[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/Qt9DFLQ.gif[/img][/center]
[indent][indent][indent][indent][indent][indent][hr][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent]

The commotion outside did not cease even as Daimyon and company entered Davis' room—the broken door did little to quieten the noise. For the poet, it meant that his anxiety only got worse, especially as he took in the overbearing environment. The gilded walls and furniture assaulted the eyes, while the faint metallic scent of the numerous trophies added to an atmosphere that felt thoroughly artificial. Daimyon's wandering eyes quickly focused on an out-of-place artefact, a glitch in the golden matrix: a plain wooden chest sitting on the bed. Its lock, lying on the floor.

A chuckle that felt similarly out of place came out of the poet. He chuckled because he was a character in front of an important plot device. He realised that everything leading up to this point was part of a plot. A formulaic plot, even: the building tension, nice and slow, before the eruption of action. Screams, explosions, drama. Death. This climax propelled the selected group of characters to arrive at the next important location with the device, be it anything, that would bring the story to its next stage. It all fit together; there was not a doubt in Daimyon's mind about it. His only question remained as such: who was writing this story? Was it some megalomaniac director's idea of the next killer game show? Was it one of the masterworks of life?

Was it all Davis' orchestration?

It mattered little, in the grand scheme of things. The screens were alive again, displaying the battle of wits between Davis and Thomas, whom Daimyon had read plenty about. Then, in a flash, Thomas was dead, his head severed from his body. He, too, was a plot device, even more than he was a character: with his purpose of setting up the next stage fulfilled, there was no use for him anymore. Even still, the efficient writer managed to squeeze out one final bit of relevance out of him: some expository dialogue, hinting at a resolution that seemed both far-fetched and far-away.
The poet felt that the man's impact called for a flashier, more dramatic death—but he was not the writer here. He was not the one in control. He was a character, so much so that he even had a physical script: his notebook. His notebook was him; he knew all that was written in there and nothing more. Everything else was improvisation.

The warning that came from Davis sounded harsh and serious, but Daimyon knew better. When, ever, did the protagonist heed the villain's advice? He knew what he had to do. It was all he [i]could[/i] do—it was written.

He stepped up to the bed. The chest, this wonderful plot device, lay invitingly in front of him—what could it contain? What could sit inside it that brought this amazing and despairful story forward? The poet knew there was little use wondering. He pulled up the hasp.

A treasure trove of murder unveiled before him. Weapons of all sorts, melee and guns alike, lay in a heap in the chest. There were knives, daggers, pistols and other small arms that Daimyon, far from being a weapons expert, could not identify. What he knew, however, was more than enough for him to realise that this was a chest of enormous power. Armed so thoroughly, anyone even slightly proficient could have taken on and taken down the entire group of Infinites if they so chose.

The poet's nihilistic enthusiasm quickly gave way to a sense of dreadful responsibility. Letting this trove of weapons fall into the wrong hands would have been catastrophic. He felt agency again, agency to change how this plot was going to unfold. Acting on his first instinct, he slammed the chest shut.

But it was too late.

Two others were already by his side, their eyes also drawn to the artefact. One was the strong, suited man who he still could not recall, and the other was a small girl who nonetheless eyed the chest intensely. Daimyon did not know whether they saw him opening it or if they knew what was hidden inside—but he knew he would not be able to stop their curiosity.

[color=seagreen]“Let me just say,”[/color] he said, slowly, his hands still on the chest, [color=seagreen]“that this chest must not leave this room.”[/color]

[center][@addamas] [@Majoras End][/center]