Infinity + 1
CHAPTER 1
California, 2086
Fausto Mendez stood on the edge of the private beach, the crisp ocean breeze tugging at the lapels of his tailored navy suit. The fabric hugged his newly slimmer frame, the result of months of self-care and determination. His polished leather shoes gleamed under the soft glow of the lanterns strung overhead, and his freshly trimmed hair was styled with a touch of vintage flair, a nod to the timeless elegance of his great-grandfather’s era. For the first time in years, Fausto felt like he belonged—not just to the world, but to himself.
The party was a symphony of sophistication. Women in flowing gowns and men in sharp tuxedos moved gracefully across the sand, their laughter mingling with the gentle crash of waves. The air was thick with the scent of salt and expensive perfume, and the sky above was a canvas of stars, their light undimmed by the neon pollution of the city. Fausto sipped his cocktail, a perfectly balanced rum and coke, and allowed himself a rare moment of contentment.
But as he gazed out at the horizon, something strange happened. A voice, soft yet resonant, echoed in his mind. It was not his own, nor was it the voice of anyone at the party. It was alien, both in tone and origin, and it carried with it a sense of vastness, as if it had traveled across galaxies to reach him.
“Fausto Mendez,” the voice said, its cadence melodic yet unfamiliar. “You are not alone.”
Fausto froze, his glass halfway to his lips. He glanced around, but no one seemed to notice his sudden stillness. The voice was in his head, clear and unmistakable.
“Who… who are you?” Fausto whispered, his voice barely audible over the hum of the party.
“I am Zynara,” the voice replied. “I am far from your world, in a place your kind has yet to name. I have been watching you, Fausto. Your struggles, your triumphs, your search for meaning.”
Fausto’s heart raced, but he felt no fear. There was a warmth to the voice, a kindness that transcended the boundaries of language and space.
“Why are you talking to me?” Fausto asked, his mind reeling. “What do you want?”
“I do not want anything,” Zynara replied. “I am here to remind you of something you have forgotten.”
Fausto’s brow furrowed. “What could I possibly have forgotten?”
“The stars,” Zynara said, her voice swelling with emotion. “You once loved them, did you not? You saw them as symbols of hope, of endless possibility. But you have let their light fade from your heart.”
Fausto’s gaze drifted upward, to the glittering expanse above. The stars seemed to pulse in response, their light growing brighter, more vivid. He felt a pang of guilt, a reminder of how long it had been since he had truly looked at them.
“I… I lost sight of them,” Fausto admitted, his voice trembling. “Life got in the way. The world changed, and I… I couldn’t keep up.”
“The world changes, Fausto,” Zynara said gently. “But the stars remain. They are constant, eternal. They are a reminder that no matter how dark the night, there is always light.”
Fausto’s eyes welled with tears. He felt a weight lift from his chest, a burden he hadn’t realized he was carrying. “Why are you telling me this?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
“Because you are not alone,” Zynara repeated. “You are part of something greater, something infinite. Your struggles, your pain, your joy—they are all threads in the tapestry of the universe. And you, Fausto Mendez, are a vital part of that tapestry.”
Fausto’s breath caught in his throat. He felt a surge of emotion, a connection to something beyond himself. For the first time in years, he felt seen, understood.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice choked with gratitude. “I… I don’t know what to say.”
“You do not need to say anything,” Zynara replied. “Just remember the stars, Fausto. Remember their light. And know that you are never truly alone.”
The connection faded, the voice receding into the vastness of space. Fausto stood there for a moment, his cocktail forgotten, his eyes fixed on the heavens. The stars seemed to shine brighter now, their light a beacon of hope, of possibility.
As the party continued around him, Fausto felt a renewed sense of purpose. He was no longer just a man out of time, a relic of a bygone era. He was Fausto Mendez, a part of something greater, a thread in the tapestry of the universe.
And for the first time in years, he felt truly alive.
The private beach was bathed in the golden hues of a warm fire, the waves lapping gently against the shore as if in rhythm with the soft jazz playing in the background. The memorial party for Ramon Atila’s one-year death anniversary was in full swing, a surreal blend of elegance and nostalgia. The guests moved like shadows against the fading light, their laughter and chatter mingling with the salty breeze.
Fausto Mendez stood near the water’s edge, a cocktail in hand, his newly trimmed hair catching the light. He had lost weight, his face more defined, his posture straighter. For the first time in years, he felt like he belonged. The party was a dream—a stark contrast to the crumbling hospital he had called home for so long. Here, he was no longer the forgotten relic of a bygone era. Here, he was Fausto Mendez, the biographer of Ramon Atila.
Fausto moved through the crowd, his tailored suit fitting him perfectly, his demeanor confident and composed. He shook hands with one guest after another, each offering their congratulations and praise.
“Fausto, my man!” boomed a voice from behind him. He turned to see a portly man in a white linen suit, his face flushed with excitement. “Can you believe it? Shappalah Garrison is finally gone! The woke movement is over! It’s like the world has been reset!”
Fausto forced a smile, shaking the man’s hand. “Yes, it’s… quite a change,” he said, his voice measured. The words felt hollow, even as he said them. The end of Shappalah Garrison’s reign at Atila Corp had been a victory, but it was a victory tinged with bitterness. The Non-Binary MARS Babies, the grotesque commercialization of Ramon’s legacy—it had all left a scar on Fausto’s soul.
As the man clapped him on the back and moved on, Fausto’s mind drifted back to a year ago, to the last time he had seen his wife, Rita, and his son, Stephen. The memory was vivid, almost too vivid, as if it had been etched into his mind with a scalpel.
---
California, 2085
The self-driving car idled outside the crumbling hospital, the rain falling in a steady drizzle. Fausto sat in the passenger seat, his hands clenched into fists, his heart heavy with regret. Rita was in the driver’s seat, her face a mask of stoic determination. Stephen sat in the back, his eyes glued to his VR game, his headphones blocking out the world.
“You’re really leaving,” Fausto said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Rita didn’t look at him. “I told you, Fausto. I’m done. We’re done.”
Fausto’s chest tightened. “What about Stephen? He needs us. He needs me.”
Rita finally turned to him, her eyes cold. “He needs stability. He needs a father who’s present, who’s not lost in some crusade to save a legacy no one cares about.”
Fausto flinched, the words cutting deeper than he cared to admit. “I care about it,” he said, his voice trembling. “Ramon’s legacy matters. It matters.”
Rita sighed, her expression softening just a fraction. “Maybe it does. But not more than your family, Fausto. Not more than your son.”
Fausto glanced at Stephen, who was oblivious to the conversation, his fingers flying over the controls of his game. The boy’s face was lit by the glow of the screen, his expression one of pure concentration. Fausto felt a pang of guilt, a reminder of all the times he had failed to connect with him, to be the father Stephen needed.
“I’ll do better,” Fausto said, his voice pleading. “I’ll find a way to balance it. I’ll—”
“It’s too late,” Rita interrupted, her voice firm. “We’re leaving. You can keep the hospital. You can keep your crusade. But we’re done.”
Fausto’s heart shattered as Rita started the car, the engine humming to life. He reached out, his hand hovering over hers, but she pulled away.
“Goodbye, Fausto,” she said, her voice final.
As the car pulled away, Fausto stood in the rain, watching until it disappeared into the night. He felt a profound sense of loss, a void that no amount of nostalgia or idealism could fill.
---
California, 2086
The sound of laughter pulled Fausto back to the present. He blinked, the memory fading like a dream. The guests around him were still celebrating, their voices filled with relief and triumph. Shappalah Garrison’s ousting had been a turning point, a moment of reckoning for Atila Corp and the world at large. But for Fausto, it was a bittersweet victory.
“Fausto!” another voice called, pulling him from his thoughts. He turned to see a woman in a sleek black dress approaching, her smile warm. “I just wanted to say how much I admire your work. Ramon’s legacy is in good hands.”
Fausto shook her hand, his smile genuine this time. “Thank you,” he said. “That means a lot.”
As the woman moved on, Fausto took a moment to collect himself. The past year had been a journey, a painful but necessary one. He had lost his family, but he had found himself. He had reconnected with Ramon’s legacy, not as a burden, but as a source of strength.
The stars above seemed to shine brighter, their light a reminder of the infinite possibilities that lay ahead. Fausto took a deep breath, his heart full of hope. The world had changed, and so had he. And for the first time in a long time, he felt ready to face whatever came next.
“Fausto!” a voice called, pulling him from his thoughts. He turned to see a distant relative, a major board member of Atila Corp, approaching with a warm smile. “We’ve been looking for you. Lunch next week? There’s so much to discuss.”
Fausto nodded, his heart swelling with pride. “Of course. I’d be honored.”
As the relative walked away, Fausto caught the eye of an old flame across the room. She was an heiress, radiant in a flowing emerald gown, her smile as intoxicating as it had been decades ago. She winked at him, and for a moment, Fausto felt like the man he used to be—confident, admired, alive.
He mingled with the guests, basking in their admiration. They praised his biography, his dedication to preserving Ramon’s legacy. The air was thick with respect, and Fausto drank it in like a man parched. He even danced with a young debutante, her laughter infectious as they twirled under the stars.
The band had shifted to a slow, sultry jazz number, the kind of music that seemed to wrap itself around you like a warm embrace. The lanterns strung above the beach cast a golden glow over the dancers, their silhouettes moving in perfect harmony with the rhythm. Fausto Mendez stood at the edge of the dance floor, his heart pounding as he watched the young debutante glide across the sand. She was radiant, her laughter like music, her presence magnetic.
Her name was Elara, and she was the kind of woman who turned heads without even trying. Her dress, a shimmering silver gown that caught the light with every movement, seemed to flow like liquid moonlight. Her dark hair was swept up in an elegant twist, a few loose curls framing her face. When she turned and caught Fausto’s eye, her smile was enough to make his breath catch.
“Care to dance, Mr. Mendez?” she asked, her voice playful yet inviting.
Fausto hesitated, his nerves getting the better of him. “I… I’m not sure I remember how,” he admitted, his voice tinged with self-consciousness.
Elara laughed, a sound as light and airy as the breeze. “Nonsense. It’s like riding a bike. You never really forget.”
Before he could protest further, she took his hand, her touch sending a jolt of electricity through him. She led him to the center of the dance floor, her confidence infectious. Fausto felt his awkwardness melt away as she placed one hand on his shoulder and the other in his. Her skin was warm, her presence intoxicating.
“Just follow my lead,” she said, her eyes locking with his.
Fausto nodded, his heart racing as they began to move. At first, his steps were tentative, but Elara’s guidance was patient and reassuring. She swayed with the music, her body moving in perfect sync with his. Fausto found himself relaxing, his movements becoming more fluid, more natural.
“See?” Elara said, her smile widening. “You’re a natural.”
Fausto chuckled, his cheeks flushing. “I think you’re just a very good teacher.”
Elara’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re just a very good student.”
The music swelled, and they moved closer, their bodies almost touching. Fausto could feel the warmth of her breath, the faint scent of her perfume—a blend of jasmine and something uniquely her. He felt a rush of emotions, a mix of nostalgia and something new, something exhilarating.
“You know,” Elara said, her voice soft, “I’ve read your biography of Ramon Atila. It’s… incredible. You captured his spirit in a way no one else could.”
Fausto’s heart swelled with pride. “Thank you. That means a lot.”
Elara tilted her head, her gaze searching his. “You’re not what I expected, Fausto Mendez.”
Fausto raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And what did you expect?”
She smiled, a hint of playfulness in her eyes. “Someone… older. More jaded. But you’re not. You’re… different. In a good way.”
Fausto felt a warmth spread through him, a sense of connection he hadn’t felt in years. “You’re not what I expected either,” he admitted.
Elara laughed, the sound like music. “And what did you expect?”
Fausto hesitated, then smiled. “Someone… less captivating.”
Elara’s eyes widened, and for a moment, she seemed at a loss for words. Then she smiled, a genuine, radiant smile that made Fausto’s heart skip a beat.
“You’re full of surprises, Mr. Mendez,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Fausto felt a surge of courage, a desire to seize the moment. “Call me Fausto,” he said, his voice steady.
Elara’s smile softened. “Fausto,” she repeated, as if testing the name on her tongue. “I like it.”
They continued to dance, the world around them fading into the background. For Fausto, it was as if time had stopped, as if the universe had narrowed down to this moment, this woman, this connection. He felt a sense of possibility, of hope, that he hadn’t felt in years.
As the song came to an end, Elara leaned in, her lips brushing against his ear. “Thank you for the dance, Fausto,” she whispered. “I hope it’s not the last.”
Fausto’s heart raced as she pulled away, her hand lingering in his for a moment before she turned and disappeared into the crowd. He stood there, his mind reeling, his heart full. For the first time in years, he felt alive, truly alive.
And as he watched her go, he couldn’t help but smile. The night was far from over, and for the first time in a long time, Fausto Mendez felt like the stars were finally aligning.
But as the night deepened, something shifted. Fausto’s euphoria began to wane, replaced by a creeping unease. He noticed the guests glancing at him oddly, their smiles faltering, their whispers hushed. He tried to shake it off, attributing it to his own insecurities, but the feeling only grew stronger.
Then he saw him.
Ramon Atila.
Not the elderly man Fausto had known in his final years, but the vibrant, 36-year-old version of his great-grandfather. Ramon stood near the bar, his sharp features illuminated by the soft glow of the lanterns. He looked exactly as he did in the old photographs—confident, magnetic, alive.
Fausto froze, his heart pounding. He blinked, certain his eyes were playing tricks on him. But when he looked again, Ramon was still there, his gaze fixed on Fausto with an unsettling intensity.
The guests seemed to notice Fausto’s distress. Their whispers grew louder, their stares more pointed. Fausto felt the weight of their judgment, their confusion. He tried to compose himself, but the sight of Ramon—so real, so present—was too much to bear.
“I’m not crazy,” Fausto muttered under his breath, his hands trembling. “I’m not.”
He stumbled toward the bar, his vision blurring. The bartender, a young man with a bored expression, handed him a rum and coke without a word. Fausto downed it in one gulp, the alcohol doing little to calm his nerves.
“Another,” he demanded, his voice shaking.
The bartender hesitated, his eyes narrowing. “Sir, are you okay?”
Fausto slammed his glass on the counter. “I said another!”
The guests turned to stare, their whispers now loud enough to hear. “What’s wrong with him?” someone asked. “Is he drunk?”
Fausto’s paranoia spiraled. He felt the walls closing in, the air growing thick. He turned to face the crowd, his voice rising. “Stop looking at me like that! I’m not crazy! I’m not!”
The room fell silent, the guests exchanging uneasy glances. Fausto’s chest heaved as he backed away, his mind racing. He felt a hand on his shoulder and spun around, coming face-to-face with Ramon.
“Fausto,” Ramon said, his voice calm, almost soothing. “You need to breathe.”
Fausto recoiled, his eyes wide with panic. “You’re not real. You’re dead. I’m hallucinating. I’m… I’m losing my mind.”
Ramon smiled gently. “You’re not hallucinating, Fausto. And you’re not losing your mind.”
Fausto shook his head, tears streaming down his face. “No. No, this isn’t happening. This isn’t real.”
Ramon placed a hand on Fausto’s shoulder, his touch firm but kind. “Fausto, listen to me. You’re not crazy. You’re not hallucinating. You’re… dead.”
The words hit Fausto like a punch to the gut. He staggered back, his mind reeling. “What? No. No, that’s impossible. I’m here. I’m alive.”
Ramon’s expression softened. “This isn’t the world of the living, Fausto. This is the afterlife.”
to be continued._
AtilA
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