And oh, they did. In their own sick and twisted way, the warmongers adored Ryan. More than the government, more than the country which they were tasked with protecting. Ryan embodied it all for them; he was heads and shoulders above anything else. If any of their nasty little 'family' was capable of love, that was the emotion they felt for the U.S. Military.
Not that it was easy to tell from the way Dom sidled in close with his crocodile's smile. "You know, you were a helluva lot mouthier when you had a computer to hide behind. Picking up some tricks from Jane, soldier?" The warfare god's voice was honeyed at first, but when he came to Ryan's title, the word was snapped out in typical Drill Sargent style. Inside Ryan's personal space and hovering far too close for comfort, Dom seemed all teeth and scabbed-over fists.
"What are you gonna do, Cross? What's the work you've suddenly got to hop to? I think you're making shit up. Those running lights of yours are empty, gun bunny. Turned off, tuned out, dead as a doornail. If you don't want to dance, soldier, then you should avoid the lip." Dom's own lie; it was a sad fact of life that Ryan was stuck with the bastard warmongers. He could run, he could hide, but they'd always turn their gaze toward him and they'd inevitably come a-hunting sooner or later. There was no avoiding it.