Page 38 of Technically Abducted (Nereidan Compatibility Program #4)
Tev'ra
The transport coordinates are locked to Finn's apartment—the same chaotic space where I spent twelve crucial hours learning that human innovation thrives in apparent disorder.
My bioluminescence pulses erratically beneath my skin, betraying the anxiety and hope warring inside me.
Three weeks of emptiness, of trying to function with half my empathic capacity severed, and now I might see him again.
Security Specialists Nor'em and Yth'al flank me in the transport chamber, their expressions professionally neutral as they prepare for potential resistance.
Neither has conducted a retrieval from Earth before.
Nor'em's skin displays the subtle patterns of a veteran who has conducted dozens of retrieval operations for our own people; Yth'al's slightly elevated respiration suggests less field experience, though his technical qualifications are impeccable.
"Remember," Nor'em says as the molecular stabilization field begins building, crystalline blue energy crackling around us, "humans may react unpredictably to sudden contact. Standard containment protocols apply if subjects attempt to flee or call for assistance."
I nod automatically, though every fiber of my being rebels against the idea of Finn needing to be "contained.
" My hands clench involuntarily at my sides.
But the security team doesn't know what I know—that Finn and his friend initiated this contact, that they've been fighting for exactly this outcome.
They don't understand that I'm returning to the other half of myself.
"The humans have already demonstrated knowledge of our operations," I remind them, my voice steadier than I feel. "They may be more cooperative than you might expect."
Nor'em exchanges a glance with Yth'al, their bioluminescence briefly flashing in a pattern I don't recognize - some silent communication between security personnel.
"Perhaps," Yth'al acknowledges, adjusting the standard retrieval equipment at his hip.
"But protocols exist for good reason. We proceed with caution. "
I wonder what they would think if they knew I would step between them and Finn without hesitation if necessary. That protocol means nothing compared to the void I've been carrying these past weeks.
The blue light reaches peak intensity, humming with the distinctive resonance of long-distance transport, and reality dissolves around us.
When the transport field fades, we're standing in Finn's living room—exactly as cluttered and functional as I remember.
The pizza boxes have been replaced, the cable configurations slightly altered, but the fundamental organized chaos remains unchanged.
Three different monitors display scrolling code; a half-empty coffee mug sits beside a circuit board; tangles of cables form pathways across the floor like technological vines.
The familiar sight sends an unexpected wave of relief through me.
He's still here, still maintaining the workspace that so perfectly represents his adaptive approach to problem-solving.
The air carries the scent of coffee and electronics, that distinctly human combination that instantly brings back memories of our first meeting.
But more importantly, he's here. Actually here, standing beside his desk with another human who must be Alex, both of them turning toward us with expressions of shock and hope and unmistakable vindication.
Finn's face is thinner than I remember, dark circles under his eyes suggesting he hasn't been sleeping well.
His friend looks similarly exhausted, but alert— the posture of someone who has been waiting for this moment with equal parts dread and anticipation.
I register Nor'em shifting into defensive stance beside me, but it's background noise compared to the sight of Finn's eyes widening as they meet mine.
"Holy shit," Finn breathes, his voice breaking slightly as his gaze remains fixed on me. "You came."
Beside him, Alex's hand grips the desk edge so tightly his knuckles have gone white. Nor'em makes a subtle gesture toward Yth'al, a silent command to be ready for sudden movement.
But I'm not thinking about protocols or security. I'm not thinking at all.
I forget about protocol. I forget about the security team watching us. I forget about everything except the human standing across the room from me, looking at me like I'm something miraculous, like I've returned from the dead.
I cross the space between us in three quick steps, cables and electronics crunching beneath my boots, cup his face in my hands, and kiss him.
The empathic connection explodes back to life the moment our lips meet—not gradually, not gently, but with the intensity of a dam breaking.
Three weeks of accumulated emotion floods through the bond: my desperation during his absence, his hollow ache at thinking our separation was permanent, the relief and joy and desperate love neither of us has been able to process properly.
It's like drowning and being revived simultaneously, every nerve ending suddenly alight with sensation after weeks of numbness.
I feel everything—his initial shock giving way to desperate joy, the way his heart rate spikes, the disbelief still lingering at the edges of his consciousness. And beneath it all, the steady current of connection that was never fully severed, only muted by distance.
Behind us, I vaguely register Nor'em making a startled sound, his bioluminescence flaring with alarm at this clear breach of retrieval protocol. But I can't bring myself to care.
Finn makes a sound against my mouth that might be surprise or relief or something deeper than both—a half-sob that reverberates through our connection.
His hands come up to grip my shirt, fingers digging into the fabric with enough force to tear it, pulling me closer as if he's afraid I might disappear again.
I can taste the salt of tears, though I'm not certain if they're his or mine.
When we finally separate, both of us are breathing hard, and I can see tears tracking down his cheeks, catching the blue light from my skin.
His pupils are dilated, making his eyes appear almost black in the dim apartment lighting.
Behind him, one of the monitors has gone into sleep mode, casting half his face in shadow.
"Of course I came," I tell him, my bioluminescence flaring bright enough to cast blue patterns across his apartment walls, illuminating the space like underwater sunlight. "I should never have let you leave."
My voice breaks on the last word, the full weight of my mistake finally hitting me now that I can feel Finn's pain directly through our bond—the weeks of emptiness, the resignation, the despair I unintentionally caused.
Behind me, I can sense Nor'em and Yth'al taking defensive positions, assessing the space for potential threats or escape routes.
Yth'al's hand hovers near his restraint device, clearly uncertain about the protocol for an emotional reunion rather than a hostile extraction.
But Finn isn't looking at them. He's looking at me like he can't believe I'm real.
"The Council received your message," I continue, stepping back slightly but keeping one hand on his shoulder, unwilling to break physical contact entirely. "All of it. The security breach, the demands for answers, the mention of unauthorized contact with a minor..."
I feel Finn's pride through our connection—satisfaction at having successfully broken through systems designed to be impenetrable, at forcing a response when conventional channels failed him. There's a touch of defiance there too, a willingness to risk everything for answers.
"Alex," Finn says, glancing at his friend with obvious affection. "That was Alex."
I turn to study the human standing slightly behind Finn—average height, sharp features, an expression that mixes hope with ten years of accumulated uncertainty.
Looking at him now, I can see the cost of that uncertainty in the tightness around his eyes, the way he holds himself like someone who has spent years questioning his own reality.
Alex shifts uncomfortably under the sudden attention, his stance changing from wariness to something more challenging.
His eyes dart between me and the security team, assessing, calculating.
I recognize the look—it's how Finn analyzes systems, looking for vulnerabilities and solutions simultaneously.
"Alex," I acknowledge, inclining my head slightly. "Your message to the Council mentioned an unauthorized contact incident."
"Ten years ago," Alex confirms, his voice carefully controlled. "We included it to get your attention. Seems like it worked."
His eyes hold mine with an intensity that I can't fully interpret. Behind him, a screen displays what appears to be fragments of the code they used to infiltrate our communication systems—impressively sophisticated for human technology.
Nor'em takes a half-step forward, clearly uncomfortable with this direct confrontation, but I raise a hand to stop him. Alex deserves answers, not intimidation.
"Finn's message did," I clarify, keeping my tone gentle but factual. "The Council is... concerned about unauthorized contact with minors. There will need to be an investigation."
Alex's expression tightens, a flash of disappointment quickly masked. "So you don't know who took me?"
The question carries the weight of a decade spent wondering, of nightmares and doubts and the struggle to reconcile memory with what seemed possible. I can hear the disappointment in his voice, the fragile hope beginning to crack.
"I'm here for Finn," I admit, wishing I had better answers.
"The investigation into your case will be handled by others.
But Alex," I step closer, letting my bioluminescence dim to a more soothing pattern, "the Council takes unauthorized contact very seriously.
They'll want to find out what happened."