Samuel knew every now and then, he would be deemed unpleasant by people he worked with in the past. He would often find himself caught into several series of conflicts as if he was entangled in a web of events he never expected in the first place. He was usually glorified because of his brainpower—the apt.i.tude to store information quickly and a retention rate higher than that of a regular person. Because of this, he was considered a genius. "You"re smart, but you"re an a.s.s,"
"Yeah, sure. Your intelligence tops ours, but don"t you have the slightest ounce of care to the people around you."
"Don"t you have nothing in mind but data and yourself?"
"Why don"t you try to be more empathic towards people, Samuel? You are supposed to be a role model for the future generation!"
"How can you be so shrewd yet . . . an a.s.s at the same time?"
"You"re nothing but a selfish brat, Samuel."
"You"re just a jerk without your high retention rate."
Samuel was used to such adjectives. Selfish, cunning, meticulous, devious, annoying, apathetic, or in some erratic times—a.s.shole and jerk. But people weren"t only insulting Samuel Albrecht alone. The upside from these statements would be the fact people called him a "genius" despite such hurtful words. Not that Sam doesn"t know he was one, but it made him feel better.
"Are you alright, Samuel?" would be the usual question of Berthold whenever he hears that Samuel was picked on inside the school, or by the research group he was a.s.signed to. Regardless by who and whom had insulted Sam—the young Albrecht wouldn"t be brackish towards such statements. He would cling onto the fact that they told him he was an intellectual. That alone makes his emotional state amended.
It"s not that all of those gushes people left were true. At least that was what Berthold told him. But sometimes, Samuel pondered if these sentiments were right. After all, throughout his lifetime, people had been name-calling him because of his indifference to people. Every so often, Samuel marveled at the thought of whether these people were right or not.
Samuel soon accepts some statements were partly true. But he certainly wasn"t selfish, nor was he the devil. He was simply . . . him. Samuel shook off his thoughts. There wasn"t anything he could do now. Not all people will like you (but the majority do so). Samuel knew the past cannot be changed anyway—so it was pointless to speculate now.
Speaking of the past . . .
"You are a.s.signed to a task force led by an archaeologist named Ephraim Hughes, one of the top scholars of UHE, one of the top-performing organizations from the last couple of years. The president itself was amazed by your propensity and retention rate. He also says it"s a shame you didn"t become a scholar under his school."
Scholars. Some of the people who buried themselves in books but still unable to store the information a hundred percent. Samuel never understood them. His retention rate was an exceeding ninety-nine percent. Upon reading data once, he would be able to store the information infinitely to his mind. This was why he was suited to research (amongst many other fields). People glorified him and Samuel was certain it didn"t do enough justice.
But then again—his memory retention rate comes with its own shortcoming. He ought to remember all things, and this means even the events and happenstances he wanted to forget. This was why Samuel refused to go idle. He would recollect all of the bad memories if he stayed in one place for too long. This was why at 17, receiving his degree terrified him.
It meant there won"t be enough pressure. There wouldn"t be projects to be completed. He would recall some trances he chose to store away to the back of his mind—he would again drown himself with the unease that convoyed the labels he was called. He would be immersed in philosophy and submerged in an existential crisis. He would think of things he didn"t even want to THINK.
Overthinking, as one might say.
Samuel has to do something that graduation. And so it was a relief he was a.s.signed to a task force led by an archaeologist. Although Samuel found it odd to have a researcher uncover some sort of secret object in an abandoned laboratory, he still was hooked. And so, despite the recurring circ.u.mstances, Samuel agreed to the offer. Not that he had the choice anyway.
At first, he thought it would be a type of secretarial job wherein he had to give the leader the results of things he managed to examine (plus he had to actually collect samples to do research, so there"s that). But then again to Samuel"s surprise, the job wasn"t as bad as he had expected.
Surprisingly, it was pleasant.
At least, it was pleasant enough before they barely avoided their impending death from an earthquake that collapsed the buildings, fought off some laboratory monsters, and plunged to a tunnel of doom in order to survive.
It was pleasant before that.
Samuel slowly opened his eyes, grasping the slowly-coming fact that the ground was moving—or he was being moved. He was seeing the mossy paths and hearing the rigorous steps of boots to the cobblestone floor. This was the time Samuel realized he was in someone else"s shoulder, feeling his stomach draped around by someone"s shoulder—around the trapezius— like that of a sack being carried.
"Oh, you"re awake? Great." It was the voice of a man—a bit rasped, and deep. The man placed Samuel down. Upon stepping into the ground, looking bewilderedly at four people, Samuel thought they were his task force—but no.
"h.e.l.lo, Younglin"," says the man who carried him. He had a brute physique—his built was twice as large as the president, and he had a tan skin paired with scars in his shoulders. His brow was thick, and he had a beard.
"Younglin" . . .?" Samuel repeated.
"Ooho, the younglin"s awake?" Samuel blinks as a woman with pointed ears and blond hair leaned his face towards him. The woman had brown eyes with unique patterns. "You"re right, Yael. He certainly looks like a prince now he"s awake."
"Prince—?" Samuel stopped mid-sentence when he was pulled by the same man—he believes his name was Yael—by his collar.
"Vashti, Arletha, Hosea, Pelmon. I believe I left you all the decision making about how we would handle this youngling." The man exclaims. Soon, four people—the woman with the elven ears, a girl with bow and arrows, a man dressed in robes, and another man clad with armor—talked in a circle, as if to discuss something in secret. The man named Yael still held Samuel by the collar, perhaps to prevent him from running away.
"You"re not going anywhere, Younglin"," Yael exclaims. "Until the group decides what to do with you. And until that, you are staying with me."