Ryker Petrović

[Ryker]

Dayton, 2044

The Dayton, Ohio airport was busier than ever in its existence. Thirty-years ago, perhaps it was a different story, when fuel was plenty and travel widespread. Today, the world of 2044 was dreary. Especially when it came to the melancholy land-of-the-free.

However, it was a long line in which Ryker waited at the turntables for his luggage to be deposited from hollow tubes. Reporters, media, bloggers, visitors, protestors and fans – together they added to the cacophony that echoed in the cavernous metal terminal.

Ryker arrived in Dayton by way of JFK alone. Nobody cared about the businessman traveling under the guise of an energy lobbyist. His credentials flashed green at the border. This was hardly his first trip inside the States. Likely, the CIA circulated their own agents within the Custody like viruses undetected. Ryker didn’t care. It wasn’t for profound patriotism that he served the CCD, although his allegiance wasn’t a detractor either. Like most that entered the armed forces at minimum age rank requirements (18), he did it for the thrill of heated moments. That he was flagged early on as one to watch, various psychiatric examinations combined with the immediacy with which he followed orders, he was an ample clay willing to fit a mold the Custody needed.

Recruitment carried him through the bowels of Custody foreign defense, counter-terrorism, recon operations, and finally, national interventions. Black ops.

He was no stranger to U.S. soil. The blonde hair and blue eyes carried him through coffee shops and food stands. The gruff, eastern European accent was muted, if not exactly American. But it was close enough that nobody bat an eyelash when he thanked a worker for the coffee or hailed a taxi.

The hotel where Ascendancy would be participating in the energy summit was out of the question for a guy like him. He was a low-ball player. A consultant. A lobbyist. He stayed at a double-level chain-brand hotel. The kind that offered donuts and orange juice in the morning and called it a continental breakfast. Ryker didn’t eat donuts.

He turned on the t.v. when he entered the room, absorbing coverage of the summit in brief passing. But the noise was a muffler. He dialed a number, listened a moment and checked the panel of a wrist-wallet. Directions and an estimated time of arrival were on display.
“I’ll be there in 20 minutes.”

He left the suitcase in the room. There was nothing in it but prop clothing, toiletries, and a novel he’d never open. He didn’t intend on returning for any of them.

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The house was a small bungalow style building in a mostly empty neighborhood of Dayton outskirts. If it wasn’t for the shadow of the nuclear power plant down the road, the homes would be more desirable. As it was, located on the ‘wrong side of the tracks’ the sub-division was mostly empty lots and unfinished wooden frames. There were no neighbors to witness the sudden uptick in visitors.

The mailbox concealed a recently installed security system that flashed green when he input his codes.

The team was already waiting inside.