Meanwhile, on the outskirts of Wasteland Town.
The once barren land had been completely transformed.
Temporary trenches crisscrossed everywhere, and hastily constructed bunkers made of abandoned vehicles and broken concrete blocks dotted the landscape, with light and heavy machine guns mounted on them forming intersecting firing points.
The Wraiths soldiers, dressed in a mix of standard gear and supported by basic exoskeletons, were making their final pre-battle preparations: checking weapons and ammunition, reinforcing fortifications, and calibrating communication equipment.
The air was thick with swirling dust, the cold metallic smell of rust, and an indescribable yet palpable tension.
Maine's crew was deployed on a relatively forward-most defensive line.
Rebecca, with undisguised excitement, vigorously wiped her signature heavy explosive shotgun, as if it were a precious toy.
Dorio remained silent, meticulously checking the built-in concussion generators in her arms, ensuring every joint moved freely.
Pilar, while adjusting the flamethrower's fuel output valve, chattered incessantly about various possible scenarios.
At the command node slightly behind them, Sasha and Kiwi had already accessed the tactical network, their consciousnesses linked to sensors scattered across the battlefield, constructing an invisible information defense line.
Falco, meanwhile, drove his heavily modified vehicle, waiting in the area behind the defensive line, its engine maintaining a low rumble, ready to provide mobile support at any moment.
Maine stood behind a makeshift observation post made of sandbags, his burly figure like a silent iron tower in the darkening light.
Through the added optical lenses, he meticulously scanned the open wasteland ahead, which was stained dark red by the setting sun.
It was exceptionally quiet all around, with only the faint whisper of wind sweeping across the wilderness.
This pre-battle stillness was all too familiar to him.
A strong sense of déjà vu suddenly gripped him.
The scene before him—trenches, bunkers, waiting soldiers, an open assault zone—overlapped perfectly with fragments of the Unification War deep in his memory.
The neon-lit street battles seemed a lifetime ago, replaced by the muddy open fields, deafening artillery fire, and smoke-filled skies of his memories.
The past he had tried to bury deep was now uncontrollably surging forth.
Fragments of memory surged uncontrollably: the muddy, slippery trench walls, the vacant eyes of comrades dying beside him, and the suffocating pressure brought by the heavy, rhythmic, metallic footsteps of enemy power armor, as if pounding on his heart.
In these images, one figure always accompanied him—Solomon Reed.
Just a few hours ago, an unlabeled encrypted communication request abruptly connected to his private channel.
After a brief hesitation, he chose to answer.
A moment of silence on the other end of the channel, then a voice came through, hoarse from years and alcohol, but the familiar, slightly cynical undertone was still clearly discernible.
"Maine? Is that you, old man?"
Maine's fingers, gripping his weapon, tightened almost imperceptibly.
He was silent for a moment before replying in a deep voice, which was drier than he had expected: "Reed? Where the hell did you crawl out from, some forgotten grave?"
A short, bitter chuckle came from the other end of the communication: "Something like that. Heard you've been doing pretty well lately, stirring up some… earth-shattering commotion."
"Cut the crap, Reed." Maine interrupted him, without any interest in pleasantries, "Get straight to the point. Did the FBI give you another assignment? What are you trying to get out of me this time?"
He knew Reed too well, just as Reed knew him.
This old dog wouldn't just show up for old times' sake at such a sensitive moment, especially now that Wraiths had raised its banner again and the battlefield was alight with the smoke of war.
The communication channel fell silent for a brief moment, with only a faint hum of static.
A few seconds later, Reed's voice resumed, the earlier feigned casual banter gone, replaced by an almost weary honesty: "You're still so direct, haven't changed a bit.
Alright, Maine. They want more information about your 'boss.' His objective, his bottom line, any details you can get your hands on."
"I won't tell you anything, Reed." Maine's answer was unequivocal, leaving no room for negotiation, "The boss gave me new life and… power.
I'm not his mouthpiece, nor am I a spy working for NUSA. Go back and tell your superiors to give up on that idea."
"I figured as much." Reed's response showed little surprise, instead carrying a long sigh, as if shedding a disguise. "You know, Maine? Seeing the Wraiths flag planted back in this wasteland, I actually… kind of miss it."
This sentence was like a rusty key, suddenly prying open a long-sealed gate of memories.
"Miss it?" Maine snorted, his gaze still sharply scanning the dead silent open ground in front of the defensive line; his professional instincts wouldn't allow him to relax even slightly. "Miss what? Miss chewing on those tasteless synthetic rations in knee-deep mud? Miss watching people around you get blown to pieces?
Or miss being sold off so easily by your own people like a used chip?"
"Miss when we… could still entrust our backs to each other and charge forward side-by-side for a seemingly clear objective." Reed's voice deepened, carrying a rough texture worn by reality, "Even if that objective, in the end, looked like a complete joke."
Maine fell silent. Some long-faded images flashed through his mind: covering each other in enemy infiltration zones, sharing the last crumpled cigarette in a cold shell crater, dragging their injured selves back to relatively safe areas amidst a hail of bullets.
Those days were filled with death, filth, and omnipresent fear, but strangely, they were also mixed with an exceptionally pure camaraderie that only existed between soldiers.
"War never changes, Reed." Maine finally spoke, his voice imbued with a deep-seated weariness, "It just changes the stage, and the actors who perform.
Before, we fought for slogans like 'unity' and 'freedom.' Now? For corporate interests? Or for some mysterious boss? Essentially, there's no difference; it's all dog-eat-dog, a messy affair."
"Yes, war never changes." Reed repeated the phrase, his tone carrying a fatalistic agreement, as if reciting an ancient prophecy, "But we've changed, Maine. You found new strength and… direction. And I,"
He paused, a hint of self-mockery in his voice, "I've come full circle, back to this damned game board, playing with different pieces, but in a familiar game. Protect yourself, old man, this time… don't die again."
"You too, old dog."
The communication cut off. Maine slowly exhaled a turbid breath, refocusing his attention completely on the silent battlefield before him, as if the conversation had merely been a brief interruption of the signal.