@Mateotis
I don't believe it was Alice who spoke Zachary's secret, my dude. Good shit otherwise. :)
Yep, corrected! You guys are very vigilant haha
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- Mateotis 10 yrs ago
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Yep, corrected! You guys are very vigilant haha
Noel's jaded answer did little to assuage Daimyon's shock, only giving him curiosity in equal measure. How did...other games end, and how many did she really see? Who was Parker—the name caused faint stirrings in the poet's head from an earlier read, but nothing more—and why would they be freed? Unfortunately, he never got to voice any of these questions, as Monokuma took the spotlight from him while he was still recovering from his shocked stupor. He really only came to when he, along with the rest of the Infinites, had gotten on board the ride to the trial chambers.
And by that point, they all had more pressing concerns.
For Daimyon, the most pressing one was quite existential: why were they even there? No matter how many strange or downright ridiculous things have happened to them in this mad hospital, he was absolutely certain there was no trickery behind this one. He saw it with his own two eyes—damn it, he saw it from far too close. He had already made a conscious decision not to write a single detail about the gruesome murder in his notebook: by tomorrow, heavens willing, he would have forgotten it all.
But tomorrow had to be earned. The poet listened—or at least tried to—to Cyrus interrogating the journalist-turned-vigilante, but his eyes were on Noel for most of it. The confidence and perverse grace she carried herself with as she admitted to being a planted traitor amidst the Infinites, fascinated the man. He clung to that fascination tightly, too, for he was not yet ready to accept that Noel really was just the mastermind's puppet. He hung his head down, quiet, tuning out the voices. The lever on his podium was still inactive, but he could already see himself pulling it—and sentencing Noel to death. It had to be that way, no matter the motivation, no matter how horrible the victim was. He knew this, and she must have too.
Just when he was about to speak up and ask why, the bear found it fit to twist the knife within all of them once more.
The atmosphere in the trial room changed immediately. The Infinites, largely lethargic up to this point, now all eyed each other suspiciously, their hands on their e-handbooks as if it were their gun in a Mexican standoff. Daimyon looked from one fellow to the next, perhaps a bit calmer than most: after all, his own secret had already been revealed in a quite grandiose fashion last trial. Still, the anxiety that hung in the air was getting to him too.
“I...don't think we have much to gain from this...” he spoke up as a sense of dread overtook him. “We all have our secrets—but that doesn't change our situation, does it? What little trust we have between each other, that...that'll all but disappear after this.”
“Easy for you to say!” responded Lucy. “You don't have anything left to hide!” The prodigy did not have nearly the same reservations as Daimyon, having already picked out her target. She cast an eye at Denis: the shifty spy who almost became everyone's demise. Though she would have never admitted it, she was furious with herself at having not caught onto the late Thomas Herringson's dastardly plans earlier. But since the man was long dead, his accomplice was the only one she could direct her anger at. She promptly selected him and—the bear being true to his word—a pop-up revealed his secret. “Well, well! Might I say I'm not surprised!” she announced triumphantly. “Not only are you a fool, Denis, but a lazy one at that!” The spy only answered with a sad look that made Lucy step back. She had to face it: gloating about the death of his family, even if Denis' apathy caused it—was kind of a dick move. “Oh, damn it! I'm even denied this little bit of satisfaction!”
Daimyon shook his head; he knew it would come to this. There would be no satisfaction, no cathartic closure from airing everyone's dirty laundry—only distrust and even greater despair. He hoped others would see it too, only to be quickly disappointed. Turning to Henry as he was reading out loud Zachary's forgotten crime, Daimyon felt frustration set in. Just what was he trying to achieve, confronting the man right here in the courtroom? He was a murderer, yes—one of many in this group of Infinites, it seemed. Was his sister going to kill him for it? Or vice versa? Either way, they only danced to the mastermind's tune, and there were precious few things Daimyon hated more. The frustration within him gave way to anger, the anger to a snap decision, the snap decision to an irrational outburst.
“People in glass houses should not throw stones, methinks! Says it right here your sister was the angel of death, a hired gun—who are you to judge anyone else here?!”
@BrokenPromise Damn. Even this late into the story, you still come up with twists. Will def bug you soon for secrets haha
This will give our good poet nightmares that even his amnesia can't erase.
When thou seest a Situation most Arcane,
Thou shalt from mawkish Gawking refrain.
Thou shalt turneth thine other Cheek,
Giveth it nary a Murmur, not a Squeak,
Just a Phrase spoken in Brief:
What the fuck?
—Daimyon Londe: Quick Lesson #26
Thou shalt from mawkish Gawking refrain.
Thou shalt turneth thine other Cheek,
Giveth it nary a Murmur, not a Squeak,
Just a Phrase spoken in Brief:
What the fuck?
—Daimyon Londe: Quick Lesson #26
Daimyon picked out his breakfast idly from the counters. From sandwiches to scrambled eggs, each was more enticing than the last. The pleasant scents and indistinct chatter in the background brought to his mind a vision of a simpler, happier life. As he took a sandwich onto his plate, he quietly resolved that he would get back to that life—or create it for himself. Ambling to the coffee machine, he made sure to give an appreciative nod and smile to Bliss and Emily. He had sung their praises in his notebook many times.
There was a bit of a queue at the machine; it was Cyrus who stood right in front of him. As they waited, he chatted up the politician with some small talk, though their conversation did not get far. The poet took this time to eat his sandwich, until they eventually both had their beverage in hand. Cyrus stayed near the counter, sipping it slowly, while Daimyon looked back at their table: Noel had already left. It saddened the poet; he really wanted to spend some more time with her. ‘Perhaps it's for the better,’ he mumbled to himself, ‘lest she also end up dead.’ The more he tried to get the previous trial's events out of his head, the stronger they floated before his mind's eye, scarring him with disturbing images. Since he only had his written word to rely on—having never gotten into drawing—the scenes were even more dramatic and brutal than they had actually been.
His eyes found the door, and thoughts of escape fomented in his mind. He wanted to get out of the break room, away from people's prying and judgemental eyes. Lock himself in his room and cry and write and cry... He took a big gulp of his coffee. His resolve was returning, bit by bit, just enough to hang on. He turned back to Cyrus, eager to strike up another conversation—only for his attention to be drawn away by a loud outburst. The poet turned to see Zachary address the gathered Infinites in blunt terms, only to be answered even blunter by Isaiah, like fighting a spade with a club. All eyes were on the two men, though they did not seem to care much. Daimyon saw Cyrus finish his coffee, his eyes already full of fire, no doubt envisioning how he would show these dense fools some logic. He looked visibly disappointed when Alice took the wind out of his sails.
By that time, though, the poet's attention was elsewhere entirely. The bickering did not give him much cause for hope, so he tried to tune it out, scanning the break room for, perhaps, someone uninvolved to talk to. He found someone, no, something else. Rubbing his eyes to make sure the coffee had nothing funny in it, he soon realised that there indeed was a masked, fully armoured man in the room, making his way towards a table. The rest of the Infinites paid him no mind, still focused on the argument. Now, the poet had long learned that what was news to him was often not news to others, so instead of calling loudly out to the man, he quickly whipped out his notebook and started paging through it frantically. He was not in the ‘People’ section, which meant that he had to look through his day-to-day diary. “Who is this strange fell—”
“J-Justiciar!”
“Justi-who?” Daimyon murmured, looking up from his notebook. The man was now sitting at the table of Bliss and Emily. He was talking to the former, telling her to—oh god, he had a gun! “W-wait!” the poet cried weakly, but everyone was too focused on the unfolding drama. His mouth hung open as Justiciar accused Bliss of one heinous crime after the other, of—Daimyon struggled to comprehend it!—being a child serial killer. In moments, there was a gun aimed squarely at the nanny, and it fired with the same merciless immediacy. The poet saw it all, as if in slow motion: the bullet popped her head with the same ease that a dart would pop a balloon filled with water. But that was not water that exploded everywhere, that was...that was... “Oh god, oh god, fuck!” Daimyon cried as the world began spinning around him. He grew pale. Driven by some unknown force, he lunged into the kitchen and threw up the poor sandwich wholesale into the sink.
When he reemerged, still wheezing, several new shocks pounced on him immediately: Justiciar was Noel. And she just killed Bliss point-blank. And, inexplicably, the rest of the Infinites—with the exception of Emily, who was the only one Daimyon could relate to—almost looked nonplussed. Daimyon tried to remind himself again that everyone but him must have known of this other identity of hers, but that reasoning failed now. He strode, as if possessed, right up to Noel, his face reddening. “What is this?! This has got to be some...some sick joke!” His voice quickly lost its familiar, airy quality as anger rose within him. “Noel—how? And why? Why?! Do you know—you must know what happens now; what have you done? Explain yourself!”
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.
@BrokenPromise You're right. I'm def sticking around!
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