The main lobby of the Last Dragon was in complete pandemonium. In addition to the hundreds of Hunters and assorted hangers-on that were here for ICMHP, there were also a bunch of hotel employees and some construction workers who were still finishing the upper floors. There were also a handful of non-ICMHP guests trapped, people who had been in the casino gambling when everything had been locked down. Luckily there weren’t that many of those at four in the morning, comparatively speaking, but it was still another hundred or so angry and frightened people that had no idea what was going on. A large percentage of them had gathered in the lobby, trying to figure out what was going on, or to loudly demand that they get to leave. I heard that an armored car was blocking the exit ramp of the parking garage and a couple from Florida had popped their tires driving over a set of spike strips and then been herded back inside by men with guns and gas masks. They were especially pissed off.

I felt really bad for the hotel employees. It was the night shift that had been stuck here, and they didn’t know any more than the guests. I walked past a few managers that were being browbeaten by angry customers. Since none of the people that had instituted the quarantine were actually in here with us, and there wasn’t anyone effective to yell at, they were shouting at whoever looked like they might have some authority.

“You there, security guard. I demand to speak to your supervisor!” A large old lady rolled up to me on her mobility scooter. “This sort of treatment is completely unacceptable. I want to speak to him immediately.”

I looked down at my armor. It had started out coyote brown, but a few years of abuse, tears, rips, burns, stains, and replacing various ruined parts had left it a mottled modular mess of different-colored pouches and stab-proof sheets, some of which I’d color-corrected with spray paint. Hell, I was wearing a kukri that was damn near a short sword. Even after repeatedly hosing down room 1613, I still had sixty rounds of 12-gauge in a drum and four magazines, a few 40mm grenades, two handguns, and six spare magazines of .45. As a big dude, when I was geared up, I looked particularly enormous. I would have to be the most heavily equipped security guard in history, but in our current circumstances, it was as reasonable an assumption as any. “Ma’am, I don’t work here.”

“You’re not security?” I shook my head no. “Police? The army?” Still no. She looked very displeased. “What are you?”

“I like clothes with lots of pockets.”

She made a noise that sounded like harrumph, then gunned her little scooter away, searching for someone else to feel her terrible Lark-powered wrath.