Page 7 of Technically Abducted (Nereidan Compatibility Program #4)

But as I carefully take another portion—a different composition of vegetables and what appears to be a starch base—I find my suppression protocols failing again. Another wave of bioluminescence betrays my physiological response.

"What do you usually eat?" Finn asks suddenly. "On your ship or whatever."

The question is unexpected. This is the first personal inquiry he has initiated. I find myself oddly... pleased by this shift from hostile indifference to curiosity, however slight.

"Nereidan nutritional needs are met through synthesized plant-based concentrates," I explain, maintaining formal tone despite this unauthorized emotional response.

"Primary source materials are cultivated from oceanic vegetation, processed for maximum nutritional efficiency and minimal resource utilization. "

"So... no taste? Just efficient nutrition?"

I consider this. "Taste is not a priority factor in Nereidan nutritional science. Physiological optimization is the primary objective."

Finn makes a sound—a short exhalation that might indicate amusement or derision. "That tracks. You guys really are all about the protocols and efficiency, huh?"

"Systematic approaches ensure consistent results," I reply, though the statement feels less certain than it would have before experiencing this meal. The words themselves are correct, taught from my earliest education, yet now they seem somehow... incomplete.

I carefully select another portion—small spherical objects Finn referred to as "dumplings." The outer layer yields to pressure, revealing a complex interior of minced vegetation. The flavor profile is entirely different from the previous item, triggering another involuntary bioluminescent response.

"You're lighting up like a nightclub sign every time you try something new," Finn observes. "But you're trying to hide it. Why? Is enjoying food against your protocols?"

I consider my response carefully. "Subjective experience is not considered valid observational data. The Council expects objective assessment."

"So you're not supposed to actually like anything you're studying? Just analyze it?"

"That is the foundation of proper research methodology."

Finn makes that sound again—the short exhalation. "That explains a lot." He transfers another portion of food to his plate. "This vegetable mix—Buddha's delight—it's kind of similar to what you described. All plants, no animal products."

I examine the indicated mixture. The vegetables are cut with precise geometry, their colors vibrant and varied in a way Nereidan preparations are not. I select a portion and find the flavor profile complex but less intensely stimulating than previous items.

"There is... similarity," I acknowledge. "Though our sea-shelf harvests have different texture properties. Zhik'ra fronds would be the closest equivalent to this elongated green vegetation."

The words emerge before I can properly consider them—a deviation from my determined protocol of minimal personal disclosure. I find myself almost... wanting to tell him more about my world, a most inappropriate impulse for objective research.

Finn's eyebrows rise slightly. "Zhik'ra fronds. Huh." He doesn't pursue the topic, simply returning to his meal and his monitoring screens.

We continue consuming the meal in silence.

I find myself gradually shifting my position on the seating platform, the rigid posture I initially maintained giving way to a slight accommodation to the surface's yielding properties.

Not enough to compromise proper bearing, but enough to. .. adapt to the environment.

My body seems to be making decisions without proper authorization from my conscious protocols. This should be concerning. Instead, I find it curiously liberating.

"Eight more hours," Finn says eventually, glancing at a time display. His tone suggests he finds this duration excessive.

I do not respond, uncertain what would constitute an appropriate reply. Instead, I continue my observation, noting how the human divides his attention between nutritional intake and technological monitoring with apparently equal focus on both.

The food has introduced an unexpected variable into my assessment.

Nereidan research values detachment, objectivity, and adherence to established protocols.

Yet I cannot deny that the non-optimized, seemingly haphazard human approach to something as basic as nutrition has produced results that exceed our carefully calculated formulations—at least in terms of sensory experience.

If human food preparation methodologies can achieve superior results through apparent inefficiency, what other areas of human innovation might yield similar unexpected benefits?

This is a disturbing line of inquiry, one that challenges fundamental Nereidan assumptions about optimal methodologies.

I carefully set aside these thoughts for later private analysis. They are not appropriate for inclusion in my official assessment report. The Council expects clear, objective data points, not philosophical uncertainties.

And yet... these thoughts persist, like the lingering flavors of the meal. There is something here worth understanding, something that transcends standardized assessment protocols. I wonder if the Council truly understands what they've sent me to study.

But as I observe Finn Sullivan's continued work—his adaptive problem-solving, his integration of seemingly unrelated systems, his ability to function in apparent chaos—I cannot help but wonder if the Council's expectations themselves represent a limitation in understanding what we have found on this planet.

"What's next on your observation checklist?" Finn asks, breaking into my thoughts. "Watch me fix more systems? Study how I organize my sock drawer? I've got client work to do, so whatever it is, make it quick."

I straighten my posture, reasserting my professional demeanor. "Continued observation of your natural work methodologies is sufficient. Please proceed with your normal activities."

Finn rolls his eyes—a human gesture I recognize as indicating exasperation—and returns to his systems. "Whatever you say, Blue."

The informal designation catches me off guard. It is not my name or title, yet it appears to be directed at me. Another human inefficiency—the assignment of arbitrary designations outside established identity parameters.

I should correct him, insist on proper address protocols. The proper response would be to remind him that my designation is Researcher Tev'ra of the Nereidan Research Collective.

Instead, I find myself silent. No correction offered.

Something about this simple designation—"Blue"—resonates in a way I cannot properly document or analyze.

It is imprecise, informal, completely outside protocol.

Yet it feels... genuine. Direct. Unencumbered by hierarchical structures or formal classifications.

A small, rebellious part of me notes that "Blue" is not entirely inaccurate as a descriptor. There is a certain logic to it, a directness that our formal designations lack. Perhaps there is value in such simplicity.

The Council would not approve.

And for the first time in my research career, I find myself wondering if that might not be the most important metric of evaluation after all.

As I watch Finn return to his work, his attention once again consumed by the problems of strangers he has never met yet clearly cares about solving, I realize the unexpected truth of this assessment mission:

I am not merely studying human innovation.

I am being changed by it.