Commission: Clara The Shapeshifter, On The Hunt

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]

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Clara was an assassin without peer in the seedy underbelly of the world of crime. Scientifically engineered to be the apex combatant, the perfect infiltrator, the ultimate weapon, she prided herself on her ability to slip in, get the job done, and exit discreetly without a trace. To perform feats that no human could ever hope to match.

It wasn't that she wasn't exceptionally skilled. She just had a leg up on the competition, a unique set of skills for a woman of her distinguished background.

She sought out a nearby room in the nearby Springwater Hotel as she reviewed the dossier for her next target, smiling smugly to herself. Her form-fitting dress hugged her curves, leaving nothing to the imagination. She toyed with her long, auburn hair, twisting it around her finger as she looked over the file.

"Zis vill be your most dangerous foe yet." A black communicator crackled on the small table beside her; the voice had a somewhat gravelly quality to it, masked by a thick, foreign accent.

"That's not the first time you told me this," Clara rolled her eyes, crossing her legs. "I've heard this a thousand times: 'ohoho, another test worthy of your skills, my perfect little specimen~'"

"I don't sound like that." The voice on the other end objected. "Too nasally. Lacking in heart."

"Like, come on Dr. Krauss, this guy's a baker." She glanced from the window and down towards a humble shop, tucked between a travel agency and a peddler of new-age medicine. "I can smell him making cinnamon rolls from up here."

"'Tis merely a facade, a persona hiding the hardened killer glinting behind the mask." Krauss scoffed.

"Mr. Pink Sprinkles? Seriously?" Clara could barely stifle a laugh.

"His name is Dean Constantine. You might have heard of him." Krauss clarified.

"Pfft, seriously? He's still kicking?" Clara leaned forward, studying the bakery from afar. "I figured he'd have a couple dozen knives protruding from his back by now."

"The man carries with him classified information of high-ranking contacts, diplomats between the United States and China. If word was to get out about their dealings, it would lead to the publishing of... inconvenient truths." Krauss put it somewhat glibly. "It is in the interests of our sponsors that he be silenced. Permanently."

"Alright, alright, don't need a lecture, doc." Clara rose to her feet, her high heels digging into the carpet. "FYI, I'm renting a pay-per-view for an alibi, and it's going on your card..."

Clara flexed her fingers as she glanced out of the window.

"Oh? Then you will be..."

SHING! Her forearm shifted into a sleak, silvery, double-sided blade; the light reflected off of the business end of the blade as she swivelled it menacingly.

"Putting in a big order for Mr. Pink Sprinkles." She chuckled to herself, no shortage of malice in her voice.

---

Dean Constantine had come to enjoy the simpler life. He had a bit of a reputation for looking dark, brooding, and serious, which put him somewhat at odds with the pastel look of his bakery-patisserie hybrid. His black, messy hair, his permanent chin stubble, the tired look in his eyes, and the visible scar that ran down his right cheek... he didn't exactly give off the vibe of a chef. And the juxtaposition of how his muscles bulged against his apron was pretty comical. "Mr. Pink Sprinkles" kinda looked like hired mob muscle in a pastel coat of paint...

But people tended to follow their taste-buds, and his eclairs, cake-pops, and miniature pies were the real deal, and word of mouth was beginning to spread about his modest start-up. Things seemed to be looking up, and the kids and teens adored the shop as a hangout spot.

If anything was to be done, it ought to be done perfectly. He carried that mantra throughout his life, even through some rather sordid business he'd much rather keep on the downlow. Baking came naturally to him in this respect; it was an art, sure, but the components could be broken down into a science for reliable, predictable results. Settling into a routine was soothing in its own sort of way.

Of course, he'd know if anything was out of place. While his shop was gaining in popularity, he still hadn't taken on many large orders yet. He surveyed his orders.

There were about two dozen boxes of cupcakes destined for the nearby elementary school; a selection of cheesecakes to be delivered to a small corner-side cafe; and a towering wedding cake with bride and groom, bespeckled with frosting roses. They were all gorgeous and delectable looking in their own ways... there was just one problem. Something was out of place.

His eyes narrowed on the wedding cake. He never made that one. And it was decidedly conspicuous. Whoever placed it there wasn't even trying to be subtle.

The corner of his mouth twitched as he sidestepped to the countertop, reaching into a drawer. His eyes never left the cake.

FWOOSH! His hand moved like lightning as Dean launched a flurry of sharp knives squarely at the cake. They pierced deep through the exterior, past the icing with a medley of squelches.

He waited. The cake was bike enough for someone to hide inside of. He expected a cry of pain, a death gurgle, something along those lines. He waited, staring it down with a steely gaze.

"...mhmhmhm~ Ohhhh dear, you found me out. Whatever will I do?"

He blinked, and stood his ground. "You didn't pick a good hiding spot. I suppose you've also come to kill me?"

"Goodness, so impatient. You must get this a lot." The voice from the cake chuckled again. "Don't worry, Dean, you won't have to repeat yourself."

"You know who I am." Dean sighed, clenching his fist.

"Oh, I know everything about you."

The cake wobbled, swayed, and shifted, melting before his eyes. The white decorations of the cake melted together into a slick, shiny, olive hue, congealing into a substance that resembled clay; various knives protruding from the mass slipped out, clattering to the floor as the mass melted, shifted, and reformed itself...

...Into the shape of a woman, clad in a latex body suit that clung to her body like a second skin. A tendril lashed out from her side, digits forming, and curled around to her chest; one of her fingers poked the handle of a knife stabbing her in the chest.

"...Clara." Dean's eyes narrowed. "You're a shapeshifter."

"Hey, gold star for you. Nice toss by the way." She gripped the knife, sliding it from her chest, a few stray strands of clay-like biomass clinging to the meticulous sharpened blade. "You try a career at the circus yet, big boy?"

"Once." Dean muttered. "For an assassin, you're taking your sweet time killing me."

"Ohhhh, I'm not like you, Dean. I enjoy the hunt." Clara licked her lips. "I just wanna watch you squirm a bit first~"

She rose upwards, her torso elongating like a cobra rearing up, before she dove straight at him, knife at the ready! He was just standing there, just asking to be cut open like a calzone!

She didn't make it two feet before feeling thin, narrow threads digging into her pliable skin. In her haste. Dean smirked as a look of astonished realization crossed her face. Her form was being sliced up into segmented pieces by an unseen force, clay segments sliding free and plopping to the ground.

A clean slice split her head in two, revealing an olive-hued interior like the rest of her; like so much putty, it slid off in a style reminiscent of an old samurai movie, and she plopped to the ground in pieces.

"Mrgh... grpgrhr!!" She mumbled obstinate, the pile of diced up limbs shifting in anger.

"You didn't see the steel wires?" Dean wiggled one—the light reflected, making its presence known. "I figure you would've done your homework. You're not the first assassin to go after me..."

"I WILL CERTAINLY BE THE LAST!!" Clara hollered. Her pieces began to reassemble themselves like pieces of a mannequin, twisting into place as she got up on one knee. She dove forward with a backward grip on the knife, not waiting for her torso to reform.

CLANG! Dean had pulled out a blade from the sleeve of his shirt, and clashed with her own blade. His grip was tougher, and her hand wasn't even attached to the correct arm; her weapon clattered harmlessly to the side.

She grunted, her eyes locking with his. He didn't seem impressed; he was judging her. But she was a weapon of scientifically-engineered perfection. She would not be denied.

Her hands formed blades of their own, silvery, sleek, deadly, as she dove in again with a flurry of thrusts. Dean stepped back casually, leaning from side to side to dodge every strike, barely breaking a sweat. She was getting irritated at his unwillingness to die...

"Hold still!" She hissed, her torso rushing forward faster to cut him off, looping around his backside and looming over him as she raised her blades like a mantis readying for the kill. He glanced up, and then to the side.

His hand rushed to grab a torch typically used for the sugar crust of creme brulee, and aimed it squarely at her face. She recoiled, her features melting from the intense heat. She shouted, not out of pain, but of frustration, as she staggered back, her torso flopping against a countertop in the center of the kitchen. Her body squished, writhing and stretching across the countertop.

"You little... YOU LITTLE..." She hissed, her hands reaching to scrape off the viscous layer of ooze that covered her eyes. Dean looked her over with a determined look in his eyes.

"Can't take the heat, huh?" Dean looked past her. "Well, this will ruin my current batch, but..."

He surged forward, his hands pushing into her pliable flesh with almost superhuman strength; his hands moved so quickly, it was like a blur. In a matter of seconds, he had hoisted her coils of flesh, packing and kneading it into a doughy lump.

Clara gasped and moaned, her skin stretched taut, folded over itself, and packed down over, and over, and over again. She didn't understand this feeling, where this strength had come from. Her clay-like skin was powerful, resistant to abuse, but the sensations assaulted her frazzled mind.

She wasn't prepared. And while she was stunned, he seized his chance. She felt heat radiating somewhat to her backside as Dean wrested a door open...

"GAH!"

She exclaimed as she was thrust inside, and slammed inside a piping hot oven! Assaulted by heating coils on all sides, her body writhed and bubbled under the intense heat. He was literally baking her! She wriggled, trying to wrest herself free, but the space was compact, and he was holding the door shut!

Her skin burbled, olive-hued ooze trickling through the gap in the oven door as her body bubbled over and over, expanding. Her mind was overtaken by the heat coursing through her body, inside and out. She was melting, she couldn't hold herself together.

She screamed until her mouth filled with the same ooze, and burbled as if drowning in her own body. The oven rocked madly as she tried to escape...

...And then it stopped. Dean glanced down to the ooze trickling down the sides, pooling harmlessly on the floor.

"...She was right about one thing." He grimaced. "Hopefully she'll be the last assassin I have to deal with."

He sighed, rubbing his forehead.

"Who am I kidding? It's never going to end. I'll have to lay low again... well, better clean up this mess."

He opened the oven, letting Clara's formless, melted body spill across his polished floor. He picked up a mop and, for the next hour, set himself to the arduous task of mopping up his polymorphic opponent.

"...well, that's all of it." Dean squeezed the last of the ooze into the barrel, looking over her. "And the cupcakes went with her too... damn." He shook his head.

"...mm... nn..."

The barrel of ooze burbled indistinctly. Dean's eyes widened.

She's still alive?? He thought to himself. How do I deal with this? ...Wait, yes. Of course.

He cocked his head up, listening carefully. He could hear a familiar garbage truck a couple blocks down, on its way to grab his junk.

I guess I should take out the trash. He nodded to himself, and hoisted the barrel, dropping it next to a dumpster in the alleyway. He spotted the truck, and retreated back into the shop himself.

A winch lowered to hoist the barrel; its content shifted within, before pouring into a hatch in the back.

Clara yelped as her formless body splattered into the back of the truck. Still dazed, confused, and lacking form and substance, her liquid body shifted as it tasted everything around her. And everything tasted awful. Her heightened senses were not pleased.

Clara's form undulated and wobbled, forming a vague facsimile of a human in the darkness of the truck. "Ugh, what is that smell, I can't... eh?"

Kchunk. She glanced up to find a large metal plate lowering down to her.

"GACK! NONONONO-"

It pressed down against her form, flattening her to a pancake as she was pushed deeper and deeper into the rubber. She was surrounded by garbage, she couldn't move! She couldn't speak!

She squirmed helplessly as the truck puttered along down its scheduled route...

---

Clara did ultimately survive her ordeal. That was never in question; her unique body could withstand pain and tribulations beyond any mere mortal. But she couldn't think of a more mortifying, more embarrassing way to go.

The sun would be setting by the time Clara lurched back to her hotel room, the stench of filth clinging to her like a needy ex. She lost her keycard partway through the day, and simply melted into a puddle to slide under the door. The hotel carpet tickled her oozing form.

She reformed on the other side, lying down in a prone position; she let out a guttural groan, her fingernails digging into the carpet.

"That was the worst... I'm perfection incarnate, I can't be... stood up by him..." She sobbed quietly to herself. Her head raised. "I... I need to wash myself off and... and... huh?"

There was a tray waiting for her on her bed. There was a pretty, decorated little cupcake, and a business card. It was a garish shade of pink.

She recognized that shade of pink. Her arm elongated, creaking to reach for the card. There was something written on the back.

Don't come looking for me.

Her eyebrows furrowed. Staggering to her feet, she paced over to the cupcake, holding it up in her hands.

It smelled delectable... and she was starving.

...She growled, stuffing the meticulously crafted dessert down her throat. Her eyes widened. It had a strawberry filling, with subtle hints of vanilla... it was delicious.

Her cheeks flushed red as she stirred, tossing the business card to the bedside.

"I-if that standoffish oaf thinks he can buy me off with an over-the-counter treat, he... he's got another thing coming." She stuttered, leaning over to glare at his dinky little bakery.

"I'll chase you to the end of the earth... Dean Constantine."

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