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Daimyon found the silence following his speech unwelcome. Here he was, having just finished the monologue of a lifetime, and no one even graced it with a reply. He assumed, naturally, that the Infinites were simply taken too far aback by the merits of his impassioned words, but still. Talk about a tough crowd.

In the wait that dragged on, the poet kept his attention on Thomas. He was, after all, the one his reply was directed at. Surely, even cartoonishly conniving villains had enough decency to respond to such a gracious olive branch, he thought. He believed he had been fair enough in his proposal, at least, though he braced for further escalation. After a minute, he [i]asked[/i] for further escalation, or anything at all, by anyone.

But nothing came. The tension remained palpable, suffocating almost, but it lingered in the atmosphere. Like an imperceptible black fog, it swirled over the group but never materialised. Daimyon could feel it, as much as he could feel the chill when Thomas looked him dead in the eyes. Yes, dead—that was the right word for the biomechanic's expression. The fire in it that had accentuated his mad ambition just minutes ago was snuffed, leaving behind only darkness; an abyss a well-read poet does not stare long into.

[i]Nietzsche... Beyond Good and Evil. 1886.[/i] The flash of remembrance caught the poet off-guard. It was just a snippet, but it was so clear and so bright... How long had it been?

Then the monster was alive again, light returning to his eyes. As if his soul left his body for a brief moment, only to now return. Still, the glint seemed different, as if Thomas was not the same—
[i]Thud.[/i] Daimyon did not see the clown's back-fist coming, but that was his own folly. Truth be told, he felt relieved at this jolt back into reality, which he might have verbally expressed were it not for the ample dosage of pain that came with it. The surprise ended quickly enough that he could consciously see the e-handbook—the e-handbook! The root of all their conflict, the hill he was to die on. There it went, sliding effortlessly away from him, right into the hands of Denis. He scrambled to get up, but his body was slower than his mind, clumsier too. His arms wobbled under the weight of his tall body when Thomas spoke but gained furious strength with each word of the green-haired villain.

[color=seagreen]“I've never wished harm...on anyone.”[/color] He finally pushed himself up and got to dusting off his outfit. [color=seagreen]“But with any luck...I might sing your eulogy one day.”[/color]
He looked after Thomas and Denis as they walked out of the room. Jezebel announced the end of the meeting. The others were getting up. Looking over them, the people who sat frozen silent when he needed their support, he felt disgust rising in his throat. Dull pain struck his head: the transition from quiet to noise was too sudden. Or perhaps it hurt because it was so full of throbbing thoughts: the e-handbook, the plan. Marianne. The Nietzsche quote was floating at the back of his mind still. Nothing made sense.

He could not leave like this.

Taking a deep breath, in and out, he walked over to where Faith and Noah were.
[color=seagreen]“How are you holding up?”[/color] he asked.