Chapter Text
Billibud Fetchquest had built a… decent life, by some Grumps standards.
They had an (okay) job that they were (somewhat) passionate about, which (kind of) utilized their personal strengths. Sure, the pay wasn’t all that great and they now have a public record of mistakes that follows them everywhere, but that was part of the whole reporter gig. And yeah, their (confusing and terrifying) boss had little to no respect for them as an employee, but at least she tolerates their accommodations… right?
…well, maybe not– but still, life was good. They might not have made friends since moving out of state, but they had a passion for cryptid hunting to keep them busy. Even if no professional publishers cared about their writings… and few internet goers stopped to look at their work for more than a few seconds before continuing on the information highway…
… it was no big deal. They were utterly alone and miserable and terrified, but they could afford shelter and sustenance and postage. Tear soaked pillows were worth it so long as they weren’t homeless and starving– they had to be. They didn’t know what they would do if they lost their last delusional shred of hope, anyhow.
So it was with a desperate cling to their sanity that Billibud left their ruined studio apartment far too early in the morning and walked their way to work. Why so early? It was a loooooong walk, but they were too afraid of city traffic to drive. They couldn’t take public transport, either; a crowded bus would cause a meltdown, and drivers never understood their attempts at communication.
It was all much too complicated and stressful. They had no idea how any Grumpus could handle any of it, nevermind all of it. It was easier on their health to take things slow, steady, and alone– even if it made life around other Grumps feel tedious and dull.
That, well… that was the story of their life.
Such a long walk left plenty of time to think, so long as nothing unexpected happened on the way (which was almost always, but they had a right to pretend). Billibud would repeat affirmations to themself the whole length, planning and replanning their entire day in their head so it would run as smoothly as possible. Use the back door, grab coffee before anyone notices, punch in, sneak to their office, and focus on work with the lights off; if they finish by lunch they can leave early, and if they fall behind they have a small salad in their bag.
The plans almost always fell through, but establishing some semblance of a routine was the only way Billibud could feel in control of their life.
Using a spare key they had scrounged up, they open the back door of the office and enter the building. It was a good start, allowing them to slowly settle into the change of environment as they walked to the staircase. The lights flickered, but weren’t too bright. The air was quiet, with a hint of buzzing white noise. The door hinges were just resistant enough to feel, but not so heavy that it strained their arm to open. The staircase was cool to the touch, without the overwhelming brush of icy wind.
That was the most comfort they would get that morning.
The new, fancy coffee dispenser was broken (again), which meant they had to reset the old fashioned pot and wait for the grounds to brew. No latte today, but that’s fine. Coffee was coffee, and Billibud would consume it in whatever shape, form, or flavor it came in. The worst part was the waiting, their anxiety growing the longer they had to wait. Any typical Grumpus could walk in at any moment; despite their best efforts, Billibud had not mentally prepared for unscripted small talk.
Fortunately, the light finally flipped green without any interruptions from overly loud or cheery coworkers. Pouring the drink in a large paper cup and grabbing a fistful of sugars, Billibud made a quick retreat. Crisis averted, but they still carried that nagging anxiety throughout the rest of their clock-in routine.
After ten minutes of forced smiling and nodding at a forgettable coworker in the punch-in line– one who talked at them instead of with them, considering she never bothered to learn nonverbal communication– they dragged their feet into their office and shut the door behind them. Before flipping on their lamps, they turned and bumped the flat of their horns against the cool surface of the door and sighed. Finally, they were alone once again, able to drop the poor mask they forced on for pleasantries’ sake.
It was difficult to explain, the line they walked between distaste for socializing and the desire to socialize more. Talking wasn’t necessarily unpleasant in and of itself– they loved to listen to people talk about interesting things, and they loved to talk about their own interests if someone was genuinely listening.
However, most conversations were like a broken record– regardless, talking to the average Grumpus was just way more confusing to them than it ought to be. There were too many unspoken rules about who to talk to about what and when, how to read someone’s face or body (or even the air around them) to know how to talk to them or where to talk. It was like navigating several minefields a day, and Billibud stepped on almost every single mine.
Sometimes they tried to form connections by being helpful, but even then there seemed to be some sort of disconnect. Any attempt at support either became a hindrance or a new expectation that they would fail to sustain, solely leading to them being a disappointment. They felt more like a machine or pet that was neglected when it was no longer needed, and had to fight the urge to quit and run away every few months.
Billibud left their dull, peaceful home to prove themself in the big city. This is their one chance, and they can’t fail. Besides, they always knew deep down that these problems would follow them no matter where they went. There’s no point in dwelling.
Forcing themself back into the present moment, they turn on the two small lamps they were allowed on a budget and sit at their large wooden desk with their massive, clunky computer. It doesn’t take more than a second glance to notice something out of place in their cozy setup: a package. A large yellow envelope, to be precise, dropped gracelessly onto their keyboard.
There’s no signage of any sort on it, oddly enough. It’s not too heavy, either, but it definitely has more than just papers in it. Strange… Billibud feels that it would be more professional to ask around about the envelope in case it isn’t meant for them, but considering the morning they’ve already had…
…they figure they’ll just tear into it and figure it out themselves. No harm, no foul. It’s just a silly mystery.
.
.
.
“Wow,” Clumbernut grumbles. “That’s what you’ve been pestering me the past week for? Another monster hunt...”
Billibud nods excitedly from where they sit across from her, having just shown her the best piece of media they’ve seen in months. An off the grid civilization on a faraway island, filled to the brim with strange, delicious alien creatures– and THE Elizabert Megafig is there, with proof and witnesses?? Of course it was their new lead!
Their excitement is short-lived, as their boss stands to ram both fists into her table with a shout of, “Do you have any idea how much you’ve cost this company, Fetchquest??”
They smile meekly and shrug, at a loss of what else they can do when both fight and flight are off the table (probably lost among the cups and files that just fell). Their attempt at dispelling tension obviously fails, as Clumbernut’s claws flex from her paws and her hackles rise. She hisses in a breath before going on a long, rehearsed tangent about Grumpfoot and the consequences thereof.
Billibud just stares at their hooves in defeat as they repeatedly sign, [I’m sorry.]
Eventually, Clumbernut runs out of air and just stares at them, deep in thought. She sighs deeply, slumping back into her desk chair as she pinches the bridge of her nose with her paw.
“We’ve been over this…” she groans, though now her voice is softer. “It doesn’t matter how eye-catching your articles are if I’m stuck cleaning up your sloppy work, and at this point? You’re out of second chances.”
There’s a moment of silence between the two. Clumbernut runs a hand over her head and scratches behind her ear, knocking her hat askew with the motion. Billibud looks up at her with the best puppy-eyes they can manage, considering their slanted pupils. They alternate between clasping their hands together and signing, [Please?]
“So… what,” Clumbernut growls, leaning into her hands with both elbows on her desk. “You intend to follow Elizabert Megafig- of all Grumps- to Snaktooth Island, of all places?? You know her history, don’t you? Grumplantis? Grumpsylvania?”
They nod, barely able to contain the excited bouncing of their heels.
“Of course you do… and you've heard all the tales about Snaktooth? No one has ever returned from that place.”
That makes Billibud pause, pulling a notepad out of their vest to write in it. Afterwards, they hold it up for her to read, [How did I get that letter then?]
“I–” Clumbernut stares down at her desk in deep thought, before chuckling under her breath. “I have no idea. Good Grump...”
Billibud smiles in return, shoving the pad back into their vest before scooting their chair closer and returning to their pleas. Clumbernut runs both hands across the fur of her head, now, her long tail visibly twisting and she grumbles and groans to herself. It feels like an eon before she curls her paws into fists and slams them against the table once more.
“Alright, fine!” she shouts, glaring at the employee across from her. “If you’re so bent on going, this is too good an opportunity to pass up.”
They almost– almost– jump for joy. The brief jerk of their body, practically vibrating with excitement, doesn’t go unnoticed by their boss. She huffs bemusedly, slouching as she mutters, “Yeah, don’t go celebrating yet, kid…”
She straightens up and points a single claw at them, the air of professionality as she states, “Listen up, Fetchquest. I can’t risk any of my other reporters for this, so you’re on your own. You get the bare minimum budget to work with, and nothing– not a single letter– gets printed without some hard proof. I’m talkin’ clear pictures, interviews, the whole shebang. You come back alive with that, consider your debts here settled. Got that?”
Billibud nods so fast their own hat unclips from their horns and flies off, standing to lean over her desk and grasp her paw in both of their own. They shake her paw with a jovial energy, unmatched by any they’ve shown since moving here. It certainly seems to take her off guard, if they had to guess by the bark of a laugh that escapes her. She stands on her own hind paws, grasping their hands just as tight and stilling them.
“Easy, kid,” she says, voice laced with mirth. “It’s kind of cute to see you so happy for once, but you didn’t let me finish.”
They smile bashfully, forcing themself to still their trembling hands in exchange for excited bouncing on their bowed legs.
“Nothing personal,” she continues, eyes suddenly steely. “But we can’t afford to keep you here without any solid stories. This. Is your last. Chance. No proof? You’re fired. Capiche?”
It’s like a cold, sobering shower. Panic twitches across their skin, raising the fur across the back of their neck and arms. They freeze, and then swelter, and then everything is just too much in general. Their head swims, and their heart feels like it’ll beat right out of their chest.
Still, they can’t let it beat them– not before they’ve even started. This is it. This is their one redeeming moment to accomplish all they’ve ever wanted. An interview with Elizabert Megafig, and a story of discovery to regale all believers and then some.
They ground themselves, redirecting their sudden adrenaline to fuel their last shred of hope. Billibud’s face shifts into a stern, serious expression, and they nod firmly as they shake hands with Clumbernut (possibly for the last time). A crazy adventure for the sake of their dream?
It had to be worth it.