Limitless Evolution As a Snake

The table is right there. I can see the grain of the wood. I focus on the grain of the wood because the grain of the wood is not spinning; the grain of the wood is my friend.

[System: MATT!]

My snout cracks against the table edge on the way down, rattling my back teeth. The floor comes up cold and fast, and the last thing I register before the dark takes me is Channel already on her feet, as if she knew I was going down before I did.

Then I’m bouncing back up so fast my hood cracks straight into her forehead, and she staggers back with a little "oof" that’s honestly kind of adorable, poor chick though.

Get it, Old Mate? She’s a bird, and I just nearly gave her a blood nose. Chick, bird? Comedy gold. Wasted on this lot, though.

[System: OI ARE YOU OK?]

Honestly mate, I feel great actually better than great. Never better. Ten out of ten, would collapse again.

I take another sip of my coffee, savouring it like nothing at all just happened, like I didn’t just eat table then floor then Channel’s skull in the space of about four seconds.

Channel’s got one hand clamped over her head and the other one balled into a fist at her side, and the look she’s giving me could probably strip paint.

e.

"You headbutted me," she says, voice all muffled behind her fingers.

"Technically my hood headbutted you. I was just along for the ride."

"You collapsed on the floor about two seconds ago."

"And now I’m up. Snakes are resilient like that. It’s a whole thing; you can look it up."

What is Google?

"Ah, I’m old, huh."

"What are you talking about?"

She peels her hand away from her head real slow, checking for blood, and there’s none, thank god, because I genuinely do not know what I’d do if I’d actually busted this woman’s face open with my own head. Probably laugh more, if I’m being honest with myself, which I try not to be too often. I wonder if Old Mate would give me IP points for this?

[System: mate, that wasn’t normal. You went down like a sack of bricks. wanna maybe address that instead of the bit where you cracked skulls with the assassin]

Assassin’s a strong word.

[System: she’s literally here to kill you]

Allegedly.

[System: there’s no allegedly about it, mate. I’ve seen the contract.]

Anyway, I feel fantastic, best I’ve felt all week, actually, and if collapsing face-first into furniture is what it takes to get this kind of energy afterwards, then sign me up for more; put it on the calendar, weekly seizures, we’ll call it self-care.

Channel’s still staring at me like she’s considering just shooting me, trying to work out whether I’m an idiot or something worse than an idiot. Smart woman, the correct answer is probably both.

"You should sit down," she says, flat, like she’s reading it off a cue card.

"I’m coiled right here."

"You were on the floor thirty seconds ago."

"And now I’m not, look at me. Picture of health." I spread my wings out, flaring a little for dramatic effect, scales catching whatever crappy fluorescent light this place has got going.

"You’re the one who almost got a concussion, sweetheart. Maybe you should sit down; I have coffee here nearly every day, but right now? It just tastes much better?"

Her jaw does this tight little clench thing, the daggers in her eyes upgrading to actual swords, and for a second I think she might just decide screw the mission, screw the cover, and take a swing at me right here. Which, fair, I’d probably deserve it.

Instead, she just breathes out through her nose, slow, controlled, resetting whatever performance she’s supposed to be running, and sits back down across from me as if nothing happened at all.

[System: for the record, that collapse wasn’t a bit; there’s something cooking under the hood, chief]

Yeah yeah, noted, filed away, dealt with never.

I take another sip of coffee and hum something with no actual tune to it, because life is good, the coffee is cold, and I just headbutted a sexy professional killer and lived to tell the tale. Ten out of ten day so far.

The drink tastes weird. Good, though. Like mocha. My tail uncurls, and the empty cup clinks on the table. A satisfied hiss escapes me. The kind of sound you make after a good meal, not after drinking poison. A warm, smug buzz spreads through my coils, making my scales feel extra shiny."

[System: CUNT STOP DRINKING THAT, WHIP OUT THE FANGS RIGHT NOW!]

Old Mate is losing his mind in my head, screaming like he just watched someone drop a meat pie in the dirt.

Bit late for that, Old Mate. Already drank it, and I already loved it.

I don’t say any of that out loud though. I just drape my upper coils across the booth seat like I’m the most relaxed guy in the entire Undercity, because honestly, right now, I am.

Poison hits different when it doesn’t actually do anything except make my scales feel extra shiny. I mean it did knock me out a little bit but it felt good.

Channel leans forward across the table, and I watch her whole performance start cracking down the middle like a dropped phone screen. She’s got that big sweet smile plastered on, the Barbie doll one, but it’s shaking at the edges. Her pink wings are twitching behind her, little spasms she’s clearly not controlling on purpose.

"Oh," I say, letting my face go slack. I curl my tail-tip under my own coils, pressing into my side, and let out a little groan, real quiet, real convincing. "Oh, that’s... huh."

Channel’s eyes go wide and bright like Christmas morning. She leans in even closer, and for a second the whole cracked-phone-screen smile turns into something real, something hungry, like she’s watching her lottery numbers come up.

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