Page 1 of Technically Abducted
Chapter One
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 stopmyself 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.
