"Mm. Hey."

"Mm. Hey."

"Mm. Still got that 20 Sol for you, they haven't started yet."

"Why the white one?"

"I like his walk. Confident. Here to kill."

Veiled insinuation? Has he made you?

The man whistles a short, bright tune.

"That's his fight song."

"Green needs a fight song, too."

"Go ahead. What you think he wants?"

Observe the beetle.

He's caught scent of the challenger and is standing his ground, dignified. His green antlers raised in acceptance of the fight.

THIS TINY SHINY MAN POSSESSES THE COUNTENANCE OF A TRUE PEOPLE'S HERO.

So he should have a people's hero song...

WHISTLE HIM A PROLETFOLK DITTY. INSPIRE HIM TO VICTORY!

He's quiet, needs something understated.

Can beetles even make a sound?

Something fast, he needs to get moving.

DJ CASCADE, can you get those antennae in the air?

Whistle a UV song.

You whistle the song you remember from the billboard. On the beetle's dark shell, you could mistake the sun for moonlight.

"Ultra Violeta, yes? Nice. I think he likes it."

"All that I hear lately..." (Sing 'Superbloc, Baby'.)

You sing a chorus of 'Superbloc, Baby'. The beetle wiggles its abdomen dutifully along.

"Cold or hot the world will stop for us... Yeah. Catchy. He's into it."

Whistle a proletfolk tune.

You try to mimic a banjo and a bongo at the same time through a complicated clicking and humming mechanism, possibly the world's first. The beetle seems to understand what you're saying.

"Ugh. That was awful, but... were you speaking beetle language? Look -- his wigglers are going crazy."

Whistle a lullaby.

Nobody ever sang you a lullaby, but you remember one from a TV show about nice people. The beetle seems to relax.

"Shit fight song. Sounded sleepy. I'm going to win."

Try some techno.

You whistle the beetle a fast, short tune the likes of which any DJ would be proud. He flutters his wings in chitinous appreciation.

"Truly bad. Yes. Good for beetles."

I could sing him the Party's Anthem...

YES. HE DEMANDS LA SHIT AUTHENTIQUE TO MARCH HIM INTO WAR. HIT HIM WITH THE PARTY'S ILLEST BARS, STIR YOUR CHAMPION TO VICTORY.

...

How does it go again?

IT GOES STRAIGHT FROM THE HEART! SING!

...

Nobody knows the words to national anthems. Nobody.

TELL IT TO THE PEOPLE'S TRIBUNAL.

If you work like I work, then you work like every day... (Take a stab.)

AND IF YOUR TRADE IS A BUSTER, SUPERBLOC WILL REGULATE.

I have no lines to show for myself.

THEN YOU WILL LEARN SOME IN THE CADMIUM MINES UPON YOUR DISGRACED RETURN.

Not sure I know the whole thing...

FIRST TWO LINES, THEN.

He's fine without a song, actually. (Back.)

"Hm. If you say so. I think he needs the hype."

"You're on. I choose green."

"Nice. Go white."

The beetles advance, locking their horns together and rotating their prehensile skulls to get better purchase.

To the death, now. No quarter.

You hear their chitinous antlers crashing together like tiny little falchions.

"White, white, dynamite. Come on guy!"

Alternative wording

"See that? Green has the stronger spirit, you messed up."

"My beetle is going to fuck your beetle in the ass."

"Mine will do the fucking of yours, he's unstoppable."

The white beetle manoeuvres itself beneath the green, destabilising its stance. Three of green's legs wiggle in the air helplessly.

"Aha, not so good now is he? Dynamite driver!"

Alternative wording

"No! Come on, little brother."

"Take that you little green bitch!"

The white beetle gnashes its mandibles in glee.

"Fuck her -- I believe in you, green beetle!"

Despite you, the green beetle regains his footing, backs out of the other's grasp -- and sends it careening through the air.

Like a sad, dry snowball.

"Ahaha, he was airborne. Now where's my twenty?"

Give him 20.

"Nice. Good game."

The beetle raises his head towards you.

The beast seeks to know his audience of giants.

(To the man.) "Wait, what did you mean about seeing me again?"

"It's a small shrine." He shrugs. "I'll see you around it."

MAKE THE BEETLE YOUR ASSET.

BEHOLD THE COMPOUND MASSES OF HIS EYES, HIS SHAPE ITSELF IS CLASS CONSCIOUS! THIS TINY SHINY MAN NEEDS NOT OATHS; HE WAS BORN TO THE PROLETARIAT.

Salute the beetle.

You touch your fingertips to your forehead in a firm, respectful salute. The beetle's wing case glistens as it folds a single antenna to salute you right back.

"Aha, look at him."

IGNORE THE MONOCLED ONE. GRANT THE PEOPLE'S CHAMPION A CRYPTONYM.

Alternative wording

THE FASCIST LACKS THE EYES TO SEE. GRANT THE PEOPLE'S CHAMPION A CRYPTONYM.

Asset MYRMEX

With a comradely nod of understanding, your asset launches himself into the man's coat.

"Shit, where'd he go?" The man pats himself down, shrugs. "Sneaky guy."

TRIUMPH, MYRMEX! THE HOPES OF THE PEOPLE GO WITH THEE.

Alternative wording

TRIUMPH, BOTTLEGREEN! THE HOPES OF THE PEOPLE GO WITH THEE.

Alternative wording

TRIUMPH, ANTLERS! THE HOPES OF THE PEOPLE GO WITH THEE.

Alternative wording

TRIUMPH, CARAPACE! THE HOPES OF THE PEOPLE GO WITH THEE.

Asset BOTTLEGREEN

Asset CARAPACE

Asset ANTLERS

Wink, dialectically.

A ripple of sunlight melts across the beetle's face as it winks each of its eyes right back at you.

HOIST THIS TINY SHINY MAN ALOFT, SHOW HIM THE POWER OF THE PEOPLE'S LOVE!

Reach for the beetle.

Startled by your massive apeish metacarpals, the beetle scurries from its battleground.

HE ADVANCES BACKWARD FROM THE HANDS OF HIS PROPORTIONAL BOSSES -- A TRUE PEOPLE'S CHAMPION.

"Farewell, shiny champion."

"Good fight, beetle." (Proceed.)

He champs his oversized mandibles in pleasure before flying out of sight.

"Don't fucking look at me, insect." (Proceed.)

The beetle stamps his victorious feet, your insults glancing off his carapace as harmlessly as his foe's assault. Satisfied, he marches out of sight.

"I don't have any money." (Lie.)

"You entered a wager with no wage to wage. Weak. Very weak." The man tuts at you softly, still smiling.

He doesn't care about the money. The competition was all.

"I don't have it."

"Ah, shit. You see him fly?" He chuckles. "Hope he lands good. Here."

He reaches into his jacket and produces a 20 Sol note, which he hands out to you.

Take the 20.

"Congratulations."

"No thanks, keep it."

"Fine," he grins. "I'll keep it for now. I'm sure I'll see you again."

'See you again'?

"I don't want your filthy Lich money, goon."

You spot a shoulder strap around his left arm as he pushes back his coat. He's armed. This is one of the Lich's men.

"Go white beetle, for glory!"

The white beetle pushes forward, legs trembling with effort.

"Come on green, believe in yourself!"

RALLY YOUR TROOP, HE NEEDS HIS SONG!

Sing the beetle's fight song.

You launch proudly into the proletfolk tune. The beetle raises its head to listen.

Alternative wording

The beetle's legs wave gently along to the rhythm of your lullaby.

Alternative wording

You pout your lips to whistle your techno beat -- the beetle opens its wing case, steadying itself for the next move.

Alternative wording

You launch straight into the chorus of 'Superbloc, Baby'.The beetle hears you, waves his legs along to the beat.

Alternative wording

The beetle stops waving its legs at your rendition of UV's song. As you watch, he summons all his might to splay them into one, unmistakable V shape.

You see him clack his mandibles along to the tune, joining in -- invigorated with love for grassroots melody.

Alternative wording

Relaxed yet focused, serene yet violent. This beetle is ready to make sure the other one never sleeps again.

Alternative wording

He's inflamed with the love of electro dance!

Alternative wording

He is ready to regulate the fuck out of this white beetle.

Alternative wording

The beetle has become an Ultra.

"Look at that. He's actually listening."

The green beetle regains his footing, backs out of the other's grasp, and sends it careening through the air like a little snowball.

GLORY TO THE PEOPLE!

Inspire him with silence.

The beetle looks up to you, probably crying out for his tune -- but seeing only absence. Heartbroken, he perseveres.

"He felt your abandonment. Should've done his song."

His courage wavers, ignite him with the flame of his song!

Sing. War cry.

"Get back in the game you stupid bug!"

Green's beetle arms wave even more chaotically in devastation at your insult.

"Aw. You hurt his feelings."

"Never give up, beetle!"

His beetle arms coordinate in determination, his mandibles champ harder than ever.

"Come on, little guy, horns up!"

"Is that all you got? Come on, show him pain!"

"His spirit is strong!"

"I want to back the white."

"Mm. If you insist. Fine."

Could be reverse psychology...

"Nice try -- psychology doesn't affect me. I'm keeping green."

"Sure." he shrugs. "20 Sol."

"It is fine. 20 on white."

"Nice."

"I don't have time for beetlemania." [Leave.]

"Ah, shame. I have much time for it."

"Nice gambling." [Leave.]

"Yes. Very nice. Thank you for checking it out."

"See you around, then." [Leave.]

"See you around."

"Look." He doesn't even glance at you, honed in on the slab of grey rock.

"What is it?"

"Just look."

Check it out.

A large, horned beetle migrates the landscape of smooth rock. Its carapace sparkles deep green.

"Nice."

Well-built, Luzian accent. Strategically positioned near the phone. He's one of the Lich's guards.

"Oh. A bug."

"It is a beetle -- coleoptera. There are many more of them than of us."

"But we're bigger."

"Hmm... Which would you rather fight -- one thousand him or one you?"

"One thousand him. You should never mess with a me."

"Interesting." He looks you up and down. "I'd take the you. But not the me."

Another beetle emerges onto the slab as you watch. White, dusty, three horns in the centre of its head. It marches toward the first.

"Look -- this one comes with purpose. We are lucky; they're here to duel."

He elbows you softly, grins.

"20 Sol on the white one. What say you?"

"One me. Their wings would darken the skies."

"They mean us no harm."

"Stupid question."

"I don't think so." He shrugs.

"Whatever, nerd."

"He underwent complete metamorphosis in his life. Shed one form in its entirety -- most bugs don't do that. Significant."

"There is no us, fascists are not human."

"Yeah, post-human. Of course."

The sing-song boredom of a child repeating a civics lesson.

Crush the beetle.

You raise your fist above your elbow, ready to smack down onto the animal's glistening shell. But as you strike, the man reaches out and catches you by the wrist.

Fast. Strong. Good to know.

"No." He gives you back your arm. "Why?"

"He's gross."

"No, he's nice. You'll leave him to his day."

The beetle continues, seemingly unaware of either peril or protector.

"It's fun to destroy."

"True. But not him. He is in the middle of something."

"As a warning."

"It worked, I hope."

Fast, strong -- and the movement revealed a strap under his right arm. This is one of the Lich's guards.

"Very nice. Cool horns."

"Very cool horns."

The two of you gaze at the beetle as he staggers around his patch of stone.

"I'm good." [Leave.]

"Yeah."

"Hey." He nods at you easily. "Check this out."

Sacrophobe coat -- the out of towner Kurt told you about.

"Nice coat, Sacrophobe."

"Yeah, thanks. Look here though."