Stories From The Wilderness

How I Escaped a Cult: Brother Solis

by David Dean

PART ONE: THE BEFORE

I’m going to tell you the craziest story. It’s going to take a little while.

Through psychosis and indoctrination.
Through belief—and then salvation from that belief.
Through love, both personal and spiritual.
Through hell and back.

My name is David Dean. I’m a journalist. But for a few heady months, I was Brother Solis—an ordained disciple of the pseudo-religious cult ‘The Children of Tarquin.’

I turned my back on my family, my past, my very sense of self.

And then I was brought back.

This is my story.

---

A MESSAGE FROM THE VOID

It was a warm Sunday in June.

I was having dinner with my parents. My mother insisted this was a ritual I could never break—that since my wife had died of cancer two years before, I needed things to keep me grounded.

As I was tucking into my steak, my phone buzzed.

I didn’t check it. Not during dinner.

But I remember that moment anyway. A pin in a map.

The exact second the universe selected me for a journey into the void.

---

NEW YORK

I read the message that night, long after I’d reassured my mother I was fine, long after I’d told her, of course, I’ll let you know when I get home safely.

It was from Tony.

An old friend. A publisher in New York who ran a small paper cataloging the world’s craziest conspiracy cults.

I hadn’t spoken to him in over three years.

I was kind of surprised I even still had his number.

“D, I’ve got the story that’s gonna get you the Pulitzer.
You need to call me.
I need a real journo to take on this motherfucker.”

I stared at the message, debating whether to ignore it.

And then, before I could think too much, I called him back.

---

HELL’S KITCHEN

The thing about arriving in New York is that it never stops feeling like arriving.

No matter how many times I’d been, no matter how much the shine had worn off, there was always that moment—stepping out of the airport, the thick city air hitting me, the yellow cabs, the sheer weight of the place pressing in.

Tony didn’t give me time to settle in.

“Straight to the office.”

Office was a generous term.

His operation ran out of a shoebox rental in Hell’s Kitchen, wedged between a psychic readings shop and a pizza joint that smelled like hot garbage.

I found him exactly as I remembered—lean, wiry, permanently caffeinated, wearing an inside-out T-shirt like he’d lost a fight with a laundry machine.

“Jesus, D. You look like shit.”

“Nice to see you too.”

Tony didn’t do small talk.

Before I’d even sat down, he shoved a folder across the desk.

I ran my fingers over the folder, its surface worn and greasy, as if it had passed through too many hands that didn’t want to hold onto it for long.

Inside, I imagined the usual—a collage of paranoia and madness, names scrawled in red ink, grainy photos of wild-eyed men who claimed to see beyond the veil.

But Tony’s face told me this was different.

“This,” he said, tapping the cover twice, “is The Children of Tarquin.”

---

PART TWO: THE ROAD TO TARQUIN

After a fitful night’s sleep, I hired a car and headed north.

Tony had chosen me because he thought the cult might be dangerous.

If I didn’t come back, it was confirmation of what was going on—no sweat off his back.

How he knew I had nothing to lose is the only part I can’t answer.

I guess he just liked rolling the dice.

The car hummed beneath me as I sped north, the file open on the passenger seat.

Tony hadn’t said much—he never did—but what he did say stuck. “They’re not like the others,” he muttered, watching me flip through the pages. “Most cults, you can see the scam a mile away. This one… it’s like they believe something real.”

The contents weren’t any less ridiculous than what I’d expected. A prophet figure—Christ Mountain Lion, formerly known as Wylan Trembleton. A doctrine about humanity evolving into a single planetary brain. Some vague but unnerving references to The Evil One, a tech billionaire named Zane Hyperion they claimed was suppressing the “awakening.”

And then, the punishment.

A fuzzy, photocopied image of a man missing both thumbs.

I checked my own hands on the wheel. Tony hadn’t mentioned that part.

I had just enough. Enough to keep me from heading home, enough to keep me on that road. And the road stretched ahead, long and empty.

New York bled away into the suburbs.
Then farmland.
Then nothing.

The towns got smaller.
The gas stations, more infrequent.

The kind of places where the cashier barely looks up, where everything smells like old coffee and damp.

And then, the signs.

HAND-PAINTED. Nailed to trees, telephone poles.

Some were ordinary enough—

• FRESH EGGS, 2 MILES AHEAD.

And then—others.

• THE END OF THOUGHT IS THE BEGINNING OF TRUTH.
• HAVE YOU OPENED YOUR INNER EYE?
• ALL IS ONE. ALL IS LIGHT.

And finally—one that made my stomach knot.

THE EVIL ONE WATCHES. THE TIME IS SOON.

I slowed as I passed it.

Sloppily painted on a wooden board, the words uneven—but someone had underlined THE TIME IS SOON in thick red paint.

That was the first moment I seriously considered turning around.

But I didn’t.

By the time I arrived at the address Tony had given me, it was dark.

A wooden archway stood at the end of the road, barely visible in the night.

Carved into the beam above:

WELCOME TO THE SANCTUARY OF TARQUIN.

Beyond it, the road vanished into the trees.

I pulled over.
Killed the engine.
Sat there, gripping the wheel, staring at the entrance in my headlights.

I told myself I was just here to observe.

No commitments.
No risks.
If it felt wrong, I’d turn back.

I turned off the headlights.

Left myself in complete darkness.

And for the first time, I felt afraid.

---

THE BIG WELCOME

I’m no fool. I tend to have an innate feeling when I’m being conned.

And the warm welcome I got the next morning at the compound should have set alarm bells ringing.

Maybe I was tired and sad and needed a drop of kindness, but at that point, it felt genuine and warm.

They wanted to help me. And that was powerful.

I guess I didn’t realize how much I’d acclimated to being rejected.

I remember clearly—the shame that flickered in me when I thought about why I was really here.

I was a journalist, always looking for angles, stories.

And in that moment?

They had me beat.

Like I’d tried punching a cloud.

That was their first trick—and it was powerful.

Whatever negativity you threw at them was absorbed, swallowed up, like an anger vacuum.

Brother Solomon greeted me at the door.

Tall, thin, with pale eyes that had the weight of someone who had seen everything and judged none of it, he smiled like a man who had all the time in the world.

There was something about him that made me uneasy—not in an overt way, but in the way he seemed completely untouched by the outside world. Like nothing could shake him.

“David,” he said, without me introducing myself.

“We’ve been expecting you.”

I hesitated.

There was no reason for them to know my name.

No reason for them to expect me.

I had only spoken to one person—a contact, a friend of a friend, who had given me directions but nothing more.

Still, I stepped forward.

“Come,” Solomon said, gesturing me inside. “No need for burdens here.”

And just like that, I walked through the door.

---

PART THREE: THE DESCENT

Inside, the world softened.

The first thing I noticed was the light—golden and gentle, filtering in through long, narrow windows that cast slow-moving shadows along the wooden walls. The air smelled faintly of incense and warm earth, something I couldn’t quite place but found oddly comforting.

People moved around in silent, unhurried patterns—not shuffling, not rushing, just existing in a way that felt unnervingly deliberate.

A woman approached, her steps light, her presence felt before she even reached me. She was in her thirties, hair shaved close to her head, wearing a silver pendant of an open eye.

“Sister Alina will show you around,” Solomon said. His voice was soft, nearly inaudible, but I heard every word. “It’s important you see us. As we truly are.”

There was no insistence, no push. Just the gentle tug of inevitability.

---

We moved through the compound, and Sister Alina spoke in a voice that barely disturbed the air.

“We are a community,” she explained, gesturing to the circular wooden cabins, arranged like ripples from a stone dropped in water. “Everything we do is together. But everything we learn, we learn alone.”

That last sentence stuck with me.

Beyond the cabins was a vast, glass-walled building, sleek and strangely clinical among the wooden structures. I asked about it.

“It’s called the Cocoon,” she said simply.

No elaboration.

I was led past a cluster of tiny, windowless huts, the smell of sage thick in the air. The Reflection Chambers. Places for solitary contemplation, she said.

“Some of us need to be alone to hear the truth.”

There was no laughter, no small talk, no casual interactions. Everyone moved with a quiet certainty, as if their lives were choreographed to an unseen rhythm.

I should have felt suffocated by it. But I didn’t.

And that was what scared me.

---

HER

We entered a large, domed hall, The Vessel, where a quiet gathering had already formed. People sat in silent rows, facing an empty space at the front, heads slightly bowed.

And then she arrived.

She didn’t walk in so much as materialize, moving with slow, measured grace, wrapped in deep emerald robes that caught the light in strange ways. Her bone-white hair fell past her shoulders, unnatural against the warmth of the room.

She was unlike anything I had ever seen.

Not beautiful, not in the way one would describe a woman, but in the way a storm is beautiful, in the way fire draws you in, knowing full well it will burn.

And then she looked at me.

Not long. Not meaningfully. Just a glance.

But it ended me.

It was like a switch had been thrown somewhere deep inside, something I hadn’t even known was waiting to be turned on. The air shifted, the room faded, and for a split second, I forgot myself completely.

I forgot why I was here.

I forgot who I was.

I wanted to drop to my knees.

Not in worship. Not in awe. But because standing felt suddenly impossible.

I forced myself to look away, to break whatever spell had gripped me, but the damage was done. I could feel it, deep in my bones, settling like a sickness with no cure.

Sister Alina touched my arm lightly, pulling me from the moment.

“We should continue,” she said.

I nodded, swallowed hard, and followed her out.

But as I stepped back into the golden light of the compound, I already knew the truth.

I was lost.

And I didn’t even want to be found.

---

PART FOUR: DREAMING

The next chunk of time—days, maybe a week, maybe two—slipped by in a haze. It reminded me of rehab after Cynthia died, when they put me on Librium to keep the world at arm’s length while my body exorcised its addiction to alcohol.

That same feeling.

Floating. Detached. Watching life happen to me rather than living it.

I should have questioned it. The blurred edges, the gaps in memory, the soft, blissful nothingness that wrapped around me like a warm tide. But I didn’t.

I liked it.

The bliss made me not want to wake up.

And if I had woken up—really woken up—I might have realized what was happening. That my meals always came from gentle hands with soft voices, always accompanied by a cup of something warm and earthy. That my dreams were longer than they should have been, filled with half-remembered conversations that left strange echoes when I opened my eyes.

That she was always in them.

I didn’t speak to her, not directly. Not yet.

But I felt her—moving through my dreams like a whisper of silk, her white hair spilling around me, her scent lingering just out of reach.

Even in sleep, I knew she was near.

And that knowing—that unbearable, wonderful knowing—kept me drifting. Kept me from fighting the pull of it all.

I should have been afraid. But I wasn’t.

---

THE LION

One day, I woke up.

Not the floating, half-dreaming state I’d been in for—I didn’t even know how long anymore—but truly, fully awake.

The room was small, sparsely furnished, everything vintage wood and brass, like a carefully curated antique shop. A sloped ceiling, whitewashed beams, thin curtains that let in filtered, honey-warm sunlight.

I had been stumbling to and from this room for days—or weeks—but now, for the first time, I felt present. Not just existing, but actually here.

And then I noticed her.

She had been there the whole time. Silent. Waiting.

I turned, and the morning light caught the soft strands of her white hair, making them shimmer like liquid gold. She must have sensed me waking because she shifted—a small movement, slow, effortless, as though she’d simply been waiting for the right moment to acknowledge me.

And then, she smiled.

It wasn’t a welcoming smile, not warm or encouraging. It was gentle, unreadable, the kind of expression that let you fill in the blanks yourself—which was, I realized, its power.

She didn’t have to say anything. She just had to be.

And I wanted to speak. I had to.

“Hi,” I said softly.

“Hi,” she replied, her voice like the first breath of dawn. Then, with quiet excitement, she added:

“Today is Union Day. You will meet the Blessed One. It’s so exciting.”

I didn’t ask who the Blessed One was.

Because some part of me already knew.

---

PART FIVE: THE UNION

What you need to understand before I continue is this—I felt like I was healing.

Not in the way therapists talk about healing, not in the slow, painful, incremental way grief is supposed to unfold. No, this felt immediate, effortless. Like something was being stripped away and remade in a form closer to how I was always meant to be.

They were casting off my demons. Remolding me.

And I let them.

Because why would I turn against the first good thing I had touched since Cynthia? Since I held her hand, kissed her goodbye, and watched the light leave her eyes?

I was ready to listen.

Ready to hear whatever he had to tell me, thinking—whatever it is, I might well be happy to oblige.

---

The meeting, or Union, as they called it, was less ceremonial than I had expected.

I had imagined chanting, incense, ritual. Something grand, something that announced itself as profound. But instead, it was quiet. Personal.

I rose from bed, washed, and dressed in the white kaftan that had been laid out for me.

A perfect fit.

She was waiting for me. Still nameless. Still a mystery.

She said nothing as she led me down the corridor. Bare feet on polished wood. A stillness in the air, like the world itself was holding its breath.

At the very end of the corridor—a door.

She opened it.

And there he was.

Christ Mountain Lion.

He wasn’t as I had pictured him. Not wild-eyed or frenzied, not draped in excessive robes or heavy ornaments.

No.

He was simple.

Sitting in a high-backed wooden chair, barefoot, dressed in a loose tunic, with a look of deep and absolute peace.

And yet—when he looked at me, he looked through me.

Not just at my face, but into me. Into every hidden corner. Every shadow. Every wound.

And then, he smiled.

A wistful, knowing smile.

As if he already knew every part of me.

As if he had been waiting for me all along.

“Come, sit,” he said in a deep voice.

It wasn’t a command, not exactly. It was gentler than that. But it left no room for refusal.

I stepped forward, feeling the weight of my own body in a way I hadn’t in days. Everything slowed. The air felt denser. The wooden floor cool beneath my feet.

I lowered myself onto the chair across from him.

Up close, Christ Mountain Lion was even more unsettling.

He wasn’t young, but he wasn’t old either. His skin was smooth but had the weight of time in it, as if he had seen and understood more than anyone ever should. His eyes—grey, shifting like storm clouds—never left me.

He studied me without judgment. Without expectation. Just pure, quiet knowing.

I had spent my life interviewing people, reading them, understanding how to pull the truth from behind their words. But now—I was the one being read.

And I had nothing to hide behind.

“You feel it, don’t you?” he asked.

I swallowed. My mouth was dry.

“Feel what?”

He smiled again. That same knowing smile.

“The shedding of the old. The space inside you, finally opening.”

I wanted to tell him he was wrong. That I was just here to write a story. That I wasn’t one of them.

But the truth was, I did feel it.

Something was changing in me. And for the first time in a long time—I didn’t want to fight it.

“You gave her everything. You gave her a portion of your lifeforce. You bled love. And after all that, they threw you back into the world—empty—and said, ‘Get on with it.’”

The words landed like a dull punch to the ribs.

I felt a flicker of defiance—small, but real.

“Look,” I said, shifting in my chair. “I don’t know how you know—well, I probably do. It’s Tony, no doubt. But I’m not really into you telling me about the love I had for my dead wife.”

My voice was steady, but inside, I was unraveling.

Because he had spoken the exact truth.

I had bled love. Cynthia had taken all of me, and when she was gone, I was left hollow, expected to function, expected to move forward with the mockery of a life that remained.

And he knew it.

He saw it.

Christ Mountain Lion didn’t argue. Didn’t push. He just nodded, slowly, like he had heard this before.

Then, leaning forward, his voice barely above a whisper, he said:

“Then tell me—what part of you is left?”

I opened my mouth to respond.

And realized I didn’t know the answer.

“That’s okay,” he said. His voice was gentle, almost soothing. “It’s okay to not know.”

I swallowed, my throat dry. A pause stretched between us.

“What is it you want from me?” I asked, my voice weaker than I intended.

Christ Mountain Lion exhaled through his nose, as if amused, but not unkindly.

“As the days pass, you will approach a number of gates.”

His hands rested loosely on his lap, his posture unshaken, as if he had had this conversation a hundred times before.

“And I will not push you.”

The room felt too still. Even the air seemed to wait.

“You must decide for yourself if you wish to continue. Leave any time, but if you stay—”

He leaned forward slightly, the weight of his presence suddenly unbearable.

”—it needs to be all of you.”

I felt something shift inside me.

A quiet warning. A voice buried deep that told me this was the real moment of choice.

Not when I had stepped into the compound. Not when I had first laid eyes on her.

This. Right here.

And yet—when I opened my mouth, I didn’t say I wanted to leave.

I just sat there.

Thinking.

Feeling.

Because for the first time in years, I didn’t feel like a man who had nothing left.

---

PART SIX: THE BONDING

The next part of my transformation was called Bonding, and it happened that evening—just hours after I had met the Lion.

There was no time to dwell on his words, no space to sit with the weight of what had been said. Before I could even begin to question anything, I was already being led forward.

⸻

After dinner, the air was warm and still, thick with the scent of sage and woodsmoke. Sister Alina appeared at my side, silent as ever, and gestured for me to follow.

I did. Without hesitation.

She took me to their temple room—a simple, chapel-like space, dimly lit by hanging lanterns, the walls lined with aged wood and pale fabric that shifted slightly in the breeze.

There was no grand altar, no statues, no symbols—just an open, circular space at the center, where people had already gathered in quiet anticipation.

And then, I understood.

This wasn’t a ceremony. It was a wedding.

Or something close to it.

I was being Bonded.

To her.

⸻

The realization didn’t spark fear or even confusion.

It sparked longing.

Deep, undeniable longing.

Because of course this was the next step.

Because of course she had been placed in my path.

Because I wanted her.

I wanted to be near her, to hold her, to hear that voice speak words meant only for me.

And more than that—I wanted to belong to her.

The idea of questioning it barely even flickered in my mind.

Why would I decline?

HER NAME

The room fell into silence as she stepped forward.

The lanterns flickered, casting golden light across her bone-white hair, her emerald robes flowing like liquid in the dim glow. She moved with the same slow, deliberate grace as before, but this time, she wasn’t just a presence in the room.

She was coming to me.

For me.

She stopped in front of me, close enough that I could see the faint rise and fall of her breath, the delicate lines at the corners of her eyes.

Then, for the first time, she spoke my name.

“David.”

The sound of it in her voice was a revelation. Like she had always known me, long before I had stepped foot in this place.

I swallowed hard. My hands felt weightless. My pulse slow and deep, like a drumbeat in a darkened temple.

And then—finally—I learned her name.

“I am Ismene,” she said.

A name that felt ancient, like something whispered in the dark before the dawn of the world.

She reached out, her fingers brushing mine—just barely.

And in that moment, I was gone.

”Now we are bonded” she whispered “never to part, even in death”

”what? Just like that”

She frowned “unless you object”

I didn’t hesitate “no, with all my heart I definitely do not object”

”then it is so”

she reached in and we kissed.

A NEW NAME

After the Union, the room didn’t erupt into cheers or celebration. That wasn’t how things worked here. There was no need for spectacle.

Instead, there was only quiet certainty.

Ismene turned to Christ Mountain Lion, who had been watching the entire exchange in serene silence. He nodded once, then looked back at me.

“You have walked through your first gate,” he said.

He rose to his feet and took a step closer. I could feel the weight of his presence, the subtle gravity he carried.

“David Dean is gone.”

The words cut through me—not with force, not like a command, but like a simple truth I had somehow failed to recognize until now.

“The name given to you by the world—the name that carried suffering, loss, and chains—no longer belongs to you.”

I felt lightheaded.

“It is time for you to be named anew. To become who you were always meant to be.”

She took my hands, her fingers cool against mine.

“Will you accept your name?” she asked.

And without hesitation—without a single doubt in my mind—I said:

“Yes.”

Christ Mountain Lion smiled. A look of quiet satisfaction.

“Then rise, Brother Solis.”

I stood.

David Dean was no more.

---

THE PERFECT WEEKS

The weeks after that were perfect.

I woke at dawn, worked on the compound, studied the teachings of the Lion through the Book of Tarquin.

Back then, it all made sense.

Tarquin—his name sounds like bullshit now when I think about it. Like something a washed-up mystic would invent while high on his own delusions. But at the time?

At the time, he had a point.

He had been a guru at the start of tech in the 1970s—back when the world was on the verge of something massive. The age of computers, digital communication, globalization. Tarquin saw it coming.

And he wanted life to stay pure.

He wrote about energy, about human connectivity, about how we were being pulled away from real truth—distracted, manipulated, turned into something less than we were meant to be.

“Technology will be our unmaking,” he had written.

“You believe you are advancing, but you are simply becoming more obedient. More synthetic. More part of the Machine.”

I copied those words down into my own journal, over and over, as if the act of writing them would cement them into my soul.

I wasn’t just reading the Book of Tarquin.

I was living it.

And with each passing day, I felt myself changing.

I hadn’t spoken to my parents in weeks.

At first, I told myself I’d call. Just a quick check-in, reassure my mother that I was fine. That I wasn’t spiraling. That I wasn’t doing anything reckless.

But days blurred into each other, and the thought of dialing home felt… irrelevant. Like it belonged to another life.

Looking back, I don’t know why I didn’t consider that they would worry—that they’d set the table on Sunday, expecting me to walk through the door like I always had. That I had just… disappeared.

It wasn’t that I didn’t care. It’s just that, at the time, the outside world felt so far away. Like something that had happened to someone else.

Besides, what would I even say? That I was waking up at dawn, laboring on a compound, studying a book filled with the ramblings of a man named Tarquin? That it all made sense to me?

That I felt happy?

I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear my mother’s voice anymore.

Because if I did—if I heard that familiar mix of concern and quiet disappointment—I might remember who I was before all of this. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to.

THE FIRST SIGNS

It started small. Things always do.

A whispered conversation after evening prayer. A certain tension when technology was mentioned. A slow shift in the way we spoke about The Machine.

At first, I barely noticed it. The Book of Tarquin had always warned about the dangers of technological enslavement, but now, the tone was changing. The passages about distraction—about corrupting energy—were being spoken of with new weight.

The phrases we had once written in our journals, repeated like quiet mantras, were now appearing on wooden signs nailed to trees at the perimeter of the compound:

• “The Machine Must Not Complete Itself.”

• “The Poison Runs Deep.”

• “All That Is Touched By The Machine Must Be Purged.”

I copied these words into my own notes, same as I had always done, not questioning, just absorbing.

One evening, a Brother refused a delivery of solar panels that had been gifted to the compound by an outsider. The panels were tainted, he insisted. They had come from the Machine.

This time, no one corrected him.

I told myself it was nothing. Just talk. Just small ripples in a still pond.

But even then, some part of me—some old part of me, buried beneath devotion—knew better.

---

PART SEVEN: PARADISE THREATENED

There are three things that can destroy paradise:

Money. Sex. Power.

I had been more than happy to hand over my worldly goods when I arrived. My bank account, my possessions—none of it had mattered anymore. Between us, it always felt like the Lion had ample resources. Food, shelter, land—it was all provided, effortlessly. Money wasn’t his thing.

Sex?

That was different.

I had suspected from the beginning that the Lion was sleeping with most, if not all, of Tarquin’s daughters. It was never seen, never spoken of, but I felt it. A quiet truth, woven into the fabric of things. And I believed it was consensual.

It wasn’t jealousy that crept in when I thought of it—not exactly. Because why would I risk losing her by demanding something as small as monogamy?

The thing that happened between us felt natural. I needed the light. I was in no hurry to return to the dark.

But power—power had sharper teeth.

---

THE JUDGMENT

One night, we were called to the temple.

A huddled figure knelt at the center of the room. Bound. Already bleeding.

I didn’t know how long he had been there, only that he had left the compound and returned for his daughter.

A crime.

The greatest crime.

The Lion stood tall, his expression unreadable. His eyes flickered with something—disappointment? Amusement?

And then he spoke.

“Bring the daughter forward.”

My chest tightened.

I didn’t want to look.

But I did.

And there she was.

She walked forward without hesitation, her movements calm, absolute.

“Choose your wrath,” the Lion cried.

The room held its breath.

“Thumbs,” she said, without a single waver in her voice.

The decision had been made.

A murmur rippled through the assembly. A choice of mercy, in some ways. Losing one’s thumbs meant banishment, a severance from the world of tools, from connection, from the ability to grasp and hold. It was a living death.

But not the final kind.

The Lion nodded in satisfaction.

“Take off his hood and face him.”

She stepped forward. Her hands were steady as she pulled the hood away.

And then—

I saw his face.

Saw who he was.

Saw the man who had led me here.

Tony.

---

GOODNIGHT, DADDY

I felt nothing.

Not guilt. Not sadness. Not even surprise.

The energy in the room held me, wrapping around my chest like a warm current, keeping me afloat. The low hum of the gathered faithful, the flickering lanterns casting golden light on her steady hands—it was all so right.

Even Tony’s whimpers, his choked screams, felt like background noise to something bigger, more important.

If anything, I found the sound a little irritating.

A tiny, unwelcome disruption in the perfect balance of the night.

It wasn’t about him anymore.

It wasn’t about me, either.

It was about what had to happen.

The blade moved, and the energy shifted—a ripple through the space, like a thread being cut in a loom.

I watched as the old world fell away.

And I didn’t look away.

Not once.

AFTERWARD

When it was done, they dragged a now-unconscious Tony away, his body limp, his hands wrapped in blood-soaked cloth.

And we?

We simply went about our night.

As if nothing had happened.

No discussion. No lingering glances. No whispered acknowledgments in the quiet spaces between us. It was over. And that was that.

I never asked what became of him.

Never wondered where they left him or how he would cope with no thumbs—if he hadn’t bled to death first.

Because in that moment, I didn’t care.

And now?

Now I do.

Now, when I close my eyes, I see his face beneath the hood—not as he was in that moment, but as I knew him before.

A decent guy. A friend. A man who just wanted his daughter back.

And I let them tear him apart.

I let her do it.

And I did nothing.

And that’s what I can never undo.

THE CLEANSING

One night, we gathered in the temple for what the Lion called a Cleansing Ceremony.

It was unlike anything I had seen before. There were no hymns, no quiet contemplation—only action.

A low fire burned in the center of the room, and one by one, we stepped forward, each carrying something that had once belonged to the outside world. A phone. A laptop. A USB drive. Watches, radios, old photographs.

Brother Solomon cast the first offering into the flames, his expression serene.

“The Machine has no hold on us,” he said. “Not anymore.”

The fire crackled as he let go, the plastic casing curling, the screen blackening.

One by one, we followed.

I watched Ismene place something small into the flames—a silver locket. The fire took it quickly. She did not look away.

When it was my turn, I hesitated.

The object in my hands was meaningless—a pen I had carried for years, given to me by my father when I first became a journalist. It had no real connection to The Machine.

But that wasn’t the point.

The point was letting go.

I dropped it into the fire and stepped back, the heat licking at my face, my pulse steady.

That night, for the first time, I understood something I hadn’t before.

We weren’t just rejecting the Machine.

We were preparing for war.

---

PART EIGHT: GIDEON ARRIVES

A year had passed since that night with Tony.

I had not thought of him in months.

Not because I had forced myself to forget, but because the space where he had once existed had simply faded. The way an old scar stops aching.

I was one of them now. A teacher, a guide. I gave lessons on the Book of Tarquin, traveled beyond the compound to recruit, spoke with those who were ready to see the light.

Our numbers had swelled to over four hundred.

And she—my beloved—became pregnant in the spring.

It felt like nothing could touch me now. Like the world had settled into perfection, into purpose. A place I was meant to be, with a child on the way, with faith in my heart.

I believed it would never not be wonderful again.

---

THE ARRIVAL OF GIDEON

It was after sundown when we were summoned.

The temple was fuller than I had ever seen it, packed shoulder to shoulder, faces tight with quiet anticipation.

At the front of the room, beside Christ Mountain Lion, stood a man I had never seen before.

Brother Gideon.

He was different from the others. His presence felt heavier—his posture rigid, his eyes sharp in a way that made my stomach turn.

The Lion introduced him with his usual gentle reverence, his voice smooth as ever. “Brother Gideon is a new Founder,” he said. “He comes from Washington, where his temple has thirty devoted children.”

I noticed the word.

Children.

It was written inside me. The Children of Tarquin.

It was who we were. It should have rung a joyous bell, as it did for the Lion.

And yet, something inside me tensed.

A feeling I hadn’t known in a long time.

The journalist in me knew.

These children were in danger.

Gideon bowed slightly, then lifted his head. His gaze swept over us, slow, deliberate. Measuring.

“Thank you, Christ Lion,” he said.

His voice was smooth, measured. But there was something beneath it—something that sent a quiet ripple through the room.

Authority.

Not the quiet, knowing authority of the Lion, but something sharper.

Something absolute.

“I am humbled to visit such a beautiful temple.”

The Lion nodded in approval. But for the first time, I noticed something strange.

He was listening.

The Lion, who always spoke, who always guided, was listening.

“To the matter at hand,” Gideon continued. “In three weeks, there will be a large gathering in our nation’s capital to mark the opening of a new state-of-the-art data center.”

A murmur passed through the room.

Even I felt it—the deep, instinctual horror of it.

A temple of digital control. A monument to The Machine.

Gideon let the murmur settle before he spoke again.

“Tell me—” he asked softly, “how does a body cleanse itself of sickness?”

Silence.

Then, from somewhere in the crowd, a voice:

“It purges the poison.”

Gideon nodded slowly.

“Yes. And how does a soul cleanse the world?”

There was no hesitation this time.

“It purges The Machine.”

The words came from Ismene.

I felt my breath catch, but I did not look at her.

Gideon smiled, the way a teacher smiles when a student finally understands.

He didn’t need to say it.

We must strike the Machine first.

It was not a command.

It was a realization.

The Lion was watching Gideon carefully. And then, for the first time in all my months here—

He hesitated.

For only a fraction of a second, he hesitated.

And then, he nodded.

“So it must be.”

And just like that, paradise was over.

---

THE SELECTION

It happened the next morning.

I was sitting at breakfast, the smell of sage tea and fresh bread filling the warm air, when the Lion called my name.

“Brother Solis.”

I turned.

He was standing in the doorway, flanked by two senior Brothers. His expression was calm. His posture, as always, was composed.

But I felt it.

Something was wrong.

“Come with me.”

I stood. Followed. Didn’t hesitate. Because to hesitate here was to reveal yourself.

They led me into the temple hall, where the morning sun spilled through the high windows in beams of amber. The others were already gathered.

At the front, beside Gideon, was a map.

Large. Spread across a wooden table. A detailed layout of the data center.

I felt my stomach twist.

The Lion gestured for me to step forward.

“We have been chosen,” he said. “To lead this sacred act of purification.”

A ripple of approval passed through the gathered Brothers and Sisters. A low murmur of agreement.

“Brother Gideon has selected those most devoted, most aligned with the vision of Tarquin, to walk this path.”

He turned to me.

Smiled.

“You will be the first.”

THE CHOICE

For a long moment, I couldn’t move.

I felt everything and nothing all at once.

They were waiting. Watching. Expecting me to step forward—to kneel, to accept.

And for the first time, I realized something.

It wasn’t about believing.

It never had been.

It was about obedience.

The Lion didn’t care whether I truly believed in Tarquin’s vision. Gideon didn’t care whether I understood what was to come.

They only cared that when the time came—I would act.

I forced my hands to remain steady. Forced my face into reverence. Forced myself to speak.

“I am honored.”

The Lion smiled, pleased.

“We knew you would be.”

Gideon placed a hand on my shoulder.

“Prepare yourself, Brother Solis. Tonight, you will be reborn in fire.”

The room hummed with approval.

And I knew—I had to go.

FINDING HER

I moved through the halls in a daze, my mind screaming.

I had one chance.

If I faltered, if I hesitated, I was dead.

She was waiting for me in our quarters, sitting on the edge of the bed, her hands folded in her lap.

I shut the door.

“We have to leave,” I said, voice barely above a whisper.

She didn’t react.

Didn’t look up.

“Tonight. Before it’s too late.”

A long silence stretched between us.

And then—finally—she raised her head.

And she smiled.

Not in relief.

Not in understanding.

In pity.

“Oh, Solis,” she murmured, shaking her head.

I felt my stomach drop.

“You already made your choice.”

She reached for my hand, pressing it against her stomach—against the child inside her.

“We are bound now. You know that.”

My throat went dry.

“Ismene—”

“There is no Ismene,” she said gently. “Not anymore. She belongs to The One now.”

A shadow passed over her face—something unreadable.

“And so do you.”

My world imploded, my heart torn to shreds.

I must have weighed a thousand decisions in a single moment.

Run. Stay. Fight. Plead.

Tell her she was wrong. Tell her this wasn’t real, that she had been twisted, that the Ismene I knew was still inside her.

But I couldn’t find the words.

Because deep down, some part of me already knew.

She had made her choice.

And maybe—maybe—she had made it long before I ever arrived.

I searched her face for something, anything—a flicker of doubt, of sorrow, of hesitation.

But there was only certainty.

She wasn’t afraid.

She wasn’t struggling.

She was looking at me the way you look at a child who doesn’t understand something simple, something obvious.

I swallowed, my chest tight, my voice breaking as I whispered, “Ismene, I love you.”

Her expression didn’t soften.

“They mean to kill me.”

For a moment—just a fraction of a second—I thought I saw something flicker behind her eyes.

Then it was gone.

Replaced by something else.

Anger.

Disappointment.

Acceptance.

“Coward,” she spat.

Her voice was cold, but her hands trembled.

“You better run. And keep running. Because they will hunt you.”

She turned away.

And then, louder, her voice steady as iron:

“You can come and get him now.”

The door creaked open.

Two figures stepped inside.

Senior Brothers.

My brothers. My kin.

Men I had laughed with, worked beside, broken bread with.

Now set on my capture.

Now set on my disfigurement.

---

PART NINE: THE ESCAPE

For the first time since I arrived at the compound, I ran.

I didn’t think—I moved.

Out the door. Through the halls. Through the temple. Into the trees.

I heard them behind me, pounding footsteps, voices calling my name—not in anger.

In pleading.

“Brother Solis!”

“Come back!”

“You don’t understand!”

The trees blurred past. My lungs burned.

I ran for the eastern gate, heart hammering, my hands already reaching—

Then a figure stepped into my path.

The Lion.

He wasn’t out of breath.

He wasn’t afraid.

He only watched me, expression full of something like quiet disappointment.

“You were almost ready,” he murmured.

I didn’t stop.

Didn’t hesitate.

I slammed into him.

He staggered back—just for a second—but that second was enough.

I tore past him, past the gates, past the last wooden sign nailed to the tree—

AND THEN I WAS FREE.

I didn’t stop running.

Not that night. Not the next day.

Not even when my feet bled and my body ached.

I found my way back to the world, somehow.

Back to cold motel rooms and gas stations and streetlights that didn’t flicker in the candlelight of devotion.

I was alone again.

But it was my aloneness.

And then, the news came.

---

MASS TRAGEDY AT DATA CENTER LAUNCH – CULT MEMBERS STORM EVENT, DOZENS DEAD

I didn’t need to read it.

I already knew.

I sat in that dingy motel, staring at the TV, watching the footage.

The smoking ruins. The bodies. The makeshift altar they had built at the center of the wreckage.

She wasn’t among the dead.

But I knew.

She had sent them.

She had let them die.

And I had let her live.

For the first time since I left—I screamed.

PART TEN: AFTERMATH

Weeks passed.

I moved like a ghost, drifting from town to town. A shell of what I had been.

And then, one morning, I saw the headlines.

Mass Tragedy at Data Center Launch – Cult Members Storm Event, Dozens Dead

I read the words but didn’t need to.

I already knew.

They had done it.

The children had died.

And she—my Ismene—

I searched the list of the dead. Her name was not there.

And I felt no relief.

Because if she had lived, that meant only one thing.

She had sent them to die.

---

HOME

It was a warm June evening.

I knocked on the door and waited.

My mother answered, burst into tears.

She held me so tightly I could barely breathe.

My father stepped into the doorway, silent.

I was home.

Safe.

Whole.

For the first time in months, I let them hold me as I broke apart.

And then—

the house phone rang.

A sound so ordinary. So meaningless.

But when my mother picked it up, when she held it to her ear—

She went pale.

Her hands trembled.

And then, slowly—she held the phone out to me.

Raised it to my ear.

I took it.

Silence.

And then—

“Brother.”

---

END OF BROTHER SOLIS