-9- Self-Reflection

The corridors were wide, but not quite enough to make their crossbows useful. There were too many corners; hell, there were too many corridors. The Trolls would be presented with a trio of paths to take, at which point another three would emerge. Luckily, Jakazul had noticed a particularly large and interesting pipe among the mess of metal snakes. They concurred there was no other tube like it, and decided it might help them in reaching their destination. At least that was in theory. Fredrus' instructions had only shown how to arrive at Marx's home, not how to navigate it. They were playing the whole thing by ear now.

The atmosphere had Guro'jintal at the tips of his nerves. It was pitch black save for the weak glow of light-globes that were suspended in random intervals throughout the maze of corridors. Steam leaked from pipes to obstruct their view in pockets along the metal tunnels, a distraction subtle enough to seem insignificant and yet one so effective it could be concealing a pack of enemies in waiting. But each time they cautiously investigated the steam clouds, the Trolls found nothing barring their path. Some times a water pipe would be leaking, leaving a puddle of rancid-smelling fluid in its wake. Unsure as to whether the liquid was acid or worse, the Trolls made careful to avoid the streaming fluid as well as the pools. But there was something enveloping the entirety of this place like a blanket so thick Guro'jintal could feel it brushing against his shoulders.

Death. It was everywhere. Several times he had mistakened blood on the floors, walls, and ceiling for an artistic touch. Other times he would smell something sour, and realize he recognized it as the scent of rotting corpses. But apart from the blood and the smell, there was no sign of death within this underground lair. Not until they came upon the first room.

It lay behind a thick blast door that was easy enough to open with the twist of a large pressure valve. Inside, it was an easy twenty degrees colder, and forced the Trolls to pull the furs tighter around them after the warmth of the corridors. At first they thought it to be a freezer, but a gasp and expression of horror from Wotam brought them to realize that it was indeed a freezer, but not a traditional one. Thick walls of glass were fogged up by the sudden entrance of warm air, so Guro'jintal had to wipe it clean to see what lay behind. He jumped slightly when a hideous, deformed face stared back at him. It belonged to what could have been a Human once, or perhaps even a Troll. The muscles were contorted and withered to a degree that rendered it indescribable. The water was strangely clear, tinted blue by the colored lamps.

"What is this? It is horrifying," whispered Jakazul.

"These monstrosities...torture?" said Alojin.

Guro'jintal couldn't pull his gaze away from the pain and struggle he could see in the frozen eyes of the corpse floating in the water. There was something he recognized, a certain vacant animosity.

"I don't know what they were, but what they are now, I think we've already met."

He turned to Hirojata. "Do you remember the night at the Dwarves' camp? Those strange monsters? They are remarkably similar."

The Trolls took second, longer stares, and began to nod in agreement.

"So this is the work of Serum 146," said Alojin. Guro'jintal nodded gravely.

The old Troll couldn't spend another minute in the room. They went to the further side, and opened the door there. They found themselves back in a maze of metal corridors as before, and resumed to follow the thick pipe. It led them through a series of tunnels until they came upon another blast door. Images of the hideous floating corpses flashed through Guro'jintal's mind as Jakazul began twisting the pressure valve. But inside, things were quite different.

It seemed out of place. The air was comfortably warm. It smelled fresh and clean, with the hint of aging parchment. The room was about the size of a study, and lit in the same context by a sea of candles that spanned the living space. The orange glow was so incredibly relaxing that the Trolls submitted to the overwhelming sense of security. They retired their weapons and began looking about after making sure the door was properly sealed behind them. Shelves of books lined the back wall, where a pair of tables littered with more librams and stacks of parchment lay. Guro'jintal paced around the room, eyeing the recorder device that sat on a stand in one corner. He had seen a similar device while on visit to Ironforge several years ago. It seemed to work in a similar fashion, from what Guro'jintal could tell. A large, circular disk with contours on either surface was placed on top, and a needle was gently inserted into the contours while the disk was rotated clockwise. Through a large speaker that resembled a giant horn, sound would emit. Guro'jintal flipped the switch and put the needle onto the disk.

The sound startled the other Trolls, one of which accidentally knocked over one of the candle stands. Luckily he hadn't caused any injuries other than his dignity for a second as the others laughed at his nerves. Meanwhile, Guro'jintal listened intently. It was an old hymn of the Humans, a masterpiece if he had remembered correctly. The old Troll had the pleasure of being introduced to the arts of the Humans and Dwarves while on his visits to Stormwind and Ironforge during less strenuous times.

"Drink in Victory," said Hirojata, joining Guro'jintal at the recorder.

He nodded. "Gregory Kessil. The usual, good triumphs over evil."

"Doesn't it always?" answered Hirojata.

"Aye. Gets a little old, doesn't it?"

Hirojata laughed. "That depends on what side you're one."

It was Guro'jintal's turn to laugh. "Doesn't that also depend on your definition of good and evil? Take Marx, for instance. Can you be sure he knows what he's doing is evil? What if it just seems right to him?"

"Then he's insane," replied Hirojata.

"Exactly. It shouldn't be about good versus evil. It should be about the sane versus the insane."

"Guro'jintal!" came Alojin from across the room. "I think we've found Marx's personal library!"

They had indeed. It contained everything, dating as far back as to Marx's time spent in Ironforge. Apparently he was a Gnome, and like many of their kind, had developed a love for science. Fabrovus had a knack for machinery, but according to his personal diary, had a love for chemistry. As the Trolls studied his blueprints and formulas, they were quite impressed. Their cultural background included a serious study of herbs and plants, developing the Troll's honed talents of potion concoction. It served greatly in battle alongside other uses, and has been employed by the race since the beginning of time. Guro'jintal, who had been around longer than any of the others and therefore had much more experience with chemistry, was humbled by the Gnome's knowledge. But alongside the humbleness came a stark realization that this understanding of chemistry had proven to be the Gnome's downfall. The confession was wrought in the latest entry of his diary.

I am disgusted. I am horrified at what I have become. But can I help it? Once, maybe I could have. But that choice does not rest with me any longer. I forfeited my will to the Lich King nearly two years ago. He took my soul, but not my spirit. I've managed to keep the thirst for invention, and the undying resolve to concoct formula after formula. I would have received an award for the breakthroughs I've made down here. That is, if they were worthy. It's terrible. The things I've done, all by my hand, and thanks to the glorious Lich King. Even now, my words do not speak truth. He still maintains a hold over me that's lax enough to let me expound upon my pains and tribulations, and yet it's strong enough to disallow the use of adjectives I would love to use to describe his benevolence. It's like the final touch to a cake, the poisonous cherry set in a circle of acidic icing.

But enough of my rant and on to the science. Three weeks ago I arrived at Fredrus' doorstep and he gave me something I knew to be wonderful and revolting at once. Serum 146 was more than I could imagine or hope for. Though while it strengthened the body and ate away the spirit, I knew it to be a great achievement. And of course, where Fredrus failed, I would succeed. Last night, I perfected the serum. It's brilliant. The kill-switch is ironic, and I've done enough testing to know there's a one-hundred percent effectiveness. The poor souls. They might be cold, but at least they can feel it.

Fabrovus Marx

"That was the last entry, dated yesterday," said Wotam.

Guro'jintal looked up, the saliva turning sour in his mouth. He held an abhorrence for Marx, but at the same time he couldn't respect him more. A show of strength against such depressing odds. It was admirable.

"Burn it. All of it," commanded Guro'jintal.

Candles were upturned and bookshelves were tumbled. Guro'jintal stood back and watched as wasted brilliance was set alight and blackened to a crisp.

"It's a shame," said Alojin. "He'd hate to see it come to this."

Guro'jintal was momentarily silent. "Had he the power, he would have done the same."