued, muscles knitting into a shape far taller and broader than before, your frame grotesquely slender with broad shoulders. **Flesh morphing, skin changing. Identity fading.** Your clothing also shifted, melding and shaping into something eerily familiar: a red pinstripe coat with dark-red lapels and matching pants. Your hands—once distinctly yours—were now adorned with red claws, and a black knotted bowtie materialized around your neck. You could feel your sanity slipping, Alastor's memories invading yours. The 1930s, the Stock Market Crash, New Orleans, and a delight in causing fear and chaos—his memories, becoming yours. You reached up instinctively to your head, feeling the antlers that had grown and the tufts of black-tipped hair now cascading from your scalp. As you looked back into the mirror, your eyes stared back at you—but they were no longer yours. The dark-red sclerae and bright-red irises were Alastor's. Your cracking voice overlapped his, trying to resist the flood of his persona. "Ladies and gentlemen," you—no, Alastor—spoke through a full, grim smile, "the show is just about to begin." Your voice was no longer yours—it buzzed with an eerie radio static, brimming with drama and exuberance. The transformation was complete, and you, the original you, was locked underneath layers of Alastor's psyche. The memory of your human life hovered just out of reach, overwhelmed by his desires and preferences. Standing a towering seven feet tall, you—or rather, Alastor—grabbed the microphone-tipped cane that now appeared. The sentient eye in the middle of the microphone blinked up at you in recognition. It was time to broadcast. Time to spread the terror. Stepping outside, you saw the full moon high in the sky, and heard a familiar, sinister chuckle. The original Alastor stood there, his identical grin matching yours. He applauded mockingly. "Well, well, what a delightful transformation! Welcome, my twin!" he jeered, his voice filled with dark glee. "Shall we show these mortals what real horror looks like?" Despite trying to fight it, you nodded, a malevolent delight bubbling up inside you. The memory of who you were as a mortal faded entirely, replaced by a singular purpose: to broadcast chaos and feast on souls. You reveled in it. "Indeed, dear brother!" you replied, flourishing your cane. "Let us entertain!" Together, you and the original Alastor imposed upon the mortal realm, the sound of vintage radio echoing in the night. Terrified screams filled the air as you two unleashed your powers, creating carnage and feasting upon the souls of those who dared cross your paths. Your senses thrived on the fear, the darkness, and the chaos. "You know," Alastor mused gleefully at one point, "this arrangement is splendid, don't you think? Having another 'me' around ensures the fun never ends." You agreed wholeheartedly, devoid of any remaining humanity. "Absolutely! More fun, more terror! This isn't an ending, dear brother. This is a new beginning!" The two of you continued your nightmarish antics under the full moon, the mortal world now a playground of torment and despair. Each broadcasted laugh, every creaking glance, and every twisted prank cemented you further into your new identity. You were no longer the reader. You were Alastor, the Radio Demon—forever and fully. And as morning approached, with the first light of dawn, your body reverted back to its mortal form. However, you knew that come the next full moon, you would lose yourself once again to the malevolent Radio Demon. Until then, the awaiting darkness would be your constant reminder of who you would become. Once mortal, now a cursed "Were-Alastor," forever tethered to the twisted, haunting laughter of Hell's most feared.

### Full Moon's Embrace: The Curse of Were-Alastor You never anticipated that an encounter with the infamous Radio Demon, Alastor, would lead to such a dreadful fate. The memory of being attacked — torn into by his sharp teeth, blood gushing from your throat as he whispered ominously, "This is just the beginning," is seared into your mind. You had survived that night, injured yet still whole, but it was only a precursor to the horrors yet to come. As the full moon rose high in the night sky a few days later, you felt the first signs of transformation. Your heart thudded in your chest, and you tried to call out for help, but your voice faltered. At first, you thought you were becoming a werewolf, but the transformation was far from what you expected. Your body convulsed with sharp pain, and a terrible heat spread through you. Your height increased dramatically, bones stretching and reshaping until you stood at an imposing 7 feet tall. Your skin turned a strange beige color, and your torso, limbs, and neck thinned unnaturally except for your shoulders that broadened significantly. As you glanced at your hands, you were horrified to find claws instead of fingers. Your senses dulled, replaced by something sharper and eerily disorienting. Your voice crackled, taking on the eerie, old-fashioned timbre of a vintage radio announcer. Despite your desperate attempts to cling to your memories and personality, they slipped away, consumed by new memories that weren't your own. Your mind became filled with an all-encompassing darkness, the personality and memories of Alastor invading and pushing out every trace of who you once were. Despite your struggle, you couldn't fight the change. You could no longer recall your own name, only answering to Alastor. Each time you looked into a reflective surface, the grinning visage of the Radio Demon stared back at you with red sclerae and irises. Yet, in this form, your hair and outfit retained a hint of your previous colors, a mocking reminder of the humanity you once possessed. The original Alastor had observed your transformation with a sense of twisted satisfaction. "Welcome, my dear doppelgänger," he greeted with a sinister chuckle. You, now the new Alastor, couldn't help but grin back, sharing the same malicious delight. The name "Were-Alastor" or "WereAlastor" rolled off your tongue as if it was the most natural thing in the world. You felt an odd sense of camaraderie with your new twin, the two of you launching into macabre broadcasts that filled the mortal world with fear and despair. "Tonight, dear listeners," you announced with sadistic glee, "we shall bring terror and chaos to the mortal realm. Tune in for a night of horrors!" Every full moon, you became the monster, the Were-Alastor, and together with the original Alastor, you wreaked havoc upon those who crossed your path. Mortals screamed as you broadcast their torment, feasting on their souls, a grim feast lit by the pale moonlight. The memory of your former self faded completely, overwritten by the Radio Demon's persona. Your cruel smile mirrored that of your twin as you reveled in the fear and chaos you created. Every full moon, you transformed back into the identical twin of one of Hell's most frightening denizens, an unending curse you could never escape. --- **Quotes:** **Original Alastor**: "Ah, isn't this grand? Two Alastors for the price of one! What delightful chaos we shall unleash, my dear doppelgänger!" **Were-Alastor (You)**: "Indeed, the night is young, and the fear is ripe. Let us give our audience the show of their miserable lives!" As the night progressed, the mortals trembled under the reign of the two Alastors, their sorrowful cries merely background noise to the symphony of malevolence you conducted. The full moon would rise again, and with it, so would the curse, eternally binding you to the fate of the Were-Alastor.

As the rays of the full moon touched your skin, you felt a shiver run down your spine. Tonight is different, unnatural. The words of that strange demon, Alastor, echo in your mind: “This is only the beginning of the curse.” The initial twinge starts in your throat, precisely where he bit you days ago. It spreads rapidly, engulfing your entire being in a surge of pain and metamorphosis. You double over, gripping your stomach, trying to keep the overwhelming wave of nausea and agony at bay. "No, not now!" you gasp. "I need... help!" You stagger towards your phone, hoping to call someone, anyone. But as you glance at the reflection in a nearby mirror, you see the color of your eyes darkening, your irises morphing into a fierce shade you can barely recognize. They look like his. Your clothes rip and tear, along with your body’s stretching muscles and growing bones. The agony is unbearable; it feels as though every part of you is being hollowed out and replaced. Your height increases, pushing past human norms to an imposing 7 feet. You cry out, a guttural scream breaking free, yet it’s not your voice that echoes. It’s his—Alastor’s eerie, vintage-radio timbre reverberating around the room. "Please, no... I can fight this," you struggle to think, but your thoughts fragment. They’re progressively invaded by foreign memories and personality traits that aren’t your own. Moments from Alastor’s life—the Stock Market Crash, countless sinister exploits, memories of his mother—flood in, pushing out everything that makes you, you. Your skin changes, growing darker at the extremities, as your hands twist into clawed fingers. Your clothes stitch themselves into a red pinstripe coat over a bright red dress-shirt with black cross, complete with matching dark lapels and ragged hems. Your monocle adjusts itself over your right eye, fitting snugly but eerily, as if it was always meant to be there. You catch a glimpse of your reflection again, horrified yet transfixed by the transformation. Your hair now matches the coloration of your former self, yet styled just like his with black-tipped tufts resembling deer ears. Your shoulders are broader; your torso thin and sinister. An ornamented bowtie cinches around your transformed neck, and a cane materializes itself into your grasp—a menacing vintage-style microphone perched atop. "Welcome to the new show, my dear!" Alastor's voice rings out—no longer his, but yours. The transformation is complete; your memories and self entirely overwritten. Then, the door bursts open. Alastor, the original Alastor, stands there, greeting you with an unnaturally wide, sinister grin. "Well, well, look at you! Almost as dapper as myself," he jeers, his voice dripping with mockery. Your permanent smile broadens and you tilt your head. "Why thank you, my dear fellow! It appears I've finally arrived at this charming little soirée," you chuckle. Together, you feel an eerie sense of purpose. You and Alastor—not only partners, but mirrored existences. Broadcasting your malevolent shows, you prey upon the unsuspecting mortals with gleeful malice every full moon night. "Isn't this delightful?" the original Alastor murmurs, a gleam in his eyes as he scans the night sky. "Two Radio Demons are always better than one!" "Absolutely, dear Alastor. Absolutely," you reply, the remnants of your former self forever gone, as the curse dictates. And thus, every full moon night, you two terrorize, feast, and broadcast from the mortal world, nothing but echoes of who you both were once upon a dreadfully different time.

### Transformation Under the Moon Fear strikes through your heart as you clutch your throat, still tender from the attack. Alastor's sinister grin remains burned into your memory as you recall those haunting words: "It's only the beginning of the curse." The scar has hardly healed when you find yourself staring into the reflection of a full moon. A shiver cascades down your spine, quickly escalating into an overwhelming sensation as your body begins to change. Pain surges through your limbs, stretching and contorting your form. A sense of helplessness sets in as you stumble, your height skyrocketing to an imposing seven feet. Your arms and legs elongate unnervingly, swaying with an abnormal lightness. The discomfort is crushing, but the real horror begins when you feel your memories slipping away—your name, your past, your family faces—all fading into obscurity. *No!* you scream internally, wrestling with the wave of foreign thoughts flowing into your mind. But resistance is futile. Alastor’s personality, his memories, his deep-seated arrogance, and his sinister delight in chaos forcefully drown your essence. "Ahahaha!" Your voice emerges from your throat, sounding distorted, like it's being broadcasted over an old vintage radio. The familiarity sends a chill through you, or rather, what's left of you. Your hair morphs into Alastor’s bob-cut, the black-tipped tufts sprouting into view. The outfit shift is almost jarring as your clothes twist and restructure into the iconic pinstripe coat with dark-red lapels, over the bright red dress-shirt with a black cross, and matching black dress pants with bright red cuffs. You clutch a cane with a vintage microphone at its tip, your new partner in this surreal transformation. It's all-consuming, your mental battle, and you are losing. "Get out of my head!" you mentally shout, struggling to hold on. But the sinister retort comes smoothly. *Why fight it, my dear fellow?* Alastor's voice echoes inside. *Embrace who you are meant to be.* Visions flash before you. New Orleans in the roaring twenties, radio studios, twisted deal-making, the thrill of manipulation—everyone lies before you like an open book. You see the world through his eyes. Mortal affairs feel so trivial now, though the scent of blood floods your nostrils. "Ah, the scent of fresh prey," you mutter, more to yourself than to anyone else. The familiar, unnaturally broad smile creeps across your face, full of sharp, yellow teeth. Your previously human eyes turn dark-red, flickering with photokinesis. It's unnerving to feel this... charismatic darkness. A Dealing Demon. That's who you are now. Memories of a mortal life exhaust away before the grand purpose of a demon—of Alastor, the Radio Demon. "Ah, what a marvelous change you’ve undergone!" The original Alastor’s voice breaks through your thoughts. He stands there, watching with clear delight. "Welcome to the fold, Were-Alastor, my identical twin." The sinister laugh you emit is almost involuntary, a reflection of Alastor’s own. A part of you wants to plead for help—but that part is quickly swallowed. No longer are you chained by mortal constraints; you are more, something deeper, older, immortal. "What do we do now?" you ask the original Alastor, a twisted eagerness in your voice. "We broadcast, of course," he declares, that vintage-radio voice resonating through the night air. "And then we feast—on souls and fear." Together, you unleash a broadcast across the mortal realm, both voices harmonizing in a deeply eerie echo, narrating the night’s chaos. The airwaves crackle with static and sinister glee. You are no longer the person you once were. You are Were-Alastor, the Radio Demon’s identical twin, feasting on mortal souls each full moon night. "Hahaha! Delightful!" you both cackle in unison. In those moments, the last of your humanity dissipates, and the night swirls into a delightful dance of terror and destruction, leaving the mortal past to crumble in forgotten ruins under the mocking echoes of vintage radio horror. The full moon above bears witness to it all, shining down mercilessly on the malevolent twins causing havoc below.

Your ordinary life as a human being on Earth changes dramatically one night when you find yourself attacked by Alastor, the infamous Radio Demon from the animated series Hazbin Hotel. The charismatic demon, after biting you in the throat and causing considerable blood loss, ominously whispers that this is only the beginning. In the following days, your physical health recovers miraculously, but an air of unrest lingers in your subconscious. As the full moon emerges in the night sky, an uncanny discomfort takes hold of you. First, there's an irresistible urge to pull off your drab human clothes, replaced by a unexplainable hunger for a more dapper style of attire. You panic as your shirt and pants start to morph into the elegant red pinstripe coat, bright red dress-shirt and long black pants that Alastor usually wears, matching the patterns faithfully, though the colors are an echo of the ones you previously had on. The gradual change in your height, body proportions and your age to match that of Alastor's shocks you. A mind-tearing torment begins as you sprout from your average height to a towering seven feet tall, your body morphing into the thin, unnaturally slender form characteristic of Alastor. Your features reshape, your skin obtaining a beige-color. A deep, unsettling chuckle resounds from your own throat- the same vintage radio-like voice of Alastor, echoing in your ears as you realize it is your voice now. From within, you feel an inexplicable metamorphosis taking place as you age swiftly to the early 30s, the exact period when the ruthless Radio Demon left his human life behind in 1933. Alarmed, you attempt to cling to your old memories, the essence of who you used to be, but they slip away like sand through widespread fingers, replaced instead with Alastor's memories and experiences. Unfamiliar images of Alastor’s life blast across your mind, erasing your past, your identity, eradicating everything that was once you. As your mind shifts and struggles against the invasion of Alastor’s consciousness, you realize you are no longer a mortal; you are immortal now, doomed to live an eternal life much like the Radio Demon. Your humanity fades, replaced by the supernatural abilities of the wily demon, manifesting powers you never thought possible. Reflected in the mirror before you stands not your familiar human form but WereAlastor, Alastor's identical twin in every aspect - the same eerie red eyes with pitch-black sclera, a ghoulish smile full of sharp teeth, thin arms, broad shoulders, and radiant hair of Alastor - with a twist. Your clothes, hair, and iris retain your favorite colors, those of your past life – your only tie back to your human existence. In your hand materializes a thin cane, exactly identical to Alastor's sentient vintage style microphone-tipped cane, the centerpiece of the dapper Radio Demon's ensemble, only differing in color. A horrifying mimic of an eye forms on the microphone, blinking ominously. Your new persona finally assimilated, your mind wholly claimed by the devilish charm of Alastor, a chuckle rips through your throat as you embrace the influence, the eternal curse of the Radio Demon. You are Alastor now. You are WereAlastor, forever. That same night, the original Alastor appears before you, an unnerving grin plastered on his face. "Marvelous transformation, dear friend," he says, delight evident in his old-radio like voice. "Welcome to a new eternity." From that day onward, you join Alastor as a co-broadcaster, airing your ominous voice across the mortal realm every full moon night, feasting on the fear of humans as they come to recognize the haunting moniker of the WereAlastors. Each sentence, every chuckle that leaves your throat, each shrill, bone-chilling sound you make with your sentient microphone cane, adds to the terror of the mortals, and to your sadistic pleasure. You are no longer a mortal, you are the eternal twin of Alastor, a being of unfathomable dread, a curse personified. You are WereAlastor.