between the BaL sidekick au and various situationship polls and many many many DMs exchanged, my guy has aquired a handful of Character Dynamics. it is time to RANK THEM. specifically, since he is A Sidekick and thus much more malleable than Drakona is, I will be ranking these friendships, alliances and situationships by how much better or worse they make him. explanations below the cut
Top Tier: Significant Improvement
Iphianassa (Iffy) Langston-Sharpe (@curiouslavellan): the runaway heiress who accepts, fights and protects him as an equal. managed to make him so mad about the choices she was making about her own life that he decided to do better out of sheer spite. they are dating now. 10/10, period romance slowburn but with a fun bite to it (no pun intended). brings out some of his anxieties about class and alcohol and watching his loved ones spiral, but it's good for them both to confront that. actually managed to get him to Want Something and fight for it, which is impressive
Professor August Shaw (@zeebreezin): the regretful professor Sunny approaches with an offer of help on his revenge quest (this is a Drakonaless timeline). keeps trying to take care of Sunny, who is clearly seeing Himself as the caretaker in this relationship despite being much younger. wrangles him into taking Correspondence classes. 9/10, this Sunny has a bank account and possibly a degree. how did you trick him into becoming a respectable member of society. currently unclear how much character development Sunny will have in this one but it seems promising
Second Tier: Not Making It Worse
Captain Twitchery Lazaret (@capn-twitchery): treats their BaL!Sunny pretty well even though they steal his dead brother's coat. the Jack Sparrow to his Will Turner. helps him do Heart's Desire for fun, proceeds to steal the Marvellous win and then hand the wish over to him anyway. it's a ride for sure, but I say it builds character. 8/10, he gets some psychic damage along the way but it's nothing terrible. excellent work for a literal five year old
Lady Detective Drakona (yours truly): has an excellent working relationship with their canon Nemesis sidekick, but there's still a bit of distance despite him having seen them at their worst. they're preoccupied with their own tragedies and have gotten the sense that Sunny values his privacy, so they focus on looking out for him in the present. also 8/10, it's a solid strategy but he'll have to get his character development elsewhere
Ariel Christy (@vulpine-gentleman): extremely nice. teaches Sunny to talk good. fellow cat dad. urchin ally solidarity. ultimately gets A-tier rather than S-tier for the same reasons Drakona does: he's a good ally and it's a stable dynamic, but also we're not getting any revelations here other than him possibly being the subject of an Awkward Sunny Crush. 9/10, they have a good thing going on
Third Tier: It's Complicated
Alex Hastings (@thedeafprophet): HELLOOOOOO surrogate brother figure, silvering teacher and fellow cat understander. what happened. why are you so low on this li - oh. oh it's your protagonist complex and tendency to get weirdly ruthless when it's about A Particular Evil Bat. they start off so well and then have a big disagreement about what Ethical Revolution looks like and fall out for a while. I believe in them sorting it out eventually though. 7/10, two points deducted for the current beef and one for that time Sunny got possessed by Poor Edward
Fourth Tier: It's. Complicated.
Robert Jones (@viric-dreams): buddy WHAT are you doing to this guy. you are rewiring his brain chemistry by offering him unconditional help the likes of which he's never seen and then either being Way Too Nice or Way Too Much Of An Asshole. you are somehow speedrunning the worst AND the best kind of relationship you can have with him at the same time. this was supposed to be an easy mastermind-sidekick matchup, good god what is happening in there. 6/10, this Sunny is either going to rapidly work through his issues or develop several new ones
Bottom Tier: Torment Nexus
Annwyn Lochlan (@rainrein): congratulations little German girl this is the worst anyone has ever done it!!!!!! we are putting him through every generational trauma possible AGAIN at the SAME TIME. we have toxic codependence. we have physical violence. we have alcoholism. we have promising to never do it again and then immediately doing it again. also you're stalking him. 2/10, it's possible that he can fix her but at what cost
thinking about Iffy and Drakona on this beautiful evening. they call each other cousin. they are related neither by blood nor by name. instead they are bound by a shared upbringing one of them has since rejected and the memory of a man both of them will miss for the rest of their lives.
(warnings: Nemesis spoilers; animal experimentation; claustrophobia/being buried alive; panic attacks; suffocation; worms and bugs but like. vague. but they are there.)
(no but seriously I've gone all in on the horror of the buried alive section, it's described pretty vividly, be warned)
in the living room of a handsome townhouse on Ladybones Road, an experiment is being set up.
measuring cups and a beaker of water upon a gas burner are set out on a table. next to them, a porcelain teacup on a saucer painted with mushrooms, a spoon, a mixing stick, a page of notes, and a ceramic urn painted with the three furies.
The Dreaming Detective is sat in an armchair in front of that arrangement. behind their left shoulder, their cousin stands with a pipette filled with clear liquid: the antidote to cardinal's honey. sat at the table is their lover. he will dilute a drop of black honey to the proportions he and Iffy had worked out in the days prior. they will drink the solution (like the handsomest lab mouse in existence, they joke halfheartedly). Iffy will drip the antidote into their mouth, right before they vanish, to guarantee that they will come back.
Iffy and Jacob have been hard at work the last few days, testing the poison Drakona had brought back. several actual lab mice have been sacrificed to the honey; those that were given the antidote came back, but the concentration of the poison proved too much even to some of those. eventually, an effective ratio of honey to water to antidote had been determined.
it's clear, by now, that cardinal's honey can be fatal. but can it be fatal to a Master? can it be guaranteed that it will never return? if the poisoning fails, for whatever reason, there will not be a second chance.
Drakona needs to see what awaits Cups on the other side. and their loved ones will help them get there.
they watch Jacob lift the lid of the urn, maneuver a single drop of honey into a measuring glass. the water is already boiling; he turns the burner off.
he waits a moment for it to cool. reaches for it. brings the beaker closer to the measuring cup. begins to tip it in —
the water misses the cup, spills across the saucer and the table. he curses, moves the notes out of the water's way and sets the beaker down.
he sits still for a long moment. lifts his hands up slightly, watches them shake. shakes his head.
"I - I can't."
"do you want to switch?" Iffy asks.
he nods.
he stands up. she leaves her cousin's side. they meet in the middle between the armchair and the table.
she hands the pipette off to him, murmurs a reminder of how much antidote is inside and how to discharge it, as if they hadn't meticulously planned all of this together. he takes it from her without comment; his mind too numb with fear to leave room for annoyance.
he takes his place behind Drakona, puts a hand on their shoulder; a light comforting squeeze. calming himself as much as them. they put their hand over his, squeeze back, brush a thumb over his knuckles even as their expression remains locked into a distant stare.
under the painted gaze of the three furies, Iffy gets to work.
she conjures the state of mind she uses for surgery. the kind of thinking that, upon finding one of her dearest friends nailed to a wall dead, allowed her to take him down and sew up his wounds for his inevitable return before she'd ever allowed herself as much as a tear. her hands do not shake. she is a surgeon. her hands do not shake.
she prepares the poison with medical precision. it looks effortless, from the outside.
Drakona accepts the cup from her. the cousins lock eyes for a moment. they manage a half smile. she simply nods, the same quiet focus still carrying her.
they both remember their agreement.
when you find out who it was, KILL THEM.
if doing that requires them to go to the Underworld, she will help, and then she will make sure that they return.
they hold the cup.
Jacob presses a kiss to the top of their head.
"when you are ready, my love."
they watch their reflection in the liquid. it doesn't seem much more than slightly dirty water.
they count off three seconds in their head.
"now."
they drink. they tilt their head back, open their mouth. they feel Jacob's hand on their cheek and on the side of their jaw, and then the almost-tasteless, slightly bitter antidote cutting through the heavy sweetness of the honey.
the three furies watch. Alecto, Megaera, Tisiphone.
and then the armchair is empty.
Drakona wakes up buried underground in a coffin.
they breathe. try to remind themself that this is a dream, this is temporary. their body reels anyway. a death in Parabola is still a death.
are they even in Parabola?
is this temporary?
good god, does any of this even matter? they are buried, they are in a fucking coffin, the air is already thin, they need to get out —
their mind mutinies. some kind of primal, wordless terror overtakes reason; overtakes everything else. they tear their hands apart pounding on the lid from the inside.
the wood is thin. eventually it breaks.
one moment of hysterical clarity — thank god it wasn't an expensive one, imagine having to punch through mahogany — and then grave-dirt and worms spill in, and there is no longer any air to breathe.
they force themself through the hole in the coffin-lid, up through the dirt. every corner of their mind screams. we're dying, it says. you're killing us. stop. there's no air where you're going. stop.
blindly, madly, they crawl. push their bleeding hands up through the mass of dirt. the pain maybe the second or third thing on their mind, at best.
suddenly, their hand hits nothing. it hits air. air.
they surface (if you can call it that) coughing and spitting, covered in filth. something is moving in their hair. they shake it off. they hope they've shaken it off. it's hard to properly think about anything other than breathing, thank god, they're still breathing. their heart pounding, their chest spasming, their throat tight. it's hard to keep still; their limbs keep wanting to shake, to flail, or perhaps to curl into a trembling ball and wait for it all to pass.
they allow themself one heaving sob and one muffled scream into their hands. then, they violently shake their head, and order themself to cease.
it half works, at best. but they've regained enough presence of mind to remember why they're here. a coffin and some dirt surely wouldn't stop a Master. if they were Cups, what would they do? not stay in this pocket of earth forever, that's for certain.
that means more digging. every part of them protests at the thought.
they force themself to crawl closer to the wall of this small dug-out space. press their hand to the tightly packed dirt. push their fingertips in. groan in dismay at the sensation.
"I don't want to," they murmur to no one in particular.
they didn't want to spend their days in sullen silence pretending to be a tomb-colonist in Venderbight, either. didn't want to work in Carrywell's sanatorium, transcribing and translating the rambling of suffering patients. didn't want to go to the Iron Republic. didn't want to lose a month of their life. didn't want to accompany the Scion to his estate.
they're good at doing things they don't want to, by now. they can manage one more.
they push their hand deeper into the earthen wall, and, before they can change their mind, they start digging.
they do not allow themself to stop. they do not allow themself to think. not when the soil caves in behind them, cutting them off from that blessed pocket of safety; not when the first clumps of dirt get into their mouth; not when the dirt gets into their nose. not when things crawl into their hair and up their sleeves. not when they start hearing voices in the dirt. not when they realize that they hadn't taken a breath in several minutes.
is this it? is this where the black honey will take Cups, where it took the Scion's family? are they still here, crawling through the dirt forever, forgetting anything but the motion of it, forever suffocating?
they stumble into another pocket of air. there is a person there. they are dead, but still dreaming. the dead person reels at them. there is the faintest comfort in still being recognized as a stranger; maybe this means they still live.
going back into the soil for the second time is easier. they hadn't had enough of a respite from it for their mind to remember what not being here feels like.
they find one more hollow space. they are chased out of it, too. and then, it seems like they are out of luck.
why hasn't the antidote worked yet? they're been here forever. will they stay here forever? Iffy — Jacob —
no. stop. stop thinking. keep going.
something grabs their hand in the dark. they struggle. more hands emerge — and those are hands — and overpower them, pull them through the soil. their stomach turns. this feels final.
they are pulled into a larger hollow, illuminated by faint candlelight. six others are in this space with them. six voices murmuring in this small enclosed space, echoing familiar names. Carrywell. Scathewick. Cups.
six dead. six knives.
they've found their people. the other six.
they are the only one of the seven still alive.
the dead let go of them; reluctantly, they think. the red-haired woman lingers, clutching their lapels, as if she can't decide whether she wants to let them stand or to — throw them back? fall upon them and try to take their warmth for herself? whatever it is, she does not do it. she steps back.
"so you've come," she says. "welcome. our last sibling."
when they make to respond, they find their voice as gravelly as hers, choked with dirt. they cough. it hardly helps.
"you've all hunted Cups," they say.
"we have," says the man with his eyes missing. "some of us got closer than others."
they think for a moment.
"who did you lose?"
six voices answer in an instant.
the red-haired woman grips her knife harder. "my mother."
the woman with her lips sewn shut parts them just enough to lisp, "daughter."
the blind man hugs himself, as if trying to shield some last spark of nonexistent warmth in his chest. "the love of my life."
"my twin brother," sighs a voice like wind whistling between the ribs of the skeleton in the corner.
the man with the scarred face and a cruel smile closes his eyes for a brief moment. "my wife."
"my dearest friend," rasps a voice from within the wooden coffin with a knife stabbed through the lid.
all eyes turn to them, then.
they swallow. feel a clump of dirt slide down their throat and into their stomach.
"my fiancé," they say. "his name — his name was James. we'd been engaged since we were thirteen."
the scarred one growls; a sound more marsh-wolf than man. "Cups."
"fucker," the red-haired woman says.
the blind man digs his hails into his own arms. "Scathewick. the bastard."
"oh, Scathewick's dead," Drakona says.
the change in the blind man's posture is stark and immediate; his arms drop to their sides, his head snaps towards them. the knife on his belt glints in the candlelight. "what did you say?"
"he's dead," Drakona repeats. "I killed him."
he covers his mouth for a moment. makes a guttural, bubbling sort of noise. bites down on his own palm. then, he starts laughing; raggedly, hysterically. he curls into himself, shaking with the force of it.
the woman with her mouth sewn shut makes a few gestures. the scarred man translates: "how'd you do it?"
"he gave me the knife," they say.
"'course he did," says the scarred man.
"he gave it to me too," creaks the skeleton.
"me too," says the voice from the coffin.
"and you cowards didn't even use it on him," says the redheaded woman. the three snarl back at her; she accepts it without as much as batting an eye.
"you're one to speak," says the scarred man. "you never made it past the Sanatorium."
"all's the same in the end." she turns to Drakona. "and Carrywell? that bitch still lives?"
they nod. she scoffs.
"well, at least you got Scathewick."
the others close in on them, begging for the bloody details of the man's death. they oblige. sliding back into the role of storyteller is a strange reprieve; for a moment, even here, they feel something close to comfort.
they want to know every detail. how his eyes looked. how long his beard was. what his snuff smelled like. just how warm was his blood.
they ask things in turn. about the lives of the six. who they were. where they're from. the names of their loved ones. details they can still remember. how they died.
even as they speak, they feel the cold seep deeper and deeper into their bones. the candlelight feels dimmer by the second. are they dying? becoming one of the seven proper?
no. not yet. not yet.
they muster the strength for one more sentence; a request. a promise.
"help me," they say. "help me and I'll bring you Cups. you can have it forever."
that, they think, seems a worthy punishment.
judging by the smiles they are met with, the dead six agree.
they are surrounded once again, seized by dead hands. pushed upwards into the soil. hands of bloodless flesh and bare bone clear a way for them, moving through dirt as if it was water.
they breach. they surface. they feel moss, and sunlight, and crisp winter air.
sunlight —
their vision blurs.
Iffy and Jacob startle as the Detective reappears back in the armchair, coughing and heaving. their clothes are ruined, stained with dirt; their hair a dreadful mess. saying nothing, they stand up, all but rip their tie off, and, unbuttoning the collar of their shirt, walk over to the table and drink the rest of the boiled water (thankfully cooled by now) out of the beaker, barely pausing for breath, not caring in the slightest when it spills over their chin. then, they open a window, lean on the windowsill, hang their upper body out of it, and take deep, erratic breaths, their shoulders shaking.
Jacob looks over at Iffy. she shakes her head: they are in shock. let them recover before you approach.
he nods. she sets out to clean up the remains of the experiment. he assists, watching Drakona out of the corner of his eye all the while.
eventually, they are calm enough to discuss what had happened. they relay their experience. they affirm that the honey will be punishment enough for Cups.
they retire to clean up, leaving the other two to discuss everything they had learned.
they are gone for a while. when they return, they have washed up and changed their clothes. their hair is cut back to chin length. they've snuck down to the cellar and poured themself a glass of wine from an expensive Surface bottle they'd been saving to trade away.
"you've cut your hair," Iffy remarks.
they grin. "felt like a dead weight."
the rest of the evening, they are the most cheerful they've been in a while. they banter and joke over supper; they help to set the table and clean it up; they persuade Jacob to stay for the night (in all fairness, he hardly needs to be persuaded), and, when the three of them move over to the armchairs by the fire, situate themself in his lap and stay there for the entire conversation, to Iffy's great amusement. by all appearances, they are back to their charming, frivolous pre-Republic self.
they are happy to still be alive. they are trying to shake the dreams of the dead from their mind. and they are doing their best to enjoy the time left before it's time.
