Entry M1: The Church of Amarok

The modern skyscrapers are dazzling, especially the light they give off against the night sky. The towers declaim the height of human engineering, a middle finger to nature, I dare say. But these are far from the most impressive things that humans have built.

Way more breathtaking are the social structures. Justice systems. Government organizations. Nations. Companies. Capitalism. Communism. Democracies. Dictatorships. I couldn’t stop admiring the intricacies of each of them. No two systems are the same; they adapt and evolve, keeping the group alive in their own special way.

Not everyone sees the appeal of social systems. Some humans don’t want their liberties to be restricted, which is the point of the systems after all. Brooks Lawson was one of those rebellious elements.

“All you do is control me!” That was his dramatic exit after yelling at his parents. He packed his things, among them a miniature of his dream car: the Volkswagen Amarok. What left the deepest impression on his mind was its elegance and practicality. It seemed he did have a mind for the aesthetic, still, along with wishes for material gain. There was hope for him after all.

Thousands of potential reasons motivate one to fight against an authority figure; the variety is why learning about the cause of defiance has always tickled my mind. It turned out his parents wanted him to go back to school, and he refused with all he had, building up to this drastic decision.

Not many places a fifteen-year-old could go after leaving home. In these cases, they would usually swallow their pride and admit defeat. The grand finale would feature them crawling back to their parents and begging for forgiveness. Such conclusions were commonplace because first-world societies just weren’t built for teenagers to live in complete independence.

Would Brooks be more receptive to another community? I thought about it. But hypotheticals were meaningless until they were made into reality. Beauty would manifest at the same time.

Brooks almost ran out of cash after a three-day bus trip out of the city. He had been hoping he’d have created a plan by this time, but no, his mind was too underdeveloped, and there was only so much a single person could achieve without the support of family and friends.

The winter kissed the city with snow. Against such a strong force, humans would huddle together for warmth, for a chance to withstand the merciless cold and the white wasteland it cursed upon mortals. Brooks shivered even under his jacket, one layer of cloth short of acceptable temperature. He sat alone at the bus stop, waiting for the bus that might not come. His phone, oh, just perfectly, ran out of battery.

With no phone booth in sight and no way to check the bus schedule, he could only pray for a deity to swoop in and save him. He was in luck, because something better would arrive.

“Hey, do you need help?”

Brooks was almost sure it was a hallucination. No way the timing would be so perfect, right after his silent hope for a savior to appear. Still, he turned his head to the voice. A man in a simple white t-shirt and shorts stood firm against the light breeze. Snow piled on his shoulders.

“Who are you? And aren't you cold?” Brooks asked.

The man replied with a tone that sounded wiser than his apparent age of thirty-three. “Mr. Yolo and the Sacred Amarok keep us all warm.” The man offered Brooks his hand. Desperate, Brooks snatched it as if it were his lifeline. It matched his unreasonable expectations; the hand gave him the warmth he craved.

“Amarok? As in the truck?” Brooks had just registered the keyword in the man’s speech.

“What else but the truck?” The man went on without introducing himself, his name so insignificant compared to the depth of his faith. “But the one looking after us was so much different from the others.”

Not consciously, Brooks found himself following the man, as if enchanted by a siren’s song.

The man led him to a local theater. A whiff of the wet paint gave Brooks pause, but the welcoming heat convinced him to venture further in. They pranced through the empty lobby, the place supposedly closed in the snow. The man opened an inconspicuous set of doors, leading into the hall where the Church of Amarok was holding its sermon. Mr. Yolo's wisdom boomed throughout the space; no corner was left unblessed by his voice.

“And as I predicted, the tires of the Amarok had left an ice trail, and at that moment, I knew I had something special, a divine power.” Mr. Yolo raised his arms. White robe decorated with golden threads. Dark gray hair muddled his age. And he was tall, not just because he was standing on a podium. In most rooms, he could easily touch the ceiling, and door frames would often be too low for him to cross without lowering his head.

His height communicated to his believers that he was above the petty concerns of everyday life. Brooks didn’t share their zeal. He squinted throughout the whole sermon, picking apart every word he heard. Though his mind wasn’t developed enough to scrutinize the logical errors, he didn’t believe a single thing coming out of Mr. Yolo’s mouth.

The speech soon ended with thunderous clapping, loud enough as if the sky had also split apart to show its appreciation. Brooks hurried down to Mr. Yolo, cutting in front of the other believers.

There were protests.

“Hey!”

“Kid! No cutting!”

But Mr. Yolo lifted his arm, and the quiet returned.

“Do you have something to ask me?” Mr. Yolo smiled, with no sign of displeasure.

“I don’t give a crap about what you’ve said. All you spew is garbage. You have divine powers? You just got lucky and won the lottery. Not every lottery winner is blessed.”

The crowd behind Brooks stirred with more insults. But once Mr. Yolo opened his mouth, all the hostility ceased at once, as if a switch had been flipped. “You don’t have to believe in me blindly. How about you come with us back to base? Then you can see for yourself that I'm the real deal.”

***

From the backseat, Brooks gazed out the window at the snowy ground flashing by. The Amarok cruised steadily along the highway. The night consumed the sight beyond the range of the headlights. No matter; nothing worth seeing could be found in that lonely space, since it was land untouched by pavement and street lights.

From time to time, Brooks would peek at the trail that the tires left behind, hoping to find a trace of ice. His joy of finally getting a ride in his dream car was tainted by an unfulfilled promise.

“You won’t see it now. It happens only when I command it to,” Mr. Yolo said from the front seat.

“Then do it. Create ice.”

“Why should I?” Mr. Yolo chuckled, turning to his driver. “My brother, would an ice trail help you?”

“No, Mr. Yolo,” the driver replied in a flat voice, akin to a robot in disguise.

“He is your brother?” Brooks asked, finally looking at Mr. Yolo.

“Not blood-related, but everyone who believes in me is my brothers and sisters.”

The statement, a promise of family, spurred nothing in Brooks. In his mind, those bonds were only shackles that had held him back for years. His gaze turned to the back of the truck again, hyper-focused on the road they had treaded.

***

The Church of Amarok owned a three-story residential complex. Its size could rival a stadium, while quietly minding its own business on an isolated hill. Brooks was assigned a straightforward room with a simple bed. His belongings, except for the Amarok model, were confiscated for purification. He was given a white robe to change into, which he didn’t mind that much. He could finally take a long bath, and for the first time in four days, he got to sleep on an actual fluffy bed.

The next morning, he was dragged from his slumber by a deafening toll of unknown bells that shook his bed. His eyes fluttered, struggling to take a glimpse of his surroundings. His mind still drifted in the dream world, not aware that he was in an alien land far from home.

Noon, the time he finally relented to the sunlight. He stretched and let his body warm up. When he felt like it, he made his way outside in search of brunch.

The winding hallways of the complex twisted like a labyrinth, reminding Brooks of the fact that he was an outsider here. Stumbling around, finding locked doors and empty rooms, he finally caught a hint of meat in the air. Guided by the smell, he had arrived at a canteen, and his empty stomach roared in celebration.

“You are late, comrade.” A woman at the door denied him entry with an attitude so sharp it might behead him.

“But I'm hungry!” Brooks hoped to grasp at a handful of sympathy. Alas, whining that would have worked on his parents couldn’t move this stranger's heart. She merely stared at him.

The desire for a hit of a warm meal pushed Brooks forward. He judged that a lone woman couldn't stop him, and he would be right. However, she wasn’t alone. As soon as Brooks made a run for the door, two men popped out of his blind spots and tackled him.

“Let me go! I have to eat!” Brooks struggled, swinging his limbs around in an attempt to break free, but he couldn’t overpower two adult men. His screaming and kicking continued while he was carried through the halls.

The two men threw Brooks into a small room with olive-green cushioned walls. Before Brooks could get to his feet, the door slammed shut in front of him. The lights vanished with his escape route.

In the dark, he floundered for a handle, but eventually, he couldn’t even tell where the door ended, and the wall started. To his sense of touch, they were all the same.

He didn’t expect those people to lock him in such a confined place. No matter how hard he hit the soft surface, the sound was muted by the embrace of the leather. His desperate calls for help grazed his throat, but were met with no reply.

Gradually, after some time, his senses dulled, and he wasn't sure if there were still tears on his cheek, and also if that odd smell was from urine on his pants. Starvation numbed into a mere background hum. At least he could tell there was drool dripping off his chin.

Dad, Mom... save me. Help. Thought and speech became indistinguishable, but no one would be here to listen anyway. After what seemed like lifetimes, his hope wandered to an unlikely target.

Mr. Yolo. Save me.

“My brother, are you in there?” A familiar voice responded to Brook’s desperate call. Mr. Yolo’s presence calmed Brook at once, and he slumped into relaxation so readily that it surprised him.

“Save me! Mr. Yolo. Please!” Brooks yelled. The sound bursting forth from him was unrecognizable. He didn’t know if it was because of his mental state, his famished state, or his spiritual state.

Light leaked into the room again. Brooks squinted his eyes to adjust to the light. The scent of tomato and bacon drifted into his nose first. His body practically trembled as his stomach reached for any hints of food.

Mr. Yolo stared down from his height at Brooks, seeming like a god from the heavens overseeing a pitiful mortal. He wielded a passable meal on a tray. Brooks nabbed it from him and wolfed down the soup and bread and the side dishes, barely giving them a chew.

“Please forgive them. They didn’t know that you didn’t have the rules yet.”

“Not cool,” Brooks slipped in the complaint in between his gulps.

“But after you know about them, you won’t be given mercy anymore,” Mr. Yolo ended his speech with an edged smile.

“I still don’t know what any of these rules are.”

“Follow what others do. And you’ll be fine.”

Relief conquered all other concerns in Brooks's mind. He could improve. At this moment, none of his pleasant memories in the last fifteen years could even compare to this tiny bit of Mr. Yolo's reassurance.

***

In the month after, Brooks stuck closely to a routine. An early morning. Breakfast. Assigned work to clean the complex. Lunch. More tasks. Dinner. Then, even more tasks.

The work wasn't demanding, but it was more so that he was threatened into doing it. He halted his labor when no one was watching. Yes, he would bide his time for a chance to escape.

Soon, he started waving and smiling at his fellow inmates passing by. It was a diversion tactic at first, to distract them from his sluggish cleaning progress. The faces he greeted became recognizable one by one, though they had never addressed each other by name, and Brooks kept track of them. Not intentionally, but a natural result of extended contact.

“May the Sacred Amarok bless you,” his neighbors began to speak to him. And he returned with the same phrase, even though he might not have believed in it.

Or did he believe? The more the believers struck up conversations and small talk with him, the more he felt the grace of Mr. Yolo and the Amarok in the air.

Maybe he should start praying and see how it goes.

The timing couldn't be more miraculous. The day after praying for a better life, a man who left behind only hushed steps handed Brooks a rifle. “Congratulations. You are now a guard.”

Joy condensed into Brooks’s tears. The steep promotion was a crystallization of their trust in him. Not harboring any more thoughts of escape, Brooks occupied his routine with target practice and daily prayer.

His diligence wasn’t about the pure desire for survival anymore, not about that solitary room. Rather, it was what he wanted to do. No longer was there a need to doubt Mr. Yolo. Brooks just knew that the Amarok and Mr. Yolo were divine entities. Nothing would shake his belief.

The secret activities around Brooks were of no concern to him. He didn’t even spare a glance at those suspicious packages that were moved about. It wasn’t his place to ask. He only wanted to contribute, to work for the place he loved so much.

“Do you want to drive the sacred Amarok?” Mr. Yolo asked Brooks one day.

Brooks smiled. “I wouldn’t dare. Your concern is a good enough blessing.” After all, Mr. Yolo hadn’t been talking to him much in recent times. A gentle touch of his shoulder sent him to cloud nine, a bliss greater than any pleasure. Also, Brooks couldn’t bear the chance of him carelessly scratching the sacred Amarok.

His love for the model had been extinguished; the miniature truck replica that he had treasured so much had been lost to time, forgotten in some corner. But Brooks wouldn’t deign to search for it. After all, the only Amarok he loved was safe and sound, preserved and guarded in the holy garage.

***

Gunshots shrouded the complex one day, spoiling the peace and quiet. “What is it?” Brooks asked a comrade running past.

“Cops!”

A simple word that communicated vast implications. Brooks’s eyes widened, hand clutching the handle of his weapon. Without another word, he rushed forth to the battlefield.

At the first sight of the black uniform of the SWAT team, Brooks raised his gun and fired without hesitation.

BANG.

He heard the shot that pierced his heart. Blood spilled forth. And he collapsed after that. Oh, I’m just fifteen. The thought flashed through his head. Identity returned to him, and so had the fear of dying. Why would the police shoot someone so young? They must be evil after all. He was right to defend his people.

The cult complex was conquered after a difficult raid. The later press release documented Brooks’s death as a spectacle, a tragic victim of the cult. Every person reading the news article felt a barrage of emotions, lamenting the cruelty of the organization. Not only did Mr. Yolo use the place to make drugs that would sully the streets, but he also tricked young, innocent children into his criminal empire.

The urbanites, learning about the story within the protection of their skyscrapers, banded together heart-to-heart and condemned the cult's wrongdoing together, despite their usual disagreements. Societal rules were praised, and good citizens were appreciated. The community emerged from this tragedy and judgment stronger than ever.

The transformation was complete. The boy who once hated shackles had died wallowing in them, and even after death, became a symbol to fertilize the wider society. This goes to show, once again, that everyone can find their place. Everyone can have a use to a community. Everyone can become both elegant and practical. Beautiful.