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69. Nice Drill
🕑 Added 2025-06-28 15:36:23 +0000 UTCMonte Gazlowe furrowed his brow, the back of his pen tapping the schematic on his heavy-duty workbench to the rhythm of the distant heavy metal music from his buzzbox.
His calloused hand shifted to a small toolbox, where he took a small monkey wrench to tighten a screw on a metallic contraption. It was a small piece of a greater whole from the schematic, a much-needed redundancy to avoid a chain reaction of destruction if something goes wrong.
There was much to oversee, and security and stability were priorities among goblin creations. It was an obligatory and vital step, equal to how the elements liked them.
Contradictory as it sounded, this was born of necessity if a profit was to be made. However, far more was behind this than money, an oddity but one no rational man would defy.
The lesson had been painful.
And what a lesson it was.
He knew of his people's affinity for explosions, desired or not, they were a sort of symbol for them. There was more than a baseless preconceived notion.
He wasn't wholly unaffected by their fiery swiftness; they had their charms in a way a lady of the night had her own. But there was this and death on a scale never seen in goblin history.
The eruption of Mount Kajaro and the goblin mass exodus that followed were the perfect examples that brought anything but those bright emotions. How could it?
The island was rendered inhabitable–and still was–as the volcano had yet to slumber. It was still active, with pyroclastic clouds, rivers of lava, raining stones, lightning storms, and acidic rain.
To add sulfuric acid to the gaping wound, the island was sinking under the water.
Yet it wasn't wholly abandoned; living there was impossible, but to harvest the emerging kaja'mite, you just had to be quick and methodical. Each eruption brought more of the brain-enhancing crystals.
It was beyond dangerous and paid astronomically high. As such, the substance traveled where needed, diluted in Gazlowe's glass.
But that was a compensation prize at best. And it was extremely callous to say that.
This was only half of the equation.
Nearly forty percent of the island population was instantly snuffed by the blast of the cataclysmic explosion.
Roughly twenty more followed quickly after it from ruptured organs, burning ash, wildfire, machine failure, collapses, and much more. Undermine was destroyed, as was everything else above and below.
Gazlowe hadn't witnessed it in person, obviously. He was in Durotar when it unfolded.
However, recordings from survivors that had fallen into his hands were graphic enough to affect even a hardened Warsong warrior.
This was a number that Monte had some time to wrap his head around. Coins and lives were tradable, but there was a definite limit; this went so far beyond what words needed to be created to express this disaster, and it would do no justice even then.
And it was entirely due to a lack of more, as well as rashness, arrogance, and greed, that this cataclysm came into existence.
Gazlowe would like to say he foresaw this much, only it was much, much worse than he had ever imagined. And he wasn't poor in imagination or cynicism.
Those were close to five hundred thousand dead, and more had followed in the migration, even if anecdotal by comparison.
The entire species was affected; a significant portion of their overall population was lost instantly.
It was a catastrophe like none ever recorded.
This singular event overshadowed the Goblin Rebellion and Trade Wars combined by a laughingly high degree; it made the latter look like a bunch of bar brawls gone wrong.
Workers weren't the only victims this time around.
No assurances could pay back the sheer amount of damage. It couldn't be put under warp with threats or silenced with a bag of gold.
The majority of the Trade Princes and Princesses died too, and those who survived lost virtually everything.
The blame game that ensued did little to help the entire affair, with notably what survived of Venture Company imploding on itself among the most notable 'losses.'
Gazlowe was never fond of them; few were, to be honest. Mogul, in particular, was a welcome departure, more so as they were among the cartel with the most investment in the madness leading to the volcano's eruption.
The president had been in his mansion right next to the epicenter of the Great Failing as it came to be called. The irony was sweet.
The Bilgewater Cartel was among the most intact when it evacuated.
Yet Jastor Galywix was swiftly divided into three by Grommash for his insolence and general abhorrent actions. To no one's loss, Monte might add.
The fat piece of lard was insufferable and more than morally reprehensible even by not only goblin but Trade Prince standards—quite a feat.
Overall, it was chaos as they landed on the eastern coasts of Kalimdor, and then they suffered from either the harshness of the land or the Wild's general arrogance and hatred of goblins.
This entire situation put Gazlowe in a unique position.
Unlike the Bilgewater Cartel, which was in shambles with their leader turned to cinder, he helped. And his growing city of Ratchet hadn't remained neutral for long, the Wild fault once more.
Trades were complicated when one of your potential customers would prefer to see your head on a pike, literally, in many ways, with the Grimtotem.
They were complete savages when they couldn't go hump their trees and butterflies.
That was the least of the problems the Wild caused to Gazlowe and his city. And the Wild wasn't the only danger; joining the Horde was self-evident and a win all around, given their existing positive relationship.
He was the Chief Architect of Durotar. For that alone, he was among the wealthiest and most influential goblins.
After Mount Kajaro, only Narrin and whatever remnant of the Steamwheedle in the city he led–Gadgetzan–and Revilgaz with his Booty Bay were anywhere close.
And it would be because there was no one else that he knew of; there was no comparison. Both of whom were also trade partners.
Still, Gazlowe never proclaimed himself a Trade Prince; he preferred boss or big boss.
And he didn't operate a cartel even if it wasn't antithetical to one. Not everything was to be thrown; progress didn't work like that.
Regardless of all his intent and purpose, he was one, but he was beyond that now.
He allowed cartels to form, only regulating them, and so he became the Trade King, even if he never actually called himself that.
Any attempt to stop that failed, and he wasn't going to use violence and coercion for such a thing.
Profit was a worthy goal, but aiming for its pure increase without any kind of sacrifice was profoundly stupid. That was his mantra.
One that was proven right with the Great Failing, they sought money by any means, and they lost everything.
If goblin culture hadn't favored money above all else, combined with an absence of safety and an obsession with short-term gains, this wouldn't have happened.
You didn't make money by hoarding every scrap of it.
A good, loyal, and talented crew needed good pay and benefits, and the machines necessary were to be equally well-maintained and cared for.
It was rocket science; a little empathy went a long way. You just needed to be firm when necessary.
It was that simple.
Accepting this little dent in revenue was seemingly an alien concept for many, though.
He left Undermine mainly for that reason, as well as debts and partying with the daughter of an overprotective Trade Prince. He hadn't even touched her!
Anyway…
It was on the opposite of those shortcomings that Ratchet was founded; it was no utopia. Nowhere close to it, Monte was odd among goblins, and he knew this much, but a goblin he remained.
However, it was still in its building phase when the influx of goblins from Kezan arrived.
It brought opinions that Gazlowe found agreeable. Goblins adapted; they always did, and this was no different.
Losing the heart of their civilization was impactful, but it was also something to learn from and profit from, even if the loss of lives could never be recovered.
It was the greatest tragedy yet, and also a manifestation of what not to do.
With Thrall, the shamans and adjacent casters, such as witch doctors, the fringe branches that bargained with spirits among goblins, became the golden standard for some of the best machines in the Horde.
Machineries were developed and improved; in many ways, they were new forms of elaborate totems and effigies that shamans usually used.
Fire elementals were more than happy to feed on coke and reduce the fuel needed for a steam engine by a factor of ten, according to lower estimates. This was the tip of the iceberg.
It wasn't a novelty, nowhere close, magic in every form, and technologies were a common mix. Arcane was a favorite for more exotic usage.
But elemental science truly boomed, becoming the backbone of the Horde's premier technologies.
It hadn't been able to flourish before, despite its clear benefits; it was less profitable for the petroleum, coal, and coke industries and the like.
And this had been far too common. It was why inventions were no longer randomly neutered or hidden in favor of old money under the Trade King's rule.
The time wasn't for such petty things; not that this could be entirely thwarted, but cartels couldn't do whatever they wished without punishment from above.
Money wasn't the biggest stick and juiciest carrot to wave and dangle around any longer.
Yet, this technology was no simple thing; it was nearly singularly used for larger designs due to its complexity alone.
Elemental spirits were 'living' and that was both good and bad; they weren't just unequal due to elemental differences. They had personalities, politics, and an entire society built around them for the one with sapience.
You had to consider which element to use, which among them fitted best, and this in relation to the desired result. And it didn't change the fact that it was still based on more mundane engineering, which was equally improved. It needed to be accounted for, too.
The elements were another form of employees, just one you had to keep in harmony. It was complex and costly, to put it mildly.
But the results were well worth it.
The excavator schematic Gazlowe was working on stood out on those bases: the Mega Recydigger-III. He wasn't alone on the project, but he was leading it.
Using elementals to dig and mine may seem counterintuitive, but it was not wholly dissimilar to druidism and lumber. Most problems with mining had been the lack of consent.
But 'regrowing' the ground was nowhere remotely as quick and straightforward; in fact, it was so long that anything substantial would take from a lifetime to multiple lifetimes to reform. For mortals, it was renewable on a technicality.
This machine was feeding the earth elementals while simultaneously providing a new breeding ground, making this a trade beneficial to both parties. Or so was the middle-aged goblin's understanding of it in words that weren't metaphors and allegory.
And this outweighed taking from them; a hundred years was a blip in the life of an earth elemental. But they did more than that.
They were already helpful in pointing out the largest and purest veins of minerals and crystals while significantly reducing the typical risks involved in mining, from collapse to gas leaks.
Now, with the improved design, they would essentially triple the yield for the same work. This was revolutionary and of vital importance for the Horde, with the Warchief's unconditional support.
It didn't pull things out of thin air, though.
It filtered and purified what was mined, maximizing every cargo worth of crushed stones or carefully extracted gems. There was no waste, no loss, and all profits.
And that was the main functionality; it had many new quality-of-life features based on past feedback. Comfort wasn't optional half of the time, and with unions, it was even truer.
The crews would require experienced shamans, as did most of this type of advanced machinery. And the crew wouldn't be any less, but Gazlowe would have done so regardless.
It was an investment.
Overall, it was shaping up to be quite a marvel — a direct upgrade over existing models.. The prototype was promising and was already in use close by.
The Mega Recydigger-III was many things, but easy to move, it wasn't. It needed to be in pieces for transport; it was more a building than a vehicle, so he was on site.
In the meantime, any leadership matters were delegated to trusted, competent underlings.
Not that Gazlowe spent his entire day holed up, but it took a good chunk of time. He was an engineer first, and standing atop an ivory tower was never his thing.
He hummed, taking a swig of his spiked drink, his bloodshot, yellow eyes immediately dilating and gaining an unnatural sharpness.
However, as his pen was about to sketch over the parchment to solve a problem he had just spotted on the seventh grid of the hundred and twentieth tertiary engines, the ground shook. Something just caved in.
"What was that?" He asked no one in particular, sharp irritation immediately changing to fear and anxiety as the light went a bright, bloody red.
Then the alarm blared, loud and strident, just quiet enough to hear one's own thoughts. A feminine mechanical voice followed from the voice boxes.
"That's stage three… oh shit!" He swore.
The first two were related to accidents of all kinds, ranging from minor incidents to natural disasters, and growing in severity.
There was plenty of training around them; you don't want to lose the hammer that forged your coin. And Monte Gazlowe was informed when a mock alarm happened; he organized half of them to boot.
If that wasn't enough, a panicked feminine voice, warped with mechanical, tinged blares from the voice boxes, confirmed it.
"THIS IS NOT AN EXERCISE! WE ARE UNDER ATTACK FROM BELOW BY SOME KIND OF GIANT INSECTS!"
Monte was on the move before her first word, the schematics haphazardly rolled up and put in his jacket. Who was attacking was puzzling.
Usually, this was the Wild, with mainly kobolds, and they lost several facilities that were placed too close to the tree-hugger's arbitrary domains.
Highly unlikely here, given he was in the middle of Durotar. Not that it never happened, but it was subtler than a blatant attack. There was subterfuge, poison, accident, sabotage, and the like to delay the Horde's inevitable development from bombs able to raze entire villages to endless fire.
Monte didn't expect insects, though; his mind was connecting the dots to draw any conclusions as he strapped himself to a blocky jetpack, with wings and rocket propulsors popping out from the sides.
'Is that the bear's fault?' He pondered, his hand pressing a red button, and the bulkier part of his jetpack unfolded.
Armor plates, layered with rubber and high-quality leather, covered his body in a crude suit, protecting his vitals without inhibiting his freedom of movement.
Servos and motors made the whole lightweight, and more followed. Consols snapped alongside his arms.
Finally, six arms popped out. Each was distinct from the others. On the right was a chainsaw claw, a multipurpose tool, and a heavy submachine gun. On the left was a grenade launcher, a flamethrower, and last but not least, a large hand.
His armor was a little marvel of pure goblin engineering with some of the best, if not the best, materials available to the Horde. Alas, wearing meant business would have to be put on hold.
Still, he felt his throat tighten as screeches and skittering reached his ears through the alarm and behind the reinforced metal door and wall.
He could feel the thousands of claws tapping through his boots.
The rumbling of the earth from the explosions quickly followed, accompanied by the sickening sound of flesh-tearing apart, screams, and more skin-crawling, shrill insectoid noises.
Propelling himself forward, he hastily lifted a lever, and the door slid open, revealing chaos as he rose into the air, weapons at the ready. The Mega Recydigger-III stood like a hill in the distance, a mastodon of forged steel and hours of sweat and blood made reality.
And it was getting swarmed by its central drill.
Hundreds of arthropods of no specifics or known species, from mutated scarabs to scorpions with far too humanoid faces, were pouring from a hole like a kicked anthill.
Only the ants here ranged in size from that of rats to kodos, if not more.
He didn't know what they were or why those nightmarish horrors were there.
They checked beforehand, asked the spirits too, multiple times, and nothing was spotted. It didn't make sense, and that was, frankly, terrifying in its own right.
But the only thing the Trade King was sure of was that he wasn't going to let a bunch of bugs waste his money.
He opened fire, zipping and weaving above the tide, joining his employees with a blue inferno and hail of bullets.
Goblins in mecha and automatons rained hell, turning wasps the size of orcs to smoldering carcasses, and strange crabs exploded in fuming goops with still twitching limbs.
Turrets were quickly brought and fed ammunition as fast as they could be spewed.
Missiles and bullets were given free of charge, and the swarm only grew by walking over the corpse of their fellow.
"Boss?! Pardon my language but what in the Nether asshole are those things!" A female goblin shooter while reloading a rocket launcher two times her size.
"I don't have a single clue, Hefty-" His spinning claws extended and a scarab was bisected, green blood splattering everywhere, he took his integrated micro, "What I can tell is… a fat bonus awaits all, the one with the most kills gets even more!"
There was a chorus of approval, and the first contact with what would later be known as the silithid and qiraji of the Kingdom of Ahn'Qiraj began.
Comments
Petrox
Ohto: Now they blame me for everything! Oh, there are giant insects, it must be Ohto's experiments, oh there is a plague; damn you, Ohto! I'm sick, it must be Ohto. They should fear if the Lich king gets me. It would be instant game over for the living
