Page 8 of Technically Abducted
I glance at the clock. 4:47 AM. "What's broken?"
"My point-of-sale system won't connect to my card processor. I've got the breakfast rush starting in two hours and if I can't take cards..."
"Send me your system details. I'll take a look."
As I start working on the third crisis, I notice Tev'ra slowly moving around my apartment, careful not to disturb anything but clearly trying to understand how I function in this space. He pauses at my bookshelf—which is mostly technical manuals and old computer parts—then at my kitchen, which contains exactly one mug, one spoon, and a collection of takeout menus.
No family photos. No personal mementos. Nothing that suggests I have a life outside of fixing other people's problems.
Because I don't.
"Tev'ra," I say, fingers still flying over the keyboard, "you wanted to study human innovation? This is it. Not some sterile lab exercise, but real-world problem-solving under pressure with imperfect tools and impossible deadlines."
I fix the card processor issue—another simple timeout problem—and lean back in my chair.
"Three emergencies handled in thirty-seven minutes. That's human innovation: making it work with what you've got, when you've got to have it working now."
Tev'ra's glow has shifted to something that might be fascination. "And you do this... regularly?"
"Every day. Sometimes multiple times a day." I gesture at my setup. "This isn't just my job, it's my entire support system. When something breaks in other people's lives, they call me. When something breaks in my life..." I shrug. "I fix it myself."
"You have no... support network?"
The question hits closer to home than I'd like. For a moment, I stare at my reflection in the dark monitor to my left—shadows under my eyes, hair sticking up where I've beenrunning my hands through it, the permanent tension in my jaw that I never seem to notice until it gives me a headache.
"I have clients who need me. That's enough."
It has to be enough. It's all I've ever had.
The weight of unspoken history sits heavy in my chest. Years of learning that attachments were temporary, that the only consistent thing in my life was the next move, the next adjustment. Eventually, I found something that stayed—technology. Circuits don't abandon you. Code doesn't decide you're too much trouble.
But Tev'ra doesn't need to know any of that. It's not relevant to his research, and it's certainly not something I share with anyone, let alone an alien who just kidnapped me.
I clear my throat. "Look, my whole life is about solving problems for other people. They need me; I fix their stuff. It's clean, it's simple. Why complicate that with... people?"
Tev'ra studies me with an expression I can't quite read. Something in his golden eyes that might be curiosity, or maybe just alien incomprehension. I turn back to my screens, suddenly very interested in a perfectly normal system diagnostic.
Tev'ra moves slowly around my apartment, pausing at my bookshelf. "These are all technical manuals."
"Yeah."
"No recreational reading? Fiction? Personal interest materials?"
"Not really." I gesture toward my setup. "Don't exactly have a lot of free time for reading. When I'm not actively fixing something, I'm usually researching new systems or upgrading my skills. Technology moves fast."
He pulls a thick volume from the shelf, examining it with what might be genuine curiosity. "Advanced Network Security Protocols and Implementations, Fifth Edition," he reads aloud. "This appears to be heavily annotated."
I glance over. "Yeah, that's from when I was designing a custom security solution for a law firm downtown. They had some pretty specific requirements."
"You... improve upon existing systems rather than simply implementing them?"
"Of course. Half the time, out-of-the-box solutions don't actually solve the specific problem at hand. You have to adapt them, customize them." I shrug. "That's the whole point."
Tev'ra carefully replaces the book and continues his inspection.
He moves to my kitchen area. "One mug. One spoon."
"I don't cook."
