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You're standing on the edge of the stone, you know what you have to do. You don't want to do it, but you have to. The president and his vice are staring at you with expectant eyes and sly grins. The audience, they're screaming.
You've never been good at peer pressure, as much as it annoys you. You don't like being swayed by the masses, but when they chant and yell, your body moves on it's own. Which is shitty, because you're supposed to be the Blood God, unwavering and proud. Yet here you stand, blocking out the blonde girl's screams and Tommy's cries.
You glance up at your companions' hiding spot. Wilbur's hand is on Tommy's shoulder. The kid looks like he doesn't know what to believe. Wide eyes beg you not to do it, but you look away before you can add them to the pressure. You turn to meet another pair of wide eyes.
Tubbo's just a kid, the same as Tommy. They shouldn't have been involved in the war, shouldn't have been involved in the bloodshed and betrayal. You load your crossbow with a firework instead of an arrow. He won't bleed out; it'll be instant and painless, you tell yourself.
"Techno please—" You keep your attention on the crossbow. You don't want to look at the kid begging for his life.
It's fucked up, really, publicly executing a child, but when has Schlatt ever been civil? The ram-horned man grins wider. You click the last mechanism into place.
"I'll make it as painless as possible, Tubbo," You promise, "Tubbo, I'm sorry."
Tommy screams for real this time, but it's cut short by Wilbur's hand. It blends in with Niki's scream, Eret's, Fundy's. It blends in with Quackity's cheers and Schlatt's laughter. With the audience's apprehension.
You fire the decoration. The concrete Tubbo's trapped in is filled with blinding lights, loud crackles, and the smell of smoke and flames. You're knocked back just a little by the blast, but not enough to topple you down. You think you've done the job, and when your ears stop ringing and the screaming comes back, you're sure it's over.
But the smoke clears, and he's still there, wide eyed and bloody and burnt and sobbing. He's definitely not standing on his own. He's got his back pressed to the blackstone throne, sliding down to sit hard seconds after he's back in your sight. And he's wailing. You never really knew the kid too well, but Tommy and Wilbur'd said something about a low pain tolerance, weakness.
"He—He said you wouldn't hurt me—" He bawls, curling in on himself, and there's blood staining absolutely everything. It smells nauseatingly like the food you'd cooked earlier in the day.
You've loaded another firework before you can speak. The screams are loud, but Schlatt is louder.
"Finish it, mister Blood God! C'mon," He laughs, like the kid's life is a game. Like this execution is a comedy.
"He said—" Tubbo's cut off by another sob, and you swear you can feel the hurt in his voice. It was supposed to be quick and painless, "—tha-at you wouldn't, wouldn't hurt me—"
You fire again. There are more screams. None of them are Tubbo's.