[SOLO] Bureau Beginnings (Vulpin)

[zeflamigo]

"Who are you fighting for?"

 

[zeflamigo]

Looking through their closet, Vulpin paused as they reached out for their new jacket. They couldn’t shake the thought of Nahori and her crew, and the question from that yellowblood.

“Who’re you fightin’ for?”

Vulpin bristled at the memory.

Perhaps they shouldn’t have left the tower with material things that would remind them of their loneliness. But without material things, what else did Vulpin have? Why would they have gone to volunteer at all? To cure the ache of boredom?

The hemoanon shuffled in their little hideout, rearranging a chair. Sometimes, they stood and paced the room. Other times, they laid out on the small, wool rug beneath them. Word puzzles and games used to be common in their den, but they had quickly grown bored of them. Vulpin longed for harder challenges than a book could offer.

So Vulpin often found themself continuing to overthink, in the boring, lonely hours of their hive. And burrowed into their den, so quiet it only amplified silence. There was no relaxation in the underground. It was cold, unforgiving. There was no reprieve down there, between jobs. Jobs… That was all that their time amounted to anymore, wasn’t it?

The thievery, the unnecessary volunteering. Working under the queen’s nose to steal data for LaMode. They did it to fill the void, didn’t they? Stealing felt good. It was something to do. Still, Vulpin felt antsy, especially in the quiet moments. They had no proper social life. They had no friends. And as much as they hated to admit it, they needed something to cling to to feel like a regular troll.

They had lost their friends to the rebellion. Lost, perhaps, was not the best term. They were not dead, at least as far as Vulpin was aware. Letters continued to come in, somehow, although slowly. Vulpin could probably figure it out, find them— join them— easily.

But they were stubborn. They were also confident that their friends understood this.

Did they know how much they missed them?

The orangeblood sighed, leaning over an armchair. They could probably orchestrate something to get to see them again. Take matters up to their own hands, instead of leaving it up to letters and pure chance. Vulpin tapped their chin, counting their ideas on their lips. Despite their loneliness, the orangeblood refused to speak out loud, instead drawing out some paper to further explore their idea.

A syndicate.

There were criminal organizations, gangs and the like. None of them suited Vulpin’s wants or needs. They were afraid of making a commitment like that, untrusting of the leadership of trolls that weren’t themself. Working for Aandes was fine, if only because the agent understood that Vulpin worked on their own terms, for their own gain. There was no loyalty sworn to the greenblood.

Vulpin worked for themself. But maybe, they could get others to work for them, too? Individuals they trusted, and perhaps others could be initiated. With their own funds they could develop a new hideout, so their hive didn’t have to be attached— their full name didn’t have to be attached.

Vulpin wrote furiously between the margins of their puzzle book, scribbling the ideas that drifted into their thinkpan. As time went on that night, Vulpin found themself smiling at the concept. Perhaps it was something of a far off dream, but the orangeblood rarely indulged in fantasy. It felt wonderful.  

[zeflamigo]

With all the free time in the world, Vulpin found themself acting on their ideas faster than they anticipated. Within days, they had made arrangements to purchase a small plot of land, in a densely grassy, undesirable plot of grass in the New Hemisect plains. Even then, they left the plot largely untouched, only building a small shack, the front of a tiny vacation hive, atop the land.

Beneath the land, Vulpin invested a lot more time and energy. By their own hands, they dug a new den, spacious and supported by beams on all ends. It was a gathering hall, and soon it was filled with niche luxury items, some stolen, some purchased under fake names. It was very lounge-like, with one end of the den built up as a natural stage. A centerpiece. Vulpin saved the best for this space, a magnificent grand chair with gold trimming and black velvet lining. That one was theirs.

Vulpin adorned the area with their inspired iconography, a black beetle. For a brief moment, they considered the concept of a bloody beetle, but that was far too garish and violent than Vulpin wanted to appear on the outside. No, the Black Beetle Bureau was a business. Professional and sleek, albeit shady. They also didn’t want to imply violence in the space. That kind of business was to be conducted outdoors.

Vulpin, of course, also made sure to put together an attire that suited their new business. A new closet, full of black, and curated for anonymity. It was Vulpin’s favorite part in every way.

With the space constructed and decorated, all that was left was to gather recruits. Mercenaries, thieves, black market merchants. In Vulpin’s vision, none would be barred, as long as they were professional and smart enough to survive initiation.

They started with their own small network of trolls they had worked with in the past. Vulpin could look past their overlap between the rebellion. They were all criminals now, were they not? Vulpin themself only took issue with the matter of the rebellion’s leadership. Their problem did not lie with the individual parts.

Well, they would be invited at the very least. Forera, Etsali, even Luxara. The very idea for the Bureau sprung from Vulpin’s own desperation to reconnect with them, but they were uncertain that they would attend. Vulpin expected little, but hoped for more. It left the troll with a very genuine emotion, looking at the new, empty hall. If they could fill it with trolls, old friends, new comrades… Vulpin shook their head, trying to keep themself together, despite no one being around to see them get emotional.

Shaking in their place, Vulpin let out a soft laugh. “It’s going to be great,” they assured themself, dabbing the corners of their eyes with their jacket. It was going to be better, they assured. Anything would be better than the loneliness of yesterday.