The way the Infinites broke out in chatter, it was a wonder they could hold in their surprise for long enough for Daimyon to finish his monologue. The poet himself did not participate in it; he did not answer accusations or offer further explanation. He kept his head down, holding the notebook away from him to avoid it becoming drenched in his tears. He was still smiling. The catharsis, for now, kept the terror at bay.
He offered no resistance when Noel took the book. He felt like he had no more secrets, although he did, and let his fellows peruse it to their heart's content. When its handling got rough amongst the confused Infinites, he asked for it back—and, fortunately, received it back with a few wrinkles. As his exhilaration faded, he held it close to his chest, then quickly put it back in his jacket pocket where it belonged. He regret letting the others to it all of a sudden, feeling as if an entire room had just probed into his mind. ‘No other option,’ he mumbled to himself. He had to endure it if he was to live. The bear's confirmation of what he had said was barely a solace.
He felt relieved when the spotlight was finally off him and on the next suspect, overwhelmingly so. No feelings registered in him when Max was proven to be the real murderer, even though he quite liked the officer. He spent the rest of the trial, including the execution, scribbling nothings with shaking hands into his notebook.
A part of those scribbled nothings turned into a poem. He was still working on it the next morning, waking up early after a nightmare-tinged sleep.
Death! Death! You make my heart race
One glimpse at you and I'm in the skies, sweating, breath catching
But I can't be with you, not yet—
Because
One glimpse at you and I'm in the skies, sweating, breath catching
But I can't be with you, not yet—
Because
The poet sat hunched over on his bed, trying to finish the verse. He needed some affirmation, something he could cling to; he could not leave it like this. But darkness was all around him and inspiration did not blossom. He noted little of last night's events, the entry dominated by a single line, written in capitals and squared several times: ‘YOUR SECRET IS OUT’. It made him unbelievably anxious. What was he going to do? It was already a miracle that he had not been murdered yet by one of many Infinites who were smarter, stronger, and more capable than him. They must have thought him useless and not worthy of the effort, surely. But now they knew how effortlessly it could be done—they could botch it and he wouldn't remember. Take his notebook away and he would openly seek them out; they could take him wherever they wanted. Oh, they all knew now. They knew and they were coming for him.
He screamed. It was loud enough to surprise himself, and it brought his racing mind to a halt. Breathing heavily, he held pen to paper and wrote: ‘Because life is my true love. Flirt as you may with my weak body, I'm not leaving her.’ Simplistic but headstrong, the line expressed Daimyon's emotions quite clearly: he felt like staying alive almost out of spite. With that same energy, he stood up and headed for the door, only to turn back, having remembered something crucial. He copied the anxious line to the first page with some added detail, noting that only the Infinites knew his secret. His next thought came naturally: he had to convince them to keep it a secret once they were out. Yes, once they were out. They were gonna get out, Daimyon repeated to himself, like a mantra, they were gonna get out.
He headed for the break room and found a few people there already enjoying their breakfast. On a lark, he sat down at a long table, next to Cyrus and Noel.
“Daimyon, hello. We were just talking about you,” Cyrus said.
“Somehow, I thought so. Good morning—and to you too, Noel.” Daimyon smiled. Even at his most despaired, he revelled in socialising. People gave him energy, energy he was sorely in need of. “I wish you didn't have to find out that way. Or...find out at all, ha.”
“Believe it or not, I suspected something was wrong for the longest time,” Noel said. “The way you carried yourself, spoke, your mannerisms—you learn to catch onto these things in my field. But, I'll admit, anterograde amnesia wasn't my first guess!”
Hearing it out loud, Daimyon winced, before returning the laugh. “Y-yes. It's a long story.”
“Do you remember it?”
“Only the very basics. I have a...” he pulled out his notebook and flipped to the appropriate page, “copy of the diagnosis from when it happened. ‘Severe traumatic brain injury from car accident. Decrease of motor function, improvable with therapy. Total amnesia, incurable.’” He read out the short and damning report and shrugged. “Been living with it for a while.”
“And you kept it hidden because you thought it made you vulnerable in a killing game like this,” Cyrus asked.
“I did. I mean—”
“You were right. It does single you out,” the politician continued, taking a sip of his coffee. “I have no desire to take advantage of it, but there are eleven others here who might.”
“Ten others. Killing someone so defenceless is not in me,” Noel added.
“So you would kill someone more capable,” Cyrus said.
“Yes, I'd very much love to kill you,” she beamed at him, which made Daimyon chuckle.
“Touché.” Cyrus finished his coffee. “So, Daimyon. What are you going to do now?”
“I can't unsay things. Or make you forget, as much as I'd like that. So I guess I'll just have to...keep trusting my fellows to do the right thing.”
Cyrus regarded his answer with a chuckle before he left to get more coffee. Daimyon remained at the table with Noel, who soon spoke up between bites of an omelette. “He likes you.”
“Ha! Could've fooled me...”
“No, I'm serious. Everyone likes you. Or at least doesn't see you as a threat. That's very powerful.” She nodded sagely, pointing at the poet with her fork.
“Do you like me?”
Noel smiled, then dug into her omelette again. Daimyon did not push but stood up and went to get some food for himself.
