The nose is dominated by a large, white, circular emblem with a stylized 777 in the center. The wings are broad with a sweepback at the end, and have a red diagonal stripe running the entire length o

### The Inexorable Transformation of Alastor In the dim, crimson light of Hell's sky, Alastor stood amidst the cacophony of chaos that was his domain. This was his kingdom, a devil's playground where he ruled with charm and an iron fist. He relished in the despair and futility around him—every scream, every sorrow, was music to his ears. But today, something felt... different. The air thickened, and an electric hum filled the atmosphere. Alastor's antennae-like tufts tingled with an eerie energy. He clutched his sentient microphone cane tighter as if it could anchor him to his own reality. Yet, even his omnipresent grin wavered as a foreign presence seemed to encroach upon him. "What a mysterious development," he mused, attempting to wave away the disconcerting sensation. But the sensation persisted and grew. The world grew hazier, as though he was being pulled into a different dimension. His immaculate red pinstripe coat began to meld into his skin—no, it was becoming a part of him. The fabric seemed to stretch and expand, fusing with his body's very essence. The sharp red fingers and hooved toes, so familiar to him, grew numb and started morphing into metallic structures. "What sorcery is this?" Alastor bellowed, but his voice echoed weakly, carried away by an invisible force. His monocle vibrated and melted into his eye, which began glowing with an intense, unnatural light. His well-maintained form distorted grotesquely. His slender frame ballooned, each inch expanding, bulging until he felt as though he carried the weight of worlds. The beige of his skin melded seamlessly into the newly forming metal, taking on the vibrant red of his beloved attire. His spine cracked and stretched, elongating into a massive fuselage that seemed to scrape the sky. His black knotted bowtie unfurled, the fabric stretching and transforming into a long black stripe running along his body. The daimonesque hair with antlers and black tips reduced to mere imprints on an expanse of bright red, corporate livery. His elegant dress shirts, pants, and boots merged and metamorphosed into understructures within the colossal framework. A fierce weight pressed down upon him as his hands morphed into enormous wings and his legs fused into landing gears, fixed and immovable. His mind raced—he tried to muster his myriad personalities, to cling to every vile memory, every manipulative scheme. But even these began to blur, slipping through his mental grasp like sorrowful specters. His wide, toothy grin and his transatlantic accent dissipated, echoing into the abyss. The radio dials that were his eyes transformed into the cockpit windows of an enormous aviation machine. This new, voluminous structure resembled a red Boeing 777, immaculate yet cold, vast yet empty. He could feel his malevolence draining away, replaced with a hollow expanse of vacant purpose. His once animated expressions solidified into the unfeeling coldness of polished metal. Alastor, a once vibrant demon with a magnetic charm and malevolent elegance, diminished to nothingness—his infernal essence evaporating into the sleek, inanimate jetliner. The fly-by-wire systems came online, automated controls replacing the autonomy he once reveled in. His memories blurred; his ambitions, cruelties, joys, and angers all shrank into a muted hum and then... silence. The massive airplane stood silent at Hell's gates, a red titan in an underworld where it mismatched the landscape's chaos. Intricate black stripes and the white fuselage were a stark yet eerie manifestation of Alastor's erstwhile vibrancy, now reduced to lifeless machinery. The monstrous Boeing 777, with its colossal weight and intricate designs, remained still as a monolith—a testimony of supernatural transformation and the inexorable loss of self. The Alastor that was, vibrant and sinister, had faded into oblivion, replaced by a sleek, monstrous vessel—a testament to a demonic grandeur eternally extinguished.

The dreary, crimson-colored streets of Hazbin Hotel began to shift and warp around the enigmatic figure of Alastor. For a moment, he stood stock-still, bemused smile never waning. He could feel something within him changing, a pulsating energy running rampant through his form. "Quite the sensation," Alastor mused bemusedly, his transatlantic accent echoing out around him. His hands ran over themselves, as though checking for some outward sign of the change. It was when he looked down, however, that realization began to dawn. His slender form was expanding, slowly but surely. His tall figure was already looming over the denizens of Hell, but now it seemed to be more imposing than ever. Quickly, his clothes seemed strained, his pinstripe coat stretching until it began to merge with his skin. The grain of his shirt following the same process, swirling with his beige body in a chaotic dance of transformation. He could feel the solidifying of his form, his body amalgamating in the new increasing mass, his slim shape beginning to puff due to the plane's large size. Inside his rapidly changing form, Alastor could feel something slipping away. His memories began to dull, and his amiable personality started to blank – despite his enormous efforts to hold onto them. The knowledge of his once-sharp taste in music, his amusement in the Hell's chaos, the memory of being a well-maintained charmer, all began to fade as if they were being swallowed by a great void. His mind, once a vivid collage of thoughts and schemes, turned monotonic. Only vague impressions existed at the edge of it, but those too were quickly doused, leaving behind an empty canvas devoid of any mental activity. Outside, Beige transitioned into a glaring red as Alastor's clothes merged entirely with his body. The bodies of the terrified bystanders seemed to shrink as his form morphed from organic, demonic to the hard, steel-like surface of the Boeing 777 airplane. Even his cane, that once held his sentient microphone, blended into the immense metallic body, its personality disappearing in the same vast void that had taken Alastor's memories. The landscape of Hell failed to dwarf the airplane as Alastor's stripes appeared over the red base of the plane's hull, turning into the Boeing 777's distinctive stripes. His smile, once ever-present, vanished as his face took on the hard frontage of the plane, windows replacing his eyes, the mouth morphing into the rounded nose of the aircraft. His hooved feet and hands, once red and grimy turned into massive landing gears supporting the plane. The transformation was complete. Alastor, once a charming, yet maniacal overseer of Hazbin Hotel, was now reduced, or rather transformed to a huge, bright red Boeing 777, grounded in the middle of Hell, devoid of any thought or consciousness, a striking presence that no one knew how to handle. Breaking the monotony, the plane gave out a low, powerful throttle, echoing Alastor's once familiar voice throughout the hotel, serving as a grim reminder of the windy path fate could take.