Commission: Clara the Shapeshifter, One-Woman Team

Summary: Clara, a shapeshifting assassin with a body like clay, pursues the legendary contract killer, Dean Constantine. But she may be in for more than she bargained for. Commissioned by Moneris.

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[Story Listing]

[PREVIOUS PART]

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Clara had been thoroughly humiliated in her last encounter with the infamous contract killer, Dean Constantine. She tried her best to talk herself up in the post-mission report, but honeyed words did little to take the edge off of the abject failure of her previous mission.

She was expecting to get dressed down by the higher ups. And sure enough, she had to take a call in the alley.

"You do understand the critical importance of this mission, yes Ms. Clara?" A voice crackled on her phone.

"Hey doc, you didn't tell me the guy was a lunatic." She scowled, toying with her hair. "He stuffed me into an oven and dumped me into the back of a garbage truck."

"You were engineered and reconstructed with the fundamental building blocks of life to be capable of any feat," the voice prattled on. "Failure is not an option, nevermind a consideration."

"I never said I failed." Clara rolled her eyes, fingers drumming against a brick wall. "Just hit a bit of a snag. I already figured out how to bring Mr. Constantine down."

"You mean Mr. Pink Sprinkles." The voice corrected her.

"...yes." Clara's eyebrows furrowed.

"You lost in a hand-to-hand battle with someone calling themselves Mr. Pink Sprinkles." The voice insisted, barely hiding a chuckle. "Just so we are abundantly clear."

Clara clicked her tongue. "Expect another report tomorrow." She curtly hung up on Doctor Krauss, before peeking her head out of the alley and around the corner. Her eyes landed on a small bistro on the corner of the street. She squinted, making out the signage.

Tres Magnifico Cafe

Seemed to be another rustic upstart. Not the sort of scene Clara paid much mind to; after her lucrative contracts "suiciding" the most heinous assassins, the most depraved leaders, and the most unfortunate witnesses without leaving so much as a trace, she could easily indulge in the fanciest Michelin-certified restaurants the world over.

But this is where her target crept off to now. She would have to solve this problem. She leaned against the wall, considering her approach.

She could just go rough-house inside, slice up everyone and everything in sight, but it would be such a needless waste of life—and it would leave a trail of evidence a mile long. No, precision killing was her element.

There was another major issue niggling at her; she would stand out considerably if she went inside alone. Cafes were date spots after all, and only abject losers went out to eat and drink by their lonesome. Everyone knew that.

Clara wasn't a loser... but she did have a job to do.

She backed deeper into the alley, outstretching her arms to her sides as she focused inwards. She reached for two drainage pipes, her arms wrapping around them like two olive-hued snakes. Her body rippled, tugged in two different directions.

The gap between her breasts grew wider as she pulled, her body stretching horizontally, squeaking and stretched taut. Clara winced as she focused and parted her legs, now ten feet apart.

She grunted as a seam split down from her head, between her breasts, down her belly, stopping at her ass. Her body, split in two, drifted apart as if an invisible knife had sliced right through her; where she was cut, there was only a light-brown clay substance.

The two halves, each balanced on one high-heeled leg, swayed as twin limbs sprouted from each half. Her skin bubbled and burbled, inflating to restore her curves. Two more heels firmly planted into the ground to match the two that were there—four in total.

Clara turned to her left and her right at the same time. Two twin Claras looked at each other, equal in proportion, stature, looks. Their eyebrows perked up as they examined each other, swaying from side to side to get better looks.

"Mm... we both have the same outfit." The left Clara mused with a pout.

"Whose fault is that?" The right one got a little huffy. "You change. This..."

The right Clara gestured, her finger gingerly rotating to point out her leather one-piece spy suit that adhered carefully to her curves. It wasn't real leather, of course—merely an extension of Clara the shapeshifter.

"This outfit isn't gonna pass in a cafe." The right Clara pointed out.

"Tch." Left Clara rolled her eyes. "I guess great minds think alike... guess we better think of something."

They turned to a dumpster across the alleyway; there was a clothing catalogue stuffed inside, just poking out from the top.   They shrugged in unison; disregard for recycling aside, they could probably find some outfit ideas inside real quick...

---

"So is this, like, a French bistro?"

"I think it's Italian? There's like twelve kinds of pasta on the menu..."

"But tres is french, and magnifico is Italian; isn't that crossing the wires a bit?"

"It's not like dumb Americans can tell the difference..."

Garbed in distinct disguises, shades obscuring their eyes, the twin Claras quietly bickered to one another, using a pair of menus as a shield by which to hide behind, their eyes scanning across the room.

"Do you have eyes on the target?"  "He just came back from the bathroom, and headed for a table in the center of the room."

"Scouting for escape exits, I see. Is he any bit suspicious of us?"

"Dunno. He's facing the door. Looks like he's looking for someone..."

"Just lay low then. Order a salad."

It seemed Dean Constantine really was in this modest cafe, though the reason why wouldn't be made apparent until later. A brunette in a jumpsuit hurried in through the front door, smiling widely at Dean, and plopping down in front of her.

"Who's that? What's she saying?"

"Mm... she's being friendly. Apologetic. Think she's some kind of date."

"Oh, good, she'll be a good distraction for what comes next. Y'know what they ordered?"

"Spaghetti and meatballs, it sounds like. Couples' Special."

"What's special about it?"

"Uhhh... it's two-for-one. Apparently it's served on one plate so you can eat it with someone else."

"Like that one Disney movie...?"

They continued to observe a casual conversation going on between Dean and his apparent date. It seemed innocent enough from the outset, though Dean seemed defensive and somewhat guarded; the pair of Claras had to be careful not to make their presence known.

Before long, a posh waiter arrived with a tray and a single dish—a heaping pile of spaghetti, sized for sharing! He lowered it between the dating couple, the twin Claras gawking.

"It's huge..."

"That's a good thing. It means he won't catch a single noodle out of place...~"

One of the Claras reached for a small plate, typically used to fill up on bread and salad, as well as a small butter knife. Using the menu as a barricade, she lowered the somewhat dull blade to her index finger, juuuust below her knuckle, and pressed down hard.

She felt a pinch as the knife cut through her clay-like skin and, with a light clatter, cut right though. Her finger had been wholly, bloodlessly separated from the rest of her hand; yet it continued to wriggle and twitch.

It scootched along like an inchworm, plopping onto the floor before pulling itself along the smooth, tiled floor. It was quite a distance to make, but Dean and his date were distracted with the heavy meal they had to deal with.

As Clara's finger disappeared under the darkness afforded to it by the gaudy table cloth, it narrowed rapidly, its ends squashing and stretching several centimeters. It briefly resembled a beige snake, and then an earthworm...

...And as its colour shimmered into something slightly paler, it resembled a noodle all on its own. It slithered up the table leg and inserted itself amongst Dean's noodles, pulled from the massive platter; its colour shifting as if camouflaged; it was difficult to make out except to the most keen, attentive looks...

Clara leaned back, her finger regrowing on its own; she tapped it against the menu with a smirk.

"Cutting off your own finger is pretty metal."

"Once he eats that stray noodle, it'll be inside his body, and I can do whateeeeever I want to him; nip several vital arteries, rip out his intestines, slice his spinal cord section by section..."

"Mm, that all sounds needlessly gory. Can't you just puncture his lungs?"

"...Maybe. Shouldn't cause a scene and- what's he doing?"

Out of the corner of Clara's eye (eyes?) she spotted Dean brush the plate aside, looking directly across the table with a cold glint in his eyes. He muttered something to his date, something muted, indistinct, yet coolly serious. His date paused, staring with wide, sad-looking eyes at him.

She broke into tears in short order and hurried off, her palms clasping over her reddening eyes. Dean sighed, casting a glance over his shoulder as he fished some paper bills out of his wallet to leave on the table as he jerked out of his seat in turn.

"Is... is he onto us?"

"He's getting away. After him."

The twin Claras rose to their feet in turn as they watched Dean abandon his table and his largely uneaten meal behind. Curiously, he paced towards the kitchen, not the exit. Perhaps to give himself a wide berth away from his spurned ex-lover?

The Claras pursued him to the kitchen, discreetly but hastily, past a pair of swinging doors, just in time to find the kitchen staff all slumping to the floor, once by once; it appeared as though they had darts poking out of their necks...

Dean clicked his tongue, pocketing a mini pistol. "I thought I told you to stay away."

"You know as well as I do that failure was never an option." Clara smirked, placing her hand on her hip.

"I had to break up with a woman I'd been seeing for the better part of three months." Dean sighed, turning to the twins. "But you don't really care about that, hm? You only care about your contract."

"Don't preach to me about love on the battlefield, Constantine." Clara hissed. "I got you right where I want you. Thanks for taking out the witnesses for me~"

The twin Claras coiled up around each other, fusing together in mere moments as they dove straight for him like an anaconda rushing to suffocate its prey, her body twisting and elongating rapidly, without limit.

But Dean was prepared; he side-stepped her rushing attack and slammed her head against the stainless steel prep station.

"I'm sure you wouldn't want anyone to see you fall flat on your face again." Dean smirked. Clara grunted, getting increasingly agitated as she raised her head, the side of her head flattened to a featureless bevel.

"Mrgrgrgr! Ingrate! I'll kill you!" Clara hollered, puffing her cheeks as they popped back into shape. Twin pairs of undulating arms swivelled forward to grab for his neck.

Again, he saw her simple-minded approach, and had already repositioned himself, acting as the perfect bait for his final move. He needed only to duck out of the way, and Clara surged forwards towards a most curious contraption.

It was a commercial-grade pasta maker for flattening and slicing noodles. And it was somewhat grabby; Clara felt a strange forward as her fingers slipped between the twin disks.

Vrrrr... the machine clattered to life, and the cylinders began to move, pulling her arms inside, slowly at first, but accelerating in a hurry, her arm flailing in its grasp. Her eyes widened as she grunted, her immediate instinct to wrest herself free, but she was, in a matter of moments, up to her wrists in trouble; she could feel her hands crushed on both sides, before a myriad of thin blades slicked her into noodles, flowing out in strands below.

It was powerful, and it was pulling her in more and more. She couldn't pull herself free...!

"Grgh! MRGH! DAMN YOU, DEAN!!" She hissed, trying to wrest her arms as her heels clicked against the floor. Dean glanced over his shoulder, hands in his pockets as he disappeared through a back door, leaving Clara to her fate.

With each pulse of her amorphous body, she felt herself pulled in more and more, up to her elbows, then her shoulders... she winced as she was pulled in, head-first, into the machine, her face flattened, pressed down, and sliced into long, sinewy threads. She spilled onto the countertop, and along the floor in long, flesh-hued noodles. wriggling like a bed of worms. Her toes twitched as they rose above her head, the last of her body to be processed...

Soon she was little more than a human-sized pile of spaghetti noodles, spilling everywhere. Her formless body let out an indistinct huff.

"How did he manage to entrap me again?" Clara muttered to herself forlornly. "Am I so predictable...?"

[NEXT PART]