The Cult of Equestria

“Wake up, come on!” A hoof dangled in front of Shorty’s face before slapping him and shaking him awake. Shorty spluttered, his head shaking up and down.

“Aye, stop! Thincolt, you need to get your non-cruelness fixed!” His head flipped upwards suddenly, hooves flailing all around. He was about to curse another word, but was quickly silenced by his coworker.

“Shut it, Shortmouth. You’ve caused too much trouble now.” The henchpony growled, and quickly pulled Shorty up. Shorty growled back, pushed the henchpony off, and awakened Thinnie. The henchpony coworker slowly backed off but smirked as he whispered his words towards Shortmouth.

“You got a meeting with the boss, mister.” The coworker slipped away from his position and winked at Shortmouth happily. He growled back at his enemy and tapped Thincolt heavily with a sturdy hoof.

“Come on, Thincolt.” He pulled his accomplice forward and tugged him towards the dimly lit corridor. Thincolt followed silently, his head dejectedly lowering as each step took them towards the Boss. Just as it seemed like it would go on forever, there was a door at the very end of the corridor.

Shortmouth glanced at the door uncertainly. Thincolt said nothing as he knocked the door with a slippery hoof.

“Who is it?” The gruff and terrifying voice paralyzed the two workers for a moment, freezing them like cold ice. Shortmouth shuddered for a second before replying.

“E-e-rr, uh… Sir, it’s me and Thincolt.”

The gruff voice turned fiery and calm at the same time.

“Enter.”

Thincolt took the turn and slowly pushed the door forward, wincing at every sound it made. Unfortunately, it made more sound than ever. The door creaked and groaned and as Thincolt pushed it at its final steps, he feared to look at his boss’s face.

Or was it really a face?

Shortmouth tugged his friend gently towards the bare desk and dim lighting, pushing him forward first. Thincolt hesitated for a moment before slowly sliding onto the bare wooden chair, looking down at the stripped-paint floor quietly. Shortmouth joined him shortly after on another chair next to his, his own head swinging around quietly.

“I am not pleased.” The Boss said coldly. His words pierced through both of their ears like the ringing of bells after hearing loud trumpets. The two coworkers slowly lifted their heads up to listen to more of what their boss had to say.

“You have failed the infiltration of our new target cultists.” His voice grew fiery and angrier. Shortmouth’s heart raced, just waiting for the words.

“You have also failed me and your job. You do not deserve this position among us.”

Thincolt closed his eyes tightly.

“You know the rules. Guards?” The Boss said. Shortmouth knew that word. He had heard it when he was little, from the outside of that room as his father was escorted.

Escorted where?

Shortmouth’s head was filled with thoughts, but he didn’t bother struggling as 2 buff guards dragged the 2 stallions away, chaining them in large, rusted and blood-covered hoofcuffs. Even the guards were silent as they took the stallions away into the darkness of the room.

It seemed like forever before they arrived at the door of the room.

“In.” The guard holding Shortmouth shoved him inside the room, Thincolt following shortly as his own guard flung him inside. The guards slammed the rusted iron door down and quickly turned around, trotting back towards their path as silent as ever.

“Hello?” Thincolt asked, his forehooves aching in pain. Shortmouth groaned in response, not giving a damn about his partner’s questions. Both of the prisoners were silent for a moment before realizing that they had just become the new humiliation of their group. Shortmouth looked back to when he was young to push away all his thoughts.

It was a slow and long day, and as usual, Boxer Punch was working overtime for his gang in order to have the authority to live at the warehouse apartments. He had a poor family, 2 kids, and him. His wife, Daisy Meadow, had suffered a heart attack and died in front of him, thus forcing Boxer to bury her and lie to his kids.

“Boxer, fetch me a drink from the bar.” Belch thrusted his hoof in the air and shouted Boxer’s name several times to ‘summon’ his waiter, dissatisfied with his actions. Boxer’s excellent ears traced the source of the sound, and he quickly but tiredly galloped towards Belch and stood in front of Belch, his hoof saluting him.

“Fetch me a drink. Expresso, kid.” Belch dismissed Boxer away, who dejectedly cantered towards the cafeteria entrance. He opened the door and skittered inside, shutting it with one strong and muscular hoof.

“Boxer, the Boss wants to see you.” A passing employee smirked at Boxer, pushing him back from the drink bar.

“P-pardon? I mean, pardon sir?” Boxer stuttered. His ears stung with words, and his heart was racing at the second.

“Hear what I hear, dumbo. Go see ‘im.”

And that was the last time Shortmouth had ever seen his dad. Shortmouth had a brother, too, but he soon left Shortmouth and abandoned him in the warehouse, where the Boss was willing enough to let him grow up for free.

“What do we do?” Thincolt asked in the complete darkness, interrupting Shortmouth’s thoughts. Shortmouth shrugged, the silence continuing once again.

“I’d never thought I’d die like this, y’know?” He said. Shortmouth hesitated for a bit before continuing the conversation.

“Neither did I.”

“I thought I’d die old, y’know? Like in a bookcase surrounded room and all…” Thincolt breathed a deep and heavy sigh and slumped in his seat uncomfortably.

“Hey, don’t worry man…we did our best anyways.” Shortmouth shuffled forward and slumped next to Thincolt, quietly patting his back with a shaking hoof. Thincolt’s eyes began to tear up, his eyes surrounded with despair and panic. Shortmouth increased the patting more and hugged Thincolt.

“Thanks…thanks.” Shortmouth smiled at his friend sympathetically and sighed. They both were in silence once again, shocked of what had just happened in a mere few minutes a while back.

“Do you think the Boss trusted me?” Shortmouth asked, surprised of his own curiousness.

“Maybe…if you were the son of…well, y’know, perhaps not.” Thincolt answered carefully.

“How ‘bout you?” Shortmouth said. If they were going to spend the rest of their lives in jail, might as well pass some time.

Thincolt shrugged in response, but then a few seconds later responded in dialogue.

“I guess not. I mean, I’m the lowest rank of them all. Even you’re better than me!” Shortmouth agreed, his head filled with more and more questions.

Shortmouth had originally thought that Thincolt was just another regular stallion, but he had much to learn.

As the days passed in prison and smaller rations were served, he found more and more about Thincolt than ever before. Thincolt explained a short biography about himself in full detail.

“I’m a thin stallion, often mocked of my shyness. I don’t have sturdy hooves or muscles like yours, but I do have some wise knowledge stored inside me. My mother was a dainty little mother and was normally very caring and loving, and my father left me and my mother at my age of 5.”

Shortmouth thought for a moment, applauded, and explained his own biography.

“I’m a strong but short stallion, and my family lived right here in the Boss’s reign. Er…my mother left my father and he was to work here till he gained enough money, but he was left in the same hell chamber we’re in now, while my brother also abandoned me in our apartment in the warehouse here.”

Thincolt applauded his biography, a smile forming on his face.

“How pleasant!”

It was surprising to Shortmouth that they were smiling and chattering in a jail cell as they were fed smaller and smaller portions of food each day, but at the same time Shortmouth couldn’t help but smile too, his face widening into a grin, then a small laugh, and finally, a large chuckle.

"Hey, do you know I call this place the Warehouse Community?" Shortmouth added jokingly.Thincolt laughed and smiled.

"Seems like it, obviously." They both chuckled and passed more and more jokes onto eachother. The time passed quickly, but they were as happy as they could be.

But not for long.

Finally, as they were served the last meal of their life, they were silent.

Not a single word and a friendly greeting speech crossed their quiet conversation. It had seemed that they were no longer content as they were about to die in a week, and none of them wished to be happy.

The guards were surprised- for the past few days, they had acted like it was just a harmless consequence, but after that?

Complete, total silence.

No greetings to the guards, any smiles or laughter.

Just silence.

The 2 doomed friends looked down at their own meals, each remembering the time when they weren’t on pressure. It seemed so far…the feeling of content, happy, laughter.

The time passed slower than ever, the food still remaining in their packages, waiting to be eaten.

Meanwhile, the Boss was inside his room discussing with his closest worker, Quills.

“What is the statistics for our popularity and our targets?” The Boss slid his hoof forward on his paint-stripped desk, expecting a graph chart.

“Well,” Quills passed a few papers to his boss. “It seems that our popularity is quite good. Much better than last time. Many governments are tracking us down.”

The Boss nodded in approval. “Targets?”

Quills hesitated for a moment before replying. “We only have one target, sir. The cult that your father was trying to end, and they are unknown. We have not enough details on where they are, and the only ponies who know are the ones in the Execution Box.”

The Boss looked at his associate disbelievingly. “Are you sure?”

Quills nodded in response, desperately trying to stop all forms of panic or anger.

“I see.” The Boss’s hoof withdrew from his chin, and he slowly opened a drawer from his desk. A large sound was emitted as the drawer was closed, a creaking and a wobbly sound filling the room with terror.

The dim lights rattled in agreement.

In his hoof lay one wooden stamper, with barely enough ink hanging on it to supply 5 stamps. Quills looked at his boss uneasily.

“You may leave now.” The Boss dismissed his worker with one firm and terrifying motion with his hoof. Quills quickly bowed, said “Thank you, my leader”, and left the room with 4 trembling hooves.

The Boss looked at the stamper hurtfully, more memories springing up. He closed the stamper in the palm of his hoof and sighed.

“Enter.”

He could detect any sort of action outside or inside his office, and no guard or worker could surpass his skills. Of course, their praise was always sent to him with fake smiles and hoofshakes, and there was that one time when somepony cried fake happy tears.

Let us not worry about that.

The Boss glanced at the guard entering the room.

“Permission to speak, sir?”

The Boss nodded soullessly.

“I would like to inform you that we’ve had a call from Atlanta.”

The Boss gestured for his guard to sit down, showing much more interest after he said ‘Atlanta’. His guard smiled politely and took a seat, then continued with his report.

“They have sent their information in code, which our Coders were unable to identify.” The guard took out a perfectly ironed piece of paper and handed it over to his boss. The Boss grabbed it without any facial expression and did a quick study of the sheet.

“Is there anything else you would like to report, Comrade?”

The guard shuddered in fear for a moment, but nodded weakly and continued.

“We have also had…uh…reports…of your father being seen in Atlanta. If you, noble sir, can decode their message, we will have immediate success in finding the whereabouts of your father and Atlanta, and we can travel there right away.”

The Boss smiled cruelly, and his guard smiled back, a pathetic grin plastered on his face.

“You may leave. Expect a raise and a more efficient warehouse apartment.”  He dismissed his guard with the same action as Quills, but with a much more pleased look on his face.

The door slammed shut, not a single creak emitting from it.

The Boss looked at the sheet of paper in silence. He knew the code already, as his father had taught him when he was a young lad. He took out his stamper from his palm and examined its ink amount. He stared at it for a moment before setting it aside and taking out a crumbled map from his drawer.

He opened it slowly, as if it was a prize treasure.

As he unfolded the map into a large piece, he gazed upon it with a cruel smile on his face. He smoothed out the large map with his hooves and set it upon his desk. He then took his stamper and placed it in the middle of the map.

‘The Outward Bound’ was the title on the map, presented in big and bold letters on the top. The rest of the map was like a normal map, with all sorts of places and labels.

Except it wasn’t Equestria.

There were lands filled with trees and flowers, and some were filled with corrupted stumps of burnt and dead ones.

But the Boss wasn’t focused on that. He was only focused on the dead part of the map.

At the very top of the map on the left side, there was a ripped part. It was quite large, but only took up a few spaces of the map. The edge of the rip showed little bits of ice chunks, but was cut off by the rip itself after about half a centimeter.

That rip had been from those stupid cultists, the Boss growled. The leader, the father of the one who ruled (He assumed his name was Magnar as well), had ripped the last piece as he fell into the spiked crevice.

He had never discovered where his father resided with his own clan, and when his father finally said his last words as he left for the mysterious destination, he had never forgotten them.

“Atlanta.”

Since then, the Boss had struggled to harness the power of necromancy. He tried everything, from consulting librarians to magicians, and so on.

He never succeeded.

After a long time, he gave up as the son of a legendary evil necromancer to a normal mafia boss, his heart aching for his father everyday.

He had tried to pursue his father’s dream in a different way, but had failed. Nothing was good after that. His missions failed, his employers failed, everypony failed in his prescence.

It was the time. He would travel to his father’s base alone, and with his father by his side, he would succeed.

The Boss smiled at himself proudly and rolled up the map. He took a new sheet of paper, stamped the very back of the piece of paper and wrote in tiny cursive letters.

Father,

I am arriving in Atlanta in a few days. Do not worry, my father, I am going to succeed. I shall be by your side, I promise. I am coming.

The Boss folded up the letter and glanced at a wall. He slowly got up from his chair and did the only spell he knew, that his father had told him.

How to send messages.

He raised his hoof and clenched the letter firmly in his palm. His hoof aligned with his other hoof, the letter slowly poking out of its hidey hole.

A very small purple orb appeared in the middle of the alignment, and then slowly but steadily, it grew larger and larger until he could no longer control it.

The orb exploded and his body flung back. His body was crushed on top of his own desk, his head flung back on the edge and his forehooves looking quite sore.

He raised his head upwards slowly and groaned. The light had exploded suddenly, glass pieces peeking out of the floor. He looked at his forehoof first (which was badly injured), and then at the floor.

The letter was gone.

The Boss slowly got up and looked up at the lights. It’s an improvement, he said to himself, and sighed. He hoped that letter was delivered as soon as possible.

He limped over to the front door and opened it with one sore hoof, limping down the hallway with his injured forehoof.

The corridor was quiet and silent, not a single sound disturbing the silent breeze.

“Sir! Sir, you look badly wounded…are you ok?” Quills suddenly appeared from a doorway, shocked at his boss. He rushed over to aid him, only to get a firm stop from the Boss.

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure sir?”

“Yes, Quills. I am fine.”

“Let us take you to the medical room, sir. Please.”

The Boss shot one final glare at Quills, determining his final fate. Quills nodded back silently and backed off back into his room. The Boss ignored him and continued to limp down the hallway until he got to the very end.

The iron door securely bared and held 2 prisoners.

Shortmouth and Thincolt, the warehouse failures and non-prefects.

The Boss was hesitant to open the door and waited for a moment to see if they were talking. He waited for a long time, hesitating and waiting.

But it was not as long as he thought before they spoke.

“Shortmouth?”

The Boss slowly moved towards the door and peeked inside the dark prison cell.

“Y-yes?”

It was a faint groan from the protective short stallion, but a firm one.

“Do you need my food?” Thincolt asked worriedly, concerned that his partner was going to die of starvation.

“Oh, of course not.” Shortmouth coughed as he replied, worrying Thincolt even more.

The Boss could not bear it any longer. He quickly opened the cell door and changed his tone.

“Hello, comrades. You have been released from the Execution Box and you may now return. I will need you for a special mission, so please follow me.”

It was very unusual for the cold-hearted, unforgiving boss to forgive the two almost-doomed stallions, but they quickly accepted it and began to get up from their positions. The Boss smiled at his two accomplices and limped across the hall.

“Thank you sir.” Shortmouth said.

The Boss stopped and turned around towards Shortmouth seriously. It would’ve looked like that that sentence was the doom of all, but instead, the Boss smiled.

“You’re welcome.”