Trask's finger tapped near the end of the half-burnt cigarette, depositing the ashes into an ashtray on a cheap-ass table on his cheap-ass patio in the cheap-ass district of South Sacramento.

Not that he minded it. It had been a while since his Embrace. He'd gotten used to roughing it. It honestly made it easier to blend in, to hide, to protect the Masquerade that kept legions of scared villagers with torches and pitchforks from rabbling their way on up to his front door in the middle of the day. That would be a large pain in the ass.

At least, that's what he'd imagine would happen. It wasn't like the world was ready for their kind, like awful TV writers tried to suggest in True Blood.

Pulling the cigarette back up to his lips for another long drag, Trask considered his Requiem with a single, objective eye. So much had changed since that first day at Vorigan's shitty bar. Roxie Hart had come in like a whirlwind with her dog, snapping them all into action. Of that first group, he was the last one left... alive? In town?

He didn't know.

The cigarette burned out. He swore to himself and flicked his cheap Bic lighter. He couldn't find his Zippo anywhere. Maybe he left it at Trax by accident.

The mission to the Motel had been nuts. A real life vampire hunter? He supposed it made sense; vampires were real, why wouldn't humans who found out about them hunt them down? He had admired the man's moxie, coming after Roland with just one friend. He'd seen Richard's mind control shit at work, Garth's animal transformation into a crazy fucking bat -- it seemed like two wouldn't be enough, but yet it had been. Maybe that was why Trask had only poked his hand a little rather than something more drastic. He respected what the Kine had done. Vampires weren't the apex predator. Humans had the capacity to remind them who was the boss of the food chain.

That realization, that reality... it bothered him. For all their morbid humour about bloodbags popping into the bar, the vampire race were little more than parasites, surviving on stolen blood.

Ah, fuck, I'm the Tick.

A flick of his fingers and the dying cigarette snapped into the ashtray. Watching the burning ember at the end as it flared out, Trask couldn't help but try to remember the sun for a moment.