A balmy night finds Brightstar Boulevard still liberally filled with strollers in spite of the later hours; out for food, drinks, or just to enjoy the temperate weather. Lounging upon one end of a bench, one boot propped upon a knee and elbow hanging over the seat's back, Smoketrail absently laps at the last gristle and meat still clinging to a large dribgib drumstick purchased from a nearby stand as she watches the pedestrians. This time, when Mika blows out that acrid cloud, she is not so considerate of sensitive feline noses. It hits Smoketrail in the face like a brick wall.