[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/Qt9DFLQ.gif[/img][img] http://i726.photobucket.com/albums/ww267/Melz00r/Noel_zpsuumpotzw.gif [/img][/center]
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Round two was magical. Daimyon felt much more on the same wavelength with Noel, and it reflected in their dance. They drifted around on the dancefloor with surprising grace to the slower, melodic number. The poet knew not how long it lasted, he only knew he wanted it to last longer. It was an all too brief escape from reality; this whole party was. Damn silver linings—he was looking at a sunny sky at last, basking in its warmth. Even Monokuma's unprompted and certainly uninvited appearance, which he barely noticed, could not bring him down.

Noel also had far too much fun to notice everyone’s least favorite ursine sneak into the party.  Was there ever another time she was going to get to dance like this again? It wasn’t until the bear really began its venture onto the dancefloor that Noel was forced to notice it by virtue of almost knocking into him. Why did monokuma have to disrupt their first chance at true leisure in such a long time? Well Noel was about to find out. The delightful chords faded away, drawing attention to a terrifying coughing fit. Daimyon looked over to his table and saw the moment warmth gave way to cold, and life to death. The sunny sky darkened and a shattering storm struck. The magic was over.

Mercy was dead.

Others reacted before Daimyon did, rushing to the woman's aid. Felix tried to resuscitate her, but someone else—Thomas, the poet recalled, a newcomer he had not spoken to much so far—quickly declared her dead. There was no reason not to believe him: Mercy lay in a pool of blood, pale and motionless. Dead without ever seeing her killer.
It was definitely scoop-worthy. The infinite plague doctor tragically dying in the middle of the party.  The destroyed Felix trying to save his amour, but it was obviously not going to work. How was blowing air into her mouth going to help when she was choking due to her blood-filled lungs? No, they didn’t have the tools indeed to save Mercy.  All Felix was doing was putting himself in danger of ingesting whatever it is that had caused this to Mercy. [color=897691]”I’m sorry Felix.”[/color] She muttered softly. [color=897691]”It’s too late…”[/color]

Noel’s words also forced Daimyon to believe it. After he had accepted the fact, other details caught his eye. It was a nonviolent murder, and that somehow made it even ghastlier. Pieces of broken glass were scattered around her, and it did not take long for the poet to reach the likely conclusion. The questions did not cease with that, however, but only multiplied. Why her?

[hr]
It was the day after Felix had recruited the Infinite Poet for a higher cause—organising the event that would bring the despaired group hope once again. Daimyon was sitting in his room, wildly flipping through the pages of his notebook, looking for inspiration. After hearing the runner's and Krista's instrument practice earlier that day, he wanted to write an accompanying piece, but his train of thought ground to a halt a couple lines in. Lacking other sources, he tried revisiting his earlier work to ignite the fires again. Finally he seemed to have found a poem to go on; it was in the very first section of his notebook, where he had copied over works from previous iterations of the document. Being a prolific author and a frequent note-taker, the current booklet was not Daimyon's first. A couple selected poems from early on in his career had survived every switch and loss and were present in this one.

In the middle of reading said work, however, the screen in his room suddenly turned on. It snapped the poet right out of his creative reverie, and he looked at the appearing monochromatic bear with much annoyance. He was presenting a new motive, something about a virus and a mask. In his mind Daimyon knew it was important, and he did listen to the end of the broadcast, but that was all. When the screen faded to black once more, he turned back to his notebook and his eyes caught an entirely different, though similarly old, poem.

[center][color=seagreen]Memories I.

Memories are the faculty of the mind by which
Information is encoded, stored, and retrieved.
They are the retention of information over time which
Is for the purpose of influencing actions perceived.

By definition. The real mind is more like a patchwork.
A collage. Highlights of the past collected by an
Absent-minded janitor, randomly picking through
A montage. Sifting through dusty corners of the conscious.

Yet it also is something constant. A lifeline.
An unbroken stream of self, pure, concentrated,
That defines one. Indeed, we are our memories,
And our memories are us.[/color][/center]

It was the first part in a series, though the other pieces were elsewhere. Daimyon shook his head and returned to reading over his original choice.

[hr]
He could not figure out why anyone would target Mercy specifically—was she even targeted? Did it matter at all for the killer who drank the punch? It seemed unlikely. Plagued with heavy questions and lacking answers, the poet found himself agreeing with Faith.

[color=seagreen]“Yes. Give us...anything we can start on. Please.”[/color]