[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/Qt9DFLQ.gif[/img][/center] Daimyon Londe wasted little time in seeking out Marianne Roche's room on the second floor. He walked up the stairs with a stride in his step, yet when he was finally standing at her door, his resolve seemed to evaporate. He balled his hands into a fist—was he afraid of the truth? Perhaps he was. Yet he knew he could not live with himself if he did not do everything in his power to seek it out. The late herbalist's e-handbook in hand, he opened up the door and stepped inside. It was dark inside, the menacing kind of dark. Daimyon breathed a sigh of relief when nothing gruesome met his eyes when he flipped on the lights. In fact, the room was spotless. It did not take long for his eyes to wander to the desk that was rather similar to his own—and the stack of notes quietly sitting on it. Another sigh escaped his lips, this time one of anticipation and, perhaps, trepidation. He sat down at the table and took the first paper into hand. [hider=XX+3/XX/20XX] [quote] Sec 2 entry 2+7mixture used. Effect: drowsiness. Could work faster. Try new addition. Delicious to see writhe. Revisit the hardware ‘shop’. D physically unable to write? Parfait! :) Return is harmless. Or…? [/quote] [hr] [center][img]https://i.imgur.com/Qt9DFLQ.gif[/img][img]https://i.imgur.com/fhGJRRR.gif[/img][/center] [color=8EE5EE]“Are you feeling quite alright, Daimyon?”[/color] the herbalist chuckles to herself, stood alone in the poet’s room with his body slumped back in a chair ominously situated in its centre. [color=8EE5EE]“You appear a little...how do they say, [i]listless[/i]?”[/color] Daimyon does not consider himself entirely listless—he is merely missing several entries on the list, some of which would distress the average person if they lost them. The poet, however, does not feel average either. In fact he barely even feels anything: his senses are dull and his mind slow. Only Marianne's words pierce this fog, and the only things he finds himself capable of giving back are a lazy nod and a few slurred words: [color=seagreen]“Mm...listless. Rather...confused, actually. What's going on?”[/color] [color=8EE5EE]“Ah, chéri! I recommend you sit back and relax. Take a deep breath. It will be better that way.”[/color] her voice continues as she lithely slips behind the chair, and in what seems like experience from practice, binds Daimyon’s wrists together with a thick but short length of rope—just enough to absolutely restrict movement beyond struggling, but also to keep the man before her [i]very much[/i] fastened to the chair. [color=8EE5EE]“Look! You don’t even have to worry about moving now. You can just relax…!”[/color] A glint passes over her eyes as she stands before him again, her hands on his shoulders and her face hovering so close to his that he can feel her warm breaths on his cheeks. [color=8EE5EE]“I don’t know if you will remember this, my beloved Daimyon. But in a way, I pray that you do not. For both our sakes...”[/color] Another chuckle follows, bordering on manic, as a kiss is forced upon the man’s parted, panting lips. [color=seagreen]“Ah!”[/color] The sudden feel of the woman's lips on his gives him a jolt even the rope tightening around his wrists could not. The moment's clarity is enough only to discern his helpless situation and struggle vainly against his bonds before the overbearing numbness takes hold again. [color=8EE5EE]“Oh, Daimyon…”[/color] she coos, trailing one of her hands down his chest before moving away entirely. [color=8EE5EE]“I think I want to go and fetch something, but do not worry, I will return shortly. Don’t go anywhere!”[/color] And with a last, almost innocent giggle, the dark haired woman disappears through the front door of Daimyon Londe’s room—with both her and his handbooks neatly tucked away into the folds of her dress. When she returns, the door clicks silently shut behind her, and she spreads a selection of unassuming, easily transportable tools from the Mono Shoppe on the poet’s writing desk. The shimmering metal of a wood file catches the room’s final lights. [/hider] --- [hider=XX+4/XX/20XX] [quote] Thrill! Realised today cannot control mind. But can affect body? Excited to see me! Why…? Mixed feelings. [/quote] [hr] [center][img]https://i.imgur.com/Qt9DFLQ.gif[/img][img]https://i.imgur.com/fhGJRRR.gif[/img][/center] Daimyon hums a familiar tune to himself as the water washes over him in the shower. He lets it run colder than usual this morning—he has been waking up tired these recent days and hopes that a refreshing stream of chilly water is what he needs to get back into the groove. There is much work on his table: mostly in the form of one Ryoshi Membook, taunting him every day with its mysterious passages and torn pages. It is a crusade he is not planning to lose, yet one that has also been taking a great toll on his physique. He plans to take a break today, perhaps take a stroll in the resort and mingle with a couple other Infinites. As the, admittedly somewhat vain, poet takes a long look at himself in the mirror, he realises he might need to reconsider his daily plans. He spots a concerning number of thin scars running through the length of his chest. They do not bleed and seem to have mostly closed already. Evidently, he is in no mortal danger and still, he stands in front of the mirror with a look of shock and confusion on his face. Numerous questions flash in his mind all at once: where, when, how and why did he acquire this rather impressive set of wounds? Wracking his brain yields no answer which only adds to the mounting feeling of dread in his gut. He is a poet, a profession largely free of physical risk. Sure, papercuts and the like happen, but if he was not juggling a stack of papers on his bare chest the night before, then there is no explanation for his injuries. And for the naysayers: he does not drink. Not often anyway. So what is going on? The quick-thinking man he is, Daimyon already has a plan formulated by the time he is out of the bathroom and dressed. He and his fellow poor Infinites are locked in a [i]hospital[/i]—which, for the first time since their imprisonment, might just come in handy. According to the e-handbook, there are numerous treatment facilities available to the patients; one of them ought to be able to find out the causes of the mysterious scars. Not to mention they also have a physician among them, someone who must be rather skilled to have earned an Infinite title: Mercy Evergreen. Grabbing his two notebooks and thoroughly ignoring the Membook, he heads out of his room. He has no clue where Mercy spends the morning, so he is going to try the break room first. The corridor is not empty, however: someone wanders it seemingly aimlessly. One Marianne Roche. She is not empty-handed, either, and appears to be carrying in both hands what seems like a (thoroughly processed) blueberry muffin—the kind only discernible because it flakes off in pieces into the tissues swaddled around its base. Her eyes notice the poet and she lights up immediately, closing the distance quickly between the two with a welcoming smile, accentuated with a splatter of crumbs. [color=8EE5EE]“Bonjour, Daimyon!”[/color] she chirrups, swallowing down the mouthful and wiping at her lips daintily with the back of her hand, [color=8EE5EE]“Are you going to get something to eat…?”[/color] As her words reach the poet's ear, his heart skips a beat—and resumes its rhythm a little quicker than before, pumping that extra blood into his cheeks. [color=seagreen]“M-mari! Good aft—morning!”[/color] He waves a short wave at her after fumbling the introduction, her warm smile clouding his head. [color=seagreen]“I wish it was that simple! I'm looking for Ms Evergreen, have you seen her around?”[/color] [color=8EE5EE]“What’s the matter? [i]Cat got your tongue[/i], as you say?”[/color] Marianne chides with a tiny smirk. [color=8EE5EE]“Mercy Evergreen? I do not recall. Perhaps I just missed her?”[/color] the woman takes another tentative bite of the muffin, as if in thought. When her attention is taken away from her muffin, it’s the poet’s deep sea-green eyes that seize it, and she takes a careful minute to study his blushing face. [color=8EE5EE]“If you do not mind my asking, what for? If I see her, I can then tell her that you are looking for her and the reason why!”[/color] [color=seagreen]“Ah, most unfortunate...”[/color] He pulls at the neck of his shirt as anxiety takes over from the momentary delight. [color=seagreen]“It's...quite a delicate matter, you see.”[/color] [color=8EE5EE]“Oh no! Chéri, is everything alright?”[/color] a look of worry takes over her face. Something about her concern seems...false? As if something else troubles her. Still, she closes the much smaller distance between them even more now, till she’s standing very well within earshot, [color=8EE5EE]“...you’re not dying of a horrible illness, are you? That would make for a grand twist in this little story.”[/color] Daimyon draws back from her chilling words, yet finds himself leaning closer again after a brief contemplation, his voice lowered to a louder whisper: [color=seagreen]“Nothing to that degree, fortunately. Merely a couple...ah, scars. Would like to see them treated, is all.”[/color] [color=8EE5EE]“Oh, that’s all!”[/color] the herbalist exhales a breath she didn’t know she had been holding with an airy laugh. [color=8EE5EE]“For a second, I was truly worried! I know I’m no Mercy Evergreen, but I could help with the scars too, if you’d like? Where are they?”[/color] she looks up at him expectantly. Her grin is almost...smug? [color=seagreen]“I would very much like to show them to you, miss, but alas, it might be too dazzling for the cameras around here.”[/color] He shrugs, a sly smile finding its way onto his previously worry-ridden face. The herbalist's offer of help relaxes him considerably as well. [color=seagreen]“Where would you wish to treat me?”[/color] [color=8EE5EE]“I think I would like to see to them in your room, before you get any more [i]publicly indecent[/i] ideas, Daimyon.”[/color] the herbalist’s eyebrow quirks and she shovels the rest of the muffin (crumbs and all) into her mouth, dusts her hands off and takes the poet’s, guiding him in the direction of his room—almost as if by muscle memory. [color=8EE5EE]“I promise I’ll fix you ri-ight up~!”[/color] [/hider] --- [hider=XX+5/XX/20XX] [quote] Other Infinites curious about whereabouts. D doesn’t leave room. Exhaustion they think. Know otherwise. Ryoshi Membook good enough excuse? [/quote] [hr] [center][img]https://i.imgur.com/Qt9DFLQ.gif[/img][img]https://i.imgur.com/fhGJRRR.gif[/img][/center] [color=8EE5EE]“You look so adorable like that, Daimyon! It’s irresistible…”[/color] Marianne coos. The aforementioned poet lay on the bed in his room, bound and immobile and still in a lingering haze. The woman herself nonchalantly sits, straddling him and dually serving the purpose of keeping him from struggling too hard, at his hips. Her attention is elsewhere, flicking her way through Daimyon’s notebook and the Ryomem periodically too. [color=8EE5EE]“I still cannot believe you won’t tell me about how you got here. I thought we were [i]friends[/i] at this point.”[/color] [color=seagreen]“H-huh? Oh yes! Good friends...”[/color] the poet slurs, his thoughts wandering into a faraway land as he lies blindfolded on the bed. He makes a weak attempt at sitting up before speaking again. [color=seagreen]“Mm. Doesn't really matter how I got here. What matters is that I'm here now, right, Mari baby?”[/color] [color=8EE5EE]“Oh, of course there is no place I would rather you be, mon coeur.”[/color] his words make her cheeks go warm with childish delight and she takes a sip from a nearly empty teacup sitting on the poet’s bedside. She doesn’t swallow, instead leaning over and pressing her lips against Daimyon’s, and so, with his head tilted back, pouring the spiked contents down his throat. She lingers at his lips for a little longer before sitting upright again. [color=8EE5EE]“But, actually. I do have a more [i]interesting[/i] idea in mind.”[/color] Here, she kisses him again, enough to leave the poet breathless. [color=8EE5EE]“You’d do anything for me, wouldn’t you, Daimyon?”[/color] [color=seagreen]“Anything?”[/color] He grins after receiving a kiss worthy of any drug. [color=seagreen]“Anything.”[/color] [color=8EE5EE]“Good. Then I want to make you completely mine, chéri…and I trust you won’t have [i]any[/i] objections.”[/color] [/hider] --- [hider=XX+6/XX/20XX] [quote] Enjoyment pleasure memories. Would want to do. More often? More likely? Pour longtemps? [/quote] [hr] [center][img]https://i.imgur.com/Qt9DFLQ.gif[/img][img]https://i.imgur.com/fhGJRRR.gif[/img][/center] [color=seagreen]“A...ahh!”[/color] Daimyon exclaims between long hisses through gritted teeth. He breathes quick and shallow breaths, his senses overwhelmed. His body thrashes forward as a single tear appears in his eye from the pain. [color=seagreen]“S-stop!”[/color] [color=8EE5EE]“Do you really want me to?”[/color] grins the darker haired woman, stood before the restrained, bare-chested man with a little blade in her hands. The serrated end is crimson where it catches the room’s light, and a little bead of blood is left in its wake upon the man’s chest. [color=8EE5EE]“Are you sure? Oh, we’re having so much fun, mon coeur!”[/color] Upon further revelation, the blade is not a traditional tool—in fact, it is one half of a set of sharpened gardening shears, having been taken apart in the middle at the crux of both individual blades. [color=seagreen]“F-fun...”[/color] He looks up at his tormenter, the lovely Marianne, and in a moment's clarity wonders how they got this far. Nothing poetic comes into his mind to describe the situation: only pathetic winces and pleas. His mind screams for release, for the pain to stop, yet at the same time a wave of sick pleasure rattles his weak body. [color=seagreen]“Let...go....”[/color] [color=8EE5EE]“Nope. I don’t want to. And by the looks of it…”[/color] she takes his face into her hands and gazes deeply into his eyes. Her own are the same teal as ever, but look wild with narrowed pupils and her unsettling grin never leaving her lips. She traces the tip of the blade down his neck, and his chest, all the way to his hips and the edge of his trousers. Here, she pauses. [color=8EE5EE]“...your body doesn’t want me to, either.”[/color] A shrill laughter follows, and the poet draws a sharp breath at the feeling of the blade on his torso. Is she wrong? He doesn't want to know. [/hider] --- [hider=XX+7/XX/20XX] [quote] Motive notes revealed. Interference? Does not seem. D came to see me today. Why? Maybe… [/quote] [hr] [center][img]https://i.imgur.com/Qt9DFLQ.gif[/img][img]https://i.imgur.com/fhGJRRR.gif[/img][/center] The poet stirs awake, waking from a dream he would forget in the next instant. His eyelids feel heavy and his mind sings a sleepy tune still—it must be rather early. There is complete silence in the room, no noise filtering in from outside and no sign of the morning announcement on the black screen. He takes a deep breath and wipes his forehead full of sweat. Did he have a fever dream? He cannot recall a moment of it, yet its sensation seems to envelop his entire body. It is a weird, tingly feeling—one that he has felt already. He even made a note about it, a startlingly similar experience that he went through yesterday: jolting awake in the early morning, visibly perturbed by an unknown dream that only left a persistent sensation on him. He sits up on his bed with a new conviction: he is going to find the missing pieces here and now. He closes his eyes in focus and attempts to make sense of these feelings. It is...dull, yet fiery, and ever-present. It is not meandering but focused. It's a draw, an impetus that wants to push him towards something. Something...or someone. [i]Marianne…[/i] It has to be her. ———— [i]Knock knock.[/i] Daimyon Londe adjusts his vest, pulling it together. He stands before a door he's used to seeing now. He waits for a moment, and then another one, his hands fidgeting behind his back. The door soon opens and the herbalist stands inside, wondering who could want to see her. [color=seagreen]“We have to talk,”[/color] he says curtly when the door opens. [color=8EE5EE]“Good morning…?”[/color] Marianne asks, her long hair swept back in a single messy ponytail indicative of her having been half asleep. She gazes up at Daimyon with tired eyes, and after a moment of recognition her pupils narrow and she feels her fingers digging into the skin of her palms as she holds a fist balled at her side. [color=8EE5EE]“Daimyon? What time is it? ...is it morning already? It’s so quiet.”[/color] [color=seagreen]“It is early; for that I apologise. But I have...an urgent matter to discuss. Can I come in?”[/color] The poet makes an effort to appear dignified, even in the face of such confliction. [color=8EE5EE]“Of course.”[/color] the herbalist attempts to keep her cool. She seems anxious? Still, she gestures towards the inside of her room and lets the poet in without much more hesitation. The whole time, her face scans his for any indication of the purpose of his visit. Daimyon looks away from the woman for a couple long seconds, trying to collect his thoughts. There is an unsettled expression on his face when he turns back and looks her in the eye once again. [color=seagreen]“Marianne...I've been feeling things. For several days now. An impulse, drawing me inexplicably towards you. I've thought long and hard about what it might be, but in the end, there is only one conclusion I can arrive at...”[/color] [color=8EE5EE]“Yes…?”[/color] [color=seagreen]“...I love you.”[/color] The herbalist’s whole body quivers and droops in response. She has her arms wrapped around herself as if suddenly freezing, and with an almost terrified gaze she looks up at the poet again. [color=8EE5EE]“...excuse me?”[/color] [color=seagreen]“I did not realise it myself for the longest time...but it has to be.”[/color] He steps up to the shocked woman and lays his hands on hers, gently pulling them away from her. [color=seagreen]“I love you, Marianne.”[/color] [color=8EE5EE]“No...no.”[/color] her eyes widen more and she takes Daimyon’s face into her hands, tilting his head down so she can search it for any hint that this is a joke. [color=8EE5EE]“...you cannot, Daimyon. Please tell me this is a joke. ...please.”[/color] Though the poet imagined many ways such a heavy confession can go, he did not expect the herbalist's reaction. [color=seagreen]“You...don't share in the feeling, I presume?”[/color] [color=8EE5EE]“It isn’t that. Oh, Daimyon…”[/color] Marianne runs her thumb over his cheek, and when she really cannot find malice or jest in his expression, her arms move to be wrapped around her again. [color=8EE5EE]“Not me. ...anybody but me. Why me? Oh, Dieu...why me?”[/color] [color=seagreen]“Alas.”[/color] Daimyon allows himself a slight smile in the tense atmosphere. [color=seagreen]“Words I can command...but my heart, I cannot.”[/color] [color=8EE5EE]“Still. It could have been anyone but me, Daimyon.”[/color] she refuses to meet his gaze, tightening her arms around herself before letting out a long sigh. When she looks back up at him again, it is with sadder eyes than he has seen her with yet. Wordlessly, she lets her arms reach up and around the taller man’s neck and gets on the tips of her toes to give him a kiss that is very different in nature from all hers prior. [color=8EE5EE]“...I am sorry, Daimyon. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”[/color] she continues to murmur against his lips, though her grip on him is tighter still, almost as if she’s clutching onto him to escape from a bad dream. [color=8EE5EE]“...please, do not love someone like me. You cannot, and you must not. I’m so sorry…”[/color] [color=seagreen]“Please, Marianne...don't be.”[/color] He gives her a small kiss on the cheek back. [color=seagreen]“What could you even feel sorry for...?”[/color] [color=8EE5EE]“...I wish I could tell you. But some things in this life are best left unsaid.”[/color] the herbalist replies in an uncharacteristically melancholy tone, holding Daimyon Londe tighter, and for a longer period of time. [color=8EE5EE]“...it is still so early. Can you...give me some more time to consider it, Daimyon? Maybe I shall sleep on it. It is so sudden, and…”[/color] [color=seagreen]“Ah...yes. Naturally.”[/color] The poet lets her go, perhaps too suddenly. He cannot help but think that she is merely being courteous with him, and she does not share what he feels for her. [color=seagreen]“I shall find you tomorrow then. Goodbye.”[/color] [color=8EE5EE]“...wait.”[/color] [color=seagreen]“...hmm?”[/color] [color=8EE5EE]“I…”[/color] the herbalist struggles for words. Still, she lets one of her hands linger at his, giving it a tiny squeeze, [color=8EE5EE]“...does it not bother you, loving someone, in a place like this, where life is so transient?”[/color] [color=seagreen]“Life is transient anyway. Live in the moment—that's all you can do.”[/color] He smiles a sorrowful smile at her before finally leaving her room. [/hider] --- [hider=XX+8/XX/20XX] [quote] D loves me…? C’est impossible. But this feeling of ‘unconditional’ as they say. It is nice to know someone who does not hold things against you. He came to see me yesterday. What does it mean? Does he enjoy this? Shaun wants to talk in his room. Interference. Must continue to study D when return. Hope all will be well. Cannot wait; withdrawal is bad. What is his motive note? Will it help get out? ...must keep D safe. [/quote] [hr] [/hider] --- Daimyon sank low on the desk as he finished the last note. Saying he did not believe what he had just read would be a massive understatement. His hands were shaking as they desperately clutched the piece of paper, and a million feelings suddenly rose within him, all swirling around Marianne Roche. Denial lasted moments before fiery fury overtook it, that itself to be soon replaced by anguish. Worst of all, his heart was conflicted. Why was it so conflicted? The various emotions threw his mind's ship around like a stormy tide, and in the end he was too paralysed to even do anything. Then, something caught his eye. Another paper, smaller than the rest and almost hidden away on the large table. He reached for it with a quivering arm—was there more? [hider=A Letter] [i]My dearest Daimyon, Sometimes we do things we are not proud to face. I know that I will be unable to tell you the things we have done in person, so I hope this letter will suffice. I hope you can take my word for it when I say I am sorry for all I have done to you. Bad habits die hard, is that how it is said in English? If you are wondering of the scars you might find on your chest (and you can check after having read this letter) those are of my doing. To say you willingly went along with it is a blatant mistruth—a mixture of sedatives and aphrodisiacs may have aided me in getting what I want. I don’t know if you will remember me or the times we spent together, good and bad. It is likely that very little was recorded in your notebook. But if it is of any solace, I do remember. I chose to give you this note today because things seemed quieter, and I had the opportunity to think over what you told me. You told me you loved me, Daimyon Londe. Unconditionally, you loved somebody like me. It was not the aphrodisiacs speaking, but the man himself. Did you mean it? When I looked into your eyes, I felt that you did. I’m sorry I could not give you a response there and then. You said something very peculiar to me then, that we must [color=seagreen]“live in the moment”[/color]. Life in the day-to-day for you really...does consist of living in the moment, doesn’t it? I hope it will not always be so. It is a difficult life to lead in here. I asked you if you could love, still, being trapped in here, for I thought it a strange notion. In reflection upon my own feelings, I wonder what I feel for you. Perhaps it is an addiction. Perhaps it is more? Your kindness resonates with me. I know this is a lengthy letter, but I have chosen to take your words to heart. I love you, too, Daimyon Londe. Whether we are in here, or we get to taste freedom, I want to try to become a better person, if only to give back the kindness you’ve given to me. I want to spend more time with you, and I want to get to know you further. But I am in love with the man I have already been able to spend a lot of time with. It feels liberating to get this off my chest, even in a letter! When you have finished reading this, please come find me. I cannot wait to see you, and to be able to try to make something of this new chapter in our lives. Will you record it in your notebook, too? Do you think you will still love somebody, especially like me, after knowing these things? I know that I will love you, and I will fill in all those gaps in your memory wherever I can. Until then, mon trésor. Please, come see me soon! Yours affectionately, Marianne Roche[/i] [/hider] No. This, he could not take anymore. He pushed away the letter, raised his hands to his face and began sobbing. All of a sudden, a voice sounded through the room. It was not Monokuma's. [color=D1c2bf]‘Everyone, this is Cyrus. I want to meet everyone in the dining hall within fifteen minutes. This is an emergency. I repeat: This is an emergency, meet in the dining hall.’[/color] An emergency? Perhaps this was the poet's chance to escape this despair. With great effort, he pushed himself up from the table, wiping the tears from his cheeks. He could, however, not tear his eyes away from the pile of notes—so he picked and crumpled them all up, throwing them back onto the table. [i]Marianne was dead,[/i] he told himself. [i]It was time to leave the past in the past.[/i] Yet, betraying himself, he picked up the letter and took it with him, sliding it inbetween the first pages of his notebook. He walked out of the room, and made sure it was locked. He vowed to never to enter the Infinite Herbalist's room again, and never let anyone else do it either. He would drop her e-handbook back at his own place, then head straight for the break room. Her story might have been over. But his was not.