Page 75 of Technically Abducted
Finn
Six hours.
Six hours since Alex hit enter and our digital declaration of war began spreading across the world's networks. Six hours of watching news feeds, monitoring system logs, and trying not to think about all the ways this could go catastrophically wrong.
"Anything?" Alex asks from his position on my couch, laptop balanced on his knees as he tracks the replication progress.
"Nothing that looks like alien activity," I reply, scrolling through another news site. "Lots of chatter about mysterious system intrusions, some government agencies going into damage control mode, but no acknowledgment of the actual message content."
Which isn't surprising. Even if our code is spreading exactly as designed, most people who see the message will dismiss it as an elaborate hoax or viral marketing campaign. Only those with access to classified information about extraterrestrial contact would understand the significance of terms like "assessment subject" and "empathic bond."
The question is: are any of those people actually reading what we've sent them?
"Replication is still expanding," Alex reports. "We're in corporate networks now, government systems, research institutions. Even if they wanted to contain it, it's too late."
I lean back in my chair, staring at the few remaining gems on my desk. In the past six hours, I've second-guessed our decision approximately a thousand times. What if we're wrong about Tev'ra caring enough to respond? What if the empathic bond was just a side effect of alien physiology rather than something meaningful? What if all we've accomplishedis exposing ourselves to government agencies who are now very interested in how two random civilians know classified information about alien contact?
"You're spiraling," Alex observes without looking up from his screen.
"I'm processing possibilities."
"You're catastrophizing. There's a difference." Alex closes his laptop and turns to face me. "Talk to me. What's the worst-case scenario running through your head right now?"
I consider deflecting, but Alex has been my anchor through this entire process. If anyone deserves honesty, it's him.
"What if they don't come?" I say quietly. "What if this whole thing was pointless, and Tev'ra never even hears about our message? What if the Council decides we're a security threat and just... disappears us?"
"Or," Alex counters, "what if they do come, and you get to see him again?"
"That might be worse," I admit. "Because then I'll have to deal with the possibility that he doesn't want to see me. That sending me away was his choice, not just protocol."
Alex is quiet for a moment, studying my face. "Finn, you were a zombie. Going through the motions, existing but not really living. Do you think someone who didn't care about you could have affected you that deeply?"
He has a point, but fear isn't always logical. "Maybe I was just mourning the connection itself, not him specifically. The empathic bond thing was intense—maybe losing that would mess with anyone's head."
"Maybe," Alex agrees. "But I also saw the way you talked about him. The way your entire expression changed when you described floating in alien pools while he told you stories about his world. That wasn't just missing a psychic connection, Finn. That was missing someone you fell in love with."
The directness of his statement hits harder than I expected. I've been avoiding thinking about it in those terms, focusing on the loss of connection rather than examining what that connection actually meant.
"Yeah," I say finally. "I think I was. Am. In love with him."
"So we fight for that," Alex says simply. "We take the risk because the alternative—spending the rest of your life wondering 'what if'—is worse than whatever consequences we might face."
I look at my friend, noting the determination in his expression, the way he's committed himself to this plan not just for his own answers but for mine as well. "What about you? Are you ready for whatever comes next?"
Alex leans back against the couch cushions, his gaze distant. "You know what's funny? For ten years, I've built my entire identity around overcoming addiction. The story I told myself, that everyone else believed, was that I hit rock bottom and found the strength to get clean through sheer willpower."
"But that's not what happened."
"No. Maybe some of it was willpower, but the craving, the physical need... that just disappeared after the abduction. Like someone flipped a switch in my brain." Alex pauses. "I've always wondered if that made my sobriety less real somehow. Like I was taking credit for something I didn't actually accomplish."
"Alex—"
"I need to know," he continues. "I need to understand what really happened in that room, what that alien actually did for me. Because if my entire adult life is built on alien intervention rather than personal growth, I deserve to know that."
The weight of his decade-long uncertainty settles between us. Both of us carrying the burden of incomplete information, of experiences that changed our lives without explanation.
"Whatever happens," I tell him, "we face it together. No matter what we find out."
