How the frog took him...

°Chapter 8

Turquoise black 6033.

Red: 10%

Green: 14%

Blue: 15%

The frog had been trapped for 2 days now. 

Everything was black around him. The tortures were horrible. He could take no more. No matter what he screamed, no matter what he said, there was no end to it. Mirco was escorted from his flat 48 hours ago by this General O'Brien. As soon as there was a knock and it wasn't Dean at the door, he knew: they knew. They knew everything. He had deliberately not killed him yet, although he would have had the chance long ago.

Now he sat there, trembling all over and feeling no remorse. Just then, someone was about to bend his little finger to the side. Until it cracked. The pain went through every part of his body, but even the deathbed was not granted to him.

He wanted to die! So let him finally be released from his wretched form.

A small light appeared in the distance and almost made Mirco believe he was dead. But it was General O'Brien with his walking stick who slowly approached the bounty hunter. 

"How are you? Sorry for the rough greeting!"

With the last of his strength, Mirco spat in the general's face: "What do you want from me?"

Disgusted, he wiped the slime away with the help of a white cloth. "I am only making sure that you fulfil your mission satisfactorily.

"Now the evil one raised his stick and aimed it directly at the eye of the bound man, "But I guess I'll have to reprogram you for that.

"Next seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months or even years? All sense of time drained out of him. Only a heap of misery writhing on the floor. Whip by whip, strange predictions of the future were syphallised into him.

It happened for the second time. The events repeated themselves.

"Kill him and you will be free forever", "He doesn't deserve life", "Be his salvation", "He's not worth it", "Disgusting scum".

After actually only a week of torture, a brand new frog was brought back to the ward. His soul resisted all this power, but was the manipulation so cunning! Two more moons passed when he was finally able to stand and eat again. The gloves he always wore to conceal his missing nails had been lost, so he couldn't even hide. Even otherwise, the injuries were too big for any treatment.

Scars.

Marks for life.

Everywhere.

Mirco decided to go out.

To get some fresh air after 9 days of forced quarantine. He needed food, gloves and lots of ointment. The bright light hurt terribly and burned almost all over his body. He had bought the food and the medicine, so Mirco was only missing the most important thing: the gloves. He didn't want to be stared at all the time, let alone be reminded himself of what had happened.

"Mirco!" someone seemed to be jiggling his mangled body.

"Dean?"

Dean was alive.

Somehow he had hoped that he was dead. Then he wouldn't be forced to kill him. But by now he didn't care about anything anyway.

"What happened? You look so..."

"Nothing, I'm fine. I'm sorry from the bottom of my heart for not getting in touch for so long. How are your scars?" the bounty hunter picked up with a faint smile. "You've treated them well, accordingly, flawlessly," Dean answered truthfully, but didn't leave out the fact that he was clearly avoiding the subject. He would ask again at another time, "What did you have planned for today? I'm plagued by boredom without you!"

"I was just going to get some new clothes," Mirco pointed symbolically to a shop nearby. Apart from the strange behaviour as well as appearance of Mirco, something else caught the green-haired man's eye: The hands. Slightly paranoid, the little boy kept hiding his hands so that he couldn't see them. He had often noticed that he always wore gloves, but the fact that he was apparently so embarrassed was new to him.

He took the initiative, as he had always done, and grabbed Mirco by the arm. He resisted at first, but soon lost interest. Curious, he pulled up his sleeve and saw something horrific. Where fingernails were expected, there was only dried blood and visible veins. There was no question that this was torture. How long ago, however, remained unknown from the mere sight of it.

"When-who did this?"

"Nothing happened, everything is fine-" he was cut off.

"Say you don't want to talk about it, but don't lie to me! Don't show your face again until you're back to your old self. You seem so...so mechanical! Whatever happened, I'm here for you," he said, relaxed, walking back to where he came from with his hands in his pockets.

Let him go. He doesn't need it any more, after all, he had everything he came here for. The mark will be set and no one will dare love anyone of the same sex for a decade. Driven by the wind, he continued on his way to buy the gloves.

Report from 23 December 1939

Info there. Weapon delivered to the door. Everything ready. Target will be eliminated tomorrow.

Tomorrow he will finally get rid of that manipulative beast. In return, he would even be free forever. He'll be able to visit his mother.

His mother...Right,

 his mother was dead.

Then he won't.

He'll... travel the world or something.

Living it up would be more like it.

He'll do something.