Limitless Evolution As a Snake

I ask, suddenly curious despite myself.

[System: Yeah, but where’s the fun in that, little shit? So boring. Anyways, I’m giving you 50 IP points for killing both of them and then a cheeky 20 on top from me because I thought the whole nearly dying and having your tail crushed was genuinely quality viewing.]

Yeah, no worries, happy to bleed for the ratings... Old mate, can you flash up my status panel?

The interface flickers, then holds steady, laying out numbers and skills like a menu at a restaurant he can’t afford.

[System: Righto, you’ve got this, mate.]

Name: Matthew Vane (Matt)

Current Form: [The Glass Phantom Snake (Rank E)]

Rank: E

Indulgence Points (IP): 70

EXP: 4,000 / 10,000xp

[Pressure Point Intuition] The user possesses an immense knowledge of pressure points and nerve clusters, and can produce a variety of effects by striking said pressure points in just the right way, ranging from unconsciousness, paralysis, and even death. No cooldown.

[Thermal Camouflage (Rank F)] Temporarily dampens your biological heat signature, matching your core temperature to the surrounding stone for 60 seconds. Cooldown: 5 minutes.

[Blood Venom (Rank D)] (TRULY OP) makes all the blood in something turn into air. Just, like, immediately. All of it, poof, dead. Note: Highly lethal. Cooldown: 24 Hours.

Wow, so much EXP and IP I can do so much with this!

I marvel, already scheming ways to use my new tricks.

[System: Well, I’m in charge of your next two skills regardless, so do you wanna do that now, or—]

The System clips off, footsteps. Matt goes rigid inside the crumbling wall, still shaped like a smashed jar of blood-red jelly, which is not the look he’d have chosen for a reunion.

The dark elf archer kneels, and two fingers slide under me, lifting my broken little body with more care than anyone gave me in thirty-five years of breathing. The instant her skin touches my scales, a firecracker of pleasure detonates somewhere behind my ruined ribs. Being held, and being hers, I had forgotten a body could feel this useful.

She smells of gun oil, bruised pine needles, and rain on hot pavement. He commits every note of it to memory.

"I don’t know if you understand me," she murmurs, tilting him toward the dim light, "but I think you do. The way you threw yourself in front of me..."

I have to answer the only way a snake like me can; I’m going to lick her thumb. Partly communication, but mostly because I’m a degenerate and her skin is right there.

She reads it as the former, bless her, so innocent.

"You nearly died." Her breath catches. She turns him gently, taking in the jellified mess of him with a crease between her brows. "I don’t know how you changed, but I can tell it’s you. The red one from before."

She takes a breath in.

"Thank you."

She unrolls a kit, bandages, a squat medicine flask, a doctor’s scanner that hums pale blue. "This’ll patch about seventy per cent, and I brought food." Her mouth quirks, "I feel completely insane, feeding a snake and expecting a review."

He drags his tongue across her fingertip again, slower this time, cataloguing the ridge of her knuckle for future filthy consideration.

"Ahh- wait, don’t do that, it makes me blush," she stammers, her cheeks tinting with a rosy glow.

"I don’t know, I feel a weird connection to you, but I can’t take you with me. I’ll try and look after you where we are here. I’ll leave something for you whenever I can, kay?"

Desperate to communicate any way I can, I lick her hand again, attempting to trace a ’yes’ with my tiny tongue. Whether it works or not, she seems to understand, or at least, I hope she does.

Why it seems to tickle my scales, the softness of her concern. The scanner beeps low and steady, its blue light casting ghostly shadows over us. As it does its magic, patching me up, she leans down, her breath a wisp of warm air against my gelatinous form; her hair touches my scales, sending tingles up my spine.

"My name’s Lyra, by the way," she whispers, and then turns her head slightly, her ears a delightful shade of pink.

I roll her name around my tongue, feeling each syllable like a pulse of energy. Lyra, there’s a melody to it that fits her, something lyrical and strong. God, I think I’m falling for her. I need more of this-more of her. Remembering the clustered groups of Beastkin I’ve seen, mingling and merging in ways that blur the lines of casual and intimate, I feel a grin spread through my mind. This new world, it’s a playground, and I’ve just found my favourite game.

[System: I bet you like it, you degenerate drongo.]

Old mate chimes in, his voice dripping with dry amusement.

Shut up, old mate.

I mutter internally, focusing back on Lyra as she takes me towards a bustling food counter on the edge of Twawi. The atmosphere here is thick with scents and sounds, a Blade Runner view come to life. She orders two bowls of karrage chicken on rice with egg and seaweed, her professionalism never slipping even as she handles the transaction with an ease that speaks of routine.

"Can you eat this?"

She tilts her head, puzzled yet adorable in her concern. Oh, to keep her close, maybe just tuck her into my scales and carry her with me everywhere.

I slither off her gentle hand, giving her fingers a quick, detailed lick that makes her push the food closer towards me with a flustered motion. Perched now on the edge of the counter, the owner gives me a sceptical look, his eyebrow raised at my jellyfish-like texture. He shrugs off any concerns, probably chalking up the oddity to Lyra’s police authority, and turns away.

Diving into the bowl, I submerge my head entirely, the flavours exploding like fireworks. She watches, giggling as I devour my meal, the sound sweeter than any dish.