As I dumped the three hundred and sixtieth bucket of water into the waiting funnel of a Cloudweaver, I briefly wished a tornado would dispose of the whole lot.
Of course, even this endless monotony was preferable to the actual consequences of a wild tornado – just the disruption to cloud production alone would cause days to sort out, let alone the inevitable damage to the factory, plus the subsequent investigation. Then again, after another three weeks of this, I might not be so certain.
Having made sure the input funnels were filled with buckets of fresh water from the main reservoir, I did yet another flyover of my row of machines to ensure the clouds being produced were of the highest quality. The cheat sheet upon which I had depended during that first week was now little more than an occasionally-useful reference, but still I felt the need to be thorough, checking each cloud for color and saturation.
As I ran down the row of weather-grade “weavers”, checking each cloud against the list of proper water saturation levels, my mind once again wandered off to the snowflake artisans housed on the floor below. Cloudweavers – both the machines, and the pegasi who attended to them – were important: just about every other division of the factory, from rainbow production to storm assembly, ran on the clouds we made, and thus each machine had to be constantly monitored for quality. Many pegasi were perfectly happy to work in cloud production for their entire careers as weatherponies.
But oh, to be a snowflake artisan!
Though they often attracted the moniker of “snowcarvers”, this was actually a misnomer: snowflake artisans hoof-assemble thousands of delicate snowflakes from tiny bits of frozen water, which requires both an eye for design and extremely steady hooves. The selection process was competitive, and only those who had proven their talents in other areas of the factory were considered. Just the thought of donning a snowflake artisan’s winter gear could motivate me to check cloud after cloud after cloud...
I frowned as I stuck a hoof into one of the clouds from the machine labeled Weather-Grade: Light Rain. Though the color and saturation were technically within the appropriate limits, something about it felt off even to my limited experience. However, instinct alone could not tell me what set this cloud apart from all of the other light-rain clouds I’d tested, so I called out, “Excuse me - Raindrop? Could you double-check my settings on this machine?”
A light-green pegasus with a raincloud cutie mark turned from her station at the Storm-Grade Cloudweavers across the room and landed in front of the machine. She was a Senior Cloudweaver, the only pegasi allowed to manufacture the dark, lightning-producing clouds. “Sure thing, Snowflake. What’s it doing wrong?”
I shook my head in confusion. “I’m not entirely sure. All of the settings seem to be correct, and yet this cloud feels thin.”
Her features momentarily hardened in concentration as she snagged a cloud of her own and stuck her hoof through. “I see what you mean,” she said, pulling it aside to test water output. As she sprung up and down on the fluffly cloud, a thin shower poured out of the bottom. After a moment, she broke into a grin. “I think I see the problem. What does the size gauge say?”
I hastily landed in front of the machine and read the output on the dial. “Eight,” I responded promptly, as a thought suddenly struck me. Quickly, I pulled out the cheat sheet and flipped it over to reveal a more detailed table of machine settings. As I thought. I had forgotten to re-adjust the other settings to compensate for the increased size! My ears drooped as I realized my mistake. An amateurish blunder, which could only hinder my chances of promotion.
Raindrop noticed my expression as I set to work correcting the machine, and slowly landed next to me. “Hey, don’t look so glum,” she said. “Not everypony would’ve caught their mistake so quickly.”
“And because I didn’t catch it sooner, an entire morning’s worth of light-rain clouds are too thin,” I pointed out.
Raindrop laughed gently. “You think that’s bad? Last month, our new recruit jammed up three of the building-grade cloudspinners. Three! Thin rainclouds are the least of our worries.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle as I wondered how somepony would jam up even one of the extremely robust building-grade cloudspinners, let alone several. But Raindrop wasn’t finished. She glanced over her shoulder and leaned in conspiratorially, dropping her voice to a whisper.
“I’m not supposed to tell you this, but I overheard Thunderhead talking to Dapplewing in the hall yesterday. Dap wants you for her division”
My eyes widened. Thunderhead was Cloud Supervisor, so this Dapplewing was probably head of her respective department. Head Artisan in the snowflake division was a stallion named Iceflower, so that left...
“That’s right,” she responded, mistaking my expression for one of excitement. “You’ve been tapped for the Rainbow Division!”
Tap tap tap.
With a groan, I pried myself off the couch, trying not to aggravate my injured wing. I swear, no matter how much rest I got or how many stretching routines I did, the soreness in my chest just didn’t seem to want to go away. Not to mention, I was going stir-crazy! I was sorely tempted to beg for a few shifts of Cloudweaving, just to get me outta the house.
Tap tap tap.
“Coming!” I shouted, inching over to the door. Fortunately, my legs seemed to have mostly recovered - it was just my ribs and wing that still ached like mad. Finally, I made it to the door, only to find myself face-to-face with the weather factory’s messenger, who jumped as the door opened. I snickered; Inky Quill was always on edge.
“Storm! You’re here. Good, good, very good,” he sputtered.
I glanced pointedly at my bandaged wing. “Where else would I be?”
“Ah, yes, of course.” He cleared his throat, and suddenly his voice became deeper and more sure of itself. “Storm Chaser, you’ve been invited to work in the newly reopened Rainbow Division until you are fit to return to the Storm Assembly Team.” As soon as his message was finished, his jumpy demeanor returned. “Th-that’s it.”
The Rainbow Division?
I hesitated. RD was a respectable job, sure, but there were a whole lot of rumors about why it had been “closed for renovations” a few months ago. Whispered tales of workplace accidents, rogue machinery, even hauntings, had been met with vague denials from the Weather Council, the group that oversaw the whole factory. Only two former RD workers were still around, and neither of them were talking.
But maybe I’d be put into rainbow combing instead! Mixing the separate chroma into liquid rainbow and straining out impurities – sure, it was a little tedious, but the pegasi who worked there were a friendly, laid-back bunch. The Rainbow Pools had even stayed open while the rest of the division was closed, maintaining the existing rainbow.
One last glance at the couch I’d been stuck on for the last few weeks clinched it. I turned back to Inky with a grin and said, “Count me in!”
