Limitless Evolution As a Snake

By breakfast, somebody was selling plush versions of me outside the food row while a private security firm offered money for the real thing. The toys had eyelashes and a goose squeaker, which made it difficult to decide which business deserved my attention first.

Lukas squeezed one until it honked, then suggested this version might get through a date without being reported to emergency services. Bridget bought it before I could defend my romantic record, and Nessa laughed hard enough to set down the spatula while my great heroic image suffered beside the fryer.

[System: You’ve got merchandise and a capture price, mate; that’s either a successful celebrity launch or a fucking police appeal with better marketing.]

Buy the entire stock, replace the squeakers with insults and double the price, because if I’m becoming a public menace I want royalties. Nessa passed breakfast through the hatch with extra sauce and a loyalty card carrying one stamp, which she defended by pointing out that I’d ordered only once.

”I recovered the vehicle twice, so I feel like your reward system could recognise work done outside the usual menu,” I told her. She offered a second stamp if I bought another wrap, proving that surviving theft hadn’t made her careless about profit.

The trading row was open under a temporary hold on the disputed notices, and the neighbouring vendor had returned sore enough to complain about every chair. The three Electroids remained a separate robbery case, with no evidence that Renn had hired them before choosing to profit from their mess.

Orin called while we ate to say his van had been located at another storage yard using the register. He still needed to collect it, his wrist remained strapped, and his daughter had threatened to drive him herself if he tried working before the appointment.

Rook confirmed that Renn remained in custody while the investigation continued. She also requested formal statements and an explanation of the warehouse door, so I sent a photograph of the chain and received a photograph of my plush in return.

[System: She’s got your measure now, champ, so maybe next time we charge the crook for the door before you pull it out of the wall.]

Next time I would like the door to open without introducing me to a separate department. I don’t think the city supports that service unless somebody can charge for the privilege. Lukas showed us his new post before sharing it, using Nessa’s opening hours and food photographs instead of frightened customers or claims that we’d fixed the whole district.

I insisted he include the cake and demanded credit for the artistic direction, then found Nessa’s truck visible behind the photo and made him crop it. I could enjoy strangers arguing about my teeth without handing them another business to bother, which was an annoying new limit.

Bridget kept checking the capture notice between bites, saving the details before anything could change. It wasn’t a police warrant, and Rook hadn’t mentioned any charge against me, but the company had used Renn’s edited picture to describe an unregistered beast threatening honest businesses across the surface.

”I’ve got a flight permit and a very recent history of returning things to honest businesses, so they’ve missed most of the useful details,” I said. Bridget replied that accuracy made poor advertising when the people paying wanted something simple enough to fear.

Bridget sent the notice to her solicitor and kept a copy of the original posting in case its wording changed. She knew the sponsor’s logo, but she wanted to check the connection before giving me a family name to blame.

[System: Keep the picture somewhere safe, mate, because if they’re selling tickets to catch you, we should at least find out whether dinner’s included.]

I want to know who’s paying before you start choosing a menu, because the answer might give us a much better reason to attend.

We moved to a quieter cafe nearby while Lukas finished breakfast with his ribs still complaining, and Bridget used her own phone to call the casino in Twawi. Cherry answered from the office as Bridget squeezed the plush in front of her camera, then announced that somebody had finally found a volume control for me.

Lyra joined Cherry on the screen before a staffing meeting, asked about my injuries and thanked Bridget for getting me to the clinic. Bridget asked how the casino was doing, and Cherry described a customer’s complaint about losing money at a gambling table as though the building had broken its promise.

I settled beside Bridget while they traded warnings about me, mildly concerned my love life had developed a complaints department without consulting its most loyal customer. Lyra and Cherry ended the call when their staff needed them, leaving Bridget beside me with pastries, the squeaking plush and far too much fresh material.

[System: That zoo transfer’s nearly ready, mate; are we still charging the kiddies for watching Australia’s laziest sausage?] I pictured Nessa staring at her empty bay. I disliked finding myself on the tablet bastard’s side of that memory, especially when my defence involved charging children to watch me nap beside a rock.

Cancel the held transfer and leave their money where it belongs, because I want to visit that buffet again without finding the lights turned off. The confirmation arrived without adding anything to my balance, followed by a noise from Old Mate that suggested he was preparing to be unbearable.

[System: You’ve discovered decency through buffet access, mate; I’ll nominate you for a community award once we find a photo that doesn’t look like a sexual harassment complaint.]

Bridget set her proposed location-fee paperwork aside because we still hadn’t agreed an amount. Her phone sounded before she could explain it, bringing an invitation from the same security company that had posted the capture notice, with her cousin’s business named as the main sponsor.

The event called itself a community safety gala and promised a live demonstration before dessert. My photograph filled the invitation, while Bridget’s name appeared beside a reserved guest place and an option to bring a companion.

She asked whether I’d be her date, and I told her, ”I’m wearing the chef’s hat, because somebody needs to improve their taste in entertainment.” Before she sent an answer, a second message confirmed our attendance and attached a photograph of my prepared display cage. I was still reading when its live feed opened, showing a keeper setting my favourite heated zoo rock inside it.