I work in the obscure, and otherwise infamous Rainbow Factory. Contrary to what you may be thinking, I am not insane, for the most part.
My name? Randy. I perform multiple jobs, most of which involve handling the grotesque remains of “visitors” who come here. My jobs don't have any official titles, but I know that I’m not the janitor. That poor stallion, he never catches a break around here. No, if you wanted to name my job, I’d separate it into two different ones. Maintenance assistant, and storage manager. With a few other odd jobs mixed in there.
I am to stay clear of the main factory area. Even if the foals are on a one way trip, they prefer to keep me away. That said, many pegasi here don't even know of my existence. Apart from my access restrictions, there is nothing else concealing me. A pony could discover me if she or he tried, but I’m not the only secret this facility holds. I’ll bet money on that.
When I arrived here three months ago, I was simply assigned tasks and ended up keeping them. Like I said before, I’ll often handle mangled remains that are in such a way that few others can lay eyes on them. Being a different species of the victims, I can stomach much more than the average employee. The bodies...they are like snowflakes. No two are alike.
Anyway, today went well. I spent most of my morning shift in the frozen storage area. I remember putting away an iced filly who had an uncommon color combo. A perfect red coat and an orange tail; two complementary colors on one horse like that are best frozen alive. I hear the screams of agony that echo from the freezing chamber, indicating that process is very painful.
Much like the red filly the frozen are usually stuck with a face of ceaseless agony. Her eyes were wide and innocent, the mouth open, and the throat expanded from a murder scream gone silent. I’ve heard that on the rare occasion one of these will survive. That said, I’d imagine that the thawing process would still be painful.
I sealed up the filly with her brothers and sisters in the appropriate area among other reds coats. In a scenario where the factory has a recession of resources, these emergency young ones are brought out. I slapped an orange and red color code sticker on the crate the filly was in, so that she may be identified by color when the time arises.
I walked slowly back to the changing room. The inventory had been sorted through and another pony would arrive to take the next shift. The halls of the frozen hell hole were probably the cleanest in the whole facility. Nothing but ice wood and steel. Hardly any blood. My boots clanged loudly against the metal path as I made my way back, and the winter clothing I had kept me warm.
The metal walkways run throughout most of the factory, and this is one of the main reasons why a human like myself can work here. Even then, any boots I am assigned are enchanted to prevent me from falling immediately through a cloud floor. However, if I were to stand still on a cloud spot I would slowly sink.
I had just finished changing into my industrial coat, jeans, gloves and boots; when Piston Pusher entered. The stallion was grey with a black mane, and eyes that sparkle like the lines of a silver colored pencil.
The cutie mark was a simple, generic, piston. This is usually hidden under the dirty work coat he wears. A stained saddlebag full of tools was on his back, because he worked with all the pistons in the factory, and there are a lot of them.
Piston’s voice was innocent, but too much so for comfort. Always upbeat. Always. He could happily talk about lemon cookies while a foal get its intestines spilled. “Hey Randy, I need some help with routine lubrication, could ya spare me the time?”
Lubrication. One of his favorite jobs, and one of his favorite words, and the reason why his tool bag is stained with various fluids I will not describe. However, he does usually have an assistant of his own. “Sure, but where’s-?”
He rolled his eyes. “Dripper had another meltdown, somehow managed to get ahold of a colt’s brain, and ate it with a fork and knife.”
I felt rather concerned for her. Dripper is a nice mare once you get to know her, and you look past the scars on her face. She told me that she was once beautiful, and that it was jealousy of others that brought her down. “I hope she can manage her meltdowns soon, for her own sake.” Piston did nothing but nod in agreement. “Alright then.” I gestured to the door as a signal for him to lead.
We all have stories. None of us were born this way, but ‘destiny’ is a strong word in cutie-mark society. Therefore, most ponies believe they belong here. Piston for example, was once an engineer in training, and he got top grades in his class. One day, another stallion stole the love of his life. Piston crushed him under a...well, piston; and ended up killing his love just to cover it up. He came to the factory to both hide and forget.
My story. Is my business if you dont mind. All you need to know is that people died, and I was given a second chance. A second chance at what though...It’s a question I’m still trying to answer.
Anyway, I followed Piston out of the room and back into the main halls of the factory. Ah, rusty and bloody pipes, and the smell of insanity. One would always hear screams of the insane or the dying through the halls, but the two are sometimes hard to distinguish. As we walked and talked, other employees muddled their way around us. Anonymous guards also stood with attention at various intervals.
Piston was instantly giddy after a few moments of silence, “He-he-he, I have some great news!” The word ‘great’ was said maniacally, “The-The ponies down in the testing labs have made a new lubricant for us!” He pulled out a sample box of the substance and offered it to me.
I took it from his hoof and opened the top. Inside was a dark red substance. I slipped a finger in it and rubbed it between my finger and thumb. It did feel like an oil of some variety. The smell though, it was very familiar. “Is this…? Blood?”
Dripper moved his hooves faster in giddiness. “Hehehe, mostly! There are a few other things in there that make it better for lubrication, but the base ingredient is blood collected from The Machine!” He began to hop instead of trott. “They even made a grease version!”
We refer to the rainbow maker as The Machine. For it is the main reason we all work here. The fact that blood had been turned into such a thing was pretty impressive. Still, the stuff gets everywhere as it is. “Wow, just when I thought this place didn't have enough blood everywhere. Thanks science.”
He didnt pick up on my sarcasm. “I know right! I might order a whole tub of this to bathe in!”
One of Piston’s passions is seeing fresh blood of a working machine drip down the piston shaft as the victim is crushed, he prefers this sight accompanied with the breaking bones. This likely stems from his past. So understandably, this breakthrough was the best thing in the world for him. And I do not, for one moment, doubt that he will actually bathe in blood-oil as a new hobby.
You see, cleanliness is not the highest priority here, as most of us live the rest of our sorry lives confined to the facility with no outside contact. Rainbow Dash is the biggest exception, being an element of harmony and all. She gets dirty, but not too much so. It all must be washed out after her work day. Dashie is by the way, a good friend of mine. I actually have her loving permission to use that nickname. Now, I myself have yet to fully dismiss hygiene for sake of my health, and to be fair this place has shit insurance.
I capped the blood-oil sample and handed it back to Piston. “What are you going to use as soap?”
He answered casually, “I don't use soap!” He stopped and turned to a door labeled ‘Maintenance Area 1-045’ The first number indicates the floor, with the following three being the door’s actual number. He grabbed a key ring from his bag and eventually unlocked the door where I followed him inside. A slew of pipes cogs and other such things whirred, hissed, clanged, and pumped. An iron walkway was the only path through the jungle of metal.
As loud as the area was I find zen in it all, and I imagine piston does as well. Organized chaos, that’s what I’d call it. Keeping the death machines alive, and in turn, keeping us alive. The Rainbow Factory is a shadow of death that we all hide behind. We, the insane. And the last thing we want is for it to stop working.
I won't go into too much detail about the lubricating process, as it has little relevance to my tale. We used the usual manual grease and oil pumps, made sure the gaskets were still good, and gave an all-round diagnoses of the area.
Of course, we walked out with our work clothes covered with altered blood and other greases. The clothes do get washed, but only every other day.