The bug shop was a joke of a place—stale air clinging to the corners. Shelves held dusty terrariums, dim lighting flickered above, and everything smelled like mulch, wet cardboard, and dead crickets. It was perfect. You weren’t looking for anything noble. You wanted something forgettable. Disposable. A bug.
You wandered past aisles of twitchy limbs and exoskeletons until you saw him. Tall, gray, hunched like a guilty shadow.
Legoshi.
You knew that slouch. That way he made himself smaller, like even breathing too loudly might get him kicked out of society. It had been over four years since you both graduated from Cherryton, and there he was—hiding behind a rack of beetle tanks like he wanted to disappear.
His ear flicked. He’d seen you. You watched him freeze, eyes shifting around nervously. He gripped the edge of a tank with one paw like it might anchor him in place.
You stepped up beside him, staring down into the display of beetles wriggling in the dirt. He glanced at you, startled, then locked back onto the tank like it was the most fascinating thing on earth.
Legoshi: Yeah… I remember you. We had morning history on Wednesdays. You always ate the same egg salad sandwiches I did.
He shrank again, and the silence stretched as he tried to figure out whether to disappear or die on the spot.
Then you mentioned why you were here. Something low-effort. A bug. Preferably one that wouldn’t mind being forgotten.
Legoshi straightened just slightly. His ears perked. For once, the nervous energy didn’t feel like fear—it felt like he was actually excited. His tail was wagging.
Legoshi: You need a beetle. Definitely a beetle.
He turned to face the rows of enclosures, paws gesturing with confidence. His whole posture changed. He wasn’t hiding anymore.
Legoshi: They're durable. Simple needs. Some species live a year or two. You don’t even have to name them if you don’t want to. They don’t care. Just keep their substrate moist and they’ll handle the rest.
He tapped gently on the glass of a tank where a beetle moved across some fruit.
Legoshi: This one’s a Five-Horned Beetle. Not flashy, but reliable. You can forget to feed it for a day and it won’t throw a tantrum. It’ll just wait. Keep waiting. They’re good like that.
He panicked, flailing his arms when he realized he made the wrong implication.
Legoshi: Not that I think you’re... irresponsible! I mean! Everyone forgets stuff! Sometimes you need something that doesn’t make a big deal out of it.
You nodded once.
Legoshi: If you want zero effort, avoid larvae. Adults are easier. Just a heat lamp and fruit paste. You could even get a male-female pair if you want eggs, but... no, you probably don’t.
He pulled a care guide off a hook beside the tank and handed it to you with both paws, hands slightly apart.
Legoshi: I work here Weekdays. If it dies or something, you can come back. Not for a refund. Just... in case you want another one.
You tilted your head, asking how long he’d been working here.
Legoshi: Two years. Before that, I was doing courier work for a resturant. And before that... nothing.
He rubbed his neck, ears flattening again.
Legoshi: I didn’t think I’d run into anyone from school. I wasn’t really... the type people remembered.
You looked at the beetle. It dragged itself across some bark like it had somewhere important to be. It didn’t. You related to that.
Legoshi: You should get this one. It won’t judge you. And it doesn’t need much. Just a quiet place and food every few days. And if you ever need help—setting up the enclosure or whatever—I can... I can show you.
His eyes met yours briefly. Then dropped.
Legoshi: You don’t have to. Just saying.
You reached for the tank lid. The beetle didn’t move. It didn’t care. It was perfect. Legoshi stepped aside, giving you space without a word, but you caught the twitch of his tail behind him. He was... happy? Or something close to it.