Big Sister is a Princess!

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Today is the one year anniversary of Storyshift. When I started this, it was simply a little project that I wanted to do. To explore how the core characters would act in a different role while acting as themselves. At the time I only expected a handful of my friends that were into Undertale to follow the story. But when I put up the first part, the audience grew. And grew again after the next part. And the next. And every single update I put up, more people became interested. If you went back to my past self before I uploaded the initial part, I would have laughed at the idea.

Thank you to everyone who has given the Alternate Universe so much as a glance. I hope you are well and that you will enjoy the story to come.

Special shout out to Clare, the main spriter of Scramble Saga, for helping me out with Undyne’s second form sprite. Couldn’t have done it the same without ya. <3

Confession #1473:

“I just got back into Vocaloid and I’ve noticed it seems to be dying out as a fandom? Or is that just me. I guess I listen to more 2011-ish songs, but still, there’s newer a lot of new content?”


Name: Covert unit, model LX (version 2); LX2. (Colloquially known as “Alex”)

Gender: none (They or whatever their appearance dictates)

Species: H’mon

Height: Relaxed mode: 1 m 50cm

Faction: Alliance (by birth but currently kinda without faction loyalty)

Personality: LX2 is very smart and can pick up on almost anything or any skill very quickly. They prefer to observe and listen to try and understand their environment and the people in their vicinity, but don’t let their young appearance fool. LX2 is very mature and will happily show you their quick wit.


Keep reading

The Home Con || Solo

Roger stared at the books in front of him, sighing in disbelief. Stacks and stacks, because it was late and he was lazy, tired of this constant charade and no one to gloat with. The magic had worn off, his mind was his own, and suddenly everything was feeling pretty bleak. He was in a mansion, but it was as if he was on the streets.

He’d drained this Roger’s bank accounts, and stored them somewhere else. Not once had he touched the general Scribe funds, but he might have rearranged an artifact or too. There wasn’t any point in staying, not anymore. He’d gotten what he’d wanted, and aside from this particular mishap, he’d gotten away with it too, tricked not just a representative or a faceless company, but every single person in this building didn’t realize their damn boss had been replaced by a guy who still had no freaking idea what a vampire watermelon was. It was the most impressive damn con he’d pulled in years. He missed the ones like these, the really daring ones, the ones where he could prove exactly how damn good he was. 

But there was no reward here. The money wasn’t more impressive than any other he’d pulled, and while Roger Hawthorne was clearly rich, he didn’t revel in it - there was nothing so special about his living quarters, and it wasn’t home. It was less than a hotel room, even, so full of trinkets and pieces that belonged to the other Roger, so there was nowhere to be himself.

And there was no one to share with. No contacts, no dealers to exchange his artefacts with, and with Hawthorne being so well known here, there was no trail proof way of making deals. What he’d spent three decades of his life building, done. His friends, gone. This Scribe thing wasn’t all that fun and frankly he was starting to get bored of it.

But there was one thing keeping him here. Not the luxurious chair or the rush of power that came about, nor the sheer amount of wealth at his fingertips, but a simple fact: these spineless historians were probably his ticket out of here. Already, one had proposed that they were in another universe, like the Horrors he’d found written in the many journals Hawthorne had left behind, and there were records of how they’d undone that. Bits and pieces so far, but knowledge was power and hey were the only ones with enough corner pieces to solve the puzzle. But they were moving at their own pace, documenting rather than hunting for a solution, seeking to sooth the populace but not repair. 

Roger leaned back in his chair, tapping an overly expensive pen against his knee. What they needed was direction. A leader, not just a guy stealing from them. 

Tough for them, then. But Dodge could steer. Make a mess of everything else, maybe, but that was for Roger Fucking Hawthorne to deal with. Dodge just needed to get home.

And he was going to use the Scribes to get there.