Searching For Andromeda 3 Ephraim's Team

Profession: Biologist (Advanced Biology Program)

Blood type: B+

Likes: Insects, plants, flowers, milk tea, iced coffee, aesthetic photographs

Dislikes:

«Berthold Wagner»

Profession: Surgeon

Blood type: O-

Likes: Helping people

Dislikes: Long, graveyard s.h.i.+fts

«Samuel Albrecht»

Profession: Researcher

Blood type:

Likes: Wistar rat, formalin, steak, a perfect circle, medicine, techs

Dislikes: Albino mice, vegans,

«Hiroaki Mochizuki»

Profession: N/A (former sergeant-in-arms)

Blood type: AB-

Likes:

Dislikes:

Ephraim's eyes narrowed as he shuffled through the pages. His brow twitched when he reached the end of the doc.u.ment. He almost crumpled the paper as he sees a certain good luck message at the edge of the paper. Was the president toying with him? He promptly leaned his back to his swivel chair. Again, it was nighttime with the coffee and instantly made meals—except he had unboxed almost all of his things and rearranged the furniture and fixtures to their corresponding places. His mug was still filled to the brim, and he had just finished the 10 paged file the president handed him earlier. The biodata was not one he was expecting; there was a two-by-two picture of each person next to their name, but above all else, it contained a meaningless set of information.

"What's this, a slam book?" Ephraim mutters. The biodata was comparable to a poorly-written resume; one a seventh-grader would write. It was even shoddier than that—there weren't any contact details, nor there was anything he could make out other than what they like and dislike. The biodata just laid information such as their profession and blood type, although Ephraim couldn't really see the essence of it—

And so he searched.

"A pseudoscientific belief, huh." Ephraim reads. In an article he saw, it is said that some people believe that a person's ABO blood type is predictive of a person's personality, temperament, and compatibility with others.

"This superst.i.tion is akin to how horoscopic signs are observed as factors in a person's life. . ." He reads. "Of course, it's ridiculous."

"Some of the most common positive personality traits of people with blood type B are such as curious, relaxed, strong, adventurous, creative, pa.s.sionate, active, outgoing, and cheerful. On the other hand, the negative traits are, wild, erratic, unforgiving, selfish, uncooperative, irresponsible, and unpredictable. . ." Ephraim writes down to Esmeralda Sanders' biodata, "Is this what the president meant about how their att.i.tude is also written down in their biodata . . .? Through blood type, really?"

"Blood type O . . . Berthold Wagner," Ephraim writes down, "People with type O are generous, kind-hearted and loving. They adapt well with changes. They are resilient and flexible and can do better than other blood types in tough situations. . ."

Ephraim chuckles. "Is that why he's a doctor? That makes sense."

"Let's see, Samuel Albrecht. . . A," Ephraim reads, and scribbles next to Samuel's biodata. "The best personality traits of people with blood type A are gentle, loyal, organized, consistent, loyal, and perfectionists. . ." Ephraim chortles. "He's a researcher, so I guess it kind of links . . . surprisingly?"

Ephraim proceeded to dig through the net and write their personality, weaknesses, and strength. If he had to be the team leader, he had to know what their apt.i.tudes are, supposing if the pseudoscience wasn't pseudo. The problem is, it was. How could one's blood type predetermine a person's personality? Humans are more complex than that.

"Hmm . . . Hiroaki Mochizuki, AB . . . wait, he's AB negative. That's a rare blood type." Ephraim mumbles. "He's also j.a.panese, huh?"

"AB people are very careful while dealing with others and are empathetic. These people also have exceptional a.n.a.lytical and logical skills. . ." He writes, "Blood type AB is a hybrid of A and B, two different personalities mixed together. They are often seen as dual-natured . . ."

Ephraim sighs, and then shuffled the doc.u.ments once more until he sees the file for ANDROMEDA. From the information, it was established by a former NASA employee, and was meant to be a subsidiary s.p.a.ce station operating under the National Aeronautics and s.p.a.ce Administration; however, ANDROMEDA was not funded by NASA henceforward as their research deviated from the prearranged investigation a.s.signed to them. The following years they sought help from Roscosmos and Soyuz, but it was for naught as well; and so ANDROMEDA had no choice but to shut down, along with their forgotten project and discontinued research—which slumbered through ANDROMEDA's abandoned forensics laboratory.

The information regarding ANDROMEDA's project was not stated, nor what was NASA's prearranged investigation that was originally a.s.signed. But there was something Ephraim realized as he read the file. The president needs him to find an important object at ANDROMEDA's abandoned forensics laboratory. From what he can decipher here on with the information at hand, there may be a link between ANDROMEDA's deviated research and NASA's originally a.s.signed research for the subsidiary s.p.a.ce station.

A s.p.a.ce station, also known as an orbital station or an orbital s.p.a.ce station, is a s.p.a.cecraft capable of supporting a human crew in orbit for an extended period of time. Stations devise docking ports to permit other s.p.a.cecraft to dock to transfer crew and supplies—and in this case, NASA to ANDROMEDA, a branching s.p.a.cecraft with its own team and separate project. A supplementary lineup.

"I don't get it," Ephraim mumbles, and then sighs. He stared at his phone—it was already quarter to midnight, and he has an appointment tomorrow and the following days onward. Ephraim turned his lamp off straight away and lied down gently to the bed. He had to deal with the people in the biodata tomorrow—and he had to make a good first impression. After all, first impressions could set either a good team play or a rocky, uncooperative one.

**

The next day, Ephraim was again picked by the Lamborghini at the same place; however, the president told him to come to dinner this time. It was three o'clock when the chauffeur picked him from Town Square. The president was meeting all of them to his mansion; everyone had come from different places, as far as Ephraim could guess, even if in their biodata it wasn't stated where their address is, or what their nationality could be. Ephraim took the extra effort to search for their surnames on the internet, although it could be quite unreliable. He would know if he'd see them in person—not that it would matter. Nationality and race would be something that is dismissible; it was skills, apt.i.tude, and personality that mattered.

When Ephraim reached the destination, he was surprised by how many people were there, dressed in suits and gowns. He felt out of place—he had worn a green sweater vest, and white pants, with brown boots and only, had a file at hand. He looked like a college geek who just graduated (and yes, he was, which was totally out of the league with the people in here). It looked like a party (he's only ever attended a boring one with fellow geeks) with women wearing red, blue, and dissimilar glittery gowns while some wore gloves paired with high stilettos and pantyhose. Ephraim blushed when a busty woman winked at him.

Even inside the president's mansion, people were still scattered and roaming around; there were waiters handing out drinks on silver, round trays he'd only seen in dramas with reference to rich people and their galore, but this was factual now. Ephraim cannot help but stare in fascination as he walks headlong—there was a piece of distinct Mexican music playing, one he'd heard like from the movie Coco. He was a.s.sociating films with real life again.

When Ephraim finally reached the presidential office, he was welcomed with the sight of four people who already are inside the premises. There was a girl whom he recognized—a distinct honey-blond hair, with forest-green eyes and short stature—this was the girl in the biodata, one with the B+ blood type; Esmeralda Sanders. She met his eyes, and then averted quickly, dropping her gaze down to the floor. She was standing firmly near the president's desk, most awkwardly, in fact.

There was another he immediately recognized—his black hair was long, just above his shoulders, with a droopy bespectacled russet brown-eyes. He was tall, maybe about 6 feet tall or less. This was Berthold Wagner, the surgeon. Talking beside him was an uninterested boy with electric blue eyes and distinct platinum-blond hair. He looked young, no older than seventeen. Ephraim was certain—this one was Samuel Albrecht.

Behind the desk was a hefty gla.s.s windowpane with a view of the ocean. In the peripheral, Ephraim could see the man standing before the pane with grey eyes staring blankly through the sea. He had an ink-jet black hair, prominent slanted Asian eyes, and a pointed European nose. He wore a black gear and had a gun strapped adjacent to his belt. He wore military boots and had bandages around his left forearm and right arm. He also had a katana on his back. He had a lean body with toned muscles. He had scars around his skin, which articulated his previous occupation.

He recognized it instantaneously; this was his team. Everyone was here, except for the person who they are waiting for—the president.

"You," says Samuel, which caught Ephraim off-guard.

"Y-yes?"

"You're our leader, huh?" Samuel says. He stood up and then sauntered towards Ephraim with his brow raised. He had indifferent scrutiny over Ephraim, and from the looks of it, he was already judging their so-called team leader.

"Y-yes, I am," Ephraim smiles anxiously and extended his hand out. "Nice to meet you, I am—"

"Ephraim Ignacio Hughes," says Samuel. "Born June 23 from Joanna Dakota, and Manuel Hughes; graduated from The University of High East with a bachelor's degree in Archeology. You joined twenty-one compet.i.tions in your years at the branching campus, and won eighteen out of those contests; in your middle school, you joined fifteen and won eleven out those as well. Your blood type is unknown, and not stated in your biodata, but my guess it is O positive. You are anxious right now, and your personality is weaker than I thought." Samuel exclaims, and then simply looks at Ephraim's extended hand. "Lame."

"Sam!" Reprimands Berthold, the doctor. He had worry laced all over his face. "I'm sorry, he's just like this. I'm Berthold, by the way. Nice to meet you, Ephraim,"—he accepts Ephraim's hand, and shakes it—"I'm a surgeon at California, but I was called for a.s.sistance by the school president in an important project. I am an alumnus at your school."

"Th-that's amazing," says Ephraim.

"Oh, and that girl over there is—"

"I—I—I'm Esmeralda Sanders, n-nice to meet you!" The girl says from the distance awkwardly.

"You're dumb and lame," Samuel blurts bluntly to Esmeralda.

Berthold smiled apologetically at Ephraim.

"That one there is Hiroaki, he's a former sergeant-in-arms, though he's retired now, even if he's still so young," says Berthold. "I know you've read the biodatas, but these people won't introduce themselves. I figured it would be rude for the team leader, so I'm taking responsibility."

Ephraim shook his head. "It's okay."

"You look younger in person, we saw in your biodata that you're also 180 cm in height, but it seems you're a bit shorter." Berthold smiles. "Was that rude?"

"N-not at all," Ephraim tried to muster a smile, but it looked as if he was grimacing.

"Freaking short and lame," Samuel says. "What a joke."

"Sam!" Berthold scolds.

"What?" Samuel frowns. "Team leader is short and is already an adult. The girl has zero charisma. The only redeeming thing is that the sergeant looks cool in his gear, but he's a sn.o.b, so he doesn't pa.s.s. What kind of team is this?"

"Ze-zero charisma?!" The girl walks towards Samuel, and then puffed her cheek. "Take that bback!"

"Take that b-b-bback!" Samuel repeats. "You're stuttering. Zero charisma. Lame. Shorty!"

"What zero ch-charisma, and you—you're short too!"

"SHORT? WHO'RE YOU CALLIN' SHORT?!"

"Now, now, children . . ." Appeases Berthold. "Let's not fight like that,"

"I'm eighteen!" says Esmeralda. "This chi-child here, he's the only kid here! He's just a bit taller than me, but he-he's short!"

"Even if I'm a kid, I'm the smartest among all of you," says Samuel. "And say somethin', Hiroaki jerk! Do you enjoy acting all cool there?!"

Hiroaki gave no retort.

"You're such an incompetent leader," says Samuel. "Lame. Lame. Lame. You are lame, Ephraim guy."

Ephraim pointed to himself. "W-why me . . .?"

The quarrel continued, and from Ephraim's spectacles, he observed his new team with a forced smile (looking like a grimace and grin fused into one). He remembered the positive attributes from their blood type he researched a night before—and then he sighed exasperatingly from the inside.

So much for pseudoscience.