The Beetle Choir of Regulation 47-B (No Crickets at all)

Mia sat at her desk in the Bureau, staring at the ever-growing mountain of reports. Each page seemed alive, bristling with annotations, glowing seals of urgency, and the occasional cryptic scribble that defied all logical interpretation. The Bureau had recently declared that pest eradication was no longer sufficient: every citizen’s complaints about vermin were now meticulously tracked, cross-referenced, and archived. Rats in bakeries, bats in belfries, slimes in public baths—nothing escaped the Bureau’s scrutiny. Even the slightest deviation from expected behavior was flagged as a potential anomaly.

She leaned back, rubbing her temples. She had grown accustomed to the absurdity of Bureau life, but this—this was new. One report caught her attention: “Household infestation: Category 3. Vermin described as ‘singing beetles.’ Residents complain of continuous chorus disrupting sleep cycles.” She frowned. At least the beetles had some taste.

The door creaked open, and Harrington shuffled in, balancing a teetering tower of files that seemed impervious to the laws of physics. He dumped them on Mia’s desk with an expression that suggested he had just offloaded a particularly dangerous weapon rather than paperwork.

“Administrator Mia,” Harrington said cheerfully, “you’ve been selected to oversee the inaugural Review of Magical Vermin Eradication Protocols.”

Mia deadpanned. “My lifelong dream.”

Harrington adjusted his spectacles, ignoring the sarcasm. “Excellent. Your enthusiasm is duly noted. Now, the Bureau has received complaints regarding inefficiencies. Excessive use of spells, collateral damages, improper cheese requisitions… one particularly egregious incident involved a broom animated without authorization.”

“Animated broom?” Mia asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Chased its handler into a canal,” Harrington said delicately. “Very unsightly.” He cleared his throat. “You are to attend the next eradication and submit a full report. Auditor Severin will accompany you, of course.”

Mia groaned inwardly. Severin had become her omnipresent shadow, scribbling judgments in his endless ledger. She suspected he critiqued her breathing cadence when she wasn’t looking.

Later that afternoon, Mia and Severin marched toward the baker’s district. The streets smelled of yeast and cinnamon, a comforting aroma under normal circumstances, though it did little to calm the rising sense of absurdity in the air. A faint droning melody grew louder as they approached. Hundreds of beetles, their shells glinting like stained glass under the sunlight, were harmonizing in an eerie, continuous chorus.

A squad of Bureau-approved exterminators stood ready, armed with nets, spell-wands, and more mousetraps than Mia thought humanly necessary. The lead exterminator saluted crisply.

“Administrator, Auditor,” he said, “infestation confirmed. Awaiting authorization to commence eradication.”

Mia scanned the requisition forms. “Twelve pounds of cheese as bait?”

“Standard procedure, ma’am,” he replied.

Severin clicked his tongue. “Excessive. Bureau guidelines specify six pounds per infestation, barring catastrophic circumstances.”

The exterminator’s face twisted. “But these beetles harmonize in C minor. Six pounds, and they simply shift to D sharp and ignore it.”

Mia sighed. “Very well. Approved—provided the modulation is documented.”

The operation began. Cheese was laid, runes activated, and nets unfurled. The beetles swarmed in response, their song swelling into a fugue of terrifying precision. Citizens stopped to watch, torn between horror and curiosity. A child clapped in rhythm until his mother dragged him away.

One exterminator lunged with a net, only to be lifted off the ground by the beetles, carried as though he were an unwilling ceremonial offering. Another released a blast of light from his wand, illuminating the street while scorching three loaves of bread cooling on nearby windowsills. The baker screamed bloody murder, swatting at falling crumbs.

Mia pinched the bridge of her nose. “Severin, note collateral damage: three loaves of rye. Compensation to be filed.”

Severin scribbled without expression. “Noted. Also noting Administrator’s permissive stance on overuse of dairy-based bait.”

“Permissive stance?!” Mia nearly shouted, though the beetles’ crescendo drowned her voice. They fused their chorus into a single piercing note. Cracks ran along the bakery walls, and tiles fell from rooftops. The exterminators panicked, nets flying uselessly.

Mia thought fast. “Stop swinging nets! They respond to dissonance. Match their pitch!”

Severin blinked. “What?”

“Match their pitch!” she repeated. Her gaze landed on a blacksmith’s shop nearby. “A tuning fork—now!”

Severin hesitated, then dashed off, returning moments later with a gleaming silver fork. Mia struck it against the cobblestones, producing a clear, resonant tone. She held it aloft, directing the sound toward the beetles.

They paused. Mia adjusted the pitch subtly; the beetles responded, their chorus aligning perfectly. Slowly, the cracks in the walls began to mend, tiles stopped falling, and the streets stabilized.

The lead exterminator approached cautiously. “Administrator, that was… unconventional.”

“Effective, though,” Mia replied. “Document this method. Include cheese modulation and tuning fork technique.”

Severin wrote diligently. “Noted. Administrator’s innovative approach to vermin control also noted.”

The beetles, now calm, clustered around the designated bait zones, humming a gentle lullaby instead of a discordant cacophony. Citizens watched in muted awe as the bizarre performance ended, some clapping awkwardly, others whispering about the magic of Eldoria’s Bureau.

Mia allowed herself a small, rare smile. Another bureaucratic disaster averted. Another absurd challenge faced with equal measures of improvisation and pragmatism.

Hours later, back at the Bureau, Mia reviewed the reports and cross-referenced the day’s events. The beetles’ patterns had been logged, their response to sound waves measured, and their interaction with bureaucratic structures carefully noted. Even Severin seemed mildly impressed, though he refused to acknowledge it openly.

“Administrator,” he said finally, “it appears your method has created a precedent. Future vermin management protocols will now incorporate acoustic modulation and targeted dairy deployment.”

Mia rolled her eyes. “Wonderful. Bureau guidelines evolve as always: painfully, unpredictably, and with an abundance of cheese.”

Severin merely adjusted his spectacles, already annotating for the next set of reports.

As the sun set over Eldoria, Mia watched the city from her office window. The streets were calm again, though she knew it was only temporary. Somewhere, in the hidden corners of the bakeries, belfries, and public baths, beetles would sing again. The Bureau would continue its endless cycle of oversight, documentation, and control. And she—Mia—would continue to navigate the absurdity, finding moments of clarity in chaos.

Because in Eldoria, perfection was never the goal. Order was a suggestion, discipline a guideline, and sometimes, a well-placed tuning fork could save the city.

She exhaled, preparing for whatever tomorrow would bring. Beetles or otherwise, she would face it—and she would document it meticulously..