With a soft whimper Stovepipe restlessly paced along his well oiled track. The factory was alive with the strobing flashes of ultraviolet flash bulbs. Stovepipe understood that sanitation was necessary, but the cacophony of pops assaulted his ears, and the powerful flashes tore at his retina. Such was the life of a tool. After an all too long hiatus the bulbs retracted into their protective shells and work resumed; Stovepipe gathered his wits and methodically began to check each machine.
So intent was he on his work, that it took Stovepipe quite a while to realize that something was very wrong. No ponies had re-entered the factory floor. He straitened, turning on an axis to survey the vast chamber; not a supervisor in sight, and without some-pony to operate the conveyers, Stovepipe knew his machines would be of little use. Curiosity wormed its way into his head, but the track to which he was affixed restricted movement to a predetermined path and did not intersect any exits. Stovepipe made to wait.
...
A small ball flew into the factory wall. Thump, one thousand, two hundred, and fifty-three
Thump, one thousand, two hundred, and fifty-four
Thump, one thousand, two hundred, and fifty-sixs
Stovepipe did a double take; another game ruined, he had to keep a more careful count next time. He slid to retrieve the leather ball he so treasured, and as he reached his hooves out, Stovepipe looked at his own cracked leathery skin. How long have I been playing this game? His flesh was worn and dry with the endless repetition of his game. I better get this replaced.
After a short circuit of his track, anxiety began to creep into Stovepipe's veins. Without any ponies there wasn't a chance of getting a skin graft. Stovepipe began to pace again, allowing the whirring of his clockwork track calm his mind.
Maybe there was an emergency! Should I activate the alarm? Stovepipe shuddered; something deep inside his skull rattled. Should I start the destruct sequence? Deciding to take the safer rout, he wound his way through the factory in search of an emergency station. Stovepipe found his quarry nestled behind unused barricades and spears; he sped to a glass panel, thrusting his hoof into the button below.
Silence. Silence became a soft wine. A soft wine became the wailing of a thousand ponies. Stovepipe clawed at his head, desperate to silence the overwhelming din of emergency sirens. He jerked wildly back and forth along his track without direction, fleeing the sound which seemed to originate inside his own skull. Without knowing how or why, Stovepipe found himself in front of the alarm, hammering the button through shards of glass.
OFF! OFF! OFF! The pounding of his hooves warped the metal casing, obliterating the mechanism, but Stovepipe kept going and going until the noise became too much for his senses, slumping on his track mount, Stovepipe drifted from the world of screams into that of nothingness.
...
The dim lights of the factory floor cut at Stovepipe's ravaged mind though his heavy lids. Painfully he forced his eyes open and took stock of his situation. Still no ponies. Stovepipe looked to his hooves, and quickly busied his eyes on the ceiling lamp. I will... would need more than a skin graft. Stovepipe corrected himself. He knew what he must do now.
The rainbow factory can not be left untended, and in the case that the supervisors should perish, the tools should make sure it is packed away. Stovepipe wrung his bloody stumps as he slowly slid to the far end of the factory floor; his track led him to a heavy reinforced door. Cloud made nigh impenetrable, shaped and layered by tireless hooves, swung silently on well oiled hinges. Hidden in darkness lay the mind of the factory, to be controlled by those who shared it's secrets. Stovepipe's limbs slid over the console by memory, soon his world was lit with a spectrum of colored lights, all indicating the status of his machines, power, and most importantly, explosive charges. Stovepipe wasted no time, tapping out a very specific combination of keys for the first and last time.
WUUUUUUMP The sound of a thousand carefully placed explosived severing the factory from it's supports echoed among Stovepipe's machines. No longer my machines... what should I do now? The world shifted. Stovepipe moved out onto the factory floor just as it began it's decent. The world tilted sickeningly, nearly tearing Stovepipe from his mounting, and then it it him.
MY BALL! Stovepipe grasped unsuccessfully as his treasured leather friend flew just out of reach. The reenforced cloud of the ceiling began to peel away as the factory buckled. The universe lurched and screamed as it fell, a billion sanitary bulbs shined through gaping holes in Stovepipe's factory; everything was madness, but his attention was not focused on the spectacle of the sun, nor the sounds of his machines being torn from their foundations. No. Stovepipe was pulling at his mount will all the strength his tortured limbs could manage his eyes a laser focus on his only companion.
After what seemed an eternity, the mounting tore loose from his ever-warping track, and for the first time Stovepipe crawled across the floor toward his ball. NO NO NO! He could almost scream as his ball rolled away, shifting direction as the factory tilted more in its decent. The world built up more speed as it feel, and Stovepipe found it was becoming easier to throw his body toward the leather sphere. Precious moments passed as he reached his hooves out in one final lunge.
Stovepipe spun through the air as the floor disintegrated, clutching the ball to his scared chest. He caught a glimpse of the entire factory bearing down upon him, above it floated a majestic city of clouds, lit by the largest lamp Stovepipe had ever seen. His spin continued, and he became aware of a vast green wall rapidly approaching him.
Stovepipe threw his ball.
Thump, one.
Authors Note:
I want to thank GamerLake for her support; reading and reviewing my writing. This is my first FiM short story, and I sort of feel like a fish out of water. I am much more comfortable drawing pretty pictures. Writing feels so much more intense at times, and so much more can go wrong. You can tell I'm taking It slow, this story being only just 1005 words, (not including this note btw) but hopefully there will be more to come. I would like to personally thank any-pony who took the time to read over this tiny little blip on their radar. It takes a special kind of person to give people chances, and I appreciate it.
