Limitless Evolution As a Snake

Wait, hold on. Hold on, hold on, hold on. System doesn’t just hand out free stuff. Never has, not once.

Every single time I get a shiny new thing, something else gets yanked out from under me like a rug at a bad party.

So if I got hands now, actual hands, tiny useless jazz-funeral hands, that means something left the building to make room.

Old mate... what did you take?

I’m met with silence. Just that smug little loading shimmer in the corner of my vision, like he’s taking its sweet time on purpose.

System, old mate. What did you take?

[SYSTEM: oh hey mate didn’t see u there]

Cut the crap. Just tell me you didn’t touch the venom. Please. Please tell me you didn’t touch the blood venom; that’s literally the only thing keeping me from getting stomped into paste by every rat down here. I have zero defence without that; I am a drinking straw with a grudge. I need the venom... I-

[SYSTEM: yeah nah relax dumb cunt your gonna be able to wheeze into someone’s ear and mess up their whole day, just gotta say the word]

That’s not an answer; that is a deflection. I have watched enough crime shows to know a deflection when I hear one.

[SYSTEM: nah im not that terrible mate, though not gonna lie i did think about it for a sec, took pressure point instead]

I just sit there. Coiled up on the cold pipe in the warehouse corner, tucked behind a stack of crates labelled [PERISHABLE] in peeling red letters, my tiny hands do their useless little wave thing; it gives me time to let this shit sink in.

Pressure point? The one where I could clamp down on a nerve cluster and drop something twice my size for a few seconds. Barely ever used it, and barely remembered I had it half the time.

Oh thank god.

My whole body kind of unspools with relief, muscles going loose all along my belly.

Okay. Okay, that’s fine, that’s completely fine. I can live without pressure point; I didn’t even like pressure point, pressure point was mid at best...

[SYSTEM: knew you’d come around, do you like your little fish arms?]

I mean they’re small. Not cute small, not fun small, action figure small, like someone raided a shelf of anime merch, snapped the arms off one of those little figurines, and just went ahead and glued them onto me. That’s my whole situation right now. Two tiny little nubs that can’t hold anything, can’t do anything, just sort of drifting out from my sides doing this helpless little wave like they’re saying goodbye at an airport.

Could be worse, I guess; could be so much worse. At least my Two-for-one special cocks are still intact, small mercies and small wins.

[System: that’s the spirit!]

Yeah yeah, don’t get used to it, this is a one-time thing.

I try to slither forward, and immediately one of the stupid little arms catches on the edge of the crate, just snags right there, and I basically faceplant into the wood, which, for a snake, is a genuinely humiliating thing to happen. No neck to pull it free either, so I just gotta wiggle my whole body sideways till the arm pops loose, and the second it does the other one catches on a loose nail sticking out of a pallet.

Arrghh, I am not built for this. I am not built for having two little nubs coming off the sides of me, catching on every single thing in a ten-meter radius like some cursed little gremlin. Old mate, this is the worst combat skill in the history of combat skills.

[System: Settle, champ, you’ll be right, and it works great against handshakes.]

I’m not shaking anyone’s hand right now; I’m trying not to die.

I force myself to focus, tuck the stupid little limbs in as tight as I can against my body, which barely helps, and go back to actually moving like a snake instead of like a broken toy. Corner by corner, crate by crate, I slide along the edges of the warehouse, scales gone dark and grainy to match the wood, flattening myself into shadows whenever a henchman walks past with a crate on his shoulder or a phone to her ear.

The voice from the desk keeps talking, low and even, and every single henchman that gets called over goes stiff the second they hear it. I watch one bloke, big guy, tattoos up his neck, practically flinch when the voice says something I can’t quite make out. He doesn’t even argue back, just nods a bunch of times and backs away like he’s afraid to turn around.

Whoever this is, he’s not loud about it; he doesn’t need to be. Everyone here is scared of something small enough that I still can’t see it past the stacks of crates. That tells me plenty already.

I keep pushing closer, one tiny stubby arm snagging on a strap, the other one bumping a hanging chain that lets out a soft clink I immediately freeze at, tongue flicking double time, waiting to see if anyone noticed. Nobody does, thank god; good, I keep going.

The smell hits before anything else does. Dark roast, rich and heavy, with this soft edge of chocolate underneath it that makes my whole body want to just follow the scent like I’m on rails. Coffee. Real coffee, good coffee, not the burnt gas station stuff. It’s coming from somewhere just past the last row of crates, and my tongue is going absolutely feral trying to pull in every bit of it.

I slide around the final corner, flattening myself low against the base of a shelf, and that’s when I finally see him.

Lower body, thick coiled snake, scales dark and patterned in a way that looks almost deliberate, as someone painted them on. Upper body, a man, sitting relaxed behind the desk with a coffee cup steaming in front of him, the source of that whole rich smell filling the room. Small frame for how much presence he carries; doesn’t look like much at first glance, but every henchman standing near him is practically vibrating with nerves.