Welcome To Militia!

The streets of the Militian town stretched ahead, their cobbled paths slick from earlier rain and glistening under the warm glow of lanterns strung between buildings. Neon walked beside Aria, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his overcoat, his eyes scanning everything. His shoulders were hunched slightly as if bracing himself against the sheer absurdity of his surroundings.

He eyed everything with open suspicion. The buildings were squat and practical, solid and simple. Wooden signs swayed in the cool evening breeze on certain ones, with faded hand-painted lettering- bakeries, smithies, general stores. Functional, yet a remarkable spectacle. Ominously different to the gleaming vertical cities of Nyxia, where everything was engineered for maximum efficiency and practicality. Where every structure reached desperately for the sky.

The people bustled about, dressed in thick woolen coats and sturdy boots, exchanging quiet conversations as they passed one another. Unlike Nyxia’s inhabitants, who moved with precision and efficiency, these people had a certain rhythm to their steps- a slow, deliberate pace as if savoring the act of simply existing.

There were no automated walkways, no hovering transports gliding through the air. Everything was touched by human hands, built with care, time, and effort rather than mass-produced by machines.

“Your world is strange,” he muttered under his breath. Yet he couldn´t shake a certain feeling that he found even weirder than this world.

Aria shot him a sideways glance but didn’t bother dignifying that with a response. Instead, she guided him toward a modest-looking shop tucked between a bakery and an apothecary.

As they stepped inside, the scent of fabric and dye filled the air, and racks of neatly folded clothing stretched from wall to wall. The shopkeeper, an older woman with keen eyes, greeted them with a nod before tending to another customer.

Neon’s gaze fell on the garments, and his brows furrowed. Everything looked so... loose. Soft fabrics in shades of brown, green, and navy were folded in neat stacks, a few tunics and coats hanging on wooden racks.

In Nyxia, clothing was designed for efficiency and war. Form-fitting bodysuits woven with adaptive fibers, temperature-controlled layers, and smart materials that adjust to movement. These clothes, in comparison, looked primitive and hand-made.

Aria seemed to sense his hesitation and smirked. “Not exactly what you’re used to, huh?”

“They look... oversized,” he said bluntly, lifting a plain white shirt between his fingers in confusion like it might bite him. “And what is this? Is this fabric? It feels rough. How can you wear something absurd like this?”

“It’s linen,” Aria said, amused. “Better than whatever skintight suit you’re wearing under that coat. Try something on.”

Neon sighed but relented, allowing her to shove a few options into his arms. She picked out a deep blue tunic and dark trousers for him, holding them up against his frame. “These should fit.”

“I can pick my own clothing,” he muttered, grabbing a plain black shirt instead.

Aria let out a long breath through her mouth. “Fine, you Walking Glowstick. Just go change.”

He disappeared into the changing stall, closing the wooden door with a deliberate _thunk_. Stripping off his overcoat and bodysuit felt uncomfortable, like peeling away his identity. He folded them with precise movements, tucking them away into the bag Aria had handed him earlier.

When he pulled on the Militian clothes, the loose fabric draped oddly against his frame- too much air, too much movement. Yet, annoyingly, it was comfortable despite its unfamiliarity. And soft.

When he stepped out, Aria was leaning against the counter, tapping her fingers idly. She looked up and gave an exaggerated nod of approval. “Not bad. You almost look like a real person now.”

Neon scowled, realizing at the same time that the Nyxian mark on the underside of his wrist would be visible with such loose clothing. He pulled the bandage on his shoulder down just enough to cover it, tightening it around the seam and tucking it in.

“That’s supposed to be a compliment?”

“Absolutely.”

"Why are they so soft?" he asked again, pulling at his new shirt and examining the material. "And droopy?"

They approached the counter, and Neon instinctively reached for his money, only to freeze. The sleek Nyxian currency inside the folds of his bodysuit looked as out of place as a laser rifle in a sword fight. He shoved it back into his pocket, annoyed. Before he could say anything, Aria sighed, dramatically and with great suffering, before tossing a few silver coins onto the counter.

“I’ll consider this a loan,” she said.

Neon made a disgruntled noise but followed her out onto the street, shifting uncomfortably in his new clothes. He felt... exposed. Too real. Aria, on the other hand, stretched her arms above her head like she owned the place. “Alright, now we eat.”

The restaurant’s wooden doors groaned open as Aria pushed them aside, unleashing a wave of warmth and scent-laden air. A strange mix of spice, charred oak, and slow-roasted meat curled around Neon. He stiffened. The shift in atmosphere was immediate and jarring.

The place pulsed with life-clattering plates, the low murmur of conversation layered with bursts of laughter, and the rhythmic thud of heavy boots against wooden floors. The scent of fresh bread, still warm from the oven, mingled with the sharp tang of something fermented. None of it was uniform, none of it efficient. It was messy, unfiltered, undeniably human.

In Nyxia, dining was a sterile affair.

But this place? It was chaos.

Neon’s gaze flicked across the room, scanning its disorder. Thick wooden beams ran across the ceiling, darkened with age and smoke. Shelves lined the walls, sagging under the weight of ceramic plates, copper mugs, and dried herbs strung up in haphazard bundles. Lanterns flickered at uneven intervals.

He had still not gotten used to the brightness outside, but this place- dim, enclosed, filled with warmth- was perfect.

And that unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

Aria, on the other hand, moved through the space like she belonged in it. She nodded at a few patrons in greeting, and they responded with warm smiles and murmured words of thanks. A few older men in the corner lifted their mugs in a silent toast.

Neon’s gaze flicked between them, then back to Aria. He wasn’t blind to the way their eyes softened when they saw her uniform. She wasn’t just another soldier to them. She was a presence.

A shield.

Proof that, despite everything, they weren’t defenseless. The weight of their expectations clung to her, pressing down in ways they likely didn’t realize.

“All Militians live in fear of Nyxians,” she said suddenly, her voice quieter, lacking its usual sharpness. She looked over to Neon, meeting his eyes.

“The battle never ends. And yet...” She made a vague motion with her hand, gesturing to the laughter, the shared meals, the warmth. “They smile. They believe in us. To them, we’re heroes.”

For a moment, just a moment, something unguarded flickered across her face. Not pride. Not confidence. Something closer to hesitation.

Uncertainty?

Then, as quickly as it came, it vanished. She plastered on a grin and let out a small, breathy laugh. “Even me,” she added, shaking her head. “Even though I haven’t really done anything.”

Before he could say anything, she turned toward the bar and slid onto a stool, resting her arms on the polished wood. The bartender, a grizzled man with gray streaks in his beard, raised an eyebrow in greeting.

“The usual,” she said easily, tapping her fingers against the counter. “And make it the full portion this time.”

Neon hesitated before following her, lowering himself stiffly onto the stool beside her. The seat didn’t adjust to his posture. No recalibration, no automated shift to maximize comfort. Just solid, unmoving wood beneath him. He resisted the urge to fidget.

The bartender gave Aria an amused look. “Grown up a little since last time, huh?”

Aria grinned. “Yeah, I think I can handle it now.”

Neon watched their exchange with detached curiosity until a steaming plate was placed in front of her, a dish so large it nearly dwarfed the space between them.

He blinked.

That wasn’t just food. It was indulgence. Aria dug in without hesitation, slicing through the meat with a practiced hand.

Neon’s expression flattened.

Of course.

He should have expected this. Soldiers, even those fighting against the Nyxian regime, weren’t above excess. And yet, seeing it this blatant, watching her throw money at a meal like it was nothing made something in him coil tight.

She ate like someone who had never known hunger. Like someone who had always had the luxury of choice.

His stomach twisted, not with hunger, but with something colder. The bartender turned to him, expectant.

Neon exhaled slowly. “Just water.”

Aria nearly choked on her drink. “Wow. Look at you, living on the edge.”

He shot her a withering look. “You dragged me here.”

“Yeah, and it’s been entertaining.” She took another bite, watching him from the corner of her eye. “Welcome to Militia!”

Neon didn’t answer.

We have to find a solution to this leash problem soon, he thought to himself.

He just watched her, watched the ease with which she sat in a world he could never belong to.

And for the first time since stepping into this restaurant, the warmth in the air felt suffocating.