Page 26 of Technically Abducted
The concept of rebellion during development cycles is so foreign that I require several seconds to process the question properly. "Deviation from development protocols would compromise optimal growth potential."
"But you were a kid," Finn insists, tasting the soup with obvious interest. "Kids act out. It's what they do. Push boundaries, test limits, figure out who they are instead of who they're supposed to be."
"Nereidan development doesn't involve such... experimentation," I say carefully. "Identity formation follows established patterns designed to optimize individual potential within societal needs."
Finn sets down his spoon, studying me with an expression I can't easily categorize. "So you never got to just be a kid. You had to be a future adult from the beginning."
The observation creates an unexpected discomfort. I'd never framed my development experience in terms of loss,only in terms of efficiency and proper preparation. Yet Finn's interpretation suggests an alternative approach I hadn't considered.
"The system produces highly functional individuals," I say, which is true but suddenly feels insufficient.
"I'm sure it does," Finn says quietly. "But what about happy individuals?"
The question hangs between us, highlighting a concept our assessment parameters failed to address adequately. Happiness. Personal satisfaction beyond duty fulfillment. The possibility that optimal function might not represent complete success.
"This soup is really good, by the way," Finn adds, clearly recognizing my discomfort and offering a subject change. "Complex flavors, good texture. And this grilled cheese..." He takes another bite, cheese stretching perfectly. "I can't believe you figured out how to make it taste like home."
"The molecular structure analysis was quite detailed," I say, though that fails to capture the time I spent researching Chicago comfort food culture, noting every detail that might provide Finn with emotional satisfaction alongside nutritional requirements. "Comfort food?"
"Smart. Food that makes you feel better instead of just keeping you alive." Finn tears another piece of grilled cheese, dipping it into the soup. "We do the same thing on Earth, actually. Chicken soup when you're sick, mac and cheese when you're sad, ice cream when relationships end badly."
"Ice cream," I repeat, unfamiliar with the reference.
"Frozen dairy preparation, usually sweet. Very cold, very rich. Somehow perfect for emotional distress." Finn's expression grows thoughtful. "Food is weird like that. It's not just fuel, it's memory, comfort, connection."
"Connection," I echo, considering the concept.
"Yeah. Cooking for someone, sharing a meal, introducing them to food from your culture, it's how we show care. How we say 'I want to take care of you' without actually saying it."
The implication of his words settles slowly. By preparing this meal, by attempting to synthesize grilled cheese according to his cultural preferences, I've inadvertently engaged in human care-demonstration behavior. The realization should disturb me—such personal investment lies outside assessment protocols.
Instead, I find the concept... satisfying.
"Is that what you're doing?" I ask carefully. "When you explain your work, concern yourself with your clients' welfare—demonstrating care?"
"Partly, yeah." Finn considers this, breaking off another piece of grilled cheese. "I mean, they pay me, so it's professional. But also... most of my clients are people who got screwed over by systems that don't care about them. Small business owners, freelancers, people who can't afford big tech support contracts. They need someone in their corner."
"You position yourself as protection against systemic indifference."
"I guess you could put it that way." Finn smiles slightly. "I just think people deserve systems that work for them instead of against them."
The parallel between his protective instincts and my own developing concern for his welfare creates another moment of unexpected recognition. We're both, in our different ways, attempting to shield others from harmful systemic failures.
"Your soup's getting cold," I observe, noting his distraction.
"Right, sorry." Finn returns his attention to the meal, and we eat in comfortable silence for several minutes. I find myself studying his responses to the flavors—the way hisexpression relaxes with each spoonful, the evident satisfaction he derives from the grilled cheese's texture.
"You know," Finn says eventually, "this is probably the best meal I've had in months."
"The synthesis parameters can be adjusted if you require different nutritional—"
"No, it's not about the food," Finn interrupts. "Well, the food is great. But it's about sitting down with someone, having an actual conversation, not eating over a keyboard or while fixing someone's server." He pauses. "When was the last time you did this? Just sat and had a meal with someone?"
The question requires consideration. I am so often alone. It is how I have designed my life.
"I can't recall," I admit.
"Really? Never?"
