Page 61 of Technically Abducted
"Oh, dear one," Creator-parent Vel'tha says softly, their bioluminescence shifting to warmer patterns. "You deserve to be cared for. Never doubt that."
The conversation continues for several more minutes, my creator-parents sharing memories from our previous call, asking about Finn's time on the ship, making sure he knows how welcome he would always be in their home. I can feel Finn relaxing more with each exchange, the genuine warmth in their voices helping to ease some of his natural hesitation about emotional vulnerability.
"We were hoping," Creator-parent Vel'tha says eventually, glancing briefly at Mor'en before returning their attention to Finn, "that we might speak with you alone for a few minutes. If that would be acceptable to both of you."
The request catches me off guard. I glance at Finn, who looks equally surprised but nods slightly, then back at my creator-parents. There's something in their expressions that suggests this conversation is important, though I cannot fathom what they might wish to discuss without my presence.
"I... of course," I say, though uncertainty makes my bioluminescence flicker with anxiety. "I will give you privacy."
Finn catches my hand briefly as I stand to leave, squeezing gently in reassurance. "It's okay," he says softly, for my ears only. "I'll be right here."
I settle near the pool area where I can give them space while remaining close enough to provide support if needed. From here, I cannot hear the specific words being exchanged, but I can see Finn's posture, watch the subtle shifts in his expression as whatever my creator-parents are telling him sinks in.
The conversation lasts nearly thirty minutes, though it feels much longer. I find myself pacing, my bioluminescence flickering with anxiety despite my attempts to remain calm. What could they possibly need to discuss that requires such privacy? Are they warning him about something? Sharing information about the assessment I'm not privy to?
Occasionally I catch glimpses of Finn's expressions—surprise, gratitude, something that might be grief or joy or both. At one point, I see him wipe his eyes, and it takes all my self-control not to interrupt and demand to know what has distressed him.
When the communication finally ends, Finn sits quietly for several moments, his shoulders slightly hunched as if he's processing something weighty. I wait, giving him the space he seems to need, though every instinct screams at me to go to him.
Finally, he stands and joins me by the pool, his eyes red-rimmed and clearly indicating he has been crying. My immediate instinct is to gather him close and demand to know what upset him.
"Are you all right?" I ask, reaching for him the moment he's within range. "What did they say to upset you?"
"I'm okay," Finn assures me, settling into my embrace with a sigh that sounds like relief and exhaustion combined. "They didn't upset me. They were... incredibly kind."
"What did they tell you?" I ask, trying to keep the question gentle rather than demanding, though my bioluminescence betrays my anxiety.
Finn is quiet for a long moment, his face pressed against my shoulder as if drawing comfort from the contact. "They wanted to make sure I knew some things," he says finally. "Personal things. Family things. About how proud they are of you, about how much this experience has meant to you..." He trails off, then looks up at me with an expression I can't quite read. "Tev'ra, you're really lucky. To have parents like that, to grow up knowing you're loved unconditionally... you're incredibly lucky."
There's something in his voice that suggests the conversation covered far more than simple farewell pleasantries, but he clearly does not wish to share the details. Through ourempathic connection, I can sense that whatever was discussed has brought him both comfort and sadness—resolution, perhaps, but tinged with profound loss.
"They love you too," I tell him honestly, settling back onto the seating platform and pulling him with me. "In the short time they've known you, you've become important to them. That wasn't politeness, Finn. That was genuine affection."
"I know," Finn says softly, curling against my side. "That's part of what makes this so hard."
We hold each other as the artificial day cycle begins to shift toward evening, both of us acutely aware that our time is running out. Soon—too soon—I will receive the communication summoning us to the transport chamber. Soon I will have to watch Finn step onto that platform and disappear from my life forever.
The thought creates a hollow ache in my chest that no amount of protocol or professional duty can diminish. I have fallen in love with this human in the span of three days, and tomorrow I will have to pretend that connection never existed.
But for now, he is still here in my arms, still mine for these final precious hours. And I intend to hold onto every moment until the very last second I am forced to let him go.
Chapter Nineteen
Finn
The communication alert cuts through our quiet moment like a blade. I'm still curled against Tev'ra's side on the seating platform, both of us processing the conversation with his parents, when the formal voice shatters our peaceful bubble.
I know what it means before the words are even spoken—the seventy-two hours are up. Time to go home.
I feel Tev'ra go completely rigid beside me. Through our empathic connection, I can sense his dread mixing with my own, creating a feedback loop of approaching loss that makes me feel hollow.
"Assessment subject Finn Sullivan," the voice from the communication system is formal, clinical. "Report to transport chamber in thirty minutes for return transfer to Earth."
Thirty minutes. That's all we have left.
"Acknowledged," Tev'ra responds, his voice carefully neutral. "Assessment subject will be prepared for transport."
The silence that follows feels deafening. Neither of us moves for several long moments, both trying to process that it's actually over. That in half an hour, I'll be back in my Chicago apartment and this will all be nothing but memory.
