Limitless Evolution As a Snake

Shut up.

[Old Mate: No, genuinely, I need clarification for my records: are we heroes, or are we the guys who shake down soup kitchen grandmas? Because those are extremely different career paths, and I already updated your bio once this week]

I ignore him, mostly because I don’t have an answer that doesn’t make me feel like garbage.

"To ensure the job is done correctly," my father continues, "Beef and Brawn will accompany you." Two shapes peel off the wall behind him. Beef is the size of a vending machine. Brawn is the size of two stacked together and given a resentment.

They don’t move to help, and they don’t speak. They just look at me with the calm, patient expression of men sent to watch someone fail. My father’s next words confirm it. "They’re not here to help, they’re here to watch."

[System: Like cucks?]

Nothing says supportive family bonding like a pair of golem-shaped narcs.

"Great," I decided. "Love that, big fan."

[Old Mate: this is fine this is fine this is extremely fine we’re just going to go menace an old lady in front of witnesses this is a totally normal weekend activity.]

Lyra’s arms have gone crossed, jaw tight, the look she gets when she wants to say something and is physically restraining herself out of respect for the fact that my dad could probably have her disappeared with a phone call. Cherry’s just staring at the floor, horn stumps twitching so hard I’m surprised they don’t fall off.

I want to argue, and I want to tell him no, find someone else, I don’t shake down old ladies for soup money. But then I picture what happens if I refuse in front of Beef and Brawn, word gets back that the freak snake son can’t even handle a soup stall, and next thing I know there’s a real crew down there instead of me, one that doesn’t care about being gentle about it.

So instead what comes out is, "Fine, I’ll go talk to her."

"Talk," my father repeats, as the word amuses him. "Make sure the talking includes payment."

"Sure, yeah, payment-adjacent talking."

He studies me one more second too long, then turns and walks off like the conversation’s over, because for him it is.

Beef and Brawn fall in behind me without a word, two immovable walls of muscle that are apparently my new shadow.

Lyra’s hand clamps around my tail before I can slither off, tight enough that a jolt goes right up my dorsal ridge.

"Matt," she says, low. "You don’t have to do this, we can just leave?"

"I know."

"Then don’t."

"And I’m still going; it’ll be fine. I just want to set up some security for our little family." I nod my head towards Cherry.

I twist my upper body to look back at Beef and Brawn, who are just standing there, patient as furniture, waiting for me to be done having feelings. "Look, I just wanna get this over with, alright? Go collect the money, don’t traumatise any grandmas, come home, and pass out with you two for like fourteen hours. That’s the whole plan, that’s it, that’s the dream."

Cherry makes a small noise that might be agreement or might be her horn stumps, hard to tell at this point.

[Old Mate: not gonna lie mate the bar for hero behaviour has never been lower and yet here we are still tripping over it]

I really, really don’t wanna deal with this right now, but the sooner I go, the sooner it’s over, so I start slithering toward the lower docks of Twawi with my two new babysitters clomping along behind me like a pair of malfunctioning tanks.

I have a plan, and for once, it’s a good one. It’s simple: slither up, whisper something charming, flash a bit of the old hypnotic sway, and she’ll hand over five bucks like a tip. No violence, no drama, just a smooth transaction. I’m not threatening her. I’m saving her from the guys who would have come next. I’m practically a hero.

.

[System: Or, hear me out, you eat the pot. Spit a bit of grandpa’s chilli sauce in the broth, tell everyone it’s a limited-time flavour. Market innovation, mate. Boom, easy solved.]

Not eating an old lady’s soup pot.

[System: Your loss, reckon it’d slap.]

I ignore him and focus on the job. I’ve got this; I’m a cobra. I’m terrifying. I’m also, allegedly, charming, which is a combo nobody else on ami has, so really I should be thanking myself for being built different.

I slide into the market, and the whole vibe drops like someone unplugged the sun.

Stalls go quiet, somebody’s radio cuts off mid-song. A kid drops a cabbage and doesn’t even chase it, just backs away real slow like I’m a landmine that learned to walk.

Fine, fine, that’s just first impressions. Big scary snake, of course people stare; no worries, I’ll fix it with my voice and set the charm to max. That’s the whole plan.

I coil up nice and low next to Granny Nettle’s cart, dip my head down so I’m not looming too much, and attempt a gentle expression, which for a snake just means keeping my fangs retracted.

"Hey," I whisper, aiming for smooth, aiming for friendly neighbourhood extortionist. "Look, just hand over five grand so my dad’s guys don’t wreck your cart, yeah? Easy."

That’s it, really nothing at all. Nothing that should end a life.

Except the voice that comes out isn’t mine. It’s low and layered, ten versions of me speaking at once, the words sounding less like a request and more like something ancient waking up inside. The whisper rolls out of my jaw and through the whole market like a bell made of nightmares, vibrating in ears, rattling loose teeth, curling into every spine within twenty feet.

Granny Nettle’s face goes white.

Not scared-white. Not nervous-white, the white of someone who just watched their own death walk in wearing a friendly voice.

[System: Oh no.]

Oh no is right.

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