Tropes of the four seasons Used for the wrong reasons For life is not four distinct blocks That is my grievance.
If you want a fitting metaphor Forget all that was said before And create your own. Make it so That it says what life is truly for.
—Daimyon Londe: Quick Lesson #4
What started as a serene scene quickly lost its tranquillity and threatened to devolve into chaos as more and more people gathered around the new arrivals. Calvin rattled the poet with his venomous tone, though he was entirely correct—Daimyon should have known at least this much already. And he did. It merely...slipped through the cracks. The blacksmith was followed by Cyrus who introduced himself politely, and Max who dropped all pretence and did not handle the delicate-seeming duo with kid gloves. The frightened woman protested weakly against the overflow of new faces and new information, before introducing herself as Juliette Bourbon. The small, purple-haired man was a bit more decisive with his actions, approaching the poet with an appeal to help them orient themselves in the new environment. One droplet of information caught his attention the most: that he, Noah Dyer, came from another killing game. Somehow, Daimyon did not think there were other such ‘games’ going on besides theirs and he shuddered to think of what could be going down in them. Before he could answer Noah, another elevator opened and out popped a red-headed, quick-talking man who introduced himself as George Henry.
All this happening so quickly was almost too much for the poet who, on the contrary to his established reputation, did not feel as exuberant as others might have believed. He desperately needed a sleep to reset his mind and to be able to memorise everything again properly for the day. Still, he was the one who chose to come here and he could not get away from it now. He decided to, for once, take charge of the situation.
“Everyone, please, silence,” he spoke up, raising both of his hands in a ‘calm down’ gesture. His tone was firmer than usual, though not nearly as overt as Max's or even Calvin's. Once the group has sufficiently quietened down, he continued. “Let us take this slow. Juliette, Noah, George—welcome. If you can feel the tension and the despair in the air, that is because we have just finished a trial of life and death. If you truly come from another game like ours, you should understand. And though those of us who have been here since the beginning have our numbers dwindling, the group is constantly replenished with new arrivals such as the three of you. I cannot give you an exact time now, but it is late in the evening. If you wish for refreshment, though, the break room is not far away from here. In fact, I recommend we all head there now, for it is also a more fitting environment to get your bearings and for more in-depth discussions.” He adjusted his coat and glanced at the gathered Infinites. “Will you come with us?”
A fool you are, if you fall and don't rise up to walk again if you give in to the pain and drop your mighty pen Sprout wings and move! move! set out on the journey, let the ditch beckon in vain don't let it get you dirty and if you ask, why not? I shall tell you, What awaits you is a better life and death that is true. Because back home, the people wait for us to clear the skies of the charred wind and thus hold up the crumbling walls replant the broken trees scare away the fear that plagues like a disease. Oh, you better believe: carry it in your heart all that is still worth that there is something to impart; there still is! we can go back to the chilly old porch, hear the bee of peace buzz under the shade of a birch, feel the sweet silence of summer through the sleepy gardens, it would be our domain and we'd be its wardens, and as another day rises there'd be no warning the shadows will be written by the slow morning, - it's in our grasp, I can feel it! keep your head up! Don't give up, friend, hear my call! and rise up!
——Daimyon Londe: March On
Thus went the poem Daimyon found himself in his notebook as the trial was coming to its conclusion. He needed the encouragement himself, as knowing the truth did not set him free, not in the slightest. The notion that Mercy was only under the influence of her own demons and there truly was no one else involved evoked a flame of vain anger in the poet. It meant that she had had control until the very end, that she, in a better state of mind, could have stopped herself from taking away an innocent life. Whatever she had suffered from was no excuse. It would have been so easy for Daimyon to discard his morals, too, at any given moment. There has not been anything tying him to them for a long time now. Despite that, he always stuck with them, with his identity, with his values—he never descended into madness. It would have been so easy, but he never did. For doing so, he could not forgive the deceased doctor.
His silver lining amid these grim thoughts was the fact that no one else had to die, for one of the robots had offered herself up as a sacrifice. In the end, they were walking out of the court of carnage with two casualties which, as the poet had recorded the previous cases in his notebook, was the least they could afford. He did not note down the fact that there was a new Carnage Sister coming to replace the dead one—he did not need the additional weight on his mind. Another uplifting piece was knowing that Krista's brother was safe and far away from this place. So was the rest of humanity, Daimyon assumed, or at least hoped. He did not wish this experience on his worst enemies; on the other hand, he wondered what would have become of him by now if he was not so...ready to let things go.
The air was heavy as the Infinites got off the rollercoaster. The frantic ride marked the end of a frantic ride, but it came with the promise of more. Normally, the poet would have stuck with the group to try and lift their downtrodden spirits, but his mood was especially sour now for the aforementioned reasons. So he went his own way: checking the map on his e-handbook, he walked out of the resort and into the first floor patient's quarters. His room was marked as the very first one after the resort gate, and he would have stepped inside straight away had he not heard something that caught his attention. An implicit, continuous clanging of metal. Not to mention he also saw two Infinites—Thomas and Ellie, he reminded himself—heading in the sound's direction, almost certainly trying to locate its source.
So he went after them.
Rounding the corner and leaving the rooms behind, the poet finally arrived to a most curious scene. A woman stood—or more accurately, was held up on the stiff stilts that were her legs, looking ready to collapse at any moment—by the elevator. Her hand was held up to its steel frame but she was not banging on it anymore, for she was stopped by a man who seemed almost comically short next to her. Daimyon stayed still for a moment, processing the details. He glanced at the list of Infinites in his e-handbook, then shot a look at Thomas and Ellie before stepping closer to the unfamiliar duo.
“Ahem,” he cleared his throat. “Hello there. You must be new here. Are you also Infinites?”
After his attempt at a deductive remark, Daimyon was once again relegated to the sidelines. The focal point of the discussion turned to the blood-tipped badge; the Infinites wanted to make the seemingly out-of-place clue fit into the grand narrative. In accordance with that effort, the sword of Damocles mostly hung above Max, though Bliss was not fully cleared of suspicion yet. Despite theories of various possibility swirling in his head, Daimyon decided to remain silent and not point fingers at either of them until something decisive came up and instead try to keep up with the discussion. It was not the most difficult task, for the case seemed to be sputtering ahead at a sluggish pace.
That is, until tragedy struck.
Felix expired right in front of the group's eyes. The free runner who Daimyon had so diligently practised with before the concert and who he had so merrily chatted with at the party collapsed from his podium, falling into a pool of his own blood, his life robbed from him prematurely, horribly. Exactly like Mercy's. The shock kept the word within the poet, which then burst into his mind, sparking twisted inspiration there. He took his pen and gave the words another, better deserved outlet.
Life! How fleeting you are, One moment you shine With radiance, in the next You die, gone in a glance.
Yet, this house of cards Was knocked over duly Not by wind but by hand, Shoved off with cruelty.
What is life that is Extinguished in its prime? An unfulfilled promise, A broken, languished hope.
May your memory live forever Like a phoenix, may it rise May we always know who you were Rest in peace, Felix.
Though the letters and short lines flowed freely onto the paper, when Daimyon was done, he had to realise that he had already missed plenty of new information. The discussion leaders spoke up one after the other as Felix's gruesome death appeared to serve as a jolt to the weary Infinites, pushing them to solve the case and take revenge on the villain responsible for the murders. It was another inspiring scene, but the poet fought off his urge to put it into words, instead taking the effort to collect the missing pieces of information. First, they determined the unlikely murder weapon: an umbrella, which Felix had accidentally rammed into during the dance. The poet shivered as a deathly chill ran down his spine. He was, against his own wishes, already imagining what would have happened if he was the clumsy one. His feeling of terror only intensified when Noel accused Mercy, the other victim, of murderous intent.
“Impossible...” he muttered, trying to convince himself more than anyone else. He could not shake the terrifying idea that he could have been doomed if he simply had chosen a different dance partner until Max's furious roar shook him back to attention. The police officer was the most distraught over Felix's death; Daimyon could see the overpowering grief turn into tears in his eyes. He wondered about the two's dynamic, about all the aspects of the free runner he did not get to know and how he never would get another chance now. It was perhaps the realisation that saddened him the most.
The accusing eye turned back towards Bliss, the owner of the deadly umbrella, and she was forced to defend herself once more. “Yes! She was with me throughout said time, I can vouch for that! I also do not believe she had done anything malicious in the kitchen...” Daimyon tried to back the nanny up, though his conviction was also shaken. Fortunately, Krista managed to clear her name shortly after.
And all of a sudden, they ran out of suspects, leaving only one, distressing explanation: that Mercy planned and carried out the murder all by herself. There was a moment of silence as the group tried to process the idea, in which the poet found it fit to speak up.
“I...don't understand,” he admitted with a frown on his face. “Though it revolts my heart, I am willing to accept the idea that Mercy could have plotted the heinous act that took Felix's life. However, the doctor herself also perished! How could she die if she was the one who set everything up? ‘Live by the sword, die by the sword’, they say...could it have been a mere accident with the fatal weapon? Is there truly no one else involved in this matter...?”
Bliss seemed to be a dead end, which was almost a relief to Daimyon. He really did not want the caring, protective nanny with whom even cooking was—relatively—enjoyable to be guilty. Personal feelings aside, it also meant that they were unfortunately no closer to the truth than before. The poet racked his brain, but he knew it would not serve with much useful information. Instead, he tried digging into his notebook, looking for something, anything at all that would help them further this case. All the while, a series of negative thoughts clouded his concentration: his usefulness during trials was situational at best—he knew from his notes that he was not particularly effective in previous cases, either—and if he could not even keep murders from occurring again, then what was he good for? The Infinites counted among themselves a politician, a police officer and a metal worker among the people whose talents were instrumental in the group's survival. Others, like Mercy herself, fit the same role before their lives were robbed from them. What could he, the Infinite Poet, say about himself?
He felt like he was just tagging along for the ride while more deserving people died around him. And it made him feel very guilty.
Shrugging these nagging thoughts off, he found a short diary-like portion in his notebook where he described the events leading up to the party. He had written that the cooking had been done ‘after four hours of, hopefully rewarding, toil and sweat’ and that the organisers, including him, had gone out to invite the rest of the Infinites shortly after. Knowing that he had started cooking about an hour after his own lunch at noon, that placed the invitation period after 5 pm. He remembered having a lengthy discussion about the equipment just before, so that placed the exact time at the 5:30-5:45 mark. That was when he, along with Krista, Felix and Faith, visited everyone to bring them along for the party.
As he was ordering the timeline in his head, the topic of contention turned back to Mercy. Thomas mentioned seeing her, apparently fine, at 4:30 and Felix mentioned that her movement was off at the party, which had been long planned to start at 7 pm. Thinking back, Daimyon could also support the free runner's claim...
“Aside from her clumsiness, I believe she was also more...conversational than usual at our table,” he said, following up on Felix. “Admittedly I did not know her too well, but her demeanour seemed different regardless. This might...really mean she was infected...” He paused and raised a hand to his chin, getting a sudden burst of inspiration. “And, Thomas, you said there was nothing wrong with her at 4:30. Are you certain? I was the one who went up to her to invite her to the concert. That must have been around 5:30, or slightly later. Though I was not perceptive enough to notice anything suspicious about her there, I can say that she was in the presence of others from that point. All of us were, for the concert started shortly after. I sincerely doubt anyone could have infected her in the period after 5:30. Which gives us a window for the infection of...one hour? Is that possible?”
Still driven by this thread of logic, he reached for his e-handbook and checked the available truth bullets once again. They confirmed his thoughts. “And...!” he continued. “I can also assert that the mask, which was found in that area, was not there when I visited her. If everyone was supposed to be taken account of from that point on all the way until the murder, then who could have dropped it? And when?”
Though Daimyon did seem to wander off-topic with his query about the mask, as Max had told him, it did lead to the group coming up with a couple interesting possibilities in relation to the identity to the infected. The most intriguing to the poet was the potential that Mercy had become victim to the virus before she was murdered. He looked over his short symptom list once more and tried to connect them to her behaviour just before her death. His spotty memory did not help him in this effort, which alarmed him, since his daily recollection skill was crucial to him. Even slight impairment in that would have been devastating.
He did recall the doctor acting quite merry at the party, taking up Felix's call to a dance with glowing enthusiasm, but he could not draw anything definite on this observation alone. After all, Noel had reacted similarly when the poet had asked her. It seemed unlikely that any power of suggestion was involved—rather, it was merely the charisma of the two men that had earned them the hand of the damsels in dance. Despite this—for him, rational—conclusion, Thomas reinforced the suspicion by mentioning the discrepancy in Mercy's gait. Surely, that could also be explained away with simple overeagerness and lack of practice, Daimyon thought. If he had not prepared his waltz beforehand, he might have looked similarly off-balance.
He had ample time to ponder on these possibilities and potential clues, as the debate focused on two locations: the pharmacy and study, and he was very certain he had been to neither today. Just before he believed he was out of the case discussion, however, Cyrus mentioned a time: 4:30 pm. An exact time, and one that soon rang a bell as he retraced his day further and further back.
“Ahem!” The poet cleared his throat, asking for attention after Noel had finished with what she had wanted to say. “During the afternoon, I was in the kitchen, preparing the food that would be served at our gathering. I was...ah, mostly an assistant to a much more talented culinary artist in this endeavour: Bliss. She worked heartily and diligently, and understandably felt exhausted after a couple hours. Thus she left the finishing touches to me and went away to rest up, saying she was feeling very weak. This had to have been around the 4:30 mark, for I glanced up at the clock in the kitchen when she left.” He could speak with reasonable certainty on that, as it was his habit to always round to the nearest quarter-hour mark when checking the time. It was easier to remember this way and only allowed for 5 minute differences at most. “I assume she was Mercy's mystery patient. Of course, she very well might have simply gone into her room. Could you clarify this matter to us, Bliss?”
So it begins again. A game of wits to decide Who's the enemy on our side. And I ask: what then?
Lives on the line. As one was taken, we will take Another, to quench an ache. And I ask: is that fine?
People come and go. Nothing is constant but The feeling of being shut. And I ask: what do I know?
There's nothing to learn. The door closes, the cycle Continues. Until it's final. And I ask: when will it be my turn?
—Daimyon Londe: Untitled, written at the time of the second trial.
Daimyon was part of the group that went to check out Mercy's room and on the way found a strange mask lying in the patient quarters corridor. Its appearance was rather unnerving, and the description Monokuma gave about it was downright chilling. A virus that turns its victims into a ‘mindless zombie’ in no more than a week? The prospect of having such a weapon in their midst, acquirable by a simple phone call terrified the poet, but he steeled himself and made notes about its effects to be referenced later.
That was their group's only meaningful find, however, and other Infinites were not too fruitful either. All in all, the short investigation yielded a few, seemingly disconnected clues that Daimyon could not piece together right away. He hoped that through collaborative review they could make sense of the chaos, and uncover the truth behind the mystery of the murder.
Else they might just all die.
During the trial, Daimyon abandoned his diligent note-taking habit, and instead tried to pay attention to the information presented by the rest of the group. The poison was the first matter to be discussed in detail, and rightly so, but despite that, the poet could not get the mask out of his head. He had drawn a sketch of it which he was now looking at, along with a list of symptoms of the virus' progression.
- Impaired senses, shambling - Susceptibility to suggestions - Mild, but worsening hallucinations
He tried to imagine what it would feel like to be affected by such a syndrome. As a poet he prided himself on his sharp senses that allowed him to gain different perspectives—he dreaded losing that edge even temporarily. The only condition that sounded worse than that was his free-flying soul being caged and enslaved to the desire of someone else. He had already deemed himself to be vulnerable enough to misdirection and he hated it; sometimes he felt he could not even trust himself. And the fact that the mask had already been used once, presumably with success, left him with little room to trust anyone else, either.
“Forgive me if I wander off the current topic, but...this mask leaves me restless,” he finally spoke up once Thomas had finished his questioning. “I have to assume there is an infected among us. Who is it? Do any of you feel anything...strange?”
Round two was magical. Daimyon felt much more on the same wavelength with Noel, and it reflected in their dance. They drifted around on the dancefloor with surprising grace to the slower, melodic number. The poet knew not how long it lasted, he only knew he wanted it to last longer. It was an all too brief escape from reality; this whole party was. Damn silver linings—he was looking at a sunny sky at last, basking in its warmth. Even Monokuma's unprompted and certainly uninvited appearance, which he barely noticed, could not bring him down.
Noel also had far too much fun to notice everyone’s least favorite ursine sneak into the party. Was there ever another time she was going to get to dance like this again? It wasn’t until the bear really began its venture onto the dancefloor that Noel was forced to notice it by virtue of almost knocking into him. Why did monokuma have to disrupt their first chance at true leisure in such a long time? Well Noel was about to find out. The delightful chords faded away, drawing attention to a terrifying coughing fit. Daimyon looked over to his table and saw the moment warmth gave way to cold, and life to death. The sunny sky darkened and a shattering storm struck. The magic was over.
Mercy was dead.
Others reacted before Daimyon did, rushing to the woman's aid. Felix tried to resuscitate her, but someone else—Thomas, the poet recalled, a newcomer he had not spoken to much so far—quickly declared her dead. There was no reason not to believe him: Mercy lay in a pool of blood, pale and motionless. Dead without ever seeing her killer. It was definitely scoop-worthy. The infinite plague doctor tragically dying in the middle of the party. The destroyed Felix trying to save his amour, but it was obviously not going to work. How was blowing air into her mouth going to help when she was choking due to her blood-filled lungs? No, they didn’t have the tools indeed to save Mercy. All Felix was doing was putting himself in danger of ingesting whatever it is that had caused this to Mercy. ”I’m sorry Felix.” She muttered softly. ”It’s too late…”
Noel’s words also forced Daimyon to believe it. After he had accepted the fact, other details caught his eye. It was a nonviolent murder, and that somehow made it even ghastlier. Pieces of broken glass were scattered around her, and it did not take long for the poet to reach the likely conclusion. The questions did not cease with that, however, but only multiplied. Why her?
It was the day after Felix had recruited the Infinite Poet for a higher cause—organising the event that would bring the despaired group hope once again. Daimyon was sitting in his room, wildly flipping through the pages of his notebook, looking for inspiration. After hearing the runner's and Krista's instrument practice earlier that day, he wanted to write an accompanying piece, but his train of thought ground to a halt a couple lines in. Lacking other sources, he tried revisiting his earlier work to ignite the fires again. Finally he seemed to have found a poem to go on; it was in the very first section of his notebook, where he had copied over works from previous iterations of the document. Being a prolific author and a frequent note-taker, the current booklet was not Daimyon's first. A couple selected poems from early on in his career had survived every switch and loss and were present in this one.
In the middle of reading said work, however, the screen in his room suddenly turned on. It snapped the poet right out of his creative reverie, and he looked at the appearing monochromatic bear with much annoyance. He was presenting a new motive, something about a virus and a mask. In his mind Daimyon knew it was important, and he did listen to the end of the broadcast, but that was all. When the screen faded to black once more, he turned back to his notebook and his eyes caught an entirely different, though similarly old, poem.
Memories I.
Memories are the faculty of the mind by which Information is encoded, stored, and retrieved. They are the retention of information over time which Is for the purpose of influencing actions perceived.
By definition. The real mind is more like a patchwork. A collage. Highlights of the past collected by an Absent-minded janitor, randomly picking through A montage. Sifting through dusty corners of the conscious.
Yet it also is something constant. A lifeline. An unbroken stream of self, pure, concentrated, That defines one. Indeed, we are our memories, And our memories are us.
It was the first part in a series, though the other pieces were elsewhere. Daimyon shook his head and returned to reading over his original choice.
He could not figure out why anyone would target Mercy specifically—was she even targeted? Did it matter at all for the killer who drank the punch? It seemed unlikely. Plagued with heavy questions and lacking answers, the poet found himself agreeing with Faith.
“Yes. Give us...anything we can start on. Please.”
“Is this my seat?” asked Daimyon quietly, almost out of formality, pointing at the one empty seat at the second table. He waited for at least one nod before actually sitting down, then he turned to the five people already present. “Thank you all for attending,” he said, keeping his voice low as Krista started her speech. “I hope you enjoyed what you've seen so far. Believe me, it's only getting better!”
"I know you're the infinite Poet, but that was something else!" Felix walked up to the table and took a seat next to Daimyon.
"It was lovely." Although Max responded to Daimyon, his eyes were carefully observing the crowd, as if his head was mounted on his neck like a sentry. Krista's reveal did catch his interest, if only for a short while. It was a sad story, but ultimately hopeful; for if she endured all those struggles, the ones before them now could be endured as well.
Felix got hit in the feels a bit harder. a tear was rolling of his cheek as he suddenly jumped out of his seat with a shout.
"You're wrong Krista! You do deserve your title. If it wasn't for you, Arno's piece would never have reached the world! and when you finished that piece, you became part of it. I bet he's looking at you from heaven, smiling; he'd be proud and grateful, and so am I!" With that, Felix sat back down, chuckling a bit to alleviate the tension in the air. Daimyon watched the free runner's emotional exclamation with a silent smile, agreeing with what he had said. Though Krista's secret was as much of a surprise to him as anyone else, he knew that regardless of her past, her talent was real and thus she deserved the Infinite title.
"It's really kind of you to carry on your friend's legacy for him, Krista. Hope he's watching over you in the afterlife to this day, like a guardian angel!" Mercy spoke up to the violinist, giving her a reasuring smile.
"So...what did you guys think of my marvelous piano skills?" Felix said, playing an invisible piano.
“Marvellous is a fine word indeed, my friend. The piece wouldn't have had half its brilliance without you!” the poet answered. “Where did you learn to play this well? It's hardly related to your...talent, after all.”
A radiant smile formed as Daimyon praised Felix; if it kept up, his ego might just shoot through the roof. the runner placed a hand on the back of his head as if to feign embarrasment, but he was clearly already enjoying the party to the fullest. "Oooowh, it's just something my dad passed onto me. He'd play for me whenever he got home from work, or when I couldn't sleep. I wanted to play just as good as him, but don't worry; I'm not nearly there yet!" He took a sip from his drink before looking at Mercy. "How'bout you? did you like it?"
The plague doctor nodded. "Your performance was lovely." Mercy told Felix, her smile not leaving her face. "Still, I wished Alice had chosen to play too." She rested her head in one of her hands.
“Oh...what does she play? I'm afraid I still know precious little about some of us...” Daimyon interjected.
"She plays the piano too. If I remember correctly, her little brother taught her." The plague doctor explained. "But she gets stage fright, so it's hard for her to play in front of an audience."
“I see... She's not alone in that, I'm certain. It took me...a while to defeat stage fright, as well. But that was a while ago,” he continued. “Still, I'd love to see her play. Perhaps starting with a smaller audience would help...”
"The best way to get over your stage fright is to just ignore it. Go on stage as if it doesn't even exist, and it won't." Max said with a slightly educating tone.
"Easier said than done." Felix chuckled. "I was sooo nervous before the concert; my mind felt like it was spinning in four dimensions. But it was worth it; totally." After emptying another drink, Felix seemed a bit drunk, despite the lack of alcohol anywhere. "So...onto more serious topics. We're at a party! So you two can go wild...I wanna know who you'd go wiiild with."
Hearing that question, Daimyon leaned back in his chair and glanced at the two women who had not yet spoken in this conversion. “...I think I'll let others go first with this one. Ladies?”
Noel perked up, having paid attention to the main stage silently up until now. Her notepad now contained every bit of Krista's story to the finest detail. Not everything was new, but when she compared it to what she already knew of the rise to fame of the star violinist on the wide, wide web, this had expanded her data significantly. Today she had struck gold!
But yes, oh yes. How elegant of the infinite poet to have the ladies go first on the more... intimate questions. She regarded him with slight scowl that duly noted his apparent unwillingness to go first. Noel had a pretty good idea who Daimyon was thinking about, anyway. "Well..." She started. "You boys have some bad luck, because I'm claiming Mary!" She teased, then winked at the infinite streamer.
“Hah! We're not judging.” Daimyon laughed, taking a sip of water for himself.
"Huh?" Mercy looked back over to Felix, crossing her arms in thought. "Honestly, I don't know. I haven't really met anyone who I feel that way about." She answered, shrugging.
Mary pouted, holding her video camera on her lap. "But Noel, I want to have fun with the guys as well! You're being too selfish!" She gave a flirty smile to the others. "It's not every day we get to do something like this. Especially since we're trapped and all. So let's just enjoy ourselves, ok? And don't forget to smile!" She then quickly drew her camera, and filmed everyone on the table. "Say cheese!"
"cheeese!" Felix swung his arm around Daimyon, gave a bright smile and raised his other hand to form a peace sign; Max simply took a sip of his coffie.
"As for myself-" Felix glared around the room, as if searching, before finally settling his eyes right next to him, on mercy; the slightest blush forming on his cheeks. "I'm happy right where I am."
"The dancefloor hasn't been touched, all of you should go out there, shake it up." Max gave a short chuckle.
"Right!" Mercy nodded with a grin, grabbing Felix's arm and pulling him to the dance floor. "Come on!"
"As well? Well aren't you inclusive." Noel jested. Then lined up for the film with a smile. As Felix and Mercy headed to the dance floor, Noel grinned. Called it! Then again, who hadn't? Those two had been obvious about it for a while now, right? "Well then, who wants to join me?" She asked with a grin, wondering who would rise to the challenge.
“What an opportunity!” The cheerful atmosphere and the peppy violin music raised everyone's spirits, and the poet was no exception. Rising from his seat, he extended an inviting hand towards Noel. “Shall we?”
"I didn't know you loved to dance~" Said Felix as he twirled around Mercy. His robo boogie impression may have been a shitshow, but he was having the time of his life. "It's nice to just have fun again, I could do this forever."
Noel looked at the poet with a smile. She hadn't really that ,out of everyone, Daimyon would take the offer. Regardless, she had no reason to refuse. "Oh my! Lead the way." Noel answered as she took his hand. Something in her expected the Poet to be an alright dancing partner. She wasn't sure why; he simply seemed to have that kind of class. Regardless, she was certain the fantastically played violin music would make for a good dance.
Daimyon certainly hoped it would, too. The main reason he took up on the reporter's offer so readily was because he had prepared for such occasion—having refreshed his memory on the classic waltz earlier that day, when he was writing his concert song. It was the Viennese type, not the English—which meant getting rather close and personal. In his current mood though, the poet was confident he could pull it off. He stopped a little distance away from Felix and Mercy and held his hand that Noel was holding out to the side. He waited a moment, hoping she would realise what he was attempting, and when she seemed to approve, he put his other arm around her waist and began the quick three-steps to the rhythm.
Mercy giggled as she twirled Felix...only to bump him into one of the tables. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" She quickly apologized, checking the free runner for any bruising.
It looked as if Felix hurt himself quite a bit, but as soon as Mercy's hand got close enough, he suddenly took hold of it and started spinning her around laughing. "Don't you worry about a thing, I don't hurt that easy." When the two slowly started to slow down, Felix almost lost his balance from dizzyness, causing him to lean on Mercy a bit. "Pooh, I think i've had a shot too much. Hey Mercy, how much alcohol can you take before getting drunk?"
"Is that a challenge I hear?" The plague doctor asked Felix, a smug grin on her face.
"Hehehe, you're on~!" Said Felix as he ran to the food counter; he came back with two glasses of punch, still thinking it was alcohol. "Last one standing wins!" he said before downing the glass.
It probably surprised people little that Noel had no experience with the Viennese waltz. That said, her Brittish heritage provided her with a single experience with the English one. Better than nothing, right? Luckily, the poet would find that whatever skill she lacked was somewhat made up by dexterity, adaptability and a decent sense of rhythm. She stumbled a little during the first minute, but surely she mastered the basics of the dance quickly. However she probably would've fared worse had Daimyon not been leading this dance. What did not particularly help was the distance, or the lack thereof, as it introduced a subtle redness to the reporter's face. She wondered how much of this the Poet had planned in advance, the sly man.
...of course, Daimyon had no such ulterior motives, for he was a gentleman of the highest order. His smirk upon noticing the reporter's was as understated as her blush, only reinforcing that fact. He enjoyed dancing with her, though it was not without missteps on his part either—after all it had been an embarrassingly long time since he had last danced on a somewhat formal occasion like this. He could not even remember when it was, so he was relieved to know he still had the muscle memory. They continued on to the rhythm of the lively song, and when it was coming to an end, he twirled her around once to give a classic end to the waltz routine.
“Ah! What a fantastic dance. You were an excellent partner, miss,” he spoke once they had let go of each other. “Might I ask, where did you learn the art?”
"Miss? Oh, are we still on such formal terms, Daimyon?" Noel smiled impishly. Even the discerning reporter couldn't tell for sure whether he was being careful or actively maintaining such distance. If the latter, she could only wonder why he had even bothered to take her to dance.
“Pardon my manners,” the poet replied after a brief surprise, using the phrase in a rather different context. “I was simply...swept up in the environment, is all. It's quite the change of pace, and I'm relishing in it.” He adjusted his green waistcoat almost subconsciously, then smiled a bright smile at the reporter who continued.
"Usually I watch the formal occasions on the sidelines, as befitting my occupation. But accepting a friendly dance of an acquaintance has landed me an interview on several occasions" Her smile broadened a bit, not losing its mischievous edge. "I'm looking forwad to your... invitation." Was she talking about an interview... maybe.
“Ingenious! I like it. As for an invitation, well...excuse me for a second, Noel.” Daimyon stepped away from his partner and towards the stage where Krista was about to get into a second song. “Krista! Sorry for the interruption, I just...” Swiftly he pulled out his notebook and opened it up at a recent page. “There was this song you've rehearsed... I don't know its title, but it was a slower, more emotional melody that increased in tempo midway through. I loved it so much I made a note of it! If you remember which it was, could you please play it?”
After giving the talented violinist his sincere thanks, he headed back to Noel and, as the opening tones sounded, told her: “I'm inviting you for a round two. Shall we?”
Noel, obviously, didn't even bother thinking about the answer to that. She took his hand with a charming smile as she lead him back onto the dancefloor. "Don't you dare forget about that other kind of invitation." She gravely, but playfully reminded him before the violinist's fantastic song started in earnest.
Perhaps I will disappear one day Like a deer's tracks in the forest. Once I have wasted everything I was to account for in earnest.
Then I will find my home In the ground, where my name Will be written on stone Amidst cold candles' flame.
When I look back, what will I see? Will I think my life in vain? Will they make a fool of me? Will I think my death in vain?
Or will I look at this world dreamily? The pretty springs, pretty summers The warmth of fireplace and family Will I wish them on others?
I have felt my life's frailty This broken, feeble frame Gave my soul no safety And my mind no acclaim.
Yet here I stand, here I sing I sing 'til I'm out of breath. This is my way to bring Life, and keep away Death.
—Daimyon Londe: ‘On Death. Dedicated to A. J.’
Daimyon waited, then waited some more. His body and his mind had got thoroughly disconnected: the former was stuck in some sort of feverish half-hunch, grasping onto the lute like a bloody sword, while the latter was speeding ahead, imagining the countless ways the confrontation with the murderous robot could go, each scenario more fantastical than the last. None of them seemed to become reality, however, and as the seconds ticked by painfully, the poet was starting to grow suspicious. Had his foe simply failed to find him? Or, heavens forbid, was she standing in the break room, cannon primed and hungry for blood? Initially, Daimyon did not want to fancy his chances, but he was only getting more anxious by the minute and he feared that a heart attack might put an abrupt end to his second flush of youth.
Reining in his own thoughts, he first looked out the open doorway, ready to get his head blown off—the fact that the realisation that no such blast came even registered in his mind was a pleasant surprise. He breathed a sigh of relief and stepped outside. His heart skipped a beat when he thought he had heard something, but his alarm was for naught. The break room was empty and silent; the only noise filtering in came from somewhere more distant. He opened the room's door—only to find the corridor empty—and his attention soon turned back towards the hospital area where he had fled from. That was, undoubtedly, where the sounds originated. They were the sounds of battle, of fierce fighting, perhaps the pivotal point of this nefarious night.
Willow must have abandoned chasing him to take the fight to the rest of the Infinites, Daimyon thought. His distraction had failed, and while he was still alive and unharmed, he felt guilty about making the already perilous odds even worse for his peers on the attacking team. His heart drew him back towards the action, but the self-conservative instinct sounded alarm after alarm in his head. Chances were, all the fighting was concentrated in the hospital, so if he was to move in the opposite direction, he could sit out the whole thing. He had already done what he could—it was not much, but there was little use of him going back into the fray now. He would have only weighed the rest of the team down. He believed in them to be able to handle the situation and took off towards the corridor that led to the resort, away from all this mess.
Then he stopped. Was it like him to hide cowardly and leave his friends to fend for themselves? Was it like the Infinite Poet to shy away from even deadly danger?
Perhaps it was. But not anymore! He turned around and looked back towards the hospital. The noise was quietening down; if he wanted to make an impact, he would have to act now. And act he did with new resolve, running back into the fight.
Only there was no fight to speak of anymore. Daimyon's heart sank as he slowly looked over the scene of a battle just finished. A man—he could not care less who—announced the end of the Night of Carnage through the monitors and the Carnage Sisters departed. The Infinites were victorious, but at what cost? The poet shuddered to think. How Pyrrhic was this victory?
The silence was only momentary; it may never have been real. But in that one moment, the picture burned into Daimyon's mind and crystallised into a still that transcended the current situation. A crying woman hunched over the motionless body of a little girl, her cracked voice telling a story of grief and denial. A man channelling his anger into vicious strikes on an already defeated foe. On the sidelines were others, some injured, their expressions ranging from disbelief to overbearing sadness, to even relief and acceptance.
Then, time restarted. The faceless archetypes became flesh and blood people again, the poet's peers and allies. The carnage might have been over, but the aftermath promised to be no less intense. “Oh, my lord...” Daimyon muttered, standing still for a good few seconds. Once his shock had subsided however, he sprung to help. Or at least he wanted to, but there was one question: where was he to start?
Daimyon walked purposefully out of his room, paying little attention to the row of screens on the hospital walls announcing the addition of four new robots, more murderous than ever. He was set to meet Mary at the entrance of the pharmacy in the second floor hospital where they were assigned. With a little pacing, they could watch over all three entrances to the floor from there. Pacing was what the poet was doing, also—driven forward by anxiety and excitement alike. Mary was there already, so he composed himself and smiled before addressing her:
“Looks like this is it. Do you know the plan?”
”Uhh, yeah, I think so I’ve done the ice bucket challenge, so I’m confident I can pull it off!”
The plan was reasonably simple. Daimyon would keep an eye on every entrance, waiting for a Carnage Sister—hopefully Willow, as his plan was most likely to work with her—to show up. He would then take her attention, and lead her down the corridor between the pharmacy and the implant workshop, in an apparent straight line to the morgue. Mary, meanwhile, would be waiting in the workshop, equipped with a bucket of water and a kitchen knife. The latter would be used to cut one of the live wires powering the CNC machine, then throw the electrified water on the Sister for a nasty surprise.
It was not a risk-free plan by any chance, but, and that was the most important, it was executable by the two Infinites who otherwise lacked combat skills and would not have been able to fend any of the robots off. Not to mention that they were in the same area the morgue, the ultimate destination of every Carnage Sister was. Everything depended on this approach to work, for Daimyon had no plan B. Not one that would dismantle the sisters anyway.
Mary’s legs shook as she held the knife in one hand and the bucket on the other. ”Sheesh, this is heavy! But I gotta stay strong; Daimy-doo’s relying on me!” She mumbled to herself, and kicked her heels off, knowing they would only impede her if they had to run.
“Good luck, Mary! And, ah, try to aim that water...!” Daimyon told her as she was on her way out. While Mary might not have been the strongest or fastest Infinite, the poet knew of the…lengths she was capable of going for things—or people—she had sought after. Before the night struck, he had reminisced about the earlier weeks in the hospital: his time spent with Shaun and Caora, his brief escapade with Mary and Noel, and the other pleasant and not-so-pleasant memories he had written down. They had strengthened his resolve further; he was thinking of his friends as he leaned against the corner of the pharmacy, from where all three entrances were in view, in wait. He would do his part.
Daimyon could hear something coming down the stair case from the third floor. It was the unmistakable clop of a horse. It didn't take long for the horse to finally appear, and the rider was happy to announce her arrival.
”The queen is here!” Willow twirled her sword. I almost regret taking the quick route. I suppose my reinforcements can deal with the other mongrels on their own.” She used her free arm to brandish her cannon. ”Fear not Nariko, you may not be a princess, but you are my sister, ahahaha!” Willow prepared to charge west, so that she could enter from the north side of the intersection where the fight with Nariko was taking place. Before she could do so, however, Daimyon steeled himself and stepped up ahead of her. She towered above him on her mechanical warhorse, not to speak about the massive cannon in her hand that could have obliterated him in one shot. A wave of fear ran down the poet's spine—all he had were his words and his instrument. But, with some luck, they might just be enough.
“Your Highness! Forgive my interruption,” he began. “You must be busy in your infinite wisdom. Yet! I must assure you I have a similarly important matter to bring to your attention.”
I notice that you have no bard in your court! No one to regale tales long and short Of your magnificent story, guided by fate Well—I am here to step up to the plate!
I know you're in a hurry, so I won't hold you Just follow me along, relax and listen to The odes and hymns this poet wants to sing And, of course, next to verse, pluck the string!
He took his lute into hand, then beckoned her to follow him down on the path straight ahead.
————
Mary heard Daimyon’s loud voice ringing in the distance, and shut her mouth before she could gasp; she listened intently for clopping noises drawing near. ”Come on...Just a bit closer...” She thought as she waited for Willow to come into sight. Her arm holding the bucket slightly shook, causing a tiny drop of water to hit the floor as she anticipated the moment of action.
Willow looked down at the poet. The static face of a carnage sister was hard to read. She stood motionless. It wasn't clear if she was captivated, or bewildered by Daimyon's strange behavior. ”This is an unusual hour for you to be outside, peasant. If I wasn't mistaken I'd say it was a trap.” The horse walked closer to the poet. ”But this is far too elaborate to be a trap! Are men not vulnerable when they bear their hearts to the ones they fancy?” She let out a queenly laugh. ”But please, continue to sing.”
Daimyon let out the slightest sigh of relief, then smiled a reassuring smile to the queen. She would not regret her decision. He took a long breath, plucked the first chord and began walking down the road merrily.
Once upon a time was a queen named Willow... She sat on a throne of heavenly glow Her fame swept the land and everyone knew That her daring exploits were quite a slew…
He played a simple melody and sang in a minimal range—it did not sound terribly impressive, but this way it seemed like he was an actual trained bard. He did not look behind him, the sound of metallic hooves were reassuring enough that the robot was still following him. As they rounded the first corner, he took a moment's glance into the implant workshop. He could not see Mary, which hopefully meant that the Sister could not either. He just hoped the woman would choose her timing well, for they only had one shot…
Willow was starting to hum along with Daimyon's singing. It was fair to say she was captivated by the tune, willingly following the 'bard' wherever he went.
Meanwhile, Mary's concentration was broken by a dull thud. Instinctively, she turned to look at the long window along the north side of the implant workshop; There was a second carnage sister with a crazy look on her face. The tower shield and gladius let her know it was Julia, one of the champion carnage sisters who introduced herself not long ago. ”I thought you were in bed!”
“And you totally woke me up!” That sounded like Jezebel. A latticework extension arm came into view. On the end of it was a leather glove, which struck the carnage sister's shield.
”Party pooper!” The attack hadn't really done much more than harmlessly bounce off the shield. ”Well whatever, you're not going to stop us!” Julia advanced towards the other side of the window, but stopped when she saw Mary out of the corner of her eye. ”Another one! Wooo!” She rammed the side of her shield into the window, scattering glass shards all over the workshop.
”KYAAAAHHH!” Mary screamed, and threw the bucket of water right on Julia’s face as a reaction. Then, she bolted right out of the room, as fast as her legs could carry her; she was really glad she wasn’t in high heels.
“Leave the Betty alone, barf bag!” Jezebel followed after Julia. Her extending punches weren't strong enough to beat down Julia's shield. But that didn't stop her from ruthlessly chasing after her.Julia's head and hair were drenched. ”You bitch! I just colored that!” She pounced into the room. ”Come back here, I wanna dry off with your blood!” She was running after Mary. Julia occasionally bumped into some of the equipment with her massive shield, which made her a bit slower than she normally would have been.
Hearing the cacophony behind him, Daimyon froze. He had just finished a verse, but his mind was two ahead and he was ready to turn the tale into the fall of the mighty queen, for that extra dramatic effect when Mary jumped out to douse her.
It appeared that he would not get such satisfaction, however. Instead, he heard the streamer's scream and then saw her rush out of the implant workshop ahead of him. She made a small skip before turning the corner and disappearing out his sight. Wait a second! There was something at the end of the hallway: a tripwire! Daimyon had forgot about it—of course they had a plan B, how could they not, when the stakes were so high? Since the original idea had spectacularly failed, it was about time to act on this emergency measure.
“Well,” he turned to Willow, who stood similarly dumbfounded at the rapidly unfolding events. The poet knew she would soon catch from her reverie, however, realising that they had indeed set a trap for her. That sizeable cannon shining in her hand would also no doubt be aimed at him right after. He wanted to avoid that at all cost. “It has been an honor singing for you, my gracious queen. But, alas, this is a tale for a different time. Farewell!”
————
He took a quick bow, strung the lute back on his back, then took off forward. He stepped over the tripwire, trying not to make its presence obvious, and rounded the corner to the right.
Willow had started to chase after Daimyon, but stopped just short of the tripwire. “Hmmm.” Willow looked over her shoulder at the chaos unfolding behind her. But this was only momentary before looking ahead once more. ”You know Daimyon, my dear bard. We do receive video feed from all the sentries until night of carnage starts right?” The Horse then sped up, running directly into the tripwire. This caused the steed to stumble forwards and plant it's face into the ground. The rider tumbled from her mount and landed on her face. ”I seem to have forgotten about this little detail.” she said before getting up. ”For your sake, peasant, I hope you're better at running than I am at shooting.” Willow aimed down the corridor at Daimyon. ”Off with his head!” she cried out before firing.
Mary continued running around like a headless chicken, panicking as she heard Julia cursing her and proceeding with the pursuit, metallic creaks causing her to sweat with dread. All the planning they did went to shit! ”At least we got their attention!” She half-screamed, followed by more regular screaming of terror. She decided to run to the dorms; no team she was aware of were operating there, and it would buy them more time.
Jezebel groaned. “Mary! Like, slow up!”
”I agree!” Julia said, following directly after Mary.
The poet's outfit was undoubtedly snazzy, but also rather unsuited for intense physical activity. In fact, Daimyon himself was unsuited for intense physical activity—he was a man of the mind, not the body. Still, he was human, and that meant he was pumped full of adrenaline by the prospect of a murderous robot out for his blood just as much as anyone else would have been. Hearing Willow's cry from behind him propelled him further ahead and, acting on a sudden impulse, he rounded the other corner of the pharmacy as fast as he could, even losing his feathered hat in the turn. In that very moment, a bombastic shot rang out and a cannon shot rammed the wall ahead in a perfect line. He was thinking about fetching his cap, but quickly thought better when he realised just how much that projectile could have shattered him if he was any slower. Catching his breath and doing his best to suppress the growing feeling of exhaustion and the pain of sudden exertion in his limbs, he started running again, giving little thought on where he would end up. He knew that the attack and rescue teams were waiting in the wings; his task was to get the Carnage Sisters as far away from the morgue as possible. He had no idea where Mary ran to, but he hoped she was okay.
He hoped everyone was okay.
After running past the pharmacy, the poet quickly found himself in the patient quarters of the second floor. He did not look behind him—all he cared about was that he was in a large open space, the absolute worst place to be. The familiar exterior of the break room caught his eyes first, so that was where he headed next. Slamming the door shut behind him, he felt like he could stop to take a breath, which he was horribly out of. His mind was racing and the silence, his beloved companion on most occasions, was now instead terrifying. The tell-tale sound of a cannon shot could sound again at any moment, and it would be perhaps be the last sound he heard. Frantically, he looked around for a place to hide. His heart skipped a beat when he realised he was quite stuck in this room, and it started beating faster again when he spotted another door with the word ‘Lockers’ written on it. Inspiration struck him, and he stepped inside.
The locker room was about how he imagined it. An enclosed space with rows of lockers separating the area into tight corridors. Using a large weapon in such space would be ill-advised, but Daimyon was still not willing to take his chances. He found another detail of the room much more interesting: the fact that one small door was the only way to enter. A sudden resolve possessed him: he could take down Willow for good here. He just needed a weapon. First, though, he took the heavy lute off his back, as it was weighing him down.
Hold on!
He took the lute back in his hands, but held it upside down. The neck was thin and the body unshapely fat in comparison, and he had to hold it with both hands, but it actually looked like a passable weapon this way. Definitely one that could deliver great upfront damage, which was hugely important for him—while sharper and deadlier in the right hands, he was not strong enough to pierce a robot's body with kitchen knives and the like. With a sizeable lute, though, he might just have had the chance. He took two swings in the air: his shaking and weak arms were barely enough to hold onto the instrument stably. He realised he would potentially only have one opportunity to strike Willow while she was unaware. He had to make it count.
Daimyon Londe, Infinite Poet, stood at the side of the door of a locker room, pressed up against the wall, with a lute wielded like a deadly weapon, waiting to ambush a murderous robot. If someone told him this would be him in barely a few weeks, he would have not only not believed them, but would have certainly written a lengthy poem to ridicule their delusions.
Alas, truth was stranger than fiction. And the survival instinct overrode everything else.
