Limitless Evolution As a Snake

The outside warehouse looks exactly like the kind of place a rat would die in.

I slither closer, keeping low, my ventral scales rasping over the cracked concrete like I own the place. Which I guess I kind of do, spiritually.

Ahh, I remember going through the pipes up the side of the warehouse to break in to get coffee, and now I have two girlfriends and I’m the heir of something crazy.

[System: Reckon the dog bed’s still in there, mate? In the piles?]

Old Mate’s voice pops up in my head, way too excited for someone who doesn’t have a body.

Yeah, no, don’t get attached, I think back. It’s probably rotted into the pipes by now. Or rats made a whole civilisation inside it.

[System: You checked behind the poster yet?]

My brain short-circuits. Not that it was firing on all cylinders to begin with; this morning has been completely cooked. The poster? What poster? Oh, shit. Right. The peeling cop flyer on the far wall of the Twawi markets, the one nobody’s cared about in a decade.

Lyra used to leave me stuff behind it, like snacks and a cute letter.

Ah, hell. If she left something there and I just... didn’t check. If she’s been sitting at work right now wondering why I’m ignoring her, thinking I don’t care enough to look. While actively living with me.

Ah, hell, that would actually suck so bad. Okay, I think, already turning myself back toward the plan. Okay, okay, okay. After work, I’ll go to the post office; I’ll do it all today.

I’m about to turn the corner into the warehouse when someone yells behind me.

I realise quite quickly that both my charming uncles are shadowing me at a distance that’s not quite casual.

The street’s dead quiet, or maybe people just don’t want to share an airspace with the snake boys. I clock the rhythm of their footsteps behind me, and for a split second I consider just powering on, mainlining pure denial and hoping they get bored or distracted by a passing poodle.

[System: wanna bet they’re about to do something stupid?]

Absolutely not.

And then immediately prove myself a liar by glancing back over my dorsal scale.

Hansen’s tracking me on the left, hands in pockets, wearing the kind of suit that was expensive two decades ago and now just looks like he’s lost a bet.

Harden is lagging on the right, not even bothering to pretend he’s not following. Every few steps, his boot scuffs the ground like he’s trying to start a fire with attitude alone.

I dip into a little gap between a dumpster and the warehouse wall, hoping it reads as I’m just a little red snake, look at me minding my own business, and not prime mugging position; please apply violence here.

No such luck. They split, Hansen coming up from the front, Harden locking down my exit.

Hansen leans in, voice low and weirdly gentle. "Little Matt," he says, tasting the name with his forked tongue, which, again, is absolutely not a thing I am ever going to get used to.

"Did you know you used to have a few siblings?"

I could play dumb, but tasting the sharp, coppery scent of Hansen’s anger in the air says that’s not on the table. "Oh yeah, uncle? I didn’t know."

"Well, I heard you grew a pair of balls too, because you sure as shit have been parading them all over."

Harden snorts from the back, his own scales catching the light like an oil slick. "He’s got some other things now, too. You see that stunt he pulled with granny? Boy’s got teeth on him, and not just in his mouth."

I try to rear up to maximum intimidating height (which, today, is not impressive as I’m tired), hoping maybe they’ll reconsider whatever this is.

They don’t, because they aren’t a bear in a documentary.

Uncle Hansen got this look, the one people get when they’re about to say "I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed," but then instead of "disappointed" they say "going to bury you in a shallow grave."

"You think you’re clever, don’t you?" he asks, voice dry as an office group activity. "You think you can just show up, and eat breakfast with the boss, steal the show, and nobody’s gonna care?"

I hold my gaze steady. My tongue flicks out once, tasting the stale air, hoping the motion reads as a threat.

"I’m just here to run a business," I say, tail coiled tight.

Harden laughs, sharp and echoing. "What, you gonna sell us on an extended warranty for these?"

He points to his own scales, which, on closer inspection, are actually some kind of medical-grade snake skin grafts.

They’re not even from the same species. It’s like a hardware store patch job on a person; shit is he even related to dad?

[System: yikes, did he get that from a catalogue or what]

Old Mate’s commentary makes me want to scream, but I keep it internal.

Hansen’s still eyeing me, his tongue flicking with this weird rhythm. "Family used to mean something," he says, softer now. "Blood meant something, but then you showed up. What are you? where did you come from? Who the fuck are you?"

He’s mad, but not in a screaming way. More like he’s been angry for so long it’s just a fact of life, like gravity, or overdraft fees.

I try to uncoil a little, looking non-threatening, but it just makes the space feel even smaller. "Didn’t have a lot of options," I hiss, the sound barely audible. It doesn’t sound like I’m backing down; it sounds like I’m picking a fight.

He shrugs. "Nobody was; we all came up the same way."

What, being carried up the ladder by Dad?

I want to laugh. I want to ask if coming up in this family means ’endless therapy’ or ’mob loyalty cards’, but instead I just let the silence happen.

Hansen glances over his shoulder at Harden, then leans in even closer. "Listen, I don’t give a shit what you’re trying to prove, but if you’re gonna slither around like you’ve got an army at your back, maybe remember who trained the army, yeah?"

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