Limitless Evolution As a Snake

I roll once, just to see if I can, and my whole body corkscrews through the sky slow and easy, scales flashing dark and iridescent as I turn belly-up to the neon lights at the top of the sewer’s ceiling, then right back over. Twawi spins under me, all lights and glass and tiny stupid people who have no idea a giant smoke snake is currently having the time of his life a hundred feet above their heads.

I do it again. Barrel roll number two, tighter this time, tail whipping through the turn like a rudder. Air rushes over my head, and I swear I can feel every individual scale drinking it in, cold then warm then cold again as I spin through a random pocket of wind coming off some rooftop AC unit.

Just me and the open sky- well, the open sewer sky and absolutely nothing telling me where I’m allowed to go.

[System: You right up there mate, or you having a moment?]

Having a moment, yeah. A good one.

I straighten my body and just glide for a second, smoke fins retracting flush against my flanks, letting the wind carry me instead of fighting it. This is what flying is supposed to feel like. Not strapped into an economy seat with my knees against my chest, not white-knuckling an armrest during turbulence. This is the real thing.

Nobody up here to tell me to sit down and nobody up here to remind me I used to be some scrawny disappointment sitting in his dad’s shadow, wondering if he’d ever measure up to anything. Up here there’s no measuring. There’s no up to anyone.

[System: Careful, mate, don’t go getting all philosophical on me, I didn’t sign up for poetry.]

Shut up, just stop listening.

I let out something that isn’t quite a laugh, more a low hum that vibrates out through my fins, and roll into a third barrel just because I can, just because there’s nothing stopping me. The smoke curling off my tail catches the wind and streams out in a long dark banner, and for one stupid perfect second I forget about Channel, forget about my dad, forget about uncles and casinos and evolution trees getting wiped like a bad hard drive.

Just air and just me, weightless and untouchable.

[System: Alright, alright, Icarus, wrap it up. We got a casino to open and a woman to publicly demolish, remember?]

Right. Right, yeah.

I level out, smoke trailing behind me like a cape, and point myself back toward the tower with the neon sign.

Somewhere down there, Channel’s getting her hair done for a show she has no idea she’s actually starring in.

I coil once more, just for the hell of it, then dive. Below me, Ami’s patchwork skyline is brightening by the minute. Billboards already running ads for overpriced dating apps and black market health supplements. The streets are still nearly empty except for a handful of delivery drones and a few unlucky bastards in business suits, but I can feel the buzz ramping up, a thousand waking heartbeats all rising in sync.

Never liked mornings, but now they taste different. There’s a chemical in the air, something sharp and electric, and I realise it’s coming from me. From the hunger, maybe, or the system, or just from the fact that I’m still alive when every law of nature says I shouldn’t be.

I head back into the apartment, and behind me is the bedroom, and inside the bedroom is a girl I am definitely not done breaking. I turn, gravity still off, and float back through the open doors.

The air inside is thick with leftover heat, the scent of skin and sweat and every other messy thing that happened in the last few hours. I like it; it makes the hotel feel less like a rental and more like a den, something that belongs to me and only me.

On the bed, Lyra hasn’t moved except to tangle herself deeper into the sheets. There’s a drool spot on the pillow next to her, and a crimson mark on her thigh from where I bit down last night. Her hair is still a mess, and her face is half-buried, but her breathing is shallow, ears twitching like even in unconsciousness she’s tracking me.

I make a show of drifting up beside her, letting smoke curl around her bare shoulders, then reach out with a single, perfectly formed smoke hand and poke her cheek. ”Rise and shine, princess.”

She makes a noise that’s halfway between a groan and a purr, then rolls over very slowly, one eye cracking open to glare at me with all the focus of someone who was vibrated into another dimension and has only now returned.

”Matt,” she mumbles, voice hoarse and rough in a way that makes me want her all over again. She tries to prop herself up, but her arms give out, and she faceplants right back into the sheets. ”Matt, please. I can’t feel my legs,” she whines.

Holy shit. That wrecked, whiny sound is a new personal best. I am a goddamn artist.

”Yeah, no legs today, that’s the plan,” I say, a smoke tendril forming so I can drag its hardened tip down her spine, slow, just to watch the shiver roll through her like a current. ”Legs are overrated. You’ve got a bed. You’ve got me. What else does a girl need?”

She groans into the pillow, something that might be a laugh if she had the energy left over to commit to it, and I just hover there for a second, looking at her like an idiot. Like a proper, soft, staring idiot.

Because here’s the thing nobody warns you about when you die a virgin accountant and wake up as a smoke snake with a system built entirely around doing whatever the hell you want. Nobody warns you that the girls start to feel like something you collect. Not in a gross way. Or, okay, maybe a little bit in a gross way, but hear me out.