Limitless Evolution As a Snake

Eight? Why would I ever have eight legs? That’s a horrifying thought.

[System: Anyway, you wanna head left down that pipe. You’ll come to a warehouse, I bet. Owned by the mafia, should be fine, I think.]

Should be fine, you think, love how confident that sounds.

[System: But you know what’s down there? Coffee.]

I stop dead in the tunnel, every scale on my body going still at once.

Say that again, and don’t lie to me.

[System: Coffee mate, the real stuff. Beans, grinder, the works, they got a whole setup down there apparently.]

Oh my god, is that real? I need it; I physically need that in my life right now. Can we make this a quest, please tell me we can make this a quest.

[System: Sure, why not, you weak fucker of a bean sprout. New quest, whatever. Steal the mafia boss’s coffee, gather intel on the world while you’re at it, politics, religion, whatever juicy shit you can find. Bonus exp and IP if you pull off something actually nutty. Reward is 500 exp flat just for getting the coffee out.]

A little box pops up in my vision, all official-looking, like I’m about to sign a contract with the devil himself.

QUEST: Grounds for Concern

Objective: Steal coffee from mafia-owned warehouse. Gather intel on local politics and religion.

Reward: 500 EXP (base) + Bonus EXP/IP for exceptional performance.

Status: Accepted (mandatory, cause you already said yes with your whole chest)

I did not agree to mandatory; I don’t remember signing anything.

[System: Doesn’t matter, coffee brain, you’re already slithering, and you can’t sign shit with no hands, so therefore I have signed it for you]

I’m already sliding toward the left tunnel before my body even asks my brain for permission, tongue flicking out to taste the air, catching something new mixed in with the rust and mildew. Something warm. Something roasted. My whole nervous system, snake and human both, latches onto that smell like it’s the last lifeline out of this pipe hell.

Okay, okay, plan. What’s the plan here, old mate? I can’t exactly slither in there and ask nicely for a cup, no hands, no legs, no dignity and no pants.

[System: Plan is you slither in, you don’t get caught, you find the coffee, gather intel, steal something maybe, and then you leave. Simple as. You got stealth going for you, you’re the size of a shower curtain string, nobody notices a glass eel.]

A shower curtain string with venom.

[System: A shower curtain string with venom, exactly, see you get it.]

The tunnel narrows the further left I go, water dripping steady off some pipe joint above, dropping down onto rusted metal in a rhythm that almost feels like a countdown. My little home base fades behind me, that dumb foam bed and my scent marks and my sad little kingdom, and for a second something in my gut tugs backward, some dumb animal instinct going, hey, where you going, this is the safe spot, don’t leave the safe spot.

Yeah, well the safe spot doesn’t have coffee, so the safe spot can wait.

I push forward, muscles rippling in that wave I’ve gotten used to now, four days of sliding through grime teaching my body things my brain never had to learn on two legs. The tunnel opens up wider, less pipe now and more concrete, walls turning from rusted metal to old brick, and somewhere ahead there’s a hum. Electric, steady, like generators or fridges or something running nonstop.

Getting close, old mate?

[System: Getting close. Should see a grate up ahead that leads into the warehouse basement I reckon. Careful though, mafia types tend to have dogs. Or wolves or actual wolf-women probably, this being Ami and all.]

Wait, wolf women, as in real security, as in things that could probably eat me in one bite without even noticing.

[System: Yeah look, should be a walk in the park mate.]

A walk in the park. Interesting choice of words from the entity currently sending me, a baby snake with no legs, into a mafia warehouse full of wolf women.

[System: Sounds hot.]

The grate comes into view exactly like the system said, rusted iron bars set into the tunnel wall, gaps just wide enough for something my size to slip clean through without even needing to squeeze. Beyond it, dim light, yellowish and industrial, and that smell getting stronger now, rich, dark and unmistakably, gloriously: coffee, and good coffee too, not that shit service station kind.

My whole body practically vibrates with want. Four days of sewage water and biting people and monsters, and this is what finally gets me excited, I mean other than a hot elf. But some ground up beans in a warehouse full of criminals. Real classy, Matt. Real classy.

I press my head against the gap in the grate, tongue flicking rapid fire, tasting everything on the other side. Metal, lead and dust. Faint traces of gun oil somewhere close. And underneath all of it, coffee, so close I can practically taste the bitterness on my forked tongue already.

Alright old mate, I’m going in.

[System: Thatta boy. Try not to die, it’d be a real hassle finding a new body for you to possess.]

Comforting as always.

I slide through the gap, scales catching on cold iron, and land on the concrete floor below with all the grace of a dropped shoelace. The yellow light hits different from down here, low to the ground, everything looming. First thing my tongue catches is rubber and machine oil. Then I pick my head up and actually look around.

The place is enormous, the kind of space that makes sound go weird, and whoever owns it has filled every inch of it with things that are either very expensive or very illegal, and based on the mafia context, probably both. Cherry paint and chrome catching the overhead lights in long rows. Crates the size of small houses. And further back, on a long folding table, a lineup of objects that my brain is generously rounding up to guns.