Maine was silent for a long time.
This was something he had to think about seriously.
Even if Carl was the one inviting him.
His knuckles tapped unconsciously against the cold glass. The background noise of the Afterlife seemed to fall completely silent in that moment. He stared at the liquid swaying in the glass, as if he could see the flames that had consumed his uniform when he left New America in that amber gleam.
Among Carl's old friends were two people who had once served in New America's military before choosing to leave.
One was Johnny Silverhand, and the other was Maine. When they left the military, both had burned their uniforms because of what they had experienced there.
Maine spoke.
"Carl." His voice was somewhat hoarse. "You know why I became a mercenary."
"Yeah, I know."
Carl knew Maine's past very well.
Those "stories" casually brought up over drinks at gatherings had been dirty missions ordered during his time in New America, along with the final line he could no longer endure.
Maine had been ordered to remain in South America for two years. Over those seven hundred-odd days and nights, he had carried out countless orders, and his hands had long been soaked in the blood of innocents.
Burning down villages, then disguising the slaughter as attacks by hostile forces. One deed after another, each one piled up in his heart until they became ruins he could never cross.
Intense disgust and crushing guilt made him abandon his smooth path to promotion. In the end, as though exiling himself, he came to Night City.
Here, he saved Dorio, then sheltered young people like Rebecca, Pillar, and Sasha beneath his wings as if seeking redemption, forming a crew that felt more like a "family."
Perhaps it was