"Honey, you smell… different," Mr. Cavallon said.
You're no picnic either, darling. Of course I couldn't really say that, though. I tried to incognito get a sniff of whatever he was smelling, but got nothing.
"Why don't you take a shower? Relax a bit. You're acting a little tense," he said when I didn't reply. Fuck you too, I thought. Damn it, I couldn't risk this getting awkward. Reconnaissance was so stupid. Why not just kill everyone we thought was onto us? Why couldn't I just kill this moron right here and now? It would be so easy…. Much faster than searching this whole house for evidence the agent I was impersonating knew something she shouldn't. Then, if I killed him, I could frame her and just like that, she'd be out of the way.
"Honey?" he asked. I was making him nervous. Good. Not good. Stupid wrench in my plans, I'd have to do what he said or blow my cover. Murdering him was becoming more attractive by the second.
"Yeah, yeah, fine." Probably not the way she typically treated her husband. Oh well. I turned and walked away – too quickly, I hadn't thought to remember which way their bedroom was. I needed time to think. I walked over to the fridge and grabbed a hot dog. Not bothering to heat it up, I bit the top off. The bedroom was up the stairs, down the hall to the left. Of course.
All these human houses looked the same, drab wallpaper and expensive furniture –cougheveryonestillknowsyou'rebrokecough– and let's not forget the hideous framed photos of their grimy little kids. The more houses I snuck into, the harder it was to tell one from the other.
I took another bite of the hot dog as I passed the living room. Mr. Cavallon looked up from his newspaper and paled. I could see he wanted to say something – "Shouldn't you heat that up?" "Would you like a bun?" I grinned at him and kept going.
The private bathroom attached to their bedroom was teeny tiny – barely enough room for the tub. I slammed and locked the door behind me, allowing myself to shift back into my usual body. The one I liked being in; the one that suited me best. I gave myself another sniff-over. I do not stink. I threw the remainder of the hot dog on the floor. Human food was so disgusting. Let him find it later and wonder what'd gotten into his beloved wife.
There were stains around the drain in the tub. This whole room, no, this whole house, even the husband, smelled musty. There was something about this place – something that suggested it was once cared for, but had been neglected. I wondered what had done it. Had the military wife gone to war and returned a different, broken woman? Had the husband been caught being unfaithful? Had the child died? Whatever it was, it was sickening. I caught myself feeling sorry for the buggers that lived here. Of course I should feel sorry for them. They're nothing but human.
I walked over to the tub. There were a series of knobs sticking out of the wall – those were probably important. I'd never actually used a human shower before. But if humans could do it, how hard could it be? I stepped into the tub and pulled the curtain across its rail, hiding the rest of the little room in the process.
The knobs were conveniently labelled hot and cold. I hesitated a moment – Do I want burning hot or freezing cold? Humans were so stupid. Why not make a knob for 'in the middle'? I didn't want to waste time, so I cranked the 'cold' knob as far as it'd go. Freezing water splashed out of the lower tap, pooling around my toes. What the hell? Weren't you supposed to stand under the water? I crouched down to get a better look.
Humans actually fit themselves under this not-even-knee-high spout? Idiots. They could have put it higher up. Oh well. I crouched down and wedged myself under the tap. I could have shape-shifted, but that felt like cheating. If humans could do this without shape-shifting, so could I. I put both hands on the spout to try and pull myself farther under. My head was directly in the flow, and icy water spilled over my hair and into my eyes. With the way I was crouching, it was impossible to keep my face out of the stream. I kept holding onto the spout as I shifted position, but it was getting slippery. My hand slid over the metal, moving towards the end until it hit another knob, one I hadn't noticed before. I pulled at it, and instantly the water stopped gushing over me. A pipe deep in the wall groaned, and the showerhead higher up burst into life.
Oh. That makes more sense. I laughed a little. Whoops. I wriggled out from under the lower faucet, hitting my head twice as I went. I'd only just gotten to my feet when I slipped and fell, right on my ass, with a huge thud. There were a few hairline cracks in the white paint of the tub where I'd landed.
"Honey!" I heard the husband call in distress.
"I'm alright, dear!" I called back, forgetting to disguise my voice. I tried again. "I'm alright dear!" I yelled in his wife's voice. The only response was a squeak of distress from the other side of the door. I couldn't help it, I giggled again. Stupid man.
I got to my feet and tried again. This showerhead was not only much higher up; it was much wider, too. My clothes were getting soaked and I couldn't take them off – they were just a part of this body I'd made – so I retracted them into my skin.
The water was, if possible, even colder now than when I'd first turned it on. I reached for the knob to shut it off, but the spray of the shower got into my eyes at exactly the wrong moment, blinding me. I waved my arms at the direction of the wall until my hand found a knob, and I turned it. But instead of turning off the water, it only made it warmer. Well, at least it was more a more comfortable temperature. I rubbed my eyes clear and stepped back, allowing the water to wash over me. Really, this wasn't so bad.
There were a bunch of water-stained bottles lining the rim of the tub. The first one I grabbed was labeled 'Shampoo' and, in finer print, had the words 'For silky smooth hair.' I rubbed a strand of my own not-so-silky-smooth hair between my fingers. Guess I'll give it a try.
I popped the top off and squeezed it over my hand, allowing enough of the stuff to come out that it dribbled between my fingers. It had a slimy consistency, kind of gross, and was an ugly shade of bright pink. The 'directions' section of the bottle said I should 'lather' it into my hair – whatever that meant – and then rinse. I had doubts, but I brought the handful of goo up to my head and let it glop off my hand into my hair. The sensation was absolutely disgusting, a dripping ooze down my forehead and along my scalp. I reached up and ran my fingers though my hair, trying to get more of it in contact with the stuff. It took a lot of wiggling of fingers but after a while, most of my hair was coated in it. It formed a sort of nice-smelling white foam that didn't feel quite as disgusting as the pink liquid.
I rubbed the remainder over my skin, just because it smelled nice. Then I snatched up the bottle again and squeezed more of the stuff onto my hands – the bottle was almost empty by that point. I clenched my fist around the glob just to hear the squelching sound. I rubbed my hands together to create more of the foam, and then scrubbed that over myself too.
The air around me smelled nice, fresh, not like the stink of the city and underground I was used to. I smiled while I let the warm water wash over me. I stood there for a long time, until the water started to run cold. Hey! I reached my hand up and shook the faucet, but the water just kept getting colder. I was too distracted by frustration to hear the front door open and close downstairs. But I did hear the husband start to scream, followed by a thud, and then a woman wailing downstairs. I spun the two temperature knobs until the water stopped coming, pulled the curtain, and stepped out of the tub.
I shook my head quickly, splattering water from my hair around the room. The woman was still screaming downstairs. Probably Mrs. Cavallon. Oops. I'd taken too long. That and I hadn't even properly snooped around. Oh well, I could come back tomorrow. I shape-shifted into the body of a middle aged man with dirty overalls, a gray t-shirt, and a baseball cap. Then I hurried down the stairs, into the entryway.
Mrs. Cavallon stared at me in helpless surprise. I looked her up and down – damn I was good. I'd mimicked her appearance perfectly. She was kneeling on the floor, with her unconscious – or dead – husband sprawled next to her. She was holding his head in her lap. How sweet.
"What's the problem?" I asked in my gruff, middle aged man voice.
"Who are you!?" she demanded.
"I'm with Pride and Wrath Plumbing," I said. Did I really just say that? For fuck's sakes. All I could do was plow on. "Your husband called me about a leak in the shower… what's wrong with him?"
"I think he's had a heart attack!" Oh, what a shame. I almost smiled, but caught myself.
"That's terrible! I'll go call for help!" I ran into the kitchen, smirking, and dialled the emergency number, but I didn't connect the call. "We need help! I said into the receiver. "A man has had a heart attack! Please, send a doctor!" I spoke the address of the house into the dead silence of the phone. "Thank you," I said breathlessly, and dropped the phone back onto its cradle.
"Will you stay with me until they get here?" Mrs. Cavallon asked.
"Sure thing," I told her. "I think I have a first aid kit in my car," I said, hoping she'd have forgotten her car was the only one in the driveway. "Let me just go grab it."
She nodded tearfully. I walked out the front door, and continued on down the street. Of course, Mr. Cavallon would have to die, otherwise he might raise suspicions when he tried telling people someone had impersonated his wife so perfectly. What a shame. Too bad I hadn't based this body off of a real plumber, someone I could frame. I ducked into an alleyway for a moment, shifting into the body of a random passer-by I'd just seen go the other way.
On my way back to the grate that'd take me to the sewer system, I thought about showers. They were fun. Of course, I'd be in trouble for not getting the information we needed, but oh well. I'd go back tomorrow, pretending to be someone else. As for the Cavallons, well, no one could say I didn't clean up after myself.