Limitless Evolution As a Snake

[System: HOLY SHIT.]

Yeah, I see it too.

[System: IT’S LIKE WHAT U WANT TO BE. LOOK AT HIM, MATTY BOY, THAT’S THE DREAM. THAT’S THE WHOLE ENDGAME RIGHT THERE.]

I stay dead still, tongue flicking slow, taking in every detail I can before I even let myself react properly.

[System: but don’t worry mate, don’t you worry one bit, you are gonna be better than that. stronger than that, just gotta get there first.]

The guy behind the desk is not right. Like, not right in a way that makes my whole tiny body go stiff. He’s small for a boss, only about five foot two, but he’s got that vibe where size doesn’t matter because everyone in the room is scared of him anyway. Black scales all over, not shiny like mine, just flat dead black as he soaked in tar. His face is mean, permanently mean, like he was born mad and never got over it.

He’s wearing a crisp white shirt buttoned all the way up and a black suit jacket over it that looks like it’s covered in ice, actual ice, black frosty crystals creeping over the fabric like it’s alive. I don’t know if that’s magic or just some rich snake hybrid flex, but either way it’s freaky.

Old mate, you said there wasn’t magic in this place?

[System: I don’t know, I thought there wasn’t but maybe there is?]

Oh, very helpful, thank you, oh wise one.

The more that I look at him, the more scared I become. His arms are covered in tattoos, thick black ink winding all the way up, and when he opens his mouth, his tongue flicks out black and forked, same as mine but way less cute. His eyes got no white in them at all, just pitch black holes staring at everything like he’s already decided how it dies.

Right now he’s playing with a finger, like a human finger. Chopped clean off, sitting on his desk, and he keeps flicking it around with one claw like it’s a fidget spinner.

I shudder so hard my whole body curls.

Old mate, I think, are you sure about this? Are you sure I can just waltz up there and steal his coffee? Look at him. Look at the finger. I really don’t think this man is right in the head.

[System: yeah nah he’s fine, mate. Bit unhinged sure, but aren’t we all.]

I know we’re not right in the head either, but I think this guy might actually kill me, like permanently, no reroll, no evolution tree, just dead.

[System: relax, puss. Got some notes here says he’s got a soft spot for baby snakes, I reckon you flash them scales and he’ll go all gooey, surely.

Probably?

[System: ...probably. maybe. Look, just don’t make eye contact and you’ll be sweet; just act like a lil baby. he likes cute things.]

Outstanding, really thorough plan. Feel very safe now, thank you, old mate.

I slither up the edge of the desk anyway because apparently my survival instincts take a backseat to caffeine addiction, and I tuck myself behind one of his laptop monitors, pressed flat against a nest of cords. My scales blend nicely against the black cables, red dulling down in the shadow, and for a second I actually feel safe.

The desk itself is huge, this heavy brown wood thing that probably cost more than my old rent in London, scratched up like it’s survived a hundred meetings that ended in violence. He’s sitting behind it in a massive red leather armchair, big enough to fit two of him, tail kicked up like he owns the whole sewer system, which, judging by the little glass tank on the side of his desk full of fairies lined up like a production line, he probably does.

Across from him stands a police officer, sweating so bad his uniform’s gone dark at the collar. Poor guy looks like he wants to melt into the floor.

"Tell your higher-ups," the boss says, voice all low and lazy, flicking the finger again, "that I don’t do second warnings."

"They just need more time," the cop stammers, "the numbers from up top, from the Capitol, they’re saying the budget’s frozen till..."

"Budget’s frozen?" The boss laughs, and it’s not a nice sound. "Tell the fat orange cat upstairs she owes me more than a budget. Tell her I put her in that chair, tell her I can take her out of it just as easy."

My tiny brain short circuits a little at that. The fat cat- does he mean the President? Old mate already dropped little hints that things are different here, that this isn’t London anymore, no Parliament, no Prime Minister, no King sipping tea somewhere in a palace. This is America apparently, and the president is some big orange fluffy cat girl, crude as hell from what the whispers in Twawi say, and completely in this guy’s pocket.

Great. Love that for me. Love that the actual government answers to the man currently flicking a severed finger across his desk while I hide in his cables plotting a coffee heist.

[System: told ya mate, big fish energy. Bit of local politics hurt nobody.]

It might hurt me.

As I continue watching the boss’s black eyes slide slowly across the room, tongue flicking out to taste the air.

The cop is still sweating buckets when the boss suddenly stops mid-sentence, head tilting just slightly to one side. His tongue flicks out again, slower this time, tasting the air like he’s savouring wine or something equally pretentious for a guy who keeps severed fingers as toys.

"What’s that... smell?" he says, and his voice drops even lower, which I didn’t think was possible.

Oh no.

Old mate, I think this is the end for me, I think, my whole body going stiffer than it already was, which is saying something because I was already doing a really good impression of a dead twig.

[System: nah cunt i trust ya!]

Great pep talk, really inspiring, love that for me while I’m about to get squashed like a bug.