Neo's new quarters were located in the technicians' residential block—a small but clean single room, finally offering him some privacy. His rations improved as well: standard meals, purified water, even a handful of freshly cultivated vegetables. Minor luxuries, but crucial for restoring his weakened body.
Yet the real trial wasn't food or shelter. It came from Commander Evelyn Kane's "suggestion"—that he join Prism Base's militia training sequence.
The training ground lay in one of the lower caverns, an open dome whose stone floor had been compacted by years of drills. Bullet scars and scorched marks covered the walls and targets. The air was thick with sweat, dust, and machine oil.
Here, Neo saw the base's rank-and-file militia. Unlike Falcon's elite squad, these fighters were a mixed lot: young men eager to prove themselves, miners trading labor for extra rations, even a few hard-eyed drifters seeking legitimacy.
Their instructor, codename "Gray Rat," was an old veteran with a scarred face and a bark like gravel. He made no effort to hide his disdain for Kane's decision to push a so-called "bookworm" into his ranks.
"Listen, boy!" On the first day, Neo faltered during a weighted run, pain from his old wounds slowing him down. Gray Rat's voice roared across the field: "Out here, running slow means you're dead! Your precious theories won't pry open an aberrant's jaws when it's eating your face!"
Snickers rippled through the group. A few hardened militia leaned back with folded arms, enjoying the show. One in particular—an ox of a man nicknamed "Hammer"—watched with open hostility. Hammer had tried to provoke Neo earlier, only to be put down by Neo's cunning grip and leverage. The humiliation still burned.
Neo didn't argue. He simply breathed through the rib pain and forced himself to continue. In a place where survival was the only creed, words meant nothing. Only action earned respect.
His body lagged, but his mind remained steel. His gaze never wavered. His form never broke. He never quit.
Days passed, and the drills shifted.
Weapon maintenance and fault-clearing. Gray Rat dumped a crate of battered pulse rifles before them. "Fix 'em or they'll kill you before the enemy does!" he barked.
The others fumbled with confusion, prying at circuits they barely understood. But for Neo, it was instinct. His hands flew, each motion crisp and certain. To him, the rifles' internals were as familiar as his own reflection.
He not only diagnosed common failures but also spotted flaws Prism's own manuals overlooked—wear-induced capacitor bleed, grounding errors, degradation points invisible to the untrained eye.
"This capacitor's grounding is wrong. Over time, it leaks charge, reduces barrel lifespan. Better to reroute here…" His tone was calm, matter-of-fact, as he adjusted and rewired, movements fluid and precise.
His group watched in stunned silence. Hammer, struggling with a rifle that refused to spark, stared between his failing weapon and the gleaming, restored rifles in Neo's hands, his face darkening with humiliation.
When Gray Rat inspected the results, his stone face cracked. For the first time, surprise flickered there. He gave Neo a long look, then said nothing—but afterward, his targeted harassment lessened.
The true turning point came in tactical simulation.
Inside a repurposed warehouse, militia squads were tasked with seizing a fortified point defended by automated turrets.
"The usual drill—suppressing fire, flank and breach!" Hammer, acting squad leader, barked confidently.
"Wait," Neo interjected, eyes locked on the turrets' rotation cycle. "This model's targeting logic has a flaw. If we throw a high-energy cell as bait, it'll prioritize the energy source. That gives us a three-second blind spot. We can break through frontally—faster, safer than a flank."
Hammer sneered. "Bullshit! How would you know its logic?"
"The baseplate," Neo said calmly, pointing. "It's an old Sentry-III. My teacher studied its flaws."
Doubt simmered—but the squad tried it.
When the battery clattered across the floor, the turret instantly whirled, spitting fire at the decoy. In that heartbeat of blindness, Neo's countdown cut the air: "Three. Two. One—move!"
They sprinted straight through, unscathed. Mission cleared in half the time.
Silence. Then realization.
After that, eyes changed. Respect replaced mockery. Even the most cynical knew—whoever could get them through fire alive deserved to be heard. A few militia even sought him out quietly, asking advice on weapon care.
Hammer stayed stony-faced. But one afternoon, after drills, he tossed Neo a dented tin of synthetic meat. "Here. Techie. For… y'know." His words were clumsy, gruff, but honest. Then he stomped away. Recognition, wasteland style.
Neo accepted the can with a small nod. He had earned his place—at least here, in the crucible of training.
But quiet never lasted.
At the end of a drill, Gray Rat called him aside. "Neo. Commander Kane wants you. In the mech hangar."
Neo's heart gave a sharp kick. The mech hangar—the true core of Prism's strength. Evelyn Kane wanted to meet him there? That would not be about training progress.
Escorted through guarded tunnels, past armored checkpoints, he entered the cavern where steel and oil mingled into the smell of power. A place where machines slept, waiting to wake for war.