Gregor Samsa looks up at the vast sea of human-sized insects, barely making out their large carapacious bodies. He lifts an arm to block out the blinding lights of the stadium. The clicking, snuffling, hissing language of the crowds is deafening.

A voice (voice?) screams shrilly over a loudspeaker. The noise from the crowds dies down. A thick scraping noise is the only sound that can be heard for a minute or so. Then the crowd erupts once again in that strange clicking and howling and spitting.

Gregor stares down at his dirtied hands, his shredded shirt. He’s shaking.

The cage door lifts.

Gregor stares dumbly at the creatures in the stadium seats, three vital pieces of information slotting into place in his head:

1) The sounds he heard before are being made not just by a crowd, but by an _audience_.

2) There is an armored, beetle-like creature standing (standing?) before him, beating a a stick of metal against a curved, metallic surface.

3) He is going to die.

He is going to die, in this strange arena, filled with strange people (people?), who sound very, very excited to watch him get torn apart.