Limitless Evolution As a Snake

Smells like strawberries, alright; damn, really good actually.

So obviously the next thought in my big dumb snake brain is: does it taste like strawberries too?

I pop the cap and squeeze a little onto my tongue before I can talk myself out of it. Nope. Tastes like a chemical factory had a bad day. I spit it out over the side of the tub, gagging, tongue flicking rapidly like that’ll clean the taste off faster.

Cool, cool, great use of my time, ten out of ten decision-making, really proud of myself for that one. Not sure what I expected. Soap to taste like fruit? I don’t even know what I was going for there.

[System: Ur cooked, mate.]

Yeah, no argument there.

[System: Fair point though, might try it myself later.]

Don’t.

[System: Too late, already ordered a crate.]

You know what? Whatever, I just lean back into the water and let my fins spread out under the surface, little ripples pushing off them every time they flex.

[System: Right, business time. Good news first, your girl didn’t actually need a refill, so technically you didn’t lose anything tonight. Congrats, big man.]

Wait, seriously? Was she already topped off? So I was just horny then.

[System: Yep. But, well, I cannot stress this enough — risking it for the biscuit like that, fucking her on a leash in the middle of a casino floor, that’s some elite-tier chaos. Respect, here’s a grand of exp for the effort.]

A notification blinks up lazily in the corner of my eye. +1000 EXP Public Indecency (Aggravated).

Nice.

[System: Also leaving that cum trail through the whole building. Disgusting, absolutely feral.]

Glad we could agree on something.

[System: Right, speaking of feral — I’ve got a mission for you.]

I groan, sinking lower into the water until it’s up around my jaw. Of course you do, can i have a day off? or no?

[System: And this one’s got penalties if you don’t do it.]

Hang on. Since when do missions have penalties?

[System: Since now.]

That’s not an answer.

[System: Correct, ya dog, now you’re learning.]

I sigh, bubbles rising up from under the water, and drag myself upright again. Fine, fine, fine. What is the penalty?

[System: More empathy.]

What do you mean more empathy? I’ve got plenty of empathy.

Old Mate laughs so hard I feel it rattle around behind my eyes, like he’s choking on his own spit.

[System: Nah nah nah, mate, you’ve got feelings for your girls, and that’s it. That’s the whole list. Maybe me too, occasionally, when I’m feeling generous. That’s not empathy, that’s just loyalty.]

Rude. Also, kind of accurate, which is worse. So what’s the actual quest then? What am I supposed to do, go hug a stranger? Feed a puppy? Cry at a movie?

[System: Oh, way better than that.]

There’s a pause, the kind that makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck if I had any hair, which I don’t, so instead my fins just flatten out flush against my back like they’re bracing for impact.

[System: We’re gonna use that big fancy smoke body of yours to go commit some high-level corporate identity theft on your uncle’s little empire.]

I sit up so fast that water sloshes over the side of the tub.

Come again?

[System: I’ve already pulled the top-side bank routing numbers. Your uncle’s whole operation, laid out nice and pretty. Dust off that accountant brain of yours, mate, because guess what season it is.]

I stare at the ceiling, dripping, completely lost...Tax season?

[System: Tax season.]

Are you trying to make doing tax sound cool?

[System: You’ll learn. Consider it character development, empathy quest disguised as financial warfare. Very efficient design if I do say so myself.]

I flop back down into the water, staring up at the steam curling off the surface, already regretting every choice that led me here.

I rinse off, towel dry, and drift back into the main suite. The city outside is almost awake now, glass towers pulsing with light, traffic picking up, every window a little battery of human desperation and hope. I wonder if I ever looked that fragile, back when I was just a guy.

Probably.

I hover by the window, watching the world for a minute, then glance back at the bed. Lyra’s still out cold, mouth open, hair a disaster, one hand clamped over my pillow like she could wring my scent out of it forever. For some reason, I really, really like that.

The best way into a rich guy’s house is through his toilet, and nobody is ever going to convince me otherwise.

I float back into the bathroom, to drain the tub and go smoke the second the bathwater swallows me down, and it feels so damn good, like stretching after a long nap. No bones, no scales, just me and the pipes and the dark.

Old Mate’s already yapping before I even clear the first junction.

[System: Right, so, quick heads up, ya smoke-brained menace, their whole estate is wrapped in flesh-detection drones. Heartbeat sensors, body heat scanners, the works. Real fancy stuff, probably cost a fortune.]

Cool. Good thing I don’t have a heartbeat right now.

[System: Exactly! You’re a bloody ghost fart floating through their pipes and not one sensor’s gonna blink. It’s beautiful; honestly, it’s poetry. It’s also hilarious because they spent millions on security that only works if you’re alive.]

I don’t have a mouth to laugh with, not in this form, but the feeling of it bubbles up anyway, some kind of smug little laugh made of smoke instead of sound. Rich people always think danger comes through the front door. Not once do they think about the toilet.

The pipes twist upward, and I follow gravity in reverse, easing through a service line that dumps into their lower shafts.

The moment I clear the last grate, I let myself go solid just enough to see, my crimson-smoke coils draping along the shaft floor like a lazy river of blood-colored fog. Their basement smells like money and mildew, which is a weird combo, but whatever; rich people are weird.