Page 11 of Technically Abducted
"This is part of your innovation methodology? Consuming nutrition while problem-solving?"
I laugh. "Yeah, sure. Let's call it that. Human Multitasking 101."
Chapter Four
Tev'ra
Human dwelling units are remarkably inefficient.
I maintain my position near the entryway, careful not to disturb the precarious arrangement of technological components and discarded food containers that the human appears to consider an acceptable living environment. The neural implant at the base of my skull records everything—environmental conditions, spatial organization, the persistent low-level electromagnetic emissions from the human's equipment.
Finn Sullivan has been engaged with his monitoring systems since our arrival, speaking intermittently with various clients whose technological requirements have failed. His efficiency in resolving these issues is... noteworthy, though his methodology lacks proper documentation or systematic approach.
What is most peculiar is not the chaos itself, but how comfortably he navigates it. Like watching someone swim through currents that should, by all logic, drown them.
I am uncertain how to classify this in my assessment. The Council will require structured data points, not observations about chaotic problem-solving that somehow achieves results despite violating every established protocol. Nor would they appreciate my unbidden thought that there might be something almost... admirable in such adaptability.
"I'm ordering food, thankfully my favorite place is open twenty-four hours," Finn announces abruptly, lifting a communication device. "You'll need to eat too, I assume."
"My nutritional supplements are sufficient for the duration of this observation period," I respond automatically.
Finn raises a single eyebrow. "Right. But you're studying human innovation, aren't you? Food acquisition and consumption is part of that."
A valid observation. The parameters of my assessment do include cultural methodologies and resource allocation. I incline my head in acknowledgment.
"Very well. I will observe this process."
"Great," he says, his tone suggesting the opposite of great. He activates his communication device and speaks into it with remarkable speed. "Ming's Palace? Yeah, I need a delivery. Sullivan, apartment 303." He pauses. "The usual, plus vegetable dumplings and Buddha's delight. Yeah, for two. Forty minutes? Fine."
He terminates the communication. The entire exchange took mere seconds. No formal identification verification. No nutritional specifications. No detailed quality parameters.
Something about this casualness triggers an unexpected feeling—not quite discomfort, but a strange sort of... envy? The freedom to simply state a need and expect fulfillment without proper documentation seems both terribly inefficient and oddly appealing.
"That's it?" I find myself asking.
"What do you mean 'that's it'?"
"You provided minimal identifying information and no detailed specifications for the nutritional content."
Finn stares at me. "I order from them twice a week. They know me. They know what 'the usual' means."
"You have established a recurring nutritional acquisition pattern based on... verbal shorthand and social familiarity?"
"Yeah. It's called being a regular customer." He turns back to his screens. "Food will be here in about forty minutes. Feel free to keep standing there like a statue if that's what you want."
I remain in position, uncertain how to proceed. My standard observation protocols involve minimal interference with subject activities. However, maintaining my current position for the remainder of the observation period seems... impractical.
"Is there a designated observation area that would be less disruptive to your activities?" I inquire.
Finn gestures vaguely toward what appears to be a seating arrangement partially obscured by stacked containers. "Couch is over there. Just move the boxes if you want to sit."
The "couch" appears to be a multi-person seating platform covered in a fabric of questionable cleanliness. Three stacked containers labeled "Dell OptiPlex" occupy one end. I approach cautiously, scanning the surface for contaminants. The readings are within acceptable parameters, though significantly higher than Nereidan standards would permit.
I carefully relocate the containers to the floor, maintaining their existing organizational structure. Then I position myself at the edge of the seating platform, maintaining proper posture despite the soft, unstable surface that seems designed to encourage poor spinal alignment.
My training insists I should find this environment distasteful. Suboptimal. Yet as I settle onto the strange surface, there's an unexpected sensation of... comfort? The yielding material accommodates my form in a way the precision-engineered seating units aboard my vessel never would. It's inefficient, imprecise, and strangely satisfying.
This thought should be immediately categorized as irrelevant to my assessment. I'm disturbed to find I don't immediately do so.
