Author's note: The other night I got the sudden urge to write a Nomak ficlet dealing with what he was experiencing the whole time he was a Reaper. And I followed through. So, here it is. Hope everyone enjoys and please review.

Disclaimer: I do not own Nomak, Damaskinos, Blade, Nyssa, Reapers, or anything else, ok? They belong to David Goyer, Marvel, and whoever else. Please, do not sue me. I mean to copyright infringement. Savvy?



Nomak watched as the other reapers fed, loud, sucking noises could be heard. Almost like slurping. It had a wet, sticky quality to it, if that was possible, for a sound to have those qualities. It was not an attractive sound, nor pleasing to the ears.

But for Nomak and the others like him, it made their mouths water for more blood. Always more blood. They never had enough. They never could get rid of the pulsing, pounding thirst that made their mouths dry and their long, inhuman and vampire as well, tongues ache.

Always so hungry. So thirsty for something to fill their empty stomachs and cool their heated bodies. That was why vampire blood was better. It was cooler. But hardly any relief. They were all on fire. Feverish and burning.


There was never any relief.

At least those he sired could die from it. He felt as if he was constantly dying, but death never came. How he longed for the cold grip of death to overtake him. He would have gotten himself killed long ago, except for one thing.

He had to make certain there were no more like him. He had to avenge himself. Because nobody cared enough about him to do it for him after he died. Because nobody cared enough to save him from becoming this, being turned into this.

Indeed, his own father was the one who created the thing Jared Nomak now was.

And that was why he had to do it himself. He had the right. No other did. Not even, his sister. Who was not even aware she was not an only child. Who had not known he even existed until he had broken out, diseased and in constant agony.

She had always been the favorite.

Perhaps he would kill her as well.

Perhaps he would let her be the one to kill him. Her, or the Daywalker.

The sounds of the others, the mindless ones that were allowed the blessing of death, were making his stomach ache too badly for him to sit and watch them any longer. He had to feed again.

Leaping down from the car he sat on, he walked out of that alley to find another bum. Bums were the best human victims as far as not drawing any attention. And there were plenty along these streets. He found one within five minutes.

The poor bastard begged and pleaded for his life. His desperate cries for mercy made Nomak pause.

"Mercy? You know what mercy is, old man?" he asked, his voice so raspy and still unfamiliar even to his own ears. "Mercy is me releasing you from this miserable existence you think is a life. Freeing you of your addiction to a drink that doesn't even taste good anymore, but you need to keep drinking to avoid the worse pain of going without."

The bum stared at Nomak with a greater fear now, and extreme shame. Of course. He had brought his addiction and pain down upon himself. He was what Nomak hated. He had thrown everything away, just for the bottle of some drink that probably never tasted good period.

He could have avoided this miserable existence. Unlike Nomak.

Nomak was addicted to blood. He needed it. Or he would be like a drunkard or druggie that had gone too long without their own addiction. He could not understand why anyone would want to even take the risk of falling into such a situation. He could understand why any of them would kill themselves.

"You see, old man, I am going to give you peace. Free you of those shakes, those intense craving you think will make your head explode," Nomak told him. "You should thank me." Angered by the sight of the pathetic man of self-induced need, Nomak decided he would le this one be conscious while he fed.

It was not a pleasant experience. Probably wouldn't be more painful than his longing for alcohol though.

Nomak finally shoved the man's head back and opened his mouth wide as his tongue came out and latched onto his victim, hungrily draining the man. Nomak would have sighed as he felt a slight relief of his burning pain if his mouth had not been busy trying to lessen the pain as much as was possible.

The bum's body shook but was paralyzed and could do nothing more as Nomak took every drop of blood from the drunkard. This time Nomak did not concern himself with letting the others feed and try to numb their own pain, this time he feasted on his victim, and only his.

As the bum dropped to the ground, dead and his insides already started to change into something wholly different from human, Nomak walked back to the others with an expression of hatred.

Hatred for the bum and those like him, those that threw themselves into their own personal hell of addiction. Hatred for his father and his familiars, for all vampires, for what they had done to him, made him become.

Because even after a meal all his own, he still hurt.

He always hurt.

Always craved.