Page 2 of Accidentally Abducted (Nereidan Compatibility Program #1)

Zeph

Jake Morrison is staring at me with an expression that I am beginning to recognize as his default state of amused skepticism, and I realize that everything I thought I knew about this moment is wrong.

"So," he says, clapping his hands together in a gesture that our research materials failed to mention, "what exactly does a genetic compatibility assessment involve? Because I'm thinking we might need to make some adjustments to your research protocols."

The casual way he says "adjustments" makes something twist uncomfortably in my stomach.

Our research protocols represent three cycles of intensive preparation.

Teams of scientists analyzed thousands of hours of human behavioral data.

And this human, this wrong human who was never supposed to be here, has identified their fundamental flaws within the first few minutes of our interaction.

"The assessment," I begin carefully, "involves a structured series of activities designed to determine optimal pair bonding potential."

Jake raises one eyebrow. "Structured series of activities. That sounds... romantic."

I am beginning to understand that when Jake uses that particular tone, he is employing what humans call sarcasm. Our research materials mentioned sarcasm but failed to adequately convey how it would feel to be on the receiving end of it, like being gently mocked and challenged simultaneously.

"Perhaps," I say, "it would be more efficient to show you to your quarters first. The assessment can be... explained in more detail once you are settled."

"My quarters," Jake repeats. "Singular or plural?"

The question confuses me. "I do not understand."

"Am I getting my own room, or are we bunking together? Because I feel like that's kind of important information to have upfront."

The heat rises in my face again. "The quarters are... shared. Adjacent sleeping areas with common living space. The program is designed to encourage natural bonding through proximity."

"Natural bonding through proximity," Jake says slowly. "Did you guys get that from a nature documentary?"

"Our research sources were quite varied," I say, which is not technically a lie, though I am beginning to suspect that the variety of our sources may have been part of the problem.

Jake is quiet for a moment, studying my face with an intensity that makes my skin feel warm.

There's something calculating about the way he looks at me, but not unkind, more like he's trying to solve a puzzle.

"Okay," he finally says. "Lead the way. I'm curious to see what alien interior decorating looks like when it's been influenced by. .. varied research sources."

The walk to the quarters is both too long and too short. Jake moves beside me with an easy confidence that I find oddly fascinating, occasionally making observations about the ship's design that are both insightful and completely devastating to our architectural assumptions.

"Very sterile," he says, running a hand along the corridor wall. "Very... medical facility meets luxury hotel. Did your research indicate that humans prefer environments that remind them of hospitals?"

"Clean, uncluttered spaces were identified as optimal for reducing stress and promoting calm mental states," I recite from our briefing materials.

"Huh." Jake nods thoughtfully. "And the color scheme? All white, all the time?"

"White was indicated to be universally calming across human cultures."

"Right." Jake stops walking and turns to look at me directly. "Zeph, can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Did anyone on your research team actually talk to a human? Like, an actual conversation with a real person?"

The question hits me with unexpected force. "We... consulted extensive digital archives. Social media platforms, educational videos, cultural documentation..."

"But no actual conversations."

"No," I admit. "Direct contact was deemed unnecessary given the comprehensive nature of our digital research."

Jake stares at me for a moment, then starts laughing. Not the cruel laughter I might have expected, but something warm and oddly fond. "Oh, you guys are in for such a surprise."

"A surprise?"

"Humans are terrible at documenting what we actually want or need.

Half the stuff we post online is aspirational bullshit, and the other half is us complaining about things we can't change.

" He starts walking again, and I find myself matching his pace automatically.

"If you wanted to understand humans, you should have just asked one. "

"We are asking one now," I point out.

"Yeah, but you got the wrong one. I'm not exactly representative of optimal human behavior."

There is something in the way he says this that suggests he genuinely believes it to be true, and I find that troubling for reasons I cannot quite identify. "What would make you non-optimal?"

Jake glances at me, surprised by the question.

"I don't know. I'm sarcastic, I have trust issues, I use humor to avoid emotional intimacy, and I apparently have terrible taste in boyfriends.

" He pauses. "Plus, I'm the guy who got left behind when the aliens came calling.

That's got to count against me somehow."

"You were not left behind," I say, stopping in front of the quarters' entrance. "You were selected."

"I was selected by mistake."

"Perhaps," I say, pressing the panel to open the door. "But you are here now."

The quarters reveal themselves with their soft lighting and carefully researched furniture arrangements, and I watch Jake's face as he takes it all in. His expression cycles through several phases, surprise, assessment, and something that might be amusement.

"Wow," he says, walking over to examine one of the seating units. "This is... this is really something."

"The design was optimized for human comfort and social interaction," I say, though I am beginning to suspect that our definition of optimization may have been flawed.

"It looks like someone took a really expensive furniture showroom and bleached it," Jake says, but he settles into one of the chairs and seems genuinely surprised by its comfort. "Although I have to admit, this is actually pretty nice to sit on."

Relief floods through me. "The seating was designed to accommodate a variety of human body types while providing optimal support."

"Okay, you got that part right." Jake looks around the space again. "So this is where we're going to be conducting our compatibility assessment?"

"Yes." I remain standing, suddenly uncertain about everything from the lighting levels to the air temperature. "Though given the... change in circumstances, the assessment parameters may require modification."

"What were the original parameters?"

I hesitate, knowing that our planned assessment schedule is going to sound even more ridiculous when spoken aloud to an actual human.

"Days one through three were structured around progressive intimacy building.

Shared meals, recreational activities, personal information exchange, and. .. physical compatibility evaluation."

"Physical compatibility evaluation," Jake repeats. "You mean sex."

The directness of human communication continues to catch me off-guard. "Sexual compatibility assessment, yes. Though only if both participants were willing and genuinely interested."

"And this was all planned out in advance? Like, day one: small talk, day two: heavy petting, day three: full compatibility testing?"

The way he phrases it makes the entire program sound both mechanical and slightly ridiculous. Which, I am beginning to realize, it may actually be. "The progression was designed to be... organic. Natural development of attraction and comfort."

Jake is quiet for a moment, and I find myself studying his face, trying to determine his thoughts. When he speaks again, his voice is gentler than before.

"Zeph, can I ask you something personal?"

"Yes."

"Is this your first time doing this? The compatibility program?"

Heat spreads across my face, and I know my expression has given me away before I speak. "Yes. This is my first assignment."

"Your first assignment," Jake repeats, and something in his expression softens. "So you're basically as nervous about this as I am confused about it."

"I would not characterize my emotional state as nervous," I say, though this is not entirely truthful.

"What would you characterize it as?"

I consider this question seriously. "Uncertain. The situation has deviated significantly from expected parameters, and I am... unsure of the appropriate response."

"Well," Jake says, leaning back in his chair, "here's a thought. What if we just... figure it out as we go? Forget the parameters and the research and the structured assessments. What if we just try to get to know each other and see what happens?"

The suggestion is both terrifying and oddly appealing. "That would be highly irregular."

"Yeah, but regular doesn't seem to be working out so well for your research team." Jake grins at me. "Besides, I'm already irregular. Might as well lean into it."

I look at this human, this wrong, sarcastic, unexpectedly insightful human, and realize that he may be correct.

Our research prepared me for Derek Cross, fitness instructor and nutritional influencer.

It did not prepare me for Jake Morrison, who finds humor in confusion and asks questions that make me reconsider everything I thought I understood about this program.

It certainly did not prepare me for the way my pulse quickens when he looks at me directly, or the way his smile seems to illuminate something in my chest that I did not know existed.

"Very well," I say, settling into the chair across from him. "Where would you suggest we begin?"

"How about with something simple?" Jake says. "Tell me about yourself. Not the official Nereidans researcher stuff, tell me about you. What do you like? What makes you laugh? What are you afraid of?"

The questions are so direct, so personal, that I am momentarily speechless. Our training focused extensively on human psychology and behavior, but no one prepared me for the possibility that a human might be genuinely interested in understanding my psychology and behavior in return.

"I..." I begin, then stop. "I am not certain how to answer those questions."

"Start with something easy," Jake suggests. "What's your favorite thing about being a Nereidan?"

I think about this seriously. "I like the way our technology responds to intent rather than just command. The ship adjusts to our needs and moods without requiring specific instructions. It feels like... partnership rather than operation."

"That's actually really cool," Jake says, and he sounds genuinely interested. "So the ship knows how you're feeling?"

"To some extent, yes. It can sense stress, fatigue, emotional state. It adjusts environmental factors accordingly."

"What's it sensing from you right now?"

The question catches me off-guard, and I realize I have not been monitoring my own emotional output. "Uncertainty," I admit. "Elevated stress levels. But also..." I pause, trying to identify the other signals. "Interest. Curiosity."

"About what?"

"About you," I say honestly. "About how different you are from what I expected. About whether our research was wrong about everything, or just... incomplete."

Jake's expression softens into something I cannot quite identify. "For what it's worth," he says, "I think your research was probably wrong about most things, but not necessarily in a bad way."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean maybe the fact that you guys don't really understand humans yet is actually an advantage. Maybe it means you're going into this without a bunch of preconceived notions about how it's supposed to work."

I consider this perspective. "You believe our ignorance is beneficial?"

"I think your ignorance might be more honest than most humans' supposed expertise." Jake grins. "Besides, figuring things out together sounds a lot more interesting than following some predetermined compatibility checklist."

Looking at him, really looking at him, I realize that Jake Morrison might be completely correct. And for the first time since this assignment began, I find myself genuinely curious about what the next three days might bring.

"Very well," I say. "Let us figure it out together."