Limitless Evolution As a Snake

I come back slow and everything’s cold. Her hair is bright red and white, with a line down the middle that is so sharp it looks like it was cut with a guillotine and dyed with a war crime. The hair’s messy, but in the "I woke up like this and it’s always perfect" way, not the "I’ve been up for five days eating instant noodles" way.

Two little horns curve out of her hair, slick and black and glossy. Not devil horns, too petite for that. They look more like what you’d find on a goth reindeer with an attitude problem.

She’s wearing a sundress.

Not a joke, not lingerie, not latex, not the kind of thing you’d expect to see on a succubus in a city where women are genetically engineered to make you regret puberty. Just a regular, honest-to-god, light-blue sundress, the kind with tiny white daisies all over and thin straps that probably started the morning as a suggestion and are already surrendering to the forces of gravity and circumstance.

The dress is not winning. The bust is, this girl has the kind of chest that makes you question whether physics ever existed, or if it’s just a rumour started by people who lost bets with God. She’s petite everywhere else, but the sundress is clinging to the upper shelf with the same grim resolve as a window washer on a windy day.

Her legs are folded under her on a cheese-smelling rug, bare from the knee down, with just enough thigh showing to guarantee I am going to hell. The rest of her is a blur of pale skin, shadows, and the tiny, anxious twitches of her foot as she leans over a bundle of white gauze and tape that I realise, a second later, is my own body.

Behind her, a pair of red, bat-shaped wings twitch nervously. They’re tiny, more like accessories than actual wings, but they quiver in time with the stress in her shoulders. A thin, crimson tail wraps around her calf, the tip shaped like a heart but flicking so fast it looks like it’s sending Morse code for "help."

She doesn’t see me. She’s focused on my side, dabbing at it with a cold, wet towel and muttering to herself. Her voice is weirdly gentle, high but hoarse, like someone who’s been yelling at video games for days and now has to apologise to customer service.

"Come on, come on," she whispers. "Don’t bleed out, you dumb snake. Don’t you dare."

Every few seconds she stops to check my face, her eyes so big and red they could headline a pop song, but the second she’s sure I’m still unconscious, she goes back to nurse mode. She bites her lip every time the towel comes away red. Her hands are shaking.

I try to say something. I want to reassure her, or maybe just ask for her number before I die, but my jaw is locked. All I can manage is a soft rattle in my throat.

She freezes and looks straight at my face.

Her eyes meet mine. For a second she’s stock-still. Then she blinks and scrambles back, nearly tipping over onto her ass. Her wings snap open, tiny but flailing, and the tail goes straight as a stick, the heart-tip trembling.

Her dress slips a centimetre lower. I see the outline of a black lace bra with a little white bow, as that helps, and I am one hundred per cent sure this is the best sight I have ever witnessed, even if my life ends right here.

"Her voice trips over the words. "Are you, are you awake?"

I try to nod, but it’s not working.

She crawls forward, careful, like she’s about to give CPR to a bomb.

"Her voice is a sharp whisper. "Don’t move. You’re super fucked up. Like, your ribs are crunchy. I’m trying to fix it. I don’t know what I’m doing, but shit, please don’t die."

She’s flushed now, cheeks pink, the white side of her hair falling across one eye. She tucks it back with her fingers, then immediately looks embarrassed for even that small vanity.

I still can’t talk. My mouth works, but nothing comes out except a weak, "Hhhh."

She misreads this as pain, panics harder, and tries to pat my face with the soft, cold towel. She’s so close now I can smell her, candy-sweet, with a sharp edge of nervous sweat and just a hint of... strawberries? No, that’s not it. Something fake, something from a bottle, but it’s so good I nearly black out again from the sheer overload.

"She flinches. "Sorry. I’ll be more careful, I promise."

[System: You want me to take a screenshot for later, or you just gonna memorise every pixel yourself? Because you look like you’ve seen God and She’s about to bench-press your entire personality.]

I try to laugh. It hurts so bad I see stars.

She pulls her hand back. "Oh my god, I’m sorry! Did I, did I make it worse?"

I manage to shake my head, just a little.

She sags in relief. "Oh, thank fuck. I can’t, I don’t want to be alone right now, okay? So don’t die. Don’t."

She leans her head on my shoulder. She’s crying, but quietly, the way only people who’ve practised do. She’s so light, it’s like being hugged by a pillow.

The words are right there, locked behind my jaw: ’It’s okay, I’m not going anywhere.’ They’re useless. All I can do is focus on the sensation of her hair on my scales, the desperate grip of her hands on the towel, and the nervous flutter of her wings against my side, hoping she can feel the thought.

Then it hits me, that deep itch, the kind that starts at the base of your spine and radiates outward like a slow electric current. Old Mate mentioned this; he did say If you feel like moulting, you moult. its a full reset.

Outside: brand new.

Inside: close enough.

I can’t stop it even if I wanted to.

My scales begin to shift, a sound like a deck of cards being shuffled by something enormous, and I feel Cherry go very, very still against my shoulder.

"Her voice is barely a breath. "Hey. Hey, what’s happening?"

She pulls back. Her red eyes go wide, her cute tail stops moving entirely.

Something is happening to me, and she knows it, and neither of us can do a damn thing about it now.