Page 25 of Reluctantly Abducted (Nereidan Compatibility Program #3)

Owen

Sleep isn't coming tonight.

I've been back on Earth for two days, and I haven't slept more than a few restless hours.

My body is exhausted, but my mind refuses to shut down.

Every time I close my eyes, I see blue skin glowing with emotion.

I hear a precise voice explaining alien atmospheric composition.

I feel cool fingers brushing against mine.

The night air is cool against my face as I step outside my apartment building. The city is quieter at this hour, though never truly silent. A few cars pass. Someone laughs too loudly down the block. A distant siren wails and fades.

I walk without conscious direction, hands shoved in my pockets. My right hand closes around the small vial of alien gemstones, my only tangible proof that the past week wasn't some elaborate hallucination. I've taken to carrying it everywhere, a habit I don't examine too closely.

My feet carry me toward the park six blocks from my apartment, a small patch of manufactured nature in the urban landscape.

During the day, it's filled with children on the playground, people walking dogs, teenagers skateboarding.

At this hour, it's empty except for the occasional restless soul like me.

I find myself at the park's highest point, a small hill that offers slightly less obstructed views of the night sky.

Light pollution from the city washes out most of the stars, but a few of the brightest push through.

I lie back on the damp grass, ignoring the chill seeping through my jacket, and stare upward.

Somewhere up there is Ry'eth's home. One star among millions, indistinguishable to my human eyes. I wonder if he can see our sun from his world. If he ever looks up and thinks about the human who spent three days on his ship.

Probably not. He's likely already back to his environmental work, analyzing data, writing reports. Moving on with his life as if I were just another variable in his assessment.

That's what I should be doing too. Moving on. Getting back to normal.

Except "normal" doesn't feel normal anymore. Everything is exactly as it was before I was abducted, but nothing feels the same. My apartment is too quiet. My job search is uninspiring. The future I was trying to build feels hollow now, like I'm going through motions I no longer believe in.

"You alright, man?"

The voice startles me. I sit up quickly, combat reflexes kicking in before I register the source, a young guy walking his dog, a small terrier straining at its leash.

"Yeah," I reply automatically. "Just looking at the stars."

He glances up, then back at me with a shrug. "Not much to see with all the city lights."

"No," I agree. "Not much."

He continues on his way, the dog yapping at something in the bushes. I watch them go, struck by the strange disconnect of the interaction. Small talk with a stranger about the visibility of stars, when three days ago I was literally among them.

I pull out the vial of gemstones, holding it up against the night sky.

The stones catch what little light there is, glinting with colors too vibrant for Earth, blues deeper than sapphires, greens more alive than emeralds, and something like fire captured in crystal.

Practically worthless on Ry'eth's world.

Priceless to me now, for reasons that have nothing to do with their market value.

I think about what I would do if I could go back. Would I have tried harder to understand the strange connection forming between us? Would I have asked more questions about his world? Would I have kissed him sooner, held him longer, memorized more details of his face, his voice, his touch?

It doesn't matter. There's no going back. No way to contact him. No way to even know where in the vast universe his planet exists. The aliens have the technology, the knowledge, the power. I'm just a human who was briefly assessed and returned, like a library book that's served its purpose.

A cold breeze picks up, sending a shiver through me. My stomach growls, reminding me that I skipped dinner earlier. Food hasn't interested me much since I got back, but my body has its own demands.

I push myself up from the grass and head back toward the streets. The neighborhood around the park is mostly residential, but a few blocks over there's a 24-hour diner I've passed occasionally but never entered. Tonight, the neon "OPEN" sign in the window seems like as good an invitation as any.

The bell above the door jingles as I enter. The place is nearly empty, just a middle-aged waitress behind the counter, a trucker-type hunched over coffee at the far end, and two college students sharing a plate of fries in a corner booth, textbooks spread around them.

"Sit anywhere, hon," the waitress calls without looking up from her phone.

I slide into a booth by the window, the vinyl seat cracked and patched with duct tape. The laminated menu is sticky with years of syrup and coffee spills. I scan it without really seeing the options, my mind elsewhere.

"Know what you want?" The waitress appears at my table, order pad in hand. Her nametag reads "Darlene." She looks tired in the fluorescent lighting, the kind of bone-deep weariness that comes from standing on your feet for hours serving strangers food they'll barely remember eating.

"Just coffee," I say automatically. "Black."

"That's it?" She raises an eyebrow. "Kitchen's open. We got a pretty decent Denver omelet."

The word "omelet" sends an unexpected pang through me. Ry'eth in the nutrition center, studying my cooking with scientific fascination. His surprise at the flavors, so different from his world's food.

"Sir?" Darlene prompts, pen poised over her pad.

"Sorry. Yeah, the omelet sounds good." I hand back the menu. "Thanks."

She nods and heads toward the kitchen, shouting the order through a small window to someone I can't see.

I stare out at the empty street, watching the occasional car drift by.

The normalcy of it all is surreal after what I've experienced.

Three days ago, I was on a spaceship with an alien who could light up his skin with emotion.

Now I'm in a rundown diner at 3 AM, waiting for an omelet that won't taste anything like the one I made for Ry'eth.

My coffee arrives, steaming and bitter. I wrap my hands around the mug, seeking its warmth. The sensation is nothing like the cool touch of Ry'eth's skin against mine, but it's something. A small anchor to the present.

"You working third shift somewhere?" Darlene asks as she refills the trucker's coffee.

"No," I reply. "Just couldn't sleep."

She makes a sympathetic noise. "Know how that goes. My husband's got insomnia something awful. Doctor's got him on all kinds of pills, nothing helps."

I nod, not sure what to say. The easy exchange of personal information between strangers, it's so human. Ry'eth would have found it fascinating, this casual sharing without clear scientific purpose. I can almost hear him asking questions, see him taking mental notes for his report.

"You military?" she asks, nodding toward my posture.

"Was," I admit. "Not anymore."

"My son's in the Army. Third year now." She pulls out her phone, showing me a photo of a young man in uniform. "He's in Germany. Says the beer's amazing but the food's weird."

I smile politely, looking at the picture of her son, so impossibly young, so normal in his human concerns about beer and food. What would he think if he knew there were worlds beyond ours with beings who could manipulate atmospheric composition with a touch of their fingers?

"Here's your omelet, hon." She sets the plate in front of me. "Hot sauce is on the table if you need it."

The omelet is nothing special, yellow eggs, diced ham, bell peppers, onions, and cheese melting over the top.

Standard diner fare. But as I take the first bite, I'm struck by how.

.. Earthly it tastes. The specific combination of flavors that could only come from this planet.

Flavors Ry'eth experienced for the first time when I made breakfast on his ship.

I eat methodically, not really tasting it after the first few bites. My mind drifts back to the ship, to the hydration pool, to Ry'eth's surprised delight at the pancakes I made. To his precise questions about human cooking techniques and the way his skin would glow when something interested him.

"Need anything else?" Darlene asks, interrupting my thoughts.

"No, thank you." I gesture to my nearly empty plate. "It was good."

"Glad to hear it." She sets the check on the table. "No rush. Not exactly fighting for tables right now."

I glance around the empty diner. The college students have left, their booth now occupied by a solitary man in a rumpled suit, staring into his coffee as if it holds answers to questions I can only guess at. The trucker is gone too, replaced by a woman in scrubs, probably just off a hospital shift.

Strangers passing through the night, each with their own stories, their own worries, their own small joys. None of them knowing that aliens exist, that there are other worlds with atmospheres different from ours, that there are beings with skin that glows with emotion.

None of them knowing that I've touched those beings, kissed them, held them close in the quiet hours of a ship's night cycle.

I leave cash on the table, including a generous tip for Darlene.

Outside, the sky has shifted from pitch black to the deep blue that precedes dawn.

Soon the city will awaken, traffic will increase, people will go about their ordinary lives as if the universe isn't vastly stranger and more wonderful than they can imagine.

I check my watch, 4:05 AM. Still too early to do anything productive, too late to hope for meaningful sleep before my interview. I decide to walk a while longer, letting my feet carry me where they will.

The streets are gradually showing signs of life. A newspaper delivery truck rumbles past. Lights flick on in apartment windows. A baker opens the front door of his shop, the warm smell of fresh bread wafting out into the cool morning air.

Life continuing as it always has. As it always will. With or without my participation.

That's when it happens, a sudden warmth spreading through my chest, as if someone has wrapped their arms around me from behind.

There's no one there, of course. Just the empty park and the distant sound of traffic.

But the sensation is so vivid, so specific, that I freeze in place, afraid to move and break whatever strange spell has fallen over me.

For just a moment, I could swear I smell that mineral scent that clung to Ry'eth's skin. For just a moment, I feel less alone than I have since returning to Earth.

Then it's gone, leaving me standing alone in the park, heart racing, skin prickling with goosebumps that have nothing to do with the cold.

"Ry?" I whisper to the empty air, feeling ridiculous even as the name leaves my lips.

No answer comes. Of course no answer comes. Just the rustle of leaves in the breeze and a distant car alarm.

I walk home slowly, turning the strange sensation over in my mind. Stress, probably. Lack of sleep. The mind plays tricks when you're exhausted and emotional. There's no rational explanation for what I felt, and I've always prided myself on rationality.

Yet as I climb the stairs to my apartment, I can't shake the feeling that something passed between worlds for just a moment, some echo of connection that defies scientific explanation. The kind of thing Ry'eth would dismiss as impossible without empirical evidence.

I smile at the thought of how he would react, his skin glowing with agitation as he explained all the reasons why interstellar emotional connections cannot exist without the proper technological interface.

I can picture his expression perfectly, the precise way his brow would furrow, the slight tilt of his head when he's being particularly scientific.

Inside my apartment, everything is exactly as I left it. Empty. Quiet. Achingly normal. I drop my keys on the counter and head for the bathroom, catching sight of myself in the mirror.

I look exhausted, dark circles under my eyes, stubble covering my jaw, hair disheveled from the wind. But there's something else, something in my expression I can't quite name. Not hope, exactly. Just... awareness. As if some dormant part of me has awakened and refuses to go back to sleep.

"This is ridiculous," I mutter to my reflection. "Get it together, Owen."

I strip off my clothes and step into the shower, letting hot water wash over me.

It doesn't feel the same as the hydration pool on Ry'eth's ship, nothing like the gentle, enveloping sensation of floating in water calibrated exactly to my body's needs.

Just ordinary Earth plumbing doing its basic job.

As I dry off and pull on clean clothes, I try to focus on practical matters. I have a job interview tomorrow, just a medical supply company, nothing exciting, but it's something. I need to review their product line, prepare answers to likely questions, iron a shirt.

Normal, mundane, human concerns. The kind of things that used to occupy my thoughts before I knew what it felt like to be touched by someone from another world.

I lie down in bed again, staring once more at the ceiling. The clock reads 4:23 AM. Another day stretches ahead of me, empty, purposeless, unstructured. No job to go to. No one expecting me anywhere. Nothing that actually matters.

Two weeks ago, that emptiness felt like freedom after the rigid structure of military life. Now it just feels like... emptiness.

I close my eyes, trying to quiet my mind. There's no point in being awake. Nothing to do. Nowhere to be. No one waiting for me.

Instead, I see blue skin illuminated from within. I hear a formal voice softening when it speaks my name. I feel cool fingers tentatively tracing my scars.

I roll onto my side, clutching a pillow against my chest as a poor substitute for what I really want to hold. The emptiness beside me feels vast and profound, an absence more tangible than presence.

"Goodnight, Ry," I whisper into the darkness, as if my words could somehow travel across whatever immeasurable distance separates us.

No response comes. None will ever come. That's the reality I have to learn to live with.

But as sleep finally begins to claim me, that inexplicable warmth returns briefly, a ghostly echo of connection that follows me into dreams filled with stars and bioluminescent skin and a voice formally explaining the properties of alien atmospheres.