Limitless Evolution As a Snake

This isn’t about points or the system; this is about learning my place in this world. If I can win down here, survive, overcome, and dominate down in the sewers, the fuck am I going to do up above?

This is about pride and about spicy lamb skewers.

I ease out from under Cherry, trying to minimise the soon-to-be girlfriend flopping off your neck like a dead possum. It only kind of works; she stirs, whines, and then shoves her face deeper into the crook of my jaw. If I die, this is how I want to be found.

I manage to grab some sort of idol body pillow as a replacement, give her that instead and sneak out.

The market is at peak traffic by the time i get there. Twawi’s always loud, always humid, always smelling like you just walked into a mixture of an aquarium and an industrial food court.

Today it’s even worse than usual: some bastard’s running a deep-fryer two stalls down, and the scent of burning oil is physically painful.

The quest is simple: Set up a stall and make a profit. Prove to the universe that you can be something other than a slithering disaster.

I don’t have a grill or a set-up or a permit, shit, do I need a permit?

Fuckkk. What do I do.

I stare at the market crowd, brain running in circles like a dog chasing its own tail, except the tail is on fire and the dog is me. Every stall is taken, every single one. There’s a lady selling fried bugs on a stick, a guy with some kind of glowing fruit that probably gives you cancer or superpowers, shit probably both. And about forty different fish vendors who all look ready to stab me if I so much as look at their crates.

Old Mate, help me out here.

[SYSTEM: ok so easy fix, just steal someone else’s spot ya weak fuck.]

Steal? Steal a spot? From who? These people probably worked for this for years, built up whatever weird sewer-market reputation they have, and I’m supposed to just slither in and take it because I’ve got a tight schedule and a craving for spicy lamb skewers?

[SYSTEM: yeah basically]

That’s insane, I’m not doing that.

[SYSTEM: that bloke over there, skewer shack, red rug out front he hates Lyra btw]

I freeze.

Wait, what? Hates Lyra? Seriously?

[SYSTEM: dead serious mate]

How do you even know that?

[SYSTEM: would i lie to you]

No. No, you wouldn’t. You’re annoying and lazy, but you wouldn’t lie to me about something like that.

Okay, okay. New plan.

I slide low through the crowd, scales dragging against packed dirt, tucking myself between crates and legs and one guy’s dropped noodle box that I absolutely do not have time to investigate. The shack comes into view, ten feet wide, maybe ten feet deep, a little wooden lean-to with a busted awning and a hand-painted sign that says something about "fresh" skewers, which is a flat-out lie because I can smell the microwave from here. Chicken on a stick, reheated a hundred times, crisping at the edges under a bare bulb. Red rug rolled out front like some kind of budget red carpet. Shadows pool thick along the side wall where the light doesn’t reach.

Perfect.

I ooze into the dark corner, pressing myself flat against the wall, scales drinking up what little light there is. The vendor’s got his back to me, flipping skewers with tongs, humming some tune I don’t recognise.

This is it. This is my in, shit, what do I do now? Kill him?

[SYSTEM: Yes, legend. What a weapon, do it. Send it]

I’ve got venom loaded, fangs ready, could drop this guy in under a minute, but then what? What am I supposed to do with a body? Just leave it here? Drag it into the mud? I don’t have a shovel, I don’t have a car, I don’t even have hands.

[SYSTEM: nah, don’t waste the venom, mate. Use the hypno. Tell him to wander on down to your old man’s warehouse and hand himself in]

That’s actually smart. That’s disturbingly smart, why are you being smart?

I coil low, lift my head just enough so my eyes catch what little light bounces off the bulb, and I start to sway. Slow, side to side, the same rhythm every single time, and my eyes go bright, swirling, pulling him in before he even notices he’s looking.

He turns. Tongs still in hand, and his eyes lock onto mine.

And just like that, he goes soft. Slack jaw, glassy stare, tongs clattering to the ground.

[SYSTEM: yesss look at him go, absolute putty, love this for you, good shit you drop dick.]

Go to the warehouse, I tell him, voice low and slow, riding the same hum that’s got his whole body swaying with mine. Tell them you hate snakes. Tell them you hate snakes so much you had to confess it to somebody.

He nods. Slow, dreamy, like I just gave him the meaning of life.

[SYSTEM: chef’s kiss mate, absolute legend behaviour]

He turns, shoulders loose, feet dragging across the red rug, and just walks. Straight past me, straight past the crowd, off toward the tunnel that leads to Dad’s place, mumbling something about hating snakes under his breath the whole way like it’s the only thought left rattling around in his skull.

I watch him go, chest loosening with relief I didn’t know I was holding. Thank god, thank actual god or whatever gave me old mate. He was a threat to Lyra, and now he’s somebody else’s problem, and I’ve got a shack, a red rug, and ten feet of prime market real estate all to myself.

I look around the shack; perfect just need to clean up a little and get the ingredients, rename the place for sure.

[SYSTEM: hahahahahahhaha fuck! hahahahha I can’t- I- can’t believe you.]

What? Why are you laughing, Old Mate?

[SYSTEM: i lied]