Awakening: The Euphorian Era Trilogy, #1

By Michael Estafo and Sabrina Estafo

Do you ever wonder why humans have to suffer such hardships—why some of us are dealt heavier hands than others? What if you discovered that the harder the obstacles in your life, the greater your destiny is? That's what happened for college student, twenty-two-year-old Vencin Marcusi. 

His mind expands to greater heights when he discovers the utopian realm of Etherion, grouping with seven other young adults brought from different countries around the world. Together they must start a new era—with Vencin as their leader—to awaken the human race, free us from what truly enslaves our species, and unlock the immortal beings we are all destined to be. 

Will Vencin and his team of Euphorian warriors be able to overcome their mental and physical health hindrances in order to eliminate the dark forces that imprison us? Maybe so, but will they also be able to infiltrate the Voltaic Imperia, the bionic beings that are brainwashing us all? If not, our race will be trapped forever.

TheEuphorian Era: Awakeningis the first novel in the New Adult, fantasy/sci-fi, Euphorian Era trilogy. It is the second series created and written by sibling authors, Michael and Sabrina Estafo. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Never Before Publishing LLC
• Release date: Apr 8, 2019
• ISBN: 9781947669086

Book preview

In the dead of the night, Vencin Marcusi ran for his life down a desolate freeway overpass. A hexagonal UFO hunted overhead as if waiting for him to collapse from exhaustion.

The merciless Arizona summer acted as a furnace, even in the dark of the night, provoking rivulets of sweat to slither down his face and neck. The smell of city pollution and the road’s hot tar choked his lungs. The high-frequency sound waves given off from the UFO pierced his eardrums, muting all external sounds—the ringing in his head only accompanied by his pounding heart and labored breathing.

YOU CANNOT ESCAPE YOUR FATE, VENCIN! an inhuman—almost electronic—voice rumbled through the sky.

The fear Vencin experienced was unmatched. His anxiety rash burned and stung across his back, chest, and face—the sensation almost bringing tears to his eyes. The concoction of agony intensified as his muscles began to cramp, struggling for oxygen like a fish out of water. Vencin’s chest tightened in exhaustion. As his energy drained, his pace decreased, like a car running on empty. Tunnel vision dominated his clear sight—limiting his peripherals.

I won’t give up. I can’t let them get me!

His vision focused on a tunnel of light ahead. A surge of adrenaline ignited, kicking his legs into high gear. His aching skin and muscles renewed, his vision purified, and his head cleared of the tormenting buzzing. With Vencin’s physical limits no longer holding him back, his wobbling hurtles transformed into a steady sprint. The road blurred below as he dashed forward, the thumps of his footsteps echoing in his ears.

NOOOO! GET HIM! the synthetic voice boomed from above, quaking the ground.

The pavement lit up as the UFO descended, the wind whipping Vencin’s hair. He was almost at the tunnel and focused all his energy away from the approaching force. Just before entering the light, a magnetic vibration ripped him away. His stomach dropped as his body went numb and tingled. His blood rushed to his head when a windblast sucked him up toward the UFO, like being ripped out of an airborne airplane door.

Vencin fell to the cold wooden floor, wide-eyed, and gasping for air. He’d awoken from his nightmare. He felt the numbness and tingling dissipate slowly while he caught his breath—his chest rapidly expanding. Yet again, another torturous slumber had occurred—just as they regularly did ever since he could remember. There was something so real and haunting about them that a weight of angst seemed to linger even after he awoke.

Why do I keep having these dreams of people trying to kill or capture me?

With shaky hands, he lifted himself off the floor and sat on his bed. He reached for his phone, checking his emails and social media—his usual routine before he got out of bed. An hour passed in no time, and he put his phone down. Ready to start the day, he maneuvered toward his bathroom.

Two sliding closets acted as a connecting hallway to his bathroom—the mirrored doors reflected his passing naked, muscular physique. Vencin always slept in the nude. Peeling off his clothes at the end of the day was like releasing the control, stress, and anxiety in his life. Unfortunately, those misery-filled emotions seemed to return each day, often even in the peace of his sleep.

He glanced at his chiseled chest and abs in the mirror while he brushed his teeth with his electric toothbrush—the vibrations invigorating his mouth with minty freshness. Even though he had finally achieved his desired look, he all too often saw the formerly scrawny man staring back at him. Based on his good looks and charm, no one would ever guess Vencin suffered from body dysmorphic disorder most of his life. Growing up, he was always in shape, but underweight. No one, including previous girlfriends, ever commented about it except his drill sergeant of a father, who loved to address every flaw he saw in others—especially Vencin.

After smoothly shaving along his jawline and chin, Vencin splashed his face with warm water—it never got cold in the summer. It left him somewhat refreshed, minus the foul scent of the city water, which he learned to deal with over the years. He found it ludicrous that he grew up in the acclaimed most livable city of Scottsdale, Arizona; yet it was one of the hottest in the country, had horrible pollution, and housed some of the most unpleasant people.

His currently lived in an apartment in Tempe, about six miles outside of Scottsdale, and provided the same features, only it was usually a couple degrees warmer. Living in Tempe had its perks; it had ample restaurants and venues, and it was close to his school—Arizona State University. He’d been attending ASU for the past four years and was just one week away from achieving his BS in Business Entrepreneurship. It seemed great, yet he still struggled to figure out his desired career path—his true calling in life.

Vencin slid his closet door open and dressed in a sky-blue oxford shirt—sleeves rolled up—tailored white shorts, and a nice pair of brown, brogue shoes with a matching Hermès belt. He put on a fancy watch to complete his preppy look. He went back into his bathroom to style his thick, dark-brown hair into a well-coiffed side part. The shorter sides made his medium-length hair up top look clean-cut, while his pomade added a desired sleekness and shine. As he finished, he analyzed his reflection; his blue shirt made his light-grey eyes stand out underneath his naturally arched eyebrows.

Anxiety rushed through him when he realized today was the day that he had been dreading all semester—the day of his oral presentation for psychology. The stinging-zapping feeling of his rash irritated the skin on his back and began prickling up his neck; he could see the red patches starting to form. His rash had been tormenting him since he was seventeen. Doctors claimed it was a rare idiopathic condition, triggered by stress and temperature change. The bizarre thing about this rash was that it would only last a minute, or sometimes a few, before disappearing—erasing the evidence. Sometimes his rash would even hinder him on and off all day, causing Vencin to relate it to a cruel nerve monster.

Stop, you can control this. He breathed in deeply, his closed fists resting on his bathroom’s granite counter as he relaxed. He’d won the battle with his rash this time and hoped he wouldn’t get it during his speech—it was almost impossible to talk down in public.

Vencin grabbed his leather backpack and made his way out of his single-bedroom, luxury apartment. He jogged down the stairs. Even in the morning, the heat blazed right through him, already making him break a sweat. He unlocked his mountain bike from its shaded rack and rode to his favorite breakfast-and-lunch restaurant, Harlow’s Café, conveniently located just west of ASU.

Vencin pushed open the front door of the small, homey café; its wood-paneled walls decked with pictures of customers, old-time movie stars, and celebrities with autographs. Vintage fixtures, black booths, and old-school music amped up the classic vibes of the forty-year-old staple restaurant. As usual, the cheery staff greeted him.

Hi, honey! the manager, Cody, said, wearing her infectious grin. She stood behind the host stand adjacent to the door. She slicked up her dark hair in a tight bun and dressed trendy and professional. She always remembered everyone’s name and story, making everybody feel special and adored. Vencin didn’t know how she possibly did it.

Morning, ladies, Vencin said with his smooth, sweet voice.

There’s that beautiful face, the hostess, Helene, said, setting a menu back in its slot. You’re obviously not gonna be needing this. You know the menu front to back. You just won’t leave us alone. She showed off her white smile. The natural sunlight emphasized her seafoam-green eyes and dark, plum-colored hair against her sun-kissed complexion.

Vencin hugged his friend, chuckling. I guess I can’t help coming back.

They walked over to the counter, facing a view of the busy cooks. Vencin sat down and sipped the cold water the busser already brought him. Even riding his bike for only a short distance, the heat induced dehydration every chance it got.

You know, we have a pretty spacious break area back there; you could just pitch the idea of living here with the boss, Helene said, leaning on her elbows on the other side of the counter.

Vencin laughed from Helene’s everlasting sense of humor. "That’s an idea. I know I’m welcome, but probably not that welcome."

I mean, give your legs a rest. Your calves are growing muscles on top of their muscles, Vencin.

Um, excuse me, the waitress, said. Are you harassing my customer, Helene? She dressed in a form-fitting, all-black uniform. A white Harlow’s Café logo—the silhouette of a 1930s Jean Harlow movie star in a gown—emblazoned the upper corner of her V-neck shirt and in the center of her waist apron. Of course.

Sir, I’m so sorry about her rudeness. She sarcastically rolled her eyes at her best friend. Get back to work, Helene. She batted her long eyelashes.

Helene giggled and walked back to her station to seat the growing line of customers.

At this point, I’m used to it, Perla, Vencin said.

I know, Perla said, setting down his orange juice with a straw. I’ve been trying to get that girl fired, but I guess the owners like her. She placed her hand on her hip. Don’t know why.

Vencin and Perla shared a laugh.

What can I get you? Let’s see; today’s Thursday, so you’re probably going to want four scrambled eggs, a side of wheat toast with avocado, hash browns, ham, and a side of fruit?

Normally Vencin would say yes, but his nerves knotted his stomach, squeezing his appetite away. You’re good, but I’m going to pass on the usual. How about some oatmeal with five egg whites mixed in and still the side of fruit.

You got it, Perla said, writing the order on her notepad. She turned around, swaying her long, thick hair, pulled up in a high ponytail. Her dark hair almost overtook her small frame.

The old-school restaurant soon filled with hungry customers. Newcomers quickly became regulars from Harlow’s homemade, yummy food. Thursdays were especially popular, as it was their homemade turkey special day—granting customers a Thanksgiving meal every week if they wanted. Sounds of laughter, conversation, and cooking burrowed in his ears. Vencin pulled out his phone, scrolling along his social media newsfeed. He needed something to distract his mind from his aching stomach.

At age thirteen, anxiety introduced itself to Vencin, but he was unaware of the tormentor. All day long his heart would race so fast he worried others could see it; his chest would ache with pain as if having a heart attack; his throat would close up, while his mouth became dry, making breathing and eating almost impossible; his head felt so light he thought it might fly off. Everything became a worry, only encouraging the deadly disease. Anxiety scarred him, triggering his nervous rash, and hindering him from gaining weight. At one point, going out or conversing with anyone would prompt the horrid emotion.

After complaining of chest pain and his inability to breathe, his mother took him to urgent care. Following numerous heart tests and scans, Vencin was scared that the nurse would tell him he had a type of terminal cancer; instead, she explained that it was all in his head. It sounded ridiculous to him, but after years of anguish, various panic attacks, and trial and error, Vencin managed to take control of his problem, but he still couldn’t fight the inevitable occasions. It was the most frustrating when it seemed to happen for no reason.

Perla rushed to Vencin, placing his steamy food in front of him.

Looks great, Vencin said, spoon at the ready and napkin along his lap.

Great, Perla said. Anything else I can get you?

I think this’ll do it. Vencin displayed a corned grin.

Perfect. So … we’re going out tonight, right?

Vencin drizzled a bit of honey and scattered some berries and banana slices from his fruit cup over his oatmeal before diving in. You know I can’t go out with you guys. He put a spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth and swallowed before saying, I have to study for finals.

Finals? It’s your Friday. You can take off one night to hang out with your friends. The sassy, Latina waitress held a stern tone and posture. You’re coming out tonight. Let’s go to Old Town.

Vencin chuckled and sipped his orange juice. I promise I’ll be more available once school’s over. One more week and we’ll shut down Scottsdale.

Oh yeah?

Vencin moved his eyes up from his food. Oh yeah. Shut. It. Down.

We better. Perla hurried off to tend to her full station.

Within minutes, Vencin devoured his food, making his stomach comfortably full. He placed the money on the counter, leaving Perla a generous tip. He hugged Perla and Helene on his way out. The duo made sure to harass Vencin about going out again; he barely made it out alive.

See you tonight! Helene yelled.

Can’t wait! Perla said before the door shut.

Vencin shook his head, chuckling at his friends. He unlocked his bike and hurried on his fifteen-minute route to class. He wanted to get there as early as he could, granting him time to cool down. By now, the summer rays hit like lightning into his skin, giving the impression of riding through an oven. To make things worse, the anxiety from his presentation stimulated his nervous rash again, pricking his back and shoulders. He rolled his neck, trying to fight it, but the boiling temperature only made it worse. Think about something else, Vence.

He pedaled faster, trying to focus on his route. He knew that he’d have to get his presentation over with before he could release his nervousness. Several pedestrians he passed walked with umbrellas to shield the heat; umbrellas weren’t used for rain in Tempe, only the sun. As Vencin pulled up to a stoplight, he glanced at the drivers—all their expressions angry and unfriendly. When can I get out of this hell?

Vencin entered the eco-friendly Wrigley Hall building, housing his Psychology class. Upon entering, an icy gust of air-conditioning brought instant relief to his hot body. Now inside, his anxiety roared even further. He checked his watch. Fifteen minutes . Vencin hurried to the restroom. Seeing that it was vacant, he quickly ran the faucet as cold as it could get, washing his hands and patting cold water over his oval-shaped face. He rested his closed fists over the counter, looking at his reflection. His heartbeat caused his eyeballs to see the violent pulses. He took in a deep breath and let out a shaky exhale. His arms flexed, squeezing the sleeves of his oxford shirt around his forearms.

Just one presentation and you’re done. Relax.

Vencin stood tall and shook his hands, aiding his tension. He sprayed on some cologne and fixed up his hair before leaving the restroom.

When he reached the classroom door, reading PSY 325, he wished he could speed up time. He thirsted to feel the relief from his presentation’s fatality. His firm grip that turned the knob felt like an involuntary action, along with his sauntering feet. He felt out of his body—something else was controlling him. His heart pounded faster.

Black, rolling chairs sat behind long tables, seating one hundred students. Blank, white walls discomforted the room. Vencin sat toward the front in a seat he frequented every Tuesday and Thursday for the last four months. Dr. Hansy, the young, attractive professor, stood at the front of the room behind a tiny desk. She held onto a thermal mug, sipping it leisurely as she worked on her Mac computer.

Though Vencin loved Professor Hansy’s class, he felt resentment right now. She looked so calm, while his innards felt like bursting. Why did she have to make us do a presentation? What’s the point? Nobody listens, or even cares. They’re just worrying about their presentation or feeling relieved because they already went. Vencin looked around the near-full room, noticing some students half-awake, others gossiping, and the majority on their phones or laptops. Or they’ll just ignore the whole thing … maybe that wouldn’t be, so bad.

Vencin faced forward. Even though the room was chilly, his face and chest grew warm, while flushing accompanied his skin—another generous gift from his anxiety. Breathing became difficult, his lungs crying out for more air than he could compose. Each new symptom heightened his nerves. He sensed his rash from hell returning. Thankfully, it was only attacking his back and chest—he hated when it became visible to anyone. The pain, almost unbearable, didn’t bother him as much as someone seeing it and thinking he was breaking out in hives.

Good morning, class, Dr. Hansy said with her cheery voice. Vencin was sure the twenty-four-ounce mug of caffeine she drank every day had something to do with it. Today we’ll be continuing presentations. It’s the last day, thankfully. She brushed her hand over her forehead with sarcasm. We’ll start back up with … She leaned to the side like a teeter-totter, glancing at her computer screen. Mr. Marcusi. Vencin, come on up!

After hearing his name, Vencin’s heart thumped a million miles per hour. He couldn’t counteract his rash. A disastrous mixture of fire and the sensation of bee stings attacked his torso. His hands fished around in his backpack for his flash drive and ice-cold water bottle—the coldness from the water helped him. Normally he’d have to throw off all his clothes, splash freezing water over himself, and stand in front of a fan for his rash to go away.

He displayed a charming, closed-lip smile and made his way toward the front of the class. His exterior couldn’t look more collected. Vencin’s good looks, sense of style, and overall likable vibe deflected any assumptions of problems—he seemed perfect. Yet, internally, he was collapsing. His peripheral vision blackened and continuous pressure crammed his skull as if about to explode.

Vencin’s hands and arms felt light, almost numb; his shaky hand forced his flash drive into the slot of the computer. He double-clicked on his project; it was as if he was booted into a never-ending pit, helplessly falling into oblivion. He took a casual sip of his water before beginning. He knew his ten-minute presentation front to back; he’d gone over it enough. Still, Vencin feared he’d mess up or that others would sense his nervousness. Oh well, there was no turning back now.

He cranked his neck to see the first slide on his projected PowerPoint and began his presentation on the role of fear.

Vencin walked about the classroom on autopilot as he explained the role of the amygdala, chemical outputs, memories, and various processes affecting the conscious state of threat, fear, and the fight-or-flight response. As he spoke, his ears muted the practiced words pouring out of his mouth. Again, something else was controlling him; he couldn’t possibly be speaking so effortlessly, so confidently. He made his presentation engaging by using one of his best qualities—his sense of humor—and interjecting elementary-level jokes. Once he grabbed the students’ attention, he slapped on his charm with self-deprecating lines peppered in between his facts. Everything played out better than he’d wished, without any stutters or mistakes. Vencin killed his presentation—just as he did with every other one before it. He could easily engage a crowd for a living, but the emotional stress would leave him dead.

The clapping hands of the crowd left a real grin on his face. Finally! It’s over. Vencin snatched his flash drive from the slot and slipped it into his pocket.

Professor Hansy patted Vencin’s back. Great job on your presentation, Vencin, she whispered. I’m very impressed with your findings.

Thank you, Professor Hansy.

The recognition from his teacher increased his elation. Regardless of the assignment, he needed positive feedback from his teachers, or else he felt unaccomplished. He related it to his workouts—if he didn’t feel sore after his training, then he didn’t go hard enough. Vencin urged himself to limits higher than high; his perfectionist quality insisted on it. It also killed him at the same time.

Vencin relaxed in his chair and respectfully listened to the rest of the presenters for the remaining hour of class.

Feeling confident that he earned an A, Vencin’s mood remained blissful as he left the building. He needed to go to one more class before he could call it a day and welcome the weekend. Luckily, his last class was in the building next door, so he could walk over. Shorts and tank tops were typical outfits of the students he passed. Most people distracted and disconnected themselves with their phones or listened to music—blocking off any noise or possibility of meeting someone new. The unapproachable vibes of everyone around him only increased his longing to be somewhere else.

Vencin never felt like he belonged. Most people his age seemed ill-mannered, rash, and provocative—engaging in reckless drinking, sex, and a myriad of others while also embracing sophomoric ways of thinking. This made it difficult for him to find true friends and a quality girl to be with—two things he craved. The things he desired always seemed out of his reach, and that bothered him more than anything.

Vencin sighed as the thoughts of his unattained wishes crept into his conscious.