Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Eight bodies surround the only one left breathing. Ramon, was his name. Remember it. He was tired of letting people use bullshit nicknames because adding a little bit of an accent was too hard for these goddamn fools. Yet unfortunately, names have become the least of all his problems. He knew this because in these sweet, delicate minutes Ramon wasted by resting upon the meeting table with hands and feet sprawled out, he was threatening his own life. And he was too tired to save it. He knew that today was the last chance he had to savour this peaceful silence. And well, why not let it linger, right? To savor this fleeting peacefulness between bloodshed and whatever Hell would come after it… Someone would ruin it.

Someone. Anyone. A participant of Eden’s man-made Hell will come and taste death in the air, they will find his hands covered in red and the bodies slump in their chairs. He will be killed for this. Not to mention the main reason as to why Ramon came here in the first place. Because Bullfrog was still in… in what, custody?

No. “Custody” was such a bullshit way to sugarcoat it. That man sits in his chair even NOW waiting for someone to kill him. Within the final seconds of the countdown Ramon had stopped that bastard child from slaughtering his new friend. Okay, what next? All Ramon did was delay the inevitable. Why did he even do this? It was stupid! This impulsive reaction was going to bite him in the ass, yet he did it knowing there was nothing else left for him to do. Nothing else would have saved Bullfrog. No one else would have done it. He… For a second, he considered joining the board directors in Hell. There were still plenty of bullets left to use on himself. Half the room was already covered in blood. What’s one more body? Huh?

With all these concerns clouding his mind, one was only one coherent thought appeared in Ramon’s head that resonated louder than the rest.

[God. I really need some crack.]

Chapter Text

On what appeared to be the most uncomfortable looking chair you have ever seen, was an engraved symbol of greek origin: A letter that as of today is referred to as Sigma. The eighteenth letter of the greek lexicon has many uses in relation to science, language, history. Yet whatever this symbol could have in relation to this chair presents itself completely irrelevant, as there is no need to label the eighteenth Grecian letter for “S” on a seat that belonged to only one of nine directors. Ironically, the only chair currently absent of blood and body.

Perhaps if Ramon gave more of a fuck about chair design than his crack withdrawals, he would have been able to admire the details of this specified Grecian Symbol, the sight of its golden shine against navy-blue backrests, each and every chair matching this combination but with their own unique symbol. Yet only sigma had been left without the stains of his deed.

This bloodless chair faced in the direction of whispering. Whispering, from speakers behind the hooked television that soon became indistinct fractions of conversation, taking place amongst the audience and penetrating the silence of the room. In this disturbed silence was no one. Ramon had already gone, leaving no one to witness the confusion on Bullfrog’s face.

The frog sat on the execution chair waiting, the screen capturing every and many of his hesitations. You could almost read the thoughts through his eyes, the first being the same as everyone else’s: What is going on? Why did we stop?

Who did this?

Unbeknownst to anyone else, the frog had already planned his escape. All throughout his prison time, and even through the walk into his seat, had been replaying his plan of escape. Slash! Kill! Take off the hands of the men holding him, and leap out their grasp! Considering his years of trained experience of being an assassin— it was almost too simple for him to do, after all, this wasn’t the first time he had been threatened death and eradication. All he needed was a blade and his dance. Since he first touched a knife, Bullfrog understood what it meant to be an assassin. There was not a bullet nor fist that could stop him, because none of the machine possessed soldiers could compare to his stealth, strategy, and speed. Not any of the men behind armored vests could comprehend what he’d lived through. There was briefly, a perfect moment of calm in his transfer to the chair, an abandoned moment of escape.

Je donne ma vie à un combat que j'ai perdu il y a des années.

Words he expected to part with have been forgotten. The confession spoken aloud, the internal submission, anything beforehand was long dismissed. He’d blame the ruined moment on everyone’s whispers and groans. What was this? Why did we stop? It wasn’t an intentional delay, he could figure thanks to Rayman’s distress.

“Dolph…” Bullfrog mutters under his breath as a thought struck him.

The soldier had come for him. Whatever stopped this execution, whatever signals or orders made to cause this instant delay, it had to be because of Dolph. There was no one else he could imagine to do this for him. He knew this, as the people around him grew frustrated and Rayman cursed in his earpiece away from the audience and the condemned man. Bullfrog is frozen in time as the author became a lazy bastard and made the decision to take a little break before finishing and polishing the chapter mid-writing. Sorry gang