It had been two years since that incident in the plaza and the failed coup attempt. The year was now 4782. In the interim, the mid-term elections had taken place and, to no one's surprise, the URI party had swept the vast majority of provinces across the Seven Republics.
Social policies were multiplying, and the populace was slowly beginning to speak of politics with more passion. In the streets, in the plazas, in institutions, and in homes, everyone was debating what was right and what was wrong. The opposition, far from yielding, tirelessly attacked the ruling party, and the political atmosphere grew increasingly tense.
Harrington, the undisputed leader of the party, had already managed to consolidate an internal current that many called “Harringtonism.” He had become a caudillo; a symbol of authority and charisma. Around him, figures previously considered irrelevant or virtually unknown were beginning to resonate in the public consciousness. Rivas, for instance, who, while not entirely irrelevant, had been overlooked, recovered his prominence. He was now remembered for the heroic rescue of the former president and, further back in time, for having saved two children who, years later, would become the Presidents of the Seven Republics.
Other names also began to achieve notoriety, though primarily for their constant presence in the political arena: Mario de Pueyrredón of the UL, César Hudson of the JM, Amanda Paz of the UL, Carlos Mijares of the URI, among others. Yet, above them all, two figures stood out: Fausto and Victorino.
Fausto, however, had declared he would not participate in the next elections, and his image, though respected, gradually faded into the background. In contrast, the figure of Erick Victorino began to rise as a living myth. Dozens of testimonies—both oral and written—started circulating, describing how he stood alone against an entire army on the day of the coup.
Over the years, the ruling party and his admirers began to exaggerate this feat. Urban legends were born, depicting him as a superhuman hero. It was said Victorino had strangled his adversary’s horse or that he had uttered an immortal phrase:
“The ground is more worthy of you than the throne you crave.”
None of it was true.
One hundred years later, filmmaker Roberto Craso—one of the most prestigious of that era—released the movie “V for Victory,” a resounding success that recounted Fausto’s life after his presidency. But the film was riddled with creative liberties: most of the events were exaggerations or pure fiction.
In one of the most memorable scenes, the actor Alejandro Manfredi—considered one of the best in the Seven Republics—played Victorino at the moment he confronted General Recsson. The actor himself would later recount that he improvised that famous line during the shoot. He claimed he wanted to portray a more stoic, wiser, more human Victorino.
The result was masterful. The film was an international hit, and that line—an actor's invention—was etched forever into the collective memory. Over time, future political leaders would cite it as if it had come from Victorino’s own mouth. And so, between fiction and devotion, a myth was born that not even the passing of centuries could erase.
Just as he had told Fausto, Victorino began to forge his career. The party primaries would take place in February of the final year, for that was when the presidential candidates were chosen—not to be confused with the presidential election itself. The internal race was between two relevant figures within the URI party: Erick Victorino and Rivas Hidalgo. It was easy to guess it would be a very balanced contest, because though it might not seem so, Rivas had gained sufficient support for his actions during the coup attempt. But Victorino had been in politics for years; he had more experience than Rivas, and more connections.
In the streets, Victorino was beginning to make himself known. His voice rose on street corners and in plazas, amidst improvised posters and flags that said little but somehow said everything. He had learned Fausto’s style well: brief speeches, pithy phrases, promises that sounded plausible. He greeted people, he laughed, and he left everyone with the feeling of having been heard, though in reality, no one could later recall exactly what he had said.
His ascent was as rapid as it was natural. He was soon invited to the radio station Can You Hear Me, Lexter?, a space already revered among journalists for its ability to draw impossible-to-get figures. Victorino’s presence there was not a surprise, but it was an event.
Lexter, always incisive, began with sharp questions:
“How would your administration be? What do you think of the current government? What do you hope to achieve, if you become president?”
Victorino smiled with that composure that seemed rehearsed, but was not. He answered with phrases that slipped between the edges of each question, weaving a web of words where the listener believed they understood something, but ultimately understood nothing. His tone was measured, his voice firm, and every pause seemed calculated to give weight to what came next, even if nothing came at all.
“My administration, dear Lexter… would be humane.” He paused briefly, weighing the silence. “I would not promise a new country, but one that remembers what it was. Sometimes it’s not about inventing the future, but about perfecting the present.”
Lexter raised an eyebrow.
“Does that mean you would change the current course of the government?”
“The course, rather than changing it, needs to be straightened,” Victorino replied, without altering his tone. “No one sails against the wind if he knows how to adjust the sails correctly.”
“That sounds very poetic, but… specifically? What would you do with the economy?”
Victorino tilted his head as if in reflection.
“The economy is like a clock, Lexter. You don’t always have to dismantle it to make it work; you just need to listen to the ticking. Sometimes what it needs is not reform, but silence.”
Lexter blinked.
“Silence… Do you mean the current government talks too much? Or not enough? What does it mean?”
“We all talk too much,” Victorino replied, looking at him kindly. “I, first of all. But look, in a country where every word turns into gunpowder, perhaps the revolutionary thing to do is to be silent at the right time.”
“You have a talent for answering without answering, eh?” Lexter said, chuckling.
“No, Lexter,” Victorino countered, his voice firm but not arrogant. “I have respect for the questions. And respect, sometimes, means not killing them with simple answers.”
There was a silence that stretched just long enough. Lexter riffled through his papers, trying to regain control.
“Alright… let’s talk about the future then. If you don’t win, what’s next for you?”
Victorino clasped his hands together.
“The future does not depend on the result of a ballot box. Sometimes losing an election is winning time. And time, believe me, is more useful than a seat.”
Meanwhile, Fausto was in the government house, listening to the radio and laughing to himself as he held his daughter. He couldn't help but feel a pang of pity, for Victorino was very astute.
On the other side of the mic, Lexter merely smiled.
“It’s difficult to interview you, Mr. Victorino. One ends up feeling that you were the one asking the questions.”
Victorino let out a soft laugh, neither denying nor confirming.
“That would be an honor, Lexter. But don’t be mistaken… I came here to listen to you.”
“That is… Interesting. Thank you.”
“No, thank you.”
“Well…” Lexter said with a firm, professional voice. “I suppose that is your answer. But I can ask one more thing… What are your thoughts on the situation that occurred two years ago?”
Victorino, who had already settled back into his seat, slowly turned his head toward him. He did not answer immediately. He seemed to measure his breath and his response, weighing every word before letting it escape.
“Ah, you’re referring to that uprising.”
“Yes,” Lexter rejoined. “Even though two years have passed, it was brief enough to cause great discord among the citizens. My question is simple: What would you do?”
Victorino intertwined his fingers on the table. The reflection on the studio glass showed him his own image: that of a man who was neat, serene, and perfectly aware of the weight of his gestures. He thought carefully about what he was going to say, as if each word were a stone placed on the bridge separating him from the political abyss.
He briefly remembered Fausto. That speech in Congress.
“The army exists to protect the nation from the external enemy, not the internal one,” Fausto had insisted. “If this is not stopped, in the future the army, by its own reckoning, could usurp power, since it has the means to do so.”
Victorino gave a slight smile and spoke.
“The army,” he began, his voice grave and measured, “is a vital part of the Seven Republics. We still have an existential, and I would even say personal, debt to them. If they had fallen, perhaps all of humanity would have fallen too… at least the humanity that represents the southern continent.”
He paused, looked down, and continued, softening his tone.
“In hard times, their firm hand… and their shelter, saved us. I won't say it was easy, or that it was good. What had to be done, was done. But…” he lifted his gaze slightly, with a gesture that seemed measured even in his breathing, “these are times of peace. And violence is not welcome under any circumstances. The priority is no longer survival, but change.”
The silence again slipped between them, thick and expectant. Lexter tried to interrupt, but seeing that Victorino hadn't finished, he stopped to listen.
“But changes,” he continued, with a slight, almost imperceptible smile, “are not made overnight. They will be done moderately, with patience… slowly.”
Lexter nodded without knowing if he did so out of respect or inertia. Victorino added, in an almost paternal tone:
“As for your question, as long as I am president, I promise you there will be no kind of problem. I am a man of the law, and under this mandate, freedom will be the faith.”
Lexter cleared his throat, trying to regain control of the interview.
“That is… an illuminating answer. Thank you for being here.”
Victorino smiled. Not a smile of triumph, but of calculation.
“Thank you very much.”
Lexter shook his hand and said goodbye, not only to him but to the listeners.
“Thank you for sharing your time with us. I’m Lexter Frederick, from station 91. Thank you for choosing us, and I’ll see you tomorrow at the same time.”
Victorino stood up and bid farewell to him and the production crew.
The red pilot light on the microphone went out. Outside, the door remained ajar. As if, in effect, the conversation had not yet finished.
Erick Victorino left the station building with a firm stride. Outside, a cloud of journalists waited for him, eager for an interview.
But he didn't stop. He merely raised his hand, smiling with that characteristic mix of courtesy and distance. He climbed into the carriage waiting at the curb and departed, leaving behind the flashes and the voices still shouting his name.
During the journey, Victorino allowed himself a brief pause. He looked out the window, watching the crowd dissipate. He waved to those who recognized him from the sidewalks, and when the city noise finally faded, he let out a long sigh and leaned back in the seat. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, with the serenity of one who believes he has completed another day's work.
Then, something happened that would have changed history had it occurred differently.
From the crowd still milling in the street, a figure emerged with determined steps. He wore a top hat that covered his face and an impeccable gray trench coat that contrasted with the dust on the road. His mustache was thin, elegantly trimmed. He seemed like any other gentleman… until he stopped in front of Victorino’s carriage.
“Long live Marshal Andrés!” he shouted in a firm voice.
In a single movement, the man pulled a weapon from his trench coat. The seconds stretched as if time itself held its breath. Then, four shots echoed in the air. The carriage glass exploded into sparkling fragments, and the crowd erupted in screams. Two civilians, reacting with bravery or desperation, threw themselves upon the attacker and subdued him before he could fire again.
The coachman, pale with terror, dropped the reins with a crack of the whip, and the carriage sped away. The horses galloped wildly, the sound of their hooves mingling with the cries behind them. When they were finally far enough away, the man turned, trembling, to look at his passenger.
Victorino was wounded.
Two dark stains spread across his suit: one bullet had hit his leg, and another, his shoulder. Blood soaked the seat.
“Take me to the hospital… now,” he said in a hoarse voice, not entirely losing his calm.
The coachman nodded and spurred the horses on even faster.
Hours later, Fausto was in his kitchen, cutting vegetables as the aroma of the stew filled the house. He was listening to the radio to pass the time that afternoon, never imagining that the routine sound would break his heart.
“…Just moments ago, former Vice President Erick Victorino Sullivan, while leaving the radio station ‘Can You Hear Me, Lexter?’, was the victim of an assassination attempt. His carriage received several shots, and the former official was gravely wounded. The attacker was shot down on the spot. At this time, his motives are unknown…”
The knife fell from Fausto’s hands.
The metallic clang resonated like thunder in the kitchen. He stood motionless, staring at the radio as if he could not believe what he was hearing. A tremor ran through his arms, his breath caught in his throat, and his vision blurred. He felt his legs wouldn't support him.
At that moment, Karen rushed in, alarmed by the noise. She found him pale, his body rigid. She took his hands, trying to steady him.
“Fausto, look at me… breathe, please.”
“I have to go see him,” he murmured, barely audible, his voice broken.
“No,” she replied, sharp and firm. “You’re not going anywhere. We don't know if this was an isolated attack or if there are others involved. It’s too dangerous, do you hear me? I will take care of finding out how he is.”
“What if they come for you too?” he retorted, his eyes glassy. “I can’t stay here, not after this…”
Karen hugged him tightly, as if she could contain the trembling that shook him.
“Shh… please, I’m here,” she whispered. “Stay here, I beg you. I’ll send someone trustworthy to check on his condition.”
Fausto hugged her back, burying his face in her shoulder. Silent tears ran down his face. On the radio, the announcer’s voice continued to speak, but he no longer heard anything. Only a buzzing, an emptiness opening up inside him, as if the news had torn away something more than his breath.217Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRuSNodB4rA
and then Add to home screen.