So much had changed, and yet so much had not. Ryan was assailed with a number of inexplicable emotions as he stepped over the low threshold of Sullivan’s, an unassuming pub tucked away into the buildings flanking the street. This was an area torn between the old and the new, with architecture out of the 1900s juxtaposed against a number of 21st century developments. A little corner of the US set in a large city and yet abandoned by civilization, half-forgotten in mainstream society’s push for modernization.<br/><br/>Much of it was familiar. The lone, spread-out streetlamps illuminating a narrow street, casting their baleful glows onto chipped wood and faded paint and doing little to dispel the shadows. The quiet serenity of the neighborhood that bordered on idyllic, doing its best to mask a shadowed past and a troubled present. The sporadic bursts of conversation and laughter that spilled out onto the streets, explosive sounds that indicated a vivacity within the silence of night. The sights, the sounds, and the expectant mood all harkened back to a different time, when Ryan had been a part of this place rather than a stranger in a foreign land. Maybe he was the one that had changed, not this place.<br/><br/>The pub itself hadn’t changed much. The dim lights provided a cozy and mysterious mood, not so much welcoming as alluring. Irish memorabilia dotted the walls – a flag there, a Celtic cross here. The spot wasn’t too crowded, courtesy of it being a weekday, but there were more than enough patrons to offer Sullivan’s a sense of livelihood. Not that it necessarily needed to sell alcohol to maintain a profit. His dark eyes scanned the darkened room, absentmindedly taking note of the various customers socializing or nursing drinks. Some were new. Some Ryan recognized, old regulars involved in the community in various ways. Would they recognize him? When he had left he was a scrawnier young teen - clean-shaven, clad in grimy clothing, just finding his way in the world. The army had helped him put on muscle, somewhat groomed facial hair, and now he was wearing a casual yet clean button up and well-fitting jeans. Most importantly, he didn’t feel like he fit in anymore. There was an air to the regulars that told you they had lived here for their entire lives, would probably live here for the rest of their existence. That probably would have been him if he hadn’t joined the army. But now Ryan was just visiting, stopping by for a bit of reminiscence while he drifted into the next phase of his life.<br/><br/>Ryan’s fingers drifted over a lacquered wood table as he picked his way through the chairs to the bar. A few people inspected him idly, but soon decided he was of little interest. Most didn’t look up at him at all. He slipped onto a hard stool the same way he had done so hundreds of times in years past, but without the same familial familiarity.<br/><br/>The bartender was someone Ryan didn’t recognize, a pretty green-eyed girl that couldn’t have been older than twenty. Another jarring change brought about by five years. She would have been just an early teen when Ryan had left; he wondered if she was someone that he should have known. It didn’t matter.<br/><br/>“Guinness.” A concise order. “Please.”<br/><br/>The girl moved to oblige, soon bringing him back a tall glass of the dark drink. Ryan took a sip, savoring the creamy texture and the sweet tones breaking through. Not bad.<br/><br/>“You’re not from around here,” the girl observed. Her voice was sweet and curious, inflected with a slight Bostonian drawl.<br/><br/>Ryan looked up from the woodgrain patterns in the bar, finally taking a good look at his aspiring conversational partner. Long brown hair, green eyes, an ever-so-slightly crooked nose. Almost imperceptible freckles and an inquiring look. He smiled knowingly and dodged the observation. The inquiry brought him back to a childhood brawling on the street, violent fistfights, occasional gunshots, and an absolutely twisted affair. They weren’t bad memories, but he didn’t feel like talking about them right now. “Just got back from overseas,” he replied casually. “You’re from Southie?”<br/><br/>“Yup!” The girl smiled; it was obviously a point of pride. “Born and raised. Name’s Breanna. Where’d you come from?”<br/><br/>Ryan relaxed his shoulders, taking another swig of the beer. Even if this felt less like a homecoming than a vacation, he could still use a diversionary conversation from everyday civilian life. “Afghanistan.” Now those were some worse memories, although he didn’t show it on the surface. To modern society, he seemed remarkably well adjusted.<br/><br/>So it was that their conversation dragged on, touching on various points of interest here and there. Ryan inquired lightly into topics like old friends and the local community and Breanna asked him non-probing questions about the war. A friendly conversation in a nostalgic pub, just a Southiean and a wanderer.