Hidden 7 mos ago Post by Mateotis
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Mateotis The Guardian

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Unfinished collab with @AimeChambers; works standalone

As Daimyon felt his head pulsate with a painful mix of irritation and anger, he realised that social interaction was the last thing he needed. Noah's words annoyed him; he could not even manage a strained smile to appear nonchalant. There was nothing wrong with his quick-fire verbiage—verbiage it was, indeed, but the Infinite Poet would be the last to judge him for that. It was more a matter of perception: in the current circumstances, Daimyon felt like he would have asked a heavenly muse revealing the secrets of poetry to please stay silent. But, since he began this conversation, he had foregone all such privilege.

Social norms—what a cruel mistress.

The thrifty boy was already inspecting his legs for damage when the poet's mental tirade subsided, and he was slow to utter a reply in protest.
“Thank you, but as long as my body moves, I am not worried.” He took a sluggish step backwards to demonstrate—more to himself than anything—that his body indeed moved. “I'm sure you would know, Noah. The body...heals. The mind does, too, I just...I just need to rest. A good night's sleep...makes me forget everything.”
He breathed in sharply. His eyes shifted to Noah, who seemed to acknowledge his words without much ado, and launch into his theories about Thomas' plan and motivation.

He let out the breath.

The biologist continued speaking, and Daimyon refocused.
“A hostage...?” he asked as he looked after the boy. “Truly? Besides—where are you heading in such a haste?”

“As horrible as it may be, I wasn’t properly paying attention at the time. The boy-” With his hands not full anymore, tho still coated in crimson, he reached for his PDA and brought it out. “Caora. They want to make sure no one saves any hostages or the boy will be sacrificed.”

The name brought forth some thoughts in Daimyon: he had read this morning about a few escapades with Caora early on in their imprisonment at Axis Mundi. The memories felt barely authentic and distant, and the latter bothered the poet the most. Having trouble keeping information he had read merely a few hours ago in his head could be catastrophic. In the face of impending panic, he held onto the Nietzsche bit as proof that his memory was still working, and chalked up his faults to his current disturbed mood.

“Suffice to say that although brutal, makes sense on a purely logical level,” Noah continued. “Only one person will be sacrificed without the chance of extra unnecessary casualties. However, the approach was poorly executed and will probably result in factions and infighting instead of fighting against the true mastermind.” He wiped the PDA quickly on his shirt before stuffing it into his back pocket.

“That is...not difficult to see.” Daimyon nodded; again, refocusing. “I simply cannot believe Thomas does not understand this. He must. Yes...” He looked up at the ceiling for a few seconds. “The state of nature—that's what he wants. Not Hobbes, but our Thomas. Where lives are...‘nasty, brutish, and short’.” he exclaimed the centuries-old quote, relieved that his mind had not yet gone. “A might-makes-right world. Might be the end of us all, if you don't mind me saying.”

An awkward silence descended on the two: neither took any pleasure in discussing the villain's plans. Daimyon, ever socially-aware, thought it fit to change the topic.
“Regardless. Where are we heading?”

“I must analyze this sample in the laboratory to test my theory on the nitroglycerin. Also, I would be most grateful to hear more about our sadly deceased Infinite Herbalist. The collaborations we could have created would have been illustrious!” He shifted his arms so that he held onto his blood-stained coat without getting more on his comfortable sweater. “You were close to the deceased, yes? Or that is what I have picked up from this interaction. I am very sorry for your loss.”

“Oh, I?” the poet answered after a moment's delay, unaccustomed to the topic switching yet again so quickly. “Y-you might say that. I would also rather not talk about it, if you don't mind.” He adjusted the collar of his shirt. “I would, however, gladly accompany you to the laboratory. Anything to take my mind off everything.”

Daimyon and Noah spent their next few hours in the laboratory. The scientist found his stride amidst the vials and microscopes, while the poet watched and made casual conversation. His head still hurt; it was starting to get worrisome. Trying to summon up thoughtful discourse felt beyond him. For much of the same reasons he also avoided mentioning Marianne: obfuscating and dancing away from the question whenever the curious boy prodded him. Instead, he asked Noah about his findings, which he shared dutifully. Daimyon did not understand much, but at least he got some room to breathe.

Eventually, the science only made his headache worse, so he thanked his new friend for the wonderful time and headed home. Jogging down the stairs from the third floor, he turned to the patient's quarters. He stopped at Marianne's room: it was closed and looked just like he had left it. Yet, in the back of his mind, the poet knew that he had betrayed his last promise to her and had failed to protect her legacy. He felt weak; his mind's troubles manifested in a cold sweat running down his back. He left the second floor.

He sighed in relief once he had arrived in his room, but it offered him no respite. Though his table was clear, he knew that Marianne's notes lay in the drawer. He opened it, just to make sure. They were there. He sat down at the table and took out his pen and notebook. The words did not come to him. His eyes wandered to the bed: it looked oh so inviting. A couple hours' rest, before the Night of Carnage would rain despair upon them once again. But he could not afford to rest. He could not afford to forget.

A clarity struck through the fog. He wrote it down.

My mind is leaky. It has a hole in it. It's probably at my ear. When my imagination races and blooms, I hear a tune. That is the imagination, leaking through my ear.
I've tried plugging it.
I've tried stymieing the flow.
I've tried living with it.
There is enough thought in there. My mind will never be empty.
It's just a bother that when I sleep
with my head sideways, resting
it pours out
absorbs into the pillow, forever lost
I have to refill it the next day
every day.

He looked at what he had just written: far from his best work, but encouraging nonetheless. One of his greatest fears was that his imprisonment would erode the creativity that had earned him Infinite status in the first place. As long as he could get inspired out of the blue, he was fine. He vowed to nurture this spark and spend the remainder of the afternoon writing.


“Alright boys and girls, IT''S TIME TO GET YOUR GAMBLING FREAK ON!”

Daimyon opened his eyes with a wheeze, jolted awake by the screaming bear. He raised himself up from the table he had laid his head on and looked around.

Where was he?

Soon enough he was leafing through his notebook. The announcement meant that he needed to do something and did not have much time for reading. He heard a commotion outside. It drew his curiosity, but he could not go out into the midst of people like this. He kept on reading and reading when a different voice came over the speakers.

“Those of you still on the second floor, or still hiding in your rooms on the first floor, please join the other hostages in the hallway of the patient's quarters. The faster we get this over with, the faster we can remove the mastermind from power.”

Though he heard this one fully, Daimyon did not feel like he understood it any better. He knew who the mastermind was but had written nothing about a way of removing him. What was that about hostages? And most important of all: who was the one talking?

That was the last straw. The poet could not bear all these unknowns, and as the man's voice kept coming and going from the airwaves, he made up his mind. After a cursory glance through the e-handbook, he stepped out of his room. Right away, he could see to his left the barricaded entrance to, according to the map, the resort. The threat was not empty then—they really could not get away through there. As he rounded the hallway, he saw people: about six or seven, with most of them waiting just before the end of the corridor. Daimyon strode up to them, spotting the guard that blocked passage: Denis, it must have been. Their eyes met, and Daimyon spied cold determination in the guard's. He also held a small device—holding it out, almost, showing it to everyone. It did not take an expert to figure out that it was a detonator, and that it connected to the contraptions scattered on the floor.

“Well, that is just...” he muttered to himself, adjusting his collar. “I never should have left the room.”

He did not trust his knowledge enough to talk to anyone, so he sat down against the wall and buried his head in his notebook. In some corner of his mind, he felt like these would be the last words he would ever read.
Hidden 7 mos ago Post by addamas
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addamas Trust me, I'm a liar

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“shit…” max almost bit his tongue as the sudden voice on the intercom spoke, jumping off of ice’s wall to look at Denis in the distance before sprinting to the resort only to see the path completely barricaded. “How did I miss that?”

Listening to Thomas’ schemes and plans infuriated Max. Resurrection? Preposterous. Max knew these kinds of people all too well; the sinister manipulators who lie and slither around the fears of men, just like Thomas’ now controlled Denis by feeding him lies. Max just regretted that he didn’t notice Thomas’ true nature sooner…

In any case, upon running back towards the other side, his eyes focused on Denis and observed exactly how many bombs were attached to the spy; they were not fooling around. Spotting Alice and Henry in the background also caught his attention, although his reaction to it was much more desperate.

“don’t do anything stupid! just let me think of something.” he shouted towards the duo as he frantically looked around until his eyes jumped towards the break room. “The break room! everyone get into the break room! you’ll be safer there!” He shouted to everyone.

No sooner than he finished his sentence, he spotted Alice and Henry walking past Denis, which gave Max a small relief. He then thought of the weapons supposedly hidden in Davis’ room and decided that those are the best option to stop Denis, so he ran there, shouting towards Ice and Alice who seemed a little too comfortable there, “Guys! I need you right now!” Before proceeding to check the door to Davis’ room for ways to breach it.
Hidden 6 mos ago 6 mos ago Post by Aewin
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Aewin Captain of the Love Train!

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Braden had been uncharacteristically quiet standing in the hallway of the patient’s quarters whilst Denis brandished his weapon of choice - multiple bombs scattered around the room with the detonator right in his control. He had left his puppets back in his room in his haste to check outside when Thomas’s announcement rang from the intercoms. It was rare that he would be without his precious puppets, yet here he was, standing amongst the crowd watching in horror as they became pawns in Thomas’s ever complicated game of chess with the mastermind.

The Phoenix Project sounded like something out of a silly game, there was no possible way someone could get resurrected. What was stopping Thomas from simply not following through with his promise after everything was done? Turning to Denis, Braden began to speak. Whether if it was out of fear for his life, or to bring some sense into the spy’s head out of some misguided sense of good in his heart, he didn’t know.

“You’ll die too if you blow us up, you know that right? You know there are some people that believe in their ego more than Thomas’s plan, so why gamble your life away and not see your father again?”

Jezebel looked over her shoulder. “Braden! When did you get here?” But she was totally ignored by the two men.

”I know I not smart, but Thomas is.” Denis's arm stiffened. ”If I die here, he just bring me back. He need us now. We need him.” Denis's thumb hovered over the detonator while Thomas and Davis continued to talk in the background. ”No one need to die now.”

“You’ve seen the plans for the machine, correct? How do you know it really works? That it’ll bring your father back the same way he was before. Thomas is an infinite, he’s not god.”

Denis grit his teeth. ”I know I not smart... but Thomas is! He explain it to me but I not quite understand. He in phoenix project, it will work!”

Was this progress? Braden wasn’t sure. “Yes, Thomas is smart. I’d say that was hot if he was older.” Braden then cleared his throat, going off track. “Thomas is a biomechanic. He can probably bring back your father, sure, but just the shell of his body would be there. How can Thomas promise that he would be anything like the father you know? Surely if Thomas was that smart, he would explain to his only ally how the project works.”

”He did explain, I just no understand it all!” Denis lowered his arm and pointed at Braden. ”How you know it no work? Where's your proof it no work?” He took a step forward. ”We so close to stopping Davis, while you all cower and do exactly what he want! Killing and being killed! No hero do those things for a mad man. Thomas different! Thomas smart! Thomas do what you all scared to do. Thomas and me be heroes. We save everyone, we raise everyone who die.”

Braden had no proof that it couldn’t work. He was banking on the idea that Thomas’s talent could only do so much to bring someone back to life. Was a person really a person if they did not have their memories? Who knew philosophy would be the topic that he’d use to try and survive. “You kill us now, and Davis will bring in more infinites. We are expendable to him. So many of us have died, there are simultaneous games happening at once, but even if people survive they are shuffled to the next game only to be killed again! Davis does not give two fucks about us dying right now, he probably has the next twenty infinites on standby in the damn elevators right now ready to take our place in this game. We are not important, Denis, that’s why we are in this stupid game.”

”But this only candidate's killing game.” Denis waved his finger at everyone standing in the hallway. ”Someone here important to him. Someone need to be selected.” Again, he took another step forward. Everyone was stepping back or at least repositioning themselves, But Braden remained put. ”He no want us all to die here. It set him back big.”

“You think you’re special because he used the term candidate? What is this, a fucked up recruitment? If Davis thought one of us was special, why risk them being killed in the killing game? If he thought one of us was special, he would not keep bringing people into this particular game and make it more challenging for us by prolonging the game like this.” Braden crossed his arms against his chest, feet pressed firmly to the ground as if he were trying to make a point in his argument. “Denis, think about it. Thomas has the ‘key’ to reviving anyone according to you, right? What’s stopping Thomas and Davis from working together, make this into a game so even if this ‘special’ one dies, he can revive them with this piece of tech.” He sighed. “Thomas hasn’t even tried to seem like he is one of us. He’s using you to keep us hostage during night of carnage, a night where if blood is shed for his plan, it could not be used to make him the blackened.”

Denis did not fire back with a response immediately. The growing anger in his face also seemed to subside. After looking Braden up and down, Denis smiled.”You scared.” He nodded to himself, as if just confirming a successful experiment. ”When my dad on trial, I not able to do anything. I could have pulled a gun on judge and escape, but I no confident in that. Dad found guilty, executed, forgotten.” He shrugged his shoulders. ”I had no courage then. No courage to save innocent father. Too scared I would be killed. That change now. Now I have courage. I have faith in myself. I put myself here because I no want anyone else to die.” He lifted up the detonator. His thumb was no longer hovering over the button, but instead was curled around the rest of his fingers. “I no want to push button. I only do that if any of you run.” He lowered his arm back down and nodded again. “No need to fear. Have faith and it work. That what Thomas told me.” Denis turned around and walked back to where he was standing a few moments ago, leaving his back pointed at the people he was holding hostage.

Braden could almost feel himself starting to laugh. He had been in this situation once before, just without the looming bomb threat. This had to be a trap, a spy could never leave his back wide open for an attack. What a shame, Denis was quite the cutie. Braden was the least capable of physical combat out of the group there - he was certain even Jezabel could kick his ass with the trinkets the trickster carried on her body. But the finger was off the trigger. That was progress, but not the goal.

Braden charged, empty fists curled into a ball, ready to land a strike on Denis’s head.

Denis had his back turned to Braden, so of course he couldn't see if he was being attacked right away. But Braden's sudden sprint forward was something the spy's keen ears were able to pick up on. It was not unreasonable to think that Denis knew what a running man sounded like. So he looked over his shoulder just in time to see Braden tighten his fingers together and drop his fist on the back of his skull. The spy was quick to use his empty right hand to “brush” the attack off to the side, causing the swing to narrowly clip his shoulder. With the blow deflected, Denis swung his right leg behind his left to tun himself towards Braden. He used the momentum to attempt to power his left hand into Braden's chest. Denis didn't seem to be concerned about the detonator accidentally activating. He believed that he could be resurrected, after all.

Braden could not let Denis’s left hand connect with his chest, worried that the detonator would go off if he touched it. He clumsily took a few steps back, falling over from the sudden momentum awkwardly on his buttocks. From the floor, Braden tried kicking out his feet in a desperate attempt to kick Denis’s shin so he could fall over as well.

Denis must not have expected his opponent to go down so easily, because he just stood there as Braden fell to the floor and kicked at one of the spy's ankles. His stretched out stance gave him a lot of stability, but Braden was determined to bring the spy down. The kick was hard enough to make Denis lose his footing, and he fell onto one knee. It was painful, but the spy had withstood much worse. He reached out with his right hand to seize the ventriloquist's ankle.

“Braden! Like... GHHAAAHHHHH!” Jezebel must have been afraid to hit her friend, because she removed her lattice-work gauntlet and threw it to Braden. With the two of them on the floor, Denis would perhaps not be able to reach for the device as easily.

Braden kept flailing his lower legs, trying to make it difficult for the spy to grab hold of his ankle as he reached out to grab Jezabel’s tossed gauntlet. With his sitting position, it was near impossible for Braden to land a good, painful hit on Denis - not that he could do it even with all the cards in his favour anyway. He tried kicking his feet out, looking to distract Denis by aiming for his gut long enough for him to slip the gauntlet onto his right arm. It seemed to be working, but Denis was slowly rising to his feet , keeping his hands in front of Braden’s feet to shield his throat and chest from any hits.

Unfortunately in his haste trying to wear the gauntlet, Braden had squeezed the button against his palm too soon. He could see the fist attached to the glove flying in the direction of the closest bomb to them, crushing the contraption under the extended fist and causing it to detonate beside them. Now that Denis was on his feet, the had just enough time to hug the detonator against his chest and brace for impact. Bits of plastic (and Braden) flew out from the explosion like shrapnel, and the spy was thrown against the adjacent wall with a loud thud. Had the bombs on the other wall blown up as well, Denis would likely have been dead. But as evident by all the blood, Braden was the only casualty at the moment. Denis slowly uncurled his arms and looked at where Braden use to be. He hung his head, staring at the floor as the infinites erupted into screams around him.

“Uh! Wha, Gah!?” Jezebel was at a loss for words. Even in a place like this, with death being so commonplace, it was hard to grasp what had just happened. There had been a few deaths during the night of carnage, but this was the first one that had been inflicted on each other.

But Braden’s death was not a vain one. He had kept Denis distracted long enough for the others to break into Davis’s room. What would they find once inside?
Hidden 5 mos ago Post by Mateotis
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Mateotis The Guardian

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The rising tide,
The quaking ground,
The erupting volcano,
The sweeping hurricane.

Nature's many powers.
Reminding us all that
We are just guests on this land
And She is its master.

—Daimyon Londe, Quick Lesson #11

Daimyon read on silently as the minutes ticked by. What was very much unlike him, however, was that he was not entirely focused on the hand-written words that filled his notebook's pages—he kept an ear open, keeping himself in the tense flow of the situation in the hallway. Why he did this, and why now of all times, he could not answer. Something was stirring in him. Anticipation quickened his heartbeats. Glancing up from the book every now and then, he saw a barely-changing scene: some Infinites moved back-and-forth robotically, others tapped their feet in impatience, and the braver tried to reason with the guard. Repeating patterns. Hardly exciting. But the poet felt something more; in his mind he was conjuring the image of an imminently erupting volcano. He could feel the earthquakes already.

When the first punch struck, he was only half-surprised. He jumped to his feet, sliding his notebook back to the wide front pocket of his shirt. Two young men were fighting fiercely before him; the others were watching with shock on their faces. He realised that an ill-timed strike could detonate one of the many bombs on Denis, the guard—whose name he had to remind himself of once more—, which could lead to a chain reaction of everything on the two walls exploding with him. A voice within him called for him to resign to his fate—a faint cry before the survival instinct suffocated it. Before his mind's eye, he could see smoke emerge from the top of the volcano. He heard the quakes getting louder. His heart beat in his throat—it would erupt soon. He had to get away.

He ran to the end of the hallway, rounding the corner, then to the end of the other half. The quakes were piercing his ear when he saw that they were real: a few Infinites were trying to break down a door, swinging at it with increasing strength. He could not name them all, but he knew exactly who the room they were standing before belonged to. His notes spoke in length about Davis, the Infinite Conquest, part of the ever-dwindling original crew that Daimyon himself was member of. After getting a sense of how much has happened since their imprisonment, the poet could hardly believe that he, of all people, was still standing.

None of this mattered. The instinct within him destroyed every dissenting thought as it echoed its singular directive: survive, survive, survive. Do whatever it takes to survive. He knew there was no known way out of the hospital. He knew nothing about unknown ways, only that they had to be. They had to be because a struggle without a chance for success was not how life wrote its scripts. When the poet called on the muses, which he had often done, he did so to ask their help in matching up his work to life. He never succeeded, of course, but in his long career he had learned a great deal about how the greatest storywriter of them all operated. Over the years, he wrote down the most important lessons in his notebook, always copying them over to the new one once his current one had filled up. One of these lessons was now at the forefront of his mind.

‘There is no struggle without meaning.’

Though the meaning of their current struggle eluded him, he never doubted the veracity of this lesson. It gave him hope each day, gave him the drive to work, at all times, to discover this meaning. It pushed him, now, to join the Infinites trying to break down the door.

“Let me help,” was all he said as he stood in the door with a few others. He knew his strength was not considerable—especially when compared to the well-built, suited man who stood beside him—, but that did not stop him. The noise in his head, the volcano rumbling, it drowned out everything else.

On a command, they all bashed against the door with their shoulders. The impact hurt, but only for a moment, before it submerged into the vortex of sensations that enveloped Daimyon. His muscles strained against the sturdy frame, again and again. Rhythmic struggle.

Then it happened. After a number of attempts, the combined power of the gathered Infinites dislodged the door, allowing for it to be opened. There was apprehension. Daimyon looked at the others, and they looked at him. The uncertainty of what they were going to find beyond the broken door, in the mastermind's lair, weighed heavily on all their minds. The poet, though—

—he was used to uncertainty.

After a silent nod, he pushed the door open. Darkness peered back at them, cajoling, inviting them to explore. Daimyon made a step forward, answering the call of the void. Moments later, his fear became reality.

The volcano erupted.

An explosion, ringing through the patient's quarters. Screams, piercing the ear and threatening to engulf them all in the sea of chaos. The darkness inside Davis' room suddenly became not just an inviting mystery, but a refuge from the fallout.

So Daimyon stepped inside.
Hidden 5 mos ago Post by BrokenPromise
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BrokenPromise : 3

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The dialog between Davis and Thomas continued. As soon as the chicken dinner came out, Thomas's smile vanished, and he was momentarily at a loss for words. ”Well?” Davis set down his utensils. ”I'm waiting.”

Thomas regained his composure and placed his hands on the console in front of him. ”Very well, Mr Gallo.” His smile swiftly returned. ”As you've said, perhaps we are both flawed. Clearly one doesn't have to be perfect to take up the perfection moniker.” He spread his arms. ”I think I would make a good mastermind, don't you? You seem to be entertained by what I've been able to do. I think I could stand in for you and continue to run things.”

An audible “hmph” came over the speakers. ”I see.” He raised a hand to his chin. ”So you're holding everyone hostage because you know they play a significant role in the killing game. And the only way things can continue is if I surrender the game to you?” He nodded a few times to himself before standing up. ”Sounds logical... from where you're standing.” Davis paced around his chair and placed his hands on top of it. ”But you misunderstand. I do not simply have a few hundred infinites, or even a thousand infinites. I don't even have just a million infinites or even a paltry trillion infinites. I have an infinite number of infinites. Most would wonder how such a feat was possible, but a boy as brilliant as yourself must have figured it out already...” Davis closed his eyes and grinned. ”You have heard of the Phoenix Project, haven't you Thomas?”

Thomas scoffed. ”That's clearly not what's happening here.”

”Because the Phoenix Project was a farce, right?” Davis put his hands together. ”It's so absurd, but it was exactly what you needed to manipulate Denis into doing your bidding. So the Phoenix Project clearly can't exist. You know this. But what if your lie unknowingly had a basis in fact? Maybe the reason why this killing game can last forever is because I have the power to bring the dead back to life?” Thomas said nothing, so Davis continued. ”Surely such a thing isn't impossible? Not in the greatest hospital known to man. We're so good that we can even cure death.”

”Davis, are you really willing to let Denis kill them all?” Thomas had his arms folded.

”Fortunately Thomas, you are not a threat I have to deal with.” He turned his back to the monitor, and also everyone watching. ”You were very entertaining, and had things gone a bit differently you might have even taken my place. But at the end of the day, chess is just a game about examining strategies, and you need to be aware of every piece on the board to claim victory.” Davis folded his hands behind his back. ”And this, is checkmate.”

Thomas stood up and looked to his right, clearly reacting to something off screen. Then he looked forward and flashed a confident smile. ”Even mistakes are made.” He said before Justiciar appeared on screen and took a swing at Thomas. The camera feed cut out just as Thomas's head was hacked off of his body. Only Davis was on the screen now.

”The night of carnage continues.” Davis turned to face the monitor again.”And if you value your lives, you will get out of my room immediately.” And with that, the monitors cut out again.

Davis's room was exactly what everyone would expect a master of conquest – or carnage – to look like. The room was filled with trophies, everything was gilded in gold save the bed sheets. Everything but a very ordinary looking wooden chest. It was relatively small, a bit taller than Daimyon's knee and a few feet wide. There was a hasp in place, but the padlock was on the floor at the foot of the bed.

The group in Davis's room could hear people storming out of their rooms.

“We need to think this through.” It was hard to tell, but it sounded a bit like Cyrus. “Would they really let any of us go? Too many of us will die if we split up and attack them separately.”

“My sister is alone out there!” Everyone was pretty sure that was Calvin. “I don't like it, but this might be my only chance to see her again! All your leadership has done is get more and more people killed!”

“...If you're going to insist on thinking with you shit-laden brain, maybe leave your hammer so that we can nail your coffin shut.” That had to be “Ragerus” speaking.

It sounded like everyone was already scattering. What was everyone going to do?
Hidden 5 mos ago Post by Mateotis
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Mateotis The Guardian

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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 could 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.

“Let me just say,” he said, slowly, his hands still on the chest, “that this chest must not leave this room.”

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Hidden 5 mos ago 4 mos ago Post by Majoras End
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As soon as Max had called them over, Alice hurried back to Henry, who had been helping the officer find a way to break the door open. "Maybe we can find a crowbar or something to pry it open? Or a sledgehammer?" Deimo suggested to the others. Yet the recon's attention was turned to something else happening. Braden was trying to talk sense into Denis, then a fight had broke out between the two. Already she could tell it wont end well. Luckily, Daimyon approached the group to help with the door. Then with their combined effort, the group managed to break the door off its hindges. "About time..." Alice said, stepping forward to walk inside Davis' room.

Then her intuition was correct, as an explosion gave way to chaos, and the ventriloquist had ended up as another victim. Henry held back the urge to throw up at Braden's gruesome fate, while Alice didn't really react to it. But a small part of her was glad he was gone. "This is the kind of hell you guys go through here?!" The pianist hid behind his sister, freaking out a bit. "You get used to it eventually." she shrugged.


"Hell no." Alice looked around. "Lets just head inside, okay?"

Henry nodded, and the siblings followed the rest of their group into Davis' room. "That must be it." Alice walked over to the wooden chest on the bed, while Deimo watched the exchange between Thomas and Davis end with the former having his head sliced off. "...Well, im gonna have nightmares for a week." He spoke up, dumbfounded. The recon looked over the poet's shoulder when he opened the chest, taking note of the contents inside...before Daimyon slammed the chest shut. "What the hell are you thinking?" she asked him. "Look, I just want to grab a couple of weapons, that's it. There's no need to go hostile." she tried to reason with the poet, but either way, she wasn't leaving without Parker's K-bar knife.
Hidden 4 mos ago Post by addamas
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A darkness...A glooming eclipse lurking behind the people so entranced by a wooden box; and at the center of it were two eyes filled with gravity. Max had already seen the contents of the box before Daimyon could close it, and that combined with Alice's reckless comment made the cop quite angry. His eyes slowly surveyed the wooden box, before sliding over to Alice.

“What if someone asked where you got the weapon? Would you show them?” He asked as he looked towards the box again. “This is a ticking time bomb, and we’re going to treat is as such.” His eyes peered towards Daimyon, revealing to the poet the intense determination inside the ultimate Cop.

“It is a dangerous tool, but even more than that, it is powerful...powerful enough to gut Gallo.” He slowly reached out his hand towards Daimyon, “Hand over that box please, I’ll make sure nobody uses it inappropriately.”
Hidden 4 mos ago Post by BrokenPromise
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The banter in Davis's room was interrupted by a loud ticking sound coming from somewhere inside his room. Davis did not appear on the monitor again, but everyone in his room could hear his voice come over the speakers. ”Was I not clear?” There was a scoff, or was it a chuckle. ”Leave. Immediately.”

Daimyon didn't have much time to think, but it was clear that leaving anything in this room wasn't going to work. He started to pull it out of the room, and his companions helped push.

Emily bit her lower lip. ”I can't believe we're doing this under a bomb threat! What's even in here!?”

Ice groaned. "Save your words for later you flipping cozen and push!"

As soon as they got out of the room, they heard a snap before the room was instantly engulfed in flames. It was so startling that Daimyon fell backwards onto the ground, before having Emily flop on top of him. It was just a matter of time before Max, Ice, Henry, and Alice fell on top of each other in that order. The chest had gotten out unscathed, but everyone could feel the heat rolling out of Davis's room.

”Daimyon, are you alright?” Emily felt around her her chest. ”Oh good, you're nose is free.”

"I still wouldn't mind if someone could get this churl off of me!" He sighed. "It's way past my bed time."

Jezebel was sitting with her back up against a wall. “What, happened?” She had her knees tucked against her chest.

Bliss seemed to have come out of her room, and was holding onto Cyrus's arm.”Cyrus, there was nothing you could have done this time. We were all too divided.” she looked at the floor. ”Sometimes, just surviving is a victory.”

“Meh.” Cyrus's glasses were cracked over. It was clear he had a lot he wanted to say, a lot he wanted to question. But he was trying his best to hold it in for now.

That was when the monitors sparked to life.

”How's every beary doing?” Monokuma appeared to be dressed up as a sports commentator. ”Welp, I'm here to let you know how the games are going. Caora and Mary have decided to fight Willow. Apparently Caora didn't want to stand around anymore, and wanted to show the world how strong he was. Mary and Juliette were so moved, they just had to become a part of his transformation.” The bear adjusted his papers. ”And Kyra is fighting Juliette, Noah, and Calvin. Calvin's just such a passionate guy, and our two newest infinites wanted in on that passion, if you catch my drift.” The bear set down his papers and folded his arms. ”The willow fight wasn't much, she just sort of rolled over the streamer or trap as soon as they entered her layer. Though I guess screamer and splat are more apropriate titles for those two now. I don't have any video of it, but we'll have an audio file up on our website you can download at www.despaircare.com/aaaaaahhhhhhhcreampuffisflatnow.WAV” Monokuma adjusted his papers again, but it was clear he wasn't reading them. ”Kyra's fight is actually still in progress. She managed to put a round between Noah's eyes, and Juliette is trying to hold her intestines in, begging for a mercy kill Kyra won't grant her. Calvin looks beary mad. Kyra's trying to bait him out with honey coated words. She's on a ferris wheel, so she's kind of hard to target. And now Calvi-” Monokuma's eyes shot open. ”What? Is that even legal!? That was a Davis level play there. I hate it!” Monokuma sighed. ”Calvin turned on the Ferris wheel. Kyra actually lost her footing. It's mopving kind of fast. Calvin just just has one chance to do this andifhe'snotquickhe'llmissithe'sgottodosomethingbecauseshe'ssocloseandherweaponisrightthereand OH!”Monokuma jumped backwards. ”Calvin wrestled for the gun, but ended up firing a bullet through himself. But... WHAT?!” Monokuma dove onto the desk. ”The round went right through him, passed through lord knows how many walls, and struck willow in her weak point! Great play, but Calvin won it for the opposite team.” Monokuma wiped some sweat(?) off of his head. ”Okay, Night of Carnage is over. I don't think we can really give the win to Calvin's team, but I think the real win goes to the person who made so much of this a possibility.” Monokuma was still panting. ”Krista! You are allowed to leave the killing game.” There was a pause. ”Krista? you there?” Monokuma groaned. ”Well this is embarrassing, she already found a way out.” He wiggled his nose. ”Looks like she committed suicide guys. That's an easy way out if I've ever seen it! Now who's going to open the door so that the nurse can let her out?” Monokuma sighed. ”Welp, guess she was a screw up to the very end! Remember kids, everyone gets out of the killing game eventually.”

Bliss's lower lip trembled. ”She...”

Cyrus shook off Bliss's hand. “I need to be alone for a moment.” Cyrus's scuffed into his room.
Hidden 4 mos ago Post by Mateotis
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Daimyon's warnings fell, predictably, on deaf ears. The two Infinites were closing in around him, each looking to get at the chest for their own reasons. The poet weighed his options: whether to step back and let them have it or hold onto it closely and prepare for a possible confrontation. He was still weighing when, as if irritated by his inaction, the writer of their story spurred them along. This time, the plot device was disembodied ticking and some very real, very stern words from Davis. The thought came to Daimyon that perhaps it was time for him to fulfil his role in the plot, just like Thomas had done—keeping the trove of murder away from his fellows, even if he had to pay for his heroics with his life.

He discarded that thought. Promptly.

“Looks like I was mistaken,” he spoke, sighing. “This chest is...too valuable for our journey to discard, it seems. Let's get it out of here first.”

His fellows, spurred to action by the ominously loud ticking, agreed, and helped him carry the deceptively heavy chest out the busted-down door. Not a moment after everyone was out did the room burst into flames. The poet's heart skipped a beat, and he fell on the ground out of surprise. Then it skipped another, for he suddenly found himself staring down a quite obviously heavy chest—two of them, in fact.

“The...the muses...” he uttered.
A profound sense of horrousal took hold of him. Faced with a situation his notebook could never prepare him for, he was at a loss. He felt weak, both physically and mentally. Before he could resign himself to the questionable fate of being crushed under a very gifted woman, however, she finally lifted herself off him. It took him a few seconds to get up—he drew a few quick breaths first, wiping his nose and checking for any blood. There was none. The only imprint of the incident, it seemed, was in his mind.

“I am...I am quite alright...”
His back aching, he scrambled to his feet. The others, just now untangling themselves from an even larger pile-up, seemed mostly unharmed, and the chest—in fact, all chests involved in this situation—was also unscathed. Davis' room, however, was quickly disintegrating. Someone slammed the faulty door close, but they could all still feel the heat. Dusting himself off and clearing his throat, Daimyon wished to speak, but this time, the bear was faster.

...and much more captivating than the poet could hope to be, for all the wrong reasons. The eyes of the Infinites were glued to the screen as the two-tone terror gave a gruesome report of the deaths of two, three, four—Daimyon lost count very soon. He stood, mouth agape, in disbelief. Somewhere deep in his mind, a voice told him that there was no way to prove the bear was telling the truth; they were all words. He wished he could believe in that voice.

It ended as abruptly as it began. All these Infinites, gunned down in a rapid-fire presentation, ending in a blow sure to rend even hardened hearts. And Daimyon's heart was anything but—that he often seemed so carefree was for an entirely different reason. The images the bear's descriptions conjured in his mind assaulted him with their vividness and terror. He could not shake his disbelief, especially as he saw people starting to disperse with the end of the Night of Carnage. How could they just leave, he wondered. This was an outrage!

“This is no way to write a story...” he muttered, before raising his voice. “Writing off all these people so...so carelessly! Sinking them so ungracefully, condemning them to the waves, to be lost in the sea of the plot... They deserve a proper sendoff, damn it!” Tempering his anger, he turned back to the others who were eyeing him with justified surprise. “We must bring them redemption. We must. The writer of our story has to pay.” Despite preaching of grand ideals, he did not forget about the murderous elephant in the room. He knew he could not carry it anywhere by himself, so they had to come to some sort of agreement. “And this—this has to be locked somewhere safe. With someone who...” He looked around; there were many faces looking back and he did not recognise a single one. “...who has no interest in its contents.”

He felt strange, taking leadership of the situation like this. Something told him he had not done so often before. But this time was different. Seeing so many people he must have known and even cared about killed off so unceremoniously gave him a new conviction. He might have only been a character in a grand story—but every character could change the plot completely.

Eventually, he pointed at the woman who had nearly killed him just minutes before.
“I nominate her.”

Hidden 4 mos ago Post by BrokenPromise
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”M-me?” Emily pointed at herself. ”Really? Y-you'd trust me with something like that?” She looked at the floor. ”I mean, how could I refuse?” Emily looked at the others. ”Are you okay with this?”

Ice groaned. "Well, before you haul it off, give some of us a chance to look inside." He turned to alice. "You wanted to pull something out of that bloody shrubbery right?"

Jezebel's head poked up. “What?” Shortly after pitching her question to the blank monitor, she stood completely up. “Like, what?!” Jezebel threw her arms out to the side. “She totally killed herself? What the fuck for? Jezebel prepared to charge into Krista's room when Bliss stood in her way. “Scoot!”

Bliss shoohk her head.”The night of carnage is over, we can't break down the door this night.” Bliss removed her hat and placed it over her chest. ”Maybe tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Jezebel was furious. Her teeth were clinched. But as if under a curse, she started to smile. “Bliss?” She tucked her hands behind her back “Like, I'm not even sure if I'm going to be alive tomorrow, and I've totally survived three of these games.”

”Jezebel.” Bliss took a step closer. ”Nobody, blames you, for this.”

Jezebel and Bliss locked eyes for several seconds, neither of them saying anything. But Jezebel would eventually decide to quietly go back to her room.

”You did good, Bliss.” Emily smiled. ”I think she's going to be sore about that one for a while though. All we can do is keep being human.” she turned around and faced the hospital. ”I'll drag that thing to my room in a bit, I just want to see Thomas one last time. Before they clean up his corpse.” and with that, she departed.

”MMMmmmmm...” Kyra seemed to appear beside Daimyon. ”Calvin expired after his battle with me. But he had one last request.” She drew a notebook out of her clevage, there was a bit of blood on it. ”He wanted me to give this to you. He didn't tell me why, but he seemed to think you would benefit the most from it.” After Daimyon accepted the book, Kyra corrected her glasses. ”The blood is his, not mine. I'm sure you'll find something poetic about being able to touch a book splattered with a dead man's blood. Tell me there isn't something Iconic about the action.“ Instead of vanishing in a puff of smoke, the robot simply walked away.

Your GM is too tired to write what his characters were doing the following day, but I think you guys are talented enough to have your characters do something.
Hidden 4 mos ago Post by Mateotis
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The others, surprisingly, accepted the woman Daimyon had nominated to safeguard the chest. They held one more examination of its contents: the girl with the intense eyes was looking for something in there. The poet had no wish of seeing all the murder inside, so he bid the group farewell—expressing his hope for a better day tomorrow—and started walking back to his room. Rounding the hallway, he ran into two more women, recognising one of them as Jezebel. His notes about the happenings of the past few days mentioned how it was the clown who allowed Thomas to get Marianne's handbook, so he could start executing his plan. Though he understood that, for the plot to progress, she had to act this way, he still harboured some bitterness. He gave the two a nod as he walked past, and that was it.

He was almost to his room when he heard someone let out a long...moan? His heart skipped a beat as he turned around to see who it was—and his surprise did not abate when he found that it was not a human facing him. It was a black-and-white machine, just like Monokuma, but female. Daimyon remembered reading off-hand in the brief minutes before he was spurred to action that these female robots also had a name, but it eluded him at the moment.

“What is it...what is it that you want?”
He was beyond asking for names.

She first explained to him how she fought and killed Calvin. That finally gave some form of reference to the poet: with Monokuma's ghastly ‘announcement’ still echoing in his ears, he knew that he was talking to Kyra.

“So you have, you—” He cut himself off. “And why are you here? Am I next?”

Kyra shook her head.
“He had one last request.”
From her bosom—too much of Daimyon's day revolved around chests and he did not like it—she pulled out a bloody book. It was smaller than most books, about the size but thinner than his own treasured notebook.

He wanted to give me this?” the poet asked back. “Curious...”
He knew he did not have much of a choice. Technically, he could have simply declined the item. But it was a mysterious book covered with bloodstains. Entirely too conspicuous not to be important. Too ‘iconic’, as the robot herself said. So he took it gingerly, making sure the blood did not get on his hands. With her delivery done, the robot started walking away.
“Wait...Kyra,” Daimyon called after her. “Send Davis my regards. I have a...feeling that we will see each other again soon.”

With that farewell, he stepped into his room. The door clicked shut, the book hit the table, and Daimyon sat down. He let out a sigh of exhaustion: looking at the clock, then at the bed, he had second thoughts. His tired body screamed at him to let it rest, but he steeled himself. His work for the day, though already plentiful, was not yet done.

He examined the book. Its front cover was black, its back white, further cementing the idea in Daimyon's head that it was important. On the front were two handwritten words: ‘Memory Notebook’. It was distinctly not the poet's handwriting, else he would have believed that, with such a title, the notebook was his. There was a long stain of recently-dried blood running down on the cover—Calvin's blood. Daimyon took a deep breath. There was no question whether he would open it, but he did feel like he needed some preparation. Like any good explorer, a reader also needed to be well-equipped for the journey that was diving into a book. In a moment, he was poring through his own notebook, flipping through pages in search of anything that might help him in tackling the book. Besides, he had a gut feeling that this was not his first time encountering this particular document: it seemed like such a huge plot device that it must have been at least foreshadowed earlier. His authorial instincts proved correct, and he found entries about his work on a mysterious diary that he had titled the ‘Ryoshi Membook’. There were, in fact, several pages on it: each detailing the hardships and slow progress in decoding the Membook, which the poet had deemed crucial to understanding the group's predicament. What was more, his work on it was also intertwined with his entanglement with Marianne. Thinking quickly, he opened the drawer on his table—and, indeed, there was a book lying inside, below the stack of letters he knew were from the late botanist. He pulled out the book: its dark cover was tattered, the handwritten letters barely legible. Only with some imagination could he make out ‘Ryoshi Membook’. Looking from that to his new acquisition, it became clear that they were one and the same, except the latter was much newer. This meant that the ‘Membook’ was really a ‘Memory Notebook’. But what was ‘Ryoshi’?

All of these revelations threw log after log to the fire of his curiosity, which then burned hotter than perhaps ever before. He opened the notebook. On the first page, there was a name, written in lovely cursive: Ryoko Otonashi.
“The Ryoko Otonashi Memory Notebook...” Daimyon murmured. To think, that after all the hard work in trying to put together even just the title, all he had to do was wait for the complete version to fall into his lap... It mattered little now. Shrugging off his growing tiredness, he delved into the pages of the notebook.

He spent the next hour reading, engrossed from page to page. His observations from the old version were proven mostly correct: the book was the diary of a high school girl named Ryoko Otonashi. That was the cursory summary. But Daimyon soon found out much more. As he moved through the pages, he diligently took reading notes of the important details: how she attended a place called Hope's Peak Academy, how her grades were failing, how she always seemed to show ‘natural cheerfulness’ and a general lack of interest in the world around her... Then about how this all was because of a ‘unique neurological disorder’ that caused her to be very, very forgetful, about how she had to attend numerous treatments and how she promptly fell in love with the one who was treating her.

At that point Daimyon had to pause. There was a checklist floating before his mind's eye, and the items on it were being checked with terrifying speed.

He skipped to the end section, expecting something. And there it was: pages upon pages of ordered, detailed descriptions of people and places. Appearances, personalities...their relations to Ryoko. After seeing that, he did the same in his own notebook, opening the last few pages. His last dozen or so entries were all about Infinites, with quick notes about locations of interest within the hospital mixed in.

The poet could not help but let out a sad chuckle. Everything fit, perfectly. He could have written that Memory Notebook—after all, he had his own. There was just one thing Ryoko's lacked that his had. He moved back to the very first page of his notebook.

Rereading the page made Daimyon feel strange. He always felt that his condition, being so rare, made him unique in the world. Yet here he was, reading about someone suffering from quite obviously the same thing. The book drew his attention once more; he was curious to see what happened to Ryoko.

It took him about half an hour more to get to a point where he could not continue anymore. What was before a resonating solidarity with the high school girl turned into rising disgust in the poet. He found out that Ryoko was a cover: a fake personality invented and artificially enforced by someone else inhabiting the same body. The name of that someone was one of the last words he had read before he stopped: Junko Enoshima.

That name rang no bells for the poet; he doubted there was anything about her in his notebook either. No, what bothered him so was the possibility that the same thing might have been happening to him. What if Daimyon Londe was also a cover, a pleasant face hiding someone far more sinister beneath? And, even worse, how would he prove that was not the case? As absurd as the idea seemed, the same meta-logic that carried him through this day meant that he could not discard the thought. After all, it would make for a fine plot twist—so fine even he would not expect it.

He looked at the clock: it was just past 3 am. The exhaustion he had managed to keep under control was pushing up against him again. This time, he did not have the willpower to fight it. He used his last bit to take his pen, return to the first page of his notebook, and write after ‘...you brighten up the days of millions’: ‘You are a good person.’

Closing the Memory Notebook and bringing his own to the bedside table, he carried himself to bed. Thoughts kept racing in his head even as he closed his eyes. He wanted what he had always dreaded. He wanted a reset.
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Hidden 4 mos ago Post by addamas
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Chaos, complete and utter chaos; it surrounded Max, slowly pushing on his heart. He barely escaped Davis’ room with his live while people were dying all around him. First Braden exploded, then Thomas got decapitated, it was enough to make a familiar knob return to the police’s throat. But the horror wasn’t close to over as Monokuma’s twisted words spelled the doom of so many more. At this point, there were more dead than alive, and it was enough to make a man crumble. Then as the last straw, his tools were confiscated by the worst person possible, as Emily doesn’t budge easy, if it all.

“I’m gonna...go for a walk.” He softly spoke to his peers.

With slow and strained steps, Max walked away from the scene, not even budging as he stepped through the bits and pieces left by Braden. There wasn’t any point in denying his reality; it was just his life now…

After walking around aimlessly for a while, he somehow found his way to the bathroom of his room, making sure to lock the door on the way in. Placing his hands on the sink counter, he turned on the tap, and as the consistent rumbling of the flowing water continued, so too did his thoughts flow in all directions.

Looking in the mirror revealed a defeated man with pale skin and dark eyelids. He released a deep sigh, splashing his face with water and hoping to somehow feel refreshed from it… yet, somewhere deep within his reflection, he saw something.

Dead people everywhere, the odds stacked against you, distrust sown at every corner. It was awfully similar to something; something he had seen before. And he vowed to stop it wherever it would surface, including here.

There was a flame; it began as a spark, but quickly rose to an inferno. It took root in his body, removing his fatigue as he released the lock on his room.

Slow steps once more, but this time deliberate and intimidating, he walked through the hallways of Axis Mundo, not responding to any stimuli except for one. One knock, two knocks, three knocks on the door. As he stood in front of Emily’s room, he prepared himself to get the weapon box from the infinite.
Hidden 3 mos ago Post by BrokenPromise
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Emily was use to night shifts and sleeping late. Waking up early on the other hand was not something the caretaker was use to. Her patients typically liked to sleep in too, and she based her life around the people she cared for. So waking up to the sound of Monokuma's voice was not the most pleasant experience for her. Hell, it could have been some dreamy guy and she'd still hate it. The night was horrible, extra horrible in fact. No matter mow many "NoCs" passed she would always be shaken by them. At least she hoped she would. It wouldn't really do for a care taker to not care about the people around her. This was a sign she still had her humility, so she welcomed the gloom.

What she didn't welcome was being trapped under her own body. Oh yes, everyone said she was gifted. God himself had endowed her with the perfect curves. Venus would feel jealousy, Jupiter would feel lust, Mars would take a bow. But these blasted curves were one of the resons why she didn't like waking up in the morning. She tried to sleep on her side, but she always ended up rolling onto her back. She could roll side to side, but it was never quite enough to get to the edge of the bed. And when it was, she'd usually just end up throwing herself off the edge. And that wasn't good either. But that was fine. Nobody expected anything of her in the morning. She could just relax for a bit before confronting the day.

*knock knock*

At least she thought. But someone was knocking on the door. By now everyone must have known how important her sleep was to her, so this had to be serious. Was Bliss having suicidal thoughts? Did Daimyon finally snap and kill someone? She couldn't just lay around! She had to get to the door. Another knock, another.

”Coming!” Emily flailed her arms in an attempt to get upright. It really wouldn't be so bad if she was just top heavy. But her dairyaire was also of considerable size. Unfortunately very little of it was muscle. She grit her teeth and tried to lean forward. ”Come on!” She pent her knees so that she had something to grab a hold of, and tried to sit up right. It was a lot like a tow truck trying to pull a buss out of a ditch, but as she straightened her legs, her torso was pulled upright. Emily could feel the weight of her breasts drawing her torso forward once her center of gravity was in the right place. ”If we had proper nurses, I might consider reduction surgery.” She slid her legs off the edge of the bed and ran to the door as fast as she could. Once there, she threw the door open. ”Max!” She was panting. ”What happened?!” That was when Emily noticed how cold it was. Of course in her haste, she forgot to put on anything more than the underwear she went to bed with. ”It's kind of cool this morning, isn't it?” She tried to play off her mistake with a joke, but it didn't make her feel any less embarrassed about this particular turn of events.
Hidden 2 mos ago Post by Mateotis
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The ancient Vikings did it last,
Now I bring it back.

Poppyseed, my fellow. You fell off
The stool; you were never huge.
Mellow words deluge, deluded by the podium.
Thought you were one of the greats,
When you don't even embody them.

You're no Poe; you've got no flow
You're a poser, and now you're closer to the hurt,
A Wordsworth whose words are worth the worms in the dirt!

I'm the lyrical warmonger, and this is my conquest.
There's no contest; I'm Genghis.
Get this: two collections, I blessed the world
Pressed to word a million times,
Conquered east and west with my rhymes.
You're just one of the rest.
Your ‘conquest’ is a con-quest to woo others
But you failed my test with flying colours.

Still, I applaud your accomplishments.
You're the leader of a live poets' society.
You got the bully pulpit. But I'm the bull—
You've messed with the horns.
I can beat you to a pulp in a thousand forms.

I might go iambic on your behind.
The mastermind: when the stars are aligned,
You might catch sight of my fine masterpiece.
Just a glimpse. And you'll know there won't be peace.

I could've just said two words but I gave you verses
I'm that courteous.
Now don't try to come back at this versus!
This flyting only had one round.
There is only one poet king crowned,
And his kingdom is no longer bound.

I quit.

—Daimyon Londe: Modern Flyting

When Daimyon wished for a reset the night before, he had wished for a complete one: a mental and physical rejuvenation to let him face the new day with the carefree attitude others—he hoped—had got to know him for. Four hours of sleep, however, could not fulfil such a wish. Instead, when he was woken up at 7 am by Monokuma's shrill voice, he sat up feeling exceptionally groggy. It was a strange—stranger than usual, that is—feeling for the poet, as even his mental reset did not feel complete.

He remembered who he was.

When he reached, almost instinctively, for his notebook on his bedside table, it was not with panic, but with an unconscious understanding that this was what he had to do. He read the first and last few pages quickly to re-encode the essentials into his short-term memory, then looked at his most recent diary entries to get himself back up to speed with the happenings of yesterday. There was a lot to read, so he skimmed through it. Even still, the punches came one after the other: the deadly Night of Carnage that had left so many dead, the unfortunate infiltration of Davis' room and the treacherous loot they had won with it, the robot giving him the Memory Notebook after all of it... Though he did not read further back for the previous events, he still hazarded to guess that yesterday had been the most eventful day he had suffered through at this hospital.

How was one meant to continue after such a cataclysmic series of events?

Waiting for the inevitable doom to catch up to him felt more enticing every day, but the poet could not bring himself to surrender to the void. There was life in him still—there was life in him when it had been taken from so many others who, he thought as he looked at the list of all Infinites in the e-handbook, had been better equipped to survive in one way or another. That meant that there had to be something in him, too, something that made him outlast all of these incredible people. Maybe he was destined to survive; maybe his guardian angel was more active than others'. Or perhaps he had simply slipped under the radar of every murderer so far.

It did not matter. He was alive, and more importantly, he wanted to live. There was a world outside that he had painstakingly built up for himself, and he wanted to get back there. His tired muscles and foggy brain energised as such, he got out of his bed and through his short morning routine, thinking about what to do. By the time he was dressed and ready to go, he also knew where to go.

To Emily's.

Detailed paragraphs spoke about the woman in his notebook, giving account of how she had almost accidentally suffocated the poet under her anatomy-defying breasts. Perhaps inspired by the close encounter, Daimyon had decided to give the chest of weapons to her for safekeeping. That chest, he had known since he first saw what it contained, was a mortal danger to all surviving Infinites. He had to check on it, to make sure it remained in safe hands—if such a thing was even possible. Guided by the map in his e-handbook, he trotted up to the second floor and headed straight to Emily's room.

Much to his surprise, he was not the only one to think of doing that.

Someone was already standing before her door: it was Max, the police officer, Daimyon reminded himself with a quick second glance at the e-handbook. The door was open and Emily stood in it, and the two were making some sort of conversation.

He stepped up to them.
“Good morning!” he spoke cheerfully with a half-acted smile on his face. He lessened it after realising that it hardly fit the context. “I just wanted to...check up on my fellows. How are you two doing after that—” He reached the door before finishing the sentence, and that was its death sentence. The sight of Emily in nothing but bedtime underwear, its executioner. “Oh, um...perhaps this is a, bad time.” It was a difficult task to actually look at the woman's face rather than, well, anywhere else, so he tried his best to look beyond her and inside her room instead. “How is that...chest, doing, by the way...? T-the one with weapons, I mean.”

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Hidden 2 mos ago Post by FamishedPants
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"Prepare for trouble....and make it double!"

It was early in the morning. Well before the morning announcement went off. Zachary was snugly asleep in his bed when he could hear a knock at his door, followed by someone gently whispering. “Yohooooooooo…”.

In response, the young man was roused from his slumber. Groggily, he forced himself to sit up from the bed and turn his head towards the door. A moment passed before he yawned and pushed himself up and off the bed, then he sauntered towards the door like a zombie before it discovered a meal. “Hello?” he called out.

Zachary opened the door. “Oh, hi there…OPENING.”

“Yea.” Jezebel scratched the back of her head. She was dressed in jeans and a bomber jacket instead of her ridiculous clown get up. Typically she only dressed like that during a night of carnage, but that wasn’t the case this time. “Like, did you want to get something to drink with me?”

Zachary took a moment to take the sight in, obviously a bit surprised at her clothing. For someone who wasn't fond of clowns, he ironically had come to feel more comfortable seeing her in costume as opposed to something else. When he realized he had been staring for a couple of seconds, he quickly flushed a bit red in embarrassment.

"Oh, uh, of course." he answered, trying his best to pull off a composed smile. Despite his awkwardness, Zach seemed blue.

Jezebel returned Zachary’s smile with one of her own. “Bitchin’!”

The break room had become a popular hang out for the two. They spent more time in here than the dining room. “So like.” She sighed. “I realize I’ve been acting a little weird recently, and it’s just because this place has totally been getting in my head.” She took a sip of her coffee before looking at Zachary. “That was kind of uncool, but like, I thought Baldwin junior was going to totally outfox Davis this time. Turns out it all lead to more misery.” She set down her cup and folded her arms. “I probably should have told you something earlier, I’m sorry about that.”

There was a pause of about five seconds before Zachary opened his mouth to speak. "I understand. I don't think it's possible to not have the weight of this place become unbearable, at times." almost in unison with Jez, he found himself taking a sip of his coffee, and listened to her as she continued with a hollow smile. "I'm sorry things didn't pan out as hoped. But you can never truly know just how something is going to go before it happens, or how futile it really is." he found his hand slowly caressing his eye patch. "They say hindsight is 20/20, after all."

Zach coughed, then took a quick sip of his coffee. "In any case, there's no need to apologize, not to me."

Jezebel placed a hand on her head. “You’re too nice, you know that?” She pulled her hand away from her head sharply. “But even so. Like…” She snorted. “Zachary you’re always listening to me and doing what I want to do. There’s no way you can be as calm as you’re pretending to be. There’s totally something under your skin.” She placed her hands on her hips. “Like, how could there not be? Last night was so uncool. But you can share that with me if you’d like.”

"I've..." Zachary struggled to think of the words he wanted to use. His expression darkened. "I'm no good at hiding things like this, am I?" he gave an empty laugh as he tried to gather his thoughts. He opened and closed his mouth more than once, but it was not until the fourth attempt did he manage to speak anything. “Haven’t I been… rather useless?”

“Like, no?” With a sigh, Jezebel walked over to the stove. They had boiled extra water for the coffee, and hadn’t used it all. The clown turned the heat back on. “You might feel useless, but like, you don’t cause problems.” She rubbed her eyes.

"...don’t cause problems...?"

Zachary softly repeated that line to himself.

“You took out Alexandria and junk right? I only heard about it, but they so couldn’t have done that without you.”

“That’s not even…”

“Even!” Jezebel turned off the stove and carried the pot to the table. “Meanwhile, a girl I got mad at totally committed suicide last night. Maybe I need to take a chill pill, but nothing I do works out.” She shrugged her shoulders. “But you’re not mad at me, so like, I must be doing something right.”

The archer set his cup down, but found himself staring into it, almost as if in a daze. He was vividly recalling the final moments of the fight that cost him his eye. "But I did cause problems. Had I not been such an idiot and encourage that dumb stunt during the Night of Carnage, maybe more people would be alive right now." he breathed as his eye tilted upwards towards Jezebel. "Why would I be mad at you? I couldn’t be. Not when you were right, and I was wrong. I was just some idiot with a hero complex, and look what it cost me."

Zachary's hand once again came up to his eyepatch. His expression was sullen. "With a bow... at the one thing I was good at, I'll never be the same. Losing an eye would mean nothing to me if that weren't the case. But because it is, it means everything." he sighed. "Yet even such a sacrifice might have been worth it, if only to save someone. That's what I thought." he stopped for a minute, then scoffed, likely at himself, before continuing. "But it didn't. It was in vain. A completely pointless, stupid move. I lost my eye, and nobody was saved. Krista threw her life away and invalidated everything that happened that night."

“Like, all the nights are starting to blend together for you huh?” She dropped a washcloth in the pot of water and sat across from Zachary. “I mean.” she sighed. “I know that you shouldn’t say bad things about the dead, but I’m a little mad at Krista. If she took her life because of me, I’m totally cool with letting that haunt me for the rest of my life. Maybe I deserve that kind of guilt.” She dropped her fists on either side of the bowl.

Zachary shook his head. “I don’t believe you do.” he smiled wistfully. “That kind of burden is the privilege of the contemptible alone.” he quieted down after saying this.

“Like, I’m glad you feel that way. But she just locked herself away! There’s no suicide note, no goodbye, no anything! Gag-me-with-a-spoon! She’s making you and everyone who cared about her suffer, and that says a lot more about her than it does you Zachary!” She folded her arms and pouted. “Like, I’m ashamed to admit that I probably wouldn’t have been so hard on her if I attributed your sacrifice with her survival…” Then she fret her brow. “And that’s why you shouldn’t feel useless Zachary. I’ve hurt a lot of people, and killing myself would totally solve all of my problems. But it would just cause you problems, and I don’t want that.” She tightened her arms around herself.

“And I’ll admit that I am also a bit mad that she did that.” he breathed, smiled to himself, and then shook his head after a short pause. “No, not just that.” he made sure they had eye contact as he spoke. “I think after that, I’ve come to despise her. I think I really hate her, and I want so bad to blame her for everything. But the fact is, what happened to me wasn’t her fault. She never asked for my help. That was something I decided on doing. A high-risk low-reward gamble only idiots would take. Only makes sense that the house would win and I’d be left with nothing. I won’t--no, I can’t believe it when you say I’m not useless. Not until I’ve done something I can wholeheartedly say was useful to someone.”

He exhaled in such a way it was hard to tell if it was supposed to be a sigh or a laugh, but continued. “...But I think I feel the same way as you, honestly. About the easy way out, that is. I wouldn’t want to cause you to worry too much, so I can’t simply throw my life away like her, even if I feel almost redundant.”

“Everyone, is important, to someone.” Jezebel inhaled. “But like, maybe we can’t be mad at her. I totally didn’t have everyone’s best interests in mind when I first came to this killing game. But then I met you, everyone else..” She chuckled. ” Life’s about more than just surviving now. A shame it went the opposite way for her.” She pulled the wet rag out of the bowl in front of her. “I totally didn’t want to talk about yesterday when I came and got you. I wanted to show you something, and only you.”

"...I suppose it wasn't the most pleasant topic to bring up." he admitted.

She plastered the damp rag over her face. ”What lies under the makeup!” Her voice was muffled by the wet cloth being pulled over her face.

Zachary was nearly about to ask what Jezebel was doing before she answered the question for him. He wasn't sure how to feel about it, though. On one hand, he really did want to see how she looked without the usual getup. But on the other...

"Let say, hypothetically, that I somehow forgot that the makeup wasn't just your skin, and that I was somehow not also weirded out by that fact. How would you feel?" he asked. "Hypothetically, that is."

Jezebel froze, cloth still over her face. “You totally didn’t say that.” She laughed before scrubbing her face. “I don’t do this for just anybody. I totally stay away from warm places, and like, I check myself in the mirror frequently to make sure I don’t have any runs.” After a bit more scrubbing, she threw the cloth to the side, which was now covered in loose makeup. As for Jezebel’s face, it was amazing what could be hidden with makeup. Her features looked more chiseled and didn’t have the round appearance that they did before. There were also a trio of beauty marks near the corner of her left eye. “So yea.” She said with a sigh. “This is me.”

Zachary took a few moments to take the sight in, as he tried desperately to think of what he wanted to say. This was an important event, that much he was sure of, so that's why his brain more or less short-circuited. Hopefully she wouldn't take his lengthy silence the wrong way. "Uh, yeah, I see that." he finally managed. "...I'm happy you decided to show me how you look. It means a lot to me."

“Zacharyyyyyyy!” Jezebel sighed, then chuckled. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. This is something I’ve been hiding for a long time. Like, ten whole years. Expecting you to know anything about it would be totally crazy.” She pushed the bowl off to the side.

“W-what? I’m sorry if I was supposed to recognize you or something, I never really looked into you before we met here. For no reason in particular, mind you. Not because I am afraid of clowns or anything silly like that, haha.” he nervously chuckled. “So… what’s the deal?”

“I wasn’t always the Infinite Trickster. When I was eighteen years old, I was totally learning my craft. Like, the places I performed were small time. Kids parties mostly. The calamity had happened a few years ago, so there wasn’t a lot of disposable income lying around. People were more interested in filling their stomachs than laughing.” Jezebel scratched the back of her head, only momentarily averting her eyes from Zachary. “I was a bit different back then. I totally attributed wealth with success. Like, if I was rich, that would make me happy. So I’d do anything for money. So like, some up and coming Governor sees one of my performances. He wants a private show. It wasn’t a lot of money, but I thought it was at the time. He wanted me to put on a show in his hotel room. I brought all of my stuff to the hotel, but before I got set up, he told me that the performance he wanted wasn’t like my clown one. He had a clown fetish, I guess. He totally wanted a lap dance. I didn’t say anything, I wanted the money.” Jezebel adjusted her collar. “So I’m. Yea. Basically a stripper clown at this point. He kept telling me junk and stuff. He was really good with words. Like, I felt beautiful doing this for him. Any time he wanted more, I gave in. And when I hesitated, like, he just pulled out more money. But like, I did have limits. I wasn’t going to sleep with him. That kinda made him mad. I mean, I thought he was mad.” She was rubbing her chin. “So like, as it turns out, the whole thing was staged. It was all for some website where they film desperate people doing stupid things. Totally not cool. It became a pretty popular video too. Had a few of my friends tell me about it. People told me I should be ashamed of myself, or they just made remarks about my ass.” She hugged herself. “I moved. I was, like, super lucky that they never got my name. As I got more famous I kept my face in makeup as often as I could. Like, who would want their kid to be around a stripper clown? That’s totally the kind of junk that sinks celebrities.“

“...Degenerate." was the first thing that came out of Zachary's mouth after Jezebel finished speaking.

“A-am I grody to the max?.“

He looked away, but there was clearly a scowl on his face, and he had tightened his hand into a fist. It was clear as day that he was upset, and upon realizing how he looked, his face partially tinted red in embarrassment. Turning his gaze back up to the 'naked' Jezebel, he scratched the back of his head. "Oh, uh, sorry." he apologized. "It's just hearing that kinda pissed me off.” his eyes drifted away from Jezebel for another moment. "Though I imagine it was more upsetting to be put through something horrible like that.” he sighed. “...I hope that, minor complications like this death game aside, you haven’t been through too much trouble since then?”

”I mean, like. I’ve always been very careful.“ She hugged herself. ”My visions been screwing up. The doctor said it was totally my blood pressure. I was going to get a little nip and tuck so that I didn’t have to hide my face anymore, do that while the doctors checked my vision.“ Jezebel shrugged. ”I can understand if you think I’m a degenerate though. Or petty. But uh.“ She stood up.

"...eh, what?" Zachary thought to himself, then understood what had happened. "Oh, no! Not you!” he waved his hands in panic. “Uh, I wasn't speaking about you at all. It was just something that slipped out when I thought about the kind of person who would exploit someone desperate like that, and to film it to boot." he clarified.

He found himself rubbing his eyepatch, for some reason. "I don't think less of you after that at all, and I do appreciate you telling me that. It can't have been the most pleasant memory to bring up."

But Jezebel kept walking. Only she swung around and sat directly beside Zachary ”Well, that’s good to know. Thanks for listening to my junk.“ She twiddled her thumbs. ”Uh, heh.“ She rolled her lower lip into her mouth. ”Can I have a hug?“

"I'd be right happy to!"

For some reason, he felt a sense of deja vu when she asked that. Zachary could think of a billion different things he would rather do than hug a stranger. It wasn't something he particularly cared for, and in fact, actively avoided when he could. So that is why, when asked, he said, "Of course." with no hesitation and gave the woman the hug she wanted.
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Hidden 27 days ago 27 days ago Post by BrokenPromise
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Fuck you @Melo, you no-nippled baka!

Cyrus and Bliss were tired.

You could only spend so much time getting upset and angry before it finally stopped mattering. The last Night of carnage had been the bloodiest, but it was hard to feel bad about anyone who went out. The motivation for anyone to go out was entirely selfish. There was no pressure on anyone aside from the possibility of escape. Of course,m there was at least one person who died that night that Cyrus deeply cared about.

He had destroyed his room the night before. This was nothing new for Cyrus, but all the same he didn’t want to remain here any longer than he had to. As soon as the door opened, Willow walked inside to clean his room up. He had given her permission, so it was alright.

There was no evidence that Cyrus had gotten angry. He looked just as sharp as ever, and even had a fresh pair of glasses on. He stopped by Bliss’s door to knock, but it swung open before he had the chance.

”Hello Cyrus!” Bliss folded her hands together.

Cyrus still had his hand up in the air to knock. ”Were you expecting me?”

Bliss nodded quickly. ”I’d like to go to the carnival with you now, would that be okay?”

Cyrus adjusted his glasses. ”That’s fine.”

”Oh, how rude of me, was there something you wanted to do instead?”

”I just wanted to talk.” He forced a smile. ”The carnival is fine.”

Bliss pushed her way out the door and took Cyrus’s hand. ”Okay, no time to lose then.”

”Why are you walking so fast?”

The carnival was almost as awkward as writing for Cyrus probably not the best place to take someone for a private outing. It was cheerful enough, with the occasional appearance of Monokuma as a ride or a prize. Even here, there was no escape from where they were.

”I guess this wasn’t a great place to go.” Bliss huffed. She was leaning over a fence with Cyrus. The carnival felt pretty lonely with just the two of them. It was almost like they were on another planet.

”It’s fine. ” Cyrus was holding a half eaten snow cone in one hand. ”I’m not sure there’s a correct place to go in here. ”

Bliss nodded. ”You’re probably right.” The nanny folded her hands together. ”You wanted to tell me something the other day. Is that why you came and got me?”

”You remembered. ”

”How could I not?”

The response caused Cyrus to grin. ”All of us seem to be carrying around some baggage. If you don’t mind, I’d like to share mine with you.”

Bliss moved closer to Cyrus and placed a hand on his back. ”I felt a lot better after telling you about my brother. I think you’ll feel the same way, and I’m willing to listen.”

Cyrus nodded. ”I’m glad you feel that way.” He folded his hands together. ”Politicians are viewed a certain way by the people. Regardless of how hard you work, you can never satisfy everyone. I didn’t have any friends. Everyone criticized me. Even when I worked seven days a week and got less than four hours of sleep per night. Considering the hand I’d been dealt, I think I did a pretty good job. But no one else saw it that way.” He started to unbutton his shirt. ”I didn’t feel like my treatment was fair. I wasn’t sad, mind you, I was very angry that I wasn’t getting the respect I felt I deserved. So I plotted to take my own life. Let the world see how much it’ll miss me and how screwed up it is without me.” When Cyrus pushed aside his shirt, there was a dark scar in the center of his stomach. ”I was close, but I wasn’t able to go through with it. It did get me put in the hospital. Of course, if you followed the news, an attempt was made on my life. They sensationalized it, and I started to get the respect I deserved.”

Bliss looked away from Cyrus. ”I see.”

”It was a selfish thing to do.” Cyrus didn’t look at Bliss. ”Suicide usually is, unfortunately.”

”It hurts everyone around you, yes.” Bliss had taken her hand off of Cyrus’s back and folded her hands together. ”The trauma my brother’s death caused was tremendous.” Bliss looked back at Cyrus. ”Suicidal people don’t really think of those things though. I don’t think anyone realizes how connected we all are. Even the death of someone with very few connections can impact an entire society.” Bliss tipped her head. ”Is that why you decided against it in the end?”

Cyrus took a deep breath. ”My phone rang. I don’t think I answered it, but the idea that someone thought to call me was enough to stop me. So I think there’s an element of truth to what you said.”

”You have a very high opinion of yourself.”

”I know.”

”It’s okay though.” Bliss took Cyrus’s hand in her own. ”Sometimes we need to get absorbed in ourselves just a little bit. Just remember that you don’t have to carry the world by yourself. There are plenty of other people here who are willing to help you.”

Cyrus smiled. ”I know.”
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