Work Text:
For just a few seconds everything was deafening.
He could hear the President's cackling, the sobs and gasps of horror from the crowd, watching what they had believed to be a celebration turn into an execution of an undeserving life.
He could hear the shaky, ragged breaths from the man in front of him—the one holding the fireworks, the one who held the fate of his life in his hands, armed with his crossbow, ready to shoot.
He wanted to believe Wilbur's reassurance: "He won't do it."
He clung to it until it began to crumble upon hearing the apologetic words from Techno, admitting that he struggled with 'peer pressure'.
What a ridiculous excuse for murder.
Through the chaos, he thought he could hear Tommy, and maybe even Wilbur's voice from afar, their voices drowned by the rising tide of noise.
The world screamed.
The crows cawed from the far trees, like mourners at a funeral.
The wind tore at the Manburg flag, fluttering high above.
The crowds creaking wooden seats groaned as they leaned forward, straining to witness his fate.
He saw the decorations and banners draped around the podium—the ones that he'd put up himself.
Each streamer and sign felt like a mockery now, a celebration twisted into a cruel spectacle.
He had been decorating his own execution.
Schlatt was a horrible man, but this? seriously?
Even for him, this felt too far.
In the crowd, Tubbo's eyes caught Niki's.
She stood frozen, wide-eyed, her hands pressed over her mouth as if trying to hold back a scream.
Tears streaked down her face, and for a moment, he thought she might step forward.
But of course, she couldn't, no one could.
Her hair was different again.
Dyed, as it always was.
It looked nice.
Tubbo smiled faintly—what a stupid thing to think about now.
He'd always wanted to dye his hair, but there was never time.
Never permission.
Not under Schlatts rule.
Now he wished he had. Just once.
Something bold, something wild—like Tommy would have dared him to do.
Tommy. Wilbur..He should have left with them.
He should have never stayed behind with Schlatt.
Maybe if he wasn't such a terrible friend, he wouldn't be in this situation.
Maybe he deserved it.
He heard the crossbow click just a few feet ahead.
Not the explosion—just the sharp, hollow snap of the trigger.
Now, he couldn't hear anything.
He was thrown harshly against the concrete and collapsed to the ground.
A faint ringing echoed in his ears - everywhere and nowhere all at once.
He couldn't feel anything.
His arms and legs were numb; he wasn't even sure they were still there.
All he could do was watch as the bright colours consumed his vision—and, soon his life as well.
He felt like he was drowning.
Why was he drowning?
He didn't remember seeing any water nearby—except for the tears brimming in Quackity's eyes, standing far to his left behind President Schlatt, unable to intervene.
His tears reflected the yellow concrete that trapped the secretary of state with no escape but death.
He felt a thick liquid trickling down his head, spreading over the rest of his body.
He faintly heard himself trying to call for help, but his voice was drowned out by the explosions.
Probably for the best—it was too late for him anyway.
All he could do was wait, praying that death wouldn't be as painful as he had feared.