Chapter 184: The Old Dog of the FIA
Meanwhile, on the perimeter of the Badlands manufactorum.
The once desolate land had been thoroughly transformed.
Hastily dug trenches crisscrossed the area. Bunkers built from wrecked vehicles and shattered concrete blocks were scattered everywhere, with light and heavy machine guns mounted atop them to form crossfire points.
Barghest soldiers, clad in a mix of standard-issue gear and supported by basic exoskeletons, were conducting final pre-battle preparations: checking weapons and ammunition, reinforcing fortifications, and calibrating communications equipment.
The air was filled with swirling dust, the smell of cold, rusted metal, and an indescribable yet palpable tension.
Maine's squad was deployed on a relatively forward section of the defense line.
Rebecca wore an unabashed look of excitement, vigorously polishing her iconic heavy boltgun as if treating a precious toy.
Dorio remained silent, intently checking the oscillation generators built into her arms, ensuring every joint moved freely.
Pilar chattered incessantly about various potential scenarios while adjusting the fuel output valve of his flamethrower.
At the command node slightly to the rear, Sasha and Kiwi had jacked into the tactical network. Their consciousness connected with sensors scattered across the battlefield, constructing an invisible information defense line.
Falco sat in the heavily modified vehicle, waiting on standby in the rear area. The engine maintained a low rumble, ready to provide mobile support at any moment.
Maine stood behind a simple observation post made of sandbags. His burly figure looked like a silent iron tower in the fading light.
Through his enhanced optical lenses, he carefully scanned the open wasteland ahead, now dyed dark red by the setting sun.
The surroundings were abnormally quiet, save for the whisper of wind across the wilderness.
This dead silence before a great battle was all too familiar to him.
A strong sense of déjà vu suddenly gripped him.
The scene before him—trenches, bunkers, soldiers on standby, the open kill zone—overlapped seamlessly with fragments of the Unification War deep in his memory.
The neon-lit street fights felt like a lifetime ago, replaced by memories of muddy open fields, deafening artillery fire, and smoke-filled skies.
The past he had tried to bury was now surging up uncontrollably.
Fragments of memory churned: the muddy, slippery trench walls, the hollow eyes of dying comrades beside him, and the suffocating oppression brought by the heavy, rhythmic metallic footsteps of enemy power armor marching forward, each step seemingly pounding on his heart.
These images were always accompanied by a figure—Solomon Reed.
Just a few hours ago, an unmarked encrypted communication request had abruptly accessed his private channel.
After a brief hesitation, he chose to connect.
Silence reigned on the other end for a moment. Then, a voice came through, raspy from years of smoke and alcohol, but the underlying familiar, slightly cynical tone was still clearly discernible.
"Maine? Is that you, old timer?"
Maine's fingers gripping his weapon tightened almost imperceptibly.
He was silent for a moment before responding in a low voice, dryer than he expected: "Reed? Which forgotten grave did you crawl out of?"
A short, bitter chuckle came from the other end. "Something like that. Heard you've been doing well lately, caused quite a... earth-shattering stir."
"Cut the crap, Reed." Maine interrupted him, with no interest in pleasantries. "Be direct. The FIA give you work again? Trying to get something out of me this time?"
He knew Reed too well, just as Reed knew him.
This old dog would never reach out at such a sensitive time just to catch up, especially now that Barghest had raised its flag again and the smoke of war was rising.
The communication channel fell into a brief silence, with only the faint static of background noise sizzling.
A few seconds later, Reed's voice sounded again. The previous feigned lightness was gone, replaced by an almost exhausted frankness. "You're still this direct, haven't changed a bit.
"Alright, Maine. The higher-ups want to know more about your 'Boss.' Objectives, baseline capabilities, any details you can access."
"I won't tell you anything, Reed." Maine's answer was decisive, leaving no room for negotiation. "The Boss gave me a new life and... power.
"I am not his mouthpiece, and certainly not a spy serving the NUSA. Go back and tell your superiors to give up on this idea early."
"Figured as much." Reed's response didn't sound surprised; instead, it carried a long sigh, as if dropping a disguise. "You know, Maine? Seeing the Barghest flag planted on this wasteland again, I actually... feel a bit fucking nostalgic."
This sentence was like a rusty key, violently prying open the floodgates of long-sealed memories.
"Nostalgic?" Maine scoffed through his nose, his gaze still scanning the deadly silent open ground ahead sharply. Professional instinct allowed him no relaxation. "Nostalgic for what? Gnawing on synthesized rations that tasted like wax in knee-deep muddy water? Watching people beside you get blown to pieces?
"Or nostalgic for being sold out by our own side like used chips in the end?"
"Nostalgic for when we could still... entrust our backs to each other for a seemingly clear fucking goal, charging forward side by side." Reed's voice lowered, carrying a rough texture polished by reality. "Even if that goal looked like a complete joke in the end."
Maine fell silent. Scenes long faded flashed in his mind: covering each other while infiltrating behind enemy lines with Reed, sharing the last crumpled cigarette in a cold shell crater, dragging each other, injured, back to relative safety through a hail of bullets.
Those days were filled with death, filth, and omnipresent fear, but strangely, they were also mixed with an unusually pure camaraderie that only existed between soldiers.
"War never changes, Reed." Maine finally spoke, his voice revealing a bone-deep exhaustion. "Just the stage has changed, and a new set of actors have put on their makeup.
"Before, we killed for so-called slogans of 'Unity' and 'Freedom.' And now?
"For corporate profits? Or for some mysterious boss? Essentially, no difference. It's all dog-eat-dog, a mess of feathers."
"Yeah, war never changes." Reed repeated the phrase, his tone carrying a fatalistic agreement, as if reciting an ancient prophecy. "But we changed, Maine. You found new power and... direction. And I,"
He paused, a hint of self-mockery in his voice, "went around in a circle and returned to this damn game board, holding different pieces, but playing a familiar game. Protect yourself, old timer. This time... don't die again."
"You too, old dog."
The communication cut off. Maine slowly exhaled a breath of turbid air, refocusing his attention completely on the silent battlefield before him, as if that conversation was merely a brief interlude of interference signal.
(End of Chapter)