Page 42 of Technically Abducted
"You're remarkably adaptable," I observe. "In all circumstances."
"Had to be," Finn says simply, then turns to look at me with an expression that's both serious and fond. "Thank you. For the lessons, for being patient, for... everything."
"Thank you for trusting me with something that frightens you."
"Yeah, well," Finn says, moving closer in the water until we're barely inches apart. "Turns out some things are worth being scared for."
The empathic connection flares gently between us as he leans in for a kiss, this one tasting of mineral-rich water and contentment. When we break apart, I realize that whatever the Council expects from this assessment, whatever reports they require about human compatibility and integration potential, the most important discoveries can't be quantified in their databases.
They can only be experienced.
"Come on," Finn says, swimming backward with newfound confidence. "Show me what else I can learn."
I watch him move through the water with growing amazement. The transformation from this morning—when he could barely enter the pool without panic—to now, where he's initiating movement and play, demonstrates adaptability that exceeds even my revised parameters for human resilience.
"Underwater breathing techniques," I suggest, moving closer to him.
"Underwater breathing?" Finn's eyebrows rise. "Isn't that an oxymoron?"
"Breath control," I clarify. "Learning to hold your breath efficiently, to move underwater for short distances. Essential for comprehensive aquatic competency."
"Right. Because I might need to swim underwater on an alien spaceship," Finn says with amusement, but there's genuine interest in his expression. "Okay, show me."
I demonstrate the proper breathing technique—deep inhalation, controlled exhalation, the way to maximize oxygen retention. Finn mimics my movements with focused attention, his scientific approach to learning evident even in this physical skill.
"Now," I say, "we'll try brief submersion. Just a few seconds initially."
"Together?" Finn asks, and there's something hopeful in the question.
"If you'd like."
We submerge simultaneously, and immediately the world becomes different. Underwater, the bioluminescence in my skin brightens dramatically, creating patterns of light that illuminate the space around us. Through the empathic connection, I can feel Finn's wonder at the display, his amazement at this new perspective.
When we surface, he's grinning widely.
"That was incredible," he says, water streaming from his hair. "You look like... like living art underwater."
"The mineral content enhances conductivity," I explain, though I'm pleased by his description.
"Can we do it again? For longer this time?"
His enthusiasm is infectious. We spend the next period practicing longer submersions, gentle underwater movement, the way bodies behave differently in aquatic environments. Finn proves to have natural breath control, possibly developed from years of stress management techniques.
"I think," he says during a rest period, floating comfortably with minimal support from me, "this might be the first time I've actually enjoyed learning something physical."
"You weren't encouraged toward physical activities during your development?"
"Foster care isn't really focused on extracurricular activities," Finn says without bitterness. "More about basic survival and staying out of trouble. Plus, I was always small for my age, not particularly athletic. Books and computers were safer."
The casual way he mentions these limitations, the matter-of-fact acceptance, makes me understand something about his character that our research missed entirely. Histechnical abilities weren't just natural aptitude—they were refuge, safety, the one area where he could excel and find security.
"You're not small now," I observe.
Finn glances at me with amusement. "Compared to you, I'm still pretty small."
"Size is relative," I say, moving closer to him in the water. "Strength comes in many forms."
"Is that Nereidan philosophy?"
