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“Do you need help over there?”
Genji receives a shush in response. “Just give me a minute,” McCree replies, eyes closed. His fingers move the pick in small increments, searching for the perfect angle to catch the last tumbler. He feels the metal hook into place and, with a twist, the lock clicks. A satisfied smile spreads across McCree’s face as the lid opens. “Howdy, gorgeous,” he says, digging into the mound of treasure inside.
A gold tiara catches his eye and he works it free from a tangle of necklaces. Before he can try it on, Zenyatta covers McCree’s hand with his own. “I would not advise putting on random crowns found in caves without checking them for curses.”
“This ain’t my first dungeon delve, Zennie,” McCree reassures, holding the circlet out for Zenyatta to inspect. “Don’t even have a magical signature. Just a pretty trinket.” With that assessment, he slides the tiara around the band of his hat. Turning, he grins wide at the drow guarding the doorway. “What d’ya think, darlin’? Is it me?”
Hanzo does a double-take when he glances over his shoulder at the tiefling. “You look ridiculous,” he replies, lips twitching at the corners. His amusement sours when he spots Genji scooping gold coins and precious gems into a sack by the handful. “You will be over-encumbered at that rate. We have enough.”
“If you are going to treat me as a pack mule, at least let me do my job,” Genji says, turning to attach another bag to his lower half. Suffering Lolth’s curse by being transformed into a dryder might make his life harder in many ways but there are perks, his ability to carry far more spoils on his massive spider body being one of them. The bulging satchels harnessed to his sides clink as he moves.
A sound down the hall reminds them that their time is limited. McCree shoulders the crossbow he found and picks up his own bag. “Time to go.”
Genji crawls back into the hole they opened in the ceiling then hauls up Hanzo, McCree, and Zenyatta one by one. They had met less resistance infiltrating the goblins’ lair than expected, only needing to incapacitate two easily distracted guards before locating the entrance to a secret passage. No traps, no spells, no surprises. Things are going almost too well. “I do not trust this,” Hanzo says, not for the first time, as they sneak through the passage. “We prepared to elude a hundred enemies. Where are they?”
“Maybe they’re out on an adventure of their own,” McCree suggests, holding a soggy clump of moss out of the way for them to pass. “Robbing and pillaging and the like. Tymora favors us.”
Hanzo pauses to wait on McCree. “Tymora shines on you, gunslinger; the rest of us are never so lucky.”
As if in answer, a commotion echoes through the tunnel and cuts off McCree’s retort. They take up a defensive position, but it quickly becomes clear that the noise is from the caverns below. McCree leads the others forward until they find a gap in the rock wall. High and hidden in their perch, they can easily look down on the horde of goblins returning to their hideout. McCree takes one look and nearly spits at what he sees. “Aw, Nine Hells…”
The cacophony stems from the goblins jeering at a familiar group being forced through the crowd. Reinhardt is still recognizable without his full plate and greathammer, the dragonborn towering over the others even with his arms weighted and shackled. He tries to shield the others with his wings but they do no good. Forceful hands shove their wizard violently forward and she trips headlong into a holding cell made of bones.
“Lena!” Rushing forward, Angela’s bound hands struggle to help the half-elf to her feet, taking on the extra weight herself. The glare she shoots through the bars at their captors burns with the aasimar’s righteous fury. “Stay strong; Ilmater will smite those that would inflict suffering upon us.”
“Sure thing, angel-lady,” one of the goblins cackles. He pokes at the last prisoner’s thigh with a jagged spear, forcing him into the cage with the others. The man turns to face the horde, his scarred face set like stone against their taunting calls. “Not so mighty without your magics, yes? No gods to save the fallen paladin!”
Far above, the four eavesdroppers watch as the door slams shut. Swelling laughter drowns out Zenyatta’s words. “They are wrong. Morrison still holds Tyr’s favor; I can feel the divine presence from here.”
“Then what is different with him?” Genji asks.
“He is a gray guard now,” Zenyatta replies.
Hanzo huffs. “That man is in love with the light. What would make him step into the shadows?”
The monk clasps his hands in front of him, stone and metal fingers folding together. “He has seen too much. His faith has been tested.”
“As it should be.” Shaking his head, Hanzo steps back from the display. “We should move. We have lingered too long already.” Genji and Zenyatta move to follow, but McCree stays by the opening, uncharacteristically quiet. His stare is trained on the bone cage. “Jesse?”
McCree raises a hand to the rock wall, bracing himself. “We’ve got to break them out.”
Hanzo’s answer is sharp and incredulous. “What?”
“Now, hun, hear me out--”
“Are you certain that tiara is not cursed?” Hanzo demands, advancing on McCree. “Because surely your brain is addled, and you are not suggesting something so foolish.”
“We can’t just leave them there to die.”
“Why not?! You cannot tell me Morrison would do the same for you. Do you not remember what he did to you?” His soft touch belies his harsh words, his gentle hand pressing over McCree’s bicep where Morrison’s blade once left its mark. “You wish to risk your life for those who see us as monsters?”
McCree’s hand covers his own. “I would save them because we are not the monsters they think we are,” he counters, linking their fingers together.
Hanzo opens his mouth to retort, but no argument comes to mind. Frustration fades to fond exasperation. “You choose to be noble at the most inconvenient of times,” he growls, bringing their joined hands to his face and pressing a kiss to McCree’s knuckles. “Do you at least have a plan?”
His impish smile is answer enough.
Just minutes later, Hanzo finds himself clinging to Genji’s back as they crawl along the cavern’s ceiling. Despite the size of Genji’s spider body, he disappears into the shadows with ease and makes not a sound. The goblin horde appears to have grown bored with their prisoners since they would not rise to heckling and has left just one behind to act as guard--a gangly goblin with wild hair and a fascination with the flint and steel he found in Morrison’s pack. He keeps striking it to watch the flame flicker in his hands.
Once over their target, Genji grips Hanzo’s waist as the drow lowers a rope to the cage. Lena senses movement and looks up, mouth falling open at the sight. Without looking, she taps Angela on the shoulder. Her gasp is audible enough to get the attention of a shocked Morrison and Reinhardt, and Genji puts a finger over his lips to silence them.
Any noise Hanzo and Genji might make as they drop down onto the cage is covered by Zenyatta appearing across the room. The goblin rushes forward with weapon in hand. “Hey! Who are you?”
“I am Tekhartha Zenyatta,” he replies, bowing formally and thoroughly confusing the goblin. “Greetings.”
“Yeah, sure, how d’ya do and all that--you’re not supposed to be here!”
“You are mistaken. I work for your leader. He sent me to retrieve the prisoners’ weapons and armor.”
The bluff is weak at best; Zenyatta has never been a convincing liar, and no amount of traveling with his companions can change that. The goblin narrows his eyes at the warforged then cackles, nearly falling over in his amusement. “Nice try! But I’m Roadie’s right-hand man. Anyone who works for the troll has to go through me!” He hooks a thumb toward himself for emphasis. “And I’d remember something as ugly as you!”
Zenyatta sighs. “Very well.” In a flash, he strikes with a flurry of blows that sends the goblin reeling. Every time he turns, the monk is there with another hit. A final kick has the goblin curled on the floor. “Ignorance is the sure path to defeat,” he says, then laughs at his own joke. The goblin groans, whether from the pun or from pain it is hard to say.
“Ilmater heard our pleas; bless you,” Angela says as Genji pries the lock off the gate. He offers a hand to help her step free.
“The gods are not without a sense of humor, to send such odd saviors,” Lena comments, dusting off her robes.
“Thank you,” Reinhardt says. “We owe you a great debt.”
“You do,” Hanzo agrees. As Morrison moves to leave the cage Hanzo draws his rapier, blocking his path. Everyone goes still, watching with bated breath. Hanzo’s glowing silver eyes bore into Morrison’s. “When last we met, you struck down our partner for his demonic blood.”
Morrison nods, chin raising with the blade as Hanzo holds it to his throat. “I did.”
“I should gut you and leave you to rot for this.”
“Brother,” Genji warns, shifting forward.
“I would not fault you,” Morrison says, steady. “We have made many mistakes, following the path we thought was right. We have wronged you, and can only make amends. Let us right this wrong.”
The words would normally not sway Hanzo’s heart and how it sings for blood, but McCree’s influence stays his hand. He lets the blade graze the tender skin before easing back, and instead offers Morrison his broadsword hilt first. “Do not waste McCree’s kindness.”
Morrison takes the blade in hand, nodding his thanks. “I won’t,” he promises. Looking to the others gathered around, he asks, “Where is McCree?”
As if in response, the distant sound of Peacekeeper firing echoes through the caverns followed quickly by a loud yell of delight. “Acting as a distraction,” Hanzo answers, sheathing his sword to draw his bow. “He will need aid.”
“Then aid he shall get,” Morrison says, grabbing Reinhardt’s greathammer and pressing it into his claws. “Gear up. Battle calls!”