Is a Little Bit of Variety Too Much To Ask?

"Everyday is the same. Work, Eat, Work, Eat. Sleep? What a pathetic assumption, I suppose something like you would assume we were just alike. You see me, and think, ah yes, he is just like me, for real. I am nothing like you, you are criminal, a human, worthless trash. And everyday, I have to put up with your cohorts buzzing around like flies on this shit covered world. Spare me spare me, don't kill me, I have a family, I have money, I didn't do it, every time you fucking people can never come up with anything original. Why don't you spare me and stop begging? Get fucked? We'll see, the night is still young. Do you have any idea what it's like, to have to put up with the monotony of your mayfly existence? I can do things you couldn't even imagine, see things your eyes are literally incapable of perceiving, and here I am, cleaning up trash, the lowest of the fucking low that your species can even reach. Some little needle peddler was my directive. Mine. I've killed mages capable of altering reality, capable of leveling cities, and here I am, dirtying my hands with your fucking blood. Disgusting." Trace finishes the dirty looking fleabag he'd been ranting at with a single hand through the chest cavity, pulling his heart out in a brief moment of monstrous finesse before crushing it to a fleshy red pulp. The corpse falls backwards onto the opulent bed of silk sheets and dark wooden grain panels, turning white gold to red, the woman by his side screaming bloody murder. He silences her too, the blood and viscera on his hand morphing into a facsimile of a gun, painting her brains across the floor to ceiling penthouse windows. From up high, he looks down at the city-ship of New Oakland. The gaudy neon lights, high rises, flowing highways between pockets of darkness, and even from his vast distance he could make out the hedonistic wastelanders gorging themselves on whatever vice happened to catch their fancy. He catches his own sneering reflection, flawless features spattered with blood, eyes far too malicious to be seen by anyone of relevance. So he puts the mask back, Trace the detective, forcing himself to flatten his affect, finding the stillness within to retreat into, before bringing his bloodless hand to his left ear to trigger his radio. "Target neutralized, cleanup crew required, hostage diffusal resulted in double homicide." He lies easily, voice atonal.
"Roger, B1007, return to the rendezvous point for extraction." The feminine voice in his ear responds, and for a moment he debates attempting to clean up the scene. The trajectory of the blood spatter was damning, but there would be no ballistics to trace back to him, and the gun-shaped heart fell to bits and pieces on the white and gold embroidered Turkish rug. Too much of a hassle, he decides, knowing full well the benevolent hand that feeds would never allow for petty details to blow his cover. Without a second thought, he turns from the duet of corpses, idly cleaning his dirtied hand with his tongue. The taste left much to be desired, mired in filth as it was, narcotics quickly neutralized, and alcohol broken down to simple sugars via superior digestive capabilities. Still, he had had worse, so he made sure to lick himself clean, dabbing at the loose flecks of blood on his face as he walked through the carnage of the hotel.
There was blood everywhere, the smell of it intoxicating, coppery with a hint of sweetness that stuck to the tongue despite the many flaws no doubt suffusing the majority of the mess. Rococo style walls, flowering with yellows, pinks, and white branches, dark wood cabinets, armoires, and couches surrounded ivory fountains, each marred with red, the water overflowing pink from the addition of several dead, suited humans. Not even worth tasting, he continued, until he reached the elevator. A tall, glass cage gilded in gold that ran along the outside of the towering hotel. Across the skyline, a single black shape moved at increasing speeds, and with a swift front kick he broke the glass cage. Leaping from the remains of the elevator, he has just a split second to grab the line, before the black blur speeds onward and upwards away from the carnage.
Trace dangles there for a while, eyes flat as he takes in the sights and sounds of New Oakland. But there's nothing new, in an alley, a woman being raped, under the neon lights of Le Carnivale, another drug deal, and down by the edges of the ship, beggars and homeless chattel stewing in their own filth. Not even a hint of artistry, as the man finishes quickly and just walks away, the two men split, money exchanged, and the poor squabble over pittances he can't even bring himself to count. Not even a hint of ingenuity, just trash being trash. He climbs his way up, sick to death of the monotony.
Vicky, his current handler, awaits him with the typical, boring, poised posture of any other agent. She observes him with obvious attachment, it's sickening, so he averts his eyes and adopts his typical mute, placid persona.
"Good work out there Trace, not even a scratch as usual." She says, her voice unable to stay indifferent despite her best efforts. He just nods. She settles back, thankfully reading his disinterest as discomfort, before turning to look out the windows of the helicopter, sunglasses reflecting the purple glow of New Oakland from miles away.
The trip is thankfully short, and they touch down on Alcatraz smoothly, the landing pad awash with sea spray and the sound of crashing waves. The side of the Great Dome is ringed by runes, blue glow reflected in churning waters, and then reflected again by the polished metal of their substrate. The glimmering silver shifts, as though unwinding, and the path inside is revealed in teeth, flat and sideways, as the walls split like fabric to allow their entry. White light blasts outwards, harsh against the dark of the night and poorly lit sea. With Vicky trailing behind as usual, he enters, and allows the metal jaw to sew shut behind him, leaving him in ugly phosphorescence and bland off-white walls.
The elevator is similarly drab, an only half polished grey with fingerprints and dust leaving traces of the many lesser beings that infested the undersea hive like larva. He leans against the metal wall, allowing the human to dirty herself with the buttons, her, 39, and for him, 52. The metal box descends, a slow steady rumble of practically defunct machinery signaling their approach to the depths. Vicky is unsubtle in her eyeing of him from behind her glasses, though he couldn't say why, and he didn't really care. Until she asks, "Are you busy tonight? After our debriefing, Me and some of the other Agents are going out to New Babylon. We'd love for you to join us." Her body language is obvious now, as she attempts to invite him to some inanity.
"Sorry, I have to go return some video tapes." He replies, staring straight ahead, borrowing a line he'd heard from some movie the other day out of sheer laziness. She laughs, hand covering her mouth, before shaking her head.
"Yeah, no problem, I thought you might be busy." She says, coping. When she steps out of the elevator, she gives him a look from behind her sunglasses that he didn't care to interpret, and he's suddenly missing at least the distraction of her company as the monotonous grey cage moves ever downward.
It was times like these, the dry spells, where his fake job became the real job and the mask of detective became unbearable that he wondered why he even bothered pretending. Tonight's diversion had been weeks of paperwork, boring computer investigations, photography, and testimony, only to end in mere minutes because the stupid, drug dealing, wannabe mage selling wannabe magic couldn't defend his organization to save their sorry pathetic lives. Not nearly good enough, not even worth getting out of bed for. If he hadn't been so bored of being bored, he would have left it to the other agents, and enjoyed the carnage of the both of them and the weeks of fallout.
He steps out from the elevator, and immediately knows something is finally, finally different. At first, he can't place it, it feels like it's coming from everywhere, and nowhere, all at once. He sniffs, once, two times, and finds the scent of something like coffee, woman, and mage, but so faint it felt like a dream. Despite his boss waiting down the right hall, he turns left, following the scent with single minded interest. And she is interesting.
Her body is almost hazy, despite his true sight, not a projection, not an illusion, but almost a mirage, as though if he put his hands on her, she would disappear. Eyes, glassy, and looking straight at him. Seeing him. Knowing. They're cold, and they resonate with some distant quiet place he knew before his own name. His mouth goes dry. Then, salivates, for something truly new, something he had never known. Before he can stop himself, he's moving, so desperate for any novelty that he'd risk his cover and a tighter leash just to know a fresh flavour.
And then she's gone. As though she'd never been at all, leaving him bloodless, shaking, and with a mouth full of saliva.
But he had her scent, and Trace was nothing at all, if not persistent.