The desert wind was at full force, kicking up sand and dust around them. Doc was curled up beside the Warthog, fast asleep. He stirred occasionally and mumbled things in his sleep. Washington had been absent for a little over two hours now, having disappeared to take a look around and not returning. Meta stood up and eyed the surrounding area, searching for any sign of the other agent. His motion tracker beeped, picking up a form about a hundred yards away. The big man headed off in that direction, all the while staying on guard just in case the form was an enemy, or a trap. The likelihood that someone had attacked Wash and was using him as bait was there, though not very possible due the lack of enemies around.

Washington turned around from his perch on a rock as Meta approached behind him. He lifted his right hand in greeting and a liquor bottle glittered in the moonlight.

"Where'd you find that?" Meta growled, the sound echoing slightly.

Wash lifted the half-empty bottle up to his mouth and took a swig. "Found it 'n the el'phant. Guess CT left it."

"You're drunk."

"Workin' on it," Wash replied. He stood up, stumbled a little in the sand but eventually succeeded in turning around. "I figured why the hell not, right?"

Meta didn't respond, he just stood there a few feet away, apparently staring at him. Wash couldn't tell what the damn guy was doing with that fucking helmet. He really hated that goddamn helmet. Meta lifted his Brute Shot up and locked into its slot on his back and crossed his arms. Washington took another drink from the bottle, the liquid leaving hot trail on the way down his throat.

"Hey, Meta…" he said, turning back around and looking up at the moon. He raised his left arm, framing the object with his fingers. "You ever wonder why we're here?"

"Haven't I heard that before?"

"I'm serois!" Wash exclaimed, slurring the word slightly as he turned around yet again. "You and me should be dead, but why aren't we?"

Again, Meta provided no answer. Wash continued on with his musings anyway. Meta was beginning to get agitated, and the darker agent either didn't notice or didn't care or both.

"I s'pose when I think about it, Maine is dead in a way," he mumbled, swishing the dark liquid around in the bottle and gazing at it. Silence fell down between them as he took another chug of liquor. The bottle was about a third of the way full now, and he was swaying on his feet. After a few minutes, Meta uncrossed his arms. He stood there, his arms by his side for a second, as if deciding what to do. He growled again and then reached up and removed his helmet. Wash blinked, trying to clear his vision as the EVA helmet was taken off and held loosely at Meta's side.

The man under the armor stared at Washington, regarding him warily. His eyes were steady, even if they were bloodshot. Dark circles encompassed them and they seemed sunken inside his skull. His blonde hair was sticking up at odd angles, and had grown out a bit from lack of care. Despite the obvious physical changes, Wash almost thought it was the man that had once been his best friend, saved his life, stole all his girlfriends, helped him get out of a debt, and who had been the funniest kid in college…almost.

Wash finished off the bottle and tossed it to the side, it landed in the sand with a dull thud a few feet away. He wiped his mouth with his hand, staring back at Main- Meta.

Meta.

Meta.

It wasn't Maine. Maine was dead. The…thing in front of him was just a demon in a clever disguise. A senseless monster that killed indiscriminately. It was out of control and run by a bunch of computer programs, followed their will and command- even after they'd been eradicated.

That was why he hated it so much. Maine was a good guy, a guy with faults, sure, but an all around good guy. The type of guy who'd do anything for his friends, and always the first to offer to help someone. He liked to drink and fuck, too, but what healthy 25-year-old didn't?

This fucking abomination in Maine's body and armor had soiled all of that. It had slain the legend of his friend and marred it forever. No longer would people actually think of Agent Maine, of the man he'd once been, they'd just think of The Meta. It wouldn't be long until Maine was forgotten entirely…

Washington almost lost it at that thought. All Maine had ever wanted was to be remembered, to have done something with his life, to have people still talk about him and know who he was for long after he died. That was the whole reason he'd joined the military, and the whole reason he'd agreed to project Freelancer.

It took all of his self control to prevent him from jumping forward and grabbing the bastard by the front of his armor. He could see it clearly; see himself throwing him to the ground and beating the shit out of him, punching him in the face until his hands were bloody.

He was a monster, he deserved to look like one, not like the handsome face that he wore.

Wash walked forward and put a hand on his shoulder, speaking low.

"You're not Maine. Maine is dead. You killed him, along with everyone else you've murdered these past years. You're nothing but a dog in a wolfs' armor…and next time I tell you to dig, I except you to fucking dig."

He stormed off, back to camp, roughly shoving his helmet back on. Meta remained where he was standing, the harsh wind slapping him in the face. He gave a look over his shoulder at Washington's outline before turning and following slowly. He lifted his helmet, looking into its depths as he walked, as if searching for an answer to a question. He gave one last glance at the two by the Warthog before returning the white piece of equipment to its proper place.

The rest of the night passed in silence, though, if you listened hard enough you'd catch something in the wind. A sound that shouldn't have been there, a very faint string of vibrations;

"I'm still here…"