Now We Plan

"Hiroaki!" The team said in chorus to the former sergeant and undercover agent, who was munching the food imperturbably. Hiroaki Mochizuki was there, eating busily. He had eyes set dead over nothing, and he was continuously chomping down his fare. His plate had a mountain of food stacked with a buttered shrimp acting as a cherry on top.

"H-how . . ." Berthold mutters, bespectacled over Hiroaki. He, again, paid no attention to their queries. He was, after all, very much unlikely to answer nor even acknowledge their presence.

"Itadakimasu . . .?" Samuel repeats.

"It's 'thanks for the food.'" Esmeralda exclaims. "U-um . . . hello, Hiroaki-san . . . h-how's the food?"

Hiroaki gave no retort.

Everyone in the table was certain—he came to the penthouse, and they had overlooked his presence. Even in the dining room where chairs could be noticed if they were unoccupied, he passed undetected. It was, as far as Ephraim could muster to compare, akin to ninjas.

"Hiroaki-san," Esmeralda says, adding a Japanese honorific to Hiroaki's name. She tilted her head, "um . . ."

And that is when Ephraim had the thought. "Do you speak Japanese?"

Hiroaki did not respond.

"Um, Team Leader . . ." Esmeralda raised her arm a bit, "may I?"

Ephraim nodded, and then Esmeralda flashed a smile.

"Hiroaki-san," Esmeralda starts, "Eigo o hanasemasu ka?"—she asks, directly translating: do you speak English?

Hiroaki lifted his gaze, and then fixed his eyes to Esmeralda. The girl, as usual, averted her gaze—but she was talking to someone else, she couldn't just drop her gaze to the floor anymore. It was evident that she had a hard time—her head had tilted upwards and turned sideways several times to elude Hiroaki's eyes.

"So, um . . . er . . . Anata wa watashi no tame ni nihongo o hanasu koto ga dekimasu, watashi wa anata no tame ni sore o hon'yaku dekimasu," Esmeralda says while gesturing and expressing to Hiroaki that he could speak Japanese to her and she was more than willing translate it to English to the team.

"I could speak the language." Hiroaki answers in fluently flawless English, and then the team listened in silence as they process Hiroaki's answer. It was fascinating hearing him speak for the first time.

This was how Hiroaki Mochizuki spoke like; this was his voice.

"But I don't want to talk." He says after a long pause. "Thanks for the food, by the way."

**

"HIROAKI, THAT JERK," Samuel exclaims the moment they were all in the living room. The team, as said by the team leader, ought to gather for a meeting in the living room after they took their baths later that night. Samuel was the first to be done and had examined the vicinity before he decided to banter relentlessly. He made sure—examined every nooks and crook—and when he was sure Hiroaki wasn't in the room just yet, he started to unleash his sentiments. It got stronger the moment Berthold was there.

"Ah, Sam . . ." was the only thing Berthold could muster to say. He couldn't really argue with Samuel, especially with things like this. Berthold Wagner had been with Sam ever since he was a child; he could pride himself as Samuel's guardian if he ever was.

Samuel was an intelligent young boy; a prodigy in research due to his retention rate. He had an exceptional photographic memory, and he could preserve and remember information ever so easily. He had written a dissertation at the mere age of 12. He was enrolled in an accelerated program and graduated at the young age of 17. His brilliant mind enabled him to climb to the top, and now he was given a spot in UHE's Task Force, an exclusive team handpicked by the University President himself.

Samuel, for his age, was praised relentlessly by the surrounding people. He was applauded by the professors and the critiques in his works were rare. This had quite an influence on his personality; Samuel Albrecht grew to be a teenager who had looked at himself in very high regard. He wasn't a narcissist, but he was arrogant. Samuel has had several research teams before—only to be dispelled due to his 'lack of leadership,' and 'annoyingly cocky attitude.' The effect of this to Sam was enormous, and Berthold was sure, it had impaired Samuel's self-esteem.

This was why Berthold lets Samuel mock, tease, and (somewhat) jokingly bully people he would fashion. It was, as far as Berthold could decipher, a mask to protect himself.

"Ugh . . ." Esmeralda winced as she arrived in the living room. Her long, wavy honey-blond hair was blow-dried; it gave her cute curls and a refreshing strawberry shampoo scent. She wore a pink pajama, much like everyone else.

"Urk, seeing you before I sleep will probably give me nightmares," Samuel says, angling a grin. "Hag."

"No one's happy to see you, Samuel," Esmeralda says, and then walks away.

"Where're you going, Miss Sanders?" asks Berthold, "going to pick a drink? Prepare snacks?"

Esmeralda blushed. "Y-yup."

"Could I be of assistance?" Berthold asks politely.

Esmeralda nods shyly. "T-that would be a big help, yes."

"Wha—you're both leaving me here?" Samuel grunts. "Oi!"

"You can handle yourself, Sam," says Berthold.

"Child," Esmeralda eyed him with mocking eyes.

"What?! I can be here alone! Go!" Samuel exclaims. "It's not like I need to talk to anyone. Lame!"

**

"What a tsun," Esmeralda says the moment she and Berthold arrived in the kitchen.

"What are we preparing?" Berthold asks kindly as he opens the fridge. "I'll do the Mise en place,"

"A sweet green tea," says Esmeralda shyly. "And the matcha roll I m-made earlier . . ."

Berthold blinks as he sees a cake in the fridge. It was deliciously designed and had a voluptuous amount of cream. He brought it to the countertop and prepared five slices for the team. Esmeralda had primed the tea.

"Miss Sanders?"

"Uhm . . . E-Esmeralda is fine, Doctor Wagner,"

Berthold chuckles. "Okay then, Esmeralda. Call me Bert in return, so it wouldn't be formal for the two of us."

"O-okay,"

Berthold smiles. "Are you annoyed at Sam?"

Esmeralda blinked; she was still preparing the tea. She wasn't looking at Berthold when she responded. "N-nope . . ."

"I figured so," says Berthold. "The two of you are the ones with the closest age range here in the team."

"Oh . . ."

"You're 18, right?" Berthold asks. "You're also a product of an accelerated program."

Esmeralda nods.

Berthold smiles at her and then proceeded to cut the matcha roll to several pieces.

"Sam likes you," he says.

"He l-li-likes—"

"No, no, no." Berthold chuckles. "Not in a romantic way. Samuel likes you, he's fond of you. He does not tease and banter to people so easily. He does that to those whom he thinks can handle, and he trusts."

Esmeralda blinks. "Samuel trusts me?"

"He isn't aware of it," Berthold answers. "He's a child. So if he teases you, please don't hate him."

Esmeralda faced Berthold and flashed a warm smile.

"You care for him deeply," says Esmeralda. "Don't worry, Doctor. I never hated anyone in my lifetime."

Berthold blinked, and then he retracted with a smile.

"Is that so?"

**

Ephraim was silent after dinner. He flashed his usual smile over his team members and had told them there would be a meeting just before they would sleep; it was set 9 PM in the evening. When he finished taking a bath and had covered his body with his pajama sleepwear, he still wasn't ready to come out of his room. He found himself pondering; sitting on the edge of the bed while contemplating still.

He was motionless and was simply thinking—his hair was still wet; beads of water dripping to the floor as he stares at the entirety with vacant eyes.

Hiroaki Mochizuki. He was a former sergeant-in-arms according to the information the president provided and was unemployed the current moment. Each of Ephraim's team members received his biodata with a piece of special information that would suit their profession or their capabilities.

The president told him the given biodata to Hiroaki was a particular event that happened in a certain year. It was something only Ephraim and a few others have knowledge of—even the president couldn't have known what Ephraim did at THAT time.

It has been on the back of Ephraim's mind. The query. How did the president gain information about that particular happenstance? It was unclear to him the moment the president expressed his opinions regarding the matter.

It was, after all, only Ephraim and one person who were the ones around when IT happened. When that incident happened.

It was something he had buried in the depths of his mind.

Nevertheless—Ephraim was seeing a bit of light in the dark of his thoughts. It seemed Hiroaki Mochizuki was tasked to investigate Ephraim—but the question is, how long was Ephraim being reconnoitered by the president? When was Hiroaki assigned to investigate him? The year THAT thing happened did not transpire when he was a student in BS Archeology. He was just in middle school at that time.

He was a child when it befell.

Ephraim snapped back to reality when he heard several knocks across the wooden door. He quickly stood up to open the ingress, and then it opened, it revealed someone of small stature. He lowered his gaze to Esmeralda Sanders, whose hand was still gestured and positioned to knock—fingers formed into a delicate fist, the back of her hand situated to thin air in place of the wooden door.

"Um . . ." she starts, unable to look at Ephraim after a second they stared at each other. "We-we're all in the living room . . ."

"Okay," Ephraim nods. "I'll be there in a bit."

"I . . . I also prepared a matcha roll cake." Esmeralda says. "And sweet green tea."

"Oh," Ephraim smiles. "I'm allergic to matcha."

"O-oh . . ." Esmeralda blinked. "Um . . . s-so it's technically green tea, and I um . . . I can't serve you the tea, too—what would y-you like, Team Leader?"

"It's okay, no need to prepare the food for me," Ephraim says, and smiles. "I'll be there in a bit."

He shut the door gently afterward.

**

Esmeralda stood affront Ephraim's door. She wasn't taken aback, but she simply felt the gut feeling; an intuition regarding their team leader. She proceeded to saunter towards the living room, and along with Berthold, they carried the snacks to the meeting. Samuel was the first one to dig in.

"You're good at cooking, Hag," he says. "It isn't lame. It's one of the attributes I can't possess."

Esmeralda rolled her eyes.

"Esmeralda,"

"Doctor . . . Bert." Esmeralda exclaims, struggling to cut the formalities. "Yes?"

"What did Ephraim say?"

"The team leader . . . he's . . . allergic to green tea." She says. "So he cannot eat anything here."

"Oh! Right!" Berthold exclaims. "I'm sorry I forgot to tell you! I was the one with the biodata regarding his allergies—"

"It's my fault I prepared these things without consulting with anyone first," Esmeralda says. "I—I just . . . want to try to be . . . a good team member."

"Huh? What're you talking about?" Samuel says while chewing on the matcha roll.

"Oh, please, Shorty, this isn't the time to—"

"You ARE a good team member," Samuel says nonchalantly. "You seem to be dedicated to the team, and you make us good food. And good snacks."

Esmeralda's eyes gleamed, as she blinked in surprise—this time she was taken aback with such unexpectedly astonishing words. It left her flabbergasted . . .

"Like a grandma!" Samuel adds.

. . . flabbergasted for a second, at least.

And then the two of them—now, Berthold considers, as usual—started bantering; unleashing childish statements with cocky arguments and satirical sarcastic jokes. It was the new normal for Berthold.

"Hey,"

All of the team members (including Hiroaki, who was now reading a book in a corner) stopped to pay attention to their newly-arrived team leader. He was holding a rolled map on the other hand, and he wasn't smiling.

"Let's proceed to the planning," Ephraim exclaims as he laid the map to the coffee table.

"This is," Ephraim exclaims as he pertains to the map. "Bingham's route to Machu Picchu."

Everyone at the team except Hiroaki gathered to stare at the map.

"And this is ANDROMEDA's location," Ephraim exclaims.

"It's exactly in the lost Incan City . . .!" Says Berthold. "How are they allowed to build it there?"

Ephraim flashed a smile and circled a finger to Machu Picchu's mark on the map.

"Underground."