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[center][color=seagreen]When thou seest a Situation most Arcane,
Thou shalt from mawkish Gawking refrain.
Thou shalt turneth thine other Cheek,
Giveth it nary a Murmur, not a Squeak,
Just a Phrase spoken in Brief:

[i]What the fuck?[/i][/color]

—Daimyon Londe: Quick Lesson #26[/center]

Daimyon picked out his breakfast idly from the counters. From sandwiches to scrambled eggs, each was more enticing than the last. The pleasant scents and indistinct chatter in the background brought to his mind a vision of a simpler, happier life. As he took a sandwich onto his plate, he quietly resolved that he would get back to that life—or create it for himself. Ambling to the coffee machine, he made sure to give an appreciative nod and smile to Bliss and Emily. He had sung their praises in his notebook many times.
There was a bit of a queue at the machine; it was Cyrus who stood right in front of him. As they waited, he chatted up the politician with some small talk, though their conversation did not get far. The poet took this time to eat his sandwich, until they eventually both had their beverage in hand. Cyrus stayed near the counter, sipping it slowly, while Daimyon looked back at their table: Noel had already left. It saddened the poet; he really wanted to spend some more time with her. [color=seagreen][i]‘Perhaps it's for the better,’[/i][/color] he mumbled to himself, [color=seagreen][i]‘lest she also end up dead.’[/i][/color] The more he tried to get the previous trial's events out of his head, the stronger they floated before his mind's eye, scarring him with disturbing images. Since he only had his written word to rely on—having never gotten into drawing—the scenes were even more dramatic and brutal than they had actually been.

His eyes found the door, and thoughts of escape fomented in his mind. He wanted to get out of the break room, away from people's prying and judgemental eyes. Lock himself in his room and cry and write and cry... He took a big gulp of his coffee. His resolve was returning, bit by bit, just enough to hang on. He turned back to Cyrus, eager to strike up another conversation—only for his attention to be drawn away by a loud outburst. The poet turned to see Zachary address the gathered Infinites in blunt terms, only to be answered even blunter by Isaiah, like fighting a spade with a club. All eyes were on the two men, though they did not seem to care much. Daimyon saw Cyrus finish his coffee, his eyes already full of fire, no doubt envisioning how he would show these dense fools some logic. He looked visibly disappointed when Alice took the wind out of his sails.

By that time, though, the poet's attention was elsewhere entirely. The bickering did not give him much cause for hope, so he tried to tune it out, scanning the break room for, perhaps, someone uninvolved to talk to. He found someone, no, [i]something[/i] else. Rubbing his eyes to make sure the coffee had nothing funny in it, he soon realised that there indeed was a [i]masked, fully armoured man[/i] in the room, making his way towards a table. The rest of the Infinites paid him no mind, still focused on the argument. Now, the poet had long learned that what was news to him was often not news to others, so instead of calling loudly out to the man, he quickly whipped out his notebook and started paging through it frantically. He was not in the ‘People’ section, which meant that he had to look through his day-to-day diary. [color=seagreen]“Who is this strange fell—”[/color]

[color=#F08172]“J-Justiciar!”[/color]

[color=seagreen]“Justi-who?”[/color] Daimyon murmured, looking up from his notebook. The man was now sitting at the table of Bliss and Emily. He was talking to the former, telling her to—oh god, he had a gun! [color=seagreen]“W-wait!”[/color] the poet cried weakly, but everyone was too focused on the unfolding drama. His mouth hung open as Justiciar accused Bliss of one heinous crime after the other, of—Daimyon struggled to comprehend it!—being a child serial killer. In moments, there was a gun aimed squarely at the nanny, and it fired with the same merciless immediacy. The poet saw it all, as if in slow motion: the bullet popped her head with the same ease that a dart would pop a balloon filled with water. But that was not water that exploded everywhere, that was...that was... [color=seagreen]“Oh god, oh god, [i]fuck![/i]”[/color] Daimyon cried as the world began spinning around him. He grew pale. Driven by some unknown force, he lunged into the kitchen and threw up the poor sandwich wholesale into the sink.

When he reemerged, still wheezing, several new shocks pounced on him immediately: Justiciar was Noel. And she just killed Bliss point-blank. And, inexplicably, the rest of the Infinites—with the exception of Emily, who was the only one Daimyon could relate to—almost looked [i]nonplussed[/i]. Daimyon tried to remind himself again that everyone but him must have known of this other identity of hers, but that reasoning failed now. He strode, as if possessed, right up to Noel, his face reddening. [color=seagreen]“What [i]is[/i] this?! This has got to be some...some sick [i]joke![/i]”[/color] His voice quickly lost its familiar, airy quality as anger rose within him. [color=seagreen]“Noel—how? And why? [i]Why?![/i] Do you know—you must know what happens now; what have you [i]done?[/i] Explain yourself!”[/color]