The Ashen Wrath (Watty's SHORTLIST recipient 2018) CHAPTERED VERSION

*7

Every inch of the factory was stained with black oil and orange rust. The only light came from glass orbs hanging from hooks high on the ceiling—each filled with a single, trapped spark.

Once every Thrall was inside the oppressive interior of the factory, we were split up into work groups by orange, cube-shaped airdrones and assigned quotas. I followed my group through a maze of walkways snaking between whirring belt drives and hulking, steam-spitting machinery. Strange gauges and dials covered every surface, but no one seemed to know their purpose.

My duties generally consisted of scrubbing oozing liquid from mechanical joints and sweeping the slate floors free of debris. On nights when my luck ran out, I was assigned to man a towering hunk of equipment called a press. I sighed as the drone led me to my workstation. A night of back-breaking labor was ahead of me.

An ear-splitting buzz signaled the start of the shift. I began by sliding a heavy plate of dull metal into a red-hot maw. A loud clunk sounded alongside an eruption of yellow vapor as I pulled a lever with all my might. The press then lifted to reveal the flat slab had been formed into a gleaming new shape. I put the stamped object onto a moving belt which zoomed it away to another part of the factory and the process started again.

No matter what job was assigned, a brisk pace was expected. Thrall who fell behind quota were met with severe punishment, usually a painful slash by the Rake. Our shifts were unpredictable, lasting anywhere from a half hour to ten hours. I punched metal for three hours until the Sleep Trill sounded.