Limitless Evolution As a Snake

I close my eyes, humming to myself, and plan the next move.

My plan has three parts: survive this, ruin the Captain’s day, and never, ever trust a hammer again.

I drift out, not sure if I’ll come back, but if I do, someone’s going to pay for this.

I’ve decided not to move, not because I’m being clever, but because I legit can’t feel my arms and I’m not even sure I have arms.

I try to open my eyes, and this time it works, well, one of them, anyway.

Someone’s dragging me.

No, they’re just standing next to the dumpster I’m in, talking. I can’t make out the words, but the Captain is there, for sure.

I want to move. Every instinct I have is screaming: get up, do something, don’t die like a loser.

Something primal kicks in. Some tiny lizard brain in my skull refuses to let this man kill me with a hammer.

I do the only thing that makes sense: blow more bubbles. If last time was flashbangs, this time it’s grenades.

Yeah, sure it might float back down onto me, but I may aswell attempt to go out with a bang. It’s not clean, not even a real attack. I just lurch up and do the bubble skill; I could only make it a meter, but that’s enough to make it over the side of the dumper, and on the other side of the dumpster?

The captain.

He jerks back, startled, as the familiar bubbles float over the top edge of the trash. A low chuckle rumbles in his chest; he probably thinks they’ll just blind him a little.

Fucking amateur.

But I don’t stop at one. I push through the pain, the dizziness, the feeling that my lungs are about to collapse, and blow until ten shimmering orbs drift lazily into the air around him. Thank fuck none drift back toward me.

[System: Bloody hell, thank GOD.]

It’s not classy, but it’s the only attack I can do.

The first bubble pops near his left horn. Not a bang but a wet.

plip.

Like a raindrop hitting hot pavement. The Captain freezes, nostrils flaring. He brings a hand up to wipe at the residue, smearing iridescent gunk across his furred cheek. "The fuck is this supposed to?"

Then the second one goes off right beside his ear; this one doesn’t.

plip and then it.

cracks.

The sound isn’t loud so much as deep, a concussive thump that vibrates through the concrete under my dumpster. His head snaps to the side and one of his gold earrings goes spinning into the shadows.

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence.

The next three pop almost at once: one against his chest, one against the wall behind him, one against the shaft of his own hammer. They don’t just blind him.

"You little-" he snarls, but another bubble detonates against his knee.

This one screams. A high-pitched, metallic shriek that tears through the alley. He bellows in pain and surprise, buckling slightly. The sound is still echoing when the next one hits his shoulder, a dull, wet *thud* that sprays something dark and viscous across the brickwork.

From my angle in the dumpster, it looks like his blood, or the remains of his shoulder?

One pops against the hammer itself. The weapon doesn’t just break; it detonates. A storm of white-hot shrapnel erupts, tearing into the Captain’s chest and face. His expensive suit isn’t ripped; it’s atomised into a fine red mist in the space of a heartbeat.

As the other grenade bubbles explode around him, all I hear is screaming, yelling, then I just see chunks of flesh explode around me, like a beautiful fucked up fireworks show.

It’s over.

I let go, slump back, and just breathe for a second. Everything hurts. My head is spinning. I’m pretty sure my lungs are still leaking, and the room is starting to tilt.

[System: Not bad, bud. Proper dirty win. Still, you’re bleeding out. Might want to fix that. Oh, and that’s a nice 1,000 EXP to your kill quest. For taking down the captain, that’s another 2,000 EXP and 100 IP. Since you, you know, nearly died, I’ll use 50 IP to give you a health boost. Looks like you’ll need it.]

I’m too tired, old mate.

With the new found energy of a dying sock, I drag myself to the nearest exit. Every inch is a struggle. My tail leaves a bright red streak, like a slug that got dipped in cherry syrup.

The stairs are a nightmare. I flop down them one at a time, no grace at all. By the time I hit the bottom, my vision is going white at the edges.

I crawl into the night air.

It’s raining, of course it’s raining.

The drops hit my skin and sting like little needles. But the air is cold and clean, and it feels better than anything else today.

I don’t know where I’m going, just away. Anywhere but here and i make it as far as the next alley before I collapse; the world tilts.

The last thing I see is the dark, wet street, and the reflection of my own broken self in the puddle below.

Not dead, not yet, but I’m not sure what’s left to wake up.

The blackout lasts forever, or maybe thirty seconds. I feel like a wet hotdog rolling on the pavement. Flashes of light, the feeling of dying, the feeling of healing—it all hits at once.

I come up choking on water and blood. There’s a taste in my mouth like burnt plastic and pennies. My body is one big "no,"; even breathing feels optional.

I try to move, something crunches, nah nope. I’m staying put.

Time gets weird when you’re mostly dead. I can feel every drop of rain that hits me, every cold inch of the concrete against my belly, every pulse of pain where my insides used to be. The rest of the world is dark and wet and echoey, like a fish tank full of screaming.

My mother used to tell my father that all alcoholics like himself were born to die in the gutter, i guess I’m living out my father’s fate. The whole world’s gone quiet, and I can’t even hear Old Mate anymore.