Page 45 of Roping Her Alien Ranchers

“And you returned so quickly,” I added, my mind already calculating the impossible velocities required to cross the distance to a reasonable planet suitable to Tammy’s anatomy. “The nearest habitable exoplanet you could visit without specialized equipment would be⁠—"

Tammy’s laughter erupted suddenly, cutting off my calculations. It was that same musical sound from earlier, but fuller now, genuine amusement bubbling up from deep within her. Her entire body participated in the expression—shoulders shaking, eyes crinkling at the corners, respiratory rate increasing by more than a third.

“Oh my God, you guys,” she gasped between bursts of laughter. “Wally World isn’t an actual planet. It’s just what people call Walmart—a big store where you can buy pretty much anything. It’s like... twenty minutes away by car.”

Heat flooded my facial region—another strange sensation of this human form. Back home, embarrassment manifested as a ripple of pale yellow across my mantle, visible but quickly dissipated in the currents. Here, the sensation seemed to linger, trapped beneath the skin with nowhere to disperse.

“Of course,” Cyro recovered first, his innate and often undeserved dignity reasserting itself. “A humorous colloquialism. I was merely testing your reaction.”

“Sure, you were,” Tammy smirked, beginning to remove items from the containers. “Now come see what I got you.”

I approached eagerly, my curiosity overriding my lingering embarrassment. The items she spread across the flat surface were fascinatingly diverse textiles in various configurations, and each were apparently designed for specific body regions.

“These are jeans,” she explained, holding up stiff blue fabric constructs. “And plaid shirts—very Kansas farmer chic. Plus socks, boots, and hats. The basic farm boy uniform.”

“But our forms already include the appearance of clothing,” Vantor noted, gesturing to his perfectly simulated attire. “I quite like this,” he pulled the length of cloth from around his body again, fanning it outward and showing it off.

“So, that’s a cape. And real people only wear things like that on Halloween.” She smirked, shaking her head, swallowing down a laugh.

“I find it appealing,” Vantor mumbled, his voice taking on a surprisingly human quality. Something like… irritation.

“Yeah, but I know you’re actually naked under there,” Tammy replied, her facial skin tinting slightly. “And that’s just... weird. Plus, what if someone touched you and felt that it wasn’t actual fabric? Better to be safe than sorry.”

I reached out, running my fingers over the “jeans” material. The texture was intriguing—coarse yet somehow pleasing, with a complex weave pattern that spoke to sophisticated manufacturing processes. I could spend days analyzing just this single textile variant.

Tammy arranged the items in neat piles, then stepped back, surveying her work. Suddenly, her expression brightened, lips curving upward and eyes sparking with new energy.

“You know what we need?” she said excitedly. “80s makeover music!”

She practically skipped to another corner of the room, retrieving a small rectangular device. Her fingers danced across its surface, and without warning, sound erupted from various points around the room.

The effect was immediate and overwhelming. Waves of organized vibration assaulted my sensory receptors—not unpleasant, but utterly unlike anything on my home world. We had something akin to it, though our “makeover music” relied on pressure wave modulation through water, subtle and felt rather than heard. It was most often gentle, carried on waves. This was... magnificent chaos.

My body responded before my mind could analyze the reaction. The molecular structure I’d so carefully arranged into human form began to move, not according to my conscious commands but to the rhythmic patterns filling the air. My limbs extended and contracted, joints bending in ways human anatomy wouldn’t permit. I felt myself stretching taller, then compressing shorter, my manufactured body flowing like liquid as it sought to express what these sound waves made me feel.

“I like it!” I called out, my voice barely audible over the magnificent din. One arm, overcome with the joy of movement, reverted partially to its natural state—splitting into two tentacles that waved enthusiastically in perfect time with the pulsing beat.

Tammy’s eyes widened, but instead of fear, her expression bloomed into delight. She reached for a control mechanism and increased the sound’s intensity. The vibrations penetrated deeper, resonating with my true form beneath the human disguise.

“Are we under attack?” Vantor shouted, his hands clamped firmly over his auditory receptors.

“I believe it is meant to be enjoyable!” Cyro called back, visibly wrestling with his discomfort.

“Come on,” Tammy said, eyes widening, “You must have music back home. You listen to it. Dance to it. Hold a boombox blasting music over your head while you try to win back the girl.”

“It is tantamount to warfare,” Vantor groaned, shutting his hazel eyes.

“Barbaric. Definitely not meant for mating!” Cyro added, his body coloring going haywire.

“This painful din must cease,” he demanded, his human face contorted into what the television programs had taught me was a grimace. Even in this borrowed form, his military bearing remained unchanged, shoulders squared with precision, stance wide and defensive.

Tammy’s expression fell, joy draining from her features like water seeping through sand. She reached for the control mechanism, reducing the glorious sound to a whisper of its former magnificence. My tentacles drooped in disappointment, molecules reluctantly reshaping themselves back into the approximation of a human arm.

“This is only one of the best songs ever,” she sighed, her finger hovering over the control as if reluctant to silence it completely. The diminished vibrations still pulsed through the room, but muted now, a ghost of their former power.

“It is infernal noise,” Vantor grumbled, lowering his hands from his auditory receptors with visible relief. “And makes it impossible to hear approaching threats.”

Tammy rolled her eyes, a gesture I’d observed thirty-one times since our arrival. According to the television programs, it indicated exasperation or disbelief. “We’re in the middle of nowhere Kansas, Vantor.”