The movement

​Zen carefully poked his head around the heavy velvet curtain and peered out into the auditorium. The sight made his stomach tighten. Every seat was occupied, leaving people lining the walls while others stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the aisles. There had to be at least a thousand people in attendance, all waiting for him.

​“How did it come to this?” he muttered under his breath.

​He stepped back, retreating into the shadows where the crowd couldn't see him. The chanting grew louder. “Zen! Zen! Zen!” The rhythmic roar rolled through the building.

​ This is an out-of-control grease fire, Zen thought.

​He lowered himself onto a nearby wooden stool and leaned forward, clasping his trembling hands as the sound of the crowd vibrated through the floorboards beneath his feet.

This had never been the plan. Years ago, he had only wanted to help a few lost people find peace. Now, those few had become hundreds, and hundreds had become thousands. Every week the gatherings grew larger, and he knew that if this continued, it wouldn't be long until he was speaking in front of millions.

And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

​ “Everything is ready,” a calm voice said from behind.

​Zen looked up to see Flower standing there. Her soft blue eyes and blonde dreadlocks reminded him of a simpler time. She had been with him from the very beginning and knew him better than anyone else.

​“Thanks,” Zen said quietly, pushing himself to his feet.

​“Do you know what you're going to say?” Flower asked, a softness in her voice.

​Zen's face fell. “No.” He turned his attention back to the stage, straightening his shoulders.

​“Zen! Zen! Zen!” The chanting intensified.

​Flower tilted her head. “Your people are waiting.”

​ Zen pushed his way through the curtain onto the stage. The bright stage lights immediately blinded him as a thunderous roar erupted from the audience.

​ “ZEN! ZEN! ZEN!” The sound shook the walls.

​He slowly crossed the stage, waving as he approached the podium. The microphone hovered inches from his mouth. He cleared his throat, creating a tiny sound that echoed throughout the enormous hall before returning to him seconds later. The crowd quieted in anticipation of what he had to say.

​Zen squinted against the lights to get a better view of the audience. Faces emerged: young and old, rich and poor, ragged and well-dressed. Every level of society stood together for a single purpose.

​ Finally, he spoke. “Hello, my friends. May you all find inner peace on your own unique journeys of the body, mind, and soul.” Some audience members clapped while others stared back with blank faces. “I know you have all had your own struggles which have led you here…” Zen’s throat felt dry, making it difficult to get the words out. “And…” He wiped a few beads of sweat from his brow. “And that's good.”

​Zen could hear mumbling from the crowd as he struggled with what to say next. The faces started to blur. Zen felt like he was having an out-of-body experience, watching himself give this uninspiring speech rather than being the one delivering it. His eyes left the stage, finding Flower standing there with pride in her eyes. She was always so supportive, and for a brief moment, Zen smiled back, forgetting how he had ended up here.

​“I love you,” Flower said.

​Zen didn't respond, turning his attention back to the auditorium. But before he could speak again, the far doors burst open. A deafening crack silenced the room. Blinding daylight poured in as several figures rushed inside. At first, they appeared only as black silhouettes, confusing Zen until their rifles became visible.

​“Police,” Zen muttered.

​The officers surged down the aisles. Boots pounded against the floor as conversations turned into frightened screams.

​I was wondering if they would come today, Zen thought.

​“Everyone stay where you are!” an officer shouted. His amplified voice echoed throughout the hall over a megaphone. “We have an arrest warrant for Aaron Windfield!”

​A ripple of confusion moved through the crowd. Zen felt his jaw tighten. He hated hearing that name; Aaron Windfield belonged to his old life.

​In the far corner of the auditorium, several followers suddenly lunged at an officer, attempting to pull his riot shield down. Chaos erupted as more police flooded through the entrance, moving toward the escalating brawl. A single gunshot rang out, and people screamed and ran for cover. Zen's heart sank, fearing someone had been injured, or even worse, killed.

​He hurried back to the microphone. Gripping the podium firmly, he spoke. “Violence is beneath us.” His voice thundered through the speakers as he held back a stutter. “That is how the Earth people act,” Zen continued. “Not us.”

​Almost instantly, the resistance stopped and the chaos faded into an uneasy silence. Even the officers appeared surprised at the strength of his words.

​ Detective Roberson pushed through the crowd, stepping onto the stage. A smug smile stretched across his weathered face. He moved with the confidence of a man who had finally won a long battle.

​“Hello, Detective,” Zen said.

​“Hello, Aaron.” The detective held up a rolled-up arrest warrant. “This time, you're going to talk to me. Whether you like it or not.”

​Zen studied him for a moment and then nodded. There was no anger, fear, or resistance—only acceptance. Slowly, he turned around and placed his hands behind his back.

​The audience watched, stunned. Flower stared from the edge of the stage, her face drained of color. Zen closed his eyes. The journey that had created Zen was over. Aaron Windfield had finally been caught.

​Zen leaned back in his hard metal chair, his eyes slowly drifting around the interrogation room of the Port Mills police station. Thick brick walls and a solid metal door were his entire universe now. He sat and waited, calm and unmoving. He knew the games the police were playing; he had seen them before. They would never break him.

​The door creaked open as Detective Roberson walked in, carrying a thick binder with loose papers spilling out from the sides. “Mind if I take a seat, Aaron?” the detective asked, dropping the heavy plastic folder onto the metal table with a dull thud.

​“I would prefer if you called me Zen.”

​ The detective snorted. “That’s not going to happen.” He sat down.

​Zen’s shoulders tensed slightly. No one had referred to his Earth name in years.

​“Can I get you a coffee or something?” the detective asked. “Before we get started.” He flipped the binder open. “We have a lot to go through here.”

​ Zen shook his head.

​ “Have it your way.” Roberson opened a folder, revealing a photograph of a young woman Zen knew very well. “I want to start by asking you about Danielle Mactook.”

​“Do you mean Poppyseed?”

​“I had a feeling you wouldn’t use her legal name.”

​“Earth names mean little to me.”

​The detective took a long exhale. “If it makes this go by faster, have it your way. I want to start by asking you about Poppyseed.”

​“What about?”

​“First off, the most obvious question. Why did your group kill her?”

​“We did not kill her. She ascended.”

​“Aaron…” The detective paused, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose. When he looked up again, Zen was still staring at him without blinking. “Zen. Is that better? How did she ascend?”

​“It was part of her transition time.” Zen crossed his arms, his posture firm, signaling he would not be giving any more information on the subject.

​“Fine.” The detective closed the binder. “We obviously have a problem here. You tell me how we can help each other."

​Zen thought back to his time with Poppyseed. She was a homeless girl who had run away from an abusive father. She had nowhere to go, was addicted to meth, and lived with HIV. The group had taken her in and got her sober, but she still struggled to find inner peace.

​ Three months ago, Zen had returned home to find her dead, lying in bed. When he asked what happened, the other members said she needed assistance in her transition. No one would give him more details. They placed her under her favorite tree at Regions Park. When her body was discovered, it wasn't difficult for the police to match the fingerprints on her to Zen.

He had never stopped thinking about her and what could have been done differently, while Detective Roberson had been hot on his heels ever since.

​ Zen gave his head a shake, his eyes softening as he held back a single tear. “I need out,” he muttered.

​Detective Roberson leaned in. “What?”

​Zen raised his head, his eyes meeting the officer's. “I need out.” His flat tone showed that there was no fight left in him.

​ The detective nodded. “Now we are getting somewhere.”

​“It wasn't supposed to be like this. And I never cared about the money! I just wanted to help a few people get through a difficult time, and now…” Zen took a deep breath. “It's turned into an out-of-control grease fire.”

​The detective leaned back in his chair. “Do you want to know the truth?”

​Zen nodded.

​ “I don't care about you or if you go to prison for the rest of your life. The bigger problem we have is with your followers.” He glanced back at the thick metal door. “Do you know what's happening out front of our station right now?”

​Zen shook his head.

​“There are over a thousand of them,” Roberson continued, “along with media crews demanding your release. Our officers are afraid to drive home. Poppyseed was doomed before she found you. But I've got bosses asking questions, and they want your little group shut down. Now!”

​ “How do we stop this?”

​“Start by telling them you're not a god.”

​Zen slammed his fist into the table. The loud thud sent a chill down his spine. He hated it when he lost his temper; that was below him. “I never once told anyone I was a god. That's just how they perceived it.”

​The two men sat in silence, staring at each other from across the table. This had turned into a chess stalemate, with both sides wanting the same king dead.

​“I could slice you open,” the detective said, breaking the quiet. “Show everyone your insides and how full of shit you are. But I think your death would only reinforce your synthetic importance.”

​“Maybe you're onto something,” Zen grinned. “The leader needs to die.”

​“It was a joke, Aaron. No one else is dying today.”

​ “Not Aaron. Zen needs to die. Or at least the idea of what he is.”

​“How do you kill something bigger than reality?”

​A shy smile crept across Zen's face. “The same way you create it. You need to fracture its reality.”

​The detective shook his head. “As usual, I don't understand what you’re talking about.”

​“Zen doesn't really exist. He’s an illusion created by me because no one would follow someone named Aaron.” Zen stopped to think for a second. “I need to address my people.”

​The detective hesitated before speaking. He had been doing this job a long time, and he knew when it was time to admit that traditional means weren’t going to work. “Whatever you need,” the detective said with a tired undertone.

​When Zen stepped out onto the front steps of the police station, the crowd was massive, starting at the sidewalk and stretching across the street and down the road.

​“ZEN! ZEN! ZEN!” The group erupted in joyful chanting at his sight. The few remaining officers struggled to hold back the metal barriers as followers pushed forward.

​Detective Roberson handed a megaphone to Zen. The cold plastic felt good in his hands, knowing that soon his voice would be heard all the way to the back. Zen hesitated to speak, his eyes scanning their faces. These people were not an out-of-control grease fire. They were the ones forgotten by a system designed to create wealth for a select few—a system that, for a moment, had fooled Zen into believing something he knew deep down was wrong, which was the very reason he had started this movement in the first place.

​Zen took a long deep breath.

​“Don't make me regret this,” the detective said, taking a step back.

​Zen grinned back at him. “Oh, don't worry. You will.”

​The detective's eyes turned cold as his mouth hung open. The microphone hovered inches from Zen's mouth now. He cleared his throat, creating a tiny sound that echoed down the streets. Zen knew exactly what to say.

​“My people,” he hollered. “The time for change has come.”

​The crowd moved past him, banging on the locked front door.

​“The time where most of us suffer so only a few may profit is over.”

​The group forced their way into the police station. Detective Roberson was swept away in the sea of followers. A thunderous cheer erupted, echoing between the buildings. Glass rattled in its frames. Streetlights trembled on their poles. The metal barricades screeched across the pavement as they were shoved aside.

​The energy from the crowd was so intense that Zen could feel it in his chest. Every chant struck him with a wave of positive energy. The ground beneath his feet vibrated from thousands of stomping shoes and sandals. Faces moved past him, their eyes glowing with hope.

​“The time for us to ascend to a higher power has come!” Zen held his arms high above his head.

​The response was deafening. A roar exploded from the crowd so powerful it drowned out every other sound in the city. People jumped, screamed, and raised their fists toward the sky.

​Flower, no longer able to stay still, ran up to Zen and threw her arms around his thick neck.

​“I knew you had it in you,” she said.

​“We had it in us,” Zen replied, embracing her and pulling her close. “I had almost forgotten for a moment why we started this.” He kissed her. “Thank you for always reminding me.”