Chapter Text
The hall is filled with the stench of blood. Even from the back of the line, closest to the doors, the scent is still overwhelming. It sticks to the rugs, dyeing them this awful, nauseating murky red that stands out against the otherwise vibrant crimson of the carpet.
Occasional pleading echoes off the walls before being cut dead by the oppressive shot that rings out after. No one argues; some flinch, some hesitate on their next step, some don't give a reaction at all, but not one soul speaks up. They've long since learned not to piss off the dictator, lest they risk a bullet through their skulls as well.
Froggy Dude stands near the end of the line, grimacing every once in a while as the bodies pile up, but otherwise giving no indication he's even paying attention to the carnage. It's far easier that way. Usually he would skip all this by arriving earlier to present his payment, avoiding having to awkwardly avert his gaze from the corpses stacked in the corner. But today he had slept in, wasting away the morning and sacrificing his chance to get this over with by afternoon. God, he hates having to sink the heels of his shoes into the mushy carpet at the front of the throne. After the third or fourth casualty, it starts squelching with every step taken.
His mind drifts off, trying to disassociate himself from the scene around him. He thinks of what he's going to do after this —sleep probably, or have a meeting with the rebellion— and he speculates what annoying fuck ass words are going to come from that stupid skeleton’s mouth when he gets to the front.
‘Hey, Froggy! What makes my favorite villager so late to tax collection?’
‘Ayo, chill! It's just a joke, Frog man! Learn to take it easy, will you?’
‘You know the deal, hand them over. You better not be skimping out on me; I might have to revoke your title.’
He would taunt him- he will taunt him when he gets up there. He knows he will. It gives the Wither skeleton some sick pleasure in his humiliation. And oh how it makes rage burn in Froggy. He wants to storm up there; he wants to grab that dumb smug ass skeleton by his nonexistent throat and squeeze until his cervical spine snaps. He wants to crack his ribs like one would pluck the petals off a flower. He wants to wipe that stupid prideful expression from his glowing pupils and finally shut up his incessant, gleeful mockery.
He burns with the desire, his hands twitch, and his hindbrain tells him it would be so easy to- that Grox is right there even though Froggy knows it's not that simple. It's not that simple, but fuck, sometimes it feels so close, like he can taste the satisfying victory on his tongue. If only he could get a little closer—
His train of thought is interrupted when his sole lands on a rumpled part of the rug, which slips out from under him as he moves to take another step. In a blur of motion, he's sent crashing down to the floor, nose cracking against the rough carpet as diamonds and emeralds are scattered across the ground.
Froggy heaves in a breath; the already uncomfortable silence turns chilling as the other villagers stare him down. His nose is dripping blood down into the carpet at a steady trickle, falling drop by drop into the small puddle forming with a quiet, 'plink.' His shoulders are heaving, hands shaking where they dig into the rug.
It's not like it hurts all that bad, he been through far worse, but the suddenness of it all still leaves him shell-shocked. He's almost to the front of the line by now, and as the villagers part the way to stare, his eyes meet the dictator himself.
Grox is lounging, propped up on his throne at the front of the hall, posture almost bored. Like making millions in a day from doing nothing but sitting there and looking pretty is some arduous task. His expression is one of curiosity, however, as he tilts his head to get a better look at the frog past the villager on his knees begging for his life.
Froggy is immediately terror-stricken. Fuck, he caused a scene. It was already bad enough that he was recognized as Grox's favorite villager —the last thing you ever want to do in this civilization is be noticed by the tyrant— but now he's gone ahead and caused a ruckus.
Froggy swears under his breath, scrambling up for only a moment before the room sways under the sudden movement, sending him back to the ground. At least this time his hands brace the fall. He coughs up a mouthful of red, blood seeping down his throat from the fucked up nose. He hopes it isn't broken.
The villager in front of him, the one begging for his life, jolts up. His eyes are pinned to the scattered gems on the floor, pupils shimmering with desperate greed. The poor thing only makes it two steps forward before he's dropped, a bullet punched through his head sending his body tumbling down. A few drops of blood splatter onto Froggy's face, causing the frog to wince as the villagers' hands and legs convulse on the floor. One bullet, straight through the eyes. Clean, efficient, brutal. He just has to hope the Wither skeleton's fascination over him is enough to prevent the same fate.
He's openly shaking now; he's desensitized to a lot, but the blood from the corpse of another staining your face is certainly not pleasant. He drags a hand through the blood, trying to wipe it off but only succeeding in smearing it around. Grox stops him with an exaggerated tsk.
"Froggy Dude! What the hell are you doing, man?" The way he says it, always in that sing-song voice that's too smug for its good, has Froggy gritting his teeth. He fights the annoyance, however, already knowing he's in hot water here.
"Lord Grox, my apologies, I simply tripped. I promise it won't happen again." Each word comes out like tar. It's getting more and more difficult to suck up to Grox as the days pass, and he can only pray Grox doesn't realize it.
The tyrant stares him down with a small frown, an extremely concerning sight from a being that always grins like he just escaped a psych ward. A bead of sweat slips down Froggy's temple, eyes flicking around the room, trying to avoid the glowing white pupils staring right into his soul.
Seeming to sense his discomfort, Grox raises an… eyebrow? Kind of? He doesn't have eyebrows, but the bones that make up his facial structure do the equivalent of it.
"Ayo chill! Frog man, it's not that deep. I'll get the guards to pick the ore up later, consider your taxes paid for the day."
Froggy blinks, shocked at the other's words, lifting his head to stare baffled at the dictator.
"Lord Grox, really?"
That ever-present smirk comes back to the Wither skeleton's face as he snickers, resting his bony hands on his hips.
"Would you rather go back to the mines for another shift?" Fuck no, absolutely the fuck not.
"No no no, wasn't challenging your judgment at all, Lord Grox, just making sure."
"Aight bet! Settled then! I'll take care of this, and you go do… whatever frogs do." Grox hums, thinking it over for a moment before giving a shrug and waving the thought off.
Froggy sighs, pries himself up off the ground, and limps out toward the exit, holding his still bleeding nose. Yep, definitely broken, shit. His shoulders are hunched as he passes by the group of villagers slowly reassembling themselves into a line. They still stare him down like he's a dog running with its tail between its legs, but he's alive, so he certainly isn't going to complain. Not out loud at least.
He can hear a few of them whispering under their breath, murmuring between each other as they glance over at his retreating form. He has to fight down the urge to swing back around and sock one in the jaw. Grox would absolutely kill him for that, and after the miracle that was the previous mercy, it would be such a waste, especially to the mission. Oh, and he values being alive; that's a pretty important factor as well.
Speaking of miracles, whoever granted Grox's greatest wish or whatever the hell happened to have him that merciful, he owes them one. Holy shit, that was close, and all because he was too busy daydreaming to watch where he was walking.
He tries to brush it off; he didn't die, he gets to go home and pass out —and set his nose back into place, fuck his life— without anything else to worry about.
He's chilling; he's chilling and very much not getting shot dead by an insane, tyrannical Wither skeleton.
Froggy concludes that makes it at least an okay day.