13. Vantor #2
Instead of the alarm I expected from Tammy, a strange sound erupted from her respiratory passages—high-pitched, rhythmic, almost musical.
Her facial features contorted, eyes narrowing to gleaming slits, mouth stretched wide, shoulders shaking.
For a moment, my combat training assessed this as a potential distress response, but the biochemical cloud surrounding her told a different story.
Her scent bloomed with notes I hadn’t detected before—lighter, sweeter, lacking the sharp edges of fear.
“She’s experiencing pleasure,” Cyro whispered, his analytical mind reaching the conclusion just ahead of mine.
This was laughter—genuine, unrestrained. Something about Kalith’s ridiculous mimicry had pierced through her defenses. I filed this observation away: humor appeared to be a potential bonding mechanism with this species, perhaps even a strategic advantage in gaining her cooperation.
We continued watching various “programs” as the sun tracked across the sky outside the transparent wall panels.
Time measurement felt strange here—my internal rhythms disrupted by the dry air, the unfamiliar gravity, and the constant barrage of sensory input from the television.
I noticed subtle shifts in our group dynamic as hours passed.
Tammy’s posture relaxed incrementally. The rigid distance she’d maintained between herself and us had decreased by approximately eighteen percent.
Cyro's colors had settled into patterns I rarely saw outside our home environment—comfortable, analytical but not defensive.
Kalith occasionally attempted other mimicries, each one eliciting varied degrees of that musical laughter from Tammy.
I remained vigilant but found myself unexpectedly...
enjoying this strange educational process.
The tactical part of my mind justified this as necessary intelligence gathering. The rest of me wasn’t so certain.
“Alright,” Tammy eventually announced, manipulating another device that caused the television images to vanish. “TV time is over. You’ve got the basic idea of how humans move and interact. Now you need to decide what you’re going to look like.”
Her statement triggered an immediate tactical reassessment. Our current forms were conspicuous, unsuitable for covert operation on this planet. Adaptation was necessary for survival.
“You absolutely cannot look like me,” she continued, moving toward a storage unit built into the wall. “Not only because I’m a girl, and you guys said you’re male, but people would ask questions I can’t answer. Three redheaded women appearing out of nowhere would definitely raise eyebrows.”
The idiom confused me momentarily before I connected it to the physical expression I’d observed on screen—the raising of facial hair tufts to indicate surprise or suspicion.
“I’ve got some old magazines somewhere...” She rummaged through a container, eventually producing several bound collections of glossy paper. “These should give you some ideas.”
I accepted the offering she extended, my tentacles carefully manipulating the fragile Earth material.
The surface displayed images of humans in various attire and poses.
Tactical analysis suggested these were recording devices, perhaps meant to document human appearance variations for identification purposes.
Cyro and Kalith received similar collections, their tentacles spreading the pages with eager curiosity. As we examined these records, Tammy continued searching through the container. Her movements suddenly stilled, her biochemistry shifting to something sharper, more complex.
From my angle, I could see she’d uncovered a small rectangular object—another image capture, but this one featuring Tammy herself alongside a male human. Their postures suggested intimate connection, their faces displaying expressions the television had taught me to recognize as “happiness.”
Before I could process further, Cyro’s tentacle snaked out, snatching the image from Tammy’s grasp. His xenobiologist curiosity—always his primary weakness in perilous situations—overrode all basic tactical caution.
“Intriguing specimen,” he murmured, his surface already beginning to ripple and reform. I watched with mounting concern as his features began to morph, reshaping into a crude approximation of the male human from the image.
Tammy’s reaction was immediate and visceral. Her respiratory rate doubled, her scent spiked with acrid notes of distress, and her musculature tensed for confrontation. I recognized the fight response from countless combat situations.
“Absolutely not!” She lunged forward with surprising speed, snatching the image from Cyro’s grasp before his transformation could proceed further.
Her movement patterns indicated barely restrained aggression, her eyes narrowed to tactical targeting mode.
She took me off guard so fully that I hadn’t even moved one inch to protect my mission brother.
Was I losing my edge because of my intense gravitational pull toward this human woman?
Cyro recoiled, his partially formed features melting back into their natural state. “Why not?” he asked, genuine confusion rippling across his skin. “He seems suitable enough.”
“That’s my asshole ex,” Tammy spat, her voice dropping to a lower register that my threat assessment protocols immediately flagged as dangerous. “If I have to look at his face every day again, I’m going to puke.”
I filed this information carefully: the male human represented a source of significant psychological distress for Tammy.
Potential enemy combatant. Possible threat to our safety through his connection to her.
Most importantly, his appearance triggered a defensive response that could compromise our concealment objectives.
“Duly noted,” Cyro acknowledged, his colors flashing with chastened understanding.
“Just... pick a different person,” Tammy sighed, her biochemistry gradually stabilizing as she returned to her seat, carefully placing the image face-down on a surface well out of our reach.
Seconds later, she picked it back up again, ripped it in half, put the two pieces together, and ripped those in half too.
“I loved that trip,” she muttered. “So many memories ruined.”
Part of me wanted to say something, wanted to console her for some reason, but instead I returned my attention to the magazine, analyzing each human specimen with tactical precision.
My mission now had dual objectives: select an appearance that would facilitate our concealment on this planet, while avoiding any features that might trigger negative responses from our host.
Turning through the pages, I eventually discovered an ideal candidate.
The male displayed significant musculature, ideal height-to-width ratio for intimidation purposes, and wore what looked like a secondary protective layer with a flowing barrier of some sort attached at the shoulders—perhaps for concealing weapons or equipment.
Exactly the type of disguise I would need to protect us while we were stranded.
“He looks strong,” I observed, feeling my body already beginning to respond to my mental commands, tentacles shifting and reforming. “Threats will think twice before approaching.”
My shape began to flow, reorganizing itself molecule by molecule into this new configuration.
Limbs formed where tentacles had been, solid bone structures manifesting beneath newly forming skin.
The sensation was familiar yet always disorienting—like swimming through particularly dense currents while wearing sensory dampening equipment.
Throughout the transformation, I kept my attention fixed on Tammy, monitoring her biochemical responses for any sign of distress or rejection. Instead, I detected the exact opposite—a subtle sweetening of her scent, pupils dilating as she watched my emerging form.
Interesting. Very interesting indeed.