Page 6 of Technically Abducted (Nereidan Compatibility Program #4)

Tev'ra

Human dwelling units are remarkably inefficient.

I maintain my position near the entryway, careful not to disturb the precarious arrangement of technological components and discarded food containers that the human appears to consider an acceptable living environment.

The neural implant at the base of my skull records everything—environmental conditions, spatial organization, the persistent low-level electromagnetic emissions from the human's equipment.

Finn Sullivan has been engaged with his monitoring systems since our arrival, speaking intermittently with various clients whose technological requirements have failed.

His efficiency in resolving these issues is.

.. noteworthy, though his methodology lacks proper documentation or systematic approach.

What is most peculiar is not the chaos itself, but how comfortably he navigates it. Like watching someone swim through currents that should, by all logic, drown them.

I am uncertain how to classify this in my assessment.

The Council will require structured data points, not observations about chaotic problem-solving that somehow achieves results despite violating every established protocol.

Nor would they appreciate my unbidden thought that there might be something almost.. . admirable in such adaptability.

"I'm ordering food, thankfully my favorite place is open twenty-four hours," Finn announces abruptly, lifting a communication device. "You'll need to eat too, I assume."

"My nutritional supplements are sufficient for the duration of this observation period," I respond automatically.

Finn raises a single eyebrow. "Right. But you're studying human innovation, aren't you? Food acquisition and consumption is part of that."

A valid observation. The parameters of my assessment do include cultural methodologies and resource allocation. I incline my head in acknowledgment.

"Very well. I will observe this process."

"Great," he says, his tone suggesting the opposite of great.

He activates his communication device and speaks into it with remarkable speed.

"Ming's Palace? Yeah, I need a delivery.

Sullivan, apartment 303." He pauses. "The usual, plus vegetable dumplings and Buddha's delight. Yeah, for two. Forty minutes? Fine."

He terminates the communication. The entire exchange took mere seconds. No formal identification verification. No nutritional specifications. No detailed quality parameters.

Something about this casualness triggers an unexpected feeling—not quite discomfort, but a strange sort of... envy? The freedom to simply state a need and expect fulfillment without proper documentation seems both terribly inefficient and oddly appealing.

"That's it?" I find myself asking.

"What do you mean 'that's it'?"

"You provided minimal identifying information and no detailed specifications for the nutritional content."

Finn stares at me. "I order from them twice a week. They know me. They know what 'the usual' means."

"You have established a recurring nutritional acquisition pattern based on... verbal shorthand and social familiarity?"

"Yeah. It's called being a regular customer." He turns back to his screens. "Food will be here in about forty minutes. Feel free to keep standing there like a statue if that's what you want."

I remain in position, uncertain how to proceed. My standard observation protocols involve minimal interference with subject activities. However, maintaining my current position for the remainder of the observation period seems... impractical.

"Is there a designated observation area that would be less disruptive to your activities?" I inquire.

Finn gestures vaguely toward what appears to be a seating arrangement partially obscured by stacked containers. "Couch is over there. Just move the boxes if you want to sit."

The "couch" appears to be a multi-person seating platform covered in a fabric of questionable cleanliness.

Three stacked containers labeled "Dell OptiPlex" occupy one end.

I approach cautiously, scanning the surface for contaminants.

The readings are within acceptable parameters, though significantly higher than Nereidan standards would permit.

I carefully relocate the containers to the floor, maintaining their existing organizational structure. Then I position myself at the edge of the seating platform, maintaining proper posture despite the soft, unstable surface that seems designed to encourage poor spinal alignment.

My training insists I should find this environment distasteful.

Suboptimal. Yet as I settle onto the strange surface, there's an unexpected sensation of.

.. comfort? The yielding material accommodates my form in a way the precision-engineered seating units aboard my vessel never would.

It's inefficient, imprecise, and strangely satisfying.

This thought should be immediately categorized as irrelevant to my assessment. I'm disturbed to find I don't immediately do so.

Finn continues his work, manipulating multiple interfaces simultaneously while occasionally muttering commentary to himself.

His methods lack any discernible structure, yet he navigates between problems with remarkable adaptability.

When faced with an unexpected error message, he doesn't consult standardized protocols—he simply tries alternative approaches until one functions.

It's disturbingly effective.

My training emphasized systematic progression through established problem-solving hierarchies.

Every research project begins with comprehensive literature review, methodological design, peer evaluation, and Council approval before implementation.

The idea of simply... attempting solutions until one works is fundamentally alien to Nereidan methodology.

Yet I cannot deny the results. In the time it would take a Nereidan research team to design an approach to these technological failures, Finn Sullivan has resolved five separate system malfunctions using methods that appear to be improvised on the spot.

I catch myself leaning forward slightly, an unauthorized adjustment in posture that reflects an unprofessional level of interest. There is something almost..

. captivating about watching a mind work in such a fundamentally different pattern than my own.

Like observing a creature that breathes water when you've only known air.

The door alert sounds—a harsh buzzing that violates at least three Nereidan audio comfort regulations.

"Food's here," Finn says, rising from his workstation. "Stay out of sight."

He moves to the entrance, positioning his body to block the opening while conducting a brief exchange with another human. Currency is transferred, packages change hands, and the door seals again.

Finn returns with containers emitting complex aromatic compounds that trigger unexpected sensory responses in my olfactory receptors. The scent is... intriguing. Complex. Nothing like the carefully balanced nutritional solutions prepared in Nereidan synthesis chambers.

There is no scientific term precise enough to categorize the sudden anticipation I feel.

This is merely nutrition acquisition, yet my physiological systems are responding as though to something more significant.

I make a note to examine this reaction later, then immediately doubt whether such a note will find its way into my official report.

"Here," he says, placing the containers on a small surface in front of the seating platform. "Food. Eat if you want."

He removes coverings from the containers, revealing compositions of plant material in various states of preparation. Steam rises from the contents, carrying intensified aromatic compounds.

Finn retrieves two small glasses from his food preparation area and returns, handing me one. "Water," he explains unnecessarily. Then he sits at the opposite end of the seating platform and begins taking food for himself using long wooden implements.

I select a similar food item and attempt the same motion. The implements slip against each other, failing to secure the target material. A second attempt yields similar results. On the third attempt, I manage to capture a small portion, but it falls before reaching its destination.

"Chopsticks are tricky if you've never used them," Finn comments without looking at me. "Use your fingers if you need to. I'm not judging."

His statement is patently false. His entire demeanor suggests continual judgment of my presence and actions. Nevertheless, I set aside the implements and carefully lift a portion of the food with my fingers, bringing it to my mouth.

The sensory impact is... unprecedented.

Flavor compounds activate receptors I didn't realize existed. The texture transitions from firm to yielding in a manner completely unlike Nereidan nutritional preparations. Heat and something that must be the human concept of "spice" spread across my sensory surfaces.

I feel my bioluminescence respond before I can suppress it—a bright flare of surprised pleasure pulsing beneath my skin. My hand freezes halfway to my mouth, caught between protocol and this unexpected... joy? Is that the correct term for this sensation?

Finn glances at me, then immediately returns his attention to his food, but not before I catch the slight upward movement at the corner of his mouth.

I forcibly suppress my bioluminescent response, concentrating on maintaining proper observational detachment. This is merely a cultural investigation, not a personal experience. The Council expects objective analysis, not subjective appreciation.

And yet... the memory of that first taste lingers, refusing to be categorized and filed away. There is a story in this flavor that speaks of cultivation methods, cultural values, and history—all legitimate areas of research. At least, that's what I tell myself as I reach for another portion.