A human goes about his day inside the Rainbow Factory.
I live among the insane and the demented employees of this Rainbow Factory, and I’m perfectly fine with that. Let me tell you of a particular day, and you’ll hopefully see why I’m happy here.
A story based on the famous fanon: Rainbow Factory by Aurora Dawn. That can be found here. If you haven't read it before, then some of this may not make sense.
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.
We repeated the maintenance process several more times within different areas, and had just finished Area 2-005 when Piston glanced at his pocket watch. “Twelve thirty, time for lunch, Randy! I hear that cabbage rolls are today’s special!” He pranced off down the halls, with me close behind him. I spent the walk to the Mad House wiping the grease off my hands as best as I could. For I didn't want to lose any precious time washing my hands.
The lunch policy here is very strict. They want to squeeze as much work out of us as they can, so every minute of rest we can get is highly valued.
On the same note, we refer to the mess hall as “The Mad House.” Simply because it’s a room where the demented and insane gather to eat food. And when you have a room full of those kind of ponies, shit occasionally hits the fan. Most days are reasonably calm, but I’ve seen the house gone mad. It aint pretty.
The Mad House is a large room, of course, with your standard cafeteria layout. Steel bars separate the crowd into five different lines that lead to the distribution counter, before funneling to one exit that leads to the sitting area. The food is the same for almost everybody. The exceptions are right ranking pegasi, and me. Even then, the purpose of the five lines is just to distribute the massive in-flow. Not to categorize.
Even though Piston and I entered the room at the same time, with full intention to stand adjacent, he ended up being a few ponies in front of me. That’s just how things happen when you form a line in a massive crowd. Things fall into place and you can't do anything about it. The guy behind me had something oozing from his mouth, I assume saliva. I say this because he was making annoying noises that would suggest such a characteristic.
In front of me was a mare who seemed calm and collected. She was obviously a security guard from her black attire. They have the authority to defend themselves with excessive force, but sadly they make poor conversation. One would think that they’d have their own mess hall, but at the same time mixing them with the everybody else might help reduce chaos.
I was getting bored simply standing in line, it would be a minute or two before I got any food. Thus I tried my luck at small talk with the silent security, “How’s your day been going so far?” While she didn't acknowledge me I did see her ears twitch in response. I knew then she was a newbie. If the ears don't twitch, you know that you’re being completely ignored.
Because of inexperience, it was also likely that she hadn't seen me before, but fear shouldnt be a problem for the likes of her. “You may be a guard, but you still have a mouth behind that mask; less you plan to eat with your ears.” Again the ears twitched, but no response. I tried once more. “The other guards may tell you to stay quiet, but that’s not set in stone.” Less twitching of the ears, so I gave up on trying.
I figured if I couldn't have a chat with somepony, I’d eavesdrop. Besides from being entertaining, keeping your ears open can reveal important information that may save your life down the road. You’re going to have to take my word for it. Even with the white noise of chatter that filled the cafeteria, I managed to isolate a conversation somewhere behind me, beyond the drooling worker.
One voice was of a gravelly stallion, “I can't believe they extended our shift...”
The other voice was a bitch. You can tell sometimes by how a mare, or even a women, talks whether they are a bitch or not. It’s more of a personal distaste in judgment, but in the past my judgment was right.
Back to the topic of the pega-bitch, who released a whine that was acid to my ears. “I knooow! The blood is starting to get to places it shouldn't be, and it’s a bitch to get out!”
A third voice came into play, annoyed as much as I was. “This is a job. Crap like this happens when you have one.”
She retorted, “No, it doesn't have to!” God, if I could, I would shove her into The Machine and then reduce the Spine Twister speed by fifty-percent.
The gravely voice was also annoyed. “You new here?”
“Why?”
“Course if you keep talking like that somepony’s gonna gut out your voice box!”
This stallion right here was giving good advice, and good ideas! Of course, Mrs. Bitch thought it was baloney. “Buck off, I can deal with bucktards like you with my eyes closed!”
I whispered death threats as I approached the counter. The cooks remain anonymous, because we never see them, and they likely never see us. Now I personally think that the cooks are normal ponies who don't realize who they are cooking for. Not only do we never see them, but the food quality is inconsistent. I believe that cooking is an art, and every artist has a signature. To me, it feels like the signature is always written by a different hoof every week here. How they would organize that is beyond me.
The windows at the food counter are one way, so we don't see the distributor, but she or he always is on the lookout for anybody who would get something special. For me, it's an order of a glass of clean water, some cabbage rolls, and a moderate serving of grilled meat.
The meat is, horse meat. Kinda obvious, right? Where I come from, horse meat isn't a popular choice when compared to the likes of beef or chicken, but I find that the equine meat is satisfactory, given the work conditions. This also makes me believe that the chiefs in question are griffins. Who else would willingly cook horse meat? Unless they thought it was something else...food for thought I suppose.
At a lunch table, I sat down next to Pistion, who had already started eating away at his cabbage roll, when I saw the Bitch leave the line. I knew it was her because she was looked the part of a whiny newbie. She was a skyblue with brown eyes, and a white mane and tail stained with something. Her cutie mark was obscure from my location. The way she trotted, the way she acted, and the slight innocent look in her eyes told me that she was definitely new and not used to the atmosphere here.
To me, inexperience is no excuse for being a bitch.
I slowly ate and imagined killing her, it’d be a public service to everyone inside the factory, and some well needed entertainment for my behalf. The taste of the meat hardly registered in my mouth.
The pony across from me caught my attention. “I could be mistaken, but you seem to be admiring that plot.” I looked forward and saw a stallion with yellow fur, rectangular glasses and a black mane. “Am I wrong?” He asked, given my unchanged expression.
He seemed friendly enough, quite sane actually. “For your information, I was thinking about killing her.”
Piston suddenly entered the conversation. “It’s good to set personal goals!”
The yellow pony did not seem to mind my murderous intentions. On the contrary, he seemed quite intrigued, and put his hooves under his chin to rest on. “How would you do it?”
I figured this topic would get my creative juices flowing, and placed my hand under my chin as well. “Not sure yet, stabbing her would be too simple.”
Piston was supportive. Given his demeanor, he supports almost everything. “Intestinal strangulation? It’s a classic technique.”
The yellow pegasi shook his head. “No, no, the way I see it, every murder needs a hint of originality. Break her lower back and cut her hind legs off.”
A mare next to the yellow pegasi entered the talk, who seemed all to happy to discuss murder. “Rip out a rib and shank her with it!”
Another mare next to her tossed in her two cents. “You eat meat, eat her limbs one by one!”
If there is one thing that any two living beings inside this factory can deeply discuss, it’s murder. Pure and simple. Ponies can spend hours at a time talking about murder in all it’s forms, and there is no better place in the world to plan one then here. In is in that context that we are philosophers of death.
We are insane, but at the same time we have enough competence to do a job. It’s a balance that is easier for some than it is for others. To stabilize themselves, ponies will often attach themselves to something, be it a hobby, object, idea, the list goes on. I’ve even seen a pony with a pink mustache obsess over an adorably small wooden box. It now accompanies him everywhere. Even then, no one complains so long as it works and the pony performs well enough.
Now pertaining to the debate over murder, I was actually leaning toward the rib shank, but even in a place like this, there are policies against outright murder. Otherwise the factory would be low on staff. “I’m leaning towards the rib shank…”
Piston casually put his hoof on my shoulder. “Give it some thought! The last thing you want to do is kill somepony without a plan!”
The enthusiastic mare from before said one more thing before returning to her food. “If you do end up eating her, save me some of her plot, or anything else in that area!”
I nodded once to show that I’d keep it in mind, and on that note, the conversation ended.
Time passed and I had eaten through most of my meal when I felt a hoof tap my right shoulder. I glanced over, and saw the security mare from before. Before I could only see her covered backside and outline of a tail, but now I could see the two brick-red eyes. She spoke only what needed to be said. “Rainbow Dash requests your presence in her office. Immediately.”
I swallowed a mouthful of water, and replied. “I knew there was a mouth under that mask.” I glanced over to Piston as a farewell, he returned the look with a cheery smile. I stood up, looked to the guard, and gestured to the general direction of the exit. “Lead the way.”
On my way out I saw the Bitch, eating in at the end of a table, giving her the greatest distance possible between herself and others. I smiled slightly. The more isolated she is, the easier it will be to cover up the kill. That is another tale though.
I soon found myself in the halls of The Rainbow Factory once again. I could tell that the mare escorting me was uncomfortable. She was constantly glancing about the room, and lacked an overall quality of rigidity that most ponies with her job would have. Out of politeness, and curiosity, I attempted to relax her. “You know, fear is discouraged among security.” She twitched her ears. “Care to talk it out?”
She firmly replied, staring straight forward in an attempt to cover up her uncertainty. “I have no business talking to the likes of you!”
Fear of what I was seemed unlikely. “The likes of me? That’s a bit mean, after all-”
She interrupted me, with an actual attitude showing through her words. “Really then? How do I know you're not going to eat me?”
Again, that didn't sound right to me. I was convinced that she was uncomfortable for a different reason. “You would be the first pony I’ve come across that was actually concerned with that.” She seemed disgruntled by that evidenced by a quiet growl. “What kind of guard are you?”
Her voice was now filling with frustration. “The kind that will buck your skull in if you dont shut up!”
I felt no pressure from the threat. Mostly because I was confident in my own capabilities, and that Dashie would be very unhappy if she found her arrangements interrupted by a lesser staff member. “Well, I appreciate your restraint from killing me.”
I could tell my calm reaction caught her off guard, because she looked at me curiously. “Don’t you fear death?”
“No, being fearless with the concept of death is more or less a requirement to be hired here.” She continued to stare at me. “It looks good on the resume at least.”
Looking at her, I saw that she was no longer a cold hearted guard. Her eyes had gone soft, and her voice carried warmth. “You seem comfortable with the idea of death...”
I had found that amusing, as it was indeed true, but also that she had lowered her defenses that easily. “Ha! Yes I am! You tend to get comfortable with something if you spend more time around it.”
She laughed in response to my logic. A restrained laugh that one didn't expect to erupt, nor wanted to occur in the first place. “Haha-mmm!” She looked slightly embarrassed. “Yes, well, that’s a given.”
I had really started to enjoy the conversation. She was the first guard I was able to have one with. “Not just a given, but a law.”
“A law from what?”
“What else? It stems from the Principles of Death.” I realized then that I had been simply walking beside her, involuntarily following her lead. I looked forward and around the room to observe my location within the factory. But more questions were on my mind. “What is your name? You should already know mine, given you were sent to deliver me.”
The next words I heard from her mouth sounded pleased to release such information. “My name is Sour. Sour Crush.”
