For most people when the sun goes down, it seems like they're not as happy. For Vasquez, his clothes had been modern and strange, what with the fuzzy beige sweater and the denim jeans, though he did like the embossed and heavy belt that had gone with it.

When the sun had set and people reappeared in his vision in costumes, he's only got half his vision. At least, until he pushes the patch aside, his eyes brimming with delight at the fact that he's wearing a coat that's as beautiful as he's only seen in fancy stores and boots that he could see himself wearing always.

He's not sure what he's supposed to be, especially not with the patch, but trailing his fingers over the bandanna in his hair and the hat, he digs out a cigarette as he laughs, deep and warm, shaking his head as he goes to get himself a drink.

Smoke, a drink, and great clothes? "This is my kind of party," he tells the people nearest him, adjusting his hat and smirking with pride.