Limitless Evolution As a Snake

I go very still.

[System: Also, she’s just watching your tail; have a look without being too obvious.]

Slowly, without moving my head, I shift my gaze down to the table. My tail’s been tapping against the leg this whole time, same nervous rhythm, same way it always does when I’m thinking too hard about something.

She’s been clocking it, every single tap.

Channel takes a long sip of her frappe, lashes low, wings perfectly, deliberately still.

[System: yeah nah mate. she’s not scared of you.]

My tongue flicks out before I can stop it.

[System: she’s reading you.]

nah thats terrifying.

Before I can chew on that thought, Channel is suddenly out of her seat and coming at me like a woman possessed, arms out, voice pitched up about three octaves. "Oh my gosh you’re actually SO strong, like I can literally see the muscle definition through your scales, that’s insane, that’s actually insane."

She’s talking a mile a minute, hands fluttering near the base of my hood, not quite touching, eyes wide and sparkly in a way that feels rehearsed but also weirdly effective. My tail stops tapping.

"And your face, like, who even allows you to look like that, seriously, is that legal?"

I open my mouth to say something smooth, something cool, and nothing comes out because she’s leaning in close enough that I can smell her perfume over the coffee.

[System: mate she’s not looking at your face.]

Her eyes flick, quick, toward the corner of the shop. "Oh my gosh, is that your dad? The guy in the coat? He looks just like you, that’s so cute!"

I turn my head. Of course I turn my head. My dad isn’t here, but the reflex is automatic. I hear it more than see it—three soft *plinks* against the ice in my cup, too quick to be condensation. I turn back. Her hands are already gone, but a faint chemical scent now hangs in the air, one her perfume hadn’t quite masked.

[System: yeah mate, that’s not sugar.]

Old Mate’s voice goes flat, all the usual slang drained out of it for half a second.

[System: that’s some twawi illegal death drops. Three of em, damn, that’s not a "whoops wrong sugar" amount, mate; that’s a "put down a horse" amount.]

I don’t move, and sure as hell I’m not saying anything.

Channel straightens back up, all smiles again, hand resting lightly on the back of my chair like she wasn’t just doing a magic trick with poison. "Anyway," she says, breathless, "sorry, I just get so excited, you’re just really, really something, you know?"

The iced ami sits there on the table between us, condensation running down the glass, ice cubes clinking softly against each other, extremely innocent-looking.

[System: mate, do not drink that, seriously. I will not be held responsible for what happens to your internal organs. No cardboard box gonna save you here, mate.]

I look at the cup. I look at her. She’s watching me now, not fluttering, blue eyes locked on mine like she’s waiting for me to kick the bucket.

"So... you come here often?"

That threw her.

"Uh, it’s my first time, remember, you took me here?"

"Oh yeah true."

Guts of steel. That’s me, a Rank-D apex predator, muscular death noodle, walking Kevlar with wings. I’ve eaten things that would make a man throw up just by looking at them. I’ve handled worse than whatever she’s cooked up.

I loop my tail around the cup, lifting it from the table.

[System: MATT.]

I chug it. The whole thing, ice and all, straight down in one long continuous gulp like I’m doing a keg stand at a frat party except I’ve never once been to college, and if I had, I’d be the only sober one there, thinking about how to monetise the keg.

I can feel it trying to kill me with everything it’s got. That’s how you know the dose is nasty.

The look on Channel’s face is priceless. Actual, genuine shock, mouth slightly open, the mask slipping for a full second before she catches herself.

Behind the counter the spider barista’s eyes go wide, all six of them, and he practically leaps over the register.

"DON’T CHUG IT WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU," he shrieks, one clawed hand slapping down on the counter.

I set the empty cup down, flick my tongue once to clear my snout, and give a slow, deliberate ripple of my upper coils.

"A lot," I say. "And I’ve done a lot worse for coffee before."

He stares at me. All six eyes just stare. Then he looks away fast, mumbling something to himself, wiping down a mug that’s already clean.

Channel doesn’t say anything. She watches me now, dead still, wings not moving, that fake sparkle gone completely from her eyes, replaced with something colder and a lot more calculating, just waiting. Probably to pry off a scale and give it to my uncles for a reward.

I wonder how much they’re paying her. Not enough. She’s betting on poison, but my system has been running on a cocktail of sewer runoff and black-market biotech since day one. My own venom would kill a lesser snake.

[System: Oh yeah, yeah, you’re fine. You’ve been dipped in radioactive juice, you’ve rolled in it, you’ve been breathing in a few nuke loads of no-no air for a while now.]

n-nuke? air?

[System: don’t worry about it, you’re fine, I think? yeah, you look fine, but who the fuck chugs an iced ami like that, who chugs coffee?]

I thought it was cool.

The poison hits my bloodstream like a switch is flipped. For a split second, there’s a surge of warmth, a feeling of absolute victory. Then my left eye goes dark.

[System: there it is.]

The coffee shop does a slow, graceful rotation that I did not ask for. My tail, which has been doing its own thing this whole time, stops.

[System: mate, I need you to stay with me here.]

Working on it.

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