Page 12 of Technically Abducted
Finn continues his work, manipulating multiple interfaces simultaneously while occasionally muttering commentary to himself. His methods lack any discerniblestructure, 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. Nothinglike 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.
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.
