Message #33336

[R. S. Packman]

((I know you said it was paused, but I wanted to post this since I am going to start posting again.  If it doesn't work for some reason that I am unaware of then tell me and I will fix it.))

  Ryan stood at the front door of the hotel.  Much had changed, both to him and the clan, in his time away.  He hated to admit it, but in his journeys he had shirked his duties, and he knew this would be frowned upon.  He was probably looking at a demotion in rank as well.

"Just **** let me in!" he yelled to the doorman.  The voice sounded familiar, but he could not yet place it.

"I'm sorry, but I can't let you in.  I don't know of any Ryan's in the Clan except for the two that are up stairs in the bar.  I know, I checked to see that they were there."

"I **** out-rank you!  Now open the door or I'll have to shoot through it."  Ryan yelled at the top of his lungs, chambering the first .45 round into his Thompson, his back turned on the door as he eyed the Long Arms.  They seemed to have been trained to the point where they ignored the clan outpost, but they had never seen it take this long for the door to open and they were getting anxious.

Suddenly the door opened and Ryan jumped in, a Desert Eagle pointed in his face. 

"Sir, if you really are in the clan, I need to know your room number." the doorman said, never lowering the large handgun.

"Room 22b.  Check up on it."  Ryan remarked as he made his way up the stairs.  The salutes he used to get were gone now, replaced with inquisitive whispering and outlandish looks.  Under normal circumstances he would have been mad, but it was to be expected.  He had been gone for nearly three months now, since just after the merging into DUSK.

On his way up he had actually been stopped by a group of Engines demanding that as the "Newbie" he would have to pay for his room.  When he stated that he already had a room and questioned when that clause had been added to the clan laws, they each took out their weapons.  After a few quick swings of his cricket bat and a few more broken bones, he had made his way past.

After a few minutes, he reached his room on the sixth floor.  Inserting the key into his door, he turned it in the handle and walked in.  A thick layer of dust was visible on everything.  From the hidden stash of munitions and money in his closet to the straight razor on his sink, dust was visible.

There is no way I've been gone that long....... Ryan thought to himself, a wave of sadness coming over him.  Had his old friends forgotten him as well.  Perhaps they thought he was dead.  Throwing down his bag he fell onto the bed, his eyes closed.

Many would question his whereabouts, if they even remembered him.  He would tell them.  For the past three and a half months Ryan had been wandering the country outside of Fairview.  It had been a **** to get out of the city with the amount of military blocks still there even after six years, but it had been worth it.  He had tried to keep in contact with the clan even in his absence, but one of the only ways he'd had to keep in touch was from the CB, and his had been destroyed by a mutation never before seen in Fairview within a week.  His travels had taught him many things.  From the joy of finding love and the pain of losing it to how easy it seemed they had things in Fairview, he had learned much.

Now he stood up and looked at himself in the mirror.  His old LR8, a gift from his few friends received upon his acceptance into the Zero Agents of the original Fenrirs Fangs, was gone.  It had been damaged beyond repair by the acid secreted from a new mutation.  In it's place was a thick black metal plate, a Russian made SN-42 body armor.  Over it was a brown fur coat.  His legs were clad with Blue Jeans and a pair of tan Dickie work boots, and on his head was a brown Cowboy hat.  Beneath his clothes he was thin, very thin.  He had toned his body to near super human comparison from the simple amount of running he was forced to do because of the new zombie variants he had encountered outside of the city he now loved to call home.  His hair was greasy from lack of cleaning and fell to the middle of his back, a rough goatee adorned his tan, thin face.

Surely by now the news of his arrival would have traveled, and he would be getting a visit from his superior.  He only hoped that whoever was working the CB today would have heard and sent out the news into the inner city.  His comrades were most likely out anyway, and he wanted them to know something.  Ryan was back, and he had some **** stories to tell.