Page 1 of Technically Abducted (Nereidan Compatibility Program #4)

Finn

The cascade failure started three hours ago, and I'm pretty sure I'm the only thing standing between Nonna's Kitchen and complete financial ruin.

"Come on, beautiful," I mutter to the screen showing me seventeen different error codes. "Talk to me. What's really wrong?"

My apartment is dark except for the blue glow from four monitors and the LED strips I installed because, honestly, if you're going to live like a cave troll, you might as well have cool lighting.

The pizza box from yesterday is still open on my desk, but I'm too deep in the code to care about cold pepperoni.

Rosa's restaurant POS system decided to have a complete meltdown. She called me in tears—actual tears—because her payment processing was down. I've been tunneling through her network architecture ever since, and I think I finally found the source.

"There you are, you sneaky bastard," I say, tracing a corrupted registry entry. "Someone installed an 'optimization' app that's about as optimized as a brick through a fucking window."

The fix is actually simple once you know what you're looking for. It always is. That's the thing about machines—they're not trying to lie to you or hide their problems. They just break in predictable ways.

Unlike people.

My phone buzzes with a text from Rosa: Any progress? So sorry to bother you so late.

I type back: Almost got it. You'll be running by morning, promise.

Three dots appear, then: You're a lifesaver, Finn. Don't know what we'd do without you.

The thing is, she probably doesn't know what she'd do without me.

Most of my clients don't. I'm the guy they call when their nephew who "knows computers" has made everything worse.

I'm the guy who shows up at 3 AM because someone's entire business is held together by a server that's older than some of my former foster siblings.

I run the repair protocol and watch the system come back online piece by piece. Payment processing, inventory management, table assignments—all the invisible tech that keeps a small business running.

"Good as new," I tell the screen, then catch myself talking to computers again. It's a habit that would probably worry people if I had people to worry about it.

I don't.

My phone rings. Unknown number, which at 3:17 AM usually means either someone drunk-dialed me or someone's having a genuine emergency.

"Sullivan," I answer.

"Is this Finn? The computer guy?" The voice is stressed, definitely female, definitely panicking.

"Depends what's broken."

"My online store crashed and I have a flash sale starting in four hours. My web designer said he can't look at it until Monday, but I can't afford to lose this weekend. Someone gave me your number and said you do emergency calls?"

I lean back in my chair, already pulling up a new terminal. "What's the error message say?"

"Database connection failed. I don't know what that means."

"It means your website can't talk to the thing that stores all your product information. Probably a server hiccup." I stop myself before launching into a technical explanation she doesn't need. "Send me your admin login and I'll take a look."

"Really? At this hour?"

"Lady, it's Saturday night. I'm not exactly missing out on a hot date."

She laughs, sounding relieved. "Thank you so much. I'll email you the details right now."

This is what I'm good at. Fixing things. Solving problems. Taking chaos and turning it back into order. It's clean, logical work with clear success metrics.

People, on the other hand, are walking disaster scenarios with emotional operating systems I gave up trying to debug years ago.

I'm halfway through her database restoration when the blue light starts.

At first I think it's just my LED strips glitching—they've been acting weird lately. But the light is wrong, too bright, too blue, and it's coming from everywhere at once.

"Oh, come on," I mutter, watching my screens flicker. "Not now. I literally just—"

The light gets brighter, and suddenly I can't feel my chair anymore. Can't feel the floor. Can't feel anything except this weird weightless sensation like someone just hit Ctrl+Alt+Delete on reality.

When the light fades, I'm definitely not in my apartment anymore.

I'm standing in what looks like the world's most sterile tech support office, facing a seven-foot-tall blue guy in space-age business casual. He has golden eyes, skin that's literally glowing, and an expression that screams "I've been dreading this conversation."

I stare at him. Then I look around at the pristine white walls and surfaces that definitely weren't in my apartment thirty seconds ago. Then I look back at him.

"No," I say firmly. "Nope. This isn't happening."

"Finn Sullivan," he says, consulting what might be a tablet. "Human systems engineer. You have been selected for assessment under the Nereidan Compatibility Program."

I laugh. It's not a happy sound. "Right.

Okay. So I'm either having a psychotic break, someone spiked my energy drink, or I'm dreaming.

Those are the only logical explanations here, because the alternative is that I've been—" I stop, the words catching in my throat as I really look at him.

The blue skin. The height. The way his skin literally glows.

"No," I repeat, but my voice cracks. "This is not real. Aliens aren't real. This is not happening to me."

"The transportation was necessary to facilitate proper evaluation," he replies, and his voice has this formal, definitely-not-human quality that makes my stomach drop.

I run my hands through my hair. "Okay. Let's say for one completely insane second that this is real. That I've been... what did you call it? Selected? By aliens?" My voice is getting higher with each word. "PUT ME BACK."

"Your technical expertise is required for research purposes," he says, struggling to stay formal. "The assessment will conclude in seventy-two hours."

"Seventy-two hours?" My voice cracks completely. "No. Absolutely not. Send me back. Right now. I don't care about your research or your assessment or whatever sci-fi nightmare this is."

I start backing toward what I hope is a door, gesturing wildly. "I was in the middle of fixing someone's livelihood! I have three emergency repairs running, and Rosa is going to think I completely abandoned her!"

The panic hits me in waves now, making my chest tight. "This isn't real. People don't just get abducted by aliens. That's not a thing that happens to normal people. That's not a thing that happens to me."

"The assessment parameters require—"

"I don't give a damn about your parameters!" I snap, my voice getting shrill. "I need to go home. I need to get back to my fucking computers. What if Rosa thinks I just ghosted her? What if Juniper's business fails because I disappeared?"

I'm spiraling. I can feel it happening, that familiar panic when everything spins out of control. When people leave. When systems break down. When nothing makes sense anymore.

"Just... just send me back," I say, and I hate how small my voice sounds. "Please. I'll do whatever assessment you want, but do it on Earth. In my apartment. With my setup. I can't... I can't be here."

"This facility does not connect to your planetary communication networks," he says carefully.

"What do you mean you don't connect to— How am I supposed to—" I stop, staring at him. "You're serious. You actually abducted me. This is actually happening."

The sarcasm kicks in then, my brain's attempt to cope with completely losing its shit. "Great. Fantastic. So not only have I been kidnapped by glowing tech support, but you're telling me I can't even send a goddamn email to let my clients know I haven't vanished into thin air?"

His glow shifts to what might be embarrassment. "Communication protocols with your species are... limited."

"Limited." I let out a laugh that sounds slightly hysterical. "You've got the most sophisticated technology in the galaxy, but you can't figure out how to send a text message? That's like having a Ferrari that can't turn left."

I start pacing, the snark helping me feel slightly more in control.

"You know what? Fine. FINE. Since apparently I'm stuck here until you figure out how to work the return button, let's talk about your research methodology.

Because abducting people without their consent?

That's not research, that's kidnapping with extra steps. "

"The selection process—"

"The selection process is garbage," I interrupt, feeling the familiar anger that comes when systems don't work properly. "You want to study human technical expertise? Try sending a LinkedIn message first. Maybe a phone interview. Revolutionary concepts, I know."

I stop pacing and look at him directly. "So, Mr...?"

"Tev'ra. I am a systems specialist with the Nereidan Research Collective."

"Well, Tev'ra, systems specialist," I say, and there's an edge to my voice that probably isn't helping my case, "I hope your research budget includes compensation for the three small businesses that are about to fail because their tech guy just got abducted by fucking aliens."

His glow flickers, and I can see I've broken whatever script he was supposed to follow.

"You know what?" I continue, feeling something settle into place—a decision I didn't know I was making. "I'm done. You want an assessment? Here's your assessment: send me back."

"The assessment protocols require—"

"I don't care what your protocols require.

" I fold my arms and plant my feet. "Right now, Rosa thinks I abandoned her restaurant.

Juniper's flash sale is going to tank because her database is corrupted.

And there are probably three more people trying to call me about emergencies I can't answer because I'm stuck on your spaceship. "

Tev'ra's glow shifts, uncertainty flickering across his features. "The transportation cycle cannot be reversed for seventy-two hours—"

"Then figure out how to break that rule," I interrupt.

"Because here's what's going to happen: either you send me back to my apartment where I can do my actual job, or I'm going to sit in whatever room you put me in and do absolutely nothing for the next three days.

No cooperation, no assessment, no compatibility testing. Nothing."

"You cannot simply refuse to participate—"

"Watch me." I stare him down, and I can feel that familiar stubborn streak that got me through fifteen different foster homes. "You abducted me without permission, you're destroying people's livelihoods, and you expect me to play along with your research project? Not happening."

"The Council has never—"

"The Council has never what? Had someone say no?" I let out a bitter laugh, feeling my heart hammering against my ribs. "Well, congratulations. You just found the first one. So you can take your protocols and shove them out the nearest airlock."

I take a deliberate step forward, invading the alien's personal space. Up close, his blue skin seems to ripple with patterns of light that shift with his emotions – currently a rapid, anxious pulsing that gives me a perverse satisfaction.

"So here's your choice, Tev'ra," I continue, jabbing a finger toward his chest but stopping just short of actually touching him.

"Send me back to Earth where I can fix the problems you created by taking me, let me do my job, and then maybe—" I raise my eyebrows for emphasis, "—MAYBE—we can discuss your compatibility program. "

The overhead lights seem to dim slightly as if responding to the tension in the room. A soft mechanical hum I hadn't noticed before grows more pronounced in the silence between us.

"Or," I add, dropping my voice to a dangerous whisper, "you can explain to your Council why their assessment subject is spending seventy-two hours staring at the wall instead of participating in their research."

Sweat beads on my forehead despite the cool, clinically regulated air. My muscles are tense with a fight-or-flight response that has nowhere to go. I cross my arms over my chest, partly in defiance, partly to hide the slight tremor in my hands.

Tev'ra just stares at me, his golden eyes wide and unblinking. His bioluminescence flickers rapidly in patterns I'm pretty sure mean "complete system failure." His tall frame seems to diminish somehow, shoulders slumping slightly as his glow dims.

Good. Maybe now they'll realize that kidnapping people isn't a sustainable research methodology.

I maintain eye contact, refusing to back down even as my mind races with the horrifying reality of my situation.

The sleek white walls of this alien facility seem to close in around me.

I'm light-years from home, arguing with a being that isn't even human, while my clients' livelihoods hang in the balance.

My jaw clenches so tight it aches. The silence stretches between us, punctuated only by my too-rapid breathing and the subtle electronic hum of alien technology I can't even begin to comprehend.