Limitless Evolution As a Snake

Rook stopped Nessa’s truck leaving the depot overnight, then failed my first flight test the following afternoon before I’d left the ground. Her problem was the paper flag I’d tucked beneath my visibility clip after Cherry texted the wording from Twawi, telling anybody who found me to return me to hot women.

”The approved marker is underneath the useful information, but I can understand why you noticed the better instructions first,” I told her. She held out her hand until I surrendered the flag, then checked that the clip wasn’t catching against my fins.

The test yard occupied a rooftop between two traffic offices, with painted lanes, hanging hoops and a wind machine pointed at the course. Lukas waited behind the railing after promising not to cheer, although his silent thumbs-up already felt like a breach of the agreement.

Rook had forwarded Nessa’s original inventory slip to a property officer overnight. The truck was on hold while the false surrender form was challenged, but she warned me that a hold wasn’t the same as a final decision, especially when another office had to approve the release.

[System: Do the hoops first, mate, because the bird’s already saved your lunch van once, so maybe don’t thank her by flying into the fucking wind machine.]

I would have preferred a test based on looking impressive, but apparently the city has decided to measure the boring parts as well. I rose into the first lane and followed Rook’s instructions, keeping my fins folded enough to avoid clipping a pole that represented an innocent pedestrian.

The first circuit went well until the wind machine started. A hard gust shoved my tail into the next lane, making the visibility clip strike a bell while Lukas winced with enough eyes to provide a small audience on his own.

Rook told me to lower my profile, while Old Mate added, [System: Fold the fins, ya goose; you’re catching wind like a cheap brolly outside Centrelink.]

If I turn inside out, you can explain the anatomy to whichever poor bastard scrapes me off the fence. I narrowed my fins and tried again.

”If I pass this, I would like the bell removed from the official record, because it sounded far more pleased than the situation deserved,” I said. Rook reset the machine and told me she would settle for a landing that didn’t require anyone to duck.

The next gust moved me less, and the one after that barely shifted my path. I began enjoying the improvement until Lukas answered his phone, looked towards the depot beyond the neighbouring roofs and shouted that they were loading Nessa’s truck again.

Below us, a white transporter had stopped near the gate while workers guided vehicles towards its ramp. I turned so quickly that my tail crossed the lane marker, forcing Rook to remind me that completing the landing would take less time than removing me from a light pole.

[System: Land the bloody snake, champ, because she’s already on the radio, and you can’t help Nessa if your great escape ends with you wearing a rooftop.]

I refuse to fail a driving test because somebody stole my lunch van, especially when I haven’t even got a bloody steering wheel. I finished the landing with more force than grace while Rook repeated the collection number and the words disputed property into her radio.

A worker stopped beside the truck’s front wheel before it reached the ramp. The driver argued through his window, then climbed down to make a call that appeared to improve nobody’s afternoon.

Rook signed my temporary clearance for ordinary permitted lanes and returned Cherry’s flag with a warning about keeping the proper marker visible. I tucked the flag underneath it when she turned away, because romance shouldn’t have to lose every argument with transport rules.

I asked Rook for a permit photograph without Lukas in it, since I wanted the girls admiring their responsible boyfriend before somebody mentioned the stolen pen. She took the picture while sending the disputed forms through, somehow managing both jobs without calling either of them a public service.

By late afternoon, Nessa stood outside the depot beside a property officer while an unhappy employee fetched her keys. The original inventory slip had done its job, and the truck was being released while the wider complaint remained open.

The employee tried adding a cleaning charge until Nessa asked him to show the officer where she’d agreed to it. He removed the charge, returned her keys and watched her open the rear door on a refrigerator full of spoiled ingredients.

”I’ll cover replacement stock, and you can pay it back in lunches without pretending you’re doing me a favour,” I offered. Nessa insisted on menu price, then added the sauce surcharge with the cold precision of a woman who could beat organised crime using a laminated menu.

A slim man in a grey coat came through the office door while she checked the engine. I recognised Renn before he looked at me, and he spoke directly to Nessa about how thorough future inspections could become if people kept causing trouble.

[System: Get between him and the fryer lady, mate; make him threaten something with teeth for a change, and let spider boy keep his phone up.]

”I’ll be eating here often enough to enjoy those inspections with you, so make sure your staff bring copies we can all read,” I told him. Renn noticed Lukas recording, glanced towards the property officer and returned inside without finding another charge he wanted to explain in public.

Nessa started the engine, and I claimed the passenger window as my personal takeaway lane until she threatened to charge rent. Lukas began suggesting team names while Bridget’s car arrived, saving him from learning why Wankers Without Borders probably had a different sort of membership fee.

She showed me a photograph of a cooling cabinet beneath a rooftop catering counter, with the same blue triangle beside its vent. Renn was hiring out her stolen equipment for a charity lunch that charged hundreds of dollars to discuss helping struggling businesses.

Bridget opened the passenger door, revealing a white chef’s hat on the seat and a spare guest invitation beneath it. ”Tell me the kitchen entrance is still open, because I’ve suddenly developed a serious interest in charitable work,” I said as her phone displayed the event’s live camera and a collector reached for the cabinet’s serial plate.