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?!”
