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Mayrina stands on the front porch of the Ravengard-Dekarios townhouse, Connor bundled against her chest in a sling that Halsin had helped her tie. The fabric still feels foreign, the weight of her son a precious and terrifying thing. She shifts her feet, one hand cupping Connor's small head.
"You're certain they won't mind?" she asks for the third time.
"They're excited to meet him. And you've avoided this visit long enough."
"Mayrina." Halsin's hand settles, broad and warm, reassuring, on her shoulder. "They're good people. Unusual people, certainly. But good. And you owe them nothing more than your presence and honest company."
"I owe them everything. Connor wouldn't be here without them. I wouldn't be here without them."
"All the more reason to let them meet him properly." Halsin reaches past her and rings the doorbell.
"They're just... a bit much—" she begins, but before she can finish the sentence the door swings open and Wyll appears.
"Halsin! Mayrina! And this must be young Connor." He steps aside, gesturing them in. "Come in. Though I should warn you, we have sort of a... situation developing."
Mayrina's unease intensifies as raised voices echo from deeper in the house, not angry, but exuberant. She clutches Connor closer to her chest.
The sitting room is chaos. She stops in her tracks, taking in the scene: four people clustering around a coffee table covered in hand-lettered bingo cards, each grid filled with phrases that make her eyebrows climb. There's a pale elf hunched over his phone; beside him, a woman with a circlet and heavy dark eyeliner scowls at her own. A well-dressed man with slicked-back hair keeps checking his watch, and a massive white dragonborn is typing ferociously on a device absurdly small in his clawed hands.
"Oh!" A familiar cleric materializes at Mayrina's elbow. "Is that the baby?"
Before Mayrina can respond, a githyanki appears on her other side.
"It is very small," clips Lae'zel. "Is this normal for human offspring?"
"He's three months old," Mayrina replies faintly.
"May I?" Shadowheart reaches for Connor, and Mayrina finds herself automatically passing him over, and immediately regrets it when Lae'zel leans in so close her nose bumps the baby's own.
"Its skull plates remain unfused," Lae'zel announces. "This strikes me as suboptimal for survival."
"That's—that's how human babies are," Mayrina manages.
"Hmm." Lae'zel prods Connor's fontanel with one finger. The baby, miraculously, does not cry.
"Don't poke the soft spot!" Shadowheart hisses, adjusting Connor in her arms with more confidence than her technique necessarily warrants. "We talked about this."
Lae'zel remains undeterred. "What armor rating does a human infant possess?"
A shout cuts through the room before anyone can respond to that.
"HA!" The pale elf—Astarion, Mayrina remembers—slams down his phone. "Darlings, read it and weep!"
"Ah. Yes. Perhaps I should explain—" Gale appears at Mayrina's side, looking harassed, his hair sticking up as if he's been running his hands through it. "They're trying to win a game," he says, trailing off.
"They're trying to get their awful parents to text them terrible things," Wyll interjects. "For points." He offers Mayrina tea from a tray she hadn't noticed he was holding.
"For bingo," Gale clarifies. "First to a row, column, or diagonal wins."
Mayrina stares at him. "I'm sorry," she says. "They're... intentionally provoking their parents? To abuse them? For a game?"
"It's more cathartic than it sounds," offers Wyll.
Mayrina doubts this. She squints at the nearest bingo card, where phrases like "I guess I was just the worst parent in history" and "You'd be nothing without me" are hand-lettered. "That's..."
"Unhinged?" Wyll fills in. "Deranged? Certifiable? We have mentioned this. Multiple times."
The dragonborn—Mayrina has forgotten his name—doesn't look up from his phone. "Oh, excellent. My father's opened with 'You were a mistake, and I should have corrected it sooner.' Ah. And now we have 'I gave you life, I can take it away.' He sure tried."
Platinum hair falls into the woman's face as she rolls her eyes, scrolling through a seemingly endless message. "Let's see... 'After everything I sacrificed for you... ungrateful child... your mother would be ashamed... I only wanted to protect you from that immortal harpy.'" She blacks out several squares with a marker as dark as her eyeliner. "Three-screen guilt trip. Dad's just getting started, I see."
Mayrina catches the sender's name—Thorm, Ketheric Thorm—while Astarion glares at his own silent phone. "Damn it, Isobel. I wanted the 'sacrifice' line. You think Cazador would have gotten there first."
Connor starts to fuss. Shadowheart bounces him experimentally, which seems to work although Lae'zel looks skeptical.
"The bouncing serves what purpose?" the gith demands.
"Comfort, I think?" Shadowheart's confidence wavers. "Babies like motion?"
The last man's phone buzzes. He picks it up with a theatrical sigh, reads for a moment, smiles a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "'Why wouldn't you tell me?' 'I suppose my opinion doesn't matter.'"
"Control anxiety and martyrdom." The dragonborn's voice is a flat and gravelly rumble. "Your father's doing well for you today, Raphael."
Raphael. The not-quite-man's name is Raphael. Mayrina files this away while trying to process literally everything else happening.
Such as: Astarion's fingers flying across his phone screen. He shows the group his message before hitting send: I'm working on boundaries.
"Oh, that's nuclear," Wyll murmurs. "The b-word. Bold."
The phone dings within seconds, and Astarion reads it with savage glee: "'Boundaries? From your own family? Who taught you that word?'"
"Blaming outside influence!" Isobel cheers.
Her own phone chimes. She marks her card. "'I worry about you. You don't call. You don't write. You should eat more. Go to bed earlier. You never listen to me.'"
"Concern disguised as criticism." The dragonborn nods.
Lae'zel has somehow acquired Connor from Shadowheart and is holding him at arm's length, scientifically studying him like a bug. "The limbs are symmetrical. Facial features appear correct. Shadowheart, is this head-to-body ratio expected?"
"Give him back to me," Mayrina pleads.
"In a moment. I am learning." Lae'zel adjusts her grip. She brings Connor closer, and the baby, rather than crying, seems fascinated by Lae'zel's ears and her eyes. He makes a small cooing sound. "It seems capable of directed noise," the gith observes.
The game continues. Astarion's phone trills and he snatches it up, reads aloud: "'One day I'll be dead and then you'll regret all of this.' Oh, lovely, I thought the mortality play square was a long shot."
The dragonborn grumbles. "I'm still missing 'comparing you to your siblings.' You'd think that'd be easy. He's got so many from which to choose."
Mayrina turns to Halsin. "Is this... healthy?"
Astarion and Raphael are currently arguing over whether 'why are you attacking me' counts as different from 'why are you hurting me.'
It's Wyll who replies her. "Florrick said something about 'reclaiming agency through controlled exposure' and 'turning the unbearable into a shared experience rather than isolating shame.' I don't know. It doesn't not make sense to me."
"It's demented," Mayrina says.
"I don't disagree there."
Raphael's smile tightens as he sets down his phone. "Invalidation. Downplaying my achievements. And—ah, this one's vintage—'You're not ready for what you think you want.'"
"Dismissal of autonomy!" Isobel beams.
Gale leans in. "Is that his last? He must be nearly there—how many more does he need?"
"Just one more," Wyll whispers. "Same with Astarion. Down to whoever gets their last square first."
A lull rolls through the room, and for a second there's only Connor's happy babbling. He seems content in Lae'zel's arms, grabbing at her fingers with his tiny hands.
"Five digits," Lae'zel observes. "No claws. How does it defend itself?"
"He cries," Shadowheart supplies. "Loudly. I imagine it's very effective."
Lae'zel looks unconvinced but Astarion butts in before she can reply: "I need unsolicited advice about my career choices."
Raphael nods grimly, also staring at his phone like a gambler awaiting the river card. "I require comparison to somebody else's child."
Thirty seconds pass. Forty-five. Both phones simultaneously chime.
Astarion's hands shake as he reads his message. "'Have you considered that your 'art' isn't a real career? Perhaps you should speak to my accountant about something stable.'"
Raphael reads his own message. "'Beelzebub's thirty-seventh son just made partner at his law firm. He's younger than you.'"
"Unsolicited career advice!" the room roars. "Comparison to another child!"
"It's a tie!" Isobel declares. "Both hit bingo at—" she checks "—4:43 PM!"
"Unacceptable," Astarion and Raphael say in unison.
"Sudden death?" someone suggests.
"We have a baby present," Shadowheart interrupts. "And Mayrina looks like she's contemplating making a break for it."
Mayrina realizes her expression is indeed probably somewhere in the realm of horrified and desperately seeking the exit. "I'm sorry," she manages. "I just—this is a lot to process."
Isobel looks up from her phone as though seeing Mayrina for the first time. "Oh! You're Mayrina! Gale's told us about you. The whole Auntie Ethel situation, just awful, by the way. How are you doing?"
The shift is so abrupt that Mayrina can only gape and speechlessly blink. "I'm... managing? Connor helps. Having something good come from everything that happened."
"Of course." Isobel sets down her phone properly. "Apologies, we can get a bit intense during these little sessions. It's easy to forget not everyone processes generational trauma through competition."
Lae'zel hands Connor back to Mayrina, who clutches him closer than perhaps strictly necessary. "Your offspring is robust. You have done adequate work keeping it alive."
"...Thank you?"
"You are welcome. If you require additional tactical advice, I can procure notes on githyanki hatchling hardening."
Mayrina snuggles Connor, breathing in his sweet baby smell, finds her shoulders have dropped from somewhere up around her ears. Across the room, Astarion has declared a tiebreak via "who can make their parent hang up first." Raphael is dialing; Isobel is taking bets. Wyll hands Mayrina a second cup of tea.
These people are strange, loud, and possibly insane. But they did save her son. Save the world. They saved her. And none of them are asking her to be grateful or healed, right now.
Mayrina sips her tea, adjusts Connor in his sling, and decides they can stay.