My job isn't an easy one. How cliche is that? Looking for pity as an opening. Well, even if I were just a regular cop in the bustling city of San Francisco, my job would be hard. I'm a detective for a special agency. An agency dedicated to the unknown and "un-natural".
The title is very misleading. The term un-natural implies that they aren't supposed to be here. In actuality it's the other way around, humans are the youngest and everything "un-natural" was here before us. As such, my job is to gather information from the inhuman population of San Fran. It's bigger than you might think. I use this information to solve crimes and keep the peace, as well as keep the secret from the regular populace.
My main informant is a creature posing as an Antique Shop owner. A shape-shifter is his species' more common name. "Riokuvin" in his natural tongue. He has lived longer than three of my family's generations combined. He may not be older than time, but his species is, and it's almost astonishing combined with the fact that he doesn't look a day over 34.
Recently, there was a case I needed help on. I begrudgingly sought out his help and information. My partner was meeting him for the first time, and I suppose I could excuse her excitement and bewilderment on my blatant dislike of him. She found out soon enough why I try (in vain) to keep emotional barriers between myself and this charming and laid back person.
She was filling him in on what we knew as he glanced over the case file, sipping his favorite frozen coffee. When she finally asked his opinion, he replied with something that shocked the both of us, and I'd known him far longer than Detective Vena.
"Why bother? Stopping this particular species is next to impossible for you humans, it's suicidal. Just leave him be. He's not killing anyone of importance."
He goes by the name of Ethen Blackwater the 3rd, and usually has a bored expression, eyes always half closed. Sometimes he looks and acts so human, and I suppose that's the point, that I forget. Forget that he doesn't care. Isn't fazed by murder or the loss of human life.
"A life has ended! Therefore they are important!" My partner stubbornly argues. She's speaking to uninterested ears. She doesn't know what kind of man-no-being he is. Surprisingly he answers her.
"Humans vastly overestimate their value. You are overpopulating this planet to the extent that the ones before you are getting irritated, just barely excluding my own race. Be content this is all that is happening. Learn your place."
I will never forget the way those inhuman copper eyes, clouded with knowledge no human could ever obtain, became colder than ice itself. Nothing ever forces those half closed eyes to open all the way. That chilling indifference to death, the way he spoke of humans, make it impossible to forget that he is very much inhuman.
His heart is as cold as the indestructible crystal that it is made of. Copper eyes reflect it for open display.
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